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^ales  from  ^wo  "^vers  11 


^ales  from  ^wo  "V^vers  II 


edited  by  Jerrilee  Cain,  John  E.  HaUwas,  Victor  Hicken 


A  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council  Publication 

College  of  Fine  Arts  Development 

Western  Illinois  University 

Macomb,  Illinois 


Copyright  1982  by  Western  Illinois  University 
Library  of  Congress  Catalog  Card  No.  82-050895 

Cover  photograph  and  photographs  at  the  head  of  each  chapter  are  courtesy  of  Archives  and  Special 
Collections,  Western  llhnois  University  Library. 


^ales  from  ^wo  "^V^vers  II 


is  published  in  answer 
to  public  demand 


Reviews  in  regional  newspapers  and  journals  had  this  to  say 
about  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  I: 

"The  competition  was  designed  to  elicit  the  social 
history  experiences  of  senior  citizens  throughout 
western  Illinois  and  the  project  was  clearly  a 
success.  The  narratives  contain  an  incredible 
range  of  insights  and  recollections  .  .  .  the  net 
affect  of  this  collection  is  .  .  .  'as  thrilling  as  who- 
done-it  and  as  unforgettable  as  a  first  love.'" 

Journal  of  the  Illinois  State 

Historical  Society 

"They  [the  stories]  are  small  memoirs,  like 
flowers  pressed  between  the  pages  of  a  book." 
Jerry  Klein,  Peoria  Journal  Star 


"For  those  readers  of  this  column  who  enjoy 
'nostalgia,'  and  we  assume  our  readers  do  if  they 
read  this  column,  we  would  like  to  recommend  a 
new  paperback  book  on  the  market  called  Tales 
from  Two  Rivers  I.  " 

Carl  Landrum,  Quincy  Herald  Whig 

"Above  [a]  flood  of  commercially  cute  and 
predigested  oldtimeyness,  Tales  from  Two  Rivers 
I  stands  out  like  a  beacon  on  the  high  ground  of 
reality.  .  .  .  What  these  tales  offer  is  a  plain, 
unvarnished  glimpse  back  into  time.  .  .  .  We 
can't  go  back  to  those  times.  We'd  regret  it  if  we 
could— and  it  is  the  supreme  virtue  of  this 
collection  that  makes  plain  the  good  and  the  bad 
together.  .  .  .  We  need  to  be  reminded— or  told 
for  the  first  time— both  what  we've  gained  and 
what  we've  lost.  What  better  gift  for  the  future 
than  the  past?" 

Herald  Henderson,  Illinois  Times 


The  Illinois  legislature  has  recognized  the  value  of  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  I  and  II: 


"RESOLVED  BY  THE  HOUSE  OF 
REPRESENTATIVES  OF  THE  EIGHTY- 
SECOND  GENERAL  ASSEMBLY  OF  THE 
STATE  OF  ILLINOIS,  that  we  do  hereby 
recognize,  applaud,  and  congratulate  the  Two 
Rivers  Arts  Council  for  preserving  the  history  of 
Illinois  through  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  I .  .  ." 
House  Resolution  No.  688 
Offered  by  Rep.  Charles  Neff 
Adopted  March  3,  1982 


■■RESOLVED  BY  THE  SENATE  OF  THE 
EIGHTY-SECOND  GENERAL  ASSEMBLY  OF 
THE  STATE  OF  ILLINOIS,  that  we  commend 
the  TALES  FROM  TWO  RIVERS  I  contributing 
authors,  the  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council,  the  Illinois 
Humanities  Council,  the  Illinois  Arts  Council, 
and  Western  lUinois  University  College  of  Fine 
Arts  Development  for  producing  this  book  that 
will  serve  as  a  record  of  lUinois  rural  history; 
that  we  express  to  those  individuals  who  were 
involved  in  the  project  our  deep  appreciation  and 
thanks  for  their  inspired  and  fruitful  efforts,  and 
that  we  wish  for  them  continued  success  in  their 
latest  endeavor,  TALES  FROM  TWO  RIVERS 
II  .  . ." 

Senate  Resolution  No.  441 
Offered  by  Senator  Laura  Kent 
Adopted  March  3L  1982 


Contents 


"A  living  art,  or  living  arts  rather,  are  generated  by  the  direct  Ufe  experiences  of  their 
makers  within  their  milieus  and  locales  ..." 

Thomas  Hart  Benton 


Traveling  In  Days  Gone  B:y 


II       Country  Stores 


GRANDPA'S  COUNTRY  STORE    Beula  Setters 
MABLE     Iva  I.  Peters 

HAMBURGERS,  MILKSHAKES,  AND  COLLEGE 
STUDENTS    Katherine  Z.  Adair 


THE  HORSE  KNEW  THE  WAY    Nina  L.  Vortman  ^ 

BOUNCE    Alice  Krauser 

MORE  THAN  JUST  A  HORSE    Laurence  Rover  ' 

OLD  MAN  DIRT  ROAD    Marjory  M.  Reed 

PULLING  RUSHVILLE  OUT  OF  THE  MUD    Paul  C.  Sloan  « 

A  MEMORABLE  JOURNEY    Marie  Freesmeyer 

STEAMBOAT  A' COMIN'    John  F.  Ellis 

THE  RAILROAD  IN  ORION    Kenneth  Maxwell  Norcross  '" 

FARMINGTON  DEPOT  IN  THE  TWENTIES    Everette  Wilton  Latham  IS 

RAILROAD  DAYS  IN  ROODHOUSE    Eva  L.  Sullivan  J^ 

COPING  WITH  "THE  DEEP  HOLE"    Bernadette  Tranbarger  ^^ 


35 


THE  HUCKSTER  WAGON    Louis  Krueger  36 

MEMORIES  OF  WAYLAND    Lillian  Elizabeth  Terrv  36 

THE  GIN  RIDGE  STORE:  NOT  A  MYTH    John  C.'Willey  38 

EGGS,  APPLES,  AND  CONSCIENCE    Mildred  M.  Nelson  39 

SELLING  AND  TRADING  IN  BEARDSTOWN    Nellie  F.  Roe  40 


m     Small  Villages 


MIDDLE  CREEK:  ONLY  MEMORIES 

REMAIN    Lena  Aleshire  Boos  47 

MABEL:  ONLY  ON  THE  OLD  MAPS    Alline  Lawson  Armstrong  48 

CAMDEN  AND  THE  LITTLE  GEM  THEATRE    Ruth  A.  Kearby  49 

I  SURE  MISS  THE  WHISTLES    Marguerite  Foster  50 

"US"  WAS  WRITTEN  ON  THE  CARS  Vera  V.  Chenowith  52 
BERNADOTTE:  THE  TOWN  THAT  WAS,  WAS  NOT, 

BUT  NOW  IS    Harvev  S.  Bubb,  Sr.  53 

CAMP  POINT:  $1000  AND  A  MANSE    Beulah  Jean  McMillan  55 

CROOKED  CREEK  AND  COOPERSTOWN  Ellen  Fry  Baldwin  56 
LA  CROSSE:  A  FEW  HOUSES  AND  ONE  OLD 

STORE    Lawrence  G.  Anderson  59 

BURNSIDE:  MY  OLD  HOME  TOWN    Neoma  Ewing  Steege  60 

NAPLES:  12-t  UNDER  THE  BOARDWALK  John  F.  Ellis  61 
SALINE  AND  DIAMOND  MINERAL 

SPRINGS    Mrs.  Clarence  Beck  63 


IV     Those  Country  School  Days 


GHOSTS  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ROAD    Eva  Baker  Watson  71 

FAIRVIEW  SCHOOLHOUSE    Marjorie  Downs  Byers  73 

BUTLERVILLE  SCHOOL     Violet  Greenleaf  Rose  75 

EPISODE  AT  LONE  OAK    Marjorie  Dawson  Dauies  77 


EPITAPH  FOR  A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL    Robert  Taylor  Bums  77 

STARTING  OUT  AT  SOUTH  LINCOLN    Lucille  Herring  Davidson  '^ 

MEMORIES  OF  A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  ^^ 

TEACHER    Eleanoe  Grant  Verene                                    ,    ^      ■  qo 

A  BULL  IN  THE  CLASSROOM-ALMOST    Leona  Tuttle  Curtis  »^ 
FULL  LASTING  IS  THE  SONG    Eva  Baker  Watson 

NO-NONSENSE  SCHOOLING  NEEDED  AGAIN    Mattie  L.  Emery  85 


V      Pastimes 


THE  BERLIN  SCHOOL    Ruby  Davenport  Kish 
WHAT  ARE  TOMBOYS  MADE  OF, 

MADE  OF    Edna  Trovillion  Baker 
A  STREETCAR  RAN  IN  FRONT    Beulah  Jean  McMillan 
PEONIES  ON  DECORATION  DAY    Harriet  Bricker 
DECORATION  DAY  AT  THE  CEMETERY    Leta  Rogers  Spradbr 


CHAUTAUQUA  DAYS    Beulah  Knecht 

INDEPENDENCE  DAY    Bob  Hulsen 

BAND  CONCERTS  AT  WARSAW    Delia  Radcliffe  »° 

SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  IN  TOWN    Helen  E.  Rilling  ^J 

SUMMERTIME  IN  ILLINOIS    Lucille  Ballinger  ,    ^.     ^  11 

GERMAN  NEW  YEARS  IN  MELROSE  TOWNSHIP    Lydia  Kanauss  99 

PLAYTHINGS   PLAYMATES,  AND  PLAYHOUSES    Eleanor  Dodds 

CHARIVARI,  SHIVAREE,  OR  CHIVAREE    Avis  Ray  Berry 

NOVEMBER  IN  THE  PARK    Sara  Beth  McMillan 

TENT  SHOWS  IN  THE  TWENTIES    Genevieve  Hagerty 

CREAM  AND  CREAMERY  PICNICS    Minnie  J.  Bryan 

LONG  AGO  AND  FAR  AWAY    Herman  R.  Koester 


VI     Pure  hlostalgia  ^^^ 


114 
116 

117 
119 


FRESH  AND  LASTING    Dorothy  Green  Liehr  121 

THE  QUARANTINE  SIGN    Martha  K.  Graham  123 

GRAY  WITH  WHITE  TRIM    Doris  L.  Childberg  124 

TRUTH  AND  JUSTICE    Blanche  M.  Harrison  126 

"BOOZE"    Eunice  Stone  DeShane  128 

MY  TIN  DINNER  PAIL    Fannie  Lewis  Lynn  128 

SPINACH,  EPSOM  SALTS,  AND  THE  CHURCH    Don  Parker  129 

A  DAY  OF  QUESTIONS    Lillian  C.  Peterson  131 

THAT  HORSE  ISN'T  SAFE    Ruth  (Poiset)  ODonnell  133 

BEAUTY  CAN  BE  A  SUNSET    Charles  P.  Oberling  134 


VII    How  It  Was  Done 


MOTHER'S  GEESE    Lvdia  (Barton)  Waite  141 

GRANDMA'S  RECIPE  BOOK    Louise  E.  Efnor  142 

SAWMILL  MEMORIES    John  P.  Kramer  143 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH  Louise  Parker  Simms  145 
DELIVERING  MAIL  ACROSS  TROUBLESOME 

CREEK    Addra  Icenogle  Graham  146 

THE  DURHAM  TOWNSHIP  WOLF  HUNT    Robert  R.  Wagner                            148 

HE  WAS  A  DOWSER    Elma  M.  Strunk  149 

GRANDMA'S  SPRING  CLEANING    Beula  Selters  150 

FEATHERWEIGHT  MEMORIES    Zella  Sill  151 

BUILDING  A  FARM  FENCE    Burdette  Graham  152 

WORKING  WITH  HIRED  MEN    Arthur  Bowles  155 

APPLE  BUTTER  DAYS    Edna  L.  Thompson  156 

MEDICINE  MAMMA'S  WAY     Clarice  Stafford  Harris  157 

MISS  ADA  AND  HER  NIMBLE  THIMBLE    Ardith  E.  Williams  158 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BACKHOUSE  Keith  L.  Wilkey  159 
REACHING  OUT  AND  TOUCHING- 

CIRCA  1920    Eva  Baker  Watson  161 

HIRED  GIRL    Louise  Anderson  Lum  163 

THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  WITH  A  HORSE    Newton  E.  Barrett  165 

I  WAS  A  PRINTER'S  DEVIL    Albert  Shanholtzer  167 


VIII  People  Of  The  Past 

GYPSIES    Enid  Woolsey  }!^ 


THE  HIRED  MAN    Burdette  Graham  ^''^ 

SAM,  THE  HOBO    Craven  G.  Griffitts  175 

THE  SWAN  CREEK  HOBO.  SELDOM  SEEN    Everett  Trone  177 

THE  PEDDLER     Vemice  Morrell  Dees  I'^S 

DR.  RENNER  OF  BENLD     Grace  R.  Welch  180 

DR  COWLES  OF  WOODHULL     Genevieve  Hagerty  182 

WILLIAM  H.  HARTZELL.  TRIAL  ATTORNEY    Leon  L.  Lamet  184 

THE  BARBERS  OF  RUSHVILLE     Guy  Tyson  185 

THE  FOLKS  IN  PETERSBURG    Mollis  Powers  188 

THE  LIFE  OF  LOUIS  SILBERER    Howard  Silberer  192 

THE  TRUMANS  OF  BUSHNELL    Harriet  Bricker  194 

FAYE  HOUTCHENS,  AUCTIONEER    Earl  F.  Carwile  196 

AUNT  PRUDENCE  BERRY    Henn,>  Hughes  197 

UNCLE  HARL  ROBBINS    Lillian  Nelson  Combites  199 
TRICKY    Hazel  R.  Livers 


QUEER  FOLKS    Beula  Selters  202 


IX     Very  Special  Places  207 


209 

210 


GRANNY'S  KITCHEN    Leta  Rogers  Spradlin 

THE  PLACE  WHERE  LOVE  DWELT    Kathvm  A.  Gustafson 

FLY  WITH  ME  OVER  GRANDMOTHER'S  FARM    Ruth  Sorrill  Koestler         211 

THE  WONDERFUL  WORLD  OF  SHEDS    Helen  E.  Rilling  213 

AVERYVILLE    Dorothy  A.  (Smith)  Marshall 

THE  CONSEQUENT  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

WURLITZER     William  P.  Bartlow 
ONCE  AGAIN,  BRIGHT  LIGHTS    Alberta  Young  Stegemann 
OLD  SILOAM  SPRINGS    Irene  Van  Ormer  Hare  220 

THE  WAIT  FORD     Truman  W.  Waite  221 

TATER  CREEK    Garnet  Workman  222 


215 


217 
219 


THE  I.  AND  M.  CANAL    Glenn  E.  Philpott  223 

LIFE  IN  A  FEMALE  INSTITUTION    Juanita  Jordan  Morley  225 

GOATS  IN  CHICAGO  BACKYARDS    Elizabeth  Schumacher  Bork  227 

GRANDFATHER'S  OLD  MILL    Albert  Shanholtzer  228 

WHITE  OAK  JUST  FADES  AWAY     Vail  Morgan  230 

SCOTT  MILL    Lucius  Herbert  Valentine  231 


List  of  Authors 


235 


President's  Message: 

There  are  many  ways  to  preserve  our  heritage.  The  ones 
we  think  of  most  often  involve  restoring  old  buildings  or  other 
landmarks.  This,  of  course,  is  good  but  our  real  heritage  is  the 
people  and  the  stories  the  people  tell. 

How  often  does  your  mind,  with  strong  nostalgia,  turn 
back  to  the  days  of  your  youth  when  you  walked  barefoot  up 
a  country  road,  or  knelt  to  drink  clear,  cold  water  from  a 
spring,  or  stubbed  your  big  toe  while  carrying  water  in  a 
brown  jug  to  threshers?  You  can  teach  by  telling  or  by  taking 
people  to  see.  These  stories  do  both  and  through  them  places 
and  times  like  these  come  alive. 

There  is  a  whole  generation  right  now  that  never  tasted 
sorghum  molasses,  chopped  wood  for  the  kitchen  stove— or 
walked  to  school.  You,  the  authors  of  these  stories,  are  the 
core  of  the  real  America  and  your  stories  will  help  keep  our 
heritage  alive.  Americans  must  rediscover  this  heritage  and 
the  basic  values  upon  which  your  country   was  founded. 

Thank  you  for  sharing  your  stories  and  for  permitting 
us  to  enjoy  them  with  you.  You  have  enriched  our  lives,  for 
you  dare  not,  nor  wish  to,  forget. 

Sincerely, 

Jerry  Tyson,  President 

Two  Rivers  Arts  Council 


Jerry  speaks  for  all  of  us  when  he  articulates  the 
warmth  we  feel  for  the  authors  who  have  become  a  part  of  our 
Uves  because  they  have  shared  the  dearest  memories  from 
their  life  experience  with  us  at  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council  and 
Western  Illinois  University  College  of  Fine  Arts 
Development.  Because  they  did.  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  II  is 
now  in  your,  the  reader's,  hands. 

Besides  collecting  the  stories,  there  is  a  prodigious 
amount  of  work  involved  in  making  Tales  II  a  reality.  The 


manuscripts  must  be  xeroxed  and  edited,  typed  and  retyped, 
and  then  organized  into  categories  to  create  the  different 
themes  of  the  book,  then  the  memoirs  are  printed,  galleys 
read,  and  photographs  selected.  Along  the  way  many 
planning  meetings  are  attended.  Many  people  donate 
countless  hours  to  get  Tales  II  off  the  press.  We  do  it  with  a 
great  amount  of  love  and  dedication  to  the  essence  of  what  it 
means  to  be  an  Illinoian.  As  Jerry  says,  we  should  not  forget. 

Our  thanks  must  go  to  many  people: 

To  the  people  who  wrote  the  stories.  Although  there  was 
not  enough  space  in  the  book  to  include  all  of  the  600  stories 
received  in  the  1981  and  1982  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  writing 
contests,  the  names  of  all  the  contestants  for  those  years  are 
recorded  in  the  index  of  this  book.  Each  contestant 
contributed  to  the  preservation  of  our  Illinois  heritage  and  all 
of  the  contest  manuscripts  have  been  placed  on  file  in  the 
Archives  and  Special  CoUections  Department  of  the  Western 
Illinois  University  Library  where  they  will  be  made  available 
to  future  generations  of  researchers,  historians,  and  students 
of  lUinois  history. 

To  President  Leslie  Malpass,  Western  Illinois 
University,  whose  dedication  to  this  region  has  resulted  in 
the  university  support  necessary  to  the  pubUcation  of  Tales 
from  Two  Rivers  II. 

To  the  Ilhnois  Arts  Council  and  the  IlUnois  Humanities 
Council  for  funding  that  made  possible  the  writing  contests 
from  which  these  stories  are  drawn  and  the  publication  of  this 
book. 

To  John  E.  Hallwas  and  Victor  Hicken  for  their 
enthusiastic  help  and  advice  and  hours  of  labor  directed 
toward  editing,  screening  the  galleys,  and  contributing 
invaluable  help  to  make  Tales  I  and  //  successful. 

To  Nancy  Butler,  Terri  Garner,  and  Carol  Yeoman  who 
translated  illegible  editorial  notes,  manuscripts  written  in 
long  hand,  and  unfamiliar  jargon  into  neatly  typed  master 
copies  of  the  manuscript  for  Tales  II. 


To  the  following  banks,  community  organizations,  and 
businesses  that  contributed  to  the  writing  contests:  Avon 
Public  Library;  Church  of  the  Good  Shepherd— Avon;  Avon  Nursing  Home; 
Avon  Junior  Women's  Club;  Avon  Businessmen's  Association;  Avon  Unit 
HEA;  Neff  Co.— Avon;  Lucile  Wilson— Avon;  Tompkins  State 
Bank— Avon;  State  Bank  of  Augusta;  Bowen  State  Bank;  Biggsville 
Community  Federated  Church:  GFWC  Biggsville  Community  Club;  PLM 
Corp.— Bushnell;  Midwest  Control  Products,  Corp.— Bushnell;  Farmer's 
and  Merchants  State  Bank— Bushnell;  Farmer's  State  Bank  of  Camp  Point; 
First  Federal  Savings  and  Loan  Association— Colchester;  First  National 
Bank  of  Carthage;  Marine  Trust  Co.— Carthage;  Hancock  Co.  Historical 
Association;  Dallas  City  Bank;  Gladstone  Lions  Club;  Colchester  State 
Bank;  Farmer's  State  Bank  of  Ferris;  Parish  Fertilizer— Fairview;  Golden 
State  Bank;  Spoon  River  lOOF;  Security  State  Bank  of  Hamilton;  Ipava 
State  Bank;  Calhoun  County  Historical  Assn.;  Galesburg  Community  Arts 
Council;    Modern    Manor— Mt.    Sterling;    Brown    County    State    Bank; 


Farmer's  State  Bank  and  Trust  Co.— Mt.  Sterling;  Clay  Edwards;  Gary  and 
Nancy  Aleff;  Edward  D.  Jones  &  Co.— Macomb;  "Student  Prince 
West— Macomb;  McDonough  Farmer's  Supply;  Macomb  Kiwanis;  Union 
National  Bank— Macomb;  Jomlee  Corp. —Macomb;  HyVee 
Foods— Macomb;  Macomb  Beautiful;  Citizen's  National  Bank— Macomb 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Lewis;  TomUnson  Real  Estate;  Schuyler  State  Bank 
Snyder  Vaughn  Haven,  Inc.— Rushville;  Henderson  County  Arts  Council 
Twentieth  Century  Club— Mt.  Sterling;  Raritan  State  Bank;  Warren 
County  Historical  Society;  LaHarpe  Arts  Council;  State  Bank  of  LaHarpe; 
Security  Savings  and  Loan  —Monmouth;  State  Bank  of  Nauvoo;  Meiss- 
Burton  Sundries;  Plymouth  Business  Association;  Table  Grove  State 
Bank;  Acorn  World— Stronghurst;  Chapter  PEG  Sisterhood— Vermont; 
Vermont  State  Bank;  and  HiU-Dodge  Banking  Co.— Warsaw. 

To  all  of  the  groups  and  individuals  who  joined  with  us 
to  bring  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  II  to  you! 


Jerrilee  Cain,  Coordinator 
College  of  Fine  Arts  Development 
Executive  Officer,  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council 


TWO  RIVERS  ARTS  COUNCIL  BOARD 


Rossann  Baker 
Avon 

Jane  Boyd 
Rushville 

William  Brattain,  Dir. 
WIU  Union 

Shirley  Burton 
Plymouth 

Nancy  Butler 
LaHarpe 

Jerrilee  Cain 
WIU-CFAD 

Larry  Carson 
Colchester 

Cindy  Gibson 
Bushnell 

Burdette  Graham 
Macomb 

Sharon  Graham 
BiggsviDe 

John  HaUwas 
Macomb 

*  Charter  Member 
**  Business  Manager 


Carolyn  Hamilton 
Augusta 

Patricia  Hobbs 
Macomb 

Audine  Jung 
Bowen 

Lynn  Kern 
LaHarpe 

Eileen  Rauschert 
Bushnell 

Robert  Reed 
WIU  Union 

Sandi  Robinson 
Galva 

Forrest  Suycott,  Dean 

wiu-cfa" 

Diane  Snyder 
Rushville 

Helen  Thomson 
Table  Grove 

Jerry  Tyson 
Rushville 

Carol  Yeoman 
Avon 


"The  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council  [has]  looked  around  to  find 
what  was  most  appropriate  to  their  communities.  .  .  And 
within  a  maze  of  sometimes  rigid  guidelines  and  bureaucracy, 
they  have  maintained  a  vestige  of  ingenuity,  common  sense, 
and  self-sufficiency.  .  .  Here,  as  perhaps  nowhere  else  in  this 
country,  the  arts  have  been  encouraged  to  grow  from  roots 
thrust  deep  into  their  native  soil,  and  they  have  made  a 
difference  in  their  towns." 

Nan  Levinson  -  The  Cultural  Post 
National  Endowment  for  the  Arts 
Washington,  D.C. 


w:j^ 


TRAC  Executive  Committee  Left  Front  Counterclockwise:  Nanc; 

y  Butler,  LaHarpe. 

Secretary;    Carol    Yeoman.    Avon,    Treasurer:    Mary    Graham, 

Biggsville,    Vice- 

President:  Jerry  Tyson,  Rushville,  President:  and  .Jerrilee  Cair 

1.  WIU,  Executive 

Director. 

1     traveling  %  ^ays  Qone  '^y 


TRAVELING  IN  DAYS  GONE  BY 

Virtually  everyone  would  agree  that  contemporary 
American  society  is  dominated  by  the  automobile.  We  are  so 
well  aware  of  what  we  have  gained  by  that  one  transportation 
development,  and  so  sure  of  its  importance,  that  we  seldom 
consider  what  we  have  lost.  And  it  seems  odd— or  even 
perverse— to  reflect  that  today's  senior  citizens  knew  a 
richer,  more  diverse  era  of  transportation  in  western  Illinois 
several  decades  ago. 

After  untold  generations,  man's  dependence  on  the 
horse  finally  came  to  an  end— at  least  in  North 
America— during  the  early  twentieth  century.  It  is  hard  to 
reahze  now  that  the  relationship  between  man  and  horse 
which  had  once  enriched  the  Uves  of  millions  of  people  also 
virtually  disappeared.  Laurence  Royer's  "More  Than  Just  a 
Horse"  is  a  poignant  testament  to  what  has  been  lost.  The 
other  two  horse-and-buggy  memoirs,  by  Charles  H.  Krusa 
and  Alice  Krauser,  depict  local  travel  as  a  much  more 
humanistic  process  than  our  automobile  culture  allows. 

It  is  also  difficult  for  us  to  reahze  the  importance  of 
"hard  roads"  to  the  smaU  towns  of  many  years  ago.  Local 
residents  saw  in  them,  quite  rightly,  the  end  of  community 
isolation— as  well  as  the  end  of  perennial  battles  against 
mud— and  so  it  is  not  surprising  that  celebrations  often 
followed  the  completion  of  the  pavement.  But  better  roads 
commonly  promoted  the  economic  dechne  of  a  town,  for  they 
allowed  people  to  shop  in  larger,  more  distant  communities. 
And  according  to  geographer  John  A.  Jakle,  in  The  American 
Small  Town  (1981),  paved  roads,  or  highways,  also  caused 
decentraUzation.  That  is  to  say,  towns  began  to  develop  an 
outward  focus,  and  the  local  sense  of  community  diminished. 
Hence,  there  is  a  certain  irony  in  the  celebration  of  Old  Man 
Dirt  Road's  demise,  as  depicted  by  Marjory  M.  Reed,  and  in 
the  "Easter  parade  review"  of  cars  on  the  newly  paved 
streets  of  Rushville,  mentioned  by  Paul  Sloan. 


The  early  twentieth  century  was  also  the  twihght  of  the 
steamboat  era.  In  western  Ilhnois,  that  era  began  during  the 
late  1820's  and  reached  its  peak  in  the  pre-Civil  War  years, 
before  the  railroad  had  its  awesome  impact  on  travel  and 
shipping.  The  essay  by  John  F.  Elhs  evokes  the  colorful 
world  of  river  travel  that  came  to  an  end  when  he  was  young. 

He  mentions  the  Eagle  Packet  Company,  which  has  a 
significant  place  in  the  business  heritage  of  western  Illinois. 
That  enterprise  began  in  Warsaw  during  1861,  when  two 
young  German  immigrants,  Henry  and  Wilham  Leyhe, 
constructed  The  Young  Eagle.  The  small  sidewheeler  was  put 
into  operation  between  Warsaw  and  Keokuk.  In  1865  they 
built  The  Grey  Eagle,  and  as  the  years  passed,  several  other 
boats  were  added  to  the  Eagle  One.  The  company  offices  were 
moved  to  Alton  in  1873  and  to  St.  Louis  in  1891.  Long  before 
the  turn  of  the  century.  Eagle  steamboats  were  a  familiar 
sight  on  the  Ilhnois  and  Mississippi  rivers.  But  tragedy 
struck  in  the  winter  of  1918,  when  four  of  the  boats  were 
crushed  in  an  ice  jam  on  the  Tennessee  River.  The  company 
never  fuUy  recovered  from  that  loss.  The  last  boat  in  the  hne. 
The  Golden  Eagle,  continued  to  operate  on  the  Illinois  River 
until  after  World  War  II.  It  was  the  only  overnight  packet 
boat  in  this  part  of  the  country.  When  it  ran  aground  and 
broke  up  in  1947,  passenger  boat  operations  from  St.  Louis 
came  to  a  end. 

The  railroad  is  still  with  us,  but  it  no  longer  has  such  a 
large  impact  on  our  lives— or  our  towns.  As  Kenneth  Maxwell 
Norcross  says  in  his  memoir,  "Back  at  the  turn  of  the 
century,  the  railroad  was  extremely  important  to  the 
community.  Life  sort  of  revolved  around  it."  Indeed,  when 
the  raih-oads  came  through  in  the  1850's  and  after,  some 
towns  (such  as  Bushnell  and  Prairie  City)  were  founded  on 
that  premise  alone,  while  others  that  lacked  rail  connections 
(including  Fandon,  Birmingham,  and  Fountain  Green)  went 
into  permanent  dechne.  Pilot  Grove  Corners,  in  Hancock 
County,  was  so  desperate  to  be  on  a  railroad  line  that  when 


the  route  of  the  T.  P.  &  W.  was  estabhshed  two  and  one  half 
miles  away  during  1867,  local  residents  simply  moved  the 
town  next  to  the  tracks.  The  re-established  community  then 
changed  its  name  to  Burnside. 

Of  course,  the  local  depot  was  the  point  of  contact 
between  each  community  and  the  greater  world  that  lay 
somewhere  in  the  distance.  As  such  it  symbolized  the  escape 
from  small-town  confinement  that  many  villagers  yearned  for 
in  the  late  nineteenth  and  early  twentieth  centuries.  Carl 
Sandburg— who  was  raised  in  the  pre-eminent  railroad  town 
of  western  Illinois— understood  that  yearning  and  expressed 
it  in  one  of  his  Chicago  Poems  (1915):  "Mamie  beat  her  head 
against  the  bars  of  a  Httle  Indiana  town  and  dreamed  of 
romance  and  big  things  off  somewhere  the  way  the  railroad 
trains  all  ran."  More  recently,  Richard  Lingeman,  in  Small 
Town  America  (1980),  refers  to  the  depot  as  "a  place  of 
dreams  of  distant  places  and  banshee  train  whistles  in  the 
night,  the  steady  roar  and  clicking  of  the  wheels,  the  pistons 
chanting  'You  are  missing  something  missing  something 
missing  something  . . .  something  .  . .  something.  Out  there."' 

Of  course,  the  railroad  also  brought  the  larger  world  to 
the  small  town,  and  so  depots  were  also  where  politicians 
spoke,  lecturers  arrived,  and  circuses  unloaded.  When 
President  Hayes  stopped  at  the  Macomb  depot  in  1879,  to 
speak  for  just  five  minutes,  4,000  people  attended.  When 


evangehst  Billy  Sunday  arrived  at  the  same  depot  in  1905,  he 
was  met  by  local  dignitaries  and  a  brass  band.  The  depot  was, 
then,  a  sort  of  parlor  for  the  community— a  suitable  setting 
for  special  occasions. 

But  the  everyday  activities  at  the  depot  were  also 
important  to  the  hfe  of  a  small  town.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
local  newspapers  commonly  reported  the  arrivals  and 
departures  of  community  residents,  and  idle  men  and  boys 
lingered  there  to  watch  the  railroad  agent  conduct  his 
business  and  to  see  the  people  come  and  go. 

Depending  on  the  individual's  experience  with  it,  the 
depot  also  frequently  developed  personal  meaning.  With 
regard  to  the  httle  girl  in  Bernadette  Tranbarger's  memoir,  it 
was  her  lack  of  experience  with  the  depot  that  gave  it 
significance  which  only  a  child's  mind  could  devise. 

In  general,  the  various  memoirs  in  this  section  remind 
us  that  if  travel  was  slower  and  more  unpredictable  years 
ago,  it  also  aDowed  for  more  interaction  with  the  landscape 
and  other  people,  as  well  as  more  time  to  reflect  on  the 
experience  of  traveling.  In  that  respect,  too,  the  coming  of 
the  modern  automobile  and  paved  roads— not  to  mention  air 
transportation— has  paradoxically  diminished  our  lives  even 
as  it  has  improved  them. 

John  Hallwas,  Editor 


THE  HORSE  KNEW  THE  WAY 

Nina  L.  Vortman  * 

The  girl  I  knew  and  hoped  to  marry  was  teaching  school 
in  a  very  rough,  rural  community  in  Scott  County,  twenty- 
two  miles  from  my  bachelor  farmstead. 

About  every  two  weeks  her  parents  drove  to  her  school. 
Sugar  Grove,  and  brought  her  home  for  the  weekend.  In  1909 
that  meant  a  long  drive  with  horse  and  buggy,  which  could 
make  about  five  miles  an  hour,  depending  on  the  roads  and 
weather. 

It  was  my  pleasure  to  return  her  to  her  home  near  the 
school  on  Sunday  afternoons.  I'd  hitch  Doll  to  my  buggy, 
drive  the  three  miles  to  Ina's  house  and  eat  dinner  with  her 
family.  We'd  leave  about  two  o'clock  for  the  long  drive  back 
to  the  Smothers',  her  home  away  from  home. 

We  enjoyed  the  leisurely  hours  of  companionship  and 
the  beauty  of  the  changing  countryside  from  summer  to  fall 
to  winter.  Those  drives  gave  us  a  chance  to  share  anecdotes 
about  her  school  and  my  hopes  and  plans  for  the  farm  I  had 
rented.  Those  were  pleasant  days,  especially  when  the 
weather  cooperated. 

My  buggy  had  side  curtains  for  rainy  and  cold  days,  and 
we  had  a  lap-robe  to  help  fight  the  elements.  However,  a 
several  hour  drive  in  severe  weather  became  pretty 
uncomfortable. 

Doll  was  one  of  my  work  horses,  as  well  as  my  driving 
horse.  She  was  a  mean  horse  if  she  wasn't  working  every  day. 
A  few  days  of  rest  and  she'd  balk  and  be  just  plain  ornery.  I 
really  worked  her  that  winter.  I  used  her  every  weekday  to 
shuck  two  big  loads  of  corn  and  then  drove  her  on  the  long 
Sunday  treks.  She  needed  to  be  shod  three  times  for  her 
travels  and  didn't  have  time  to  be  mean. 

Doll  was  a  good  road  horse.  Give  her  her  head  and  she'd 
take  you  safely  over  the  road,  night  or  day.  On  those  long, 


dark,  and  lonely  drives  home  after  supper  with  Ina,  she  did 
just  that. 

One  Sunday  the  weather  was  especially  rough. 
Lightning  filled  the  skies,  flashing  vividly,  blindingly. 
Thunder  filled  the  air  with  startling  crashes.  Rain  beat 
against  the  buggy,  against  us,  and  against  Doll. 

On  the  last  miles  of  our  trip,  we  left  the  flat  land  and 
went  into  very  hilly  terrain.  There  were  several  unbridged 
creeks  which  had  sandy  gravel  beds  that  had  to  be  forded. 

We  reached  one  of  those  in  this  terrible  storm.  It  was 
night  by  then  and  we  were  anxious  to  get  on  and  out  of  the 
storm.  Doll  balked!  She  stood,  not  budging,  ignoring  my 
efforts  to  urge  her  on.  What  a  time  and  place  to  get 
cantankerous! 

After  what  seemed  like  ages  but  was  really  only 
seconds,  Doll  turned  and  walked  along  the  bank  for  several 
yards,  then  forded  the  creek,  turned  knowingly  back  to  the 
road  and  on  to  our  destination. 

The  storm,  with  its  downpour,  flashes,  and  crashes, 
continued  throughout  the  evening  so  I  accepted  an  invitation 
to  stay  overnight. 

Monday  morning,  on  my  way  home,  I  came  back  to  the 
stream.  Where  the  road  crossed  the  creek  there  was  a 
straight  drop  to  the  creek  bed  below,  instead  of  the  gentle 
slope  which  had  made  fording  possible.  The  raging  waters 
had  cut  away  the  slopes  and  left  vertical  walls. 

Now  I  knew  what  Doll  had  known  the  night  before.  Her 
"horse"  sense  had  told  her  of  the  danger.  She  hadn't 
balked— she  had  saved  us  from  disaster.  I  could  visualize 
horse,  buggy,  and  the  two  of  us  entangled  on  the  creek  bed 
with  water  rushing  around  us. 

Doll  again  moved  confidently  away  from  the  dangerous 
precipice,  forded  the  creek  farther  up,  and  continued 
homeward.  How  foolish  I'd  been  to  lose  faith  in  my  mare  that 
always  knew  the  way! 


As  told  to  the  author  by  her  father.  Charles  H.  Krusa 


BOUNCE 

Alice  Krauser 

Although  I  don't  remember  where  he  came  from  or  how 
he  happened  to  be  there,  some  of  my  most  vivid  memories  of 
early  childhood— pleasurable,  exciting,  and  frightening- 
center  around  Bounce.  The  beautiful,  high-spirited  bay  horse 
was  my  father's  favorite.  I  vaguely  remember  hearing  that  he 
was  of  racehorse  stock. 

If  someone  in  the  neighborhood  had  cattle  to  be  driven 
to  market  (there  were  no  trucks  in  those  days),  my  father  was 
always  called  on  because,  with  my  father  on  Bounce,  the  job 
was  made  easier.  Bounce  was  quick  to  respond  to  the 
guidance  of  the  rein  and  to  spoken  command.  He  seemed  to 
understand  what  the  situation  required  even  before  a 
command  was  given. 

In  those  days,  before  we  owned  a  car,  if  my  father  had 
errands  to  do,  he  would  saddle  Bounce  and  gaUop  off.  On  rare 
occasions,  if  the  distance  was  not  too  great,  he  would  let  me 
climb  up  and  ride  behind  him.  Chnging  there  to  my  father 
with  both  arms,  I  was  thrilled  as  we  flew  through  the  air  (or 
so  it  seemed  to  me),  for  Bounce  would  go  into  a  steady, 
smooth  gallop  at  a  speed  that  took  my  breath  away. 

If  the  whole  family  was  to  go  to  town,  to  church,  or  to 
visit  relatives  or  friends,  my  father  would  hitch  Bounce  to  the 
road-wagon,  a  Hght-weight,  one-seated  vehicle  without  a  top. 
And  we'd  better  be  ready  to  go,  because  Bounce  was  always 
impatient  to  take  off  at  top  speed,  and  he  became  nervous 
and  fidgety  if  he  had  to  stand  still  very  long.  The  four  of  us 
managed  to  fit  into  the  road-wagon— Mother  and  Father  on 
the  seat,  my  sister  Mary  and  I  taking  turns,  one  between  our 
parents  on  the  seat  and  the  other  on  a  small  footstool  at  their 
feet.  I  was  always  somewhat  afraid  that  after  untying 
Bounce,  my  father  might  not  make  it  to  the  seat  and  get  the 
Unes  in  his  hands  before  Bounce  started  off,  but  he  always 
did.  Bounce  was  allowed  to  go  as  fast  as  the  condition  of  the 


road  permitted  until  he  had  worked  off  some  of  his  nervous 
energy  and  was  then  ready  to  settle  down  to  a  steady  pace. 
All  would  go  well  then  unless  we  came  to  a  threshing  machine 
in  a  field  near  the  road  or  met  one  of  the  automobiles  that 
were  just  beginning  to  come  into  use. 

Bounce  was  terrorized  by  the  smoke-belching 
"monster"  that  furnished  power  for  the  threshing  machine. 
At  the  top  of  the  hill  on  Tower  Road,  immediately  west  of  the 
Dexter  home,  there  was  a  large  shed  that  housed  the 
threshing  equipment  owned  by  Charhe  Arnold,  who  then 
Hved  on  the  place  that  is  now  Dr.  Dexter's.  If  the  engine  was 
out  of  the  shed  getting  warmed  up  for  a  threshing  job,  and 
Bounce  was  being  driven  up  the  hill,  he  could  hear,  or  smell, 
or  somehow  sense  what  was  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  His  instant 
reaction  was  to  whirl  around,  with  the  road-wagon  making 
the  turn  with  only  two  wheels  on  the  ground,  while  the 
frightened  occupants  managed  somehow  not  to  fly  off  into 
space.  My  father  would  leap  out  and  grab  the  bridle  and,  in 
spite  of  Bounce's  leaping  and  rearing,  lead  him  past  the 
engine.  Sometimes,  simply  by  holding  tight  lines,  tapping 
with  the  whip,  and  shouting  commands,  my  father  managed 
to  drive  him  by  the  "monster,"  Bounce  rearing  up  on  his  hind 
legs  and  the  road-wagon  with  its  occupants  lurching  along. 

We  went  through  the  same  experience,  though  usually 
not  as  drastic,  if  we  met  an  automobile.  When  Bounce  would 
start  plunging  and  rearing,  often  the  driver  of  the  car, 
noticing  a  woman  and  two  httle  girls  in  the  road-wagon, 
would  stop  his  car  and  jump  out  to  help,  adding  to  the 
trouble.  That  terrifying  machine  standing  there  so  close 
added  to  Bounce's  frenzy  and  to  my  father's  fears  that 
Bounce's  flying  feet  might  injure  a  man  who  did  not  reaUze 
the  danger.  If  we  were  on  the  way  home  from  town,  boxes  and 
packages  might  sometimes  be  scattered  on  the  road  but  we 
never  were.  I  suppose  my  mother,  Mary,  and  I  had  learned 
how  to  "sit  tight." 

Meeting  cars  eventually  became  somewhat  routine,  but 


there  was  one  we  all  dreaded  meeting.  It  was  a  white  car 
owned  by  the  Gaites  family  (of  the  Gaites  Studio).  It  wasn't 
so  bad  meeting  it  in  town,  but  the  Gaites  family  sometimes 
took  rides  out  in  the  country.  Bounce  feared  that  "white 
monster"  approaching  in  a  cloud  of  dust  with  curtains 
flapping.  In  fact,  all  of  us  feared  it,  especially  if  the  road  was 
narrow  or  there  were  deep  ditches  along  the  sides. 

But  there  were  happy  times,  too.  I  especially  remember 
one  Saturday  before  Christmas  when  the  lUinois  Theatre  had 
a  movie  for  children.  That  afternoon  my  father  and  1  went  to 
town,  and  he  took  me  to  the  theatre,  where  he  left  me  while  he 
did  the  family  shopping.  Later  he  came  back  and  sat  with  me 
until  the  movie  was  over.  He  still  had  a  few  things  to  buy.  so 
it  was  dark  by  the  time  we  started  home.  It  was  a  clear,  cold 
night  with  a  brilliant  moon,  and  we  were  well  bundled  up 
against  the  cold.  The  roads  were  snow-covered  but  in  good 
condition,  and  Bounce  traveled  fast.  My  father,  realizing  that 
the  experience  of  seeing  my  first  movie  had  left  me  confused 
about  it,  retold  the  whole  story  for  me  as  we  traveled  along, 
the  wheels  squeaking  in  the  cold  and  the  moonUght  ghstening 
on  the  snow  as  Bounce  raced  toward  home. 


MORE  THAN  JUST  A  HORSE 

Laurence  Eoyer 

He  was  foaled  the  spring  that  I  was  four  years  old.  I 
remember  my  father  bringing  old  DoU,  his  mother,  to  the 
house  one  cold  March  day  so  that  my  mother  and  my  sister 
and  I  could  see  the  new  colt  from  the  window.  His  mother  was 
a  black  mare  who  had  always  produced  black  colts  before,  but 
this  time  the  colt  was  a  grayish  brown  that  set  him  apart 
from  the  blacks,  bays,  and  roans  of  the  rest  of  the  horses. 
After  a  lengthy  family  discussion,  he  was  given  the  name  of 
Bob. 


It  was  the  custom  to  continue  working  the  brood  mares, 
so  he  followed  his  mother  through  the  routine  farm  work  of 
his  first  summer.  One  incident  during  clover  hulUng  probably 
accounted  for  his  total  lack  of  fear  around  a  threshing  rig.  He 
found  that  if  he  stood  just  right  under  the  big  drive  belt  it 
would  scratch  his  back,  so  each  time  a  load  was  being  pitched 
off  he  would  find  that  spot  and  get  a  good  currying. 

By  the  time  I  was  old  enough  to  begin  helping  with  the 
field  work.  Bob  was  a  well  broken  six-year-old  in  the  prime  of 
hfe.  It  was  safe  to  put  a  boy  out  with  a  team  because  the 
horses  knew  enough  about  the  work  to  go  along  with  very 
Uttle  driving.  It  was  our  practice,  in  making  up  a  four-horse 
team  for  the  gang  plow,  to  put  the  hnes  on  three  horses,  with 
the  outside  two  tied  in  to  the  middle  horse,  in  this  case  Bob, 
and  the  fourth  on  a  jockey  stick  opposite  the  furrow  horse.  In 
this  way.  Bob  controlled  the  entire  team.  On  the  level  ground, 
where  the  plow  pulled  easily.  Bob  was  content  to  let  the 
others  be  ahead,  but  on  the  hills  where  the  clay  was  tough,  he 
took  the  lead  and  the  others  had  to  struggle  to  keep  up. 

Bob  was  quiet  but  determined.  In  the  evenings,  when 
the  horses  were  loose  in  the  lot  with  hay  on  the  rack  wagon, 
he  wasn't  quarrelsome,  but  he  never  let  any  of  them  bluff  him 
away  from  his  place  at  the  hay.  Because  of  his  steadiness, 
even  as  a  youngster,  he  drew  the  job  of  breaking  the  colts  to 
work.  He  never  lost  his  temper  with  them  and  never  got 
excited  when  they  acted  up.  He  always  worked  on  the  near 
side  so  he  would  be  next  to  anything  we  met  on  the  road. 

His  early  teammate  was  a  sister  named  Beauty,  who 
was  as  nervous  as  he  was  calm.  She  was  always  pranc- 
ing and  puOing  on  the  bit.  My  father  sold  her  when  there  was 
a  demand  for  horses  at  the  time  of  the  first  World  War.  We 
led  her  behind  the  wagon  to  deUver  her  to  the  buyer  in 
Astoria.  As  we  turned  the  corner  coming  home.  Bob  looked 
back  and  saw  we  were  leaving  her  behind.  I  will  never  forget 
his  farewell  whinny. 


Bob  was  friendly  with  all  of  us,  but  he  had  a  special 
affection  for  my  father.  I  remember  one  day  when  we  went  to 
the  fair  in  RushviUe,  a  distance  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  miles.  We 
had  taken  the  team  and  wagon  with  feed  for  the  horses  and  a 
picnic  lunch  for  ourselves.  After  dinner  we  agreed  to  meet  at 
the  wagon  at  four  o'clock  to  start  home.  I  arrived  at  the 
wagon  first,  and  as  I  waited.  Bob  whinnied.  I  looked,  and  sure 
enough,  there  was  Dad  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away,  but 
Bob  had  spotted  him  among  the  crowd. 

One  of  Bob's  duties  was  to  work  in  the  treadmill  which 
we  used  to  operate  the  Hinman  milking  machine.  This  was  a 
rather  primitive  type  milker  that  got  its  suction  from  pumps 
on  a  reciprocating  drive  rod  running  along  the  tops  of  the 
stanchions.  Each  morning  and  evening  Bob  was  led  into  the 
treadmill  where  he  walked  uphill  until  the  milking  was 
finished.  He  didn't  seem  to  relish  the  work,  and  while  he  went 
in  wilhngly  enough,  he  always  seemed  glad  when  it  was  done. 
One  evening  the  cord  broke  which  ran  from  the  governor  to 
the  brake  and  which  controlled  the  speed,  and  the  machine 
started  going  faster  and  faster.  As  I  ran  from  the  barn  to  put 
the  brake  on  by  hand.  Bob  greeted  me  with  an  excited 
whinny.  I  'm  sure,  for  that  one  time  at  least,  he  was  glad  to  see 
me. 

In  later  years  Bob  was  teamed  with  a  bay  mare  named 
Daisy.  She  was  clever,  and  I  remember  one  of  the  tricks  she 
used  to  play  on  him.  When  we  stopped  to  rest  the  team  on  a 
hill,  she  would  pull  her  single  tree  as  far  ahead  as  it  would  go, 
then  when  it  was  time  to  start  the  load,  all  she  had  to  do  was 
set  her  feet  and  Bob  would  do  the  starting.  He  was  willing 
and  able,  and  I  guess  he  didn't  mind. 

When  Bob  was  older  and  more  or  less  retired,  he  was  the 
horse  my  children  rode.  They  were  riding  him  around  the 
barn  one  day  after  we  had  put  up  hay,  and  the  hay  rope  was 
hanging  looped  down  from  the  hay  rack.  He  was  gently 
enough  to  be  trusted  with  such  small  children,  but  he  was 
also  determined  to  take  the  shortest  route  to  his  stall.  That 


route  led  under  the  hay  rope,  which  was  too  heavy  for  the 
children  to  lift.  They  had  to  stop  him  or  get  brushed  off.  He'd 
stop,  but  wouldn't  turn  from  that  route,  so  I  finally  had  to 
rescue  them  and  let  him  go  to  his  stall.  He  thought  the  game 
had  lasted  long  enough. 

At  last,  at  the  ripe  old  age  of  thirty  years,  Bob  was 
turned  out  to  a  small  pasture  near  my  parents  home  where 
my  father  fed  and  cared  for  him.  One  morning  the  telephone 
rang,  and  my  father's  message  was  that  Bob  was  down  and 
couldn't  get  up.  He  had  gotten  thin  and  his  condition  was 
hopeless.  As  I  crossed  the  Uttle  valley  to  the  hillside  where  he 
lay,  he  heard  me  coming  and  whinnied  weakly.  Good  old 
faithful  friend.  There  was  one  last  service  I  could  do  for  him, 
and  I  would  not  turn  it  over  to  someone  else.  So  I  stroked  his 
muzzle  and  rubbed  his  ears,  then  fired  the  shot  that  ended  his 
suffering. 

Many  changes  have  come  over  the  years,  and  I  have 
welcomed  the  coming  of  mechanical  power  that  has  taken  the 
hot,  hard,  grueling  work  from  the  horses.  But,  while  a  man 
may  be  proud  of  his  tractor  and  thrill  to  its  power,  I  don't 
think  it  will  ever  be  the  same  as  the  feeling  between  a  real 
horseman  and  his  team. 


OLD  MAN  DIRT  ROAD 

Marjory  M.  Reed 

Shouting,  chanting  figures  moved  around  a  cart.  A 
misplaced  scarecrow  rested  within  the  vehicle.  It  had  been 
given  a  jouncing  journey  past  the  village  stores.  Then,  with 
loud  hurrahs,  the  dummy  was  torched.  In  the  darkness,  it 
looked  as  if  the  Indians  had  reclaimed  Yellow  Banks,  or 
Oquawka.  The  burning  of  "Old  Man  Du-t  Road"  in  effigy  was 
a  celebration  for  a  won  battle. 

In  the  1920's  roads  connected  villages  and  homes  but 
the  highways  of  those  years  are  well  remembered.  Locally,  we 


did  not  have  "hard  roads,"  concrete  highways,  black  top,  or 
even  gravel.  Our  roads  were  dirt,  sand,  or  clay.  The  cars 
became  stuck  in  them— stuck  in  the  sand,  stuck  in  the  mud, 
or  stuck  in  the  snow.  Travelers  were  keenly  aware  of  the 
area's  clay  hiUs  and  boggy  hoUows. 

Most  motorists  carried  tire  chains.  In  the  winter, 
fingers  froze  as  they  fumbled  to  fasten  the  links  of  cold  metal. 
In  warmer  weather,  fingers  reached  to  the  depth  of  mud  holes 
and  sought  to  connect  those  necessary  chains.  Oft  times 
drivers  scouted  for  a  pry  hole  to  hft  and  move  a  wheel 
forward.  More  frequently,  travelers  pushed  and  shoved  to 
free  their  mired  vehicles. 

Roads  were  flooded  when  creeks  rose  beyond  their 
banks.  On  one  such  occasion,  my  father  drove  south  to 
Oquawka  towards  Gladstone.  Dad  went  as  far  as  the 
conditions  permitted.  Then  he  transferred  boxes  of  groceries 
to  a  rowboat,  which  was  slightly  outhned  by  a  kerosene 
lantern.  The  food  was  for  a  family  marooned  by  the  extended 
creek.  The  two  men  had  been  waiting  in  the  rain  for  the 
arrival  of  the  needed  supplies. 

Pohtical  caravans  traveled  from  the  community  staging 
their  party  raUies.  The  preceding  car  would  disappear  in  a 
shroud  of  dust  on  those  trips.  Each  car  kept  in  Une  by 
following  the  trail  of  dust.  Patriotic  white  clothes  appeared 
grey  after  a  short  ride. 

My  father  drove  grocery  routes  through  the 
countryside.  Farmers  requested  items  beforehand  by  phone 
or  mail.  Supphes  were  usually  exchanged  for  commodities 
such  as  cream,  eggs,  butter,  or  chickens.  The  feet  of  a  chicken 
were  tied  together  and  the  cord  hooked  on  a  hanging  scale  to 
weigh  the  bird.  Eggs  were  transferred  from  the  farmer's 
containers  into  grey  dividers  of  large  wooden  crates.  Empty 
cream  cans  were  exchanged  for  filled  cans.  The  route  was 
always  planned  with  strategy  for  the  road  conditions. 
Sometimes  we  saved  time  by  leaving  the  main  road  and  the 
crossing  over  a  farmer's  fields,  down  long  lanes  of  grass. 


Then  I  was  the  official  gatekeeper  and  opened  the  gate  for 
entry  and  secured  it  behind  us.  The  weather  influenced  any 
shortcuts.  Dirt  roads  changed  to  mud  roads  too  quickly,  and 
a  car  could  easily  sink  to  its  axle. 

We  traveled  our  area  extensively  even  though  the  roads 
were  a  challenge.  We  maneuvered  the  dirt  roads  on  outings, 
looking  for  hickory  nuts,  picking  wild  flowers,  hunting 
elusive  mushrooms,  fishing  along  Henderson  Creek,  chmbing 
to  the  top  of  a  hill,  or  searching  for  arrowheads  near  an  Indian 
mound.  Today  we  ride  in  comfort,  but  our  outings  do  not 
surpass  those  of  the  Twenties. 

As  the  new  concrete  road  hnked  Oquawka  to  Monmouth 
many  years  ago,  the  townspeople  of  Oquawka  torched  the 
effigy.  The  figure  represented  aO  the  contempt  and 
frustrations  created  by  Old  Man  Dirt  Road.  For  the  moment, 
pleasure  trips  were  not  remembered  and  his  demise  was 
celebrated. 


PULLING  RUSHVILLE  OUT  OF  THE  MUD 

Paul  C.  Sloan 

Today's  highways  bear  little  resemblance  to  old  dirt 
highways  used  during  the  turn  of  the  century,  when  horse- 
drawn  vehicles  or  occasional  horseless  carriages  resulted  in  a 
cloud  of  dust  or  a  quagmire  of  mud. 

Prior  to  the  buOding  of  all-weather  roads  in  the 
Rushville,  Illinois  area,  heavUy  traveled  roadways  or  trails 
were  marked  with  the  painting  of  the  telephone  poles  along 
the  sides  of  the  roadways.  The  old  Waubonsie  Trail,  for 
example,  led  from  Rushville  through  Littleton  and  Industry 
to  Macomb,  and  subsequently  on  to  Quincy  or  Keokuk,  Iowa, 
and  was  punctuated  with  bright  yellow  bands  painted  on  the 
poles.  Townships  paid  a  daily  fee  to  farmers  who  used  teams 
of  horses  to  drag  the  roads  to  level  them  and  to  keep  roadside 
ditches  open  for  draining  accumulated  water. 


10 


Travel  was  generally  limited  to  those  so-called  trails, 
and  trips  to  RushviUe  were  confined  to  necessity  purchasing, 
such  as  food  and  other  commodities.  The  Rushville  city 
square  was  just  a  quagmire  of  mud  during  wet  weather,  and 
sidewalks  and  curbs  were  constructed  high  above  the  street 
level  so  people  could  get  in  and  out  of  horse-drawn  vehicles 
without  plodding  through  the  mud.  (The  north  side  of  the 
public  square  remains  today  as  a  reminder  of  days  gone  by.) 

The  state  of  Illinois  was  beseiged  with  requests  to  the 
state  legislators  to  build  hard-surfaced  roads  throughout  the 
state,  for  it  was  far  behind  many  other  states  in  road 
building.  Sometime  in  the  late  1920's  or  early  1930's,  the 
legislators  began  paying  attention  to  this  situation  and  took 
under  consideration  a  1 00-million-dollar  bond  issue.  Voters 
were  asked  to  pass  judgment  at  the  polls  on  this  bond  issue. 
It  was  very  controversial.  Those  for  the  bond  issue  naturally 
made  good  use  of  the  "pull  lUinois  out  of  the  mud"  slogan, 
while  the  "cons"  insisted  it  would  bankrupt  the  entire  state 
with  the  high  costs  of  roads,  bridges,  and  engineering  fees. 

The  issue  was  finally  passed,  and  Ilhnois  took  the  first 
steps  away  from  being  a  "backyard"  state  as  the  tremendous 
task  of  selecting  roads  to  be  constructed  was  begun. 

The  first  hard-surfaced  roads  in  Schuyler  County  were 
only  nine  feet  in  width,  for  horse  power  was  still  the  main 
type  of  transportation.  The  first  road  out  of  Rushville  was  on 
what  is  stiO  referred  to  as  "the  Macomb  Road." 

Sand  and  gravel  were  hauled  along  the  proposed  route 
and  stockpiled  by  the  roadside.  When  the  gasohne-motored 
concrete  mixer  was  in  use,  workmen  moved  the  ingredients 
by  means  of  wheelbarrows,  adding  cement  which  was  stored 
in  moisture  proof  containers  on  trucks  or  wagons  to  keep  the 
material  dry.  The  ingredients  were  loaded  into  a  "skip,"  an 
over-sized  scoop  shovel  built  on  a  hinge  arrangement.  When  a 
sufficient  amount  of  sand,  cement  and  stones  were  loaded, 
the  skip  was  elevated  by  means  of  steel  cables  mounted  on 
each  side  and  poured  into  the  concrete  mixer  where  water  was 


added.  When  mixed  to  the  proper  consistency,  it  was  poured 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  mixer  onto  the  previously  placed 
steel  forms  and  prepared  roadbed.  There  it  was  puddled, 
thoroughly  mixed,  and  tamped  down.  Expansion  joints  were 
placed  at  regular  intervals  to  allow  for  the  contraction  and 
expansion  caused  by  weather  conditions. 

Work  was  suspended  on  the  Rushville-Macomb  Road 
when  a  number  of  dissidents  obtained  an  injunction  to  halt 
construction.  The  problem  was  further  accentuated  by  the 
unwillingness  of  some  land  owners  to  sign  right-of-way 
documents.  Finally,  construction  was  started  on  an  alternate 
route  leading  north  on  Liberty  Street  in  RushviUe.  But  yet 
another  injunction  was  issued,  halting  that  construction.  The 
courts  finally  decided  that  construction  should  be  continued 
on  the  plea  that  the  original  Macomb  Road  was  where  the 
road  should  be  completed. 

The  narrow  road  width  contributed  to  many  arguments. 
Who  might  have  the  right  of  way?  Whatever  driver  arrived 
first  was  assumed  to  have  first  priviledge,  but  there  were  no 
stop  signs  or  warning  signs  yet. 

Many  tales,  mostly  unsubstantiated,  were  rampant 
during  the  road  construction  period.  Some  were  of  workmen 
dying  on  the  job  of  natural  causes  or  from  accidents,  with 
grotesque  details  of  their  bodies  being  placed  in  the  forms 
and  covered  with  the  concrete. 

Another  unconfirmed  story  was  of  a  car  being  driven  at 
a  high  rate  of  speed  down  Homey  Branch  Hill,  which  was  on 
the  Macomb  Road  just  past  the  Rushville  city  limits,  and 
jumping  the  unfinished  space  where  the  pavement  ended  on 
one  side  and  started  on  the  other.  The  momentum  of  the 
automobile  cleared  the  intervening  open  space  and  landed 
safely  on  the  other  side,  the  car  unscathed  and  the  driver  with 
a  few  bruises  and  scarcely  a  scratch. 

Other  road  construction  in  Schuyler  County  which 
occurred  in  the  ensuing  years  included  the  Mt.  Sterhng  road, 
which  was  built  by  Negroes  driving  mules,  the  Beardstown 


road,  which  led  through  Pleasant  View  and  Frederick  and 
crossed  the  river  on  what  was  commonly  referred  to  as  the 
"wagon  toll  bridge"  (opened  and  closed  by  man  power),  and 
the  farm-to-market  roads,  including  the  Camden  road  and  the 
Sugar  Grove  road. 

At  about  the  same  time  but  independent  of  the 
aforementioned  bond  issue  passage,  the  Rushville  city 
fathers  awarded  a  contract  to  the  Tiernan  Company  of 
Macomb  to  install  paved  brick  streets  on  all  the  main 
thoroughfares  within  the  city  Umits.  The  bricks  were  laid  on  a 
bed  of  sand  by  Negroes,  who  laid  an  astounding  number  of 
bricks  in  one  day. 

Upon  completion  of  the  city  street  contract,  the  few 
automobiles  owned  by  city  residents  were  driven  around  the 
city  square  in  an  almost  Easter  parade  review,  with  the 
owner-drivers  very  proud  of  their  motoring  on  the  newly 
paved  streets. 

With  the  advent  of  newly  paved  highways,  immediately 
all  the  towns  and  villages  began  the  task  of  interesting 
manufacturing  companies  in  locating  in  their  towns. 
Rushville  was  fortunate  to  inveigle  the  Cudahy  Company  to 
locate  in  the  defunct  Starr  Ice  and  Creamery  Company.  This 
was  located  across  the  street  from  the  present  Rushville  Feed 
and  Grain  Company.  Also,  the  "Korn  Top"  meat  packing 
plant  was  installed  on  South  Liberty  Street,  conceived  and 
put  into  operation  by  the  late  Howard  Bartlow.  Other 
businesses  were,  at  various  times,  begun  within  the  city 
hmits  and  had  Umited  hfe  spans.  Among  them  was  the  Glad 
Acres  Manufacturing  plant  at  the  north  limits  of  Macomb 
Road  Street.  This  company  manufactured  tool  kits  for  the 
Model  T  Ford  cars,  with  salesmen  operating  throughout 
Illinois  and  Indiana. 

One  thing  which  had  failed  to  keep  pace  with  the  paved 
streets  was  the  street  lighting.  Previously  installed 
ornamental  hghts  on  each  corner  of  the  square  with  wiring 
under  the  sidewalk  were  so  outmoded  they  gave  a  feeble 


glow,  which  had  about  as  much  illumination  as  oranges.  The 
entire  city  council  and  the  mayor  drove  to  the  town  of 
Pleasant  Plains  in  Cass  County  to  observe  the  latest  in  street 
lighting,  which  they  had  installed:  gas  mercury  vapor  hghts. 
A  short  time  later,  the  Rushville  City  Council  passed  an 
ordinance  for  the  purchase  of  aluminum  hght  poles  and 
sufficient  wiring,  and  after  some  delay,  work  was  commenced 
on  the  new  fixtures. 

A  large  contingent  of  local  residents  turned  out  to 
witness  the  first  lighting  of  the  new  mercury  vapor  lights.  A 
switch  was  installed  on  one  pole  near  the  rear  outside 
entrance  of  the  present  Wheelhouse  TV  store  on  South 
Liberty  Street.  Those  lights  were  controlled  mechanically 
and  connected  to  clocks  which  automaticaUy  turned  them  on 
and  off. 

The  new  hghting  system  gave  the  business  section  a 
modern  look.  Additional  street  mercury  vapor  bulbs  were 
installed  at  later  intervals.  The  positive  response  to  those 
hghts  resulted  in  the  council  members  being  swamped  with 
requests  for  additional  lights  at  various  places.  Residents 
cited  the  need  for  more  efficient  hghts  in  order  to  discourage 
possible  burglaries,  etc. 

With  the  construction  of  paved  roads  in  Schuyler 
County  and  Rushville,  the  area  was  truly  made  part  of  the  big 
effort  to  "pull  Illinois  out  of  the  mud." 


A  MEMORABLE  JOURNEY 

Marie  Freesmeyer 

"AU  hands  on  deck!"  That  was  Papa's  way  of  waking  us 
that  August  morning  in  1914.  It  was  an  expression  common 
on  the  steamboats,  and  citizens  of  Calhoun  County  were 
familiar  with  everything  pertaining  to  steamboats  as  they  all 
hved  near  either  the  Ilhnois  or  Mississippi  River. 


12 


"Roll  out!"  Papa  called  again,  and  we  did,  remembering 
that  this  was  the  big  day  which  had  been  marked  on  our 
Cordui  Calendar  as  the  day  to  start  our  long  journey  north  to 
visit  Mamma's  sister. 

Our  Empire  touring  car  had  been  washed  and  pohshed 
the  previous  day  until  its  black  surface  shone  hke  a  mirror. 
The  presto  tank  had  been  checked  and  an  extra  spare  had 
been  strapped  on.  Mamma  had  been  busy  the  past  week 
making  preparations  for  this  extravagant  adventure.  Our  one 
suitcase  had  been  packed  and  its  bulging  sides  well  strapped 
for  a  rough  ride.  Boxes  of  food  had  been  prepared  for  the  two- 
day  journey,  for  who  could  tell  whether  we  could  ever  find 
nourishing  food  along  the  way!  Mamma  surely  wasn't  taking 
any  chances. 

Besides  Papa  and  Mamma,  there  was  my  sixteen-year- 
old  brother,  Otto,  who  was  to  be  the  sole  chauffeur  for  the 
trip  (Papa  could  not  drive  as  he  was  crippled,  and  besides  he 
thought  at  age  fifty  he  was  too  old  for  such  new-fangled 
ideas);  another  brother,  Percy,  fourteen,  who  had  the  honor  of 
sitting  in  the  front  seat  as  he  was  to  serve  as  lacky  boy  for  the 
trip;  a  sister  nearly  five,  and  myself,  a  girl  of  ten. 

Our  route,  which  Papa  had  worked  on  for  weeks  with  the 
aid  of  an  old  wall  map  of  Illinois,  had  been  plotted,  and  all  the 
towns  through  which  we  were  to  pass  had  been  listed.  It  was 
to  start  at  our  home  village,  Hamburg,  on  the  Mississippi 
River,  go  from  town  to  town  up  between  that  river  and  the 
Illinois  to  Tiskilwa  in  Bureau  County.  Papa  was  co-pilot,  and 
it  was  back  seat  driving  all  the  way,  with  no  complaints  from 
the  boys  for  they  had  no  knowledge  of  the  route  or  any  way  of 
determining  it. 

We  chugged  over  the  rutty,  dirt  roads  to  the  main  road, 
which  was  very  little  better,  through  Hamburg,  which  had  not 
yet  begun  to  stir,  and  on  north  following  the  river  road.  The 
river  hugged  the  bluff  so  closely  that  at  places  the  road  was 
carved  out  of  the  rocky  cUffs.  One  mile  known  as  "The  Dug 
Road"  had  always  frightened  me  when  we  drove  over  it  with 


horse  and  buggy.  My  one  wish  this  morning  was  more  like  a 
prayer:  "Dear  Lord,  please  let  us  get  over  that  dreadful  mile 
without  meeting  anyone."  Luckily,  we  made  it. 

We  had  nearly  reached  the  Pike  County  Une  when,  with 
a  sudden  jolt,  we  came  to  a  halt.  The  roads  in  those  days  had 
a  high  center  because  the  wheels  of  the  vehicles  and  the  feet 
of  the  two-horse  teams  pulling  them  always  used  the  same 
tracks  in  the  narrow  roads  and  kept  them  worn  down.  The 
center  at  this  particular  spot  was  a  httle  too  high  for  our  car, 
which  by  today's  standard  was  high  indeed— even  the 
running  boards.  But  the  "pumpkin"  had  dug  into  this  center 
ridge  and  had  wedged  sohd,  thus  preventing  the  car  from 
moving  either  forward  or  backward. 

Papa  could  not  drive  the  modern  contraption  but  he  was 
quick  to  reahze  our  predicament  and  had  the  immediate 
solution.  "I'll  go  back  to  that  house  we  just  passed  and  get  a 
spade,"  he  said,  and  was  off  at  a  good  chp  in  spite  of  his  limp. 
He  soon  returned  with  the  necessary  tool,  dug  out  a  few 
spadefulls  of  dirt,  enabUng  the  car  to  be  backed,  and  we  were 
soon  on  our  merry  way  again. 

It  was  not  a  comfortable  ride  by  today's  standards,  and 
occasionally  bugs  hit  us  in  the  face,  to  say  nothing  of  the  heat 
as  the  day  progressed.  But  no  one  complained,  as  were 
adventurous  souls  just  starting  on  an  expedition  which  very 
few  of  our  acquaintances  had  ever  dared. 

The  route  now  took  us  over  near  the  Illinois  River  where 
the  roads  were  quite  muddy,  and  the  creeks  we  forded  were 
swollen  from  the  recent  rain.  In  one  such  stream  the  motor 
died  and  that  presented  another  problem.  It  was  really  quite 
humorous  for  all  except  the  younger  brother  who  had  to 
crank  the  engine.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  then  proceeded 
to  pull  off  his  shoes  and  socks  (no  pant  legs  to  worry  about  as 
he  was  still  wearing  knickers).  He  chmbed  around  the 
windshield,  on  to  the  hood,  then  out  to  the  protruding 
springs.  By  standing  there  hke  a  giraffe  he  was  able  to  give 
the  crank  a  quick  jerk  and  the  motor  took  off.  He  didn't  even 


13 


get  his  new  knickers  wet,  but  it  was  fortunate  that  the  water 
wasn't  any  deeper  than  it  was. 

Finding  our  way  from  one  town  to  the  next  was  not 
always  easy.  We  usually  tried  to  follow  the  best  traveled 
road,  but  frequent  inquiries  were  necessary  or  at  least 
expedient.  When  Papa  saw  that  we  were  meeting  someone,  he 
would  tell  my  brother  to  slow  down  (imagine,  if  you  can, 
slowing  down  from  thirty  miles  per  hour)  so  he  might  inquire 
the  way.  Papa's  numerous  queries  were  most  amusing  to  the 
rest  of  us,  who  were  really  needing  some  diversion.  "Is  this 
the  way  to  'Versailles?"  he  would  shout.  Or  maybe  it  was 
Rushville  or  some  other  name  that  we  had  never  heard.  As 
the  evening  sun  sank  low,  we  were  on  a  long,  straight  stretch 
of  road  which  would  take  us  into  Table  Grove,  our  destination 
for  the  night. 

After  our  hunger  was  appeased  at  the  hotel  dining  table, 
the  boys  went  out  to  explore  the  town.  We  girls  were  sent 
down  to  the  httle  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  which  we 
thoroughly  explored,  and  then  we  were  put  to  bed.  Tomorrow 
held  the  promise  of  being  another  long  day. 

On  the  second  day  we  found  better  roads.  Some  had  a 
hard  black  surface  different  from  anything  we  had  ever  seen. 
But  there  were  still  those  square  turns  which  had  hindered 
our  progress  the  day  before.  One  could  walk  around  them  as 
fast  as  Mamma  wanted  him  to  go.  Usually  a  hedge  fence  or 
tall  corn  prevented  one  from  being  able  to  see  around  them. 
But  that  is  why  the  Empire  was  equipped  with  that  bugle- 
and-bulb  contraption.  The  driver  was  supposed  to  squeese 
the  bulb,  which  produced  a  ho-on-n-k  that  would  warn  anyone 
approaching  around  the  corner  or  even  a  mile  away.  That 
horn  was  my  dehght,  and  I  urged  him  to  blow  it  whenever 
there  was  a  chicken  or  other  animal  near  the  road.  He  soon 
learned  better  than  to  blow  it  when  approaching  horses  as 
they  were  not  yet  accustomed  to  the  noise  and  might  give  the 
driver  a  difficult  time.  Then  the  driver  was  apt  to  have  a  few 
choice  words  for  us. 


For  a  while  this  second  day  we  followed  the  "Cannonball 
Trail."  Then  all  eyes  were  glued  to  the  telegraph  poles, 
watching  for  the  marker,  which  was  a  white  band  painted 
around  the  pole  with  a  black  ball  in  the  center. 

A  couple  times  each  day  while  passing  through  a  town 
we  would  pull  up  to  an  imposing-looking  structure,  usually 
with  a  large  red  crown  on  top.  It  was  a  general  merchandise 
store,  and  the  proprietor  would  come  out  wearing  his  white 
apron.  He  would  turn  a  crank,  thereby  filling  the  glass 
compartment  at  the  top  with  an  ill-smelling  fluid  which  was 
the  aU-important  fuel  for  those  newfangled  carriages. 

We  finally  arrived  in  Tiskilwa  and  Papa  told  us  the 
history  of  its  name.  We  were  greatly  amused  and  I  kept 
repeating  the  facts:  "Tis  and  Wa  were  Indians.  Tis  killedWa. 
Tiskilwa!" 

After  more  inquires  we  found  our  way  to  the  Hennepin 
Canal  and  to  our  aunt's  house.  Their  home  was  near  the  canal 
and  my  uncle  tended  one  of  the  locks  so  we  had  the 
opportunity  to  watch  as  he  opened  and  closed  the  gates,  thus 
raising  or  lowering  the  water.  Many  and  various  type  boats 
used  this  canal  to  go  from  the  llhnois  River  to  the  Mississippi 
or  vice  versa. 

After  a  week's  stay,  we  set  out  for  home  by  a  route 
which  took  us  to  Peoria.  Here  Mamma  and  us  girls  took  the 
steamboat  down  the  river  to  Kampsville.  The  long  trip  home 
was  thought  to  be  too  tiring  for  Mamma.  Though  we  went  by 
a  more  direct  route,  they,  having  a  half-day's  head  start,  were 
waiting  for  us  when  the  boat  docked. 

The  last  lap  of  our  journey  was  a  short  one  in  the 
dependable  Empire.  But,  needless  to  say,  our  chief  topic  of 
conversation  with  my  older  brothers  and  the  neighbors  was 
our  memorable  journey  upstate. 


STEAMBOAT  A'  COMIN' 

John  F.  Ellis 

My  grandfather  brought  his  family  across  the  Illinois 
River  in  1880  and  settled  in  Naples,  a  town  that  depended  on 
the  river  for  its  hveUhood.  The  river  had  to  be  treated  with 
respect.  Its  high  water  took  personal  property  many  times, 
and  it  claimed  the  Lives  of  some  of  the  town  residents.  The 
area  looked  good  to  my  grandfather  because  he  wanted  to 
establish  a  wholesale-retail  fish  business,  and  so  he  stayed 
and  dismantled  the  covered  wagon  that  had  been  ferried 
across  the  river. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  river  traffic  in  those  early  days. 
There  were  marker  lights  both  north  and  south  of  Naples.  My 
mother,  as  a  young  girl,  and  my  grandfather  had  the  chore  of 
tending  those  lights,  which  were  powered  by  kerosene.  It  was 
necessary  to  have  a  horse  and  a  reliable  boat  to  reach  the 
markers,  and  it  was  a  rough  job,  as  the  river  could  often  be  a 
challenge  for  a  rowboat.  The  job  was  a  political  one  and  so 
was  lost  to  my  family  when  the  administration  changed  in 
Washington. 

The  government  had  two  stern-wheel  steamboats,  the 
Lancaster  and  the  Comanche.  Laurence  Quintal,  a  classmate 
of  mine,  was  an  officer  on  the  Comanche  before  it  was  retired 
from  service.  Duties  for  those  boats  included  furnishing 
supplies  for  the  marker  lights  and  patrolling  the  river.  The 
patrol  duty  was  an  attempt  to  keep  the  fishermen  honest. 
Fish  nets,  seines,  and  baskets  had  to  have  tags  in  order  to  be 
legal.  If  equipment  was  found  without  a  tag,  it  was 
destroyed.  The  patrol  was  also  to  discourage  fishing  during 
the  closed  season. 

The  Lancaster  was  noted  for  the  size  of  its  wake,  and 
wave  riding  was  considered  to  be  quite  a  sport.  One  day  my 
uncle  and  cousin  caught  the  second  wave  behind  the 
Lancaster  wheel.  The  wave  broke  and  filled  the  boat.  Their 
yells  brought  Fred  Mann  with  a  rescue  boat.  Cousin  Rip  Six 


could  probably  have  made  it  to  shore,  but  Uncle  Esaw 
probably  would  have  had  trouble. 

Naples  had  a  large  river-rail  freight  business.  Their 
sizable  fleet  of  stern-wheel  steamers  included  the  Bald  Eagle, 
Gray  Eagle,  Eagle,  Spread  Eagle,  Golden  Eagle  and  a  later 
boat,  the  Peoria,  which  was  larger  than  the  others.  Wally 
"Cotton"  Hatfield  was  the  local  agent. 

Much  livestock  was  moved  to  the  Peoria  and  St.  Louis 
markets.  The  company's  mate  was  cruel  to  the  black  workers, 
and  would  often  bring  a  heavy  stick  across  their  backs  when 
they  did  not  move  fast  enough.  This  infuriated  me,  and  I 
would  yell  at  him  and  threaten  to  report  him  to  the  sheriff.  A 
stare  was  all  I  received  in  return,  as  he  was  not  too  concerned 
about  a  small  boy's  complaints.  It  was  said  that  he  never 
ventured  from  the  boat  when  it  was  docked  in  St.  Louis. 

Before  the  Volstead  Act,  liquor  was  sold  on  all  boats, 
except  when  Naples  was  "dry"  and  the  stage  plank  was 
down.  At  those  times,  the  packet  would  have  passengers  to 
the  west  side  of  the  river.  They  would  make  their  purchases 
and  a  friend  would  come  for  them  in  a  motor  boat.  Farmers  on 
the  west  side  of  the  river  brought  their  stock  to  the  landing 
for  pick  up.  It  was  a  sad  day  when  the  entire  fleet  belonging 
to  the  Eagle  Packet  Company  was  lost  in  an  ice  jam. 

My  uncle,  Charles  Waters,  did  river  barge  work  on  a 
smaller  scale.  In  addition  to  his  fish  market,  he  operated  and 
owned  a  small  excursion  boat.  May  dad  and  Uncle  Esaw  ran 
the  wholesale-retail  fish  market  in  Naples,  and  Uncle  Will 
Waters  had  a  large  motor  boat.  At  times  I  was  allowed  to  be 
his  pilot,  which  filled  me  with  mixed  emotions.  I  was  elated 
with  the  job  but  afraid  that  I  would  do  something  wrong  as 
Uncle  WiU  had  quite  a  temper. 

The  excursion  boats  were  enjoyed  by  many  people.  The 
Swain  family  of  Beardstown  had  a  fleet  of  excursion  boats 
that  they  named  for  their  children.  The  list  included  the  Julia 
Belle,  David,  and  Percy.  They  also  had  an  excursion  barge. 
All  of  their  boats  were  side-wheelers,  which  were  more  easily 


15 


handled  on  the  river.  The  Columbia  sank  during  a  moonlight 
trip  on  July  6,  1918,  with  a  large  loss  of  Ufe.  I  was  among  the 
1200  that  were  on  board  two  days  before  on  a  trip  from 
Kampsville  to  Beardstown. 

The  Columbia  had  a  whistle  that  was  caUed  a  "wildcat." 
The  first  time  that  uncle  Benny  Eckles  heard  the  blast,  he 
was  on  the  west  side  of  the  river  in  the  woods.  He  thought  it 
was  for  real  and  hurried  back  home,  saying,  "That's  the  first 
time  old  Benny  Eckles  ever  backed  out  of  the  woods  with  an 
axe  in  his  hand." 

The  sound  of  the  calliope  brought  excitement  to  Naples 
because  it  meant  that  the  showboat  was  coming  to  town. 
River  people  always  pronounced  it  "cally-ope."  The 
showboats  were  a  source  of  much  pleasure  to  me.  Writers  do 
an  injustice  to  them  in  the  way  they  are  protrayed,  both  in 
words  and  in  pictures,  by  indicating  that  the  showboat  was  a 
single  unit.  This  is  not  true!  AH,  at  that  time,  were  towed  by 
steamboats. 

Naples  was  a  stop  for  both  up  and  down  trips.  The  hst  of 
showboats  visiting  our  town  includes  the  Golden  Rod,  Cotton 
Blossom,  Hippodrome,  Sunny  South,  American,  and  French's 
New  Sensation.  The  Golden  Rod,  which  is  on  a  new  barge,  is 
now  docked  at  St.  Louis.  It  is  a  dinner  theatre  showing  old 
"meUerdramers,"  complete  with  heroine,  hero,  and  vilhan.  I 
attended  a  performance  there  recently  with  my  family  and 
sat  in  the  same  35c  seat  of  years  ago.  Back  in  Naples  as  a 
boy,  I  usually  had  an  earned  "Comp"  (complimentary  ticket) 
because  I  had  helped  the  advance  agent  post  his  bills.  After  a 
band  concert  advertising  session  in  the  streets  of  Naples,  the 
band  would  often  travel  to  Bluffs  on  Henry  Hyatt's  hay  rack, 
and  there  would  be  another  concert  atop  the  boat  before  the 
performance.  My  grandmother  never  missed  a  show,  and  she 
always  had  the  same  seat:  third  row,  center  aisle  on  the  left 
side.  The  performers  expected  her  to  be  there  and  she  always 
was. 


While  the  lUinois  River  furnished  much  pleasure  for 
boating,  swimming,  and  fishing,  it  was  also  reason  for 
sorrow.  Three  of  Naples'  sons  drowned  in  it.  Uncle  Eddie 
Waters  lost  his  life  in  an  attempt  to  save  a  friend's  hfe  when 
he  fell  from  a  boat  on  the  return  to  Naples  from  Meredosia, 
where  they  had  been  in  a  baseball  game.  The  victim  got  a 
death  hold  on  Uncle  Eddie  and  they  both  went  under.  Joe 
Hatfield  and  Joe  Welch  drowned  when  they  were  lost  from 
fishing  boats.  Brothers  of  the  victims  dreamed  of  the  place 
where  the  bodies  would  be  recovered  and  the  dreams  came 
true. 

Naples  has  also  suffered  much  damage  from  floods.  An 
early  one  in  1913  was  caused  by  a  break  in  the  levee.  The  river 
was  near  the  top  of  the  levee  in  1922,  when  a  cut  was  made  on 
the  back  water  side  to  ease  the  pressure.  The  1926  flood  was 
caused  by  a  break  in  the  Jacksonville  reservoir.  In  1943  the 
Smith  Lake  levee  broke,  flooding  Naples  and  hundreds  of 
acres  of  farm  land.  That  was  a  record  high  crest  for  the  river. 

To  cope  with  high  river  stages,  it  was  necessary  to 
continually  build  better  levees.  In  1915  a  new  one  was  built 
by  the  Murphy  Construction  Company.  It  was  built  by  using 
horses  and  mules  with  slip  scrapers  and  wheelers. 
Townspeople  were  needed  to  furnish  the  "mule  skinners."  A 
large  tent  served  as  a  barn  for  the  animals.  The  present  levee 
was  built  under  the  supervision  of  the  Army  Corps  of 
Engineers  in  1935.  The  entire  length  of  Front  Street  was  used 
for  the  right  of  way.  Our  family  home  and  the  Chris  Dunaway 
home  were  moved  to  the  street  that  now  crosses  the  levee  to 
the  Boatel  operated  by  Bill  Saylor. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  I  was  guilty  of  "bootlegging" 
ice  water.  The  contractor  for  the  job  had  failed  to  provide 
water.  Frank  Davis,  superintendent  of  engineers,  employed 
me  to  deliver  good  drinking  water  to  the  construction  site  of 
the  1935  levee  job.  He  told  the  contractor  that  the  cost  of  this 
would  be  deducted  from  his  fee.  The  contractor  then  told  his 
workers  that  they  would  be  discharged  if  they  drank  the  ice 


water.  They  would  come  to  me  while  I  waited  out  of  sight 
with  a  large  thermos  jug. 

This  concludes  my  memories  of  the  Illinois,  a  river  that 
saw  many  changes  over  the  years.  The  boats  of  the  early  part 
of  the  century  were  of  several  different  types  and  were  far 
more  interesting  than  those  that  use  the  river  today. 
Commercialism  seems  to  be  almost  the  sole  theme  of  today's 
traffic  on  the  lUinois.  The  memories,  however,  are  stiU  good. 


THE  RAILROAD  IN  ORION 

Kenneth  Maxwell  Norcross 

My  father,  Maxwell  Norcross,  was  an  employee  of  the 
Chicago,  Burlington  and  Quincy  Railroad  Company  for  fifty- 
five  years.  He  was  Station  Agent  at  Orion  in  Henry  County, 
Illinois,  from  1918  to  1956.  I  was  thus  reared  in  a  railroader's 
family  and  naturally  spent  many  hundreds  of  hours  at  the 
Orion  station  with  my  father.  I  became  quite  familiar  with 
the  daily  operation  of  the  railroad. 

The  old  depot  was  razed  in  December,  1973,  and  thus 
ended  an  era  in  Orion  that  the  children  of  today  can  never 
experience.  My  father  passed  away  a  few  years  prior  to  the 
date  the  depot  was  destroyed,  and  I  know  he  would  have  been 
sad  to  see  it  suffer  such  an  ingnoble  ending. 

The  announcement  that  the  "Q"  depot  was  scheduled  to 
be  razed  came  as  a  shock  to  many  of  us  old-timers  who  were 
kids  back  about  1918.  That  old  building  was  a  part  of  our 
lives.  It  had  been  there  longer  than  any  living  resident.  True, 
it  hadn't  served  much  of  a  purpose  for  the  past  decade,  but  it 
was  always  there  to  remind  us  of  the  wonderful  days  of 
railroading  when  steam  was  king. 

Back  at  the  turn  of  the  century,  the  railroad  was 
extremely  important  to  the  community.  Life  sort  of  revolved 
around  it.  Just  think!  We  could  board  a  train  in  Orion  and 
travel  to  almost  any  spot  in  North  America.  How  happy  the 


early  settlers  must  have  been  when  the  first  engine  reached 
our  village  in  October  of  1870!  The  train  brought  in  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  life  and  carried  out  our  produce. 
Newspapers  were  then  received  the  day  following 
publication.  The  Western  Union  telegram  arrived  with  the 
rails  and  brought  instant  communication.  The  price  of  land 
increased  in  value.  Mail  was  received  several  times  daily,  and 
we  had  excellent  maU  service  in  those  days. 

The  ever-present  village  loafers  had  an  interesting  place 
to  spend  their  time  and  met  every  train.  The  arrival  and 
departure  of  patrons  was  carefully  noted  and  somehow 
reported  to  the  editor  of  the  local  newspaper. 

The  melodious  blast  of  a  whistle  sounded  from  around 
the  bend,  and  the  8:15  pranced  up  to  the  platform.  A 
salesman  or  two  hopped  off  and  rushed  to  claim  their 
baggage.  Aunt  Lucy  was  assisted  down  the  car  steps  by  the 
brakeman  and  into  the  hands  of  her  waiting  relatives  who 
hoisted  her  into  the  family  buggy.  Trunks,  milk  cans,  mail, 
and  other  items  were  divested  from  the  cars.  A  few  minutes 
of  great  commotion  prevailed  and  then  the  train  was  gone, 
leaving  behind  the  pleasant  odor  of  coal  smoke  and  steam. 

It  was  quite  convenient  for  shoppers  to  board  the  train 
for  Moline  at  10:00  a.m.— about  a  twenty-mile  ride— and  return 
on  the  3:00  p.m.,  which  gave  them  about  three  hours  to  shop 
and  eat.  The  depot  "waiting  room"  could  seat  about  fifty 
patrons.  A  black  buDetin  board  listed  all  the  passenger 
trains,  their  arrival  and  departure  times.  A  large  pot-bellied 
stove  kept  the  room  comfortable  during  the  winter  months.  I 
remember  the  section  crew  coming  in  to  get  warm  after  riding 
several  miles  on  the  open-air  section  car.  They  would  stand 
close  to  the  stove  and  pick  the  ice  from  their  moustaches  that 
had  collected  during  their  cold  ride. 

The  spacious  "freight  room"  always  contained  a  large 
quantity  of  empty  cream  cans  of  five-  and  ten-gallon  size 
waiting  to  be  claimed  by  their  owners.  The  farmer's  name  was 
painted  on  the  can.  I  recall  most  of  the  cream  was  shipped  by 


express  to  the  Pioneer  Creamery  Company,  Galesburg, 
Illinois.  Glancing  around  the  room  you  might  also  see  a  few 
bags  of  feed  and  perhaps  a  piece  of  furniture  waiting  to  be 
picked  up.  The  walls  of  the  freight  room  were  decorated  with 
the  initials  of  many  Orionites.  For  example:  "Gone  to  War  - 
1918-R.K.D."  A  few  were  hard  to  decipher  as  they  had 
faded  with  the  lapse  of  time. 

The  office  was  located  between  the  waiting  and  freight 
rooms— sort  of  in  the  middle  of  things.  Through  the  open 
door  you  could  hear  the  phone  ring,  the  cUckety-clack  of  the 
telegraph  instruments,  and  smell  the  unforgettable  odor  of 
the  hghted  kerosene  lantern,  meticulously  clean,  sitting  on 
the  counter.  The  office  had  a  small  pot-bellied  stove,  a  desk  or 
two,  a  small  safe,  a  hand  press  for  records,  and  a  small  wall- 
hung  cabinet  containing  several  rows  of  train  tickets.  There 
was  a  regulator  clock,  kept  absolutely  accurate,  hanging  on 
one  wall.  In  one  corner  of  the  office  two  large  handles 
protruded  from  a  large  black  box.  The  handles  operated  the 
semaphore  just  outside  the  office  window.  Hanging  also  on  a 
wall  were  several  "hoops"  shaped  like  the  number  "9."  Those 
were  used  by  the  agent  to  hand  train  orders  to  the  engine  men 
as  they  passed  by  the  depot. 

The  old  station  had  seen  many  changes  in  her  five  score 
years.  The  original  color  had  been  a  dark  red.  About  twenty 
years  ago  a  crew  painted  the  depot  white.  Somehow  it  never 
seemed  the  same  after  that.  Once  a  brick  platform  extended 
half  a  block  in  each  direction  from  the  depot,  but  it  was 
removed  many  years  ago.  Everything  used  to  be  well- 
maintained,  but  at  the  time  of  its  demise,  the  depot  and 
grounds  cried  from  neglect. 

The  rails  had  reached  Orion  in  1870  under  the  name 
"Rockford,  Rock  Island  and  St.  Louis  Railway  Company."  A 
few  years  ago,  as  the  result  of  a  merger,  the  name  became 
"Burlington-Northern." 

At  one  period,  several  "raikoad  families"  resided  in 
Orion.  Three  men  were  required  at  the  depot  and  perhaps 


eight  on  the  section  crew.  The  depot  was  open  twenty-four 
hours  daily  and  each  man  worked  an  eight-hour  "trick."  The 
section  crew  was  responsible  for  the  maintenance  of  ten  or 
more  miles  of  track.  Just  about  every  town  along  the  route 
had  a  section  crew. 

Five  days  each  week  the  "local"  would  make  a  round 
trip  from  Galesburg  to  Barstow.  The  "local"  was  a  small 
freight  train  consisting  of  five  to  ten  cars  and  a  caboose.  It 
stopped  at  every  station  along  the  route  to  pick  up  and  set 
out  cars  and  to  unload  and  pick  up  freight  items.  On  a  typical 
day,  the  "local"  might  set  out  several  stock  cars  on  the 
siding— maybe  a  car  of  lumber  or  coal  for  the  lumber  yard;  a 
car  of  poles  for  the  power  company;  or  maybe  a  tankcar  of 
road  oil.  I  remember  seeing  the  local  car  dealer  unload  Model 
T  Fords  from  a  box  car! 

Upon  arriving  in  Orion,  the  "local"  would  detach  a  car 
immediately  in  front  of  the  depot.  This  car  contained  freight 
destined  for  local  merchants.  While  part  of  the  train  crew 
unloaded  freight  the  remainder  would  proceed  to  do  the 
switching.  It  was  common  to  see  a  hundred  boxes  of  dry 
goods,  nails,  bolts,  etc.,  deposited  on  the  platform  daily.  The 
old  depot  was  indeed  a  busybody! 

Having  completed  its  business  in  Orion,  the  "local" 
would  proceed  down  the  track  to  the  next  stop.  The  agent 
would  then  check  each  item  received  against  the  waybills  to 
make  sure  there  were  no  shortages.  The  drayman  would  next 
back  his  protesting  Model  T  truck  up  to  the  platform  and 
begin  loading  the  freight  which  he  would  deliver  to  the  proper 
owners. 

Throughout  the  day,  farmers  would  come  to  the  depot 
with  fresh  cans  of  cream  to  "express"  to  the  creamery  and  to 
claim  their  empty  cans.  During  the  day  the  manager  of  the 
local  Livestock  Shipping  Association  would  be  busy  loading 
cattle  or  hogs  into  the  stock  cars  at  the  stockyards.  The 
"local"   would  pick  up   these  cars  on  its  return  trip  to 


18 


Galesburg  in  late  afternoon.  From  Galesburg  the  cattle  cars 
would  be  forwarded  to  Chicago. 

In  1926  there  were  three  passenger  trains  north  and  the 
same  south.  On  October  1,  1928,  one  of  the  passenger  trains 
was  replaced  with  a  two-car,  gasoline-electric  type.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  the  end  for  the  steam  locomotive. 

One  by  one  they  have  passed  into  history.  On  Saturday, 
January  14,  1961,  the  last  regularly  scheduled  passenger 
train  stopped  at  Orion.  The  era  of  passenger  train  service  in 
this  community  spanned  a  period  of  just  over  ninety  years, 
from  1870  to  1961.  The  business,  as  such,  began  to  die  when  a 
paved  road.  Route  80  (now  Route  150),  reached  the  village  in 
1930. 

"Number  48"  was  considered  a  plush  train  in  her  day. 
Forty  years  ago,  had  you  visited  the  depot  to  watch  her 
proud  arrival  and  haughty  departure,  you  might  count  a  mail 
car,  an  express  car,  a  baggage  car,  two  coaches,  a  diner,  and  a 
pullman  car.  She  was  a  super  train,  operating  between  St. 
Paul,  Minnesota,  and  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  with  one  train  daily 
in  each  direction.  During  the  Christmas  season  and  other 
holidays,  old  "48"  would  be  loaded  to  capacity.  Frequently, 
men  had  to  stand  so  that  women  and  children  might  have  a 
seat. 

Yes,  "Number  48"  made  its  farewell  visit  to  Orion.  Gone 
also  are  those  mammoth  engines,  such  as  the  5615  and  the 
6300,  which  seemed  to  take  a  particular  delight  in  shaking 
every  building  as  they  thundered  through  the  village.  You 
could  identify  the  engineer  by  the  way  he  manipulated  his 
whistle.  And  you  knew  how  cold  it  was  by  the  way  it  sounded. 

The  children  of  today  are  well-acquainted  with  the  smell 
of  burned  diesel  oil  emitted  by  the  "eighteen  wheelers."  They 
will  never  know  the  smell  of  fresh  coal  smoke  and  moist 
steam.  They've  never  heard  the  rock-and-roll  of  a  steam 
whistle  in  the  hands  of  an  expert,  nor  got  a  cinder  in  their  eye. 
Yes,  sir,  we  had  it  real  good  when  we  were  kids  and  had  a  real 
railroad  to  keep  tabs  on! 

Farewell  to  an  era. 


FARMINGTON  DEPOT  IN  THE  TWENTIES 

Everette  Wilton  Latham 

Farmington,  Illinois,  in  the  1920's  was  a  coal  mining 
town  twenty-one  miles  west  of  Peoria.  It  was  served  by  two 
raih-oads,  the  Chicago,  Burhngton  and  Quincy  (C.  B.  &  Q.) 
and  the  Minneapolis  and  St.  Louis  (M.  &  St.  L.).  There  were 
two  railroad  depots  in  Farmington.  The  one  with  which  I  was 
familiar  was  the  M.  &  St.  L.,  located  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on 
south  Main  Street.  It  has  been  torn  down  long  since,  and  the 
tracks  taken  up.  Nothing  is  left  to  me  now  of  what  was  once  a 
familiar  environment  but  memories. 

The  depot  was  a  rambling,  wooden  structure  painted 
red.  "Depot  Red"  we  called  it.  Later  it  was  re-painted  green. 
And  we  called  that  color  "Devins  Green"  after  Johnny 
Devins,  the  then  Vice-President  and  General  Manager  of  the 
railroad.  He  had  had  the  depot  all  along  the  hne  re-painted 
this  medium-dark  shade  of  green,  his  favorite  color. 

The  building  was  well  constructed.  It  divided  naturally 
into  three  sections— a  waiting  room,  an  office,  and  a  freight 
room.  The  platform,  or  track,  side  of  the  depot  faced  the 
north.  The  tracks  ran  east  and  west.  A  brick  platform 
extended  from  Main  Street  eastward  past  the  station 
building  and  on  down  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred 
feet,  perhaps.  A  painted  yellow  line  some  two  or  three  feet 
back  from  the  edge  of  the  platform  paralleled  the  main  track 
and  the  platform's  edge  along  its  entire  length.  It  was 
designed  to  discourage  passengers  from  standing  too  close  to 
approaching  trains.  Telegraph  operators  used  it  as  a  guide  for 
placing  themselves  when  handing  up  train  orders  to  passing 
trains. 

The  waiting  room,  intended  for  the  accomodation  of 
passengers  waiting  to  board  trains,  was  at  the  east  end  of  the 
depot.  Rows  of  wooden  seats  graced  the  walls  on  three  sides. 
There  were  two  doors,  one  on  the  track  or  platform  side,  the 
other  directly  opposite  and  facing  the  south.  (The  ground 


under  the  building  sloped  slightly  to  the  south  so  that  the 
south  side  of  the  structure  rested  on  pilings  several  feet  in 
height.)  The  door  on  the  south  side  of  the  waiting  room 
opened  onto  nothing  more  than  a  rather  steep  drop-off.  We 
dumped  the  ashes  from  the  two  "cannonball"  stoves  out  this 
door  all  winter  long.  Available  wall  space  was  taken  up  with 
posters,  advertisements,  train  schedules,  and  tariff 
regulations. 

The  office  was  smaller  than  the  waiting  room  but  still 
quite  large,  as  depot  offices  go.  It  sported  a  full-length  bay 
window  on  the  track,  or  platform,  side.  The  telegraph  desk 
stretched  the  length  of  the  bay  window.  Drawers  at  each  end 
were  the  receptacles  of  miscellaneous  odds  and  ends,  personal 
belongings,  dust  cloths,  etc.  Through  the  bay  window  the 
telegrapher  on  duty  could  see  approaching  trains  from  either 
direction.  The  telegraph  instruments  were  fastened  to  this 
desk.  A  tiered  or  "pigeon-holed"  box  held  train  order  blanks, 
carbon  paper,  and  clearance  card  pads.  At  night  red  and 
yellow  lighted  lanterns  gleamed  from  the  pegs  where  they 
hung  near  the  telegraph  desk.  Train  order  hoops  (used  for 
handing  train  orders  to  passing  trains)  hung  nearby.  The 
agent's  desk  and  filing  cabinets  occupied  positions  near  the 
south  window  and  within  a  few  steps  of  the  ticket  window. 
The  cash  drawer  was  under  the  ticket  window  shelf.  A  ticket 
case  stood  on  the  shelf.  One  of  the  "cannonball"  stoves 
heated  the  office;  the  other  heated  the  waiting  room.  A  small 
door,  near  the  door  leading  to  and  from  the  freight  room, 
opened  into  a  small,  neat  stationery  supply  room,  hned  with 
shelves.  Fuses,  torpedoes,  and  other  emergency  equipment 
were  stored  there. 

The  freight  room  at  the  west  end  of  the  depot 
accomodated  two  large,  four-wheeled  baggage  trucks  with 
room  to  spare.  Some  of  the  extra  room  was  devoted  to  the 
storage  of  records.  The  freight  room  had  a  coal  bin 
partitioned  off  in  one  end.  With  the  gradual,  and  final, 
discontinuation  of  passenger  train  service,  the  freight  room 


was  not  used  extensively,  except  as  a  means  of  entrance  to 
and  exit  from  the  office. 

The  station  force  was  not  large.  It  consisted  of  an  agent- 
telegrapher  and  three  round-the-clock  telegraphers.  Forrest 
"Shorty"  Tonkin  was  the  agent.  Emil  Hassman  held  first 
trick  as  telegraph  operator;  Ralph  Mason  was  the  second 
trick  telegrapher.  I  filled  the  third  trick  telegrapher  position. 
My  hours  were  from  midnight  to  eight  in  the  morning  daily, 
except  Sundays.  The  Janitor  work  fell  to  the  third  trick 
telegrapher.  The  waiting  room  and  office  were  swept  every 
night.  Well,  almost  every  night.  A  hght  sprinkling  of 
kerosene  on  the  floors  helped  to  keep  the  dust  down  while 
sweeping.  I  can  stiU  smell  that  pungent,  clinging  kerosene 
odor.  It  was  a  clean  sort  of  smell,  not  at  all  unpleasant. 
Occasionally  it  became  necessary  to  use  water  in  lieu  of 
kerosene,  when  the  kerosene  supply  ran  out,  but  this 
emergency  substitute  made  more  dust  than  it  settled. 

With  the  coming  of  the  strip  mine  the  deep  shaft  mines 
were  gradually  phased  out  of  existence.  As  the  deep  shaft 
mines  closed  down  the  telegraph  positions  would  be 
abohshed.  Eventually  all  were  aboUshed  and  the  station 
closed.  Later  the  building  was  torn  down  and  the  tracks 
dismantled. 

Many  memories  come  racing  back  into  my 
consciousness  as  I  write  these  brief  reminiscences.  Memories 
too  profuse  to  be  set  down  in  such  a  short  space.  Now,  driving 
down  Main  Street  past  the  site  of  the  old  depot,  I  see  in  my 
mind's  eye  what  is  no  longer  there.  All  is  gone  now.  Depot, 
tracks,  platform,  everything. 


RAILROAD  DAYS  IN  ROODHOUSE 

Eva  L.  Sullivan 

The  fire  siren  wailed  loud  and  long  the  night  of  July  20, 
1980.   It  could  be  clearly  heard  all  over  town.  Soon  the 


townspeople,  aware  this  was  no  ordinary  fire,  stepped  outside 
to  look  around.  It  was  9:00  p.m. 

Over  the  southwest  part  of  town  there  were  lots  of 
smoke  and  a  red  glare,  soon  turning  to  scarlet  as  flames  shot 
high  into  the  sky.  Could  this  be  the  depot  on  fire?  It  was,  and 
it  was  burning  so  fast  that  it  could  not  be  saved. 

Those  of  us  sixty-five  and  older  felt  a  lump  in  our  throat, 
and  our  eyes  grew  misty.  We  knew  a  vital  part  of  our  history 
was  burning,  never  to  return.  In  its  hey-day  it  was  the  hub  of 
the  town. 

This  once  lovely,  and  stiU  structurally  beautiful,  two- 
story  depot  of  stone  and  slate  will  ever  Hve  in  our  memories. 
It  was  built  in  the  late  1890  after  the  first  small  depot 
burned,  and  was  occupied  on  January  1,  1891.  It  had  an 
unusual  design  and  many  rooms.  It  was  one  of  the  finest 
depots  between  Chicago  and  St.  Louis.  It  was  modern  in 
every  respect,  including  plenty  of  water-closets.  It  was  wired 
in  every  room  in  anticipation  of  incandescent  Ughts,  not  yet 
available.  Inside,  the  wood  was  of  the  finest  Georgia  pine, 
with  a  natural  finish. 

It  had  two  large  waiting  rooms,  one  on  the  North  and 
one  on  the  South,  with  a  large  double  door  between  them. 
Each  had  an  outside  entrance. 

The  ticket  office  was  an  octagonal  room  on  the  west,  and 
had  a  ticketwindow  into  each  waiting  room.  The  comfortable 
seats  surrounding  the  walls  were  of  fine  wood,  with  curving 
ornamental  wrought-iron  arms. 

There  were  many  windows  and  a  very  large  flat-topped 
circular  radiator  in  each  of  the  two  rooms,  unlike  any  I  have 
ever  seen  before  or  since. 

The  depot  was  steam-heated  throughout.  A  large  clock, 
keeping  perfect  time,  hung  on  the  wall;  its  ticking  sounded 
loud  and  cheerful  during  the  rare  quiet  moments. 

East  of  the  waiting  rooms  and  connected  to  them  by 
swinging  doors  into  each  room  was  a  fine  diner  and  lunch 
room.  It  was  a  busy  place,  and  the  odor  of  fresh  brewed  coffee 


and  good  food  wafted  into  the  depot  with  each  swing  of  the 
doors. 

East  of  the  diner  was  the  baggage  and  express  office. 
On  the  second  floor  above  the  ticket  agent's  office,  was  the 
superintendent's  office.  There  were  rooms  for  the  train- 
master, road-master,  dispatcher,  conductors,  and  others.  The 
telegraph  office  was  on  the  second  floor  also. 

The  stone  basement  contained  a  heating  apparatus  and 
many  storage  rooms.  This  magnificent  depot  was  52  feet  wide 
and  130  feet  long  and  it  cost  about  $30,000  to  build. 

Early  citizens,  notably  John  Roodhouse,  E.M.  Husted, 
J.M.  Armstrong,  G.W.  Thompson,  P.A.  RawUngs,  Mr. 
Simmons,  Mr.  Cobb,  and  others,  put  forth  a  very  great  effort 
to  secure  Roodhouse  as  the  terminal  town  from  the  Chicago  & 
Alton  Raih-oad  Company,  when  it  seemed  certain  that  our 
rival  town  of  White  Hall  would  surely  get  it. 

The  first  three  gentlemen  once  took  a  hand  car  as  far  as 
Jacksonville,  to  catch  an  earher  train  to  Chicago,  to  consult 
with  Mr.  Blackstone,  the  president  of  the  road,  thus  beating 
White  Hall  there.  Mr.  Blackstone  was  so  impressed  that 
Roodhouse,  after  meeting  certain  conditions,  was  given  the 
terminal.  Many  of  their  descendants  still  hve  here. 

It  made  our  town  prosper  immensely.  Our  population 
soon  doubled,  and,  before  many  years,  tripled  as  a  round- 
house and  rip-track  were  added  here.  In  1919  our  population 
was  2,755  people.  We  were,  and  are,  an  important  junction 
between  Chicago  and  St.  Louis,  and  between  Bloomington 
and  Kansas  City. 

There  were  25  switches  within  our  city  hmits  and  an 
average  of  25  trains  made  up  here  every  24  hours.  There  were 
many  passenger  trains  as  well.  A  1919  time-table  hsts  six 
passenger  trains  north,  three  south,  five  west  in  a  24-hour 
period. 

There  was  scarcely  any  time  day  or  night  when  trains 
were  not  whistUng  in  or  out  of  Roodhouse. 


Most  of  our  fathers,  brothers,  friends,  and  aquaintances 
were  railroaders.  We  were  proud  of  them  and  our  town. 

The  raih-oad  changed  ownership  and  names  several 
times:  from  Chicago  &  Alton  to  Baltimore  &  Ohio,  to  Gulf, 
Mobile  &  Ohio,  to  the  present  Illinois,  Central,  Gulf. 

During  the  Depression  the  railroad  went  into  a  great 
decline,  with  many  men  laid  off.  It  quickly  recovered  during 
World  War  11.  Afterward  it  declined  again,  never  to  regain  its 
former  glory,  due  to  bus  service,  and  large  transport  trucks, 
and  later  jet  travel.  However,  it  was  still  busy. 

Among  the  notable  events  at  the  depot  were  the  great 
trainloads  of  servicemen  traveling  through  during  World 
War  I.  That  was  repeated  with  another  generation  during 
World  War  II.  Trainloads  of  German  prisoners  of  war  came 
through  here. 

In  1897  William  Jennings  Bryan  spoke  here.  President 
Franklin  Delano  Roosevelt's  train  stopped  here  during  World 
War  II.  That  was  a  big  thrill  for  our  town,  and  for  my  father 
in  particular. 

Circuses  and  carnivals  used  to  travel  by  train.  How 
exciting  for  the  children!  I  have  many  personal  memories.  I 
am  the  child  of  a  railroad  car-inspector,  and  the  sister  of  an 
engineer,  fireman,  and  brakeman. 

It  doesn't  seem  so  long  ago  when  my  parents  and  my 
brother  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  waiting  room,  waiting  for  the 
train  that  would  take  us  to  some  new  wonderful  place  to  visit, 
cost  free,  on  one  of  the  three  foreign  passes  allowed  to  eligible 
employees  yearly.  In  addition,  wives  were  given  an  annual 
pass  to  use  freely  on  our  own  lines. 

I  used  to  wonder  who  the  people  were,  and  where  they 
were  going. 

The  large  radiator  gave  off  a  comfortable  hiss  of  steam 
in  winter;  the  clock  on  the  wall  ticked  loudly.  The  green- 
visored  ticket  agent,  Charles  Wilkerson,  always  seemed  very 
busy.  From  overhead  came  the  click,  click,  tap,  tap  of  the 
telegrapher's  key.  Soon,  in  the  distance  a  train  whistled. 


Activity  quickened.  People  rounded  up  their  children 
and  gathered  up  their  luggage.  Outside,  with  a  great  clatter, 
the  tall  baggage  wagon,  looking  like  a  giant  flat-topped 
coaster-wagon  with  large  iron  wheels,  was  pulled  out.  It  was 
just  the  right  height  to  roll  beside  the  baggage  and  express 
coach. 

The  train  arrived.  The  lunchroom  did  a  booming 
business.  Soon  the  conductor  called:  "Al-1-1-1  aboard!"  Then 
the  train  departed,  whistling  as  it  left.  Quietness  descended 
for  awhile,  but  in  a  few  hours  the  cycle  was  repeated. 

Now,  the  only  thing  that  is  left  is  the  stone  skeleton  of 
the  depot.  I  have  a  dozen  large,  square-headed  nails,  salvaged 
from  the  ashes. 

Souvenirs  of  the  past. 


COPING  WITH  "THE  DEEP  HOLE" 

Bemadette  Tranbarger 

Sixty  years  ago  this  year  two  exciting  things  happened 
to  me.  On  a  bitter  January  night  a  baby  brother  arrived.  My 
first  glimpse  was  of  the  unexpected  new  arrival  lying  in  his 
lace-trimmed  and  gently  rocking  basinette. 

For  13  days  Mother  stayed  quietly  and  dutifully  in  her 
room,  and  a  nurse-housekeeper  saw  to  the  household.  Several 
days  later,  Gramps  and  Gram,  on  my  father's  side,  came  with 
gifts  for  the  baby  and  something  for  me,  too,  which  made  me 
very  happy,  as  I  was  feeling  a  bit  left  out  of  things. 

On  the  morning  of  the  14th  day,  mother  discarded  her 
robe,  dressed  herself  and  the  baby,  and  ventured  downstairs. 
This  was  just  what  I  needed,  as  I  had  missed  my  mother's 
overseeing  the  boiling  pans  on  the  big  black  range  and 
presiding  over  the  dining  table.  Mother  was  once  again  in 
charge,  and  aU  was  well. 

The  astounding  news  came  on  the  15th  day.  Mother 
announced  the  family  of  four  was  now  going  to  visit  Grandma 


and  Grandpa  "on  my  mother's  side."  My  father  had  Little  to 
say  about  this,  as  Mother  had  had  14  days  in  which  to  plan 
every  detail. 

January  was  a  typical  Illinois  winter  month,  with  bone- 
chilling  winds  and  a  sprinkhng  of  snow.  We  had  to  go 
properly  prepared,  and  I  was  to  pack  my  suitcase  and  not  to 
bother  Mother  with  unnecessary  details.  My  parents'  needs 
were  all  packed  in  the  big  travelhng  bag.  The  most 
impressive  of  all  was  the  bright  new  pink  suitcase  for  the 
baby. 

I  was  thrilled  to  be  going  to  visit  my  maternal 
grandparents,  but  when  I  learned  we  weren't  going  in  our 
familiar  Model  T  but  taking  the  train  instead,  that  was  really 
shocking  news. 

I  truly  wanted  to  ride  on  a  real  train,  and  later  to  show 
off  my  new  brother.  And  I  wanted  to  carry  my  new  fur  muff. 
But  to  get  to  our  point  of  departure,  I  also  knew  we  had  to  go 
to  "The  Deep  Hole,"  and  that  frightened  me.  Everyone  was 
so  busy,  there  was  no  one  aware  of  my  problem. 

My  father  had  akeady  cranked  up  the  big  wooden  wall 
telephone  and  talked  to  someone  at  "The  Deep  Hole!"  The 
answering  voice  assured  him  there  was  plenty  of  room  for 
four,  and  we  would  be  comfortably  seated.  1  pictured  us  Uke 
the  train  passengers  in  my  picture  book,  resting  on  soft  green 
velvet.  It  was  queer  that  my  father  had  asked  specifically 
about  seating.  Better  he  should  have  contemplated  "The 
Deep  Hole"  that  had  to  be  negotiated  some  way  before 
boarding  the  train. 

Soon  Gramps  arrived  in  his  shiny  Model  T  with  its 
carefully  snapped  side-curtains.  I  loved  to  peer  through  the 
isinglass  peep  holes  as  we  started  off. 

My  father  set  up  front  with  Gramps,  and  Mother  and 
the  wooly-wrapped  baby  and  I  occupied  the  back  seat.  I 
gripped  my  fur  muff  very  hard  and  thought  of  the  first 
obstacle  to  be  overcome  on  the  five  and  one  half  mile  trip  to 
Mother's  home  town. 


At  last  Gramps  pulled  up  before  a  neat  gray  frame 
building  with  white  trim  that  had  a  big  bay  window  jutting 
out  in  front,  just  hke  the  one  in  Gram's  parlor,  and  all  glass 
enclosed.  1  looked  anxiously  around.  There  were  no  other 
passengers  to  be  seen. 

Gramps  lifted  me  down  from  the  high  seat.  We  hurried 
to  enter  the  building,  and  inside  was  the  coziest,  queerest 
room— two  rooms,  really.  One  had  rows  of  wooden  seats,  and 
on  one  wall  hung  a  big  sign  all  chalked  with  numbers  opposite 
names  of  towns.  One  man  sold  my  father  three  tickets— the 
baby  didn't  need  one.  Then  Dad  spoke  to  the  man  in  the  glass 
enclosure  who  talked  to  a  busily  chattering  box  by  pressing 
some  mysterious  Uttle  keys.  Da-dit-da-dit.  It  assured  us  train 
Number  Nine  was  on  time  and  there  was  ample  room. 

Mother  and  the  baby  stayed  comfortably  in  the  waiting 
room,  and  Gramps  and  Dad  placed  the  suitcases  on  a  raised 
wooden  platform.  Below  this  platform  and  running  paraUel  to 
it  were  long  steel  tracks.  Surely  the  train  would  eventually 
come  along  here. 

Finally,  Dad  and  Gramps  came  inside  again,  and  I  was 
told  the  meaning  of  telegrapher  and  code-words. 
Miraculously,  we  still  had  not  come  to  "The  Deep  Hole."  I 
decided  to  let  well  enough  alone  and  not  ask  about  it. 

Soon  a  whistle  sounded,  and  I  caught  my  first  glimpse 
of  Number  Nine.  It  was  a  small  but  very  shiny  little  engine 
with  a  glowing  headlight  and  only  one  smokestack.  As  it 
puffed  into  the  station,  it  omitted  a  sharp  little  whistle.  The 
engine  pulled  a  small  coal  car  and  two  other  ratthng  cars,  the 
first  appearing  as  a  huge  box  on  wheels,  its  high  sliding  door 
closed  tightly  to  protect  its  contents.  I  was  told  this  was 
indeed  a  "box-car"  and  it  carried  all  kinds  of  merchandise. 
The  second  car  seemed  barely  held  together  with  slats.  There 
was  no  mistaking  its  cargo.  It  was  fuU  of  smelling,  squealing 
pigs  all  trying  to  find  a  way  to  escape. 

Bringing  up  the  rear  was  a  dainty  wooden  car  which 
resembled  my  playhouse.  It  was  painted  a  bright  orange,  and 


23 


on  its  window-sill  sat  a  gay  red  geranium.  There  was  a  little 
pipe  extending  through  its  roof,  and  billowy  white  smoke  rose 
from  it  into  the  cold  January  chill.  Three  steps  led  up  to  a 
Uttle  porch.  It  seemed  to  me  the  train  was  carrying  along  a 
Uttle  house  as  an  after-thought.  Nowhere  in  my  picture  book 
had  I  seen  such  a  car  as  this.  It  had  shown  big,  two  and  three 
stackers  belching  great  columns  of  smoke,  brilliantly  painted 
dining  cars,  passenger  and  sleeping  cars,  parlor  cars.  But  no 
httle  house-on-wheels. 

Things  happened  fast  now.  My  family  quickly  climbed 
aboard  the  porch  and  stood  waving  to  Gramps,  as  the  little 
engine,  whistling  and  clanging  its  bell,  slowly  picked  up 
speed  toward  its  next  stop. 

It  was  warm  and  comfortable  inside  the  Uttle  house-car, 
and  there  was  a  hard,  straw-like  seat  for  each.  In  one  corner 
stood  a  glowing,  pot-bellied  stove  generously  giving  such 
welcome  warmth,  and  on  its  top  sat  a  busily  boiling  coffee 
pot. 

I  loved  watching  the  changing  landscape,  hearing  the 
clakety-clack  of  the  wheels  and  the  squeeling  of  the  pigs. 

We  had  gone  little  less  than  a  mile  when  Mother's 
frantic  voice  cried,  "Fred!  Fred!  Stop  the  train  immediately!" 

Fred  was  the  conductor  and  a  very  close  friend  of  my 
parents.  Our  two  famihes  had  often  visited  in  each  other's 
homes. 

Fred  and  Dad  just  stared  at  Mother. 

"Stop  this  train!"  Mother  demanded.  "We've  got  to  go 
back.  The  suitcases  are  sitting  back  there  on  the  platform." 

Fred  attempted  to  explain  that  trains  have  to  meet 
schedules  and  can't  go  forward  and  backward  at  will.  This 
made  no  impression  on  Mother.  "The  baby  must  have  his 
necessities!  We  must  go  back!" 


And  we  did.  I  had  noticed  a  decrepit-appearing  rope 
hanging  from  the  ceiUng,  and  I  had  wondered  why  it  was 
there.  This  rope  was  suspended  over  a  battered  and  littered 
desk  where  Fred  transacted  all  his  business,  such  as 
delivering  pigs  and  people  and  other  merchandise  to  their 
correct  destinations.  But  the  awesome  power  of  that  rope 
became  apparent  when  Fred,  frowning  severely,  gave  a  huge 
tug,  and  that  httle  rope  caused  bells  to  ring  alarmingly, 
steam  to  hiss,  brakes  to  shriek,  and  the  entire  train  to  lurch 
and  shudder  and  finally  stop  all  alone  in  the  middle  of 
nowhere. 

Out  of  the  window  I  saw  brown  shivering  cornstalks 
swaying  in  the  January  wind,  and  beyond  them  a  huge  pine 
forest,  its  glossy  needles  gleaming  in  the  pale  sunlight. 

Fred  communicated  by  phone  with  the  engineer,  there 
was  a  repeat  sound  of  bells,  whistles,  hissing  steam,  and 
groaning  wheels,  as  old  Number  Nine  started  itself,  and  once 
again  we  were  clakety-clacketing  back  to  the  station,  in 
reverse  aU  the  way. 

Mother  thanked  Fred  for  his  kindness.  He  shook  his 
head  and  gave  her  a  forgiving  pat  on  the  shoulder. 

When  we  slowed  at  our  home  station.  Dad  quickly  put 
the  suitcases  on  board,  and  after  a  little  toot,  old  Number 
Nine  took  off  forward  again. 

Grandpa  on  my  mother's  side  was  proudly  waiting  in  his 
Model  T  for  our  arrival.  This  time  I  was  allowed  to  sit  up 
front,  and  how  happy  I  was  when  we  pulled  alongside  the  big 
white  house,  and  there  was  Grandma  standing  on  the  porch 
with  out-stretched  arms  as  I  began  hurriedly  to  tell  her  all  the 
splendid  things  a  real  true  train  trip  affords. 

I  was  so  glad  that  we  had  somehow  managed  to  avoid 
"The  Deep  Hole." 


I'/'j'^/^ll^Li  ll>iFfi^^^]l  il'/'i-WiV^U  il'/'iT'/yft'Al^U  U-'i^ffA^i^lL  £i')iWlV*iU  W'i'MM 


('U  Tmw^Ij  U^vMj  iMW'i 


^y<05v«*,..*^w\v/ 


II     Countr}'  Stores 


27 


COUNTRY  STORES 

In  his  book,  Main  Street  On  the  Middle  Border. 
historian  Lewis  Atherton  paints  a  graphic  picture  of  the 
"general"  or  country  store.  Most  of  those  emporia  consisted 
of  only  one  floor,  though  a  false  facade  on  their  fronts  led  one 
to  believe  there  were  two.  Quite  often,  sUghtly  to  the  rear  of 
the  middle  of  the  building  was  a  potbelhed  stove,  the 
gathering  spot  for  gossipy  older  men  who  occasionally  drifted 
off  into  hot  discussions  over  the  merits  of  Ty  Cobb  or  Tris 
Speaker,  the  leading  baseball  players  of  the  time.  Hence  the 
term  "hot-stove  league"— the  time  of  the  year  when  winners 
were  picked  and  possible  trades  made. 

On  sunnier  days,  the  front  platforms  of  the  buildings, 
generally  made  of  rough  planking  and  covered  with  a  weather 
roof,  became  part  of  the  store  itself.  Racks  filled  with  brooms 
or  rakes,  various  stocks  of  vegetables,  or  seasonal  items  were 
placed  on  the  outside.  As  Atherton  points  out,  the  emphasis 
seemed  to  have  been  upon  the  range  of  stock  rather  than 
upon  its  quality. 

The  interiors  of  the  stores  were  darkish  and  quite  poorly 
ventilated,  though  one  familiar  with  the  type  of  store  could  be 
blindfolded  and  yet  find  his  way  from  item  to  item.  It  was  a 
matter  of  odors.  The  aroma  of  fish  indicated  the  location  of 
barrels  containing  salted  herring  or,  in  the  case  of  busier 
merchants,  an  oyster  barrel.  Vinegar  was  kept  in  spigoted 
barrels,  waiting  to  be  drawn  into  bottles  or  jars  brought  into 
the  store  by  customers.  One  of  our  contributors  here  tells  the 
story  of  one  grocer's  horrific  mistake— placing  kerosene  into 
a  bottle  meant  for  vinegar.  Peanut  butter,  when  it  came  into 
general  acceptance,  was  also  kept  in  barrels  and,  since  it  was 
not  hydrogenated  or  treated  in  any  other  way,  the  top  two 
inches  of  each  barrel  consisted  solely  of  oil  which  had  floated 
to  the  top. 

In  each  country  store  there  was  always  a  "whatnot" 


section.  These  were  items  which,  by  necessity,  were  thrown 
together  with  no  thought  as  to  organization.  Straw  hats, 
much  needed  on  the  farm,  were  hung  here.  There  were  pencils, 
writing  paper,  work  clothes,  shoelaces,  and  dozens  of  other 
necessities  needed  on  the  farm.  To  the  rear  of  these  was  a 
rudimentary  meat  counter— a  single  case  filled  with  cheeses 
or  meats  which  farmers  did  not  usually  produce  at  home.  On 
one  side  of  the  store  were  canned  goods  and,  on  the  other,  the 
candy  counter.  It  was  this  last  which  is  remembered  by  an 
oldster  whose  parents  ever  patronized  a  country  store. 

The  reason  is  obvious.  When  a  bill  was  paid,  the 
merchant  quite  often  offered  the  accompanying  child  a 
"nickle's  worth  of  candy."  What  a  choice!  There  were  jelly 
belhes,  hcorices,  chocolate  bars,  bubble  gum,  and  peppermint 
sticks.  There  were  "Mary  Janes,"  jawbreakers,  "all  day" 
suckers,  gum  drops,  and  baseball  cards.  There  were  also  wax 
candies,  little  figures  of  soldiers  or  animals  filled  with 
variously  colored  sweet  Liquids.  In  any  bag  of  candy,  these 
were  consumed  last.  It  took  a  special  art.  A  small  hole  was 
made  in  the  wax  and  the  hquid  was  then  sucked  out.  The  wax 
was  then  chewed  all  day  afterward,  when  dusk  came  on,  it 
was  roUed  around  a  piece  of  ordinary  string.  Then  it  was  a 
homemade  candle  to  be  burned  as  final  tribute  to  one  of  those 
special  days  which  one  promises  to  remember  forever  and 
ever,  but  never  does. 

Down  in  the  village  of  Witt,  in  Montgomery  County, 
there  was  a  marvelous  country  store  operated  during  the 
1920's  and  1930's  by  two  brothers  named  Lee.  Every  day, 
one  of  the  two  men  loaded  the  bed  of  his  old  Dodge  truck  with 
items  which  he  knew  would  be  needed  by  farmers  along  his 
route.  He  stopped  at  each  farm  house  along  his  way, 
exchanging  pleasantries  and  gossip,  and  eventually  trading 
off  some  of  his  goods  for  eggs  or  chickens.  Once  loaded,  he 
headed  back  to  the  store,  where  he  placed  his  poultry  and 
eggs  in  transit  for  another  destination.  Everybody  for  ten 
miles    around    knew   the    "Lee    Brothers    Store"    and,    on 


Saturday  night,  scores  of  farmers  with  their  wives  and 
children  came  under  its  roof  to  exchange  gossip  and  to  buy 
candy  or  other  items  for  their  families. 

Deep  in  southern  Illinois,  at  a  town  called  Winkle,  two 
elderly  people  kept  a  small  country  store  in  operation  right 
through  the  Depression.  The  town  was  distinguished,  so  it 
was  said,  for  not  having  a  single  employed  person  within  its 
town  hmits.  Rehef  checks  and  barter  kept  both  the  store  and 
the  people  going.  When  World  War  II  came  along,  a  most 
strange  development  occurred.  Everybody  but  the  operators 
of  the  country  store  left  for  other  parts,  some  tearing  their 
houses  down,  others  simply  rolling  them  off  to  other  villages. 
By  1965  the  only  structure  left  in  Winkle  was  the  old  store, 
still  optimistically  operated  by  the  old  couple. 


By  that  time,  "Antiques"  and  collectibles  had  become  a 
national  rage,  and  the  store  was  simply  filled  with  them. 
There  was  Log  Cabin  Syrup  in  original  tins.  Champagne 
Velvet  and  Highland  beer  in  cans  (both  firms  had  ceased  to 
exist),  and  scores  of  other  remnants  of  the  past,  including 
some  old  Lucky  Strike  cigarettes  in  the  now  famous  green 
packages.  At  last  the  store  had  become  a  source  of  wealth  to 
two  gentle  old  people  who  had  kept  the  faith.  When 
everything  had  been  sold  out,  the  store  closed  and,  as  Abe 
Lincoln  had  said  of  his  own  estabhshment  at  New  Salem,  the 
Winkle  country  store  finally  "winked  out." 

Victor  Hicken,  Editor 


GRANDPA'S  COUNTRY  STORE 

Beula  M.  Setters 

As  soon  as  I  could  get  my  chin  above  the  counter,  I 
began  clerking  in  Grandpa's  country  store  in  St.  Mary's, 
Illinois.  My  father  was  part  owner  of  my  grandfather's  store, 
but  three  days  a  week  he  was  gone  on  the  delivery  route. 
Therefore,  it  was  decided  that  I  could  be  most  useful  by 
helping  Grandpa  in  the  store. 

The  country  store  was  the  hfeline  of  the  surrounding 
prairie.  Farmers  from  miles  around  traded  at  our  store  and 
found  us  always  at  their  service,  almost  day  and  night.  Many 
times,  if  we  had  not  opened  the  store  before  6:00  a.m.,  a 
farmer  could  come  to  Grandpa's  house,  just  30  feet  away,  and 
knock  on  the  door  pleading,  "Jim,  I  gotta  have  some  coffee 
for  breakfast."  Grandpa  would  grab  his  pants  from  the 
bedpost,  walk  across  the  yard,  and  open  the  store. 

Then  often  times  the  man  would  add,  "Just  some 
chawin'  tobaccy,  too,  before  I  go  to  the  field.  Put  it  on  the 
books,  Jim." 

Our  store  also  had  the  first  drive-in  service.  Many  a  man 
would  ride  up  on  horseback  and  yeU,  "Beula,  bring  me  a 
cigar.  " 

The  store  and  the  house  still  stand  on  the  hill  of  the  Uttle 
hamlet,  just  west  of  where  the  Lamoine  Valley  Lake  is 
planned.  However,  they  are  a  sad  picture  of  what  they  were 
when  I  was  a  child.  The  false  front  of  the  store  was  then 
brightly  painted  with  the  lettering  "Lewis  and  Son— General 
Merchandise,"  and  the  eight-room  white  house  was 
surrounded  by  a  white  picket  fence,  with  morning  glories,  and 
with  a  yard  full  of  flowers  in  the  summer. 

Our  store  was  divided  into  four  parts.  One  side  of  the 
front  was  for  groceries  and  the  other  side  for  drygoods.  The 
back  part  contained  hardware  and  farm  equipment,  with  one 
corner  reserved  for  the  post  office  and  Papa's  desk,  where  he 
conducted  his  Justice  of  the  Peace  duties.  Then,  of  course. 


there  was  a  storage  room,  one  small  lean-to  for  a  500  gallon 
tank  of  coal  oil  (kerosene),  and  an  ice  house  behind  the  store. 

The  store  was  perhaps  quite  typical  of  the  nineteenth- 
century  country  store.  We  sold  everything  from  food  to 
gasoline  at  lOc  per  gallon.  Nothing  was  prepackaged. 
Everything  was  weighed  on  the  scales  at  the  end  of  the 
counter  and  wrapped  with  brown  paper  or  put  in  pokes.  At 
one  end  of  the  counter  was  a  huge  roll  of  brown  paper  and  a 
cone  shape  ball  of  white  twine  on  a  revolving  spindle.  On  one 
counter  was  a  big  24-inch  coffee  grinder,  which  I  couldn't 
turn.  Fortunately,  most  people  preferred  to  grind  their  own 
coffee  beans  just  before  making  the  coffee.  It  was  fresher  and 
more  savory,  they  thought. 

Most  of  our  merchandise  came  in  wooden  containers. 
Crackers,  sugar,  pickles,  peanuts,  and  salted  herring  were  in 
barrels.  Candy  was  in  big  wooden  buckets.  Oranges  (the  few 
we  bought)  were  in  crates.  Flour  was  in  one  hundred  pound 
muslin  sacks,  with  lovely  prints,  which  women  used  later  for 
bloomers,  shimmies,  curtains  and  dishtowels.  It  was  a  treat 
when  a  stock  of  bananas,  weighing  at  least  50  pounds,  arrived 
and  Papa  hung  it  on  a  special  pulley  from  the  ceihng.  We 
would  cut  off  the  bananas  with  a  sickle-hke  knife  and  sell 
them  for  ic  each.  But  we  always  checked  for  tarantulas, 
which  sometimes  came  with  the  bananas. 

Under  the  counter  was  the  cash  drawer.  When  one 
reached  under  and  pushed  the  right  keys,  a  steel  gong 
sounded— to  make  sure  that  no  one  except  the  clerk  opened 
it. 

Sometimes  Grandpa  left  me  alone  in  the  store.  Of 
course,  I  made  many  mistakes.  One  time  a  drummer 
(salesman)  talked  me  into  buying  $50.00  worth  of  buggy 
whips  just  when  cars  were  becoming  popular.  The  whips 
hung  from  the  ceihng  unsold  for  years.  However,  my  most 
embarrassing  mistake  was  when  Mr.  Beadles  came  in  to  buy 
white  sugar.  The  barrels  of  white  and  brown  sugar  sat  side  by 
side,  with  a  scoop  in  each,  and  since  I  couldn't  find  the  scoop 


for  the  white  sugar,  I  took  the  one  from  the  brown  sugar 
barrel  and  scooped  the  white  sugar  in  the  sack.  Later  Mr. 
Beadles  came  rushing  into  the  store  shouting,  "Jim,  I  want  a 
new  batch  of  sugar.  There's  brown  lumps  in  this  poke  of 
sugar.  Those  darn  fellows  a  spittin'  tobacco  juice  all  around." 

"Now,  now,  Orville,  calm  down.  We'U  see  what's 
wrong,"  said  Grandpa. 

Then  Grandpa  turned  to  me. 

"Beula,  did  you  wait  on  Mr.  Beadles?" 

"Yes,  Grandpa,  I  couldn't  find  the  scoop  for  the  white 
sugar,  so  I  used  the  one  in  the  brown  sugar  barrel." 

It  wasn't  always  pleasant  to  be  left  alone  in  the  store. 
There  was  a  farmer  nearby  who  was  a  drunkard.  When  he  got 
tipsy  he  hitched  his  horse  to  the  buggy  and  came  racing  down 
the  road,  yelling  hke  an  Indian  on  a  war  path.  He  had  a  heavy 
black  beard,  often  times  streaked  with  tobacco  juice.  When  I 
heard  him  coming,  I  hastened  to  lock  the  store  door  and  hide. 

I  loved  to  work  on  the  drygoods  side  of  the  store.  The 
scents  were  so  nice  there— talcum  powder,  sachet  bags,  and 
toilet  water.  The  shelves  were  full  of  bolts  of  caUco,  mushn, 
and  gingham.  Bib  overalls  of  blue  denim  sold  for  $1.00,  shoes 
$1.50,  straw  hats  25<f  and  calico  5<t  a  yard.  I  remember  a  red 
pleated  cahco  dress  that  Grandma  made  for  me  which  cost 
only  25<t.  Many  small  articles  hke  thread,  buttons,  combs, 
hairpins,  and  safety  pins  were  sold  for  a  nickel  a  card. 

A  nickel  also  brought  a  man  a  good  cigar,  or  he  might 
even  get  it  free  if  he  wanted  to  gamble  with  the  big  wheel 
above  the  cigar  counter.  When  he  put  his  nickel  in  the  slot, 
the  wheel  spun  around,  and  if  it  stopped  on  "free,"  we  gave 
him  a  cigar. 

One  day  Mrs.  Gohagen  came  in  to  buy  some  gingham. 
She  found  a  pretty  bolt  of  blue  gingham,  but  I  couldn't  find 
the  yardstick  to  measure  off  the  ten  yards  that  she  wanted. 
She  said,  "Oh  shucks,  Beula.  I  can  measure  that  gingham." 
So  she  took  the  bolt,  unwound  a  long  strip  and  stretched  the 
material    from    the    tip    of   her    nose    to   the   end   of   her 


outstretched  arm.  "That,  Beula,  is  one  yard,"  she  said,  as  she 
proceeded  to  measure  the  rest. 

I  tried  to  do  it,  too,  but  found  that  my  material  was 
three  inches  short.  One  had  to  be  a  grown  person  to  stretch  36 
inches  from  nose  to  hand. 

One  job  that  I  didn't  like  was  to  candle  the  eggs  that 
farmers  brought  in  to  exchange  for  groceries.  In  a  dark  place 
in  the  storeroom  the  candle  box  set  on  a  table.  I  would  often 
check  12  dozen  eggs  by  placing  them,  two  at  a  time,  into  the 
bright  holes  on  the  tin  box  surrounding  a  bright  hght.  If 
there  were  dark  spots  in  the  eggs,  they  were  rejected. 

On  each  side  of  the  store  was  a  telephone,  each  owned  by 
a  different  company.  Some  people  called  us  on  one  phone 
while  others  belonged  to  the  second  company.  We  had  a 
different  ring  on  each  phone.  On  one  phone  it  was  a  short  and 
two  long  rings.  On  the  other,  the  ring  was  short,  long,  short. 
It  was  my  duty  three  days  a  week  to  hsten  carefully  for  the 
farmers'  calls  and  take  their  orders  for  groceries,  which  Papa 
would  deUver. 

Each  day  Papa  took  a  different  route,  carrying  groceries 
in  exchange  for  eggs  and  poultry.  He  loaded  his  Model  T 
truck  with  egg  cases,  full  of  groceries,  and  chicken  coops  for 
the  chickens  that  he  would  take  in  exchange  for  the  groceries. 
Usually  30  dozen  eggs  came  back  in  each  egg  case,  and  full 
chicken  coops  were  taken  to  the  Augusta  packing  plant, 
where  the  chickens  were  processed  and  canned. 

Grandfather  was  one  of  the  first  rural  postmasters.  The 
license,  hanging  over  his  desk,  had  President  Grover 
Cleveland's  signature.  Prairie  farmers  at  first  came  to  the 
store  for  their  mail  and  to  mail  letters  with  a  two-cent  stamp. 
However,  in  1896  Rural  Free  Dehvery  (R.F.D.)  was 
estabUshed,  and  the  mail  was  delivered  to  their  homes. 

The  most  popular  place  in  our  store  was  in  the  center, 
where  a  potbellied  stove  sat  in  a  five-by-five-foot  box  of 
sawdust.  Grandpa  cleaned  that  box  of  sawdust  every 
morning  because  the  men  sat  there  on  nail  kegs  and  spat 


31 


tobacco  juice  into  it.  This  was  the  men's  club  of  the 
community.  Here  one  learned  the  latest  news:  the  arrival  of 
new  babies,  what  boy  was  courtin'  which  girl,  politics,  and 
news  of  World  War  I.  Usually  a  game  of  checkers  was  also  in 
progress.  Sometimes  a  drummer  (salesman)  would  join  them, 
with  jokes  and  news  of  other  communities.  Then  he  would 
leave  trading  cards,  colorful  posters,  and  almanacs  for  our 
customers  to  take  home. 

One  cold  morning  Jake  Wilson  came  rushing  into  the 
store  with  a  big  frozen  rattlesnake  in  a  bushel  basket. 

"Look  fellows,  see  what  I  found  down  by  the  crick,"  he 
exclaimed. 

"By  jimminy,  it's  a  big  one  with  six  rattles,"  whistled 
Jeff  Cloud  as  he  moved  another  checker  on  the  board. 

After  everyone  had  a  good  look  at  the  dead  snake,  they 
went  on  talking  and  forgot  about  it,  when  suddenly  the 
basket  tipped  over,  and  the  snake  crawled  out.  Then  there 
was  plenty  of  excitement,  with  some  men  hunting  for 
weapons  and  others  climbing  up  on  the  counter.  At  last  Papa 
took  his  revolver  from  the  desk  drawer  and  shot  the 
rattlesnake.  The  men  learned  that  a  frozen  snake  is  not  a  dead 
snake  when  near  a  hot  stove. 

There  was  also  lots  of  talking  and  enthusiasm  when  oO 
was  found  at  Colmar  in  the  summer  of  1914.  The  big  oil  boom 
brought  thousands  of  tourists  to  our  area.  After  Peter 
Hamm's  gusher  came  in,  the  men  began  talking  of  having  an 
oil  well  on  their  own  land,  even  in  their  backyard  if  necessary. 

Some  of  the  men  around  the  stove  had  gone  with 
General  Sherman  on  his  march  to  the  sea  in  the  Civil  War. 
During  World  War  I  they  rehved  their  Civil  War  experiences, 
spending  hours  reading  the  papers  and  telHng  stories  of  their 
years  in  the  Civil  War  with  General  Sherman.  They  loved  the 
general,  who  had  been  hated  by  the  South.  He  was  "Uncle 
Billy"  to  his  soldiers.  It  was  there  that  I  heard  the  following 
stories. 

"Boys,"  said  Sam  Babcock,  "We  had  a  hard  Ufe  those 


four  years,  but  old  Uncle  Billy  was  the  bravest  of  aU.  Once  I 
saw  four  horses  shot  out  from  under  him,  and  he  never 
flinched.  It  was  during  that  terrible  battle  at  Shiloh!  I'll 
never  forget  the  surprise  attack  and  the  great  hurly-burly  one 
early  Sunday  morning.  Many  of  us  were  still  in  bed.  Suddenly 
we  heard  officers  shouting,  "Fall  in!  Form  a  line!"  Soldiers 
were  running  in  all  directions,  putting  on  their  pants  and 
boots.  General  Sherman  was  on  his  horse  instantly,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  bullets  flying  all  around.  When  the  horse  was 
shot,  he  quickly  mounted  another.  That  was  four  hours  of 
heU,  and  we  lost  many  good  comrades.  But  after  the  victory 
the  soldiers  placed  their  hats  upon  their  bayonets  and 
cheered  Uncle  Billy.  Then  there  was  a  torch  parade  with 
everyone  singing  Uncle  Billy's  favorite  song— 'The  Blue 
Juanita.'  Camp  after  camp  took  up  the  song  until  the  heavens 
rang! 

"We  darn  near  starved  to  death  on  our  march  to 
Atlanta,"  said  Jeff  Hitz.  "Our  supplies  were  cut  off,  and  for 
nine  days  our  rations  were  one  ear  of  corn  a  day.  If  we  ate 
anything  else,  we  had  to  take  it  from  the  Rebels.  Many  times, 
though,  we  camped  on  the  plantations  of  wealthy  Rebels,  who 
had  fled.  We  found  their  granaries  well  filled  and  some  food 
buried  in  the  ground  and  in  wells.  We  covered  about  15  miles 
a  day,  foraging  and  plundering  along  the  way.  One  day  about 
noon  we  entered  a  barnyard  full  of  fat  Uttle  pigs.  I  spied  a 
succulent  looking  one  and  went  for  it.  Just  as  I  grabbed,  the 
pig  slipped  out  of  my  hands,  and  I  went  face  down  in  the 
mud.  As  I  hfted  my  head,  I  spied  a  pair  of  tall  boots  beside 
me,  and  looking  up,  I  saw  General  Sherman.  'Better  luck  next 
time,  soldier,'  he  laughed." 

On  the  morning  after  Easter  Sunday  in  1918  the  men 
were  gathered  around  the  stove  as  usual,  and  Grandpa  told 
them  about  a  dream  he  had  had  during  his  afternoon  nap  on 
Easter  Sunday.  He  had  always  been  fascinated  with  the  first 
airplanes  that  were  used  in  World  War  I,  and  he  had  dreamed 
that  he  was  a  pilot,  shot  down  over  Germany.  In  his  dream  he 


32 


saw  himself  taken  to  the  Kaiser.  During  his  interrogation  it 
was  decided  that  the  war  must  end  between  the  tenth  and 
fifteenth  of  November,  1918. 

"Ah  Jim,  that's  hogwash,"  teased  the  men.  But  when 
the  Armistice  was  signed  on  November  11,  1918  (eight 
months  after  Grandpa's  dream),  the  men  had  more  respect 
for  his  prophecy. 

The  farmers  took  it  for  granted  that  they  were  welcome 
to  socialize  at  the  store  and  even  help  themselves  to  bits  of 
food.  Grandpa  always  had  a  full  coffee  pot  on  top  of  the  stove, 
and  he  never  complained  if  someone  reached  into  the  cracker, 
peanut,  or  pickle  barrel  for  a  handful,  or  even  when  they 
raised  the  glass  Ud  over  the  big  round  cheese  and  shced  off  a 
piece. 

Saturday  night  was  always  a  gala  time.  Farmers  came 
from  miles  around,  bringing  eggs,  cream,  or  chickens  to  trade 
for  merchandise.  The  men  would  congregate  around  the  stove 
or  on  the  front  porch  while  the  women  shopped. 

Many  of  the  men  chewed  tobacco,  and  if  they  couldn't 
spit  in  the  sawdust  around  the  stove,  they  spit  off  the  porch. 
Sometimes  they  had  a  contest  to  see  who  could  spit  the 
farthest.  I  remember  one  time  when  they  raised  Grandma's 
ire.  Noticing  the  white  picket  fence  nearby,  two  fellows 
decided  that  it  would  be  fun  to  see  whether  they  could  spit 
through  the  pickets.  When  Grandma  caught  them,  there  was 
considerable  excitement  for  a  while.  The  crowd,  of  course, 
enjoyed  seeing  her  anger  and  the  men's  frustration  as  they 
washed  the  fence. 

The  store  was  usually  open  until  midnight  on  Saturday 
night.  Papa  sometimes  made  several  gallons  of  lemonade  in  a 
big  stone  jar,  and  everyone  drank  from  the  tin  dipper. 

Sometimes  Sim  Palmer,  the  blacksmith,  brought  in  his 
victrola,  with  the  big  horn  and  hollow  cylinder  records, 
encouraging  a  httle  dancing  between  the  counters. 

Coal  oil  lamps  in  brass  baskets  on  the  walls  lit  up  the 
store  at  night.  It  was  my  job  to  clean  the  chimneys,  trim  the 


wicks,  and  fill  the  bowls  with  coal  oil.  How  happy  1  was  when 
one  day  Papa  brought  home  two  beautiful  Aladdin  lamps. 
What  a  beautiful  white  light,  turning  night  into  day!  Such  a 
change  from  the  tiny  ribbon  flame  of  the  coal  oil  lamp!  The 
Aladdin  lamp  had  a  big  shiny  chrome  bowl  and  white  crystal 
shade,  set  in  a  steel  frame.  The  finger-shaped  filament  had  to 
be  primed  with  gasoUne  and  filled  with  air  by  a  little  tube 
pump,  like  the  one  Brother  used  for  his  bicycle  tires.  It  was 
too  dangerous  for  me  to  operate,  so  the  lamp  chore  was 
turned  over  to  Papa. 

Watching  the  men  store  the  ice  in  the  depth  of  winter 
was  a  treat.  I  never  saw  them  cut  it  out  of  the  lake,  but  when 
they  brought  the  huge  blocks  home  in  a  wagon,  I  was  there  to 
watch  them  store  the  ice  in  a  shed  behind  the  store.  The  shed 
was  over  a  pit  lined  with  straw.  Large  blocks  of  ice  were  slid 
down  a  tin  ramp  into  the  shed  and  then  covered  with 
sawdust.  Layer  upon  layer  of  the  big  blocks  of  ice  were  finally 
stored  for  summer  use.  1  watched  and  dreamed  of  the  hot 
summer  days  when  I  would  spend  hours  in  that  ice  house 
reading  my  favorite  book.  Also,  my  mouth  watered  for  the 
good  ice  cream  Grandpa  would  make.  Having  the  ice  made  it 
possible  for  us  to  have  an  ice  box  in  the  store  and  enable  us  to 
sell  ice  cold  pop.  Also,  we  no  longer  had  to  store  perishables  in 
the  cave  or  well. 

However,  that  pan  underneath  the  ice  box,  for  the 
melting  ice,  was  a  nuisance.  It  filled  so  quickly  that  we  often 
had  a  wet  floor  when  we  forgot  to  empty  it.  One  day  Papa 
attached  a  hose  from  the  ice  box  to  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Then 
the  water  dripped  onto  the  ground  underneath. 

One  of  my  most  vivid  memories  of  the  store  is  of 
hstening  to  the  first  radio,  on  the  election  night  of  Warren  G. 
Harding.  A  large  crowd  had  gathered  to  hear  the  election 
returns  over  a  crystal  set  that  Grandpa  had  purchased. 
Everyone  took  turns  listening  on  the  earphones  and 
reporting  the  results  to  the  crowd.  I  almost  jumped  out  of  my 
shoes  when  I  first  heard  that  voice  from  across  the  country. 


What  a  wonderful  time  I'm  living  in,  I  thought,  as  I 
watched  all  those  amazed  faces  that  night  in  Grandpa's 
country  store. 


MABLE* 

Iva  I.  Peters 

The  era  ended  on  a  windy  sub-zero  night  in  February, 
1962.  Young  Jim  McQuaid  was  alone  in  his  parents  home, 
formerly  the  old  Mable  store,  when  he  escaped  from  the  wUd 
raging  fire.  In  the  frigid  gray  hght  of  the  dawn,  the  only 
remains  of  the  old  landmark  were  the  smoking  ruins  and  a 
few  charred  trees. 

My  memories  of  the  little  country  store  begin  around 
1918  when  it  was  operated  by  the  J.C.  Davis  family,  who  had 
been  there  since  1906.  They  had  succeeded  a  Mr.  Wynecoop 
who,  in  the  late  1800's,  had  moved  the  building  from  a 
location  less  than  one  mile  east,  to  a  corner  on  the  farm  owned 
by  a  community  spirited  gentleman,  Mr.  Levi  Marlow.  Mr. 
Marlow  was  an  ingenious  man,  who,  in  his  lifetime,  had 
already  had  a  hand  in  the  erection  of  a  church  and  a  new 
school  house,  moving  and  remodeUing  the  old  school  into  a 
lodge  and  community  building.  These  four  buildings  were  all 
situated  within  one  half  mile  of  each  other,  and  aU  within  the 
boundaries  of  his  farmland.  The  addition  of  the  store  made 
the  lively  community  even  more  thriving.  It  was  in  1900  that 
he  arranged  for  a  post  office  to  be  established  at  the  store, 
and  at  his  suggestion,  the  postal  department  called  it 
"Mable,"  named  for  one  of  Mr.  Marlow's  small  grand- 
daughter's, Mabel  Calvert,  age  six.  And  so  it  was  that  the 
rural  community  became  officially  know  as  Mable. 

Mable  was  more  than  a  store  and  post  office.  Maps  of 
the  area  show  it  as  a  small  dot  about  ten  miles  west  of 

*  Spelling  as  appears  on  early  maps.  Sometimes  spelled  'Mabel'. 


Rushville,  with  a  population  listed  at  90  persons.  Although 
the  boundaries  were  undefined,  it  was  an  interesting,  lively 
community,  composed  of  an  unusual  number  of  well  known 
landmarks,  aU  within  the  space  of  one  mile. 

Besides  the  store  and  post  office,  there  was  the  lodge 
hall  (the  old  Davis  school  building),  located  across  the  road 
from  the  store;  close  by  was  the  Union  Chapel  Church,  the 
Marlow  Cemetery,  the  Lawson  blacksmith  shop,  the  Davis 
sorghum  mill,  the  new  Davis  School  (district  57),  and  the 
beautifully  wooded  six  acres  known  as  Marlow  Grove, 
famous  for  its  annual  picnics  until  1927.  A  short  distance 
north  of  this  clump  of  activity  was  Wild  Cat  Slough,  the 
recreation  area  of  the  community. 

This  happy  combination  of  activities  offered  me  a  most 
pleasant  and  wholesome  place  in  which  to  grow.  I  was  born  in 
the  first  house  east  of  the  store  during  the  time  the  Davis 
family  was  operating  the  store.  The  post  office  occupied  a 
space  just  inside  the  door,  and  was  in  operation  from  1900  to 
1913,  when  it  was  closed  and  rural  dehvery  began  with  the 
luxury  and  convenience  of  a  mail  box  by  each  gate. 

In  1918  the  Davis  family  left  the  store  to  operate  the 
sorghum  mill,  and  they  were  succeeded  by  the  young  Harold 
Milton  Cady,  who  had  married  Mable  Calvert,  for  whom  the 
community  had  been  named.  They  Lived  in  a  small  house 
immediately  west  of  the  store,  and  by  now,  the  old  lodge 
building  had  been  moved  again  to  provide  storage  back  of  the 
store.  Connecting  the  two  buildings  was  a  covered  area  where 
Mr.  Cady  did  car  repairs  and  also  stored  his  own  handsome 
Oldsmobile  truck,  in  which  he  made  home  dehveries  and  did 
commercial  hauling. 

Mable  store  was  a  wood  frame  building  built  close  to  the 
ground,  unpainted,  as  I  recall.  There  was  a  porch  the  width  of 
it  on  which  sat  simple  wood  benches  for  "the  loafers."  Inside 
were  more  benches  close  by  the  counter  for  cold  weather 
visitors.  There  was  a  large  potbellied  stove  in  the  rear,  a 
cream  testing  area  and  a  place  to  candle  eggs.  The  floor  was 


of  very  wide,  slightly  curved,  but  smooth  boards,  and  I  recall 
seeing  the  owners  apply  a  red  sawdust-like  material  to  the 
floor  before  sweeping,  giving  the  place  a  fresh  cedary  smell. 
This  fragrance  remains  vivid  in  my  memory  as  it  mingled 
with  the  smells  of  rope,  cured  meat,  apples,  bananas,  and 
kraut  in  barrels. 

I  was  delighted  any  time  my  mother  gave  me  a  nickel  to 
go  shopping  for  a  loaf  of  "Bakers  Bread,"  which  was  a  rare 
treat  in  the  Ingles  household.  It  was  unsliced  and  wrapped  in 
wax  paper  and  seemed  to  me  to  be  food  for  angels— an  idea 
that  soon  faded  with  the  years.  It  was  also  a  joy  to  visit  the 
store  to  see  the  candies  and  watch  the  salesmen  come  and 
go— all  glamorous  people  driving  in  from  somewhere  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  Mable.  The  Cady's,  as  well  as  all  their 
successors,  "waited  on"  their  customers,  handling  each  order 
on  an  individual  basis.  My  mother  never  used  the  word 
"shopping,"  but  rather,  she  would  go  "trading,"  which, 
indeed,  she  did  do,  when  she  took  the  thick  cream  and  cases 
of  brown  eggs  to  be  exchanged  for  the  commercial  items  she 
needed.  The  store  was  open  for  business  every  day  and 
evening  except  Sunday,  and  Saturday  nights  were  the 
highlight  of  the  week.  Especially  in  summer  when  the  cars  or 
buggies  were  parked  all  around  and  while  the  adults  traded 
and  visited,  we  children  romped  among  the  buildings  and 
trees. 

The  lights  at  Mable  were  gasoline  lanterns  with  fragile 
white  mantles  hanging  down,  and  when  they  were  lit  they 
hissed  soft  little  songs  as  they  burned  with  a  fierce  white 
light. 

The  Cady  children  usually  walked  to  school  with  us  and 
were  quite  constant  companions  until  their  father  entered  the 
Methodist  ministry  and  they  moved  away  in  1927.  They  were 
succeeded  in  the  store  by  John  Lee,  who  later  moved  to 
Rushville  to  practice  veterinary  medicine.  George  R.  Davis 
managed  the  store  for  a  short  period,  then  it  was  purchased 
by  the  JuUan  Unger  family.  Many  changes  took  place  at  this 


point,  because  the  Camden-Rushville  road  was  straightened 
and  gravelled  in  1935,  cutting  across  the  Marlow  field, 
leaving  Mable  store  off  the  highway.  The  Unger's  found 
themselves  coping  with  this  inevitable  change  by  once  again 
moving  the  old  store  building  a  few  rods  south  until  it  was 
adjacent  to  the  new  highway.  The  old  house  and  schoolhouse 
were  left  behind,  and  they  erected  their  home  east  of  the  store 
and  annexed  the  two  buildings  as  one  unit.  The  sides  of  both 
were  covered  with  dark  green  shingles,  the  lawn  was 
landscaped,  and  little  resemblance  remained  of  the  old  Mable. 
It  was  a  great  improvement  and  for  years  it  seemed  as  if 
progress  had  finally  come  to  benefit  Mable,  the  tiny  dot  on 
the  map. 

In  retrospect,  however,  it  was  the  end  of  an  era,  and  the 
beginning  of  the  demise  of  a  small  country  store.  No  longer 
were  the  roads  impassable  with  mud,  and  somehow  the  cars 
ran  faster  and  it  became  easier  and  easier  to  drive  by  to  larger 
selections  in  bigger  towns.  However,  Mable  did  not  die 
without  a  fight,  because  it  would  be  over  20  years  before  the 
final  gasp. 

The  Unger's  ran  a  bustling  business  and  in  turn  were 
succeeded  by  Roy  Baskett,  Roy  Ramey,  and  Ray  Artis.  In 
1957-1958  the  road  was  once  again  straightened  in  certain 
places  and  covered  with  a  black  surface,  and  almost 
simultaneously  the  store  closed  its  doors— a  casualty  of 
better  transportation  and  the  more  sophisticated  tastes  of 
the  post  World  War  II  era. 

In  the  mile  or  so  of  landmarks  so  memorable  to  my 
childhood,  only  the  big  rocks  at  "Wildcat"  and  the 
whispering  cedars  and  sad  stones  of  the  Marlow  Cemetery 
remain.  It  seems  incredible  that  in  my  lifetime  so  many  well 
known  places  have  completely  disappeared. 

The  clanging  sounds  of  the  blacksmith's  anvil  were  long 
ago  silent;  the  steam  of  the  vats  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
sorghum  mill  wafted  away  at  least  50  years  ago;  sounds  of 
children's  voices  and  a  ringing  school  bell  were  silenced  in 


35 


1949  when  the  building  was  torn  down  and  the  lumber  used 
at  the  Camden  School;  the  last  hymn  was  sung  at  Union 
Chapel  in  1939,  and  the  building  moved  away  and  remodeled 
into  a  residence;  the  Levi  Marlow  buildings  were  all  replaced 
by  more  modern  ones,  and  the  lovely  Marlow  Grove  has  been 
in  cultivation  for  many  years. 

Mable,  the  store,  is  gone,  and  Mable,  the  community,  is 
no  longer  even  a  dot  on  a  map.  It  is  just  a  memory,  and 
memories  are  landmarks  only  to  those  who  have  lived  them. 


HAMBURGERS,  MILKSHAKES,  AND 
COLLEGE  STUDENTS 

Katherine  Z.  Adair 

The  building  is  still  there.  I  don't  know  what  it's  like 
inside  or  what  changes  have  been  made  to  the  outside.  I 
haven't  been  back.  When  mother  sold  the  business  to  Perry 
Hay  in  1952,  that  part  of  my  life  was  over. 

Since  I  lived  there  from  1924-1944,  I  would  say  that 
College  Hill  Grocery  and  Confectionery  was  one  of  the  most 
important  factors  in  my  life.  I  learned  how  to  meet  people  and 
take  responsibility,  how  to  deal  with  all  kinds  of  situations, 
how  to  do  menial  tasks  in  a  proud  way  and  how  to  plan  my 
time  so  that  1  could  get  everything  done  when  it  should  be. 

My  father,  Fred  Zimmerman,  had  been  an  insurance 
salesman  for  years  when  he  was  offered  a  chance  to  buy  the 
business  in  the  300  block  of  West  Adams.  The  building  was 
not  very  old  and  had  an  apartment  over  the  store  where  we 
could  Uve.  Since  there  were  only  three  of  us— my  mother. 
Dad,  and  myself— it  was  adequate.  It  wasn't  exactly  what  we 
were  used  to,  but  it  seemed  a  good  opportunity. 

1  was  a  freshman  at  Macomb  High  School  when  we 
moved  to  the  store.  I  wasn't  part  of  the  "in"  group  so  1 
especially  enjoyed  the  contact  I  had  with  the  CoOege  boys 


and  some  of  the  faculty  who  came  in  for  groceries  or  the  ones 
I  met  when  helping  mother  when  she  did  catering. 

We  worked  hard— long  hours,  seven  days  a  week,  very 
few  vacations.  We  had  the  help  of  the  Zimmerman  family.  My 
dad  was  from  a  family  of  ten.  All  of  the  ones  near  there  helped 
at  one  time  or  another  with  money,  encouragement,  and 
actual  purchases,  but  we  were  the  ones  who  washed  the 
dishes,  swept  out,  dipped  the  quarts  of  ice  cream,  fried  the 
thousands  of  hamburgers,  served  the  milk  and  caramel 
squares  for  breakfast,  and  Ustened  to  the  occasional  tales  of 
woe.  Remember:  we  went  through  the  Depression  years  and 
war  times  as  well  as  the  good  times. 

When  I  look  back  over  the  Sequels  (yearbooks)  of  the 
20's  and  30's,  1  see  many  names  and  faces  that  were  familiar 
to  us  at  College  Hill.  Many  of  those  students  went  on  to 
successful  careers  as  farmers,  teachers,  scientists, 
businessmen,  athletes,  politicians,  even  college  presidents. 
Harry  Newburn  was  a  regular  customer— played  football  and 
slept  through  many  of  Professor  Seal's  early  morning  history 
classes. 

We  had  very  little  rowdy  behavior.  Dad  would  have 
asked  them  to  leave  and  they  would  have.  We  had  practicaUy 
no  instances  of  non  payment.  The  students  charged,  but  with 
the  definite  understanding  that  they  paid  when  Mr.  Z  said 
they  were  to  do  so.  Our  only  real  difficulty  was  getting  them 
out  at  10  p.m. 

I  think  Dad  must  have  advertised  some  in  the  Courier 
(the  college  newspaper).  When  he  died,  the  students 
published  a  lovely  tribute  to  "Mr.  Z.".  After  all,  he  was 
College  Hill— the  man  who  made  that  location  a  special  place. 


THE  HUCKSTER  WAGON 

Louise  Krueger 

Anyone  who  has  Uved  in  a  rural  area  during  the  horse 
and  buggy  days  still  remembers  the  thrill  when  during  the 
summer  months  the  huckster  wagon  would  pull  up  in  the 
driveway.  These  memories  carry  me  back  to  my  early  days  in 
the  rural  area  of  Altamont  in  Effingham  County,  about  65 
years  ago.  The  huckster  in  our  area  was  none  other  than  my 
father's  brother,  Fred  Krueger,  who  later  operated  a  general 
store  at  Gilmore. 

The  huckster  had  five  routes  in  the  area,  one  each  day  of 
the  week,  keeping  a  close  schedule  at  each  customer's  home. 
He  was  well  acquainted  with  his  patrons  and  could  stock  his 
wagon  each  day  according  to  their  weekly  needs.  At  our 
home,  the  huckster  wagon  arrived  every  Monday  around  11 
o'clock.  It  was  wash  day.  Our  goal  always  was  to  have  the 
wash  out  of  the  way  and  the  clothes  on  the  hne  in  order  to  be 
ready  to  do  the  trading  when  the  huckster  arrived.  Eggs  and 
young  roosters  were  always  traded  for  the  household  items 
we  purchased. 

The  huckster  wagon  was  a  large  farm  wagon  drawn  by  a 
team  of  horses.  It  was  stocked  with  the  most  useful  items  a 
housewife  needed,  such  as  flour,  sugar,  spices,  canned  goods, 
yard  goods,  sewing  items,  men's  overalls,  tobacco,  candies, 
etc.  Instead  of  the  regular  wagon  bed  a  large  cabinet-like 
structure  was  built  to  the  size  of  the  wagon  with  shelves  and 
doors  on  either  side.  The  back  end  had  a  large  let-down  door 
which  served  as  a  table  to  measure  off  yard  goods  stored  in 
the  back  area.  The  chicken  coops  where  on  the  very  top  of  the 
wagon,  the  egg  cases  underneath  in  order  to  be  kept  in  the 
shade. 

This  method  of  selling  wares  from  place  to  place  was 
indeed  a  profitable  business  for  the  seller  and  a  service  as  well 
for  the  farmers.  The  farm  horses  were  in  the  fields  from 
morning  till  evening  and  much  too  tired  to  be  driven  miles  for 


what  could  be  purchased  in  this  manner.  Messages  and  news 
of  concern  could  be  carried  from  family  to  family,  which  was 
appreciated. 

The  housewife  usually  had  a  few  cents  left  over  from  her 
egg  and  chicken  money  and  would  then  buy  a  few  sweets  for 
the  youngsters  who  were  always  standing  by. 


MEMORIES  OF  WAYLAND 

Lillian  Elizabeth  Terry 

In  the  late  1800's,  there  was  no  rural  mail  delivery.  At 
that  time  the  federal  government  officially  designated  that 
the  incoming  mail  would  be  placed  in  homes  or  stores  and 
kept  until  individuals  could  call  for  it  and  the  outgoing  mail 
would  be  held  for  the  postal  service  to  pick  up  and  take  to  its 
destination. 

Wayland  store  became  one  of  the  first  post  offices  in 
Schuyler  County,  being  situated  at  about  an  equal  distance 
for  the  inhabitants  of  Littleton,  Brooklyn,  and  Camden 
townships  to  pick  up  their  mail,  some  of  whom  walked  or  rode 
horseback  to  get  it. 

I  have  no  official  records,  and  Wayland  is  only 
remembered  by  those  who  are  four  score  years  or  more.  My 
husband's  father,  John  Terry,  told  me  that  many  a  time  when 
he  was  a  young  man  he  rode  horseback  to  Wayland  to  get 
their  mail.  He  was  born  in  1875,  and  their  home  was  in 
sections  30  and  31,  southwest  of  Littleton. 

Wayland  was  a  small,  one-room  weather  beaten 
building,  situated  in  a  corner  of  three  roads.  One  went  south, 
one  east,  and  one  west.  Several  dweUings  also  were  close  by. 

Flora  Poison  was  one  of  the  first  post-mistresses  at 
Wayland  and  also  the  storekeeper,  and  at  that  time, 
everything  that  folks  needed  was  kept  there. 


Frank  Woods,  who  lived  in  Augusta,  Illinois,  delivered 
oU  and  groceries  to  Wayland  with  a  four-horse  team,  as  he  did 
to  all  the  small  stores. 

In  the  year  of  1908  my  family  moved  from  Rushville, 
the  county  seat  of  Schuyler  County,  to  a  small  farm  about 
one  half  mile  from  Wayland  store,  and  at  that  time  there  was 
a  mail  route,  and  Sally  Chockley  was  the  storekeeper. 

I  remember  just  how  the  store  looked,  at  the  age  of 
eight  years.  Mother  would  put  a  basket  of  eggs  in  our  little 
wagon  and  send  my  brother  Edwin,  age  ten,  and  I  to  the  store 
for  supplies  in  exchange  for  the  eggs:  usually  some  sugar, 
coffee  beans,  matches,  and  maybe  some  kerosene.  When  we 
left,  SaUy  always  treated  us  to  a  stick  of  candy  or  a  long  stick 
of  paraffin  gum,  neatly  wrapped  in  cream  colored  paper  with 
little  yellow  flecks.  What  a  treat!  We  were  so  proud  and 
happy  to  get  it. 

I  remember  how  the  building  looked  on  the  inside  and 
out.  It  was  weather  beaten,  built  from  wide  lumber  siding, 
had  no  paint,  was  gray  with  age,  and  probably  the  roof  was 
covered  with  hand  made  shingles.  Also,  there  was  a  Uttle 
front  porch  of  wide  planks,  elevated  on  some  kind  of  a 
foundation,  making  it  higher  than  the  ground  level. 

At  the  entrance  there  was  a  wide  high  counter  to  the 
right,  which  was  almost  the  length  of  the  store.  On  top  of  the 
counter  was  a  coffee  mill,  some  old-fashioned  scales,  and 
some  large  glass  jars  with  glass  stoppers,  which  were  filled 
with  candy  or  parafin  gum.  Back  of  the  counter  were  shelves 
with  a  variety  of  things  customers  usuaOy  needed. 

The  floor  was  also  of  wide  planks,  gray  with  age,  but 
always  swept  clean.  Sally  kept  her  eggs  in  the  back,  and  we 
children  always  went  with  her  to  count  them.  She  would  put 
one  dozen  here  and  one  there,  before  she  put  them  in  her  case. 

There  were  several  chairs  for  the  customers  to  sit  in  and 
exchange  the  latest  gossip  and  also  for  the  neighbors  who 
lived  close  by. 

In  1908,  I  remember  seeing  Coxey's  Army,  which  was 


marching  through  the  country.  I  think  they  were 
campaigning  for  the  Sociahst  Party.  There  were  about  one 
dozen  of  them,  along  with  their  leader,  who  was  William  HUl. 

One  evening  they  stood  on  the  httle  porch  at  Wayland 
store,  and  Mr.  Hill  gave  a  speech.  The  neighbors  gathered  to 
hear  him,  and  stood  in  the  road.  I  remember  standing  to  the 
left  of  the  crowd.  I  do  not  remember  anything  he  said,  but  I 
do  remember  just  how  he  looked.  He  had  on  a  close  fitting  top 
coat  that  came  to  his  knees  and  also  a  stove  pipe  hat.  He 
reminded  me  of  the  picture  of  Stephen  A.  Douglas  when  he 
debated  with  Abe  Lincoln  that  I  once  saw  in  a  history  book. 
It  is  said  that  Mr.  Hill  carried  a  torch  when  he  marched. 

Wayland  store  caught  fire  at  one  time,  due  to  a 
threshing  machine  that  belonged  to  John  Day,  that  had 
stopped  by  the  store.  Sparks  from  the  engine  set  the  roof  on 
fire,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  water  tank,  it  would  have 
burned. 

Sally  gave  up  the  store  sometime  before  1916,  and  there 
seems  to  be  no  pictures  of  it  that  can  be  found,  and  so  when 
the  Uttle  store  and  former  post  office  was  torn  down,  and  the 
httle  plot  of  ground  was  absorbed  by  the  surrounding 
pasture,  and  the  memory  of  it  almost  disappeared  as  well. 

Sally  was  a  striking  woman  with  dark  sparkUng  eyes. 
She  was  tall  and  slender,  her  hair  pinned  high  upon  her  head. 
She  dressed  plainly,  always  wore  a  dark  print  caUco  dress, 
with  long  sleeves,  and  high  neck,  and  a  long  apron  of  white  or 
Ught  colored  material  tied  around  her  waist.  And  she  was 
always  kind  and  gentle  to  whoever  she  was  near. 

Sally  was  not  hterate  enough  to  be  the  proprietor  of  a 
business,  but  through  her  accompUshment,  she  expressed  a 
part  of  the  heritage  of  earher  America.  She  enjoyed  the 
remainder  of  her  Ufe  doing  some  gardening,  caring  for  her 
flowers,  and  with  her  husband  raising  some  hvestock  and 
poultry. 

She  also  pieced  quilts,  and  she  never  forgot  me  as  a 
child,  for  she  gave  my  husband  and  I  a  beautiful  quilt  for  a 


wedding  present,   the  pattern  being   "The  Broken   Dish,' 
which  I  have  had  now  for  over  60  years. 


THE  GIN  RIDGE  STORE-NOT  A  MYTH 

John  C.  Willey 

In  the  very  late  1800's  and  early  1900's,  in  the 
southwest  part  of  the  Township  of  Bethel  in  McDonough 
County  there  was  a  general  store.  This  place  was  located  near 
the  road  which  separated  McDonough  and  Schuyler 
Counties.  The  business  was  started  by  Andrew  and  Rachel 
Stoneking  in  their  home.  The  people  around  the  area  were 
largely  self-sufficient,  but  there  was  stiD  desire  for  various 
"store-bought"  articles.  And  since  the  nearest  towns  were 
Plymouth,  Industry,  and  Macomb,  other  stores  were  a 
distance  of  12  to  18  miles. 

Andy  (or  Andrew)  ordered  the  merchandise  and  had  it 
shipped  to  him  by  rail  from  more  distant  places.  That 
merchandise,  of  course,  he  would  sell  at  a  profit.  Having  it 
come  by  rail  meant  that  he  would  have  to  take  a  team  and  a 
wagon  to  Plymouth  to  the  depot  and  pick  up  his  supphes. 

In  the  early  1900's  business  was  getting  very  brisk  and, 
having  a  family,  he  needed  more  room.  He  had  some  husky 
sons,  so  he  put  them  to  work  at  building  a  special  building  for 
the  store.  That  place  was  then  called  the  "Stoneking  Store," 
or  more  often  the  "Gin  Ridge  Store."  As  time  went  on,  the 
one  son,  Jesse,  began  to  run  the  store  while  another,  John, 
opened  a  store  in  DoddsviUe.  A  third  son,  Ernest,  was  a 
farmer  in  the  community. 

This  general  store  was  set  up  to  buy  and  seO  the  produce 
of  the  local  people,  as  well  as  the  items  brought  in  from  the 
outside.  They  bought  cream,  eggs,  and  poultry  from  the 
farmers  and  in  turn  sold  to  them  such  things  as  yard  goods, 
thread,  tobacco,  and  tools. 


At  that  time  there  were  lots  of  underground  coal  mines 
in  the  area.  It  was  at  the  store  that  the  miners  bought  much 
of  their  carbide  for  the  miner-lamps,  along  with  picks, 
shovels,  wedges,  and  other  tools. 

This  general  store  was  also  the  gathering  place  of  gossip 
and  news— a  place  to  talk  and  have  fun.  It  was  common  joke 
that  there  was  more  coal  mined  and  more  farming  done  in  the 
store  than  any  place  else!  It  ever  was  a  place  where  the  older 
men  held  checker  tournaments  and  the  board  was  never  put 
away.  They  would  sit  around  the  old  potbeUied  stove  to  while 
away  the  time. 

There  were  also  a  couple  pairs  of  boxing  gloves  hanging 
there,  where  any  newcomer  had  to  prove  he  was  good  enough 
to  hang  around.  If  you  would  not  put  on  the  gloves  and  give  it 
an  honest  try,  you  might  as  well  leave  and  never  come  back! 

As  time  went  on,  the  automobile  became  popular 
enough  to  warrant  a  gasoUne  pump.  This  pump  was  red  in 
color  with  a  long  handle  on  one  side  with  which  to  pump.  The 
gasohne  went  up  to  the  top  and  into  a  glass  container,  which 
was  round  and  tall.  It  would  hold  ten  gallons  of  fuel  and  had 
marks  on  it  to  indicate  the  gallons,  numbering  from  one  to 
ten.  Gasohne  at  that  time  was  low  octane  and  was  priced  at 
five  gallons  for  one  dollar.  It  was  unleaded. 

It  was,  I  think,  in  the  late  thirties  when  the  store  closed 
down.  Even  the  building  is  no  longer  there.  The  Freeman  Coal 
Company  now  owns  the  land  and  all  the  surrounding  area.  All 
of  that  land  will  be  turned  upside  down,  and  there  probably 
will  not  be  a  landmark  left  to  show  where  the  store  was 
located. 


EGGS.  APPLES,  AND  CONSCIENCE 

Mildred  M.  Nelson 

In  the  early  1920's,  the  Old  General  Store  in  Tennessee, 
Illinois  was  located  across  the  road  west  of  the  Tennessee 
Park.  The  two-story  building  was  sandwiched  in  between  the 
blacksmith  shop  on  the  south  and  the  old  Odd  Fellow  Lodge 
Building  on  the  north.  Ed  and  Grace  Pittenger  were  the 
proprietors  of  the  store. 

Like  most  of  the  general  stores  of  this  era,  the  Pittenger 
Store  had  quite  a  variety  of  merchandise.  You  could  buy 
overalls,  shoes,  dress  material,  kerosene,  chicken  feed,  and 
hardware  items  in  addition  to  food  products.  Most  of  the  food 
products  were  shipped  to  the  store  in  bulk  quantities.  Flour, 
coffee  beans,  apples,  etc.  came  in  wooden  barrels,  while  other 
items,  like  dried  fruits,  came  in  large  wooden  boxes.  You 
could  buy  any  amount  you  wanted.  Very  few  items  were  pre- 
packaged. It  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  storekeepers  put 
most  every  purchase  in  a  brown  paper  bag,  twisted  the  top, 
and  tied  it  with  a  string. 

On  Saturdays,  the  farmers  of  the  area  hitched  up  their 
horses  to  a  surrey,  buggy,  or  wagon  and  headed  for  town.  A 
few  people  drove  their  Model  T's  to  town,  if  they  were 
fortunate  enough  to  have  one.  They  brought  chickens,  eggs, 
cream,  and  butter  to  trade  for  items  in  the  store.  Farmers 
were  usually  allowed  a  shghtly  higher  price  for  their  produce 
if  they  traded  for  items  rather  than  sold  the  produce  for  cash. 
This  is  how  the  phrase  "going  to  town  to  do  the  trading" 
originated. 

During  the  spring  thaw-outs,  business  would  slack  up. 
The  streets  in  Tennessee,  as  well  as  the  country  roads, 
became  almost  impassable  because  of  the  mud.  In  dry 
weather  there  would  be  two  or  three  inches  of  dust  from  the 
dirt  roads  to  contend  with. 

I  was  about  six  or  seven  years  old  when  the  events  in 
this  story  took  place.  My  parents  resided  in  Tennessee.  Since 


my  father  was  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  nearby 
blacksmith  shop,  I  was  a  frequent  visitor  of  the  old  store. 

The  candy  case  in  the  store  was  a  big  attraction  for  all 
the  children.  By  standing  on  my  tip  toes,  1  could  see  the 
peppermint  sticks,  licorice,  the  colorful  hard  candies,  and  the 
"dog  tracks,"  as  Mrs.  Pittenger  called  the  chocolate  stars. 
Mrs.  Pittenger  was  a  very  kindhearted  lady  and  always  gave 
the  children  a  generous  amount  of  candy  in  return  for  their 
pennies. 

In  the  fall  of  the  year  the  large  apple  barrel  in  the  store 
was  filled  to  capacity  with  the  beautiful  red  and  yellow  apples 
from  the  nearby  orchards.  Those  apples  were  always  so 
tempting,  especially  to  a  child.  One  day  when  Mrs.  Pittenger 
wasn't  looking,  I  backed  up  to  the  apple  barrel.  With  all  the 
skill  of  a  professional  shoplifter,  I  took  one  of  the  apples.  I 
then  did  a  fast  disappearing  act  from  the  store. 

When  I  was  a  safe  distance  away,  I  took  my  first  big 
bite  from  the  succulent  apple,  I  even  commended  myself  on 
"swiping"  the  apple  without  being  seen.  Then  1  remembered 
something  my  mother  had  said:  "God  sees  and  knows 
everything  you  do."  Fear  gripped  me.  I  had  been  seen  after 
all.  God  had  seen  me  steal  that  apple! 

I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could  back  to  the  store,  and  I  placed 
the  apple  with  the  large  bite  out,  right  on  top  of  that  barrel  of 
apples.  Thus,  I  learned  lesson  number  one  from  the  old 
general  store.  Even  though  the  storekeeper  did  not  see  me 
take  the  apple,  there  was  someone  who  did. 

I  loved  dried  fruits  that  the  general  store  kept  in  stock. 
My  favorite  was  dried  apricots.  One  day  when  my  mother 
sent  me  to  the  store  to  purchase  some  apricots,  temptation 
got  the  best  of  me.  On  the  way  home,  I  removed  the  string 
from  the  brown  paper  bag  and  had  quite  a  feast.  Somehow,  on 
this  day,  the  dried  apricots  seemed  more  moist  and  more 
juicy  than  ever.  After  I  had  eaten  my  "fill,"  I  tied  the  string 
neatly  back  on  top  of  the  bag  and  proceeded  home. 

My  mother  poured  the  fruit  into  a  pan  and  I  noticed  her 


40 


peering  very  closely  at  the  apricots.  Then  she  put  the  fruit 
back  in  the  bag  and  said,  "You  take  these  right  back  to  the 
store  and  get  my  money  back.  They  are  just  full  of  worms." 

I  suddenly  felt  very  sick.  Goodness,  how  many  worms 
had  I  eaten?  That  was  lesson  number  two  that  I  learned  from 
the  old  store:  never  get  into  the  groceries  on  the  way  home! 

A  portion  of  the  old  store  is  still  standing  today.  It  has 
been  made  into  a  small  residence.  Someone  has  said  that  this 
is  the  section  that  had  once  housed  the  shoes. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pittenger  passed  away  long  ago.  The  old 
general  store  is  gone,  but  the  memories  and  the  lessons  I 
learned  were  not  forgotten. 


SELLING  AND  TRADING  IN  BEARDSTOWN 

Nellie  F.  Roe 

The  moment  had  finally  arrived.  It  was  June  28,  1979, 
and  after  years  of  planning,  working,  and  waiting,  the 
Beardstown  Plaza  Shopping  Center  was  a  reality,  and  our 
new  supermarket.  Roe's  Eisner  Agency,  was  ready  for  its 
Grand  Opening.  A  myriad  of  gaily  colored  balloons  hung 
from  the  ceiling.  The  mayor  had  arrived  to  cut  the  ribbon  and 
the  press  was  ready.  My  husband  was  beaming  and  showed 
no  signs  of  the  frantic  pace  of  the  past  few  weeks  and  three 
hours  of  sleep  the  previous  night.  This  was  a  dream  come  true 
but  no  one  knew  it  better  than  I. 

I  glanced  at  the  row  of  carts  Uned  up  alongside  the  five 
checkout  counters,  each  equipped  with  an  electronic  cash 
register  and  a  belt  that  moved  forward  at  the  touch  of  a 
button  with  the  foot.  I  noticed  the  shiny  waxed  floor  and  the 
wide  aisles  between  the  row  after  row  of  shelves  stocked  with 
thousands  of  items.  The  refrigeration  units  were 
gleaming— the  meat  counter,  the  frozen  food  counter,  and  the 
dairy  counter— all  filled  to  capacity  and  brightly  lighted.  The 


produce  section  was  a  sight  to  behold  and  piled  high  with 
fruits  and  vegetables,  some  from  half-way  around  the  world. 
The  "deli"  section  was  waiting,  with  its  mouth-watering 
treats.  The  store  decor  was  eye  pleasing  and  there  was  soft 
background  music.  I  heard  my  husband  explaining  to  the 
press  how  the  newly-installed  "heat-reclaim"  system  would 
save  energy  and  how  it  was  possible  to  get  24-hour  delivery 
from  Champaign  by  hooking  up  the  computer  to  the 
telephone. 

Suddenly,  my  thoughts  turned  to  another  store  and 
another  time.  It  was  April,  1941  when  I  came  to  Mt.  Sterling 
(population  2,100)  as  the  bride  of  Bill  Roe,  age  twenty  four, 
manager  of  the  local  West  Food  Store,  then  part  of  a  chain  of 
about  30  small-town  groceries  in  west  central  Illinois.  Where 
had  the  years  gone?  When  did  the  Thirties  and  early  Forties 
become  the  "good  old  days?"  My  thoughts  were  interrupted 
with  the  opening  of  the  electronic  doors.  No  more  time  for 
day-dreaming. 

That  evening,  as  I  drove  the  short  distance  to  our  home 
in  Mt.  Sterling,  I  resumed  my  reverie.  I  could  picture  in  my 
mind  that  small  store  on  Capitol  Avenue  where  the  Senior 
Citizens  now  meet.  And  small  it  was!  About  the  width  of  the 
average-sized  living  room  of  today  and  about  three  times  as 
long.  Most  merchandise  was  on  shelves  that  Uned  both  walls 
with  a  couple  of  displays  in  the  center.  A  service  counter  was 
at  the  left  as  you  entered,  and  next  to  it  was  a  candy  counter 
with  penny  candy  and  nickel  candy  bars.  America  was  just 
emerging  from  the  "ice-age,"  and  a  small  refrigerated  meat 
case  had  just  recently  replaced  the  ice  box  across  the  back. 
The  store  was  heated  (somewhat)  with  a  potbellied  stove  in 
winter  and  cooled  (somewhat)  with  a  ceiling  fan  in  the 
summer.  The  inventory,  which  consisted  mostly  of  staples 
and  sugar,  beans,  prunes,  rice,  and  cookies,  came  from  the 
warehouse  in  bulk,  and  had  to  be  sacked  up  at  the  store. 
Brown  County  is  a  farming  area,  and  most  people  had 
gardens,  so  produce  was  Umited  to  basics  such  as  cabbage, 


41 


celery,  lettuce,  and  bananas,  which  were  carried  to  the  back 
room  each  evening  and  put  on  ice.  Most  meats  were  brought 
at  the  meat  market  down  the  street,  but  we  carried  a  small 
variety:  bacon,  pork  chops,  and  baloney  (sUced  upon  request). 
If  you  wanted  cheese,  you  had  your  choice  of  Longhorn  or 
Longhorn!  I  soon  learned  that  hog  jowls  (or  "jiles,"  as  it  was 
sometimes  pronounced)  were  just  that,  and  "egg  mash"  was 
chicken  feed. 

Dry  cereals  were  hmited  to  two  or  three  old  stand-bys, 
such  as  Post  Toasties  and  Shreaded  Wheat.  Soap  products 
consisted  mostly  of  bar  soap  and  soap  chips.  Toilet  tissue  and 
waxed  papers  were  about  the  only  paper  products  sold.  There 
was  no  pet  food  on  the  market  at  that  time— Fido  ate  scraps! 
Frozen  foods  were  unheard  of  and  there  were  practically  no 
convenience  foods. 

Peanut  butter  and  lard  were  weighed  up  in  lard  trays. 
Oleo  was  pure  white  and  contained  a  smaU  package  of 
coloring  to  mix  in,  usually  with  hands— a  job  children  loved. 
All  milk  was  in  glass  bottles  and  the  cream  would  rise  to  the 
top.  You  could  pour  it  off  and  have  cream  and  low-fat  milk  or 
shake  it  up  and  have  whole  milk. 

Vinegar  and  kerosene  were  kept  in  the  back  room  and 
you  brought  your  own  jug.  My  husband  still  hkes  to  tell 
about  the  man  who  handed  him  a  new  jug  and  told  him  to  "fill 
it  up!"  The  next  day  his  wife  was  in,  very  upset.  She  had 
poured  kerosene  over  her  pickles  before  she  reahzed  there  had 
been  a  "lack  of  communication"  at  the  store  level.  Very  few 
non-food  items  were  sold  in  the  grocery— a  few  brooms,  wash 
tubs,  wash  boards,  and  tin  pails.  Plastic  had  not  yet  been 
invented. 

Saturday  was  the  big  day.  The  farmers  all  came  to  town 
to  do  their  "trading,"  bringing  their  cream  and  eggs  to  sell. 
The  grocer  bought  eggs  and  it  was  not  uncommon  to  owe  the 
customer  money  after  he  had  bought  his  groceries.  The  eggs 
were  then  shipped  to  larger  cities.  A  larger  percentage  of 
customers  bought  on  credit.  At  that  time,  the  grocery  store 


was  about  the  only  business  that  gave  credit  now  it's  about 
the  only  one  that  doesn't. 

Self-service  was  in  reverse.  The  grocer  gathered  up  the 
items  and  brought  them  to  the  customer.  Before  fiUing  the 
sack  he  used  it  to  figure  the  total  cost.  Many  left  their  orders 
to  be  filled  and  picked  up  later.  On  Saturday  nights  the  store 
would  be  full  of  sacks  of  groceries  until  the  "picture  show" 
was  out.  Each  Wednesday  my  husband  would  write  on  the 
windows  with  poster  paint  the  specials  of  the  week,  such  as: 
bacon— 17<t  a  pound,  coffee— 3  pounds  for  37<t,  and  oleo— 3 
pounds  for  25 C 

Hours  were  long  and  pay  was  short.  Clerks  received  25C 
an  hour  with  no  fringe  benefits,  and  no  one  left  until  the  work 
was  done.  It  was  sometimes  midnight  on  Saturday  before  the 
wooden  floor  was  spread  with  oU  to  keep  the  dust  down  and 
the  door  was  locked  until  Monday  morning. 

In  1942  West  Food  Store  moved  to  larger  quarters  on 
Main  Street,  where  the  Farmer's  State  Bank  is  now  located, 
and  opened  up  the  first  self-service  store  in  this  area.  A 
service  counter  was  maintained  in  the  back  for  a  few  "die- 
hards"  who  resisted  the  change,  but  most  customers  enjoyed 
browsing  and  dropping  their  purchases  in  a  basket  held  over 
their  arm,  so  the  idea  soon  caught  on. 

It  was  a  far  cry  from  the  supermarket  of  today,  but  it 
was  the  "beginning  of  the  end"  for  the  small-town  store  and 
the  first  in  a  succession  of  events  that  led  to  the  present 
corporation,  with  stores  in  Mt.  SterUng  and  Beardstown  and 
a  full-time  partnership  with  Darell  Perry. 

Next  year,  my  husband  will  celebrate  50  years  in  the 
grocery  business,  having  started  at  age  15  in  the  old  West 
Food  Store  in  Beardstown,  and  he  has  seen  many  changes. 
Although  he  has  no  desire  to  go  back  to  building  a  fire  when 
it's  ten  degrees  below  or  using  a  board  and  overturned  box  as 
an  office,  progress  does  have  a  few  drawbacks.  Some  of  the 
personal  touch  between  personnel  and  customers  has  been 
lost,  and  all  the  calculators  and  modern  office  equipment  in 


the  world  can  not  keep  up  with  the  mountain  of  paperwork 
that  seems  to  grow  with  each  passing  year. 

However,  some  things  never  change!  The  hours  are  still 
long,  and  if  I  complain,  his  answer  is  the  same  as  it  was  40 
years  ago:  "Well,  honey,  you  married  a  grocer!"  He  is  still 
"going  strong"  but  when  the  "Grim  Reaper"  finally  catches 
up  with  him,  I  have  a  suggestion  for  his  epitaph:  "Old  grocers 
never  die,  they  just  pass  through  the  check-out  lane." 


Ill     Small  Villages 


45 


SMALL  VILLAGES 


"There  is  a  need  for  intimate  human 
relationships,  for  the  security  of  settled  home  and 
associations,  for  spiritual  unity,  and  for  orderly 
transmission  of  the  basic  cultural  inheritance.  These 
the  small  community  at  its  best  can  supply.  Whoever 
keeps  the  small  community  alive  and  at  its  best  during 
this  dark  period .  .  .  may  have  more  to  do  with  the  final 
emergence  of  a  great  society  than  those  who  dominate 
big  industry  and  big  government.  " 

Preface,  St.  Johnsbury,  Vermont 
Town  Plan,  1970 

For  the  past  one  hundred  years,  populations  moved 
rapidly  away  from  small  towns  to  support,  man,  and  make 
viable  industrial  cities  like  Detroit,  Akron,  Pueblo,  Chicago, 
and  Cleveland.  Urban  centers  burgeoned  as,  one  by  one,  people 
of  small  towns,  such  as  those  described  in  the  following 
section,  abandoned  their  stores,  churches,  and  homes  and  left 
the  village  to  decay  and  disappear. 

But,  according  to  the  1980  census,  this  population  shift 
has  reversed  and  for  the  first  time  since  1900,  cities  are  losing 
population  while  small  towns  and  rural  areas  are  gaining 
people. 

That  shift  is  too  late  for  Middle  Creek  and  Mabel.  And, 
perhaps,  also  for  Camden,  Table  Grove,  Burnside,  and  other 
small  villages  described  in  this  section.  But  the  way  of  life  like 
that  once  experienced  in  Middle  Creek  and  Mabel  is  the  beacon 
that  is  currently  drawing  people  back  to  Hve  in  small  towns. 

The  town  plan  of  St.  Johnsbury,  Vermont,  declares  that 
in  the  present  era  there  is  a  need  for  intimate  human 
relationships.  Ruth  Kearby  writes  about  this  when  she 
describes  the  little  town  of  Camden  as  it  exists  today:  "People 
come  and  go,  but  if  you'd  ever  chance  to  stop  by,  you  would 


find  them  friendly  and  eager  to  sit  and  visit  with  anyone  that 
passed  their  way."  Marguerite  Foster  writes  of  Table  Grove, 
"We  now  have  a  new  park  at  the  west  edge  of  town.  Ball 
games,  family  dinners,  reunions,  etc.  Really  nice  ...  1  don't 
have  any  relatives  outside  of  Chicago.  So  have  been  blessed 
with  good  friends  and  neighbors."  Ruth  and  Marguerite 
articulate  the  close  human  contact  apparent  in  small 
communities,  and  it  is  in  search  of  such  warm  interpersonal 
relationships  that  families  leave  the  impersonal  environs  of 
large  cities  to  return  to  places  like  Rushville,  Farmington,  and 
Table  Grove. 

These  same  city  migrants  also  look  for  "spiritual  unity, 
and  for  orderly  transmission  of  the  basic  cultural  inheritance." 
Beulah  Jean  McMillan  speaks  of  this  when  she  writes  of  her 
childhood  in  Camp  Point:  "Our  parents  were  strict,  but  we 
were  a  very  close  family.  At  Christmas  we  did  not  have  a 
Christmas  tree.  At  breakfast  father  hid  a  coin  under  our  plates 
which  was  usually  added  to  my  bank.  All  meals  were  eaten 
together.  After  breakfast  we  had  family  worship  consisting  of 
Scripture,  a  portion  read  by  each,  a  hymn  sung  a  capella,  and 
prayer  on  our  knees.  If  company  came,  they  were  invited  to 
join  us  before  their  errand  was  taken  care  of."  Over  and  over  in 
the  following  stories  one  hears  of  a  strong  belief  in  God  and  in 
church  attendance,  of  frugaUty,  of  concern  for  one's  neighbors, 
of  loyalty  to  one's  country,  and  of  respect  for  schools  and 
education.  All  of  these  things  provided  for  an  orderly 
transmission  of  basic  cultural  values  because  in  these  small 
villages  there  was  unanimous,  unspoken  acceptance  of  such 
values  and  support  for  the  social  rituals  and  institutions  that 
promulgated  them. 

Small  villages  of  yesterday  provided  a  nucleus  for  the 
farming  communities  around  them  and,  together,  the  village 
institutions  and  businesses  and  the  nearby  farms  formed  a 
self-sufficient  unit.  Even  tiny  Mabel  provided  almost  every 
service  needed  by  the  citizenry.  Mabel  had  a  general  store 
where  cream,  eggs,  furs,  and  poultry  could  be  sold  by  people 


who,  in  turn,  could  buy  dress  goods,  groceries,  fuel, 
stationary,  gas,  and  sundries.  The  store  housed  a  justice  of 
the  peace  and  a  post  office.  It  provided  a  social  gathering 
place  for  the  community.  Mabel  also  had  an  opera  house,  a 
cider  mill,  a  sorghum  mill,  a  church,  cemetery,  park, 
blacksmith  shop,  and  a  school.  The  story  of  Mabel  ends,  "AO 
of  those  old  places  have  gone  by  the  wayside  but  lots  of 
memories  linger." 

In  1977  Wendell  Berry  wrote  in  The  Unsettling  of 
America,  that,  ".  .  .  as  a  society  we  have  abandoned  any 
interest  in  the  survival  of  anything  small."  Four  years  earUer 
a  British  economist,  E.  F.  Schumacher,  had  written  a  book. 
Small  Is  Beautiful.  He  saw  even  then  that  the  fundamental 
task  for  a  world  society  that  emphasizes  ever  larger 
organization  is  to  "achieve  smallness"  because  ".  .  .  the  only 
effective  communication  is  from  man  to  man,  face  to  face." 
And  Alvin  Toffler,  in  1980  wrote  in  his  book,  The  Third 
Wave,  that  deep  societal  value  changes  are  presently 
influencing  a  basic  shift  in  attitudes  and  this  shift  is  resulting 
in  a  new  desire  on  the  part  of  the  people  for  small  town  and 
rural   hfe   with   an   emphasis   on   family    and   community 


interdependence.  In  effect  all  these  writers  foresee  a 
reawakening  of  small  towns  and  the  life  style  they  make 
possible. 

It  is  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  that  the  reader  should 
study  this  section  of  Tales  II  carefully  in  order  to  understand 
what  made  the  Mabels  and  the  Middle  Creeks  vital.  What 
were  the  institutions,  now  gone,  that  drew  people  together? 
Should  some  of  those  institutions  be  reestabUshed?  For 
recreating  the  intrinsic  worth  of  the  small  town  of  fifty  years 
ago  may  require  more  than  renovating  one  of  the  still  existing 
houses,  it  may  mean  reactivating  the  opera  house,  the 
churches,  or  the  horse  shoe  game  every  evening  in  the  park! 

Mrs.  Clarence  Beck  echoes  this  in  her  closing  paragraph 
about  Saline.  She  writes,  ".  .  .  in  spite  of  hard  work  and 
deprivation  (by  today's  standards)  people  Uved  full,  rich  Uves, 
with  high  moral  standards,  a  sense  of  duty  and  love  of  their 
fellow  man  which  seems  to  have  been  lost.  Perhaps  as  more 
people  are  searching  for  their  "roots"  they  will  also  unearth 
these  lost  traits  of  their  forefathers  and  the  world  and 
everyone  in  it  will  revert  to  higher  standards  of  'the  good  old 
days."' 

JerrUee  Cain,  Editor 


47 


MIDDLE  CREEK:  ONLY  MEMORIES  REMAIN 

Lena  Aleshire  Boos 

I  was  born  and  reared  in  the  small,  but  interesting 
community  of  Middle  Creek,  Illinois.  The  early  settlement  of 
Middle  Creek  was  located  in  the  southeast  quarter  of  Section 
36  at  the  extreme  edge  of  Harmony,  Carthage,  and  St.  Mary's 
townships.  The  business  houses  and  homes  were  on  both  sides 
of  the  road,  which  ran  east  and  west. 

Middle  Creek,  as  I  remember,  had  a  Methodist  church 
know  as  Ebn  Tree.  Directly  east  were  homes  of  the  villagers, 
and  then  the  home  and  shop  of  the  village  blacksmith.  Uncle 
Bill  Earl  and  family,  who  made  caskets  for  the  deceased.  Uncle 
Billy  Earl,  besides  being  the  blacksmith,  was  engaged  in 
different  enterprises  of  the  day,  especially  harvesting  ice  from 
ponds  and  packing  it  in  sawdust  for  summer  sale  to  the 
community. 

Next  door  was  the  general  store  of  Ira  Ross,  not  in  use  in 
my  time  as  no  one  took  it  over  after  his  death.  On  the  south 
side  of  the  road,  or  street,  various  residences  were  located. 
Next  was  the  two-storied  general  store.  The  upper  story  was 
the  Woodman  Lodge,  also  used  as  a  recreational  hall.  The  next 
building  west  was  the  telephone  office,  followed  by  a  doctor's 
office,  then  another  small  buUding  that  was  the  second  grocery 
store,  run  by  WiUiam  Mosley.  The  general  store's  co-owner, 
Mr.  William  Smith  and  family  and  his  brother  Claude, 
generally  known  as  Ty  Smith,  made  up  the  other  half  of  the 
once  thriving  business.  Ty  and  his  team  of  white  mules  were  a 
welcome  sight  for  the  children  along  his  route  where  he  traded 
his  calicoes,  coffee,  tea,  sugar,  flour,  and  cornmeal  for  the 
housewives'  butter,  eggs,  and  an  occasional  old  hen  or  rooster. 

As  a  small  girl,  I  attended  Elm  Tree  Sunday  School.  My 
teacher  was  Miss  Minnie  Reed,  who  was  later  Mrs.  Lee  Boyd 
and  was  always  my  good  friend.  Revival  meetings  were  held  at 
the  church,  where  students  from  Carthage  College  preached  all 
week. 


The  tent  shows  in  the  summer  were  a  great  lot  of  fun  and 
entertainment.  Jack  Kinnebrew  from  Plymouth  was  the  star 
performer  and  owner  of  the  main  show  that  came  each  year 
and  also  sold  patent  medicines  that  cured  everything  from 
snake  bites  to  broken  hearts.  They  were  called  the  "Phila-Ma- 
Tootsie"  shows. 

Next  in  line  was  the  children's  day  program  given  at  Elm 
Tree  Church.  Needless  to  say,  practice  for  this  event  was 
enjoyed,  along  with  the  opportunity  to  play  with  our 
neighbors. 

The  men  gathered  around  the  pot-beUied  stove,  where  a 
music  fest  was  always  in  fuU  swing.  Charhe  Keegan  was  the 
master  of  the  cigar-box  fiddle  he  had  made  himself.  Today  his 
oldest  son  owns  the  ancient,  but  novel  instrument.  Then  came 
Minor  and  Merrill  Porter,  with  their  banjo  and  mandolin,  and 
Mrs.  Merrill  Porter  on  the  organ.  Many  other  neighbors  joined 
in  to  display  their  musical  ability.  There  was  always  a  grateful 
audience,  and  many  joined  the  fun  singing  along  with  a  square 
dance  on  Saturday  night.  People  always  had  time  to  fraternize 
with  their  friends.  Now,  who  would  dare  say  things  were  dull  in 
the  good  old  days?  There  were  the  Woodsmen's  monthly 
meetings.  Two  wall  lamps  with  real  mercury  reflectors, 
purchased  from  the  general  store  for  perhaps  fifty  or  seventy- 
five  cents,  provided  briUiant  Ughts.  Now  they  are  selling  at 
$125.00  or  more,  if  there  are  authentic  mercury  reflectors 
obtainable  today. 

Unlike  most  small  inland  villages,  Middle  Creek  had  no 
village  school  house  where  the  three  R's  were  taught.  Valley 
Dale  School,  one  mile  west  of  the  village,  was  the  local 
educational  facihty,  as  it  was  near  the  first  Primitive  Baptist 
Church  and  cemetery,  named  by  the  pioneers  "The  Old  Brick 
Church  and  Cemetery"  in  1832.  It  was  not  used  after  1892. 
The  church  finally  feU  into  ruins,  and  nothing  is  left  except 
the  well-kept  cemetery  to  preserve  the  history  of  those  early 
settlers. 


48 


As  in  all  the  "Once  Upon  a  Time"  stories,  all  that  is  left 
of  Middle  Creek  are  abandoned  buildings,  as  the  big  store 
burned  in  1932.  The  rest  are  falling  into  ruins,  and  the  town  is 
now  called  "Frakesville,"  as  William  Frakes  owns  all  the 
acreage  except  the  residence  of  Julius  Russell,  built  where 
Elm  Tree  Church  once  stood.  William  and  Grace  Frakes  live 
in  the  old  Earl  home,  and  a  son  lives  where  William  Smith 
lived.  All  else  is  now  a  ghost  town.  Only  memories  are  left  of  a 
once  thriving  community. 


MABEL:  ONLY  ON  THE  OLD  MAPS 

Alline  Lawson  Armstrong 

I  would  like  to  reminisce  about  the  small  hamlet  of 
Mabel*,  Illinois,  which  was  once  on  the  map  with  a  post  office 
exchange.  I  have  a  card  in  my  possession  that  was  addressed 
to  my  brother  while  he  was  visiting  my  grandparents  there 
around  1914.  It  was  addressed  to  "Mabel,  111."  and 
postmarked. 

Mabel  was  located  about  three  miles  east  of  Camden. 
There  was  a  general  store  called  "Mabel's  Store."  It  was  so 
named  by  the  owner  of  the  store,  Levi  Marlow,  who  was  the 
justice  of  the  peace,  and  the  grandfather  of  Mabel  Cady,  who 
with  her  husband  Milton  operated  the  store,  after  it  had 
closed  by  the  Kelly  Davis  family  with  an  auction.  My  mother 
came  home  from  the  auction  with  a  small  package.  We  asked 
what  it  was.  She  replied  that  it  was  what  they  used  when  she 
was  a  girl  to  fasten  their  skirts.  She  wanted  it  for  a  keepsake. 
Little  did  we  think  that  hook-and-eyes  or  snaps  would  ever 
give  way  to  the  zipper. 

A  gas  pump  stood  in  front  of  the  store.  One  could  fill  up 
with  gas,  even  self-service  if  desired,  and  also  purchase  a 
supply  of  groceries  and  leave  produce  all  at  the  same  time. 


Sometimes  spelled  Mable. 


The  produce  might  be  eggs,  cream,  or  Live  poultry.  An  egg 
candler  determined  the  good  eggs  from  the  bad.  A  scale  was 
used  to  weigh  the  cream  and  poultry.  The  cream  was  tested 
for  butterfat. 

During  cold  weather  furs  were  accepted  from  trappers 
in  the  community.  They  were  kept  locked  in  a  store  house 
back  of  the  store. 

A  large  pot-bellied  stove  was  used  to  heat  the  building 
in  the  winter.  And  on  the  long  winter  nights,  some  of  the 
neighborhood  fellows  would  gather  around  to  discuss  the 
issues  of  the  days. 

An  opera  house  once  stood  across  from  the  store  on  the 
south. 

West  of  the  store  a  short  distance  was  Union  Chapel 
Church,  where  Sunday  School,  preaching,  and  lots  of  revival 
meetings  were  held.  Back  of  the  church  and  a  little  to  the 
west  was  the  Marlow  Cemetery.  Across  from  the  cemetery 
was  the  home  of  the  Justice  of  the  Peace,  Levi  Marlow. 
Joining  his  lawn  on  the  west  was  a  shady  grove,  called 
Marlow 's  Grove,  where  every  year  an  annual  picnic  was  held 
in  August  for  all  surrounding  communities.  It  was  an  all  day 
affair  with  lots  of  good  food  and  an  afternoon  program.  Many 
people  attended. 

Across  the  road  north  from  the  grove  was  a  sorghum  mill 
operated  by  Kelly  Davis  and  his  brother  Edgar  and  families. 
This  was  a  big  seasonal  business  as  people  came  from  miles 
around  to  get  their  cane  made  into  sorghum.  One  needed  a 
barrell  or  two  of  molasses  for  a  winter's  supply. 

The  mill  was  turned  by  horse  power,  the  horse  making  a 
track  by  going  around  and  around  the  mill  many  times  a  day 
to  grind  the  came  into  shreds  and  extract  the  sap.  The  sap  was 
then  boiled  down  to  a  golden  brown  to  make  sorghum 
molasses.  Good  sorghum  was  determined  by  the  kind  of  cane 
used  and  the  temperature  and  time  of  cooking. 

Next  to  the  mill  a  short  way  west  was  a  cider  mill,  owned 
and  operated  by  my  father,  Walter  Lawson,  who  also  operated 


a  blacksmith  shop  next  to  the  cider  mill,  during  the  time  he 
could  spare  from  farming. 

The  shop  was  built  by  my  grandfather,  Joe  Lawson.  I 
spent  some  interesting  times  watching  both  of  them  as  they 
fired  the  iron  in  the  hot  flame  of  the  forge,  kept  hot  by  the  wind 
created  by  the  large  billows  above.  After  heating  the  iron  to  a 
red  hot  piece,  it  was  dipped  for  a  short  minute  in  a  wooden  tub 
of  water,  then  it  was  shaped  into  shoes  on  the  anvil  by 
hammering  it  into  shape  to  fit  the  hoof  of  the  individual  horse. 
Sometimes  I  was  allowed  to  hold  the  halters  of  horses  as  the 
shoe  was  being  nailed  to  the  hoof.  I  felt  as  if  I  was  a  big  part  of 
the  operation.  Plow  shares  were  also  sharpened,  and  the  shop 
served  as  a  fix-it  place  for  many  things. 

Across  the  road  from  the  shop  stood  the  Davis  School, 
District  No.  1,  where  I  acquired  my  elementary  education  in 
the  seventh  and  eighth  grades.  I  also  learned  how  to  get  along 
with  my  peers,  and  to  respect  and  work  and  play  with  the 
younger  children,  and  enjoy  them. 

My  home  was  next  to  the  shop  and  across  from  the 
school.  The  house  and  buildings  were  built  by  my  grandfather, 
and  are  still  standing.  This  now  is  the  home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Merle  Lantz. 

North  of  my  home  one-half  mile  was  "The  Wild  Cat 
Slough,"  which  was  quite  a  large  body  of  water  surrounded  on 
the  south  by  large  rocks  rising  to  a  height  of  thirty  or  forty 
feet,  serving  as  a  good  protection  from  cold  in  the  winter  when 
many  people  congregated  to  ice  skate.  A  large  fire  was  made 
near  the  rocks,  making  it  a  cozy  place  for  putting  on  your 
skates  or  to  warm  your  shins  by  after  skating  for  a  while.  In 
the  summer  the  slough  was  a  good  fishing  spot.  A  coal  mine, 
known  as  the  Reeder's  Coal  Mine,  was  located  near  the  slough. 

All  of  these  old  places  have  gone  by  the  wayside,  but  lots 
of  memories  Unger. 


CAMDEN  AND  THE  LITTLE  GEM  THEATRE 

Ruth  A.  Kearby 

I  was  born  on  my  Grandfather  Agans'  farm  in  Camden 
Township,  and  lived  there  until  I  was  about  five  years  old. 
Then  my  father,  mother,  two  brothers,  one  sister,  and  I 
moved  to  another  one  of  my  grandad's  farms  in  Huntsville 
Township,  where  I  grew  up  and  lived  until  I  was  married. 
That  was  when  times  were  hard  and  there  was  not  much 
money  to  go  places  or  do  anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 

But  as  we  grew  up,  about  every  Saturday  night  Dad  and 
Mom  would  take  us  kids  to  the  little  town  of  Camden,  since  it 
was  only  about  five  miles  away. 

It  was  an  interesting  little  place,  as  everybody,  it 
seemed,  always  went  to  Camden  on  Saturday  night  to  do 
their  shopping  and  go  to  the  picture  show.  I  remember  some 
of  the  very  interesting  places  in  Camden  where  we  always 
went. 

First  it  was  at  Davis's  Cream  Station,  where  we'd  take 
our  can  of  cream  to  be  tested  and  receive  our  money  so  we 
could  buy  our  groceries  and  go  to  the  show. 

There  were  three  grocery  stores  in  Camden:  the  Daly, 
the  Dorsett,  and  the  Brooks.  These  stores  carried  all  kinds  of 
merchandise,  from  soup  to  nails,  or  dry  goods  to  canned 
goods,  or  most  anything  your  heart  desired.  They  were  places 
where  friends,  neighbors,  and  other  people  gathered  to  visit, 
hear  the  news  and  also  gossip  a  little. 

One  of  the  main  highlights  of  the  Saturday  night  trip 
was  the  Little  Gem  Theatre  that  was  run  by  Bill  "Dad"  Daly. 
He  had  a  building  across  the  street  from  the  Camden  State 
Bank  and  grocery  stores.  It  was  built  of  concrete  blocks.  I 
suppose  it  would  seat  about  fifty  or  sixty  people.  It  had  a 
piano,  which  was  played  by  a  local  girl  during  the  picture 
show.  It  also  had  a  big  pot-beUied  stove  that  was  heated  by 
coal.  It  was  located  just  inside  the  room.  When  the  picture 
was  being  shown,  people  who  got  there  first  had  a  seat  to  sit 


50 


in,  but  after  all  the  seats  were  filled,  the  others  stood  around 
the  stove  to  see  the  picture.  On  cold  winter  nights  when  the 
fire  was  going  strong,  you  would  burn  on  one  side  while  the 
other  side  was  cold.  But  come  what  may,  people  came  to  see 
the  picture,  and  it  often  was  a  continued  serial.  One  could  not 
bear  to  miss  one  of  the  pictures.  At  that  time  there  were  no 
sound  effects— no  sound  at  all.  So  you  had  to  read  what  was 
flashed  upon  the  screen.  But  if  you  couldn't  read,  there  were 
always  a  few  people  who  read  everything  out  loud,  and  who 
could  be  heard  all  over  the  room.  I  guess  that  was  fine  for 
those  too  young  to  read  or  those  unable  to  read,  but  it  was  a 
little  annoying  to  others  who  could. 

The  movie  camera  wasn't  run  by  electricity  but  by  a 
motor  that  was  generated  by  a  gasoline  engine.  We  could  hear 
the  motor  pumping  away,  as  we  sat  there  engulfed  by  the 
scenes  being  flashed  upon  the  screen.  But  when  the  picture 
was  about  finished,  something  always  happened  that  left  you 
hanging  in  suspense,  until  the  next  week  would  roll  around 
and  you'd  come  back  to  see  what  happened. 

There  were  other  places  of  interest,  too.  Two  blacksmith 
shops  were  located  in  Camden.  One  was  operated  by  Edd 
Estes,  the  other  by  Joe  Black.  They  made  everything  from 
horse  shoes  to  plow  shares,  wagons,  and  buggies.  Those  folks 
hved  and  raised  their  famihes,  and  have  long  been  gone  from 
their  places,  but  they  certainly  left  a  memory  of  how  a  man 
could  hve  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 

It  was  so  interesting  to  go  to  their  shops  and  watch  them 
fire  the  furnace  and  pump  the  bellows  to  brighten  up  the  coals. 
They  would  heat  a  piece  of  iron  untU  red  hot,  then  shape  it  into 
different  objects.  It  made  you  think  of  the  poem  "The  Village 
Blacksmith"  as  they  labored  and  toiled  from  morning  until 
night.  But  time  passes  on,  and  no  more  do  we  hear  the  ringing 
of  the  anvil  or  see  the  flaming  forge,  for  they  are  gone  forever. 

At  one  time  Camden  was  a  thriving  httle  town.  It  could 
boast  of  having  three  doctors:  Dr.  Horner,  Mary  Ward  Mead, 
and  Dr.  Frank  C.  Hayes.  They  lived  and  practiced  during  the 


horse  and  buggy  days.  It  was  never  too  hot  or  too  cold  or  the 
roads  too  bad  for  them  to  come  if  they  were  needed.  Those 
times  have  gone,  too. 

Camden  is  still  on  the  map,  with  a  population  of  about 
100.  It  has  a  grade  school,  two  churches,  one  grocery  store,  a 
post  office,  a  town  hall,  and  a  new  Masonic  Hall. 

People  come  and  go,  but  if  you  ever  chance  to  stop  by, 
you  would  find  the  local  people  friendly  and  eager  to  sit  and 
visit  with  anyone  that  passed  their  way. 


I  SURE  MISS  THE  WHISTLES 

Marguerite  Foster 

My  home  of  60  years,  the  original  town  of  Laurel  HiU, 
was  laid  out  in  1838  by  James  Spicer.  However,  the  village 
did  not  come  under  any  formal  organization  until  June  6, 
1881.  At  that  time  the  name  "Table  Grove"  was  adopted.  The 
reason  for  the  change  was  that  another  "Laurel  Hill"  already 
existed  in  Illinois.  The  village  remained  dry  until  1933.  The 
first  saloon  Ucense  was  then  issued. 

Our  little  town  sits  on  a  mound.  At  one  time,  we  had  a 
beautiful  town  park  in  the  middle  of  the  square.  A  hitching 
rack  was  around  it.  The  UniversaHst  Church  had  a  steeple 
with  a  light  that  could  be  seen  in  any  direction  coming  into 
town.  There  is  no  Ught  any  more,  but  one  can  see  the  steeple 
in  the  daytime.  At  one  time,  we  had  four  churches:  CathoUc, 
Presbyterian,  Christian,  and  Universahst.  In  1931,  all 
combined,  and  in  1979  the  building  was  named  to  the 
National  Historic  Register.  As  you  go  through  town,  the 
church  is  on  the  highway.  In  1879  a  hotel  called  the  Kelly 
House  was  built  to  accommodate  travelers  and  salesmen  that 
came  by  train.  We  had  four  passenger  trains  a  day,  also  long 
freight  trains.  Now  everything  goes  by  trucks.  There  is  no 
depot.  I  sure  miss  the  whistles. 


There  were  so  many  beautiful  homes  in  the  days  of  my 
girlhood.  We  had  a  hotel,  drugstore  with  a  soda  fountain,  a 
jewelry  store,  and  four  dry  goods  stores.  We  had  our  own 
weekly  paper,  The  Table  Grove  Herald.  The  variety  store  had 
the  most  beautiful  hats  and  dishes.  A  few  would  still 
remember  Millie  Hill,  who  operated  the  store.  We  had  a 
harness  shop  and  shoe  repair  place,  two  doctors,  a  dentist,  a 
beauty  shop,  two  barber  shops,  two  banks,  a  veterinarian,  a 
post  office,  two  taverns,  two  undertakers  and  furniture  stores 
combined,  and  a  lumber  yard.  We  also  had  Reach's  harness 
shop  and  Notson's  watch  and  repair  shop.  Oldnow's  ice  and 
butcher  shop  put  up  its  own  ice  from  a  pond  near  the 
slaughter  house.  There  was  a  skating  rink  on  the  south  edge 
of  town.  All  enjoyed  it,  for  there  was  no  TV  at  that  time. 
There  was  a  dray  to  bring  freight  from  the  depot,  too. 

Our  light  plant  turned  off  the  hghts  at  a  certain  time  of 
night.  The  telephone  switch  board  was  in  a  home.  We  had 
several  oil  stations.  There  was  also  a  grain  elevator,  a  TV 
man,  and  two  restaurants.  We  even  had  a  horse-drawn 
hearse.  You  wouldn't  think  of  a  hearse  as  being  beautiful,  but 
it  was.  It  had  windows  on  each  side,  with  red  plush  tie-back 
curtains. 

Also,  we  had  an  ice  house.  When  they  went  out  of 
business,  the  lumber  yard  had  ice  shipped  in.  My  husband 
deUvered  ice  to  homes,  stores,  etc.  Many  people  made  ice 
cream  in  those  days.  We  aU  had  wooden  ice  boxes.  We  would 
be  up  town  to  a  picture  show  and  would  hear  the  train 
backing  a  box  car  onto  the  siding.  My  husband  would  have  to 
leave.  At  two  and  three  in  the  morning,  he'd  come  home 
frozen.  My  husband  ran  the  lumber  yard  for  nearly  forty- 
seven  years.  He  couldn't  compete  with  larger  yards,  so  the 
company  had  to  sell  out. 

Everyone  enjoyed  the  free  shows  and  plays.  The 
Gardiners  from  Bushnell  played  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  when  I 
was  young,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  that  play.  Prudence 
Berry  erected  Progress  Hall,  now  known  as  Odd  Fellow  Hall. 


She  was  an  invalid  in  a  wheel  chair.  Her  home  was  called 
Sunshine  Corner.  She  was  a  wonderful  woman.  We  were 
neighbors  for  several  years.  Many  a  girl  stayed  there  to  go  to 
school  from  the  country.  At  her  death  her  home  became  a 
parsonage,  which  it  still  is. 

Then  in  1940  Camp  Ellis  came  to  our  back  door.  I  read  an 
article  a  few  weeks  ago,  which  said  Camp  Ellis  was  a  boom  for 
Ipava.  It  sure  wasn't  for  Table  Grove.  The  wealthy  boys  went 
to  larger  towns  over  the  weekends,  and  poor  boys  were  left  for 
the  closest  Little  towns.  We  had  a  U.S.O.  We  tried  to  do  what 
we  could  for  the  soldiers.  People  were  good  to  open  their  homes 
to  them.  Many  married  ones  rented  rooms.  And  we  had  single 
ones  for  Sunday  dinners.  North  of  town  some  beautiful  homes 
were  destroyed  when  the  camp  came.  Some  people  wanted 
their  open  stairways  and  old  cupboards  and  had  to  buy  them 
back.  The  houses  were  of  walnut  inside.  Their  parents  had  cut 
and  seasoned  their  own  timber.  It  seemed  a  shame  to  destroy 
them  for  only  five  years  of  camp  operations. 

Also,  there  was  so  much  camp  garbage.  The  farmers 
would  haul  it  to  the  hogs.  Some  folks  were  terrorized  because 
the  camp  was  also  a  German  prison  of  war  camp.  However 
none  escaped.  We  had  several  nice  soldiers  for  Sunday  dinners. 
At  that  time,  my  husband  did  lots  of  pheasant  hunting  up 
around  Pontiac,  so  we  fed  them  pheasant  dinners.  All  that  is 
past  now,  and  I  look  to  the  future. 

Foster's  Garage  upstairs  was  used  for  many  activities 
like  church  bazaars,  card  parties,  etc.  Billy  Foster  taught 
dancing.  The  Masons  and  Eastern  Star  were  going  good.  Also 
the  Rebeccas  and  Odd  Fellows. 

In  1936  the  hard  road  was  constructed  through  the  park. 
So  that  took  a  lot  of  people  out  of  town  to  trade.  We  had  a  big 
celebration,  with  a  parade  of  floats,  etc.,  when  the  hard  road 
was  finished.  Also,  we  celebrated  when  Gary  Sigler  came  home 
from  being  a  prisoner  of  war  for  three  years  or  more. 

During  Camp  Ellis  the  world's  largest  clock  factory  was 
on  the  comer  of  the  square.  (Anyway,  that  is  what  it  said  on 


52 


the  building.)  Wherley's  Dairy  delivered  milk  and  cream.  I 
would  get  a  crock  of  cream  and  could  cut  it  with  a  knife  and 
use  a  spoon  to  make  butter.  It  was  wonderful.  Then  came 
uncolored  oleo.  You  had  to  squeeze  out  the  yeDow  hquid  into 
the  oleo  and  mix  it. 

We  used  to  have  lots  of  tramps.  I  think  they  had  the 
places  marked  for  the  next  one,  where  they  got  food. 

During  the  war  the  elevator  had  a  hght  atop  it.  Would 
you  beheve,  when  it  was  finished,  a  group  of  young  folks  went 
to  the  top  of  it?  It  had  an  elevator  so  far  and  then  a  ladder  the 
rest  of  the  way.  I  was  one  of  the  group.  However,  we  were 
supervised. 

I  remember  early  life  in  town.  Ladies  dressed  up  when 
going  to  church.  They  wore  beautiful  white  dresses,  gloves  and 
shoes.  Lots  of  white  was  worn  at  that  time.  We'd  go  calUng 
with  calling  cards,  and  if  no  one  was  home,  we'd  stick  a  card 
under  the  door  so  they  would  know  they  were  called  on. 

We  now  have  a  new  park  at  the  west  edge  of  town,  for 
ball  games,  farmly  dinners,  reunions,  etc.  It's  really  nice.  I 
have  seen  a  lot  of  changes.  I  don't  have  any  relatives  outside  of 
Chicago,  but  I  have  been  blessed  with  good  friends  and 
neighbors. 

This  is  my  life  of  sixty  years  in  Table  Grove,  Illinois. 


"US"  WAS  WRITTEN  ON  THE  CARS 

Vera  V.  Chenowith 

It  started  in  the  spring  of  1941.  We  would  see  strange 
cars  going  up  and  down  the  road.  Some  of  our  neighbors  said 
they  saw  "US"  written  on  the  cars.  This  went  on  all  summer, 
and  we  all  passed  anything  we  heard  back  and  forth.  Then  in 
the  fall,  we  saw  men  surveying  for  the  roads  and  the  sewers 
that  ran  under  the  roads.  But  you  couldn't  get  anything  out  of 
those  guys.  They  wouldn't  tell  you  anything.  Then  one  day, 
Eizie  went  to  bale  hay  at  the  neighbors,  and  he  told  everyone 


that  he'd  heard  we  were  going  to  get  a  camp,  because  he'd  seen 
them  unloading  cats.  Well,  everybody  thought  he  meant 
"Cat"  tractors,  bulldozers,  but  after  they  questioned  him,  he 
jokingly  said  it  was  "tomcats." 

Next  thing,  those  men  came  to  our  house  and  asked  Elzie 
to  walk  the  farm  with  them.  They'd  ask  different  questions, 
and  every  once  in  a  while,  they'd  scribble  something  down,  but 
they  wouldn't  tell  anything  either. 

By  the  Spring  of  1942,  we  had  rented  a  Macomb  farm, 
afraid  they'd  build  the  camp  and  we  wouldn't  have  any  place 
to  go.  Then  we  saw  water  towers  being  built  between  Ipava 
and  Table  Grove.  We'd  get  up  to  milk  in  the  morning,  and  we'd 
see  the  lights  over  by  the  water  towers  where  they  were 
working.  Then  they  started  building  some  long  storage  sheds, 
and  by  September,  the  government  had  purchased  8,500  acres 
of  surrounding  farmland.  By  the  10th  of  September,  before  the 
corn  had  even  matured,  they  brought  in  bulldozers  and  plowed 
up  the  fields,  corn  and  all,  and  were  getting  it  ready  for 
building. 

We  got  a  notice  on  February  1,  1943,  that  we  had  to  be 
off  our  farm  by  March  1,  1943— a  month  from  then.  We  didn't 
know  where  we  were  going  to  be.  So  we  had  a  sale.  Our  sale 
was  on  Friday,  February  26th.  Things  sold  well.  People  came 
from  everywhere,  because  all  the  neighbors  had  to  sell  out,  too. 
We  had  a  rubber-tired  flat  rack,  built  for  us  by  Cecil  Wright  for 
$65  early  in  the  year,  and  it  sold  for  $200.  Woven  wire  fences 
went  for  $1  a  rod.  We  had  to  get  our  hay  and  straw  out  of  the 
barns,  because  they  were  going  to  tear  them  down.  On 
Saturday,  the  27th  of  February,  one  day  after  our  sale,  we  had 
real  bad  weather,  a  blizzard.  We  had  plarmed  to  move  that  day, 
but  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Our  boys  weren't  old  enough  to 
help  a  lot.  Our  oldest  son  was  only  twelve.  But  Elzie 's  brother 
and  Oliver  Smith  came  and  helped  us  move  that  day  to 
Macomb.  On  Sunday,  the  government  workers  were  in,  tearing 
down  our  barns  and  letting  the  boards  fall  on  our  horses  and 
tractor  that  we  didn't  have  moved  yet. 


53 


WMe  it  was  going  on,  lots  of  newspaper  men  came  in  to 
do  stories  on  the  new  camp.  People  in  Macomb  thought  it  was 
great.  It  was  going  to  improve  business  for  them.  Everyone 
around  us  told  us  to  fight  it,  but  we  went  to  Illiopohs,  and 
talked  to  them  and  decided  it  wouldn't  do  any  good;  just  one 
man  fighting  the  government. 

When  we  were  moving,  it  was  every  neighbor  for  himself. 
Normally  neighbors  would  help  each  other,  but  all  of  us  were 
moving.  Some  folks  closed  up  farming;  some  went  to  farm 
somewhere  else. 

On  July  4,  1943,  they  had  an  open  house  at  Camp  Ellis. 
They  said  there  were  8,000  soldiers  at  the  camp  ...  on  land 
that  used  to  belong  to  us  and  our  neighbors. 


BERNADOTTE:  THE  TOWN  THAT  WAS, 
AND  WAS  NOT,  BUT  NOW  IS 

Harvey  S.  Bubb,  Sr. 

Memory  takes  me  back  "three  score  and  ten"  to  a  time 
my  dad  took  me  on  a  ten-mile  trip  to  a  gristmill  on  Spoon 
River  to  get  some  grain  ground  into  meal.  It  took  nearly  all 
day,  with  two  horses  and  a  box-wagon.  There  were  both 
wheat  and  corn  in  sacks.  We  used  gunny  sacks  (burlap)  for 
corn  and  grain  bags  (duck  or  canvas)  for  wheat,  about  ten  of 
each.  Some  of  the  wheat  was  to  be  ground  into  flour. 

The  gristmill  was  at  Bernadotte,  a  small  town  north  of 
Ipava  on  Spoon  River.  It  was  built  about  1826  by  a  Solomon 
Sherwood,  and  later  rebuilt  in  1844  by  Joseph  Coleman 
because  of  some  damage.  There  was  a  log  dam  constructed 
across  the  river  to  deepen  the  waters.  It  was  arranged  so  that 
water  would  go  down  through  a  sluice-way  to  turn  the  big 
mill  wheel.  Most  mill  wheels  were  set  vertically,  but  this  one 
was  set  horizontally.  With  the  uprights,  water  would  turn  the 
wheel  as  it  spilled  over  the  top.  In  the  Bernadotte  mill,  water 


was  made  to  go  down  and  "around"  the  wheel  by  going  back 
into  the  river. 

A  large  shaft  extended  upward  through  about  three 
stories,  and  various  "take-off"  gears  were  connected  to  run 
the  different  machinery.  I  don't  remember  much  about  this 
mill.  Some  years  later  when  I  told  Dad  that  I  remembered,  he 
said,  "Well,  I  guess  you  do  after  all." 

Some  years  later,  as  a  teenager,  I  swam  in  the  waters 
below  the  dam.  I  remember  how  we  boys  liked  to  crawl  along 
the  logs  and  get  in  under  the  spilling  water.  We  had  lots  of 
fun  there.  And  there  was  also  a  covered  bridge  nearby.  I 
remember  how  we  boys  played  Hide-N-Seek  in  the  timbers  of 
that  bridge.  People  who  went  north  out  of  Bernadotte  came 
and  went  through  that  covered  bridge.  It  was  a  time  when 
covered  bridges  were  built  across  rivers  in  both  Illinois  and 
Indiana.  I  am  quite  interested  in  visiting  them.  There  are  still 
thirty-nine  in  one  county  in  Indiana. 

How  did  Bernadotte  get  its  name?  Thereby  hangs  a 
tale!  The  little  village  was  known  as  Fulton  before  it  was 
called  Bernadotte.  A  disgruntled  general  in  Napoleon's  army 
defected  to  the  U.S.A.  He  worked  his  way  westward  until  he 
arrived  near  what  is  now  Smithfield,  where  some  of  his 
relatives  hved.  His  name  was  General  Bernadotte. 

As  he  stood  on  the  north  brow  of  Spoon  River  valley,  he 
looked  down  over  the  area,  admiring  it,  and  said,  "This  is  my 
town."  What  he  really  meant  was,  here  was  a  setting  which 
appealed  to  his  nature,  and  he  aimed  to  make  his  home  here. 
It  was  only  a  matter  of  time  until  Fulton  became  known  as 
Bernadotte. 

I  can  recall  many  things  about  Bernadotte  from  about 
1915  until  Pearl  Harbor  in  1941.  But  the  scene  changed  a  lot 
after  we  declared  war  on  Japan.  The  U.S.  Government  decided 
to  build  a  mihtary  installation  in  the  area  between  Ipava, 
Table  Grove  and  Adair.  They  bought  up  17,800  acres  of  farm 
land,  which  included  the  area  of  Bernadotte.  When  the  U.S. 
engineers  went  to  work  on  this  project,  they   "brutally" 


54 


destroyed  Bernadotte.  Only  one  building  was  left— the  brick 
school  house,  which  was  used  for  an  administration  terminal. 
The  whole  town  of  Bernadotte  was  "cleaned  out."  The  dam 
was  replaced  with  a  concrete  structure,  still  there.  The  nuU 
became  the  site  of  a  pumping  station,  giving  water  for  Camp 
Ellis.  There  are  two  million-gallon  water  towers  still  standing 
in  the  camp  area,  reminders  of  that  era.  There  are  some  other 
remains  of  camp  days.  It  all  came  about  because  of  a  Satanic 
blow  by  the  Japanese  in  1941. 

Before  Pearl  Harbor  I  was  Principal  of  Bander  Grade 
School  and  deferred  in  the  draft.  But  when  school  was  out  in 
June,  1943,  I  was  reclassified,  and  it  looked  like  1  might  be 
called  right  away.  So  I  went  to  Camp  Ellis  and  offered  my 
services.  Right  away  I  had  something  to  do  with  the  whole 
installation. 

They  first  made  me  Fiscal  Officer  for  the  post  engineer. 
That  meant  my  job  was  collecting  information  as  to  how  much 
it  would  cost  to  run  Camp  Ellis  and  get  an  allotment  from 
Washington  for  each  quarter.  That  fund  had  to  be  "obhgated" 
for  each  purchase— approved  by  me. 

Lieutenant  Colonel  Robert  C.  Edgar  was  the  post 
engineer.  It  was  his  duty  to  construct,  maintain  and  repair  the 
camp  facilities.  He  must  have  liked  my  work  because  in  July 
he  made  me  Chief  Clerk  of  his  whole  outfit,  the  top  civilian  of 
his  540  employees,  under  his  management.  Having  had  so 
much  to  do  with  the  place,  what  1  say  here  can  be  regarded 
with  some  degree  of  rehabihty. 

Camp  Ellis  was  designed  to  train  three  branches  of  the 
military:  the  engineers,  the  quartermasters,  and  the  medics. 
All  draftees  had  to  go  through  about  120  days  of  training  here 
before  they  were  shipped  overseas.  Part  of  this  training 
included  going  through  the  Infiltration  Course  and  the 
Obstacle  Course.  They  were  life  preserving  courses. 

At  the  peak  of  the  Camp  EUis  efforts,  there  were  44,000 
trainees  encamped  there.  That  may  give  you  some  idea  of  the 


vastness  of  the  operation.  That  is  why  Colonel  Edgar  had  to 
have  over  500  employees  under  his  jurisdiction. 

There  was  one  "special"  project  of  training  that  I  must 
note  here.  Up  one  of  the  hollows  from  Spoon  River,  the  post 
engineer  built  a  small  village  called  "Little  Tokyo."  In  Japan, 
there  was  one  corner  of  Tokyo  that  the  military  wanted  to 
destroy.  In  order  to  train  the  boys  how  to  attack  the  place,  we 
built  a  rephca  of  that  corner  in  a  hoUow  on  the  back  side  of 
Camp  Ellis.  It  even  included  some  plate  glass  in  certain 
windows.  A  certain  "detail"  of  military  men  were  trained  how 
to  destroy  Little  Tokyo.  Thank  goodness,  the  project  never 
came  off.  The  A-Bomb  put  a  stop  to  that. 

I  remember  one  thing.  Colonel  Edgar  came  back  to  his 
office  one  day  all  muddy  and  wet.  It  had  been  a  rainy  day. 
The  first  thing  he  said  to  me  was,  "Those  men  now  know  how 
to  throw  a  'flotation  bridge'  across  the  river."  He  had  been 
down  in  the  Bernadotte  area  with  a  group  of  trainees  showing 
them  how  to  bridge  a  river. 

As  you  know,  we  won  the  war.  There  was  V-E  Day,  for 
Victory  in  Europe.  Later  there  was  V-J  Day,  for  Victory  in 
Japan.  With  Colonel  Edgar,  I  attended  a  meeting  on  the 
procedure  for  closing  down  Camp  EUis.  On  V-E  Day  plus  ten, 
we  would  do  certain  things.  On  V-E  day  plus  thirty,  we  would 
do  other  things,  and  so  on  until  the  installation  got 
deactivated.  My  job  of  helping  Colonel  Edgar  grew  down 
until  one  of  the  last  things  I  did  was  to  inventory  the  208 
mess  halls. 

WeU,  Camp  Ellis  came  and  went.  It's  all  a  memory  now 
in  my  mind.  The  farmers,  most  of  them,  bought  back  their 
land,  and  it  is  much  the  same  farming  area  as  before  the  war. 
Those  people  who  worked  at  Camp  Ellis  during  the  war  and 
had  been  residents  of  Bernadotte  prior  to  the  war,  had  great 
desire  to  relocate  back  in  their  old  home  town.  Accordingly, 
some  of  them  purchased  the  surplus  buildings  on  Camp  Ellis, 
moved  them  to  Bernadotte,  and  made  new  homes  for 
themselves.  Little  by  little,  more  and  more  homes  were  made 


and  the  place  became  a  village  again.  One  lady  built  a  more  or 
less  permanent  home  for  retirees,  and  Bernadotte  sprang  to 
life  anew.  Today,  it  is  a  lively  center  in  somewhat  of  a 
sportive  way.  You  can  camp  there,  fish,  swim,  have  picnics, 
etc.  You  may  even  wish  to  make  your  home  there  once  you 
familiarize  yourself  with  the  place. 

Those  of  us  old  enough  to  remember  the  original 
Bernadotte  will  always  miss  the  old  dam  and  the  gristmill. 
We'll  also  miss  the  covered  bridge.  Otherwise,  we'll  continue 
to  enjoy  Bernadotte— the  town  that  was,  was  not,  but  now  is. 


CAMP  POINT:  SIOOO  AP^rt)  A  MANSE 

Beulah  Jean  McMillan 

We  lived  in  Camp  Point,  Illinois,  from  February  12, 
1916,  to  December  20,  1917.  My  father.  Rev.  Albert  Gearge 
Parker,  was  a  minister  of  the  Presbyterian  Church.  Our 
family  consisted  of  parents  and  four  of  their  nine  children: 
Donald,  EUiott,  Neil  and  Beulah.  We  were  met  at  the  train  by 
several  members  with  a  sled,  and  driven  past  our  church  and 
the  Maplewood  School  to  a  temporary  home.  We  had  a  late 
dinner  at  banker  Francis'  home  across  the  street. 

It  was  a  thriving  church  until  several  influential 
families  moved  to  California.  Besides  the  banker,  the 
undertaker.  Will  Liggett,  and  a  number  of  farmers  were 
faithful  members.  The  salary  was  $1000,  a  manse,  and  a 
month's  vacation. 

There  were  two  other  churches,  a  Methodist  and  a 
Christian.  The  Masonic  Lodge  was  prominent,  and  frowned 
upon  by  father.  Stores  were  a  block  long  on  both  sides  of  the 
railroad  tracks.  There  was  a  small  Ubrary  on  the  second  floor 
of  one  store.  On  another  upstairs  floor  was  a  sizeable  room 
where  community  entertainments  took  place.  The  ladies  of 
the  church  had  an  annual  bazaar  and  chicken  pie  supper  in 
another. 


On  'Valentine's  Day  I  was  enrolled  in  the  fourth  grade  of 
Maplewood  School.  I  was  surprised  to  receive  some 
Valentines.  I  was  moved  up  half  a  grade.  That  was  disastrous 
only  for  Arithmetic,  as  I  was  too  shy  to  ask  for  help  on  long 
division.  The  three-story  brick  building  was  located  in  the 
center  of  a  full  block.  In  winter  low  spots  frozen  over  were 
good  for  recess  sliding.  In  warmer  weather  Prisoner's  Base 
was  a  popular  game  with  our  grade.  I  loved  the  teeter-totters 
and  swings.  There  was  no  athletic  program. 

We  had  a  Maypole  Dance  one  year:  "Heel,  toe,  one,  two, 
three,"  we  danced,  accompanied  by  Rubinstein's  "Melody  in 
F."  The  next  year  I  was  the  Good  Fairy  in  the  play 
"Pandora's  Box,"  which  we  rehearsed  in  Bailey  Park. 
Coming  back  my  special  friend  Robert  Garrett  heroically 
killed  a  blue  racer  snake.  One  day  when  we  were  correcting 
speUing  papers  for  each  other,  I  gave  him  100,  although  he 
made  several  mistakes.  In  high  school,  he  was  bUnded  in  one 
eye  by  a  baseball. 

Sometimes  I  went  home  with  Caroline  Pittman, 
daughter  of  the  doctor.  Her  mother  would  fix  bread  and 
butter  and  sugar  for  us.  She  later  taught  school  there. 

Neil  was  older  than  I.  One  day  his  teacher  left  the  room 
for  awhile,  and  a  girl  kissed  him.  He  was  so  embarrassed  he 
went  right  home,  and  did  not  go  back  until  the  next  day.  He 
avoided  her  like  poison  ivy  thereafter. 

Before  we  left  Camp  Point,  the  High  School  had  a 
Surprise  Farewell  Assembly  for  Donald  and  EUiott.  I  sang 
alto  in  a  "Silent  Night"  duet  with  a  classmate.  One  feature 
was  Riley's  "That  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine."  Already 
scheduled  for  demohtion,  the  school  burned  on  July  16,  1975. 

Camp  Point  had  a  big  Chautauqua  every  summer  in  a 
spacious  open  air  auditorium  roofed  for  protection  from  sun 
and  rain.  My  brothers  earned  money  helping  to  erect  tents 
which  many  famihes  used  all  week.  My  parents  visited 
parishioners  there.  The  boys  also  waited  at  the  counter  of  the 
screened-in  concession.  They  kept  the  grounds  cleaned  up. 


When  no  program  was  in  session  my  friends  had  exercise 
scrambling  over  the  inclined  rows  of  seats,  or  "skinning  the 
rabbit"  over  bars.  We  enjoyed  the  humorous  and  the  musical, 
but  skipped  serious  lectures.  There  was  a  story  hour  for 
children  on  the  grounds  in  the  afternoon.  Father  spoke  at  a 
Sunday  meeting.  Malcolm,  Kenneth,  Donald  and  Elliott  gave 
a  musical  program  when  the  regular  performers  did  not 
appear.  Walking  home  one  night,  mother  pointed  out  the 
MUky  Way.  We  did  not  have  street  lights  to  obscure  it. 

One  time  a  large  tent  was  put  up  in  the  vacant  lot  across 
the  street.  I  was  aUowed  to  go  to  see  a  presentation  of  "Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin." 

Our  parents  were  strict,  but  we  were  a  very  close  family. 
At  Christmas  we  did  not  have  a  Christmas  tree.  At  breakfast 
father  hid  a  coin  under  our  plates  which  was  usually  added  to 
my  bank.  All  meals  were  eaten  together.  After  breakfast  we 
had  family  worship,  consisting  of  Scripture,  a  portion  read  by 
each,  a  hymn  sung  a  capella,  and  prayer  on  our  knees.  If 
company  came,  they  were  invited  to  join  us  before  their 
errand  was  taken  care  of.  A  kiss  for  each  one  of  us  was  given 
by  father  and  mother. 

We  were  coaxed  to  eat  carrots  because  they  were  called 
"golden  dollars."  Mother  parceDed  out  chores  saying,  "I 
want  so-and-so  called."  Thus,  I  shelled  peas  and  prepared 
green  beans.  I  did  not  need  to  be  told  to  keep  my  shoes  white 
with  Bon  Ami.  Mother  trimmed  all  the  boys'  hair.  She  gave 
me  a  bath  in  a  wooden  tub  in  the  kitchen.  I  dreaded  to  go  to 
the  out-house  in  the  fenced-in  chicken  yard  because  the 
rooster  always  attacked  me. 

I  had  a  ride  in  a  car  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  large, 
open,  seven-passenger  car.  Buggy  riding  was  almost  as  rare. 
I  went  in  a  buggy  to  a  country  home  for  an  over-night  visit. 
They  served  tapioca  pudding  for  dessert,  which  I  did  not  like, 
as  our  family  called  it  "fish  eyes."  But  I  did  enjoy  the  kittens 
on  the  farm  and  being  a  special  guest. 


One  winter  night  a  mouse  scampered  in  the  living-room. 
After  being  chased  by  the  older  boys,  it  scooted  up  Donald's 
pant  leg  and  was  captured. 

Our  third  move  came  in  September,  to  a  house  near 
Bailey  Park.  We  were  in  time  to  enjoy  a  good  grape  year.  It 
has  been  told  to  me  that  it  took  fourteen  loads  to  move  us.  I 
was  quarantined  for  a  few  days  with  the  measles.  1  remember 
being  "cock-eyed"  from  looking  at  the  ceiling. 

Three  months  later,  we  moved  to  the  Camp  Creek 
Church  near  Macomb  by  freight,  and  the  boys  rode  in  the 
caboose  to  save  fares.  Our  Hfe  in  Camp  Point  was  all  over. 


CROOKED  CREEK  AND  COOPERSTOWN 

Ellen  Fry  Baldwin 

Brown  County  is  coursed  by  the  winding  and  sometimes 
turbulent  Lamoine  River,  more  commonly  known  as 
"Crooked  Creek,"  and  its  tributaries.  This  fact  offers  both 
good  and  bad  to  the  county's  residents  and  especially  to 
those  who  live  in  Copperstown  Township. 

This  tale  deals  with  three  special  places  along  the  named 
waters  and  the  favorable  things  received  from  them.  It 
concerns  Greenwell's  Mill,  Rocky  Branch,  and  Star  Bridge. 
In  the  late  1800's  and  early  1900's  all  three  of  them  played  an 
important  role  in  the  hves  of  the  people  living  near  them. 

The  first  one  I  shall  attempt  to  describe  is  Greenwell's 
Mill.  It  was  a  grist  miU  built  on  the  Brown  County  side  of 
Lamoine  River  and  near  a  bridge  crossing,  which  made  an 
ideal  location  for  the  mill,  so  it  might  serve  the  people  of 
Schuyler  County  as  well  as  those  of  Brown  County.  It  was 
also  only  about  two  miles  southeast  of  the  village  of  Ripley. 
This  village  had  several  potteries  at  that  time,  and  so  the 
location  of  a  grist  mill  nearby  was  quite  a  convenience. 

The  name  of  Greenwell's  Mill  was  derived  from  the 
name  of  the  family  who  owned  the  surrounding  land.  The 


Greenwell  family  was  also  instrumental  in  getting  the  mill 
built  in  the  year  1853-1854.  Of  course  the  power  for  the  mill 
was  simple  because  it  was  provided  by  the  natural  flow  of 
faUing  water.  Thus  the  expense  of  operating  the  miU  was 
nominal. 

Many  farmers  who  needed  grain  ground  either  as  feed 
for  livestock  or  for  the  table  use  would  haul  their  homegrown 
grain  to  the  mill  in  wagons  and  either  wait  for  it  to  be  ground 
or  make  a  second  trip  when  the  finished  product  was  ready. 

The  second  much  appreciated  place  goes  by  the  name  of 
Rocky  Branch.  This  much  smaller  stream  is  a  tributary  of 
Crooked  Creek  and  is  located  about  two  and  half  miles  (by 
road)  further  southeast  from  Greenwell's  Mill.  It  is  also  about 
one  and  a  half  miles  from  my  home.  This  stream  has  cut  its 
way  through  the  rocky  limestone  cliffs  and  has  washed  and 
hollowed  out  places  which  are  quite  deep.  In  most  areas  the 
bottom  is  sohd  rock. 

I  well  remember  one  hole  in  particular.  When  I  was  a 
child  it  was  about  twenty  by  thirty  feet,  and  the  water  stood 
four  or  five  feet  deep.  Since  the  bottom  was  of  solid  rock,  it 
made  an  ideal  swimming  hole  or  a  natural  baptistry. 

Our  family  attended  a  httle  country  church  in  the 
village  of  Cooperstown,  and  this  place  was  always  used  for 
baptizing.  The  beauty  of  its  wooded  surroundings  and  the 
solitude  of  the  out-of-doors,  mingled  with  the  sound  of  falling 
water,  made  a  perfect  setting  for  a  very  impressive  ceremony. 
When  the  congregation  raised  its  voice  in  "O  Happy  Day" 
and  the  preacher  prayed,  it  was  extremely  touching.  I  might 
add  that  it  was  used  in  both  summer  and  winter.  During 
winter's  icy  blasts  they  just  cut  the  ice  and  went  ahead. 
Blankets  were  wrapped  around  those  who  were  baptized,  and 
they  were  taken  either  by  sled  or  buggy  (later  perhaps  by  a 
Model  T)  to  a  nearbj'  farm  house,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  where  they  could  change  into  dry  clothes.  I  can  well 
vouch  for  the  truth  of  this  statement  because  it  was  my 
privilege  to  be  one  of  the  converts  when  the  ice  was  from  an 


inch  to  two  inches  thick.  1  might  also  add  that  never  did  I 
know  of  anyone  taking  cold  or  being  sick  from  the  baptismal 
experience. 

Besides  serving  in  this  act  of  Christianity,  the  people 
both  young  and  old  from  miles  around  traveled  to  this  hole 
and  used  it.  They  either  went  for  entertainment  or  for  just 
plain  bathing.  There  was  nothing  so  refreshing  after  a  hard 
day's  work  in  summer  as  a  bath  in  the  cool  clear  waters  of 
Rocky  Branch.  Today  one  might  think  it  was  unsanitary,  and 
maybe  it  was  by  today's  standards,  but  in  those  days  it  was 
as  good  as  could  be  found  and  was  extremely  soothing.  It  was 
fed  by  a  few  springs  up  and  down  the  branch  so  it  was  not  all 
drainage  water. 

The  wooded  area  bordering  Rocky  Branch  was  also 
attractive  to  those  who  wished  to  have  picnics,  fish  fries, 
weiner  roasts,  etc.  When  we  as  children  or  young  adults 
wanted  something  to  do,  we  took  off  for  Rocky  Branch,  with 
its  beckoning  call  for  an  afternoon  or  evening  of  good  clean 
fun  and  entertainment.  We  might  even  decide  to  wash  the 
buggy  while  we  waded  in  the  branch.  There  were  several 
places  where  we  could  drive  the  horse  with  buggy  attached 
right  into  the  branch.  The  water  would  be  twelve  or  fifteen 
inches  deep  and  we  would  still  be  standing  on  sohd  rock.  I'm 
sure  this  would  thriU  the  kids  of  today  equally  as  much  as  it 
did  us. 

The  surrounding  land  is  still  owned  by  the  same  family 
who  owned  it  long  ago.  The  members  of  this  family  plant 
turnips  in  the  fields  nearby  and  each  year  have  a  turnip 
festival  for  a  family  reunion.  Young  and  old  look  forward  to 
going  back  to  the  festival  and  once  more  enjoying  a  day  at 
the  old  famiUar  Rocky  Branch. 

The  third  part  of  this  story  is  about  Star  Bridge.  This 
place  is  farther  east  toward  the  Illinois  River,  or  about  six  or 
seven  rmles  in  a  southeasterly  direction  from  Greenwell's 
Mill.  It  is  also  on  the  banks  of  the  Lamoine  River. 


In  the  days  of  my  childhood  there  was  a  covered  bridge 
across  the  creek  at  this  point  connecting  Schuyler  County 
with  Brown  County.  This  bridge  was  built  about  1904  and 
replaced  a  former  covered  bridge  which  had  been  built  in 
1879.  Near  this  bridge  on  the  Brown  County  side  was  a  grain 
elevator  which  served  the  surrounding  farmers  as  a  place  to 
market  their  products.  Wheat,  corn,  and  hay  were  the  chief 
commodities. 

The  first  elevator  built  at  this  point  was  a  small  one 
erected  in  1901  and  the  produce  was  barged  to  Havana, 
Illinois.  But  after  1905  a  larger  elevator  was  built  covered  with 
corrugated  tin.  This  is  the  one  I  remember.  It  was  owned  by 
the  Schultz  and  Baujan  Milling  Company,  who  owned  and 
operated  an  elevator  and  flour  mill  in  Beardstown.  They 
barged  the  products  to  Beardstown.  The  hay  was  used  in  the 
livery  barns  and  the  grain  went  to  either  their  mill  or  to  St. 
Louis  or  Peoria. 

Across  the  road  from  the  elevator  was  a  house  and 
country  store.  This  provided  the  operator  of  the  elevator  with 
a  nearby  home  and  an  opportunity  to  add  to  his  income  by 
running  the  store  when  there  was  no  business  at  the  elevator. 
He  could  either  hire  someone  to  help  during  the  harvesting 
season,  or  perhaps  his  wife  and  family  could  pinch  hit  for  him. 
Believe  me,  he  needed  additional  income,  for  I  was  told  today 
by  Richard  Woods,  who  ran  the  elevator  at  one  time,  that  he 
was  paid  a  cent  and  a  quarter  a  bushel  for  all  the  grain  he 
loaded  out. 

A  man  Curtis  Logsdon  operated  a  barge  Une  from 
Beardstown.  During  the  harvest  season  he  made  regular  trips 
to  and  from  Star  Bridge  to  haul  the  farmer's  grain  and  hay. 

The  first  Manager  I  remember  was  a  man  named  Buford 
Golliher.  He  had  a  wife  and  three  children.  The  family 
members  helped  anywhere  they  were  needed  and  helped  make 
anyone's  trip  to  Star  Bridge  an  enjoyable  and  convenient 
experience. 


Again,  this  story  is  not  second  hand,  for  I  remember  full 
well  getting  up  early  and  going  with  my  father  on  one  trip 
after  another  with  wheat  to  the  elevator.  Of  course,  it  took  lots 
of  time,  for  the  wheat  was  threshed  by  a  steam  threshing 
machine  and  the  distance  one  way  was  about  three  miles.  We 
got  tired,  yes!  But  my!  the  reward  was  great.  We  would  go 
into  that  store  and  Dad  would  buy  either  sugar  or  sticky 
candy  and  maybe  even  some  jelly  beans.  Oh!  How  good!  But  I 
could  not  eat  them  aU.  I  had  to  leave  some  for  Mom  and 
whoever  else  might  be  at  home  when  we  returned. 

If  one  had  time  to  fish,  there  were  plenty  of  places  to  do 
so  and  picnic  grounds  were  available,  but  rarely  did  we  ever 
use  either  of  them.  No  one  had  time  for  that  type  of  recreation. 
If  one  had  wished  to  go,  the  lUinois  River  was  a  mile  farther 
east,  where  the  creek  empties  into  the  river.  Not  too  far  away 
was  the  LaGrange  Locks,  where  other  scenic  places  were 
located.  But  that  was  just  a  httle  too  far  away  for  busy  people 
with  a  team  of  horses. 

The  appearances  of  these  three  places  today  are 
somewhat  different  from  the  above  descriptions,  but  they  are 
all  remembered  in  the  county  for  the  former  purposes  served 
by  them.  Of  course,  the  mill  at  GreenweU's  Mill  is  gone.  The 
bridge  still  stands  but  can't  be  used;  the  land  on  which  the  rrdll 
stood  and  along  the  banks  of  the  creek  is  all  under  cultivation, 
and  so  about  all  there  is  left  is  the  memory  of  what  once 
existed. 

I  do  have  a  postcard  picture  of  the  mill  and  a  large  oU 
painting  which  was  painted  in  1896  by  Margaret  Alexander, 
a  cousin  of  my  mother's.  Both  of  these  I  treasure  very  highly. 
I  also  taught  my  first  school  at  Fagan  School  (also  called 
"Calf  Pen")  which  stood  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
site  where  GreenweU's  Mill  stood.  In  that  year  of  1925-1926 
the  school  children  and  I  did  quite  a  lot  of  coasting  and 
skating  in  the  area,  so  those  memories  are  also  outstanding. 

Rocky  Branch  flows  freely  and  the  banks  are  still  scenic 
and  beautiful.  Just  to  the  west  of  the  swimming  hole  the  cliff 


59 


has  been  blasted  and  crushed  rock  taken  out,  so  the  old 
swimming  hole  is  somewhat  marred  and  changed,  but  even 
so,  some  of  us  who  are  older  still  cherish  the  memories  and 
prize  the  joy  and  entertainment  which  it  once  provided,  with 
all  its  splendors  of  nature. 

At  Star  Bridge  the  old  covered  bridge  is  long  gone  and 
has  been  replaced  with  a  steel  and  concrete  structure.  The 
elevator  exploded  and  burned  in  1931  and  was  never 
replaced;  the  house  burned  in  1970  and  the  store  was  allowed 
to  fall  down.  There  is  still  a  picnic  ground,  and  areas  for 
fishing  are  provided.  But  most  of  the  activities  once  found 
there  have  been  moved  to  other  locations.  I  know  such  things 
must  happen  in  order  to  have  progress,  but  even  so,  it  is 
saddening  to  those  of  us  who  lived  earlier  and  were  able  to 
enjoy  the  usefulness  and  services  rendered  by  the  existence 
of  such  landmarks. 

Many  of  the  blessings  bestowed  by  the  flowing  waters 
of  "Crooked  Creek"  and  its  branches  upon  the  quiet  and 
peaceful  population  of  Cooperstown  Township  must  now  be 
listed  among  the  fond  memories  of  a  delightful,  comfortable, 
and  enjoyable  past. 


LA  CROSSE:  A  FEW  HOUSES  AND  ONE  OLD  STORE 

Lawrence  G.  Anderson 

La  Crosse,  Illinois,  in  Hancock  County  and  POot  Grove 
Township,  is  on  the  T.  P.  &  W.  Raih-oad,  between  La  Harpe 
and  Burnside.  It  used  to  be  quite  a  community  center  for  the 
area.  There  was  a  depot,  two  general  stores,  the  Christian 
Church,  a  blacksmith  shop,  an  elevator,  a  stock  yard,  a 
doctor,  a  cement  factory,  and  eight  or  ten  houses.  How  old 
the  village  is  I  haven't  been  able  to  learn.  But  my 
Grandfather  was  married  on  September  20,  1868,  and  moved 
on  a  timber  farm  one  and  a  half  miles  northwest  of  La  Crosse, 
and  got  his  mail  there.  It  was  his  nearest  town. 


Doctor  Tadlock  had  an  office  there,  and  my  mother  was 
one  of  his  patients.  And  I  was  born  January  28,  1902,  about 
three  miles  southwest  of  La  Harpe.  How  much  longer  the 
Doctor  was  there  I  do  not  know. 

A.  J.  Dunham  was  the  operator  of  the  depot.  He  was 
crippled  and  used  crutches,  and  hauled  freight  around  and 
mail  bags.  He  was  telegraph  operator,  ticket  taker, 
everything  about  the  depot.  (The  post  office  was  in  the 
general  store,  and  the  store  keeper  was  the  postmaster.)  He 
lived  about  a  block  west  of  the  depot  in  a  house  on  or  near  the 
right  of  way.  It  was  a  famihar  sight  to  see  him  hobbhng  along 
on  his  way  to  and  from  work.  There  were  four  passenger 
trains  daily,  two  each  way.  You  could  go  west  to  Keokuk  or 
east  to  Peoria,  and  the  trains  were  usually  on  time.  Also,  the 
people  depended  on  the  railroad  for  shipping  in  and  out 
hvestock,  grain,  and  coal.  People  used  to  move  great 
distances  by  rail.  They  would  charter  a  car  and  load  all  of 
their  possessions,  the  stock  last,  with  feed  and  water,  and 
provisions  for  the  man  who  went  along  to  care  for  the 
animals.  (He  had  a  bunk  in  the  car,  and  could  also  ride  in  the 
caboose.)  When  they  arrived  at  their  destination,  they  would 
unload  and  move  to  their  new  home.  Burnside  was  our  voting 
place,  and  when  the  roads  were  bad  a  group  of  men  (women 
could  not  vote)  would  go  to  Burnside  on  the  train.  So  the 
railroad  was  the  lifeUne  to  the  outside  world.  There  were  not 
any  cars  until  the  later  teens.  Emment  Sellars  was  about  the 
first  to  buy  a  car.  He  bought  a  Model  T  about  1914.  I  believe 
it  cost  about  $295.00  (a  lot  of  money  in  those  days).  Later  on, 
George  Butler  bought  a  big  car,  a  Chandler,  or  something  like 
that.  They  thought  they  were  really  extravagant  when  they 
bought  five  gallons  of  gasoline  at  a  time.  By  the  late  teens 
there  were  more  cars,  but  no  roads  to  drive  them  on,  but  we 
drove  them  anyway.  Roy  had  a  Model  T  that  he  drove  very 
carefully.  He  kept  the  side  curtains  on,  winter  and  summer. 

There  were  two  general  stores,  one  owned  by  Willis 
Wright,   and  one  by   Mr.   Barr.   The  store  was  also  the 


assembly  hall  for  the  men.  A  lot  of  world  problems  were 
solved  there  as  well  as  the  local.  The  men  would  hurry  up  with 
the  chores  and  get  to  the  store  for  those  sessions.  If  anyone 
missed  out  on  something,  there  was  always  someone  to  see  to 
it  that  they  caught  up  with  the  news.  The  blacksmith  shop 
was  owned  first  by  Babcocks,  then  by  Ed  Starky,  and  he  kept 
plenty  busy  with  wagon  and  buggy  repairs  and  horse 
shoeing,  besides  a  lot  of  other  jobs. 

The  grain  elevator  was  operated  by  Ed  Smiddy.  He  built 
a  new  house,  and  my  father  hauled  lumber  from  Dallas  City 
for  it.  It  was  of  concrete  blocks,  perhaps  made  in  the  cement 
factory  in  La  Crosse.  He  bought  grain  and  sold  coal  and  fuel, 
which  was  shipped  in  or  out  on  the  railroad.  So  that  made  up 
the  center,  which  was  of  utmost  importance  to  the 
community. 

Of  course,  the  country's  main  business  was  farming, 
which  was  done  with  horses.  Tractors  came  along  in  the  late 
teens.  Bert  Merriweather  was  about  the  first  to  own  a  tractor. 
He  got  a  Titan  tractor,  and  of  course,  there  was  a  lot  of 
comments  on  that,  pro  and  con  (mostly  con). 

Grain  threshing  was  a  annual  event.  There  was  a  story 
about  when  they  had  shut  the  machine  down  a  short  time  for 
repairs.  When  they  were  ready  to  start  up  again,  Orbin 
Andrews'  wagon  was  needed  under  the  grain  spout,  but  he 
was  not  right  there,  so  another  man  said  he  would  back 
Andrews'  wagon  in.  Mr.  Andrews  was  deaf  and  had  his  own 
way  of  speaking  to  his  team.  So  the  man  could  not  get  the 
team  to  move.  About  that  time  Mr.  Andrews  came  in  sight 
and  saw  what  was  going  on,  and  he  shouted  a  few  times  to  his 
team  and  backed  the  wagon  in  without  going  near  the  team. 
That  story  was  repeated  many,  many  times. 

News  was  scarce  in  those  days  and  had  to  be  given 
proper  attention.  We  seldom  had  a  murder  in  those  days  or 
even  a  shooting.  But  we  had  a  shooting  once.  Walt  Boyd  and 
John  Whitaker  once  had  a  disagreement  of  some  kind,  and 
Boyd  got  a  court  order  and  he  went  over  to  Whitaker  in  his 


wagon.  He  stood  in  the  wagon  and  started  to  read  Whitaker 
the  court  order.  Apparently  Whitaker  did  not  care  for  that, 
and  he  pulled  out  his  gun  and  shot  Boyd.  Boyd  fell  down  in 
the  wagon  and  the  team  ran  off.  Well,  he  got  home  and  they 
took  him  to  the  hospital  in  La  Harpe  on  a  railroad  handcar,  as 
the  roads  were  bad.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  not  badly  hurt, 
but  it  was  bad  enough,  of  course.  The  sheriff  came  out  from 
Carthage  and  took  Whitaker  to  jail.  At  the  trial,  Whitaker 
was  asked  if  his  son  took  the  gun  away  from  him.  He  repHed, 
"Sure,  I  was  done  with  it."  I  don't  think  much  of  anything 
ever  came  of  it.  Later  Whitaker  moved  to  Wisconsin. 

In  those  days  people  had  ice  houses  and  every  winter 
there  was  ice  cutting  and  storage  in  the  ice  houses.  They 
would  get  enough  to  fill  one  ice  house,  and  then  in  a  couple  of 
weeks  they  could  get  another  cutting  for  another  ice  house. 
There  was  a  sawmill  for  several  years  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  logs  were  sawed  into  lumber. 

The  young  people  always  had  a  lot  of  fun  in  the  winter, 
skating  and  sledding.  We  made  a  bonfire  to  warm  up  by  when 
we  had  skating  or  coasting  parties.  Hunting,  trapping,  and 
fishing  were  popular,  too.  We  thought  "those  were  the  good 
old  days." 

So  things  pass.  La  Crosse  has  a  few  houses  and  one  old 
store  building.  Now  all  else  is  gone,  and  so  are  most  of  the 
people. 


BURNSIDE:  MY  OLD  HOME  TOWN 

Neoma  Ewing  Steege 

How  appropriate  the  name  of  Burnside  is  for  the  little 
hamlet  in  Hancock  County,  as  you  will  find  out  later. 

My  earliest  memories  of  it  are  when  my  parents,  who 
lived  in  "Shake  Rag,"  an  area  four  miles  east  of  town,  would 
attend  the  band  concerts  on  Saturday  night  that  were  held  on 
the  upper  deck  of  the  town's  barber  shop  on  the  south  side  of 


61 


the  main  street.  (Shake  Rag  got  its  name  from  the  local  eight 
grade  country  school  by  that  name.) 

The  city  park  with  its  pagoda  was  the  playground  for 
many  of  the  children.  On  a  hot  summer  afternoon  in  the  very 
early  1920's,  a  group  of  us  were  having  our  playtime  there 
when  we  noticed  quite  a  commotion  down  the  street,  where 
the  barber  shop  was  on  fire.  The  fire  was  obviously  started  by 
a  spark  from  the  locomotive  on  the  T.  P.  &  W.  Railroad,  which 
passed  along  back  of  several  buildings.  A  bucket  brigade  was 
formed,  to  no  avail,  and  most  of  the  south  side  of  the  town 
was  consumed  by  the  fire.  Besides  the  barber  shop,  a  garage 
and  blacksmith  shop  were  consumed. 

The  school  of  eight  grades  was  housed  in  a  two-story 
frame  structure  on  the  west  side  of  town.  The  first  four 
grades  were  downstairs;  the  last  four  were  upstairs.  When  I 
was  upstairs  we  upper  classmen  purchased  a  lovely  piano  for 
$100  from  savings  from  various  local  functions.  It  seems  so 
many  good  things  come  to  an  end,  and  the  old  Burnside 
School  (District  87,  I  beheve)  was  no  exception.  In  early  1923 
the  building  burned  and  our  beautiful  piano  went  with  it. 

The  opera  house,  located  over  Hull's  Store,  was  a  joy  to 
the  whole  community.  It  had  a  large  stage  and  several 
dressing  rooms,  making  it  quite  adequate  for  most  any  kind 
of  entertainment  to  be  held.  Medicine  shows  were  quite 
popular  in  those  days,  and  because  of  the  above  facilities 
Burnside  got  its  share  of  this  type  of  entertainment.  Our 
class  plays  were  held  there  as  well,  since  our  school  did  not 
have  a  gymnasium  or  auditorium  at  that  time.  Many  other 
local  functions  were  held,  and  I  think  the  one  that  stands  out 
in  my  mind  most  was  the  "Community"  gatherings  once  a 
month.  Local  talent  and  also  talent  from  the  surrounding 
towns  performed  as  well. 

In  August  of  1928  most  of  the  other  side  of  Burnside 
went  up  in  flames.  The  opera  house,  the  unoccupied  hotel,  and 
a  barber  shop  were  total  losses. 


Since  the  Burnside  schools  closed  in  1978,  a  reunion  was 
held  that  year  for  all  students  who  had  attended  the  high 
school,  along  with  their  teachers.  Almost  100  came  to  enjoy 
the  program  and  visiting.  I  shall  always  remember  that  get- 
together  with  joy  and,  of  course,  some  sadness. 


NAPLES:  12c  UNDER  THE  BOARDWALK 

John  F.  Ellis 

Located  on  the  east  bank  of  the  beautiful  Illinois  River 
is  the  town  of  Naples,  which  was  my  home  for  the  first 
twenty-three  years  of  my  life.  The  following  are  some  of  my 
memories  of  people,  places,  and  things  in  Naples  in  the  first 
years  of  this  century. 

Business  places  included  stables,  elevators,  warehouses, 
hotels,  stores,  ferries,  fish  markets,  and  broom  and  button 
factories.  One  of  the  business  buildings  served  first  as  my 
mother's  ice  cream  parlor,  and  then  Dad  and  Uncle  Esaw 
used  it  to  store  barrels  and  boxes  for  their  wholesale  and 
retail  fish  market.  North  of  the  market  was  a  river-served 
grain  elevator.  Most  grain  was  handled  in  sacks  at  that  early 
time.  My  mother  mended  these  and  received  one  penny  for 
each  sack. 

The  Wabash  Railroad  served  Naples  with  four 
passenger  trains  each  way.  The  first  depot  was  destroyed  by 
fire  and  the  second  was  torn  down  to  remove  it  from  the  tax 
rolls.  The  spur  from  the  Wabash  main  Une  served  the  river 
railway  house.  A  terrific  amount  of  freight  loading  and 
unloading  took  place  on  this  spur,  and  it  was  often  used  for 
river-rail  excursions. 

An  elevator  here  was  saved  from  the  Front  Street  fire 
that  destroyed  so  many  business  places  in  February  of  1917. 
The  vacant  lot  between  the  fire  and  the  elevator  saved  it  from 
the  flaming  fury  that  started  in  a  home  harness  shop.  The 


62 


elevator  office  was  the  village  voting  place,  and  it  was  here 
that  I  cast  my  first  vote. 

Another  elevator  in  Naples  was  the  Smith-Hippen, 
which  had  barges  handled  by  the  steamboat  Ebaugh.  Some  of 
the  elevator  employees  boarded  at  the  Bagby  Hotel  in  town. 
A  favorite  story  there  concerned  the  owner  of  the  hotel.  Mr. 
Bagby  was  never  in  a  hurry  and  was  late  getting  to  the  table 
for  a  meal  one  day.  By  that  time,  the  gravy  bowl  had  been 
passed  and  ended  up  on  his  plate.  He  promptly  broke 
crackers  into  it  and  ate  it  for  soup. 

A  vacant  house  just  to  the  south  of  the  business  section 
was  the  scene  of  one  of  my  greatest  frights.  Fred  Mann 
entered  the  deserted  house  when  he  saw  me  approaching.  As 
I  walked  by,  he  let  out  weird  yells  as  he  beat  on  the  wall. 
Checkers  could  have  been  played  on  my  coat  tail  as  I  flew 
home. 

Another  time  occurred  when  I  thought  the  "old  devil" 
had  me.  Just  before  daylight,  I  had  the  urge  to  visit  our  chick 
sale.  A  rooster  raised  up  in  our  lilac  bush,  letting  out  a  blood 
curdling  crow  as  he  loudly  flapped  his  wings.  I  shouted, 
"He's  got  me,  he's  got  me!"  as  I  flew  back  to  the  house.  This 
adventure  was  good  for  a  big  family  laugh  when  things 
settled  down. 

A  large  building  on  the  inside  of  the  early  river  levee 
was  known  as  "the  Brick."  The  ground  level  housed  several 
business  places.  One  of  these  was  the  first  post  office  that  I 
remember,  with  W.  G.  Pine  serving  as  postmaster.  Later 
postmasters  were  Joe  Mayes  and  Charlie  Quintal.  Each  of 
these  gentlemen  had  a  general  merchandise  store  where  they 
handled  the  postal  business.  Joe  served  when  the 
Washington  administration  was  Democratic,  and  the  post 
office  moved  to  Charhe's  store  when  the  administration  was 
Repubhcan. 

The  second  floor  was  a  hotel  operated  by  the  Wallace 
Hamey  family.  In  later  years,  my  folks  ran  this  business.  The 
third  floor  of  the  Brick  was  a  large  hall,  or  opera  house,  with 


raised  stage  and  dressing  rooms.  It  was  used  for  dances, 
suppers,  medicine  shows,  and  all  local  entertainment.  During 
one  of  the  medicine  shows  there,  Clarence  Hyatt  was  heckling 
the  performer-salesman.  The  salesman  quieted  him  when  he 
told  him  to  be  patient:  "the  worm  medicine  would  go  on  sale 
next."  Wanting  to  be  into  all  things,  Clarence  volunteered  for 
the  card  trick.  He  drew  a  card  from  the  closed  deck  and 
violently  insisted  that  it  was  not  the  seven  of  spades.  The 
performer  then  showed  the  audience  the  entire  deck  and  it 
consisted  of  52  cards,  each  being  the  seven  of  spades. 
Clarence  was  shot  down  again.  Other  entertainment  that 
came  to  Naples  included  showboats  and  a  traveling  Dog  and 
Pony  Show,  which  was  held  in  the  town  park. 

In  the  south  part  of  town  was  a  slaughter  house  and 
dance  hall  operated  by  the  Kite  family.  The  couple  and  their 
three  daughters  had  their  home  there,  and  all  worked  hard  at 
the  family  business.  One  time  they  advertised,  "Free  Dances 
at  the  Kite  House."  The  village  cut-ups  changed  the  sign  to 
read,  "Free  Kites  at  the  Dance  House." 

Saloons,  which  were  licensed  by  local  option,  were  both 
good  and  bad  business  for  Naples.  License  revenue  kept 
streets  and  walks  in  good  condition,  but  local  pohce  often  had 
a  guest  in  the  calaboose,  as  clannish  fights  were  not  too 
unusual.  I  recall  one  time  that  Dad  sat  on  Uncle  Esaw  to  keep 
him  from  one  of  the  big  fights.  This  action  did  the  job  since 
Dad  weighed  225  pounds  at  the  time. 

When  revenue  allowed  for  the  removing  of  the  old 
wooden  board  walks,  William  Hayden  was  foreman  for  the 
job.  He  promised  me  all  the  money  found  under  the  walk  in 
our  block.  I  was  happy  with  the  12'  that  I  found. 

A  landmark  in  Naples  was  the  Illinois  Hotel,  which  was 
located  to  the  far  north  on  Front  Street.  It  was  a  large  brick 
building  and  an  overnight  stopping  place  for  west  bound 
travelers.  The  business  was  in  existence  as  far  back  as  1821, 
which  was  before  Naples  had  become  a  town,  and  it  served  as 
a  stopover  for  two  stage  coach  lines. 


Services  continue  today  in  the  Naples  Methodist 
Church,  which  is  120  years  old.  My  membership  dates  back  to 
my  youth  when  the  church  was  the  center  for  many  of  the 
social  activities  of  the  town.  Reverend  Goldsborough,  who 
now  presides  every  Sunday,  has  served  the  church  longer 
than  any  other  pastor. 

A  sad  thing,  especially  for  us  of  the  older  generation, 
was  the  tearing  down  of  the  school  building  which  was  buUt 
in  1865.  It  served  several  generations.  On  the  Sunday  before 
Labor  Day  each  year,  students  who  attended  the  Naples 
School  meet  in  Naples  to  share  a  meal  and  to  reminisce.  In 
1981,  four  members  of  the  class  of  1918  were  in  attendance. 

Naples  was  and  is  quite  a  town.  Stories  of  the  people, 
places,  and  events  there  will  continue  as  long  as  there  are 
those  who  remember. 


SALINE  AND  DIAMOND  MINERAL  SPRINGS 

Mrs.  Clarence  Beck 

Encircled  on  three  sides  by  SOver  Creek  is  the  small 
country  village  of  Grantfork,  Illinois,  in  Madison  County. 
Main  Street  separates  the  south  half  of  town  in  Saline 
Township  from  the  north  half  in  Lee  Township.  In  about 
1905-1910,  when  my  parents  were  growing  up  in  the  Fairview 
school  district,  three  miles  east,  the  town,  however,  was 
known  as  Sahne.  The  name  was  derived  from  a  not-too- 
successful  salt  mine  or  well,  sunk  earlier  southwest  of  the 
village. 

Seventy-five  years  ago  Saline  boasted  of  two  churches, 
the  German  Lutheran,  (now  United  Church  of  Christ)  and  St. 
Gertrude's  Catholic,  as  well  as  a  two-room  school. 
Coincidentally,  all  three  were  built  in  1872. 

German  was  still  the  favorite  language  of  much  of  the 
community,  but  in  1916  Rev.  Arnold  Klick  introduced 
English  services  to  Saline  Lutheran  Church  at  Locust  and 


Sylvan  streets.  In  1901  a  small  schoolhouse  was  attached  to 
the  east  side  of  that  church,  and  religion  and  regular  school 
subjects  were  taught  to  Confirmation-age  students,  generally 
twelve  to  fifteen  years.  The  minister,  of  course,  was  the 
school  master.  A  parochial  school  was  owned  by  the  Catholic 
Church  at  Locust  and  John  streets  and  St.  Gertrude's  Hall 
was  used  for  programs,  school  plays  and  meetings. 

Saline  was  on  the  map  with  a  post  office,  although 
Grantfork  was  sometimes  used  to  designate  the  village  as  it 
is  today.  The  General  Mercantile  Store,  owned  by  Arnold  L. 
Hitz,  at  Main  and  Locust,  housed  the  post  office  and  Mr.  Hitz 
was  postmaster.  East  and  connecting  to  the  store,  was  a 
saloon,  then  a  residence,  another  saloon,  and  a  saloon  and 
dance  hall.  In  fact  Saline  had  seven  saloons  at  that  time! 
Continuing  east  on  Main  were  old  barns  and  sheds  of  the 
Ryan  Brothers  at  Main  and  Mulberry. 

East  on  the  second  block  of  Main  was  the  large,  two- 
and-one-half  story  brick,  Helbing  Saloon,  which  today  is 
converted  into  a  residence.  As  was  the  custom  in  those  days, 
free  lunches  were  served  to  anyone  who  purchased  beer  or 
other  beverage,  for  five  or  ten  cents! 

Crossing  the  street  to  the  north  side  of  Main,  the  first 
establishment  was  Sylvester  Leef's  sawmill.  Next  west  was 
the  large  blacksmith  and  wagon  shop  of  Nick  MoUet,  where 
he  started  in  1867.  His  residence  was  on  the  south  side  of  the 
street  by  Helbing's  Saloon. 

P.  F.  Schwartz  operated  a  hardware  store  on  the 
northeast  corner  of  Main  and  Mulberry.  Northwest  of  that 
was  Ernst  Salzman's  Saddlery  and  Harness  Shop.  Going 
back  to  Main  and  west  was  another  saloon,  operated  by 
Ferdinand  Kaltenbacher,  which  had  the  sign  reading, 
"Kaltenbacher's  Wine  and  Beer  Saloon."  That  is  a  residence 
now. 

If  you  had  returned  to  the  southwest  corner  of  Locust, 
you  would  have  found  a  large  two-story  brick  building  (still 
standing  as  a  residence)  in  which  Stephen  Bardill  operated  a 


64 


hotel  and  saloon.  Connected  by  a  covered  walk,  to  the  north, 
was  an  inn  with  dance  hall  in  back,  owned  by  Stephen  Bardill. 

As  we  continue  in  memory  south  on  Locust,  we  find  a 
livery  stable  just  south  of  Bardill's  brick  hotel.  Further 
south,  on  the  southwest  corner  of  Locust  at  Sylvan,  was  a 
large  creamery.  Farmers  brought  their  milk  to  be  sold  and 
separated  and  the  cream  was  made  into  high  grade  butter, 
the  pride  of  the  area.  For  a  small  charge  the  farmer  then 
received  the  skim  milk  to  feed  to  his  hogs  and  chickens. 

In  the  valley  south  of  the  creamery  was  a  slaughter  and 
smoke-house,  operated  by  Friedhn  Landolt.  The  cool  spring 
running  nearby  furnished  an  easy  method  of  refrigeration. 
Unfortunately  the  spring-house  has  tumbled  down. 

Many  homes  had  white  picket  fences  surrounding  the 
property,  and  the  Lutheran  Church  and  parsonage  to  the 
south  were  thus  completely  surrounded.  On  the  west  side 
were  plank  sidewalks  with  hitching  racks,  as  cars  were  not 
yet  popular  so  travel  was  by  horse  and  buggies,  surries,  or 
spring  wagons,  or  by  horseback.  Hayrides  were  popular 
activities  for  young  people. 

It  seems  odd  that  the  Protestant  cemetery  was  located 
northwest  of  town,  nearer  the  Cathohc  Church,  and  the 
Catholic  cemetery  was  situated  in  the  southeast  portion  of 
town,  near  the  Lutheran  Church.  In  the  early  1900's  the  main 
road  toward  Highland  went  south  on  Mulberry  and  crossed 
the  creek  below  the  Catholic  cemetery.  The  bridge  east  of 
town  was  not  built  until  1908,  so  the  road  angled  southeast 
off  Main  and  crossed  the  creek  up  to  another  popular  spot, 
known  as  the  Sharpshooter's  Park  and  rifle  range  on  the  hill 
overlooking  the  creek. 

The  Sharpshooter's  Society  (or  Scheutzenverein,  as  the 
Swiss  founders  caOed  it)  was  organized  by  my  great- 
grandfather, Anton  Beck,  in  1866.  It  had  a  large  haO  for 
bowling  and  dancing,  and  regular  shooting  matches  were 
held.  Each  fall  an  annual  festival,  which  may  have  been  the 
fore-runner  of  present  day  homecomings,  was  presented. 


The  road  north  toward  Alhambra,  seventy-five  years 
ago,  took  Locust  Street  and  angled  off  northwest.  West  of 
Sahne  was  a  bridge  crossing  the  creek,  but  there  was  no  north 
and  south  road  as  we  know  Route  160.  Instead,  below  the  hill 
west  of  town  was  a  picnic  area  and  park  which  was  part  of 
Diamond  Mineral  Springs. 

The  beautiful,  imposing  Windsor  or  Diamond  Mineral 
Springs  Hotel,  overlooking  Sahne  from  the  west,  was  built  in 
1888  by  John  Zimmerman,  a  talented  carpenter  who  lived 
with  his  family  at  Mulberry  and  John  Street,  north  of  the 
pubhc  school.  Many  of  the  fine  old  homes  and  large  buildings 
of  this  area  were  built  by  him  and  his  sons.  A.  J.  Kraft  hired 
Zimmerman  to  build  the  huge  two-story  frame  hotel,  which 
contained  thirty  rooms  for  guests  on  vacations  or  in  search  of 
comfort  in  the  soothing  baths  of  mineral  water.  The  high 
mineral  content  had  been  discovered  earher  when  Stephen 
Bardill  was  excavating  his  stone  quarry.  Mr.  Kraft  widely 
advertised  his  hot  and  cold  mineral  baths,  and  many  patients 
came  to  receive  health-giving  benefits.  A  windmill  and  water 
works  were  erected  which  provided  running  water  for  the 
establishment,  and  two  large  ice-houses  were  filled  during 
winter  to  provide  simple  refrigeration  in  summer.  A.  J.  Kraft 
also  had  a  forty  by  eighty  foot  entertainment  hall  built  near 
the  hotel,  where  guests  could  enjoy  free  bilhards  and  pool,  or 
bowhng  with  wooden  balls  with  no  holes.  Dances  were 
provided  frequently.  Shaded  and  flower-bordered  paths 
added  to  the  beauty  of  Diamond  Mineral  Springs  Park  and  a 
large  artificial  lake  allowed  boating  and  fishing.  Regretfully 
the  Hotel  was  razed  in  1957. 

Brick  sidewalks  were  just  entering  the  scene  seventy- 
five  years  ago,  and  one  extended  along  the  north  side  of  Main 
Street  for  a  couple  blocks.  The  rest  of  the  important  streets 
had  plank  walks  about  three  feet  wide.  Some  macadam  roads 
were  being  constructed  of  local  gravel  and  this  helped  make 
streets  more  passable  in  muddy  seasons.  The  work  was  done 
by  farmers  donating  their  team  and  themselves  for  a  day's 


65 


work  at  $1.50  per  day,  with  very  rustic  tools.  Often  the 
workers  used  these  wages  to  pay  taxes. 

Saline  had  a  make-shift  fire  department,  and  a  smaU  fire 
engine  offered  some  assistance  in  fire  fighting.  Two  men  were 
in  charge  of  the  equipment  during  the  winter  season  for  a 
meager  fee.  A  cistern  at  the  corner  of  Main  and  Mulberry  had 
been  built  in  1901,  and  another  near  the  Catholic  Church,  and 
one  at  Main  and  Locust,  to  collect  water  for  fire  fighting. 

Telephone  Unes  were  just  being  erected  in  the  early 
1900's  to  aid  in  communication,  and  in  1907  the  Grantfork 
Mutual  Telephone  Company  was  incorporated. 

Penny  postcards  were  another  quick  means  of 
communicating  and  young  people  sent  cards  to  make  plans 
for  coming  events,  to  send  greetings,  or  just  to  present  their 
latest  photo. 


Only  the  very  privileged  went  to  high  school,  but  many 
of  the  young  people  took  extra  courses  at  the  country  schools 
or  in  SaUne.  Work  was  the  rule  for  young  and  old,  and  nearly 
everyone  had  "chores"  to  do,  which  gave  young  people  an 
early  sense  of  responsibility,  so  vandalism  and  crime  were 
scarce. 

A  strong  faith  in  God  was  another  important  part  of  life, 
and  in  spite  of  hard  work  and  deprivation  (by  today's 
standards),  people  led  full,  rich  lives,  with  high  moral 
standards,  a  sense  of  duty  and  love  of  their  fellow  man, 
values  which  seem  to  have  been  lost.  Perhaps,  as  more  people 
are  searching  for  their  "roots,"  they  will  also  unearth  these 
lost  traits  of  their  forefathers,  and  the  world  and  everyone  in 
it  will  revert  to  higher  standards  of  "the  good  old  days!" 


';iiM\Alu'  'iT/WiiU'  *J'',/Mi\u'  'i''i(/A\  ilu'  'i'-'j /A\  il^r.  'i'A  Wi  iv\i'.  'J'iTMi.^ 


IV     T/io5e  Countr}'  School  Da}'s 


THOSE  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

Perhaps  no  aspect  of  Illinois  social  history  is  so  full  of 
nostalgia  for  so  many  people  as  country  school  days.  Of 
course,  there  were  once  thousands  of  rural  schools  in  the 
state— usuaUy  scores  of  them  in  a  single  county— and  so, 
many  senior  citizens,  and  younger  adults  as  well,  recall  that 
kind  of  educational  experience.  Because  the  one-room  schools 
in  Illinois  were  all  closed  during  the  consohdation  movement 
after  World  War  II,  the  memories  of  former  students,  and 
fading  photographs  of  unsophisticated  youngsters  in  front  of 
unadorned  buildings,  are  all  that  is  left  of  the  school  life 
which  was  once  commonplace  in  rural  culture. 

Most  former  pupils  are  defensive  about  the  country 
schools,  in  spite  of  their  obvious  drawbacks:  inadequate 
buildings,  poorly  paid  teachers,  and  shortages  of  textbooks 
and  other  materials.  All  of  these  problems  were  related  to  the 
Umited  financial  capacity  of  rural  school  districts,  a  factor 
which  could  not  be  dramatically  changed.  But  it  should  also 
be  recognized  that  there  was  a  significant  improvement  in  the 
country  schools  throughout  the  first  half  of  the  century.  The 
educational  requirement  for  teachers  increased;  better 
instructional  methods  were  developed,  and  of  course,  the 
buildings  slowly  conformed  to  a  higher  standard  of  adequacy. 
But  regardless,  the  one-room  schools  were  no  match  for 
larger  ones  in  the  towns  and  cities,  by  any  objective  measure 
of  facilities  and  personnel.  What,  then,  did  the  rural  schools 
have  that  made  attending  them  such  a  positive 
experience— and  later  memories  of  them  so  nostalgic? 

Without  question,  there  was  a  vital  sense  of  community 
about  the  typical  rural  school.  The  teacher  and  students 
knew  each  other  very  well,  and  they  regarded  themselves  as 
part  of  a  distinctive  entity,  not  just  a  section  of  some  larger 
institution.  In  short,  each  school  was  a  kind  of  micro-world, 
characterized  by  extensive  personal  contact  among  the 
members  but  geographical  and  cultural  isolation  from  the 


rest  of  society.  And  since  the  schools  were  not  large,  and 
some  activities  involved  all  the  students  of  whatever  age,  no 
one  felt  lost  or  left  out.  Such  a  situation  naturally  created  a 
sense  of  belonging  and  security  for  each  pupil— which  was 
not  only  conducive  to  learning  but  fostered  the  later 
nostalgia. 

The  local  landscape,  too,  became  very  familiar  to 
country  school  students,  who  generally  had  to  walk  the 
proverbial  long  distances  to  and  from  the  schoolhouse.  Such 
repeated  contact  with  the  natural  environment— fields, 
woods,  lanes,  etc.— also  contributed  to  the  sense  of  belonging 
that  was  a  hallmark  of  the  rural  school,  especially  since  at  the 
other  end  of  those  long  walks  was  home  itself.  If  the  cultural 
landscape  of  the  countryside  was  much  less  complex  than  in 
communities,  the  two  central  aspects  of  that  landscape  (home 
and  school)  were  all  the  more  deeply  experienced. 

There  was  also  an  intense  awareness  of  family 
membership  among  country  school  children  because  siblings 
of  various  ages  attended  together.  In  fact,  a  youngster  often 
made  friends  with  an  entire  family  of  feUow  pupils.  That,  too, 
fostered  an  intimacy  which  is  not  possible  in  larger 
institutions.  Whatever  quahties  the  country  schools  lacked, 
meaningful  social  interaction  was  not  among  them. 

Of  course,  the  schools  were  also  social  centers  for  the 
districts,  or  rural  communities,  in  which  they  were  located. 
Hohday  programs,  box  suppers,  civic  meetings  and  other 
activities  drew  the  parents  together  as  well  as  the  children, 
which  naturally  made  school  seem  even  more  closely  related 
to  home  Ufe.  It  is  not  surprising  that  when  consolidation 
forced  the  closing  of  rural  schools,  parents  were  often  upset 
for  non-academic  reasons.  The  abandonment  of  a  country 
school  commonly  meant  the  end  of  that  community 
interaction  which  had  centered  around  it. 

AU  the  memoirs  in  this  section  are  united  by  their 
positive  view  of  the  country  school  experience— even  "A  Bull 
in  the  Classroom— Almost,"  which,  after  describing  terror 


70 


and  pandemonium,  ends  happily,  with  the  students  as  heroes 
of  an  exciting  story  that  was  "widely  circulated  (and 
embellished)  around  the  district."  "Ghosts  by  the  Side  of  the 
Road"  and  "Epitaph  for  a  Country  School"  are  particularly 
fine  memoirs,  revealing  as  they  do  the  very  basis  for  the  rural 
school  nostalgia  of  Eva  Baker  Watson  and  Robert  T.  Burns, 
as  well  as  many  others  who  shared  their  experience. 

The  brief  discussion  of  the  school  name  which  opens  the 
Bums  piece  suggests  yet  another  factor  that  has  made 
country  schools  seem  so  attractive  when  compared  to  larger, 
more  complex  institutions.  How  could  school  days  have  been 
anything  else  but  idyUic  at  a  place  called  "Pancake,"  or  for 
that  matter,  "Lone  Oak,"  "Frog  Pond,"  "Gooseneck,"  "Mud 
Acre,"  "Cane  Patch,"  "Long  Nine,"  or  "Pilot  Knob"— to 


name    but    a    few    of    the    one-room    schools    that    have 
disappeared? 

As  these  quaint  names  suggest,  in  a  twentieth-century 
world  that  was  moving  rapidly  away  from  rural  simphcity, 
the  country  school  was  one  of  the  last  assertions  of  our 
mythic  national  innocence.  Life  there  was  pure,  close  to 
nature,  and  uncorrupted— not  to  mention  infused  with 
patriotic  and  Christian  values.  Thus,  the  nostalgia  that  so 
many  feel  for  those  country  school  days  is,  after,  all,  but  a 
variation  of  our  common  longing  for  an  ideahzed  American 
past. 

John  Hallwas,  Editor 


GHOSTS  BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ROAD 

Eva  Baker  Watson 

As  I  drive  up  the  steep,  winding  road  I  see  it  perched  on 
the  rocky  hillside,  its  walls  gray  and  dilapidated,  its  windows 
staring  sightlessly.  If  I  were  to  stop  the  car,  to  go  and  climb 
that  weed-concealed  path,  to  push  open  the  weatherbeaten 
door  and  step  inside,  1  know  my  senses  would  be  assailed 
with  the  never-to-be-forgotten  smell  of  the  schoolroom. 

Consolidation,  that  caused  the  abandonment  of  one- 
room  rural  schools  in  Pope  County,  cannot  erase  the 
memories  nor  exorcise  the  ghosts  that  roam  within  their 
walls.  Several  such  schools  have  been  remodeled  and  are  now 
used  as  homes.  But  no  amount  of  paint,  no  carpenter's  skill 
can  ever  completely  disguise  that  telltale  architecture.  The 
ones  that  have  been  left  to  stand  as  they  were,  to  be  assaulted 
by  wind  and  weather  and  slowly  deteriorate,  have  become 
museums  of  nostalgia  for  us  who  once  attended  them. 

I  have  only  to  see  one  of  those  old  hulks  to  feel  myself 
wafted  almost  bodily  into  the  past  by  the  pictures  they 
evoke.  I  see  again  the  kids  I  played  with  and  the  courageous 
teachers  who  coped  with  us  (and  coped  with  many  other 
things)  some  sixty  years  ago. 

My  mind's  ear  hears  the  ding-donging  of  the  first  bell.  If 
I'm  not  on  my  way  to  school  or  just  about  ready  to  start  by 
the  time  it  rings,  I'd  better  be.  Sometime  later  I  hear  the  five- 
minute-bell— a  few  warning  taps  that  signal  us  to  make  a  last 
visit  to  the  pump  out  front  or  the  Uttle  house  out  back.  And 
be  quick  about  it.  Then  the  last  bell.  One  tap.  Final  as 
judgment.  If  the  current  teacher  is  one  for  ceremony,  we  line 
up  outside  and  file  in  through  the  front  door  in  orderly 
fashion.  And  then  we're  in  our  seats  and  quiet— if  we  know 
what's  good  for  us. 

The  day  would  not  begin  without  the  "opening 
exercises"— singing  or  marching  to  a  martial  tune  wheezed 
out  of  the  organ  by  a  talented  older  girl.  In  a  more  sober  mood 


the  teacher  had,  the  day  before,  asked  us  to  be  prepared  to 
give  a  wise  saying  or  Bible  verse.  (No  one  would  have  dared  a 
blasphemous  opposition  to  this.) 

Apple  polishers  courted  teacher's  favor  by  memorizing 
long  verses.  But  there  were  always  those  who  took  the 
effortless  route  and  re-quoted  "The  Lord  is  my  shepherd," 
"God  is  love,"  or  some  of  the  "Thou  shalts."  Some  even 
resorted  to  the  brief,  "Jesus  wept."  This,  of  course,  branded 
them  as  too  lazy  to  learn  less  familiar  passages,  but  the  sheer 
repetition  of  old  standbys  probably  had  merit.  Parents  did 
not  fear  that  their  children  would  be  brainwashed  by 
exposure  to  the  Holy  Writ  in  public  schools.  In  fact,  some 
teachers  even  read  a  chapter  from  Psalms  or  Proverbs,  now 
and  then,  with  no  question  as  to  authenticity.  It  was  the 
Word  of  God  and  that  was  that.  And  God  was  alive  and  well 
and  hving  in  Pope  County. 

Opening  exercises  done  with,  I  hear  a  down-to-business 
voice  intone,  "Eighth  Grade  Arithmetic,  rise,  pass,  sit!"  The 
moment  of  truth  is  here  and  we  must  go,  prepared  or  not,  to 
sit  on  the  recitation  seat  smack  under  the  teacher's  nose. 

Later  I  hear  the  welcome  reprieve:  "Reee-cess!"  What  a 
lot  of  freedom  was  squeezed  into  that  quarter  hour  as  we 
raced  through  stink  base,  hopscotch,  marbles,  and  ball.  Not 
Softball  or  baseball.  Just  ball.  I  remember  an  old  tennis 
racket  someone  brought.  The  girls  found  it  much  better  than 
a  bat  to  use  for  whacking  the  ball.  Rules  were  flexible.  And 
teacher  got  right  in  there  and  played  as  hard  as  we  did,  with 
no  grumbling  about  playground  duty. 

A  little  side  skirmish  took  place  from  time  to  time  when 
the  boys  experimented  in  girl-chasing  and  kissing.  The  girls 
experimented  in  shrieking  and  outrunning  them.  Eventually 
the  girls  learned  how  to  run  more  slowly. 

I  close  my  eyes  and  feel  again  the  soft  crunch  of  snow 
under  my  feet  as  I  walk  to  school.  There  will  be  fun  today,  for 
the  teacher  probably  will  put  aside  assigned  lessons  and  take 
time  out  to  read  "Snowbound"  to  us.  Also  we'll  be  allowed  an 


exended  noon  period  for  sledding  on  the  hiU  back  of  the 
playground. 

Later  in  the  day,  I  see  a  girl  from  an  upper  grade  sitting 
with  a  younger  one,  helping  her  with  her  lesson.  Several 
others,  also,  are  being  tutored  by  these  early  teacher's  aides, 
while  another  class  is  reciting. 

My  mind's  eye  moves  on  to  an  exciting  day— and  I  smell 
smoke.  I  see  again  the  teacher's  white,  tense  face  as  he 
instructs  us  to  march  outside:  "Quietly,  no  running!  The 
schoolhouse  is  on  fire."  The  bucket  brigade  quickly  forms  a 
line  from  pump  to  roof,  where  orange  flames  are  licking. 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  goodbye  old  schoolhouse!"  said  one 
small  boy,  dehghtedly.  That  was  one  disappointed  Uttle 
fellow  when  the  fire  was  put  out. 

I  travel  on  to  another  picture:  I  see  myself  wearing  a 
new  dress  and  sitting  two-in-a-seat,  for  there  are  visitors.  It's 
the  last  day.  That  morning  the  mamas  had  come  carrying 
basket  dinners.  The  papas  laid  boards  across  desks  over 
which  women  spread  snowy  table  cloths.  Certainly  the 
schoolroom  had  never  looked  so  ravishing.  With  mouths 
watering,  we  sniffed  the  heavenly  blend  of  golden  fried 
chicken,  hard  cooked  eggs  pickled-pink  in  beet  vinegar, 
mounds  of  potato  salad,  mile-high  angel  foods,  layers  and 
layers  of  all  kinds  of  cakes,  and  pies,  pies,  pies.  It  was  a 
delicious  climax  to  the  school  year. 

Remains  of  the  dinner  cleared  away  and  order  restored, 
now  I  see  guests  seated  while  pupils  entertained  them  with  a 
last  day  program— songs,  dialogues,  and  "pieces."  At  the 
beginning  someone  recited  a  welcome  address,  and  at  the  end 
another  gave  a  farewell  poem— usually  sentimental. 

Parents  were  invited  to  "speak  a  few  words"  and  some 
responded,  mostly  the  fathers,  but  now  and  then  an 
aggressive  mother  would  rise  to  the  occasion.  They  praised 
the  fine  teacjier,  and  talked  about  how  much  Johnny  had 
learned.  Report  cards  and  spelling  and  attendance  awards 


were  distributed,  the  teacher  "treated"  with  peppermint 
candy  sticks,  and  then  it  was  over. 

All  but  the  tears.  I  was  fascinated  with  the  emotional 
older  girls  who  cried.  I  could  hardly  wait  until  I'd  be 
sophisticated  enough  to  weep  so  daintily  because  school  was 
out. 

There  was  such  warmth,  such  strong  ties-that-bind  in 
those  little  schools.  Today  as  I  see  them  crumbling,  cUnging 
to  rocky  hillsides  over-grown  with  vines  and  brush,  1  recall 
how  the  more  progressive  parents  used  to  complain  that 
schools  were  built  on  land  not  fit  for  anything  else.  They 
grieved  because  there  was  no  money  to  provide  better 
recreational  equipment  for  us.  And  so  we  envied  the  city  kids 
with  their  smooth,  level  playgrounds,  their  sUdes  and  swings. 

We  didn't  reaUze  that  we  were  the  lucky  ones,  to  have 
that  abundance  of  natural  playground  potential  lending  itself 
so  beautifully  to  our  whims. 

I  remember  a  branch  of  water  running  along  the  side  of 
the  school.  It  became  a  rushing  river  when  it  rained,  thrilUng 
to  wade  in  or  watch  as  our  paper  boats  ran  the  rapids.  Other 
times  it  had  clear,  quiet  pools  with  only  a  trickle  of  water 
Unking  them.  Sometimes  the  boys  would  catch  "crawdads" 
to  scare  the  girls  with.  In  time  of  drought  the  brook  became  a 
canyon  to  explore,  with  smooth,  flat  rocks,  perfect  for 
playhouse  floors  which  we  carpeted  with  moss  dug  from 
around  a  nearby  tree.  These  we  furnished  with  tree  bark 
chairs  and  tables  set  with  acorn  dinnerware.  An  ideal 
environment  for  sparking  the  imagination  and  creativity. 
How  could  we  have  felt  deprived  in  the  midst  of  such  wealth? 

Consolidation  has  laid  to  rest  the  little  one-room 
schoolhouses,  and  those  "ragged  beggars"  are  sleeping  their 
final  sleep.  They've  had  their  "last  day."  But  they  will 
forever  be  attended  by  the  friendly  ghosts  that  live  in  the 
memory  of  us  who  spent  such  happy  years  there  long  ago. 


FAIRVIEW  SCHOOLHOUSE 

Marjorie  Downs  Byers 

Fairview  Schoolhouse  sat  on  a  grassy  knoll,  fenced  in  on 
two  sides  from  fields  of  hay,  corn  or  wheat,  and  on  the  third 
side,  from  a  wooded  pasture.  It  was  located  in  Birmingham 
Township,  between  the  villages  of  Brooklyn  and  Huntsville, 
in  Schuyler  County,  Illinois.  The  schoolhouse  was  a  small, 
white  frame  building  with  a  fairly  steep  shingled  roof  and 
brick  chimney.  There  were  three  sets  of  tall,  large-paned 
windows  on  the  two  long  sides  of  the  building.  The  high 
concrete  stoop  was  covered  by  a  small  overhang  and  the  large 
door  opened  directly  into  the  back  of  the  schooh-oom. 

It  was  not  until  I  became  familiar  with  other  one-room 
country  schoolhouses  that  I  realized  ours  was  unique.  First, 
it  was  smaller  than  most,  and  could  not  even  boast  of  having 
a  cloakroom  which  most  other  schools  had.  It  was,  hterally, 
one  room.  Secondly,  other  schools  had  single  desks.  Ours 
were  the  old-fashioned  double  kind— two  students  per  desk. 

I  recaU  quite  clearly  the  first  time  I  saw  the  building.  It 
was  fifty-four  years  ago,  in,  February,  1928,  and  I  was  in  the 
second  grade.  Our  family  had  moved  to  a  nearby  farm.  I  had 
previously  attended  first  grade  and  part  of  the  second  grade 
at  Beard  School  in  Beardstown,  Illinois.  What  a  change  for 
me  to  come  to  this  small  room  with  children  of  various  ages 
from  five  to  fourteen,  from  a  roomful  of  twenty  or  thirty 
children  who  had  all  been  my  own  age.  To  accomdate  the 
various  sizes  of  the  children,  the  desks  were  of  varying  sizes. 
The  tiny  desks  were  in  the  front  in  the  two  rows  on  the  left 
and  graduated  in  size  toward  the  back  of  the  room.  The  third 
row  of  desks  on  the  right  were  large  ones.  They  were  all 
double,  though,  and  we  learned  to  share  space  inside  the  desk 
as  well  as  the  writing  and  seating  space.  Some  years, 
depending  on  the  enrollment,  one  might  have  a  huge  wide 
space  to  oneself,  the  sole  occupant  of  a  desk.  The  desks  were 
of  thick  heavy  wood  with  many  initials  carved  into  them. 


Inkwell  holes  were  in  the  larger,  under  which  a  small  shelf 
held  a  bottle  of  ink.  With  straight  nib  pens  we  practiced  the 
"Palmer  Method"  of  penmanship. 

I  have  such  vivid  impressions  of  that  room  in  which  I 
spent  six  and  a  half  years,  I  graduated  from  the  eighth  grade 
there  in  June  of  1934. 

There  was  a  small  raised  platform  in  front  of  the  room, 
on  which  stood  the  teacher's  desk.  This  desk  was  actually  a 
high  rectangular  table.  Later  this  table  was  replaced  by  a 
modern  desk  which  the  teacher  placed  near  a  sidewall.  We, 
then,  used  the  platform  for  recitations.  There  was  a  long  shelf 
along  the  back  waU  for  our  lunch  boxes.  Underneath  the  shelf 
were  hooks  for  our  coats.  In  the  winter  our  overshoes  and 
galoshes  were  lined  up  beneath  our  coats. 

The  other  corner  of  the  back  of  the  room  was  occupied 
by  a  stove  which  the  teacher  stoked  with  coal  when  the 
weather  turned  cold.  Usually,  one  of  the  larger  boys  would 
bring  coal  in  from  the  shed  and  sometimes  even  arrive  early 
and  start  the  fire.  A  bucket  sat  on  a  small  table  near  the  door. 
A  water  dipper  floated  in  the  bucket.  We  all  used  this 
common  dipper  from  which  to  drink,  but  later  a  teacher 
encouraged  us  to  bring  our  own  cups.  (I  rather  envied  a  girl 
who  had  a  lovely  telescoping  cup  of  metal  which  she  kept  in 
her  desk.)  On  the  table  with  the  water  bucket  was  an 
enameled  washpan  and  soap  dish.  Nearby  hung  a  roller  towel. 
These  amenities,  along  with  two  outside  toilets,  seemed  to  be 
adequate  for  our  needs. 

Our  library  consisted  of  a  hodge-podge  of  books  on 
several  shelves  in  the  left  corner  in  the  front  of  the  room.  I 
had  read  them  all  by  the  time  I  left  there.  Some  books  were 
very  old,  especially  the  fiction.  One  book,  which  I  read  several 
times  and  found  fascinating,  was  the  story  of  a  teacher  in  a 
country  schoolhouse  at  the  turn  of  the  century.  The 
description  of  her  clothes  (floor  length  skirts,  shirtwaists,  and 
high  shoes)  were  of  outmoded  styles,  but  the  schoolhouse 
described  in  the  story  could  have  been  ours. 


74 


An  old  set  of  maps  was  replaced  one  exciting  day  by  a 
new  set  with  a  case  which  hung  on  the  wall.  One  could  puO 
down  different  maps.  They  were  so  brightly  colored  (all  of  the 
pink  belonged  to  England),  and  we  learned  the  names  of 
continents,  states,  rivers,  lakes  and  mountains,  as  well  as 
how  to  locate  them.  We  found  the  temperate  zone  in  which  we 
lived  and  located  other  lands.  My  concept  of  the  world  grew. 
Shapes  of  continents  became  famihar  and  a  desire  to  see  all 
these  lands  seemed  perfectly  reasonable.  My  abilitiy,  as  an 
adult,  to  orient  myself  wherever  I  have  lived  or  traveled 
seems  to  have  been  rooted  in  a  basic  understanding  of 
geography  which  I  acquired  in  those  long  ago  days  at 
Fairview  School. 

The  front  wall  was  covered  with  three  sections  of 
blackboard.  On  certain  holidays  appropiate  designs  in  colored 
chalk  decorated  the  upper  left  section— pumpkins  and 
cornstalks  at  Halloween,  Pilgrims  at  Thanksgiving,  Santa  in 
his  sleigh  at  Christmas  and  red  hearts  at  Valentine's  Day. 
Valentine's  Day  was  so  special.  We  worked  for  weeks, 
making  valentines  for  the  teacher  and  for  our  classmates. 
Bright  construction  paper  was  furnished,  as  well  as  paste  and 
scissors.  Old  magazines  were  brought  to  school  and  pored 
over  for  pictures.  The  large  valentine  box  was  a  work  of  art. 
We  all  contributed  to  it,  with  help  and  suggestions  from  the 
teacher.  What  joy  when  the  box  was  opened  and  the 
valentines  were  distributed.  The  word  "love,"  on  certain 
ones,  caused  the  heart  to  beat  faster! 

But  to  get  back  to  the  blackboards  which  were  usually 
the  focus  of  our  attention:  assignments  were  to  be  found 
there,  and  in  class  we  wrote  our  spelling  words  "on  the 
board,"  parsed  sentences  on  it,  and  learned  to  "do  decimals" 
there.  Punishment  by  the  teacher  was  sometimes  to  write  a 
penitent  sentence  one  hundred  times  on  the  blackboard.  It 
was  an  honor  to  be  allowed  to  erase  the  board  and  to  dust  the 
erasers.  One  stood  on  the  outside  stoop  and  clapped  two 
erasers    together    until    no    more    chalk    flew.    On    Friday 


afternoon  we  washed  the  blackboards  clean  in  readiness  for 
Monday  mornings. 

Friday  afternoons  were  special  times.  We  might  have  a 
spelling  bee,  with  words  tailored  to  the  various  ages. 
Sometimes  the  young  children  would  be  allowed  to  color  with 
their  crayons  while  the  older  ones  competed  to  see  who  could 
make  the  most  small  words  out  of  a  certain  phrase,  perhaps 
"Washington's  Birthday."  Often  the  teacher  read  aloud  to 
us,  a  chapter  a  day  from  some  special  book,  with  an  extra 
chapter  on  Friday  afternoon. 

On  sunny  days  in  the  fall  and  spring  we  would  take  our 
lunch  boxes  out  of  doors  and  eat  in  some  favorite  spot.  But  all 
year  'round,  regardless  of  the  weather,  we  would  play  outside 
at  recess  and  after  lunch.  We  all  played  together,  mostly 
games  which  involved  a  lot  of  running.  I  remember  Red 
Light,  May  I?  Hide  and  Seek,  Crack  the  Whip,  and  "Tippy 
Up,"  a  game  which  required  a  flat  shingle  and  a  ball,  and  was 
played  over  the  steep  roof  of  the  schoolhouse.  The  older 
children  were  tolerant  of  the  younger  ones  (sometimes 
siblings),  and  great  emphasis  was  placed  on  "taking  turns." 
There  was  very  little  bickering  and  no  toleration  of  bullies  or 
of  poor  sports. 

Over  the  years,  as  I've  looked  back  on  this  schoolhouse, 
I  realize  much  credit  should  go  to  the  dedicated  teachers  who 
taught  there.  How  arduous  their  day  must  have  been!  Their 
physical  activities  would  have  been  tiring,  to  say  nothing  of 
teaching  each  of  the  different  grade  levels  in  several  subjects. 
They  were  inspirational,  instilling  in  one  a  love  of  learning 
and  of  scholarship,  of  wanting  to  excel,  to  do  one's  best. 
Lesson  preparation  was  always  meticulous.  One  might  be  the 
only  one  in  that  class  on  a  particular  day  and  have  to  answer 
all  the  questions.  One  studied  to  the  background  noise  of  first 
graders  reading  aloud  at  their  "recitation  time,"  or  third 
graders  reciting  multiplication  tables,  or,  perhaps,  an  eighth 
grade  class  learning  Lincoln's  "Gettysburg  Address."  This 
method   of   teaching   all   ages   in   one   room   would   seem 


75 


incomprehensible  today,  but  we  did  learn.  We  learned  some 
valuable  lessons,  too,  not  found  in  our  textbooks— lessons  of 
independence,  of  concentration,  of  toleration  and 
compassion. 

My  love  of  reading,  of  words,  and  of  writing  was 
fostered  in  that  school.  My  interest  in  art  history  was  born 
there.  We  used  to  receive  little  leaflets  each  month.  They 
were  cream-colored  with  a  sepia-toned  picture  on  the  front. 
Inside  the  leaflet  was  a  description  of  the  picture  and  a 
biography  of  the  artist.  I  remember  The  Gleaners  by  Millet, 
Landseer's  Shoeing  the  Bay  Mare,  and  many  others.  We  were 
also  taught  History,  Spelling,  Arithmetic,  Geography,  Civics, 
Orthography,  Language,  Nature  Study,  and  Health. 

It  is  a  way  of  life  which  is  gone.  1  reaUze  that  conditions 
were  not  ideal.  We  could  have  used  better  facihties,  and  we 
had  a  desperate  need  for  a  hbrary,  for  many  more  books,  but  I 
loved  going  to  school  at  Fairview  Schoolhouse.  I  feel  it 
shaped  my  character  in  many  ways  and  helped  me  to  become 
a  responsible  adult  with  the  ability  to  make  the  best  of  a 
given  situation.  I  am  sometimes  incensed  to  hear  those  old 
one-room  country  schoolhouses  being  deprecated  by  those 
who  were  not  fortunate  enough  to  attend  one. 


BUTLERVILLE  SCHOOL 

Violet  Greenleaf  Rose 

March  21,  1916,  was  my  sixth  birthday  and  my  first  day 
in  school.  The  teacher,  Blanche  Scott,  had  told  my  parents, 
Joe  and  Nona  Greenleaf,  to  send  me  to  school  so  I  would  get  a 
start  for  the  coming  year.  I  walked  the  one  and  three-fourths 
miles  from  our  farm  home  to  school  with  my  five  older 
brothers  and  sisters. 

Butlerville  School  was  in  Birmingham  Township, 
Schuyler  County,  Illinois.  The  one  room  was  thirty  feet  long 


and  twenty  feet  wide.  Two  rows  of  wooden  double  desks  and 
seats  used  most  of  the  floor  space.  The  front  of  each  row  was 
a  desk.  Back  of  it  was  a  folding  seat  fastened  to  the  desk 
behind  it.  This  was  repeated  to  the  end  seat.  Seat  hinges  and 
legs  for  desks  and  seats  were  of  iron.  All  legs  were  firmly 
fastened  to  the  floor. 

In  front  of  the  desks  was  a  recitation  bench  used  for 
classes.  Teacher's  desk,  built  Uke  a  high  table  with  two 
drawers  under  the  top,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  space 
between  the  bench  and  front  wall.  Across  the  front  wall  was  a 
high  blackboard  one  yard  wide.  A  big  Webster's  dictionary 
was  on  a  low  shelf  against  one  wall.  A  wooden  map  case,  high 
on  the  wall,  held  maps  of  the  continents  and  the  United 
States.  The  maps  were  on  rollers  and  rolled  up  and  down  Uke 
window  shades. 

We  hung  our  outer  clothing  on  double  hooks  screwed 
into  a  board  on  the  back  wall  at  one  side  of  the  door. 
Overshoes  were  left  on  the  floor.  A  huge  furnace,  enclosed  in 
a  metal  jacket  to  spread  heat,  stood  in  the  other  rear  corner. 

Sanitation  was  two  outhouses  in  opposite  corners  of  the 
school  yard.  One  was  for  girls  and  one  was  for  boys. 

The  first  bell  rang  at  8:30  a.m.  School  took  up  at  9:00. 
First  recess  was  10:30  to  10:45.  Noon  was  12:00  to  1:00.  Last 
recess  was  3:30  to  3:45.  School  was  out  at  4:00  p.m.  The 
school  had  no  bell.  Teacher  used  her  own  hand  bell,  six  or 
seven  inches  long. 

Miss  Scott  wrote  letters  and  numbers  on  the  blackboard 
and  pointed  to  one  with  her  pointer.  She  pronounced  it  and  I 
repeated  after  her.  The  wooden  pointer  was  five  feet  long  and 
tapered  from  the  one  inch  in  diameter  end  she  held  to  the 
thickness  of  a  pencil  end  which  touched  the  board.  Also  she 
wrote  letters  and  numbers  low  on  the  blackboard,  and  I 
traced  over  them  again  and  again. 

Soon  I  knew  my  ABC's  and  could  count  to  10.  I  wrote 
my  name,  "Violet  Greenleaf."  Next  I  learned  printed  letters 
and  short  words,  and  read  in  my  first  reader. 


76 


"First  Grade  Reading,"  Miss  Scott  called  one  day  and 
added,  "Violet  may  come  too."  I  jumped  to  "Turn  .  .  . 
stand  .  .  .  pass."  My  cousin  Grace,  six  years  old  the  previous 
September,  had  been  in  school  all  year.  I  was  happy  to  join 
her  in  classes. 

Examinations  were  given  at  the  end  of  each  month. 
Later,  report  cards  were  given  to  students  who  took  them 
home  for  parents  to  sign. 

Miss  Scott  had  many  nice  things  to  keep  us  busy  when 
lessons  were  done.  We  colored  with  crayons,  cut  out,  drew, 
and  pasted,  and  then  were  dismissed  early  to  play  outside. 

At  Christmas  time  a  native  cedar  tree  was  cut  and  stood 
in  a  front  corner  of  the  school  room.  It  was  decorated  with 
paper  chains  we  made  and  strings  of  popcorn.  Presents  were 
hung  on  the  tree.  Teacher  gave  each  of  us  a  fancy  cardboard 
box  of  Christmas  candy  and  an  orange.  Stores  stocked 
oranges  only  at  Christmas  time.  We  drew  names  and 
exchanged  ten  cent  gifts.  Jay  Moon  gave  me  a  black  iron 
horse  bank  four  inches  high  and  five  and  a  half  inches  long. 
"Beauty"  was  imprinted  on  one  side.  It  is  worth  over  $50.00 
today. 

The  John  Moon  children  went  home  for  dinner,  across 
the  road.  Everyone  else,  including  the  teacher,  carried  dinner 
in  a  tin  syrup  bucket  with  a  tight  lid.  We  ate  sandwiches, 
hard  boiled  eggs,  a  jar  of  fruit  or  an  apple,  and  a  cookie  or 
piece  of  pie  or  cake. 

Teacher  was  the  janitor.  In  cold  weather  she  came  early 
to  build  up  the  fire  with  coal  she  carried  from  the  shed  in  the 
yard.  She  carried  a  bucket  of  drinking  water  from  Moon's 
well.  Each  evening  she  scattered  sweeping  powder  on  the 
floor  and  swept  up  the  dust  and  dirt.  She  banked  the  fire 
evenings  when  needed. 

Some  teachers  paid  a  big  boy  to  do  janitor  work.  Most 
did  it  themselves  and  kept  the  money.  Very  few  teachers  were 
paid  $100.00  per  month.  Many  worked  for  less. 

Teacher  was  God  at  school,  with  strict  rules.  During 


school  time  no  one  talked,  whispered,  laughed,  ate,  or  chewed 
gum.  We  walked  on  our  toes  to  be  quiet  and  dared  not  turn  a 
head  to  see  behind  us.  Playtimes  we  were  not  allowed  in  front 
of  the  recitation  bench,  near  teacher's  desk. 

Rules  were  obeyed  and  lessons  learned,  or  punishment 
was  swift  and  sure.  Mild  punishment  was  standing  on  the 
floor  or  staying  in  at  recess  or  after  school.  The  worst 
punishment  was  a  "whipping"  with  the  leather  strap  teacher 
kept  in  her  desk.  1  learned  easily  and  obeyed  the  rules  and 
was  not  punished.  Teacher  hated  slow  learners  and  whipped 
them  often. 

Parents  were  allies  of  the  teacher;  adults  were  always 
right  and  chOdren  wrong.  Many  parents  knew  their  children 
were  beaten  unjustly  and  did  nothing.  To  go  to  the 
schoolhouse  and  talk  with  teacher  about  any  problem  was  not 
done.  Once  in  a  while  a  teacher  was  so  mean  she  had  trouble 
getting  a  school. 

Women  did  not  vote  or  hold  pubUc  office.  Each  spring 
the  men  of  the  district  held  an  election  at  the  schoolhouse. 
One  director  was  elected  and  one  retired.  The  three  school 
directors  served  three  years  without  pay.  They  hired  the 
teacher,  kept  the  schoolhouse  in  repair,  and  bought  supplies. 
District  tax  money  paid  the  bills. 

A  state  law  had  been  passed  to  lighten  the  work  load  of 
teachers.  During  a  school  year  ending  in  an  even  number, 
even  numbered  grades  were  taught.  Odd  numbered  grades 
were  taught  odd  years.  Children  were  to  start  to  school  at  age 
six  or  seven,  the  odd  year.  Most  parents  refused  to 
understand  this  law  and  sent  children  to  school  at  age  six. 
Teacher  taught  the  first  three  grades.  Any  child,  ready  for 
the  fourth  grade  in  an  odd  year,  took  the  third  grade  over  or 
skipped  to  the  fifth,  then  took  the  fourth  grade  the  next  year, 
and  finished  grade  school  that  way.  In  the  Fall  of  1916  I  was 
in  the  first  grade.  Grace  was  in  the  second.  Miss  Scott  taught 
us  together. 

Pauline,  my  oldest  sister,  was  in  the  eighth  grade  in 


1916.  For  weeks  her  class  reviewed  the  year's  work.  Final 
examination  for  the  township  was  held  at  Birmingham 
School.  Questions  were  sent  by  the  County  Superintendent  of 
Schools,  Calvin  L.  Cain.  Test  papers  were  returned  to  him  for 
grading.  The  Rushville  Times  published  names  and  grades  of 
those  who  passed.  The  pupil  with  the  highest  grade  in  each 
township  received  a  Lindley  Scholarship,  giving  him  or  her 
free  tuition  to  any  Illinois  State  Teacher's  College  High 
School  for  four  years.  The  student  with  the  highest  grade  in 
the  county  was  valedictorian  of  the  class.  County  graduation 
was  at  Rushville  in  June.  Our  school  ended  in  May  with  a 
picnic  for  the  whole  family. 

In  September,  1917,  we  had  a  new  teacher,  a  gentle, 
pleasant,  happy  person,  named  Elsie  Dean.  She  liked  us,  and 
we  loved  her.  But  the  end  of  my  happy  time  at  Butlerville 
Schoolcame  before  the  term  ended.  On  March  6,  1918,  my 
parents  held  a  farm  sale.  We  moved  to  RushviUe,  and  I  was 
enrolled  in  second  grade  at  Webster  School. 


EPISODE  AT  LONE  OAK 

Marjorie  Dawson  Davies 

"Skeeter  Creek"  was  McLean  County's  highest  land 
spot— the  name  being  given  by  my  paternal  grandfather 
because  of  the  small  pond  in  the  middle  of  the  100-acre  timber 
pasture  which  was  infested  with  mosquitoes  and  croaking 
frogs,  mostly  bass  singers.  The  house  across  the  road  is 
where  I  spent  most  of  my  youth.  Dawson  Township  was 
named  after  my  paternal  grandparents,  and  its  neighboring 
township,  Arrowsmith,  was  named  after  my  maternal  great- 
grandparents. 

Because  we  were  a  mile  from  the  main  gravel  road  on 
hills  of  clay  and  mud,  I  spend  most  of  my  schooling  years 
with   my   grandparents   in   the   little   town   of   Ellsworth, 


attending  the  two-story  combined  grade  and  high  school 
where  my  grandfather  was  the  janitor  for  many  years.  I  still 
have  the  big  hand  bell  that  he  rang  every  day  to  call  us  in 
after  recess  was  over.  I  remember  too  the  Little  ones  sitting  on 
the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  high  school,  waiting  for  my 
grandfather  to  pull  their  boots  off. 

My  mother  decided  that  when  I  was  ready  for  sixth 
grade,  I  should  walk  to  Lone  Oak  School.  And  oh,  the  good 
times  we  had  there,  and  how  much  more  I  learned  in  a  one- 
room,  eight-grade  school. 

Lone  Oak  School  is  no  longer  there,  but  what  memories! 
One  in  particular  stands  out  for  me.  When  I  was  a  pupil  in 
sixth  grade,  a  boy  was  always  coming  around  at  lunch  time 
and  pushing  my  face  down  in  my  food.  On  this  particular  day, 
my  mother  had  put  a  beautiful  piece  of  butterscotch  pie  in  my 
dinner  bucket.  Suddenly  I  felt  my  nose  being  slammed  into 
the  meringue  and  pie.  "This  is  going  to  stop,"  I  thought  to 
myself.  I  ran,  with  pie  in  hand,  caught  the  boy,  got  him  down, 
sat  on  him  and  smeared  my  deUcious  pie  all  over  his  face, 
neck,  ears  and  hair.  When  the  bell  rang  to  go  in.  Budge  sat  in 
the  schoolyard.  His  aunt  was  the  teacher  and  she  asked 
where  he  was.  "Should  I  tell  her?"  I  thought.  Yes,  I  did. 
"We'll  leave  him  out  there  until  he's  ready  to  come  in,"  she 
said.  The  two  of  us  still  laugh  about  this  whenever  we  meet  at 
our  high  school  reunions. 


EPITAPH  FOR  A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL 

Robert  Taylor  Burns 

Diagonally  across  the  pasture  and  a  half  mile  westward 
along  a  dirt  road  stood  the  little  country  school  with  the 
unique  name  of  "Pancake."  Some  say  it  was  named  to 
emphasize  the  flat  country  of  Central  Illinois.  Those  of  us 
who  had  considerable  trouble  mastering  arithmetic  had 
assumed  that  the  name  was  derived  from  the  circular,  one- 


78 


digit  shape  of  grades  often  imposed  upon  us  by  strict  and 
discerning  taskmasters. 

That  little  crackerbox  of  a  building,  shaded  by  a  couple 
of  gnarled  burr  oaks,  was  once  the  focal  point  of  our 
existence— in  fact,  of  the  whole  farm  community.  It  is  now 
gone.  Not  a  trace  of  it  can  be  found  today;  it's  been  entirely 
supplanted  by  a  few  hills  of  corn  in  the  corner  of  a  fenceless, 
massive  field. 

But  it  still  lives  in  memory— Pancake  and  thousands  of 
its  counterparts.  It's  a  memory  of  those  opening  exercises 
when  teacher  would  read  a  few  pages  of  a  well-selected  novel 
each  day,  leaving  the  kiddies  yearning  for  more.  It's  a 
nostalgic  review  of  those  spelling  lessons  in  which  the 
students  learned  to  speO  more  words  in  a  week  than  today's 
pupils  do  in  six.  It's  the  place  where  Johnny  learned  to 
read— either  because  he  wanted  to  or  he  had  to.  (What's 
wrong  with  those  two  types  of  motivation?  They  both 
worked.) 

Under  the  not-so-critical  eyes  of  our  parents  and 
neighbors,  we  garnered  an  early-day  introduction  to  acting. 
Maybe  we  waved  a  sock  in  a  Christmas  acrostic;  perhaps  we 
flubbed  so  badly  that  it  left  an  indehble  searing  memory  of  a 
goof.  A  personal  flub  was  my  recitation  of  the  "Night  Before 
Christmas,"  when  the  lines  "Ma  in  her  kerchief"  became  "Ma 
in  her  handkerchief."  That  brought  down  the  house  and 
created  an  enduring  vehicle  of  scornful  kidding  on  the  part  of 
older  sibUngs  and  fellow  students. 

Then  I  re-live  another  deeply  entrenched  moment  in  a 
previous  Christmas  program  when  we  anticipated  the 
appearance  of  Santa  Claus  with  a  sackful  of  goodies,  the  same 
St.  Nick  who  had  never  failed  us  in  the  past  years.  Imagine 
our  disiUusionment  as  Santa  came  in  with  a  few  "ho,  ho,  ho's" 
ambled  over  to  the  tree,  and  inadvertently  tipped  his  beard 
into  a  hve  candle  flame.  Mayhem  broke  out;  Santa  exuded 
some  lively  maneuvers,  swift  action  indeed  for  such  an  old 
gent.    Leaping   and    swatting   at   the   beard    now   aflame. 


unceremoniously  St.  Nick  peeled  off  his  mask,  revealing  the 
features  of  a  young  man  from  a  neighboring  farm. 

A  near  tragedy  was  averted  as  the  dry  conifer  also  went 
up  in  flames.  Dad  shouted  for  someone  to  open  the  window, 
then  grabbed  the  blazing  torch  of  a  tree  and  threw  it  into  the 
yard,  burning  his  hands  considerably  as  the  force  of  the  toss 
drove  the  flames  backward. 

That's  when  the  Santa  legend  went  up  in  smoke;  our 
behef  was  shattered,  at  least  until  innovative  older  brothers 
concocted  the  implausible  story  that  Mr.  Claus  had  shaken 
himself  up  pretty  badly  while  sliding  down  the  North  Pole 
and  had  telegraphed  the  impersonator  to  double  for  him. 

As  we  review  those  years,  we  wonder  if  the  educational 
success  of  the  country  school  did  not  stem  from  its  utter 
simphcity.  Take  the  minutely  stocked  Ubrary.  Few  books 
lined  the  hand-hewn  bookcase,  but  those  tomes  were  gone 
ones  that  have  stood  the  test  of  time— ones  we'd  probably 
choose  today  if  we  were  to  be  exiled  for  a  long  time  from 
today's  civilization. 

There  was  the  Bible,  whose  King  James  version  then 
and  now  gave  us  the  beautiful  cadence  copied  by  Abraham 
Lincoln,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  and  others.  Many  fine 
authors  have  been  nurtured  on  its  rhythmic  language.  No 
doubt,  there  was  always  a  hfe  of  Washington  and  a  volume  or 
two  depicting  the  rise  of  the  young  Lincoln  above  the  poverty 
and  deprivation  of  his  early  environment— a  man  who  had 
become  not  a  dropout  but  a  drop-in  during  his  formative 
years  at  New  Salem.  He'd  drop  in  to  the  hearthside  of  teacher 
Mentor  Graham  or  to  the  hollow  of  Jack  Kelso  for  a  thriUing 
communion  with  books  short  in  numbers  but  long  in  hterary 
style. 

The  maxims  of  Benjamin  Franklin  and  Aesop's  Fables 
could  be  found  in  Pancake's  tiny  hbrary  to  complement  the 
precepts  of  McGuffey's  Reader.  From  such  tomes  came  an 
emphasis  on  principles  such  as  honesty,  thrift,  perseverance, 
and  the  promised  rewards  of  a  strictly  defined  work  ethic. 


79 


No  doubt  Henry  Thoreau's  Walden  was  savored  by 
those  country  kids  of  decades  ago,  who  had  ab-eady  learned  a 
great  deal  about  nature  first  hand.  They  went  afield  in  spring 
on  short  flower  walks  while  basking  in  the  beauties  of  the 
season— the  trill  of  meadowlark  and  field  sparrow,  the  sweet 
spiced  aroma  of  black  locust  blossoms,  the  powerful  perfume 
of  choke  cherry,  the  flaring  beauty  of  wild  columbine. 

Thoreau's  seasonal  descriptions  also  enhanced  those 
walks  to  and  from  school  in  autumn,  when  we  had  the  chance 
to  stroll  toward  opening  day  as  a  September  morning  lay 
quiet,  and  the  world  was  as  an  inverted  humidor  under  the 
horizon  before  a  new-born  sun  had  disspelled  the  shimmering, 
jeweled  droplets  from  leaves  and  grass.  Then,  in  later 
autumn,  lanes  and  roadsides  were  bracketed  with  the  fiery 
flame  of  sumac  and  Virginia  creeper,  of  golden  basswood, 
redbud  and  hickory,  purple  New  England  asters,  and  the 
tropical-hke  green  and  gold  leaves  of  the  pawpaw,  whose 
sweet  and  creamy  fruit  would  soon  be  ripened. 

Winter  didn't  seem  long  and  dreary  then;  it  did  imprint 
upon  us  an  indeUble  memory  of  facing  a  howhng  northwest 
wind,  its  breath  seemingly  honed  on  the  North  Pole,  bringing 
tears  and  near  frostbite  to  those  who  must  face  that  wind  in 
traveUng  to  or  homeward  from  the  little  school.  I  recall  also 
the  all-out  snowball  battles  on  milder  days  when  the 
"packin'  "  was  good,  as  gigantic  forts  were  erected  before  the 
skirmishing  began. 

Then  back  into  the  room  warmed  by  a  pot-bellied  stove, 
popping  and  cracking  as  caps,  jackets,  and  mittens,  rendered 
soggy  by  the  snow  wars,  were  hung  to  dry  behind  that  stove, 
as  pleasant  though  pungent  smells  of  drying  wool  and  leather 
emitted  from  the  steaming  clothing. 

Today's  schools  seem  to  be  veritable  palaces  compared 
to  those  little  crackerboxes  of  the  prairies.  But  youngsters 
today  often  find  their  future  niche  in  Ufe  to  be  narrowed  by 
achievement  tests  and  computerized  results.  Back  then,  it 
was  up  to  the  discerning  teacher,  who  taught  from  the  heart 


and  recognized  talent  without  benefit  of  impersonal  test 
scores.  And  despite  a  dearth  of  teaching  aids  and  the  Uttle 
remuneration,  those  teachers,  with  few  exceptions,  acquitted 
themselves  very  well  indeed. 

There  is  no  quarrel  with  today's  schools.  Their  problems 
are  legion,  indeed.  In  today's  mobile,  concentrated  society, 
the  country  school  was  doomed.  And  yet,  since  there  is  no 
physical  evidence  remaining  of  Uttle  Pancake,  we  wonder  if  a 
monument  to  it,  along  with  all  other  such  neighborhood 
schools,  would  be  its  emphasis  upon  those  virtues  of  honesty, 
thrift,  and  perseverance— attributes  that  rose  to  the  front 
and  ushered  our  society  through  such  crises  as  two  world 
wars,  a  gigantic  depression,  and  other  calamaties  calling  for 
old  fashioned  grit  and  determination. 


STARTING  OUT  AT  SOUTH  LINCOLN 

Lucille  Herring  Davidson 

My  school  attendance  began  in  September,  1914.  I  was 
seven  years  old.  Mama's  last  minute  instruction  to  me  and 
my  younger  sister,  Mamie,  was,  "Remember  to  act  Hke  little 
ladies."  Papa  Henry  Herring  was  waiting  with  a  team  of 
horses  hitched  to  the  second-hand  surrey  with  a  frazzled 
fringe  on  top.  We  climbed  into  the  carriage  and  were  soon  on 
our  way  to  South  Lincoln  School,  District  60,  in  Greene 
County,  llhnois. 

After  more  than  a  two-mile  drive  from  the  rented  farm, 
which  was  located  in  the  peninsula-like  part  of  Woodville 
Township,  the  horses  pranced  across  Macoupin  Creek 
Bridge.  Less  than  five  hundred  feet  to  the  west  stood  the 
white  frame  one-room  school.  Other  pupils  were  arriving  in 
horse-drawn  vehicles  and  some  were  walking. 

Inside  the  schoolhouse  and  behind  a  desk  on  an  elevated 
platform    was    a    person    who    looked    like    a    princess. 


Appropriately  enough,  her  name  was  Miss  Norma  King.  She 
was  wearing  a  long  blue  dress  with  a  white  high  neck  lace 
collar  which  had  bone  stays  under  each  ear.  This  style 
restricted  her  movements  and  caused  her  to  turn  her  head 
and  shoulders  when  she  wanted  to  look  any  direction  except 
straight  ahead.  From  her  regal  position,  she  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  each  child  as  she  beamed  a  warm  friendly  smile  to 
everyone.  Desire  to  please  her  was  an  immediate  motivation. 

For  those  who  had  not  been  to  school,  reading  was 
taught  from  a  large  chart  with  words  and  pictures  in  black 
and  white.  On  the  first  page  was  a  httle  girl  with  curls, 
ribbons  and  ruffles.  A  httle  boy  was  dressed  in  shoes, 
knickers,  jacket  and  a  white  blouse  with  a  ruffled  collar. 
Behind  his  back,  he  held  a  striped  stick  of  candy.  Under  the 
picture  were  two  sentences:  "I  want  candy"  and  "I  have 
candy."  When  the  page  of  the  big  chart  was  turned  up  and 
over,  the  same  children  were  pictured.  The  boy  was  bowing 
and  the  girl  was  curtsying.  The  sentence  was,  "Here  is 
candy." 

Was  this  what  school  had  to  teach?  I  wondered. 

By  noon  dismissal,  as  an  overly  ambitious  seven-year- 
old,  I  had  "shown  off"  by  counting  to  one  hundred  and  by 
saying  the  alphabet  forward  and  backward.  Also,  I  had 
learned  to  recite  the  candy  sentences.  All  that  Mamie  and  the 
other  younger  beginners  remembered  was  the  word  "candy." 

Noon  hour  was  a  happy  time.  Big  and  httle  girls,  with 
lunch  baskets  and  buckets,  sat  on  the  porch  and  ate  fried 
chicken,  cookies,  fresh  peaches,  and  other  goodies.  Boys 
carried  lunches  in  squares  of  cloth  or  bandana  handkerchiefs 
as  they  ran  to  a  grassy  spot  behind  the  wood  shed.  Soon  the 
playground  was  the  scene  of  much  activity.  There  were 
running,  jumping,  and  throwing  games  accompanied  by 
friendly  yelling  and  happy  laughter. 

Most  of  the  forty-three  students,  who  looked  neat, 
clean,  and  well  dressed  in  the  morning,  appeared  somewhat 
bedraggled  near  the  end  of  the  hour.  Even  Miss  Norma  had 


removed  the  styhsh  lace  collar,  and  she  looked  more 
comfortable. 

In  response  to  the  "Ding!  Dong!"  from  the  belfry, 
everyone  lined  up  to  get  a  drink  of  water  from  one  of  the 
several  tin  cups  as  the  big  boys  took  turns  pumping  water 
from  the  school  yard  well.  Then  students  stood  in  line  to  go 
into  the  house  for  another  session  of  learning. 

As  I  entered  the  school  room.  Miss  Norma  said,  "Will 
you  please  help  me  this  afternoon?  Since  you  know  the  chart 
lesson,  will  you  Listen  while  others  read?  Then  you  may  write 
on  your  slate  and  make  pictures  and  words  on  some  paper." 
Here  was  a  teacher  who  was  sensitive  to  and  capitahzed  upon 
the  aggressiveness  of  a  older,  first-day-of-school  beginner. 
This  type  of  individual  motivation  was  the  trade-mark  of 
Miss  Norma's  teaching. 

After  eight  years  in  country  schools,  under  various 
teachers  with  above  average  concern  for  students,  I  passed 
my  Eighth  Grade  Final  Examination  in  1922.  This  success 
quahfied  me  to  enter  CarroUton  High  School  in  Greene 
County,  Illinois. 

The  four  years  of  high  school  were  strenuous,  profitable, 
and  enjoyable.  Again  there  were  teachers  who  brought  out 
the  competitive  drive  in  students  and  encouraged  them  to 
face  the  challenges  of  the  educational  advantages  at  hand, 
but  none  were  more  proficient  than  Miss  Norma.  In  March, 
1926,  I  passed  the  State  of  lUinois  Teacher's  Examination 
and  was  issued  Second  Grade  Elementary  Teacher's 
Certificate  No.  59.  This  document  was  "vahd  for  two  years 
for  teaching  in  the  first  eight  grades  of  the  common  schools." 

After  graduation  from  CarroOton  High  School  with  the 
class  of  1926,  I  was  enrolled  for  the  summer  at  Illinois  State 
Normal  University.  The  three  months  of  study  in  the  rural 
school  curruculum  was  pleasant  and  satisfying.  There  was  a 
feeling  of  humble  professional  pride  in  teacher  preparation. 

I  was  offered  a  contract  for  the  school  term  1926-1927, 
at  $75  per  month  at  South  Lincohi  School,  District  No.  60. 


81 


Thirty-seven  children  ranging  in  ages  from  five  to  fifteen 
were  present  for  that  first  day  of  the  new  school  term.  This 
time,  I  was  the  teacher,  in  the  same  one-room  school  where  I 
had  encountered  Miss  Norma  King  in  1914. 
Now  it  was  my  turn  to  smile. 


MEMORIES  OF  A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  TEACHER 

Eleanor  Grant  Verene 

The  most  rewarding  and  interesting  part  of  my  life  was 
spent  as  a  country  school  teacher.  One  of  the  big  differences 
between  the  schools  in  1930  and  those  which  came  much  later 
was  the  feehng  that  the  teacher  and  pupils  were  one  big 
family.  Whenever  one  child  was  injured,  all  were  very 
concerned.  Any  new  equipment  was  carefully  cared  for  by 
everyone.  Buckets  of  coal  were  carried  in  for  the  fire  and 
buckets  of  water  were  willingly  carried  for  drinking.  The 
atmosphere  in  the  schoolroom  was  one  of  helping  each  other. 

One  school  where  I  spent  four  years  of  teaching  was 
Newman  School.  I  can  hardly  put  into  words  the  joy  and 
beauty  of  driving  two  miles  to  Newman  School  at  7:30  in  the 
morning.  In  a  Model  T  Ford,  with  very  little  traffic  and  such 
a  slow  speed,  I  was  able  to  enjoy  nature.  The  different 
seasons  of  the  year  were  so  delightful.  In  the  fall  the 
goldenrod  and  purple  asters  were  in  bloom  along  the 
roadside.  In  winter  everything  looked  so  pure  and  white  with 
snow  covered  trees  and  bushes.  Spring  and  early  summer 
were  equally  as  pretty.  There  were  spring  flowers,  the  singing 
of  meadow  larks,  and  beautiful  wild  roses.  Seeing  this  on  my 
way  to  school  seemed  to  begin  the  day  just  right  for  me. 

There  were  many  things  to  do  besides  teaching.  The 
janitor  work  was  usuaDy  done  in  the  hours  after  school.  I 
very  seldom  was  ready  to  go  home  before  5:30.  In  the 
morning  I  had  outlines  to  write  on  the  blackboard  and  busy 


work  to  prepare  for  the  lower  grades  as  we  had  no  work 
books.  In  1932  I  had  twenty-three  pupOs,  some  in  each  of  the 
eight  grades.  Teaching  everything  in  the  text  books  was  very 
important  as  the  final  examinations  of  the  year  were  sent  out 
by  the  County  Superintendent  of  Schools.  We  did  now  know 
what  the  questions  would  be.  We  also  taught  music,  art,  and 
penmanship. 

When  we  were  given  our  supplies  by  the  Knox  County 
Superintendent  of  Schools,  he  included  a  book  on  morals  and 
manners.  We  had  a  class  in  that  once  a  week.  The  children 
enjoyed  it.  They  entered  into  the  discussion,  which  was  very 
interesting  as  there  were  students  participating  from  the  age 
of  six  years  to  fourteen  years.  In  those  days,  for  opening 
exercises,  we  read  the  Bible  and  had  prayer.  When  all  work 
was  completed,  the  singing  of  "Now  the  Day  Is  Over"  was  a 
quiet  way  of  ending  each  day.  At  the  present  time  Bible 
reading  is  not  permitted  in  school.  And  now,  fifty  years  later, 
I  am  hearing  results  of  this  old-fashioned  teaching.  Some  of 
my  former  students  have  thanked  me  for  helping  them  to  get 
started  in  the  right  way  of  hfe. 

Many  interesting  incidents  happened  during  those 
years.  One  of  the  families  had  three  httle  girls  in  the  lower 
grades.  All  three  rode  to  school  on  one  horse.  Each  night  I 
helped  them  get  on  to  go  home,  but  I  was  having  such  a  hard 
time  with  the  horse.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  get  them  on. 
I  was  trying  to  put  the  girls  on  from  the  wrong  side.  It  would 
have  been  much  easier  to  put  them  on  a  bus,  as  they  are  now 
doing  in  1982. 

One  morning,  as  1  drove  into  the  school  yard,  I  saw 
hundreds  of  bluebirds  gathering  on  the  fences  across  the 
road.  They  were  gathering  to  fly  south  for  the  winter.  It  was  a 
beautiful  sight  that  I  have  never  seen  again;  we  hardly  ever 
see  a  bluebird.  People  are  being  urged  to  put  up  special  bird 
houses  for  them  as  bluebirds  are  becoming  quite  scarce. 

Many  times  a  country  school  teacher  needed  to  be  a 
nurse.  One  of  the  boys,  while  playing  at  recess,  fell  and  forced 


his  tooth  through  his  lip.  Another  boy  jumped  on  a  nail  and 
ran  it  completely  through  the  sole  of  his  shoe  and  into  his 
foot.  The  boys  had  pulled  it  out  before  they  brought  him  to 
me.  I  needed  to  drive  him  home  to  be  taken  to  the  doctor. 
There  was  no  one  to  leave  at  school  with  the  children.  Giving 
them  a  lecture  on  good  behavior  and  how  important  it  was  to 
get  Rob  to  the  doctor,  I  put  the  oldest  student  in  charge  and 
left.  When  I  came  back,  all  was  in  order  and  written  work  had 
been  completed.  Here  again,  it  showed  the  feeUng  of  being 
one  big  family.  I  found  that  students  in  the  1930's  respected 
their  teacher  and  wished  to  obey  in  an  emergency. 

We  began,  for  the  first  time,  to  have  community 
meetings  and  potluck  suppers.  Having  enjoyed  so  much  the 
Dramatic  Club  in  Knoxville  High  School,  I  decided  to  try  to 
have  the  people  of  Newman  School  District  produce  a  three- 
act  play.  It  was  fun  and  also  drew  the  famihes  closer 
together.  Two  of  the  high  school  students  in  the  district 
played  the  roles  of  hero  and  heroine.  They  wanted  extra 
practice  on  their  scene  so  they  came  one  night  after  school. 
They  were  on  the  stage  hugging  each  other,  practicing  the 
scene,  when  I  heard  a  man's  voice  very  disgustedly  say, 
"Which  one  is  the  teacher  around  here?"  I  stepped  out  from 
behind  the  old  stove  in  the  back  of  the  room  and  said,  "I  am 
the  teacher.  We  are  having  practice  for  a  play."  You  should 
have  seen  the  look  on  his  face.  He  thought  he  had  found 
something  going  on  after  school  to  report  to  the  directors  of 
the  district.  In  those  days,  this  would  have  been  a  disgrace.  I 
asked  if  I  could  help  him.  He  said  he  just  wanted  a  bucket  to 
pump  some  water  to  put  in  the  radiator  of  his  car. 

We  received  quite  a  profit  from  our  play,  which  we  used 
for  needed  equipment.  One  thing  which  we  bought  was 
stainless  steel  tableware.  We  felt  so  rich  owning  it  and  used  it 
only  one  time.  It  was  stolen.  In  those  days  there  were  tramps, 
as  they  were  called,  who  broke  into  schoolhouses  and  spent 
the  night.  Sometimes  when  they  left,  they  took  a  few  things 
with  them.  This  is  what  we  thought  had  happened. 


I  organized  the  first  rhythm  band  in  the  country 
schools.  We  had  rhythm  sticks,  bells,  a  drum,  a  triangle, 
tambourines  and  cymbals.  It  was  such  an  enjoyable  treat  to 
practice  that  school  work  went  much  faster  on  practice  days. 
My  mother  helped  make  blue  caps  and  capes  trimmed  in 
silver  for  each  student.  The  parents  looked  forward  to 
hearing  the  band  at  each  program. 

There  were  so  many  incidents,  and  I  have  chosen  only  a 
few.  I  am  sure  that  every  country  school  teacher  would  have 
fond  memories  of  her  school  days. 

This  same  Newman  School,  where  I  taught  those  four 
interesting  years,  has  now  been  restored  by  the  Retired 
Teachers'  Association  of  Knox  County.  The  buOding,  which 
was  originally  two  miles  south  of  Knoxville,  was  moved  into 
town.  It  is  located  at  the  edge  of  James  Knox  Park,  on  North 
Market  Street.  The  building  has  been  restored  as  it  was  in  the 
1920's.  It  represents  all  of  the  country  schools  of  Knox 
County,  but  for  me,  it  also  represents  many  years  of 
fulfillment  as  a  rural  school  teacher. 


A  BULL  IN  THE  CLASSROOM-ALMOST 

Leona  Tattle  Curtis 

You've  heard,  no  doubt,  about  a  bull  in  a  china  shop? 
But  have  you  ever  heard,  or  even  dreamed,  of  a  buU  in  a 
classroom?  I  hadn't  either,  until  one  never-to-be-forgotten 
day  in  late  October  many  years  ago,  in  a  small  rural  school 
where  I  was  teaching  my  first  year. 

The  school  tempo  had  gradually  slowed  as  the  warm 
October  day  had  lulled  even  the  most  active  students  into  a 
sleepy  stillness  of  Indian  Summer.  It  was  just  thirty  minutes 
until  dismissal  time,  and  I  was  very  quietly  moving  about 
helping  with  individual  problems.  (In  those  days,  rural 
schools  used  the  individual  approach,  you  know.) 


83 


Suddenly,  the  sleepy  drone  of  the  room  exploded  with  a 
bellow  which  brought  everyone  to  his  feet  with  a  half-scream 
on  his  lips.  My  horrified  eyes  looked  up  to  see  a  huge,  black 
bull  glaring  at  me  through  the  open  window.  He  even  reared 
up  against  the  side  of  the  schoolhouse  to  get  a  better  view! 

I  was  so  stunned  that  I  couldn't  move  or  utter  a  sound. 
My  worst  nightmare  had  never  dredged  up  a  more 
frightening  sight.  Twice  in  my  younger  days,  I  had  been 
chased  by,  and  barely  escaped  from,  a  charging  bull,  and  the 
memories  of  those  encounters  had  marked  me  forever  as  a 
absolute,  cringing  coward  when  near  any  bovine  species.  Now 
my  worst  fears  were  to  be  realized.  That  big,  black  monster 
had  materialized  out  of  my  fears  to  get  me. 

Having  always  hved  in  a  town  or  city,  I  had  very  little 
practical  knowledge  about  how  one  ought  to  handle  a 
maddened  bull.  (This  information  had  not  been  offered  in  any 
of  my  education  courses,  either.)  I  turned  hopefully  for  help 
to  my  big  farm  boys.  (There  were  several  fifteen-year-olds  in 
the  room.)  To  my  despair,  they  seemed  as  scared  as  I  was— if 
that  was  possible!  I  saw  I  would  get  no  guidance  from  them, 
so  I'd  have  to  be  the  savior  myself.  Somehow,  I  was  not  in  the 
least  surprised  when  they  all  tried  to  tell  me,  at  once,  that  the 
bull  bellowing  outside  our  window  was  the  very  one  who  had, 
on  two  recent  occassions,  escaped  from  his  pasture  or  pen  and 
threatened  several  farm  folk. 

A  sudden,  frozen  calm  descended  on  me  with  the 
realization  that  not  only  was  there  a  bull  out  there,  but  that  it 
was  a  renegade  one  at  that.  Somehow,  I  had  to  do  the 
impossible— outwit  him  and  save  us  all  from  his  design. 

By  this  time,  the  bull  had  started  to  circle  the  building 
in  rushing  charges,  accompanied  by  fierce  bellows  and  angry 
snorts.  Occasionally,  he  stopped  to  paw  the  ground  or  banged 
his  great  head  against  the  walls.  This  behavior  did  nothing  to 
calm  the  already  badly  frightened  children  (and  teacher). 
Frantically  my  mind  explored  the  possibihties:  could  a  bull 
plunge  through  an  open,  unscreened  window?  We  darted  to 


close  them  in  the  intervals  when  he  was  on  the  side  of  the 
building  where  the  windows  were  much  higher  up. 

Then,  as  I  rushed  to  shut  the  outside  door,  which 
opened  inwardly,  a  terrible  reahty  hit  me.  That  door  would 
not  stay  shut  without  an  object  to  hold  it.  To  unlock  it,  a 
chain  was  used  (on  the  outside),  fastened  to  a  padlock.  There 
was  no  chance  of  locking  it  unless  I  wanted  to  lock  myself  out 
with  the  bull,  an  idea  which  I  quickly  discarded.  The  way  he 
was  butting  against  the  walls,  it  seemed  only  a  matter  of  time 
before  he  would  hit  the  door.  The  boys  scrambled  to  pile 
desks  and  benches  against  the  door,  hoping  a  barricade  would 
stop  or  entangle  him  should  he  knock  it  open. 

By  this  time,  I  realized  that  no  lucky  rescue  was 
imminent,  since  parents  would  not  be  anxious  about  students 
for  another  thirty  minutes  or  more.  I  knew  I  had  better  have 
an  escape  route  in  case  the  beast  got  into  the  room.  We  built 
some  makeshift  steps  from  desks  and  chairs,  up  to  one  of  the 
high  windows  on  the  side  of  the  building  nearest  a  fence.  I 
coached  the  children  how,  if  the  bull  crashed  through  the 
barrier,  they  were  to  go  through  the  window,  over  the  fence 
and  to  the  nearest  neighbor's  house.  The  big  boys  were  to 
help  all  the  others.  Then  I  had  all  of  them  keep  perfectly  quiet 
in  hopes  this  silence  would  discourage  any  fiendish  besigns 
the  bull  had  in  mind.  I  stationed  a  big  boy  at  one  of  the  higher 
windows  to  watch  for  signs  of  rescue.  Hysterically,  I  was 
reminded  of  a  similar  watch  that  was  posted  in  Bluebeard's 
tower. 

A  farm  truck  rumbled  by  but  didn't  stop.  Another  wait 
during  which  the  bull  was  challenging  the  windows,  the  pump 
(what  a  banging  it  took),  and  the  walls.  He  hadn't  found  the 
door  yet!  It  was  now  four-thirty,  and  I  desperately  hoped 
some  parents  would  begin  to  be  concerned  about  their 
offspring. 

Finally,  in  the  midst  of  the  bull's  pandemonium,  we  saw 
a  tractor,  a  wagon,  and  a  truck  with  several  men,  inching 
their  way  up  the  slope  into  the  school  yard.  We  cheered  (in  a 


84 


muted  way,  in  contrast  to  the  bull's  excitable  temperament) 
as  we  realized  that  rescue  was  near.  The  men  were  armed  with 
pitchforks,  ropes,  whips  and  various  bull-restraining  devices. 
After  some  violent  bellows,  and  some  very  quick  retreats  by 
the  men,  the  monster  was  prodded  and  driven  into  the  truck 
and  tied  up  securely.  To  our  great  relief,  the  men  assured  us 
that  the  animal  was  being  taken  straight  to  market  and 
would  never  terrorize  us  again. 

As  for  the  children  and  I,  we  felt  hke  heroes— although 
very  exhausted  and  shaky  ones— as  our  story  of  "almost  a 
bull  in  the  classroom"  was  widely  circulated  (and 
embellished)  around  the  district.  And,  to  my  secret  rehef,  no 
one  made  fun  of  the  "green,  city  teacher"  who  had  met  the 
challenge  of  an  angry  bull  and  kept  him  out  of  her  classroom. 


FULL  LASTING  IS  THE  SONG 

Eva  Baker  Watson 

My  father  probably  would  not  have  been  able  to 
understand  the  popularity  of  the  strange  sound  called  rock 
and  roll.  And  if  he  had  ever  gone  to  the  opera,  surely  the 
unknown  language  in  which  it  was  sung  would  have 
bewildered  him  no  more  than  its  music. 

Yet  he  would  have  told  you  he  was  a  music  lover.  And, 
indeed,  it  is  his  songs  that  accompany  the  picture  of  him  that 
lives  in  my  heart. 

I  see  him  in  the  bleak,  predawn  winter  hours,  shaking 
down  the  heating  stove,  taking  out  ashes,  poking  to  revive 
the  embers  and  defrost  the  air  so  as  to  lure  the  rest  of  the 
family  from  cozy  featherbed  cocoons.  AU  the  while,  above 
this  banging  and  clanging,  he  sang. 

Later  on,  as  he  stamped  the  snow  from  his  feet,  coming 
into  the  house  for  breakfast  after  the  milking  and  feeding,  his 


singing  would  reach  us  before  he  did.  Thus  he  bestirred  the 
blood  and  ventilated  the  breathing  apparatus.  Thus  he 
affirmed  his  courage  and  zest  for  living.  Thus  he  greeted  this 
day  that  the  Lord  had  made— fresh,  just  that  morning. 

He  sang  a  lilting  testimony  of  self-worth.  His  singing 
helped  him  cope  with  the  difficulties  of  providing  for  a  family 
in  circumstances  which  were  not  actually  impoverished  but 
were  certainly  Spartan. 

His  repertoire,  varied  and  colorful,  had  church  songs  as 
its  backbone.  These  were  not  hymns,  solemn  and  dignified. 
Rather,  he  sang  the  spirited  songs  of  the  congregations  of 
small  rural  churches  of  that  day— songs  of  a  people  who 
expressed  their  faith  with  fervor  fortissimo.  A  man  who  sat  in 
the  pew  beside  my  father  remarked,  "When  Fred  Baker  sings 
he  makes  the  seat  tremble." 

Around  home  his  singing  style  was  less  conventional. 
Papa  must  have  been  Hke  the  woman  who  said  she  loved  to 
play  the  pipe  organ  because  it  gave  her  a  feeling  of  "playing 
the  whole  orchestra."  He  was  a  one-man  quartet,  rising  to 
tenor  or  zooming  with  ease  to  booming  bass,  filling  in  all  the 
repeats: 

When  the  roll— 

(WHEN  THE  ROLL) 

Is  called  up  yon— 

(DER,  CALLED  UP  YONDER!) 

I  would  listen  to  see  if  all  these  musical  gymnastics,  this 
switching  from  part  to  part,  would  cause  him  to  lose  the  beat. 
It  didn't.  He  often  improvised  with  starthng  original  lyrics. 
His  imaginative  words  sometimes  failed  to  come  out  even 
with  the  tune  and  when  that  happened  he'd  just  extend  the 
song  a  few  bars.  But  he  always  kept  the  beat. 

Papa  was  an  early  moonhghter,  teaching  rural  schools 
during  autumn,  winter,  and  spring,  then  farming  the  rest  of 
the  year  to  supplement  his  meager  salary. 

But  the  schoolroom  was  his  true  love.  His  two  older 
brothers  had  left  home  to  study  law;  other  children  were  also 


85 


gone,  so  it  was  Papa  who  stayed  behind  to  "look  after 
Mother"— a  widow  since  he  was  a  small  boy. 

His  yearning  to  become  a  teacher  was  to  be  answered, 
though,  for  he  found  he  could  earn  his  certificate  by 
attending  one  of  the  several  "Summer  Normal  Schools" 
offered  at  various  points  throughout  Pope  County. 

These  schools  were  open  to  eighth  grade  graduates  with 
teaching  aspirations  who,  like  many  of  that  day,  could  not 
afford  to  "go  away"  to  coUege.  They  date  back  as  far  as  1890 
and  were  still  in  existence  as  recently  as  the  year  1916.  This 
twelve-week  course  was  within  reach  of  many  ambitious 
young  men  and  women,  who  walked,  drove  buggies,  rode 
horses,  or  boarded  in  order  to  attend. 

At  the  end  of  the  term,  an  examination  (said  not  to  be  an 
easy  one)  was  given  by  the  County  Superintendent  of 
Schools.  Passing  this  test  would  quaUfy  them  for  either  a 
First  or  Second  Grade  Certificate,  depending  on  their  test 
score.  And  this  was  how  my  father  became  a  teacher  in  the 
early  1900's. 

The  finished  product  of  these  schools,  the  rural  educator 
back  then,  was  an  aU-purpose  package:  surrogate  parent, 
first-aid  specialist,  counselor,  recreation  director,  missionary. 
Janitor,  and  teacher  of  the  basics  (plus  music,  if  he  was  so 
inclined). 

Papa,  so  inchned,  was  happy  to  include  music- 
singing—  in  his  schedule,  not  as  a  formal  class,  but  usually  as 
"opening  exercises"  or  as  a  special  treat,  a  "change  of 
exercise"  on  Friday  afternoons.  With  him  at  the  helm  the 
schools  sang,  because  they  wanted  to  and  he  wanted  to.  His 
qualifications  for  the  role  of  music  director  were  a  fondness 
for  singing,  and  innate  sense  of  rhythm,  and  the  ability  to 
"carry  a  tune."  For  the  need  then,  that  was  adequate. 

He  was  my  teacher  for  one  of  the  thirty-one  years  he 
taught.  Here  I  saw  another  side  of  the  man  whom  I'd  known 
earher  only  as  my  father.  And  I  realized  (though  only 
superficially)  the  broader  scope  of  his  love  for  song.  For  it  was 


in  school  that  his  songs  reached  beyond  temporal  and 
provincial  hmits  and  spoke  to  the  world  and  to  the  future. 

In  his  schoolroom  we  sang  war  songs  because  we  were 
just  a  few  hurrahs  from  the  time  when  Johnny  had  come 
marching  home  from  World  War  I.  We  sang  the  poignant 
"Tenting  Tonight"  because  Papa  was  only  one  scant 
generation  removed  from  the  Civil  War  in  which  his  own 
father  had  served  with  the  Union  Army. 

We  sang  "By  the  rivers  gently  flowing,  Ilhnois,  lUinois" 
because  it  was  our  song.  We  sang,  with  feeling,  all  the 
patriotic  songs.  Then,  with  his  staccato  steps  leading  us 
around  the  room,  we  marched  to  the  rousing  "Three  Cheers 
for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue!"  And  we  caught  his  proud 
possessiveness  as  we  sang  "My  County  'Tis  of  Thee."  Too 
much  flag-waving?  He  would  never  have  believed  it. 

That  was  a  primitive  era  in  education  here  in  the  Pope 
County  hills.  The  school  world  was  small,  but  it  was  a  warm, 
caring  world.  What  was  not  apparent  to  me  then  is  clear  now, 
that  my  father's  songs  were  a  gentle  indoctrination  in  what 
he  recognized  as  our  national  heritage.  In  those  small  schools 
he  not  only  taught  but  also  lived  the  principles  of  respect, 
integrity,  obedience.  He  was  concerned  with  the  worth  and 
responsibihty  of  the  individual.  He  shared  in  the  ideals  of  a 
nation  he  was  a  part  of  and  he  sang  of  those  ideals.  The  songs 
people  sing  are  the  sound  of  what  they  are. 

Now  my  father's  voice  is  stilled.  But,  like  Meredith's 
thrush,  "Full  lasting  is  the  song,  though  he,  /  The  singer, 
passes."  I  wonder  why  I  waited  this  long  to  thank  him? 


NO-NONSENSE  SCHOOLING  NEEDED  AGAIN 

Mat  tie  L.  Em  en,' 


I  hved  through  a  lot  of  those  "good  old  days,  "  and  I  am 


glad  we  do  not  have  most  of  them  any  more— washing  clothes 
on  a  washboard,  carrying  water  in  from  the  well,  using  an 
outhouse  in  twenty  degree  weather,  heating  irons  on  a 
cookstove  fired  with  wood  and  coal.  I  could  go  on  and  on. 

One  thing  I  think  was  better  in  those  "good  old  days" 
was  the  attitude,  the  dedication,  and  the  seriousness  of 
parents,  teachers,  and  children  toward  education.  Of  course, 
there  were  many  one-room  schoolhouses,  with  a  single 
teacher  to  handle  ten  to  twenty-five  children,  usually  grades 
one  through  eight. 

I  remember  how  it  was  with  our  family;  we  were  quite 
poor.  Five  sisters  in  school.  Many  times  I  took  potatoes  to 
bake  on  the  hearth  inside  the  furnace  door  and  soup  to  heat  in 
a  half -gallon  jar  in  the  water  bowl  on  top  of  the  furnace  that 
provided  moisture  for  the  school  room.  Parents  worried  about 
lunches.  Often  items  were  traded  but  very  seldom  was 
anything  wasted. 

Now  it's  really  an  eye  opener  to  work  in  a  school 
cafeteria.  Children  are  allowed  so  many  minutes  for  lunch. 
Every  year  there  are  thousands  of  doOars  wasted  in  food 
thrown  out,  not  eaten.  Every  mother  should  have  an 
opportunity  to  see  in  what  way  this  is  handled.  Without 
lunch  bucket  supervision  from  home,  kids  are  spending  their 
nickels,  dimes,  and  quarters  on  too  much  junk  food. 

Somehow,  the  country  school  teacher  always  had  time 
for  personal  help  for  any  student  who  needed  extra  time.  You 
learned  phonetics  before  you  learned  to  spell  or  to  read.  You 
learned  your  multpUcation  tables  by  the  fourth  grade  until 
you  could  answer  any  quiz  without  hesitation.  Spelling  bees 
were  a  big  thrill.  We  looked  forward  to  one  every  Friday. 
Once  a  year  contests  were  carried  on  between  schools,  then  at 
town,  then  at  the  county  seat,  then  maybe  at  Springfield. 

One  thing  was  certain:  no  child  passed  a  grade  in  those 
rural  schools  unless  he  or  she  really  deserved  to. 

I  do  not  remember  there  ever  being  a  serious  need  for 
extreme  punishment.  Sure,  someone  might  have  to  stay  after 


school,  or  maybe  once  or  twice  a  year  a  teacher  had  to  inflict 
corporal  punishment  with  a  paddle,  but  more  often  the 
majority  of  kids  had  a  healthy  respect  for  authority.  Now,  it 
is  very  risky  for  a  teacher  to  stand  up  for  his  or  her  rights  as  a 
classroom  authority.  He  or  she  may  be  accused  of  infringing 
on  a  student's  rights.  Anything  from  unruly  behavior  to  an 
unsuitable  type  of  dress  to  actual  abuse  of  the  teacher  is  apt 
to  be  overlooked  today. 

Decades  ago,  at  the  end  of  eight  grades,  there  was 
almost  no  illiteracy,  compared  to  the  high  rate  now  in  senior 
high  school  students  and  college  freshmen. 

Kids  who  went  on  to  high  school  had  to  sacrifice  their 
spare  time  to  work  to  help  pay  their  way.  I  think  that  helped 
a  great  number  of  people  reahze  the  importance  of  an 
education.  Even  President  Reagan  worked  some  part-time  to 
help  pay  his  way  through  school.  The  courses  were  no- 
nonsense  courses.  It  would  take  some  of  our  modern  students 
at  least  a  year  to  make  up  what  he  or  she  should  have  learned 
in  high  school  by  that  age  decades  ago. 

I  think  our  modern  schools  would  be  better  off  to 
propose  a  no-nonsense,  no  friDs,  back  to  the  three  R's 
education  like  we  used  to  have.  And  maybe  it  would  make  a 
lot  of  sense  to  not  put  such  an  emphasis  on  sports.  It  makes 
me  very  sad  to  read  in  the  newspapers,  and  see  on  television, 
athletes  who  have  been  given  college  scholarships  for  their 
ability  in  sports  who  can  hardly  read  or  write. 

More  and  more  parents  are  getting  upset  because  they 
are  not  satisfied  that  their  children  are  getting  a  good 
education.  Many  parents  are  enrolling  their  children  in 
private  schools,  and  some  are  even  assisting  teachers. 
Parental  concern  is  a  step  in  the  right  direction— a  step 
toward  the  kind  of  closeness  between  school  and  home  that 
was  characteristic  of  the  country  school. 


yv,  fli'if'^w.  Hi'iM 


v^U  a'-iWi^C  ii'wnl^U  di'Wwi^U  il^'Frn^'^ 


i^ivwv/j  u^^wi'/y  'iV)^w('jy  iv^W'' jj  ii^ii-w^'j/  iViVW'i/  uvv^m '/j  nuk^^^s^u 


V     Pastimes 


PASTIMES 

Young  people  of  generations  ago  most  certainly  lived  by 
an  unwritten  code  of  the  times— that  which  could  be  express- 
ed best  by  a  paraphrasing  of  Ecclesiates.  There  was  a  time  to 
be  born  and  a  time  to  die.  and  there  was  a  time  to  work  and  a 
time  to  enjoy  what  life  had  to  offer.  With  respect  to  the  last, 
it  never  took  precedence  over  the  necessity  to  labor:  it  was 
that  which  filled  in  the  chinks  of  existence,  so  to  speak.  Each 
boy  had  his  chores;  those  on  the  farm  helped  in  whatever  jobs 
had  to  be  done:  those  in  the  towns  mowed  the  lawns  and 
cleaned  windows  on  Saturday.  But  there  were  always  times 
to  which  one  could  look  forward.  The  first  breath  of  Spring 
brought  forth  a  baseball  mitt  and  the  first  hint  of  frost  pro- 
duced a  football.  In  between  there  were  the  special  days  and 
occasions.  Beulah  Knecht,  in  her  piece  below,  wrote  that 
"Chautauqua  was  something  you  started  thinking  about  ear- 
ly in  the  summer  ..."  Bob  Hulsen  intimates  the  same  about 
July  4  or  Independence  Day,  though  he  does  not  add  that 
almost  every  small-town  boy  began  to  save  his  pennies  early 
as  his  own  special  contributions  to  the  occasion.  After  all, 
there  were  firecrackers  to  be  bought— ladyfingers,  one  and 
two  inches,  Roman  candles,  snakes  and,  for  the  daring, 
cherry  bombs. 

Each  day  of  the  week  had  its  own  special  meaning  in 
summer.  Monday  meant  carrying  water  for  the  wash. 
Tuesday  was  ironing  day.  Other  days  of  the  week  were  for 
dusting,  beating  rugs,  cooking,  or  whatever  the  needs  of  the 
house  called  for.  But  Saturday  night— that  was  something 
else.  It  was  ice  cream  night,  salted  peanut  night,  and  flirting 
night  all  rolled  into  one.  It  was  movie  night,  popcorn  night, 
and  "chalk  the  corner"  night  as  well.  Families,  hke  caravans 
of  old,  trouped  through  the  streets  to  the  "main"  one— father 
and  mother  in  the  van,  the  rest  dressed  in  their  Saturday 
night  best,  in  the  rear.  Once  the  main  section  of  town  was 
reached,  there  began  a  ritual  almost  as  old  as  America  itself. 


While  the  teenagers  ogled  those  of  the  opposite  sex,  the 
elders  circled  the  town  business  section  seeking  out  and 
talking  to  old  acquaintances  and  neighbors.  Meanwhile, 
those  fortunate  enough  to  own  automobiles,  sat  in  them, 
watching  and  undoubtedly  commenting  upon  the  passing 
parade.  In  one  western  Illinois  town,  it  was  said  that  a 
particularly  affluent  farmer  brought  his  Lincoln  car  into  town 
early  on  Saturday  morning  just  so  he  might  have  a  parking 
place  for  that  evening. 

It  was  so  true  that  each  season  of  the  year  presented  its 
own  illustrations  of  "belonging  to  the  community,"  as  Lewis 
Atherton  has  written.  Easter  Sunday  was  a  time  for  wearing 
a  new  hat  or  for  decorating  a  local  church  with  flowers:  callas, 
ferns,  gloxinias,  lilac  sprigs,  or  Easter  lilies.  Memorial  Day 
brought  out  the  local  brass  band  and  a  display  of  the 
remaining  veterans  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic.  The 
Fourth  of  July  was  welcomed  by  the  booming  of  a  cannon  at 
the  dawn's  early  light.  In  Macomb,  lUinois,  the  roar  of  that 
terrible  weapon  could  be  heard  at  least  four  miles  away. 
Family  reunions  were  reserved  for  Autumn,  and  county  fairs 
followed  shortly  thereafter.  Christmas,  the  special  time, 
brought  forth  pre-hohday  shopping  visits  to  town  and  the 
inevitable  Christmas  program  at  church  or  school.  This  last 
was  a  mixture  of  holiday  nostalgia,  flickering  candles, 
evergreens,  tinsel,  reds  and  greens,  uncles  and  aunts,  and 
peanut  brittle. 

New  Year's  Eve  was  for  the  older  people.  While  children 
fought  to  keep  their  drooping  eyelids  up,  their  parents  sang, 
reminisced  about  earlier  times,  drank  cold  cider,  or 
sometimes  drank  elderberry  wine  or  beer.  Those  in  the 
marrying  years  occasionally  held  dances.  What  a  variety!  In 
the  flickering  light  of  local  opera  halls,  they  could  dance  a 
waltz,  a  foxtrot,  or  even  the  more  risque  version  of  the 
Virginia  Reel: 

Take  a  lady  by  her  hand. 
Lead  her  like  a  pigeon, 


90 


Make  her  dance  the  weevily  wheat, 

She  looses  her  reUgion. 
Then,  with  the  New  Year  in,  the  parties  and  the  dances  broke 
up.  Small  children  were  carried  home  on  the  broad  backs  of 
their  fathers.  Young  men  and  women  of  marriageable  age 
paired  off  to  walk  home  in  drifting  or  faUing  snow,  frohcking 
as  they  went.  Many  a  doubtful  relationship  was  firmed  into  a 
40  year  long  marriage  by  such  a  custom! 

The  relentless  pattern  celebrated  in  Thornton  Wilder's 
Our  Town  passed  on.  The  long  cold  of  winter  was  broken  by 
Valentine's  Day,  with  its  own  beautiful  country  ritual.  In 
small-town  schools,  someone,  the  teacher  perhaps,  always 
found  a  hat  box.  Tricked  up  with  red  and  white  crepe  paper,  it 
was  magically  transformed  into  Cupid's  post  office.  At  the 


appointed  hour,  two  or  three  students  "deUvered"  the 
colorful  symbols  of  undying  affection  or  unrequited  love.  But 
even  this  had  its  special  moment  within  the  moment.  There 
was  always  some  unpredictable  wag  in  the  class  who  would 
anonymously  forward  a  crude,  and  sometimes  rude, 
"valentine"  of  the  comic  variety. 

Soon  the  weather  warmed  with  a  false  spring.  Green 
patched  into  the  countryside  and  crocuses  dotted  town 
lawns.  Redbuds  and  wild  plum  trees  began  their  annual  cycle, 
and  the  first  robins  of  April  began  the  furious  activity  of 
courtship  and  mating.  The  calendar  of  the  Middle  Border  had 
moved  into  another  season. 

Victor  Hicken,  Editor 


91 


CHAUTAUQUA  DAYS 

Beulah  Knecht 

In  the  center  of  Forest  Park  in  Shelbyville  stands  a 
multi-sided  building  known  to  the  community  as  "the 
auditorium.  "  Built  in  1903  for  the  special  purpose  of  bringing 
the  then  popular  Chautauqua  programs  to  this  area  of 
lUinois,  it  seated  from  five  to  six  thousand  people,  with  long 
wooden  benches  placed  in  semi-circular  position  on  a  sloping 
floor.  Across  the  north  end  is  a  large  stage  with  a  high 
proscenium,  and  above  it  stand  three  graceful  feminine 
figures  representing  art,  music,  and  drama.  The  construction 
of  the  roof  is  a  marvel  to  architects  who  have  visited  it.  There 
are  no  supporting  posts  to  obstruct  the  view  of  the  stage,  but 
the  roof  is  held  by  beams  and  suspension  girders. 

Chautauqua  was  something  you  started  thinking  about 
early  in  the  summer— those  15  wonderful  days  in  August 
which  brought  entertainment  and  excitement.  If  you  wanted 
to  save  money  you  bought  your  season  tickets  early:  $1.50  for 
adults,  SI  for  children,  and  75c  for  teams.  These  had  to  be 
punched  at  the  gate  each  time  you  attended.  Then  there  was 
the  matter  of  clothes:  Did  you  have  enough  pretty  summer 
dresses  to  wear?  That  kept  mother  busy  for  a  while.  When  the 
program  books  came  (each  purchaser  of  tickets  got  one),  you 
looked  through  it  eagerly  to  see  what  was  in  store.  Sometimes 
there  were  favorites  which  came  back  year  after  year,  such  as 
the  Jubilee  Singers,  the  Goodman  Band,  the  Davies  Light 
Opera  Singers,  the  Shakesperian  Players.  But  there  were  new 
ones  to  look  forward  to  also. 

There  was  something  going  on  all  day.  Classes  of 
various  kinds  were  held  in  the  morning,  including  physical 
culture,  classes  for  children,  and  a  Kindergarten.  Afternoons 
brought  the  cultural  programs— lectures  by  many  famous 
people  you  had  read  about:  WiUiam  Jennings  Bryan,  the 
silver-tongued  orator:  the  Rev.  Sam  Jones;  Billy  Sunday,  the 
evangeUst;  Carrie  Nation,  the  smasher  of  saloons— although  I 


don't  remember  her  bringing  an  axe  to  Shelbyville.  In  the 
evenings  was  the  music,  the  dramas,  and,  to  the  dehght  of  the 
young  fry,  the  magicians,  and  chalk-talk  artists.  Then,  to  top 
it  all,  a  movie,  and  we  had  to  stay  for  that  no  matter  how  late 
it  made  you,  walking  home  half  asleep.  One  way  of  showing 
special  approval  of  a  program  was  to  give  the  "Chautauqua 
Salute."  Everyone  stood  and  waved  their  handkerchiefs  in 
the  air,  which  no  doubt  was  gratifying  to  the  performer 
although  he  might  have  picked  up  a  few  germs  from  it,  too. 
Programs  were  kept  running  smoothly  by  a  very  capable 
gentleman  called  "the  manager."  Today  he  would  be  the  M.C.. 
He  made  the  announcements  including  reports  from 
Europe— victories  or  losses  and  casualties  of  the  AUied 
forces. 

Fifteen  minutes  before  the  program  started,  a  very 
clangy  bell  was  rung,  warning  you  to  hurry  in  if  you  wanted 
your  favorite  seat.  If  you  were  small  and  didn't  want  to  have 
to  sit  behind  some  big  adult,  you  hurried  in  to  get  one  of  the 
end  seats  which  stuck  out  past  the  seat  in  front— no 
obstructed  view  there.  A  15  minute  intermission  took  place 
between  the  first  part  of  the  evening  program  and  the  movie. 
That  gave  you  a  chance  to  stretch  your  legs,  purchase 
refreshments  at  Deck  Young's  ice  cream  stand  or  the  popcorn 
wagon,  or  visit  the  ladies  or  gentlemen's  buildings  placed 
discretely  at  the  far  south  end  of  the  grounds. 

Forming  three  sides  of  a  square  in  the  park  stood 
summer  cottages  with  the  auditorium  in  the  center.  Owners 
of  those  cottages  often  spent  the  whole  summer  in  them, 
which  made  a  very  convenient  place  for  out  of  town  friends 
and  relatives  who  wanted  to  attend  Chautauqua,  often 
keeping  the  housewife  so  busy  that  she  had  few  times  for 
enjoying  the  programs  herself.  If  you  were  not  affluent 
enough  to  own  a  cottage,  you  could  rent  a  tent  for  the  two 
weeks— three  to  nine  dollars,  wooden  floor  boards  extra. 
These  were  furnished  with  articles  from  home,  the  amount  of 
furniture  depending  upon  whether  you  were  going  to  "camp" 


the  whole  two  weeks  or  just  use  it  for  a  "day"  tent.  And  if 
you  had  neither  cottage  nor  tent,  you  walked  out  and  back 
every  day.  Of  course,  if  you  were  extravagant  you  could  pay  a 
quarter  and  ride  in  Ed  Reid's  hack,  which  smelled  of  horses 
and  old  leather,  and  later  in  Harry  Kerchmeir's  Model  T  taxi. 
We  never  considered  it  a  hardship  walking  13  blocks  to  the 
park  every  afternoon  and  back  home  again  at  midnight.  Of 
course,  there  was  the  picnic  basket  to  carry,  filled  with  our 
supper,  which  we  ate  seated  on  the  grass  by  the  lake.  There 
was  usually  a  friend  or  relative  who  had  a  cottage  where  one 
could  park  the  basket  during  the  programs.  One  also  carried  a 
fan— sometimes  a  palm  leaf  or  the  cardboard  one  the 
Chautauqua  committee  had  printed  with  the  program  on  one 
side  and  advertisements  of  local  stores  on  the  other.  And  a 
pillow  came  in  very  hand,  also,  as  the  benches  in  the 
auditorium  became  pretty  hard  after  an  hour  or  two.  The 
bench  seats  consisted  of  three  boards,  and  invariably  the 
middle  one  stuck  up  higher  than  the  others. 

There  were  other  buildings  on  the  grounds  besides  those 
mentioned.  There  was  a  long  two-story  dormitory  where  the 
talent  stayed,  and  a  dining  hall  where  you  could  get  a  well- 
cooked  dinner  for  35  cents.  Another  was  used  as  the  "floral 
hall"  during  the  county  fair  times  and  for  classes  during 
Chautauqua.  There  was  also  a  bandstand;  and  a  large  cage 
with  two  monkeys  named  Martha  and  Felix,  which  were  the 
delight  of  the  children.  If  you  had  a  nickel  to  spend,  you  could 
get  an  ice  cream  cone,  or  glass  of  lemonade,  or  some  cotton 
candy— that  sweetened  air  concoction  wrapped  around  a 
paper  cone— at  one  of  the  stands. 

Then  there  was  the  swimming  pool  with  a  bottom  so 
slick  with  slime  that  you  could  hardly  stand  up  in  it.  The 
grounds  also  had  a  man-made  round  lake  (official  name. 
Crystal  Lake)  with  an  island  in  the  center,  where  for  a  small 
fee  your  best  beau  could  rent  a  rowboat  and  row  you  round 
and  round  the  island,  which  was  much  more  interesting  than 
sitting  in  the  auditorium  for  the  program. 


Yes,  Chautauqua  was  the  highlight  of  the  summer. 
Hundreds  attended  each  year,  camping,  driving  in,  even 
coming  by  train,  since  the  C.  &  E.  1.  Railroad  was  right  at  the 
edge  of  the  Chautauqua  grounds  and  the  trains  would  stop  to 
let  off  or  take  on  passengers  there. 

Chautauqua  lasted  into  the  Thirties  when  cars  and  hard 
roads  made  distant  entertainment  more  attainable,  and  the 
radio  brought  music  and  talking  into  our  living  rooms.  The 
old  auditorium  has  seen  some  bad  days  as  well  as  good.  It 
was  used  at  one  time  for  storage,  and  occasionally  for 
entertainment  when  a  short-Uved  effort  was  made  in  the 
Sixties  to  revive  the  feeling  for  Chautauqua  days.  In  1977  the 
fate  of  the  old  building  hung  in  the  balance  when  a  heavy 
snow  caved  in  part  of  the  roof  and  side.  Public  opinion  raised 
it's  voice— arguing  about  tearing  it  down  vs.  restoration. 
With  the  cooperation  of  the  city  and  state  Department  of 
Conservation,  the  latter  won.  It  is  now  Usted  on  the  National 
Register  of  Historic  Sites.  It  stands  waiting  for  other  orators 
and  other  actors  and  musicians  to  replace  the  ghost  voices  of 
it's  past  glory. 


INDEPENDENCE  DAY 

Bob  Hulsen 

Mom  beamed  as  she  squeezed  the  big  bowl  of  potato 
salad  into  the  basket.  It  was  the  Fourth  of  July  in  the 
mid-1920's  and  the  family  was  going  to  the  park.  The  basket 
was  the  biggest  we  could  find  and  was  already  loaded  with 
fried  chicken,  sliced  tomatoes,  deviled  eggs,  and  sandwiches, 
along  with  a  big  pot  of  baked  beans.  Relatives,  who  were 
farmers,  would  bring  baked  country  ham,  homemade  ice 
cream,  sweet  corn,  and  salsify  (which  tastes  like  oysters).  The 
best  bakers  would  bring  cakes  and  pies,  and  the  younger 


families  would  bring  lemonade,  homemade  root  beer,  and  iced 
tea,  along  with  sandwiches. 

By  eight  in  the  morning,  it  was  already  85  degrees,  and 
the  Dispatch  predicted  a  temperature  near  100  for  the  day. 
We  kids  had  been  bathed  in  the  wash  tub  the  night  before. 
Because  we  seldom  wore  shoes  in  summer,  our  feet  were 
scrubbed  with  a  brush.  It  tickled  when  Dad  brushed  the 
bottoms  of  my  feet. 

Our  destination  was  Prospect  Park  at  15th  Street  and 
Blackhawk  Road  (we  called  it  "the  bottom  road"  in  those 
days)  in  Mohne.  Since  we  hved  in  East  Moline,  six  miles 
away,  our  transportation  was  the  Tri-City  Lines  streetcar.  In 
those  days,  there  were  the  usual  enclosed  cars  with  front  and 
rear  entrances,  but  the  Lines  also  ran  a  sprinkling  of  summer 
cars  with  no  sides  and  no  windows.  Those  cars  had  rows  of 
seats  on  each  side  of  a  center  aisle  and  no  doors.  There  was  a 
running  board  along  the  length  of  each  side  of  the  car  and 
riders  boarded  or  departed  all  along  the  side.  The  conductor 
patrolled  the  center  aisle  and  collected  the  fares.  On  busy 
summer  holidays,  the  cars  resembled  roUing  honeycombs 
covered  with  bees.  People  filled  all  of  the  seats,  stood  in  the 
aisles  suspended  by  leather  straps  dangling  from  the  ceiling, 
or  clung  to  the  exterior  from  whatever  hand  or  foothold  they 
could  find.  If  there  was  time,  the  children  always  begged  our 
parents  to  wait  for  a  summer  car.  It  was  the  most  fun.  After 
about  a  five  mile  ride,  it  was  necessary  to  transfer  to  a  Park 
Car.  Kids  and  parents  loaded  with  blankets,  baskets,  a  box  or 
two,  and  the  baby  buggy  all  pUed  off  to  stand  at  the  curb  to 
watch  the  big  July  Fourth  parade  in  "downtown"  MoUne. 

The  parade  was  grand!  There  were  baton  twirlers, 
clowns,  floats,  horses,  and  an  almost  endless  array  of 
marchers  carrying  flags  and  banners.  The  Elks,  Masons,  Odd 
Fellows,  and  schools  had  fine  bands.  Members  of  almost  all 
formal  organizations  marched  in  the  parade.  Along  with 
platoons  of  veterans  of  two  wars,  1  was  always  impressed  by 
the  large  number  of  bakers,  molders,  machinists,  carpenters. 


and  brick  and  stone  masons.  Laborers  and  craftsmen 
unaccustomed  to  marching  were  always  taking  little  rabbit 
hops  or  running  half  steps  trying  to  keep  in  step.  They  often 
appeared  to  have  two  left  feet.  Police  on  motorcycles  tried  to 
keep  the  crowds  at  the  curb,  but  excited  kids  dashed  into  the 
street  not  only  to  see  what  was  coming  next,  but  to  retrieve 
candy  kisses  frequently  thrown  from  floats.  What  a  grand 
spectacle  it  was,  with  bands  playing,  flags  flying,  and 
firecrackers  popping  everywhere. 

After  the  parade  passed,  the  crowd  surged  for  the  cars. 
Because  all  could  not  be  accommodated,  we  often  walked  a 
block  or  two  to  wait  on  another  corner,  hoping  for  a  car  with 
room.  Sometimes  we  groaned  as  a  car  passed  clanging  its  bell, 
signifying  it  was  loaded.  Eventually  one  would  stop  and  we 
would  noisily  climb  aboard.  I  can  still  see  Dad  shifting  the 
baby  from  arm  to  arm  while  he  searched  his  pockets  for  the 
transfers  that  would  pay  our  fare. 

When  we  reached  the  end  of  the  line,  it  was  still  a  four  or 
five  block  walk  through  a  residential  district  to  the  park.  As 
soon  as  we  disembarked,  the  burdens  were  all  distributed 
among  the  children  and  grownups.  Everyone  had  to  carry 
something.  Folks  who  lived  along  the  route  were  usually 
sitting  on  their  porches  enjoying  the  parade  of  celebrants 
headed  for  the  park.  At  times,  1  imagine  this  parade  was 
more  entertaining  than  the  official  parade  downtown.  I  don't 
beheve  we  ever  made  this  walk  without  some  kid  dropping 
something  important,  like  the  baby's  potty,  or  else  tripping 
and  falling  down  and  arriving  at  the  park  with  a  tear-stained 
face,  skinned  knees,  or  torn  britches. 

This  was  Mother's  day  to  display  her  brood  to  relatives 
and  friends.  How  hard  she  worked!  How  proud  she  was!  And 
yet  some  one  or  more  of  the  kids  somehow  always  came  up 
with  a  moment  of  embarrassment  for  Mom.  Her  eyes  flashed 
and  her  Irish  temper  flared  when  it  happened,  but  she 
claimed  shenanigans  were  part  of  our  charm  and  laughed 
about  our  misfortunes  later. 


Upon  arrival  at  the  park,  we  began  to  search  for  our 
scout  (someone  of  the  family  designated  to  be  at  the  park  at  7 
a.m.  to  assemble  a  half  dozen  tables  and  guard  them  until  we 
arrived).  Thirty  or  40  relatives  were  there  or  would  soon 
arrive.  Some  we  hadn't  seen  since  last  Fourth  of  July:  one  of 
my  favorites  was  a  cousin  whose  birthday  was  July  Fourth. 
He  was  an  exuberant  and  reckless  lad  usually  decked  out  in 
new  birthday  clothes.  It  seemed  he  was  always  pursued  and 
frequently  overtaken  by  misfortune.  I  never  remember  a  time 
he  failed  to  end  his  birthday  without  torn  knickers,  Orange 
Crush  down  the  front  of  his  shirt,  a  toe  knocked  off  a  new 
shoe,  and  double  trouble  with  his  parents. 

As  we  arrived,  one  of  the  several  bands  engaged  to 
provide  the  music  was  already  playing  in  the  paviUon.  After  a 
dinner  of  every  kind  of  food  and  drink,  except  alcohol,  it  was 
time  for  the  speeches.  (I  do  not  remember  ever  seeing  alcohol 
served  or  drunk  at  a  July  Fourth  picnic.  Those  were 
Prohibition  days.  We  sometimes  saw  a  man  or  two  who 
appeared  to  be  suffering  no  pain,  but  they  were  conditioned 
elsewhere.  Local  or  state  officials  were  the  usual  speakers. 
Dad  always  paid  close  attention,  but  for  children  the 
speakers  were  a  painful  interruption  to  a  nice  day.  When  the 
speeches  were  finished,  the  fun  began.  There  were  games, 
races,  and  contests  with  prizes  for  children.  One  or  more  of 
the  kids  in  the  family  sometimes  won  a  prize  and  became 
briefly  the  center  of  attention.  Women's  and  men's  Tug-0- 
War  always  attracted  big  crowds.  Invariably,  one  of  the 
teams  would  have  a  huge  anchor  man  weighing  something 
over  300  pounds  and  preposterously  called  Tiny.  After  one  of 
those  bursts  of  effort,  the  ambulance  sometimes  came  to 
carry  one  of  the  giant  tuggers  to  the  hospital. 

DayUght  fireworks  were  a  special  treat.  Loud  bombs 
exploded  high  in  the  air  to  release  tiny  red,  white,  and  blue 
paper  parachutes  which  drifted  across  the  farmland  toward 
Rock  River.   I  recall  being  among  hundreds  of  red-faced. 


perspiring  children  running  across  the  fields  in  95  degree 
weather  chasing  the  little  parachutes. 

On  this  occasion,  the  special  event  for  the  afternoon  was 
an  exhibition  of  stunt  flying  by  the  Quad  Cities'  own 
barnstormer.  Rusty  Campbell.  (The  present  Quad  City 
Airport  is  named  for  him.)  Airplane  pilots  were  daring  and 
glamorous  men,  and  Rusty  was  our  hero.  About  mid- 
afternoon  he  appeared.  The  airplane  rolled,  looped,  spun,  and 
completely  stunned  the  crowd  when  it  came  down  amid  gasps 
of  horror  in  a  tree.  The  pilot  was  fortunately  unhurt.  The 
plane,  although  tangled  in  the  tree,  was  only  slightly 
damaged.  Plenty  of  eager  spectators  were  on  hand  to  help  our 
hero  to  the  ground.  Although  embarrassing,  that  landing  was 
perhaps  witnessed  by  more  breathless  people  than  any  other 
Rusty  ever  made.  The  event  proved  more  thrilling  than 
advertised. 

Fatigued  children  and  parents  longed  for  darkness  and 
the  great  fireworks  display.  Kids  in  our  family  were  not 
allowed  to  have  fireworks  because  as  a  six-year-old.  Dad  lost 
parts  of  two  fingers  when  a  firecracker  exploded  in  his  hand. 
The  night  display  of  fireworks  was  magnificient!  In  the 
ensuing  years,  I  can  remember  no  others  that  thrilled  me 
more.  We  kids  lay  on  our  backs  on  the  grass  and  oh'd  and 
ah'd  with  all  the  others  as  the  Rocket's  Red  Glare  was 
reproduced.  When  the  last  sparks  dropped  from  the  fiery 
replica  of  Old  Glory,  signifying  the  end  of  the  celebration,  the 
tired  and  disheveled  family  trudged  back  to  the  streetcar. 

It  was  difficult  to  tell  whether  the  pale  faces  of  the 
children  were  caused  by  exhaustion  or  an  over-supply  of  ice 
cream,  soda,  and  root  beer.  We  sank  into  seats  and  collapsed. 
Every  child  had  to  be  shaken  into  stumbling,  dreamy-eyed 
consciousness  as  the  car  approached  our  corner.  How  Mom 
and  Dad  made  it  to  the  door  with  the  remnants  of  the  picnic 
and  the  gaggle  of  staggering  kids  is  a  mystery.  The  last  I 
remember  was  Dad  over-ruling  Mom  with  "We'll  wash  'em  in 
the  morning!"  It  was  a  great  day! 


95 


BAND  CONCERTS  AT  WARSAW 

Delia  Radcliffe 

In  the  summer  of  1923,  going  to  the  Saturday  night 
band  concert  at  Warsaw,  Illinois,  was  almost  as  exciting  and 
as  much  fun  as  going  to  the  County  Fair.  Situated  on  the  east 
bank  of  the  Mississippi  River  and  nearly  opposite  the  mouth 
of  the  Des  Moines  River,  the  little  village  of  Warsaw  nestles 
comfortably  in  the  curve  of  the  great  river. 

By  coming  from  the  west  into  town  by  the  main 
highway,  a  two-lane  dirt  road  which  is  also  Main  Street,  you 
would  pass  the  three  blocks  where  all  the  stores  and  shops 
were,  proceed  on  down  the  steep  Main  Street  hill  where  all  the 
kids  went  "sledding"  in  winter,  and  end  up  on  the  bank  of  the 
Mississippi  River.  Here  stood  the  smaU,  shabby  depot  with 
it's  "potbellied"  wood  burning  stove.  Here  also  could  be  seen 
the  small  rowboats  which  were  used  by  the  fishermen,  and 
the  dock  where  the  "Capital"  and  the  "J.S."  excursion  boats 
arrived  every  summer  with  the  never-to-be-forgotten  siren 
call  of  the  caliope  loudly  playing  as  the  boat  landed  and 
departed.  From  here  you  could  look  across  the  river  at  the 
tiny  town  of  Alexandria,  Missouri,  which  at  one  time  was 
larger  than  St.  Louis.  A  ferry  boat  made  regular  trips  across 
the  river  between  Warsaw  and  Alexandria. 

The  other  entry  into  Warsaw  was  the  narrow,  ribbon- 
like River  Road  which  ran  at  right  angles  to  Main  Street. 
Going  out  of  Warsaw  toward  Hamilton  on  the  River  Road, 
you  passed  the  huge,  mysterious-looking  brewery  which  sat 
on  the  river's  bank  like  a  castle  from  the  past.  A  little  farther 
on  you  passed  Crystal  Glen,  where  all  the  largest  and  best 
geodes  were  found,  and  then  everyone's  favorite  picnic  place, 
beautiful  Cedar  Glen.  The  trolley  ran  parallel  along  the  River 
Road,  and  Tom  Dodge,  the  conductor,  would  stop  the  trolley 
so  that  you  could  get  on  or  off  any  place  between  Warsaw  and 
Hamilton.  You  could  even  go  all  the  way  across  the  river  from 
Hamilton  into  Iowa  for  15  cents. 


On  Saturday  nights,  after  the  chores  were  finished  and 
supper  hastily  eaten,  we  set  out  from  our  farm  home  for  the 
band  concert.  In  my  prettiest  dress,  I  rode  comfortably 
wedged  between  my  father  and  mother  on  the  black,  leather- 
covered  seat  of  the  narrow  buggy  which  was  pulled  by  Laura, 
our  faithful,  high-stepping  mare. 

When  my  father  tied  the  horse  to  the  hitching  post, 
there  were  already  many  other  buggies  there.  Main  Street 
was  gloriously  ablaze  with  street  hghts,  which  resembled 
huge  white  shamrocks.  The  brightly  lighted  platform  on 
which  the  band  sat  was  in  place  in  the  center  of  the  busiest 
block  in  town.  People  were  going  in  and  out  of  the  stores  and 
shops,  moving  up  and  down  the  street  or  standing  in  small 
groups,  visiting.  Everyone  came  to  town  on  Saturday  night. 
It  was  the  time  to  do  the  "trading,"  to  hsten  to  all  the  latest 
newsy  gossip,  or  just  to  see  who  else  was  there. 

I  was  soon  joined  by  a  group  of  my  little  friends  who 
usually  would  be  waiting  for  me  to  arrive.  My  mother  always 
visited  Eyman's  dry  goods  store,  where  all  the  dresses,  hats, 
shoes,  and  bolts  of  dress  material  were  sold.  My  father  would 
move  on  down  Main  Street  in  search  of  some  of  his  cronies. 
We  children  had  a  wonderful  time  chasing  each  other  around 
and  under  the  bandstand  as  the  band  played.  One  usual  ritual 
of  ours  on  Saturday  night  was  sampling  the  horrible  tasting 
water  from  the  artesian  well.  We  decided  that  drinking  a  sip 
of  water  was  a  sign  of  bravery,  and  the  girls  were  not  to  be 
outdone  by  the  boys.  We  girls  declared  that  the  water  "tasted 
like  a  rotten  egg  smeDs."  The  boy  at  the  popcorn  wagon  was  a 
budding  salesman  as  he  tried  to  persuade  us  to  spend  our 
nickle  for  a  bag  of  popcorn  instead  of  a  double-decker  ice 
cream  cone  from  across  the  street  at  Wepner's  ice  cream 
parlor. 

The  wonderful  Dreamland  movie  theatre  with  it's 
blinking,  blazing  lights  was  an  especially  popular  place  for 
the  young  men,  who  were  all  dressed  up  in  their  "ice  cream 
pants"  to  take  their  best  girls.  Some  of  these  young  ladies 


wore  their  hair  in  the  daring  new  "bobbed"  style,  which  was 
frowned  upon  by  the  older  ladies  and  by  some  of  the  men. 

During  the  concert,  one  of  the  band  members  usuaDy 
sang  one  or  two  songs.  In  1923,  the  newly  popular  ones  were 
"Yes,  We  Have  No  Bananas"  and  "You-You-You  Tell  Her  I-I- 
I  Love  Her  Because  I-I-I  Stutter  Too  Much." 

When  the  concert  was  over,  people  lingered  in  the  street 
to  visit  a  little  longer.  It  sounded  somewhat  hke  a  symphony 
with  the  low  murmer  of  the  male  voices,  the  blending  in  of  the 
higher  pitched  female  voices,  the  shrill  shouts  of  the  children, 
and  an  occasional  cry  of  a  sleepy,  tired  baby.  The  street 
gradually  emptied  as  people  reluctantly  drifted  away.  Before 
going  home,  my  mother  always  did  our  weekly  trading  at 
Filtz's  grocery  store  and  Klingel's  meat  market.  There  would 
be  special  favorite  things  in  our  grocery  box,  Like  a  string  of 
"weenies."  a  pie-shaped  piece  of  punget  yellow  cheese  which 
had  been  cut  from  a  large  circular  one,  or  a  wooden  tray  of 
bulk  peanut  butter.  I  would  always  find  a  sack  of  candy  in  the 
box  of  groceries.  I  knew  it  was  candy  because  it  would  be  in  a 
striped  bag. 

Laura  made  soft  clop-clopping  sounds  with  her  hoofs  as 
she  pulled  our  buggy  along  the  dirt  road  leading  out  of 
Warsaw  toward  home.  We  had  enjoyed  a  wonderful  evening, 
and  already  I  was  counting  the  days  until  the  next  Saturday 
night  band  concert. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  IN  TOWN 

Helen  E.  Rilling 

My  brother,  two  sisters,  and  I  were  dividing  up  the 
family  keepsakes  from  the  old  humpback  trunk  that  held  the 
few  possessions  my  father  owned  at  his  death.  Among  those 
treasures  were  the  family  pictures  taken  when  we  were 


youngsters.  I  must  have  been  six  years  old.  The  dresses  we 
girls  wore  triggered  memories  of  some  very  special  times.  The 
happy  sounds  in  the  room  faded  away  and  once  again  I  saw 
our  old  Model  T  touring  car  sitting  outside  the  back  door  on 
the  farm  east  of  Alexander  where  I  was  born. 

Sitting  in  the  front  seat  of  the  car  were  Mother  and 
Father.  We  kids  were  clamboring  into  the  back,  pushing  and 
shoving  to  get  a  seat  on  the  outside  where  the  wind  rushed 
past  our  faces  as  we  rode  along. 

What  excitement  we  felt  on  those  occasions  when 
Daddy  would  ask,  "How  would  you  like  to  go  to  town 
today?"  Town,  of  course,  meant  Jacksonville  some  15  miles 
away.  It  was  1920  and  life  had  returned  to  near-normal  after 
the  sad  years  of  World  War  I. 

It  was  Saturday  and  Daddy  had  got  up  early  to  feed  and 
curry  the  horses.  He  had  milked  the  cows,  and  it  was  the 
familiar  whirr  of  the  cream  separator  in  the  kitchen  that  woke 
us  up.  Mother  had  hurried  around  to  feed  and  water  the 
chickens  before  cooking  us  a  special  breakfast  of  hot  biscuits 
and  fried  ham.  There  was  a  bowl  of  red-eye  gravy  to  sop  our 
biscuits  in.  The  morning  was  spent  taking  baths  and  getting 
dressed.  For  lunch  we  had  a  hurried  stand-up  meal  of  milk 
and  peanut  butter  sandwiches.  The  hired  hand's  lunch  was 
left  on  the  white  oilcloth-covered  table  with  a  clean  tea  towel 
draped  over  it. 

I  remember  Mother  in  her  white  crepe  blouse  and  long 
fitted  skirt.  Her  hat  was  pinned  to  her  hair  with  long  pins. 
Daddy  wore  his  Sunday  best  shirt  with  a  high  collar  so  stiff 
he  could  hardly  turn  his  head.  A  gold  watch  chain  hung 
across  the  front  of  his  vest.  We  girls  wore  white  dresses  that 
Mother  had  made.  They  were  trimmed  with  yards  and  yards 
of  ruffles.  Long  white  stockings  stretched  down  to  the  black 
patent  slippers  with  one  strap  held  by  a  little  round  botton. 
Gosh,  those  things  were  hard  to  fasten.  Our  shoes  shone  hke 
mirrors  from  being  rubbed  with  Vaseline  to  keep  them  from 
cracking.  Big  ribbon  bows,  a  different  color  for  each  of  us. 


97 


were  tied  in  our  sun-bleached  hair.  We  wore  long  pongee  car 
coats  over  our  dresses  to  keep  the  dust  off  as  we  rode  along. 
Our  brother  had  on  knee  pants  and  long  black  stockings  with 
his  high  shoes. 

We  set  off  down  our  lane  where  grass  grew  between  the 
tracks.  For  most  of  the  year  the  lane  was  knee  deep  in  mud. 
Only  high-wheeled  buggies  or  riders  on  horseback  ventured 
down  it.  But,  today  was  a  hot  summer  day  and  dozens  of 
grain  wagons  had  churned  the  ruts  into  tracks  inches  deep  in 
dust.  A  cloud  of  cinnamon-colored  dust  swirled  behind  us  as 
the  car  flew  along  the  lane  at  25  miles  an  hour.  We  were  used 
to  riding  in  buggies  pulled  by  one  or  maybe  two  horses  that 
traveled  at  a  much  slower  speed.  The  car  crossed  the  rattley 
bridge  without  a  pause  and  everyone  except  Daddy  flew 
several  inches  off  their  seats. 

We  settled  down  for  the  long  ride  and  watched  for 
neighbor  kids  to  be  sure  they  saw  us  dressed  up  in  our  best 
and  off  for  a  Saturday  trip  to  town.  At  Alexander,  the  little 
town  where  we  did  most  of  our  trading.  Daddy  slowed  down 
and  pulled  up  at  the  gas  pump  in  front  of  Beerup's  General 
Store.  The  clerk,  still  wearing  his  apron,  hurried  outside  to 
help  us.  He  pumped  orange-colored  gasohne  into  the  glass 
globe  on  top  by  working  a  handle  back  and  forth.  Mother  and 
Daddy  had  stepped  out  of  the  car  so  that  the  front  seat  could 
be  raised.  Daddy  unscrewed  the  cap  on  the  gas  tank  and 
stuck  the  measuring  stick  down  inside  to  see  how  much  gas 
he  had  left  in  the  tank.  He  told  the  clerk  to  put  in  a  dollar's 
worth.  It  took  a  httle  over  six  gallons,  as  gasoline  was  only  15 
cents  a  gallon. 

Daddy  cranked  the  car  and  headed  it  for  Jacksonville. 
We  were  now  on  roads  seldom  traveled  by  us,  and  we  had  to 
ask  Mother  who  hved  on  the  farms.  Everything  went  fine 
until  we  reached  Arnold  Hill.  It  was  a  steep  climb.  We  held 
our  breath  as  Daddy  pushed  in  the  pedal  and  held  the  car  in 
low  as  it  slowly  chugged  its  way  up  the  hill.  We  kids  clutched 
the  seat  in  front  of  us  and  yelled  words  of  encouragement  to 


Daddy  and  the  groaning  motor.  At  the  top  we  could  see  the 
church  spires  in  Jacksonville  and  our  excitement  mounted.  It 
took  only  a  short  time  to  reach  the  brick-paved  square. 
Daddy  parked  the  car  along  the  outside  curb.  Horses  and 
buggies  hned  the  curb  next  to  the  center  park. 

Father  said,  "I'll  meet  you  after  the  show.  I  have  to  get 
some  repairs  for  the  mower." 

He  wanted  to  visit  with  the  other  farmers  and  talk 
crops.  Maybe  they  would  trade  some  horses  or  cows.  We  took 
off  our  pongee  coats  and  mother  straightened  our  hair 
ribbons.  It  was  too  early  for  the  afternoon  matinee  to  start  so 
we  walked  around  the  square  and  stopped  to  see  the  shoes  at 
Hopper's  Shoe  Store  and  feasted  our  eyes  on  the  pretty 
dresses  at  Waddels.  My  sisters  and  I  each  had  a  dime 
carefully  tied  in  the  corner  of  our  hankies.  They  were  to  spend 
at  the  five  and  ten  cent  store  after  the  movie.  We  walked  all 
the  way  around  the  square.  It  wasn't  a  good  idea  to  cut 
across  the  park  in  the  center  because  there  were  many  tall 
trees  filled  with  pigeons  and  other  birds. 

Finally  people  began  fiUng  into  Scott's  Theatre.  Mother 
bought  our  tickets.  Our  stomachs  were  in  knots  we  were  so 
excited  about  what  was  to  come.  The  theatre  was  dark,  and 
we  slowly  moved  down  the  aisle  to  some  empty  seats  near  the 
front.  We  liked  to  be  close  to  the  piano,  which  was  played 
during  the  movie. 

The  music  started  and  the  screen  lit  up.  Oh,  good!  It 
was  a  Tom  Mix  picture.  We  were  in  for  a  treat.  We  got  lots  of 
ideas  from  these  cowboy  movies  to  try  when  we  rode  our 
white  Shetland  pony,  Dixie,  and  the  bony  old  horses  that 
Daddy  traded  mule  colts  for  with  the  Gypsies  who 
occasionally  camped  down  our  lane  each  spring. 

The  tempo  of  the  music  foUowed  the  action  on  the 
screen.  It  would  ripple  faster  and  faster  as  the  villain  chased 
Tom  Mix  over  the  chff.  Alas!  The  movie  was  over.  Tom  Mix 
was  left  hanging  hundreds  of  feet  above  the  raging  river.  The 


98 


next  episode  would  be  shown  the  following  Saturday.  We 
groaned  as  we'd  probably  not  get  to  come  again  so  soon. 

Daddy  was  waiting  out  front  and  guided  us  down  the 
sidewalk  to  Merrigan's  Ice  Cream  Parlor.  How  cool  it  was 
inside  with  the  big  ceiling  fans  lazily  turning.  We  sat  at  little 
round  tables  with  marble  tops.  Our  chairs  were  wrought  iron 
and  decorated  with  lots  of  curlicues.  What  a  decision  to  make. 
It  usually  ended  up  being  vanilla.  Sometimes  we  were  daring 
enough  to  order  chocolate  or  strawberry  or  maybe  even 
lemon.  We  lingered  in  the  cool  shadowy  ice  cream  parlor  as 
long  as  we  could  taking  dainty  bites  and  scraping  our  dishes 
clean. 

At  last  we  left  to  do  our  shopping  at  the  F.W. 
Woolworth  five  and  ten  cent  store  on  the  south  side  of  the 
square.  It  was  a  fairyland  of  colors,  smells  and  temptations 
for  us.  We  fingered  the  celluloid  Kewpie  dolls  with  arms 
strung  on  elastic  and  stiff  legs.  We  could  always  use  a  new 
one.  If  you  happened  to  step  on  a  Kewpie  it  smashed  flat  and 
never  recovered.  Our  brother  was  looking  at  pocket  knives. 
He  had  a  whole  quarter  to  spend  because  he  helped  Daddy 
feed  the  horses.  He  grinned  at  us  and  twirled  his  quarter  for 
us  to  see.  Drat  him!  We  picked  out  a  Kewpie  with  painted-on 
red  hair,  some  perfume,  and  a  book  to  read.  Then  it  was  time 
to  go  home.  How  quickly  our  Saturday  afternoon  had  slipped 
away.  We'd  had  a  wonderful  time  and  were  aglow  with 
happiness. 

Mother  and  Daddy  are  gone,  as  are  the  good  times  we 
had  living  on  the  farm  with  those  memorable  trips  to  town. 
The  laughter  in  the  room  recalled  me  to  the  present,  where 
Saturday  afternoons  still  bring  back  happy  memories. 


SUMMERTIME  IN  ILLINOIS 

Lucille  Bollinger 

As  money  was  scarce  at  our  home  during  the 
Depression  days,  there  was  none  for  store-bought  games  or 
toys.  Thanks  to  our  wonderful,  loving,  and  caring  parents,  we 
had  a  great  amount  of  fun  when  our  regular  work  was  done. 
On,  the  memories  thrill  me  yet.  What  fun  we  had! 

Dad,  in  his  spare  time  in  the  spring,  made  maple 
whistles,  for  not  only  us  six  kids  but  all  the  neighboring 
children.  Our  home  always  had  a  welcome  mat  out  and  a  yard 
fuO  of  happy,  active,  and  vivacious  youngsters.  Dad  also 
made  kites  of  unbelievable  flying  abiUty  out  of  worn  curtain 
shades.  They  were  flown  with  twine  bought  at  the  smaU 
grocery  store,  nearby  to  our  rented  farm.  We  would  talk  Mom 
out  of  enough  of  her  precious  eggs  to  make  the  purchase.  I 
feel  sure  it  was  a  real  sacrifice  on  her  part.  Dad  always 
planned  it  that  we  all  got  our  turn  at  holding  the  powerful, 
yet  thin  string  that  so  mysteriously  allowed  it  to  soar  to  the 
heavenly  clouds.  Dad  was  a  most  intelligent  man  and  always 
tried  to  explain  the  project  being  worked  on. 

Then,  there  was  the  great  stilt  craze.  Dad  made  them  for 
many,  many  eager,  anxious,  and  inexperienced  walkers.  He 
must  have  used  every  loose  board  available.  With  much 
practice,  dozens  of  falls,  bruises,  and  splinters,  we  became 
real  pros.  He  always  supervised  our  races,  backwards, 
frontwards,  and  sideways.  Actually,  we  got  to  where  we 
almost  ran.  In  case  of  an  injury,  it  was  always  treated  with  an 
apphance  of  "Cure  All."  Cow  Teat  salve!  It  was  the  answer  to 
all  ailments,  of  man  or  beast.  I  remember  one  Sunday 
afternoon  when  two  beginners  met  head  on  at  a 
corner— something  they  had  been  warned  against— and 
collided.  They  fell  to  the  ground,  both  laid  out  unconsious. 
What  an  exciting  time!  Seconds  later  Dad  applied  a  wet, 
clean  wash  cloth  to  their  foreheads,  and  it  was  not  long  until 


they  were  up  and  ready  to  go  back  for  more.  "Experience  is 
the  best  teacher,"  my  dad  told  them. 

Ball  games  in  the  summertime  made  many  a  Sunday 
afternoon  a  real  fun  time.  It  was  always  planned  by  Dad  that 
each  one  present  got  involved  in  one  way  or  the  other.  We 
played  in  a  small  pasture— in  fact,  the  only  one  we  had  for  our 
milk  cows  to  graze  in.  A  meddlesome  lady  once  asked  my  dad 
what  he  meant  by  letting  those  kids  ruin  his  crop  of  grass 
with  their  weekly  troddings.  He  quickly  and  most  politely 
remarked  that  the  group  of  kids  would  be  the  best  crop  he 
would  ever  have  the  opportunity  to  harvest.  I  did  not  know 
then  what  he  meant,  but  I  do  now. 

There  were  gunny  sack  contests.  We  would  have  to  get 
in  the  narrow,  itchy,  tightly  woven  sacks,  and  walking  was  a 
real  challenge— let  alone  running.  Turns  were  taken 
according  to  age  groups.  Sacks  were  not  too  plentiful,  so  only 
about  eight  were  in  each  race.  Such  thrills!  Falling  down, 
thrashing,  floundering  around  trying  to  get  back  in 
competition,  added  to  the  joys  of  the  game.  The  non- 
competitors  were  always  loudly  cheering  their  favorite 
racers. 

The  art  of  making  good  sUng  shots  came  easy  for  Dad. 
He  would  have  the  group  line  up  and  take  turns  trying  to  hit 
a  bull's  eye,  while  he  kept  score.  The  winner  was  always 
assured  of  a  certain  refreshment  award  at  the  close  of  the 
playtime.  Jumping  Jacks  also  had  their  important  place  in 
our  days  of  fun.  Dad  would  let  each  one  of  us  color  our  own 
after  he  finished  carving  them  from  the  wood.  We  prized 
them  very  highly  and,  most  of  the  time,  applied  our  name  or 
initials  upon  them  because  they  were  our  very  own. 

My  mother  was  usually  kept  busy  with  the  younger 
children,  but  she  was  never  too  busy  to  prepare  a  great  lunch 
for  the  entire  group,  be  it  13  or  30.  Homemade  goodies  of  hot 
cinnamon  rolls,  doughnuts,  popcorn  balls,  apples,  pears,  and 
candy  were  just  a  few  of  the  tasty  foods  she  had  ready  for  the 
hungry  to  eat.  She  always  had  plenty  of  home-canned  grape 


or  blackberry  juice  from  jars  in  a  gunny  sack,  tied  and  hung 
with  a  small  rope  in  the  big  boxed  in  open  well.  How 
wonderful  it  all  tasted!  It  was  part  of  the  marvelous 
summertime  fun  at  our  home  in  the  1930's. 


GERMAN  NEW  YEARS  IN  MELROSE  TOWNSHIP 

Lydia  Kanauss 

In  Melrose  Township,  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
neighborhood  to  go  New  Year  shooting.  The  young  men 
would  gather  at  one  home  for  the  starting  place.  We  kids 
would  stay  up  huddled  around  the  heating  stove  waiting  for 
them  to  come.  They  had  shot  guns  and  old  muzzle  loaders, 
guns  in  which  they  would  put  powder  in  and  tamp  it  down.  I 
think  I  can  still  smell  the  gunpowder. 

All  was  still  before  they  got  to  the  house.  Then  the 
captain  of  the  crew  would  be  at  the  dining  room  window 
speaking  the  new  year  wish  in  the  German  language  and 
asking  for  permission  to  shoot.  Then  they  would  come  in  the 
kitchen  door,  wishing  us  a  Happy  New  Year.  Some  had  on 
masks,  some  were  dressed  like  women,  and  there  were  always 
some  black  ones,  or  they  had  black  on  their  faces. 

We  would  stand  at  the  dining  room  door  trying  to  figure 
out  who  was  who.  There  was  one  man  who  would  play  an  old 
time  accordian  and  some  would  dance.  We  would  always  have 
a  lunch  prepared  for  them:  bread  and  homemade  sausage, 
cookies,  and  cake,  apples,  cider,  or  something  else  to  drink. 
Then  they  would  leave  and  start  shooting  again.  The  next 
day  we  would  pick  up  the  empty  shells.  I  suppose  most  of 
them  went  to  bed  after  tromping  around  all  night.  We  went  to 
bed  after  they  were  gone. 


PLAYTHINGS.  PLAYMATES,  AND  PLAYHOUSES 

Eleanor  Dodds 

Our  home,  Gladacres,  at  the  edge  of  Rushville,  served 
well  as  a  location.  It  was  close  enough  to  school  and  church  to 
walk,  yet  "almost  in  the  country,"  too. 

We  had  a  cow,  horses  (left  after  mail  route  days), 
chickens,  and  many  pets  through  the  years. 

Neighbors  were  very  important  in  those  days  of  a 
narrower  circle  of  living.  Laura  Mae  and  Nancy  Lou  Moore 
Uved  toward  town  where  the  city  limits  sign  was.  Mary  Alice 
and  Geraldine  Russell  were  closest— next  door,  in  fact.  Those 
girls  had  a  real  playhouse,  with  fascinating  playthings  and 
curtains  at  the  windows. 

At  the  Moore's  there  was  a  httle  stream  running 
through  the  property  with  a  foot  bridge.  A  swing  and  a  big 
tree  took  you  high  and  wide  over  the  stream,  if  you  had  a 
good  "pusher." 

My  sister,  Ahce,  was  four  years  younger  than  I  and 
didn't  like  dolls  as  I  did.  Mine  were  all  sizes  from  the  little 
German  and  Japanese  china  dolls  to  a  large  one  that  could 
have  worn  baby  clothes.  Those  small  dolls  were  IOC  then,  and 
had  moveable  arms  and  legs,  fastened  on  with  wires  that 
came  undone  sometimes. 

One  favorite  summer  play  place  was  rather  unusual.  A 
rose  bush  and  Japanese  quince  bush  were  growing  under  a 
wild  plum  tree  in  such  a  way  that  there  was  an  almost 
covered-over  shelter  where  some  of  my  housekeeping 
equipment  was  kept.  An  antique  stool  served  as  a  tea  table, 
and  the  dishes  were  a  set  of  grey  enameled  steel  doll  plates, 
with  a  teapot,  etc.  They  had  white  squares  as  a  border  and  I 
kept  a  few  of  them  until  I  had  little  girls  of  my  own. 

The  worst  thing  about  the  location  was  that  when  it 
rained,  1  had  to  run  out  and  hurriedly  snatch  dolls,  covers, 
whatever  being  wet  would  hurt,  and  take  them  in.  Sometimes 
this  happened  in  the  night. 


AUce  and  I  "role  played,"  but  we  weren't  aware  of  the 
name.  We  just  used  our  imaginations.  We  were  Mrs.  Armine 
and  Mrs.  Thurman,  and  we  went  to  visit  each  other, 
comparing  our  children's  progress,  housework  probably,  and 
other  such  "women  talk"  as  we'd  heard.  We  had  an  Aunt 
named  Thurman,  also  neighbors  down  the  road.  And  our 
dentist's  name  was  Dr.  Armine.  That  family  had  lived  next 
door  before  the  Russells  moved  there.  (The  space  between 
this  house  and  the  Moore's  home  is  the  present  site  of 
Boehm's  Lawn  and  Garden  Center.) 

My  handmade  doll  cradle  was  an  important  possession. 
I  still  have  it— in  pieces,  but  it  could  be  reassembled.  My 
grandfather  Riehl  made  it  for  me  when  I  was  quite  small. 
Probably  my  Henrietta  doll  occupied  it.  She  was  called  that 
because  I  got  her  from  the  Henry  Field  Seed  Company  for 
seUing  ten  sets  of  seeds.  She  was  supposed  to  be  a  talking, 
walking  doll— the  talking  being  "Ma-Ma"  when  bent  over, 
from  an  easily  felt  voice  box  in  her  back.  Her  legs  were  sewn 
at  the  hips,  and  she  walked  when  you  walked  her! 

At  other  times  I  had  playhouses  in  the  upper  attic  of  the 
house  and  in  the  attic  of  an  outdoor  shed.  A  later  playhouse 
was  a  covered  truck  bed,  open  at  one  end.  Here  again,  rain 
was  a  menace,  and  ruined  some  of  my  things,  the  worst  loss 
being  my  last  doll,  a  beautiful  bisque-headed  one,  given  to  me 
at  14  (would  you  beUeve  it?)  by  my  aunts.  She'd  be  an  antique 
and  worth  money  if  still  around. 

Those  childhood  play  days,  so  vivid  now  in  memory, 
must  have  played  an  important  role  in  preparing  me  for  the 
myraid  responsibiUties  of  being  a  teacher,  wife,  and  mother. 


CHARIVARL  SHIVAREE,  OR  CHIVAREE 

Avis  Ray  Berry 

Back  in  the  early  part  of  the  twentieth  century  in 


Liverpool  Township  of  Fulton  County,  a  part  of  the  marriage 
celebration  was  a  "chivaree."  Soon  after  the  couple  was 
married,  some  evening  after  dark,  relatives,  neighbors,  and 
friends  assembled  with  noise  makers  of  any  description, 
surrounded  the  house,  and  after  a  suitable  time  of  ear 
sphtting  noise  making,  were  invited  into  the  house  and 
treated  by  the  newlyweds— candy  for  the  women  and  children 
and  cigars  for  the  men.  If  a  couple  was  not  "chivareed,"  it 
was  an  indication  that  they  were  not  "well  thought  of"  in  the 
community. 

When  Ester  Berry  and  Avis  Ray  were  married  in  1923, 
Ester  purchased  his  treats  of  candy  and  cigars  even  before 
the  marriage  ceremony  took  place.  But  we  decided  that  we 
would  see  how  long  we  could  evade  that  inevitable 
"chivaree."  We  would  go  away  each  evening  and  stay  away 
until  so  late  that  the  noise  making  crowd  would  see  the  car 
was  gone  and  give  up  for  that  evening. 

Finally,  we  grew  tired  of  keeping  such  late  hours,  so, 
after  dark,  we  took  the  Model  T  car  over  to  our  woods  and  hid 
it.  We  sneaked  back  to  the  house  through  a  corn  field, 
watched  the  crowd  assemble,  and  crept  into  the  house 
through  a  back  door,  unobserved  by  the  crowd. 

After  we  were  in  our  room.  Ester  began  to  worry  that 
someone  might  spot  the  car  and  tow  it  away.  So  he  decided  to 
slip  back,  get  a  lock  and  log  chain  and  fasten  it  to  a  tree. 

While  he  was  gone,  I  could  hear  the  crowd  coming  closer 
to  the  house;  and  finally,  the  awful  racket  began— tin  pans, 
cow  bells,  a  few  shot  gun  blasts  (always  in  the  hands  of  an 
older  man),  anything  that  would  make  noise.  Imagine  my 
panic!  What  could  I  do!  Finally  I  heard  my  sister  say,  "I'm 
going  in.  I'm  just  sure  they're  home."  About  that  time,  up 
jumped  Ester  onto  the  porch.  He  had  been  helping  the 
noisemakers  with  their  noise!  Everyone  then  trooped  into  the 
house.  They  shared  chairs,  sat  on  the  floor,  ate  candy, 
smoked  cigars  until  the  air  was  blue,  and  visited.  I  beUeve  I 


was  the  only  woman  who  was  ever  "chivareed"  by  her  own 
husband. 

After  the  crowd  left,  Ester's  mother  sighed  happily  and 
said,  "Well,  I'd  have  been  ashamed  if  you  hadn't  been 
'chivareed.' 


NOVEMBER  IN  THE  PARK 

Sara  Beth  McMillan 

Whoever  platted  Bushnell  must  have  had  double  vision. 
There  is  an  East  Main  Street  and  a  West  Main  Street,  each 
parallehng  the  C.B.&Q.  tracks  which  bisect  the  town.  The 
large  Methodist  Church  is  a  block  and  a  half  east  of  the 
tracks,  while  the  large  Presbyterian  Church  is  a  block  and  a 
half  west  of  the  tracks.  There  is  an  East  Side  Park  and  there 
is  a  West  Side  Park,  each  a  block  square,  and  each 
equidistant  from  those  same  tracks. 

We  were  "east-siders."  My  memories  begin  from  a 
house  on  the  east  side  of  the  East  Side  Park.  It  was  there  that 
two  worldwide  events  touched  my  life.  The  park's  big  old 
elms  and  silver  maples  sheltered  many  a  game  of  "All-ee-all- 
ee-outs-in-free."  My  big  brothers  chased  each  other  around 
the  cement  basin  that  circled  the  iron  fountain  exactly  in  the 
center  of  the  park.  Even  then  the  fountain  leaned  wearily 
over  the  old  newspapers,  leaves,  and  candy  wrappers  that 
filled  the  basin.  As  the  three-year-old  sister,  I  was  allowed 
there  only  under  supervision,  and  as  a  special  treat,  usually 
as  part  of  the  habitual  Sunday  afternoon  walk.  Once  in  a  long 
while  I  got  to  play  wood-tag  and  was  always  "It"  until  I 
learned  the  magic  power  of  "King's  X." 

The  neighbors  were  a  big  part  of  my  hfe.  Over  on  the 
north  side  facing  the  park  loomed  the  big  old  Harris  mansion, 
three  stories  high  and  rumored  to  have  gold  faucets!  Next  to 
it  was  the  Frisby  house.  Mr.  Frisby  owned  the  drug  store  on 


102 


East  Main  Street  and  won  me  as  a  friend  by  passing  out 
horehound  candy  each  time  we  visited  it.  Dr.  Duntley's  house 
was  next;  it  took  a  while  to  accept  his  friendship  because  he 
was  the  one  who  removed  most  of  the  Bushnell  children's 
tonsils.  The  two  Pinckley  houses,  Nell's  and  Ben's,  were  next. 
There  was  a  baby  girl  in  the  corner  one.  On  our  block,  the 
Korns  lived  at  the  corner,  then  the  DePues,  next  Bess  Dodge 
and  her  father,  then  "Old  Mr.  Hunt,"  our  house,  and  the 
Kimballs.  Over  on  the  south  side  of  the  park  Hved  the 
Goeppinger  girls,  whose  father  had  the  C.&G.  Bakery 
uptown.  Pauline  and  Cora  were  favorites  for  letting  me  iron  a 
handkerchief  or  two  with  one  of  the  freshly-warmed  sadirons 
from  the  huge  kitchen  range.  Next  to  them  lived  "Link" 
Florey,  the  proud  owner  of  one  of  the  few  automobiles  in 
town.  Occasionally,  Dad  would  hire  him  to  drive  us  in  the  big 
old  open  touring  car  to  visit  grandmother  in  Carthage. 

It  all  seemed  quite  idyllic  until  November  of  1918.  That 
was  the  month  World  War  I  ended.  My  three-year-old 
concept  of  war  included  being  admonished  to  "Finish  your 
crusts,  just  think  of  the  poor  starving  Armenians,"  of 
knowing  a  song  called  "Over  There,"  and  of  trying  to  learn  a 
mysterious  chant  that  even  had  domination  over  "King's 
X"— that  refuge  from  brotherly  pranks.  There  was  no  retreat 
from  their  shouted  "American  Eagle,  Liberty  Motor,  NO 
CHANGES!  " 

One  cold  day  in  early  November  I  heard  loud  music 
blaring  ever  closer.  I  saw  what  to  me  was  a  huge  crowd  filling 
the  street  behind  Mr.  Jackson's  brass  band.  They  marched 
past  the  Korn's,  Depue's  and  Hunt's,  toward  me.  And  most 
terrifying  of  all,  at  the  head  of  the  parade  they  carried  a 
stuffed  figure  in  a  German  uniform  with  a  spiked  helmet 
dangling  from  a  high  pole.  My  hasty  retreat  carried  me  flying 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  my  parents'  closet,  where  I  could 
shut  out  that  awful  sight.  It  was  my  "King's  X."  But  the  war 
was  over  and  it  was  the  Kaiser's  effigy  they  held  at  the  head 
of  that  first  Armistice  Day  parade. 


Perhaps  that  childish  fright  was  a  premonition  of  a  very 
real  terror  that  gripped  my  family,  and  the  world,  that  same 
November.  It  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  my  mother 
became  very  ill.  In  rapid  succession  my  brothers  and  I  and 
even  my  grandmother  who  lived  with  us  contracted  the 
influenza,  that  so  justly  dreaded  scourge  of  1918.  Dr.  Roark 
came  every  day  to  try  to  help  us.  Baird  and  I  weren't  very 
sick,  an  my  mimicry  of  the  doctor's  pursed-up  Ups  seemed  to 
Ughten  the  gloom  that  descended  on  the  family.  There  were 
no  miracle  drugs  then,  and  the  whole  population  was  fearful 
of  contagion.  People  were  afraid  to  ride  a  train,  to  go  to 
church,  or  even  to  gather  in  stores,  so  it  was  little  wonder 
that  my  father's  desperate  plea  for  nursing  help  went 
unanswered  for  many  days.  Finally,  his  sister  from  Carthage 
came  to  help  for  a  weekend.  His  greeting  to  her  was  "Oh, 
Stell,  my  family's  dying  off  Uke  flies!"  Loring  had  double 
pneumonia  and  was  by  himself  in  a  small  upstairs  room.  My 
mother  had  the  larger  front  room  upstairs,  and  she,  too,  had 
developed  pneumonia.  Baird  and  I  were  in  the  same  room, 
apparently  to  isolate  the  illness  to  the  upper  floor.  It  was  on 
Thanksgiving  Day  that  mother  died. 

Well,  the  rest  is  remembered  in  disconnected  snatches. 
The  rest  of  us  recovered,  though  Loring's  life  was  in  danger 
for  several  days.  I  remember  an  afternoon  at  "Grandmother 
Barber's."  It  must  have  been  several  weeks  later,  for  both  my 
brothers  and  I  were  there.  She  served  us  hot  chocolate  with 
marshmallows  in  dainty  blue  and  white  cups.  We  played  table 
croquet  on  a  green  felt  pad  with  dainty  mallets  and  cherry- 
sized  balls. 

It  was  many  years  later  that  my  second  mother,  Zoe 
Helfrich,  told  me  who  had  answered  Dad's  plea  for  help  for 
his  sick  family.  Dad's  law  office  was  above  Lute  Barber's 
clothing  store  and  he  and  Lute  had  become  good  friends  in 
the  three  years  we  had  lived  in  Bushnell.  When  Lute's  wife, 
Maud,  heard  of  Dad's  dilemna,  she  said,  "Well,  the  good  Lord 


didn't  see  fit  to  give  us  children,  so  maybe  this  is  what  He's 
saving  me  for.  I'll  go  nurse  George's  children." 

It  was  in  1977  that  Pete  Weber  told  me  how,  as  a  very 
young  man,  he  had  driven  the  hearse  to  Carthage  for  my 
mother's  burial  there.  It  was  probably  the  day  of  our  visit  to 
the  Barbers. 

Perhaps,  hke  Bushnell's  planners,  our  memories  have 
double  vision.  The  East  Side  Park  is  still  there,  as  are  most  of 
the  houses  I  remember.  But  the  old  trees  and  the  fountain, 
and  the  people  are  gone,  as  is  the  terror  of  that  November. 
Just  in  my  class  at  the  Bushnell  schools,  two  others,  John 
Ball  and  Harold  Hall,  had  also  lost  their  mothers  in  the  flu 
epidemic  of  1918.  That  November  changed  our  lives.  There 
was  no  escaping  it— no  King's  X— for  any  of  us  kids  who  lost 
family  members  during  that  time. 


TENT  SHOWS  IN  THE  TWENTIES 

Genevieve  Hagerty 

Oh,  the  pure  delight  of  childhood  summers  in  the 
twenties!  In  WoodhuU,  Henry  County,  we  were  overjoyed 
with  vacation,  which  started  in  early  May  so  the  school 
children  from  the  country  could  help  farm. 

We  town  kids  followed  the  ice  man  around.  When  he 
stopped  by  a  housewife's  sign  in  her  kitchen  window  marking 
how  much  ice  she  needed  for  her  ice  box,  he  chipped  the  exact 
measure  from  the  huge  cakes  wrapped  in  gunny  sacks  and 
sawdust.  While  he  carried  it  in  with  his  ice  tongs,  we  grabbed 
the  scattered  chips  and  sucked  in  ecstasy.  On  other  days  we 
followed  the  oil  truck  around  town  as  it  sprayed  tar  on  the 
dirt  streets.  On  those  nights  we  had  to  suffer  a  kerosene 
washing  of  our  black  bottomed  bare  feet.  Mixed  in  were 
swims  at  Alpha  Lake,  making  ice  cream,  and  going  up  Main 
Street  to  watch   the  men   spit   tobacco  juice  while  they 


swapped  stories.  But  all  of  that  paled  in  comparison  when  the 
tent  shows  came  to  town. 

The  ehte  were  the  Chautauqua  programs,  which  sprang 
from  a  minister  and  a  Sunday  School  teacher  in  the  East,  so 
most  of  the  town  knew  there  was  nothing  to  corrupt  our 
morals.  They  set  up  a  huge  tent  and  had  a  different  program 
each  night  for  a  week.  Many  were  educational,  and  some  just 
for  entertainment,  but  whole  famihes  attended  together.  The 
best  part  for  us  Cowles  kids  was  that  the  tent  was  pitched  in 
the  school  yard.  Only  our  garden  separated  it  from  our  house, 
so  we  watched  the  roustabouts  set  up.  One  year,  when  he  was 
about  six,  my  brother  Raymond  ran  in  front  of  a  workman 
unloading  the  tent  poles.  The  spike  in  the  end  pierced  his 
forehead,  and  the  blood  and  cries  sprang  forth.  We  were 
proud  to  be  able  to  say  the  closest  doctor  was  across  our 
garden,  and  we  formed  a  guard  unit  to  protect  our  fallen 
brother.  We  were  amazed  to  see  the  man  who  was  carrying 
Raymond  reach  down  and  pick  a  large  lettuce  leaf  to  cover 
the  wound.  He  was  not  seriously  hurt,  he  wore  his  bandage 
like  a  badge  of  honor,  and  Daddy  perpetuated  the  story  of  the 
dirty  lettuce  leaf. 

Another  memory  is  just  as  offbeat.  Daddy  came  home 
one  day,  fighting  mad.  A  group  of  black  gospel  singers  were 
scheduled  to  appear,  and  they  were  told  they  would  have  to 
sleep  in  the  schoolhouse.  Until  then,  I  can't  remember 
hearing  anything,  good  or  bad,  about  blacks  except  that 
there  was  a  "Nigger  heaven"  in  the  Orpheum  Theatre  in 
Galesburg.  I  assumed  it  was  a  derogatory  term. 

Daddy  marched  over  to  the  school  and  brought  home 
two  of  the  blackest,  most  beautiful  women  of  any  color  that  I 
had  ever  seen.  Because  we  had  seven  kids,  there  wasn't  room 
for  the  two  men.  The  ladies  were  settled  in  our  spare 
bedroom,  downstairs.  We  kids  hung  around,  absolutely 
fascinated  by  the  singers— their  white  teeth,  ready  smiles, 
southern  accents,  perfumes,  hair  pomades,  buxom  bodies, 
and  their  obvious  friendship.  We  had  a  baby  grand  piano 


104 


(Daddy  and  his  first  wife  had  been  in  a  church  quartet),  so 
much  time  was  spent  in  the  parlor.  Kathleen  and  I  both  had 
jealous  eyes  on  the  end  of  the  piano  bench,  where  there  was 
barely  room  to  squeeze  in.  If  I  went  to  their  show,  I  don't 
remember  it,  overshowed  as  it  was  by  the  prelude. 

A  different  type  of  show  set  their  tents  in  a  pasture  over 
near  the  waterworks.  They  were  vaudeviUe  types  of  one-act 
plays,  complete  with  heroines  and  villains.  We  didn't  usually 
get  to  go  because  Mama  called  them  risque,  whatever  that 
meant.  But  one  night  when  I  was  about  nine  years  old,  we 
were  allowed  to  attend.  By  then  we  had  a  family  orchestra, 
the  Cowles  Harmony  Five,  and  the  show  was  to  be  given  by  a 
similar  group. 

FinaUy,  on  the  appointed  night,  the  five  of  us  were  all 
bathed,  dressed,  and  even  had  on  our  shoes.  Mama  was 
getting  Quentin.  the  current  baby,  and  Bobby  into  their 
nighties  for  Daddy  to  watch.  He  gave  us  a  long  hst  of 
instructions  because  we  didn't  usually  get  to  go  on  the 
streets  after  dark.  Kathleen,  John,  and  I  stayed  close  to 
Mama,  and  Gerald  and  Raymond  walked  in  front  as  Daddy 
had  told  them.  Gerald  would  much  rather  have  run  ahead 
with  his  friends,  but  obedience  was  expected. 

It  was  so  exciting  to  be  out  at  dusk,  and  to  see  the 
people  walking  from  all  over  town.  Some  near  by  had  cut  their 
grass  that  day,  and  it  smelled  so  good  when  we  walked  by 
because  of  the  dew,  Mama  said.  Old  Mr.  Watkins  was 
smoking  his  smelly  cigar,  but  I'd  rather  breathe  in  the 
cigarette  smoke  when  the  young  men  went  whistUng  by  us.  I 
could  tell  Gerald  liked  it  too,  being  thirteen,  but  Raymond 
thought  it  was  more  fun  to  step  on  the  glowing  cigarette 
butts  that  were  tossed  on  the  sidewalk. 

We  all  cried  out  in  delight  when  we  rounded  the  corner 
and  had  our  first  glimpse  of  the  big  tent  and  the  gay  string  of 
lights.  There  were  other  kids  like  us  with  their  parents,  a  lot 
of  older  boys  by  themselves,  and  also  the  lovers.  I'd  heard 
Mama  and  her  friends  whisper  about  how  shameful  they 


were,  petting  right  in  public,  so  I  was  anxious  to  see  them. 
And  it  was  true!  They  were  hugging  and  laughing,  holding 
hands  and  gigghng  in  pubhc! 

The  hghts  blinked  and  one  of  the  showmen  came  out.  He 
was  wearing  a  red  and  white  striped  shirt  and  pants,  red 
suspenders,  and  a  straw  hat.  He  had  red  silk  garters  on  his 
sleeves,  and  he  stood  in  front  by  the  lovers.  He  called  out, 
"Salt  Water  Taffy!  Only  25c.  Get  your  Salt  Water  Taffy  here. 
A  prize  in  each  and  every  package.  Come  on,  fellows,  buy 
your  girl  some  kisses." 

Oh,  how  I  wished  for  a  box,  even  though  I  didn't  Uke 
taffy.  But  I  knew  Mama  wouldn't  buy  boughten  candy, 
except  for  a  box  of  hard  Christmas  candies  each  year.  The 
showman  took  a  quarter  from  some  girl's  beau,  but  before  he 
gave  out  the  box,  he  held  it  high  in  the  air  and  said,  "See  here, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  lucky  lady  has  received  a  lovely 
prize."  And  he  pulled  out  a  pair  of  very  large,  bright  red 
bloomers!  The  young  boys  whistled  and  all  the  couples 
hooted  and  laughed.  Most  of  the  mothers  looked  embarrassed 
Uke  ours  did,  and  those  who  had  brought  fans  to  wave  the 
heat  away  from  their  faces,  now  hid  behind  them.  Kathleen 
and  I  started  to  laugh,  but  Mama  said,  "Don't  laugh!  It's  not 
nice."  I  decided  right  then  that  that  must  be  the  risque  part! 

After  that  it  only  took  a  few  minutes  to  sell  the  candy, 
but  all  the  other  prizes  were  little  ones  Uke  those  in  Cracker 
Jack  boxes.  Then  they  bUnked  the  Ughts  again  and  puUed  the 
curtain.  The  six  Musical  Moores,  including  mother  and 
father,  took  a  bow.  The  star  was  six-year-old  Jimmy  who  had 
yeUow,  curly  hair.  He  sang  loud!  We  clapped  him  back  for  an 
encore,  and  he  sang,  "So  I  Took  the  $50,000  and  Bought  My 
Girl  a  Ticket  to  the  Show."  His  neck  veins  got  bigger  and 
bigger  with  every  chorus. 

After  the  show,  we  went  back  and  talked  to  Mrs.  Moore. 
Then  we  walked  home  together  until  we  reached  our  yard.  We 
raced  to  see  who  could  be  first  to  teU  Daddy  all  about  the 


show.  Tent  shows  were  like  ice  cream  and  candy.  Sharing 
made  them  special. 


CREAM  AND  CREAMERY  PICNICS 

Minnie  J.  Bryan 

The  coming  of  1900  found  farmers  of  our  area  of  Illinois 
still  with  the  problem  of  what  to  do  with  the  family  surplus 
provided  by  the  dairy  cows  of  their  farm. 

A  piece  of  clean  white  cloth  was  used  to  strain  the  milk 
brought  to  the  house  and  poured  from  the  pail  to  containers 
prepared  to  receive  it.  The  pitchers  of  milk  for  immediate  use 
were  placed  in  cold  water  for  quick  cooling.  Other  containers 
were  covered  and  allowed  to  stand  for  the  cream  to  rise  to  the 
top,  to  be  skimmed  from  the  milk  with  a  large  spoon.  Milk  not 
used  for  drinking  or  cooking  would  be  fed  to  pigs,  chickens,  or 
other  farm  animals.  Some  of  the  milk  would  be  allowed  to 
sour,  then  scalded,  and  the  whey  was  drained  away  through 
cloth  or  cheesecloth  bags  for  the  making  of  cottage  cheese. 
Sometimes  these  bags  were  hung  outside  to  drain,  tied  to  the 
clothesline.  When  the  curd  was  well  drained,  it  was  placed  in 
a  crock.  Sweet  cream,  salt  and  pepper  (and  somtimes  a  little 
sugar)  was  stirred  into  the  cheese.  No  one  was  counting 
calories  then.  Cream  was  served  at  the  table,  used  in  cooking 
and  baking,  or  churned  for  the  butter  supply. 

The  churns  were  dasher  or  wooden  barrel  type  or  just  a 
large  glass  jar  with  a  tight  fitting  lid.  The  buttermilk  would 
be  drained  from  the  butter,  the  butter  washed  with  cold  water 
and  then  worked  with  a  wooden  paddle  to  remove  the  water, 
and  formed  into  rolls  or  pressed  into  wooden  butter  molds. 
Salt  was  generally  added  during  working.  Some  people  had 
city  or  town  customers  for  their  products.  NeighlDors  would 
share  milk  with  each  other  if  one  family  did  not  have  a  dairy 
cow  in  production. 


Ice  cream  was  a  favorite  desert.  Ice  for  freezing  was 
stored  in  specially  built  ice  houses  with  double  walls  and 
doors.  Saw  dust  was  used  for  insulation.  The  ice  was  carefully 
cut  and  stored  inside  during  the  winter  months. 

Summer  heat  and  fly  time  made  the  labor  of  caring  for 
the  milk  products  even  more  tedious.  Lucky  was  the 
household  with  a  good  cool  cellar  or  cave.  Some  of  those 
cellars  or  caves  had  a  spring  of  cold  flowing  water.  Some 
people  used  well  coolers,  but  with  them  came  the  danger  of  a 
spLU  polluting  the  water  supply.  Some  simple  cold  water 
separators  were  used.  Then  cream  separators  were 
invented— manufactured  and  placed  on  the  market  for 
farmers  interested  in  marketing  cream. 

The  first  shipment  of  cream  from  Bardolph,  Illinois,  was 
made  in  February,  1905  by  Phillip  Doll  and  L.J.  Spangler.  Its 
destination  was  a  creamery  just  opened  by  N.O.  Crissey  of 
Avon,  Illinois.  Five  gaOon  cans  were  furnished  by  the 
creamery  for  the  use  of  its  patrons.  These  cans  were  similar  to 
the  cans  used  by  modern  dairies.  They  had  tight  fitting  lids 
with  holes  matching  ones  on  the  cans  through  which  the 
wires  were  run  and  twisted  tightly.  Printed  tags  were 
fastened  to  the  Uds  with  the  needed  addresses.  Delivery  of 
the  cream  was  made  each  morning  to  the  C.B  and  Q.  railroad 
depot  by  horse  drawn  buggy  or  wagon.  The  empty  cans 
would  be  returned  washed,  but  more  rinsing,  draining,  and 
airing  was  necessary.  The  cream  was  tested  for  butterfat 
content.  Checks  were  mailed  weekly  to  the  patrons  for  the 
cream. 

By  1906  the  patrons  from  this  area  had  increased  to  12. 
Mr.  Crissey  wanted  to  reward  them  and  bring  them  together 
for  a  social  time.  He  would  furnish  all  the  ice  cream  they 
could  eat  and  more.  On  August  15,  1906,  the  patrons  and 
their  friends  came  together  in  "The  Spangler  Grove" 
northwest  of  Bardolph  for  their  first  Creamery  Picnic.  Well 
packed  freezers  of  ice  cream  came  on  the  morning  train  from 
Avon.  They  were  loaded  on  the  Spangler  low  wheeled  wagon 


106 


and  pulled  by  a  team  of  beautiful  black  horses  to  the  picnic 
site.  People  coming  from  Avon  for  the  picnic  rode  on  the  same 
wagon.  Spring  seats  seated  the  ladies.  The  patrons  and 
friends  arrived  by  wagon,  surrey,  or  buggy.  The  horses  were 
tied  to  nearby  trees.  Contents  of  well  filled  picnic  baskets 
were  placed  on  tables  made  of  boards  laid  on  sawhorses  built 
for  the  purpose.  The  people  sat  on  boards  that  were  placed  on 
large  pieces  of  sawed  logs.  The  event  was  such  a  success  that 
a  second  Creamery  Picnic  was  planned  for  the  fall  of  1907. 
Then  the  number  of  patrons  had  grown  to  23. 

In  1909  the  third  picnic  was  held  in  the  same  location. 
There  was  an  increased  number  of  patrons,  a  wonderful 
dinner,  and  an  oversupply  of  ice  cream  from  the  Creamery.  A 
program  had  been  planned  to  follow  the  dinner.  Mrs.  Crissey 
entertained  with  several  readings,  there  was  a  singing  and 
several  with  musical  instruments  entertained.  A  decision  was 
made  to  organize  into  an  association.  Mr.  Spangler  was 
elected  president  and  Mrs.  D.S.  Heck,  secretary.  Committees 
were  appointed  for  the  coming  year. 

In  1910  Mr.  Crissey  issued  invitations  to  other  areas. 
Some  cars  were  coming  from  a  distance.  Large  crowds  were 
attending.  Programs  were  interesting  and  well  presented 
from  a  stage.  Mr.  Crissey  gave  talks  on  selling  cream,  labor 
saving,  and  money  making.  The  Creamery  Picnic  had  become 
an  annual  affair. 

When  the  World  War  came,  the  dreaded  Hoof  and 
Mouth  Disease  started  in  herds  of  cows.  Government 
Inspectors  came  to  the  farms  to  inspect  each  cow  or  calf.  Our 
herd  of  cows  was  condemned  on  their  third  inspection.  The 
cows  were  driven  into  a  huge  trench  dug  on  the  farm, 
slaughtered,  covered  with  lime,  and  buried.  The  farm  was 
placed  under  quarantine.  No  new  cows  could  be  brought  in. 
The  Creamery  Picnic  ended  and  never  resumed.  Other  cream 
buying  stations  had  started  and  cream  was  shipped  as  far 
away  as  Chicago. 


LONG  AGO  AND  FAR  AWAY 

Herman  R.  Koester 

Camp  Ellis,  located  between  Macomb  and  Havana,  was 
the  site  of  a  staging  area  for  army  troops  destined  for 
overseas  duty  during  the  Second  World  War.  The  camp 
housed  15,000  plus  troops  at  any  given  moment  and  had  over 
40,000  there  in  the  summer  of  1944. 

To  those  of  us  who  had  lived  in  perambular  tents  and 
trained  in  the  Mohave  Desert  for  nearly  a  year.  Camp  Ellis 
presented  to  us  a  first  impression  of  being  a  military 
paradise.  There  stood  barracks  buildings  instead  of  tents, 
hard  surfaced  roads  instead  of  ruts  and  mud,  electric  hghts 
instead  of  candles  and  lanterns,  beautiful  green  grass  instead 
of  drifting  sand.  Not  only  did  those  buildings  look  solid  but 
the  array  of  brick  chimneys  meant  they  could  be  heated 
during  cold  weather,  a  sign  of  true  luxury. 

The  Post  Exchange  held  frequent  social  events, 
including  dances  that  were  attended  by  capacity  crowds, 
which  were  divided  equally  between  visiting  civilians  and  the 
resident  GI's.  Those  events  temporarily  alleviated  the 
boredom  of  camp  confinement.  When  the  opportunity  to 
leave  camp  came,  a  choice  of  Havana  or  Macomb  as  a 
destination  was  offered  with  army  transportation  furnished. 
Everyone  I  knew  accepted.  Macomb  was  my  choice  by 
chance,  and  I  chmbed  into  the  army  truck  that  was  filled  to 
capacity  with  GI's  who  had  made  the  same  choice.  The  ride 
seemed  to  take  an  eternity  since  the  only  view  was  through 
the  rear  of  this  canvas  colored  vehicle.  Only  a  fleeting  glance 
of  such  unfamiliar  places  as  Ipava,  Table  Grove,  and  Adair 
were  available  before  we  finally  stopped  in  front  of  the 
Macomb  USO. 

Everyone  who  disembarked  from  the  truck  did  not  head 
for  this  impressive  building.  The  red  brick  tliree-story  edifice 
that  housed  this  serviceman's  center  was  located  one-half 
block  east  of  the  city  square  on  East  Jackson  Street.  The 


building  was,  at  one  time,  an  elegant  residence  that  had  been 
donated  by  the  owner  to  the  city  for  community  use.  The 
entryway  was  impressive  from  an  architectual  standpoint,  as 
was  the  manicured  front  lawn  which  set  it  apart  from  the 
adjacent  building  that  abutted  the  sidewalks. 

We  were  met  at  the  door  by  community  volunteers  who 
escorted  us  into  the  sunken  room  which  could  have  been  a 
hving  room  or  a  Ubrary.  The  hardwood  floor  gUstened  and  the 
ceiling  beams  cast  their  shadows  against  the  magnificient 
wall  panels.  Although  the  temperature  did  not  permit  the 
fireplace  in  the  north  wall  to  be  hghted,  the  friendly  faces  of 
the  volunteer  community  folk  supplanted  the  warmth  and 
glow  of  burning  logs  and  made  us  welcome  and  comfortable. 
They  introduced  themselves  and  acquainted  each  of  us  with 
what  the  center  had  to  offer.  I  chose  to  enter  into  a  card  game 
and  was  escorted  to  a  second  floor  room  where  several  games 
were  in  or  about  to  be  in  progress. 

My  name  was  given  to  a  group  of  three  young  ladies 
from  Western  Illinois  State  College  who  were  a  delight  to  a 
lonesome  soldier.  Each  of  the  young  ladies  introduced  herself 
and  we  proceeded  to  play  a  game  of  "I  Doubt  It."  The  game 
and  its  participants  removed  any  doubt  I  may  have  had 
about  enjoying  my  evening  in  this  most  charming  USO 
building.  To  say  that  the  young  ladies  were  dehghtful  is 
really  putting  it  mildly,  since  one  of  them  became  my  wife 
two  years  later  when  I  returned  to  Macomb.  Our  wedding 
date  was  April  11,  1946. 

The  impressive  USO  building  still  stands,  and  it  serves 
as  the  Macomb  City  Hall.  I  now  have  the  honor  and 
privilege  to  be  serving  as  an  alderman  on  the  Macomb  City 
Council.  And  so  the  lovely  City  HaU  continues  to  add  to  my 
memories. 


I'  rm)v.  n>  fi:<^.  iu  ^&  ^.  H'  ^''"^  ^  ^'  ^ 


^'Z^U^^  j^'^v'v^i  ^'li^' 


20V?^r*:>^^z?vy^^*;:*^^/g^R*^>J^:?pv^^*r>!^Igg^?^ 


^jwwy.'jt  il^jVv^'iJ  lll^wCiJ  ll^JvWCiJ  llWv-'i'  iivwWw'ir  il^ywWj'i 


VI     Pure  Nostalgia 


PURE  NOSTALGIA 

According  to  Webster's  Dictionary,  the  word  'nostalgia' 
means  "...  a  wistful  or  irrecoverable  condition"  and  so  the 
editors,  who  had  to  choose  between  innumerable  stories  that 
were  just  as  diverse  as  they  were  wonderful  and  that  could 
not  be  subsumed  under  one  theme,  decided  to  gather  a 
selection  of  them  under  the  title  "Pure  Nostalgia." 

In  this  section  are  stories  about  the  long  remembered 
and  often  written  about  one-room  school;  about  that  epitomy 
and  symbol  of  the  family  at  its  best,  the  Victorian  clapboard 
house;  about  that  mother— the  woman  whom  everyone  knew 
before  Paul  Gallico  and  E.R.A.;  about  the  most  American  of 
traditions,  the  Decoration  Day  celebration;  and  about  so 
many  other  things  that  have  been  eulogized  and 
mythologized  as  part  of  a  perfection  that  existed  in  "the  good 
old  days." 

Beulah  Jean  McMillan,  for  example,  tells  about  the  time 
when  children  put  a  plank  across  the  parlor  organ  stool  and 
used  it  for  a  merry-go-round:  when  children  were  to  eat 
everything  on  their  plates  in  diffidence  to  the  "starving 
Armenians,"  and  when  women  were  expected  to  be  delicate 
and  lady-like. 

Harriet  Bricker  recalls  the  1920's  celebration  of 
Memorial  Day  as  steeped  in  the  fragrance  of  buckets  of 
peonies,  carried  in  the  back  seat  of  a  car  to  the  cemetery,  to  be 
used  as  grave  ornamentation.  Leta  Rogers  Spradhn 
remembers  how  the  men,  using  scythes  and  axes,  cleared  the 
gravesites  of  overgrowth  while  their  women  spread  out  table 
cloths  and  then  covered  them  with  picnic  food.  After  the 
picnic,  she  writes,  the  flowers  were  arranged  and  placed  on 
graves:  "Children  helped  with  the  flowers,  too,  but  they  were 
warned  not  to  speak  loudly,  laugh,  or  step  on  graves.  A 
reverent  attitude  prevailed  over  the  httle  burial  ground;  it 
seemed  a  hallowed  place."  It  was  a  time  when  people  stiU 


believed  in  their  rituals  and  found  meaning  in  them,  for  years 
ago  paying  homage  to  the  ancestral  dead  provided  people 
with  a  sense  of  who  they  were  and  from  whence  they  came. 

One  of  the  images  popular  to  themes  of  nostalgia  is  the 
Victorian  home— always  remembered  as  painted  in  pastels 
with  white  gingerbread  trim,  porches,  shingled  dormers,  and 
gables.  This  symbol  of  the  stable  family  and  the  good  life 
appears  over  and  over  again  in  today's  media,  on  postcards, 
calendars,  and  notecards.  It  is  not  surprising  to  find  Doris  L. 
Chiberg  devoting  an  entire  story  to  just  such  a  place,  her 
grandparents'  home. 

No  less  a  symbol  of  those  times,  and  remembered  with 
nostalgia  is  the  then  always  present  "mother."  Memories  of 
the  mother  of  the  turn  of  the  century  are  not  made  up  of 
elements  considered  admirable  to  the  contemporary,  mid- 
twentieth  century  E.R.A.  supporter;  that  suited  professional 
women  who  dashes  briskly  to  her  office  after  serving 
powdered  orange  juice  and  frozen,  toasted  waffles  to  her 
family  for  breakfast.  The  mother  everyone  remembers  is  the 
one  portrayed  in  Blanche  Harrison's  story,  "Truth  and 
Justice,"  the  archetypal  mother,  a  person  who  "caused 
everything  to  be  right  in  my  [own]  small  world."  Mrs. 
Harrison  writes,  "Her  presence  meant  comfort,  warmth,  love, 
and  good  food  when  you  were  hungry."  The  turn  of  the 
century  mother  was  always  there— waiting  when  you  came 
home  from  school,  ready  with  Mercurochrome  when  you 
skinned  your  knee,  and  constantly  cooking  good  things  for 
hungry  children.  This  was  a  mother  who  seldom  had  a  "baby 
sitter."  She  is  the  old  fashioned  mother  of  all  our  dreams. 

Charles  P.  OberUng  completes  this  section  with  his 
memories  of  what  was  once  his  own  small  family  farm.  That 
was  a  time  before  hundreds  of  Illinois  acres  were  combined 
into  corporate  farms  to  feed  the  Del  Monte,  Heintz,  and 
Campbell's  canneries.  Oberling  writes,  "I  remember  each 
hickory  and  walnut  tree  in  the  south  pasture.  I  remember  the 
bittersweet  growing  on  the  fence  row,  parts  of  which  came 


home  in  my  hunting  coat  for  a  winter  bouquet.  I  can  see  bob- 
whites  strutting  along  a  fence  line.  1  can  see  the  catfish, 
schools  of  minnows,  frogs,  and  watersnakes  that  co-existed  in 
McGee  Creek. . .  It  taught  us  that  beauty  can  be  a  sunset ..." 
Some  people  feel  that  nostalgia  is  not  only  a  yearning 
for  an  u-recoverable  time  but,  also,  an  idealizing  of  times  past 
...  a  romanticizing  of  a  period  which  may  or  may  not  have 
been  as  wonderful  as  our  memories  would  indicate.  Is  it  that 


the  authors  idealize  the  past,  remembering  only  the  good 
times?  Or  might  it  be  that  during  the  first  half  of  this  century 
people  accentuated  the  positive  aspects  of  their  lives  instead 
of  the  negative?  If  that  is  true,  perhaps  it  would  be  wise  to 
take  a  lesson  from  these  earlier  decades. 

Jerrilee  Cain,  Editor 


THE  BERLIN  SCHOOL 

Ruby  Davenport  Kish 

Sixteen  miles  west  of  Springfield  on  the  Old 
Jacksonville  Road  and  a  block  off  the  road  at  the  north  end  of 
BerUn  sets  the  most  beautiful  little  school  and  grounds  in  the 
State  of  Illinois. 

In  1923  my  mother  said  that  I  had  to  start  to  school  as  I 
was  past  six  years  of  age.  I  had  a  little  red  sweater  and  a  big 
red  pencil  that  day  I  started  school,  and  I  thought  that  I  was 
the  richest  person  in  the  world. 

The  present  school  house  was  built  on  the  same  spot  in 
1901.  The  new  school  was  a  white  frame  building  with  three 
rooms  with  a  long  hall  in  the  middle.  We  had  coat  racks  in  the 
hall  and  we  left  our  boots  and  umbrellas  out  there.  At  one 
time  there  were  three  teachers,  but  we  usually  only  had  two. 
Each  teacher  took  four  grades.  The  roof  of  the  school  is 
gabled  and  has  a  beautiful  bell  tower.  The  bell  could  be  heard 
all  over  BerUn.  At  first  we  had  outside  toilets  and  went 
outside  for  drinking  water,  except  in  winter  when  they 
brought  a  bucket  of  water  in.  When  my  father,  L.B. 
Davenport,  John  B.  Ruble,  and  Joe  Burger,  Sr.  became  school 
directors,  they  put  a  basement  under  the  school  and  inside 
chemical  toilets.  A  steam  furnace  was  installed  and  the 
school  house  was  wired  for  electricity.  The  janitor  took  over 
the  stoking  of  the  furnace.  Before  the  furnace  each  room  had 
a  coal  burning  stove,  and  the  older  boys  helped  the  teachers 
with  the  fires.  In  later  years  drinking  water  was  run  in  and  a 
kitchen  installed  to  prepare  and  serve  hot  lunches  in. 

The  school  yard  has  five  rolling  acres  and  through  the 
schoolyard  runs  a  little  branch.  Over  the  brook  they  built  a  25 
foot  long  foot  bridge.  Little  children  loved  to  run  and  walk 
across  this  bridge  as  it  made  a  hollow  clacking  sound.  The 
yard  was  covered  with  beautiful  shade  trees,  and  in  the  fall  of 
the  year  we  would  rake  leaves  from  these  trees  and  make 
rooms  under  the  bridge  partitions.  In  the  spring  of  the  year 


we  would  wade  the  branch  and  sail  our  little  homemade  boats 
on  the  water.  At  the  back  of  the  schoolyard  wild  flowers  grew 
in  the  spring.  These  we  would  gather  for  bouquets  for  the 
classrooms.  Sometimes  at  recess  we  would  be  brave  enough 
to  venture  over  in  the  timber  at  the  back  of  the  schoolyard. 
We  found  many  arrowheads  there  as  a  tribe  of  Indians  had 
camped  there  in  the  early  days  of  Berlin.  When  the  recess  bell 
would  ring  and  we  were  caught  barefoot,  we'd  grab  our  shoes 
and  run  back  to  the  schoolhouse  on  time.  In  the  winter  time 
we  used  the  large  hills  for  sledding  and  sometimes  skated  on 
the  ice  in  winter.  We  had  plently  of  sidewalks  for  roller 
skating,  jumping  rope,  and  jack  playing. 

Every  spring  a  Civil  War  Veteran  by  the  name  of  Jake 
Knouse  would  don  his  old  uniform  and  come  to  the  school  and 
give  a  talk  on  the  Civil  War  and  patriotism.  He  died  in  the 
middle  1930's. 

We  had  a  study  of  nature  first  hand  at  BerUn  School,  for 
the  schoolyard  was  alive  with  birds,  squirrels,  snakes, 
skunks,  rabbits,  and  sometimes  an  occasional  fox.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  one  of  the  graduates,  William  B.  Robertson,  Jr., 
has  a  Ph.D.  in  biology  and  is  an  authority  on  plant  and  animal 
life  at  the  Florida  Everglades? 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  when  the  days  began  to  warm, 
the  grass  grew  green,  trees  and  flowers  began  to  bloom,  and 
birds  began  to  nest  and  sing,  this  was  the  hardest  time  of  the 
year  for  me  to  knuckle  down  and  study  as  I  longed  to  be  out 
in  the  lovely  Uttle  schoolyard  playing  and  communing  with 
nature.  I've  always  had  a  Uttle  of  Thoreau  in  me.  It  was  just 
such  a  beautiful  spring  day  that  the  principal  of  the  school 
walked  by  my  desk  and  saw  me  gazing  out  the  window.  He 
hauled  off  and  slapped  me  on  the  side  of  my  head  so  hard  that 
it  felt  Uke  he  knocked  my  head  off  and  it  went  rolUng  clear  to 
the  back  of  the  schoolyard.  He  hoUered,  "Get  to  work!"  I 
didn't  get  much  work  done  the  rest  of  the  day,  for  I  couldn't 
see  through  the  tears. 

It  never  occurred  to  me  that  every  child  might  not  have 


114 


a  school  and  yard  such  as  mine  was.  One  day  in  later  years,  I 
stopped  to  watch  children  playing  on  solid  concrete  and  my 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  My  heart  cried  out  to  them  "Oh!  Little 
ones  if  you  could  know  that  Uttle  school  yard  of  long  ago." 
Every  child  should  have  a  school  and  yard  hke  the  one  that  I 
had. 

Our  school  was  one  of  the  first  integrated  schools  in  the 
state  of  Illinois.  Our  one  black  pupil  was  Leonard  McDaniel. 
He  was  a  quiet  little  boy  and  easy  to  get  along  with.  Colonel 
Henry  Yates  had  brought  his  grandfather  back  to  Berlin 
after  the  Civil  War.  Leonard's  parents  and  his  two  uncles 
died  when  he  was  very  young,  and  he  was  raised  by  his  aunt 
Nell.  Leonard  still  Uves  in  Berlin  and  has  the  respect  and  love 
of  everyone  in  the  community  and  surrounding  countryside. 
Wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  we  could  all  be  that  fortunate? 

In  a  small  town  all  the  social  life  is  associated  with  the 
school  and  church.  We  had  Christmas  Eve  programs,  potluck 
suppers,  and  box  socials.  At  the  end  of  the  school  year,  we 
had  a  picnic  and  our  families  came  and  participated. 

In  every  student's  hfe,  one  teacher  stands  out.  The 
teacher  in  my  hfe  who  emphasized  the  study  of  poetry  and 
insisted  that  we  memorize  some  of  Longfellow's  and  Vachel 
Lindsay's  probably  instilled  in  me  the  love  of  poetry.  W.B. 
Robertson  is  still  living.  Alfred  Tennyson's,  "The  Brook 
Song,"  had  a  special  meaning  for  me  because  of  the  brook 
that  runs  through  the  schoolyard. 

When  Berhn  School  closed  its  doors  something  very 
wonderful  and  worthwhile  was  lost  to  Berlin  children  forever. 


WHAT  ARE  TOMBOYS  MADE  OF,  MADE  OF? 

Edna  Trovillion  Baker 


I  have  checked  the  dates  of  a  number  of  occasions  I'm 
sure   I   remember,   and  they   support   my   beUef  that  my 


memory  reaches  back  to  1888  when  I  was  two  and  a  half 
years  old. 

I  was  number  two  of  eight  children  of  Ferres  and  Carrie 
Clanahan  Trovillion.  Number  one,  Maude,  was  22  months  my 
senior.  We  lived  on  a  farm  located  two  miles  from  the  village 
of  Columbus  (now  Brownfield),  Illinois. 

When  Maude  was  only  14  months  old,  I  alerted  Mama  of 
my  impending  arrival,  delivery  to  made  in  about  eight 
months.  This  was  alarming  to  Mama  because  it  meant 
weaning  Maude,  which  was  something  mothers  would  not 
think  of  doing  to  a  baby  under  two  years,  except  in 
emergencies  such  as  this. 

But  my  parents  braced  themselves  against  possible 
hazards  and  went  to  "town"  (Golconda)  to  buy  a  nursing 
bottle— a  nursing  bottle— for  the  baby  who  was  thus  relegated 
to  the  status  of  "first  child." 

It  was  shm-mouthed  bottle  fitted  with  a  cork  through 
which  a  glass  passed,  reaching  to  the  bottom.  On  the  outside 
there  was  a  small  rubber  tube  eight  to  ten  inches  long,  at  the 
end  of  which  was  a  rubber  nipple,  not  removable. 

It  was  through  this  medium  that  the  little  pushed-aside 
firstborn  learned  to  take  nourishment— cow's  milk— until  she 
grew  enough  teeth  to  chew  soUd  food. 

There  followed  anxious  months  for  my  parents,  for  their 
httle  Maude  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  often  having  stomach 
upsets  and  fever.  Fearing  she  would  not  Uve,  they  took  her 
often  to  the  photograph  gallery  in  Golconda  to  have  her 
picture  taken.  (Maude  lived  to  be  89.) 

She  finally  adjusted  to  her  diet  and  by  the  time  of  my 
advent  she  had  a  high  chair  and  sat  at  the  dining  table  for  her 
meals.  She  knew  she  must  be  a  big  girl  now,  since  "sizzer 
Baby,"  as  she  called  me,  was  here.  There  was  not  room  on 
Mama's  lap  for  two. 

For  Maude's  birth  they  had  called  the  doctor,  reahzing 
this  was  the  safest  thing  to  do.  His  fee  was  $5.  That  was  in 
1884.  However,  since  Mama  had  made  it  just  fine  with  the 


first  one,  they  figured  there  was  no  point  in  being 
extravagant  with  the  second  one.  They  engaged  "Grandma 
FrankUn"  (not  our  real  grandma)  to  come  and  see  that  I 
arrived  in  good  condition.  She  charged  only  $1.  Besides  this 
economy,  she  came  back  for  about  a  week,  every  day,  to  bathe 
and  dress  me.  All  those  services  were  included  in  the  initial 
charge. 

There  was  only  one  hitch.  I  was  a  duplicate  of  number 
one,  and  all  the  while  they  had  counted  on  the  other  gender. 

But  my  parents  took  the  disappointment  like  real 
soldiers  and  1  'm  sure  they  loved  me  and  never  neglected  me. 
As  time  went  on,  though,  and  before  grownups  were  aware 
that  1  was  hstening,  I  got  the  message  that  1  was  a  misfit.  I 
said  nothing.  This  would  be  my  secret  forever,  I  decided. 

They  named  me  "Edna,"  but  soon  changed  it  to 
"Eddie."  This  confirmed  my  suspicions  that  they  must  have 
wanted  a  boy,  to  be  named  "Edward." 

As  I  grew  up  I  was  a  happy-go-lucky  child.  Only  two 
things  distressed  me:  I  was  afraid  the  world  would  come  to  an 
end  and  1  was  afraid  Mama  would  die.  (She  did— at  84.) 

1  loved  the  outdoors,  and  could  run  Uke  a  deer.  I  used  to 
hke  to  run  in  the  wind  and  to  feel  it  blow  my  hair  and 
clothes— which  reminds  me  of  another  one  of  my 
imperfections.  Nature  had  given  me  crooked  feet,  which  made 
me  run  my  shoes  over.  In  an  effort  to  straighten  those 
rundown  heels.  Mama  would  have  me  switch  the  right  shoe  to 
the  left  foot  and  the  left  to  the  right.  I  wore  buttoned  shoes 
and  they  looked  crazy  that  way.  I  was  fond  of  schoolhopping 
the  length  of  our  yard  and  then  looking  down  at  my  shoes  on 
the  wrong  feet,  which  gave  me  the  feeling  of  being  crosseyed. 
Having  such  fun  was  all  the  good  that  the  shoe-switch  did, 
for  I  still  have  crooked  feet  and  run  my  heels  over. 

On  days  when  the  sky  was  overcast  with  biUowy  white 
clouds  1  loved  to  he  back  on  the  grass  and  imagine  1  could  see 
fleecy  baby  lambs  and  curley-haired  white  dogs.  If  1  watched 
closely  in  the  slowly  moving  clouds,  1  could  figure  out  the 


head  and  face  of  a  man  with  lots  of  snowy  white  hair  and  face 
surrounded  by  a  thick  long  beard  and  very  beautiful.  I 
thought  it  was  God,  for  1  could  always  see  it  if  1  watched  long 
enough.  So  it  had  to  be  God.  He  was  up  there  somewhere, 
because  heaven  was  up  there,  1  reasoned.  1  told  nobody  of 
this,  for  I  knew  the  Bible  said  no  one  could  look  at  God  or 
they  would  die.  But  since  He  was  so  far  away,  I  wasn't  afraid 
to  look. 

Mama  often  said  to  me,  when  1  was  too  noisy  around  the 
house,  "I  wish  you  were  a  boy!"  So  did  I— but  what  was  there 
to  do  about  it? 

From  my  early  years  all  the  earmarks  of  "tomboy"  were 
showing  up  in  me.  It  wasn't  comphmentary,  for  in  those 
straight-laced  days  little  girls  were  said  to  be  made  of  "sugar 
and  spice  and  everything  nice."  My  sister,  Maude,  was  that.  I 
was  not. 

As  I  write  this  at  the  age  of  90  I  recall  the  things  that 
characterized  my  boyish  behavior,  such  as  that  I  was  always 
the  one  who  turned  the  grindstone  crank  for  Papa  as  he 
sharpened  his  axes,  mowing  blade,  and  plow  points.  It  was  I 
who  was  always  ready  to  go  to  the  barn  with  him  after  supper 
to  shuck  corn,  then  back  the  next  morning  to  turn  the  crank 
on  the  big  corn  sheller  in  preparation  for  making  meal  and 
cow  feed. 

Also,  it  was  I  who  held  the  sacks  while  he  scooped  the 
wheat  into  them  to  take  to  the  mill  in  Golconda  to  be  made 
into  flour.  And  then  it  was  I  who  rode  into  town  with  him, 
that  jolting  eight  miles  in  the  farm  wagon.  That  was 
sometimes  in  the  coldest  days  of  winter,  so  cold  that  Mama 
would  heat  a  brick  for  me  to  take  to  keep  my  feet  warm. 

My  mature  years  have  given  me  a  different  perspective 
on  what  motivated  my  boyishness.  I  truly  beheve  it  was  a 
quirk  of  my  subconscious  in  an  effort  to  please  my  parents 
and  make  up  to  them  for  my  not  having  been  a  boy. 


A  STREETCAR  RAN  IN  FRONT 

Beulah  Jean  McMillan 

We  moved  from  Olney,  Illinois  to  534  Lincoln  Avenue  in 
Peoria  in  a  working-class  neighborhood.  There  was  a  saloon 
directly  across  the  street  and  several  others  not  far  away.  A 
streetcar  ran  in  front,  and  I  spent  Sunday  afternoons 
counting  the  cars  going  by. 

My  brother  Neil  and  I  attended  Webster  School.  I  soon 
learned  not  to  talk  and  giggle,  as  the  teacher  sent  me  back  to 
the  first  grade  until  noon.  But  the  teacher  later  gave  me  the 
responsibility  of  taking  a  girl  home  when  she  got  sick.  I  had  a 
favorite  baby-doU  which  I  took  to  school,  and  someone  took 
it.  A  girl  taught  me  to  waltz  in  the  restroom,  which  my 
parents  opposed.  The  teacher  called  on  my  parents  one 
evening  after  I  had  gone  to  bed,  and  1  was  caUed  down.  My 
bed  was  a  cot  in  my  parents'  room.  I  woke  up  frightened 
because  I  thought  the  clothes-tree  was  an  Indian. 

We  had  two  fire  scares  with  the  chimney  flames  that 
brought  the  fire  department.  Mother  learned  to  throw  salt  in 
the  furnace  when  threatened. 

After  a  big  snow  I  begged  mother  to  let  me  play  in  it.  I 
did  not  get  much  farther  than  the  back  steps  before  I  was 
ready  to  go  back  in.  They  pulled  me  on  a  sled  to  church,  which 
was  12  blocks  away. 

Grandmother  sent  Christmas  boxes  for  the  family  and  I 
had  a  doll  bed  and  doU,  and  mother  made  covers  for  it.  The 
rest  of  the  family  were  older  boys,  so  I  usually  played  alone.  I 
was  allowed  to  play  with  the  girl  next  door.  I  did  not  ask  to 
play  with  a  girl  about  a  block  away,  and  when  I  came  home  I 
received  my  last  spanking  with  a  hair-brush  in  the  pantry. 

We  put  our  revolving  organ  stool  in  the  kitchen  with  a 
board  across  it  for  a  merry-go-round.  Kenneth  was  lying  on  it 
one  day  and  I  piled  on  his  stomach,  at  which  he  protested. 
But  I  said,  "It's  good  for  your  Uver." 

Father  used  a  straight-edged  razor  and  leather  strap.  1 


was  warned  about  touching  its  edge,  but  had  to  try  it,  and  I 
cut  my  finger. 

Father  took  me  on  many  of  his  walks.  On  Adams  Street 
we  saw  a  lady  driving  an  electric  car.  We  saw  a  man  injured 
riding  a  motorcycle.  We  visited  a  man  from  the  church  whose 
business  was  grinding  coffee,  and  enjoyed  its  distinctive 
aroma.  Father  took  me  on  an  excursion  boat  ride  up  the 
Illinois  River. 

We  moved  April  16,  1914,  to  517  Hecox  Street  (now 
Garden  Street),  only  three  blocks  from  the  Bethel 
Presbyterian  Church.  It  was  a  large  frame  house  with  four 
rooms  downstairs  and  four  bedrooms  and  bath  upstairs.  It 
had  two  indoor  stairways  and  one  outdoors. 

The  small  front  porch  had  a  lattice  wall  underneath.  We 
used  the  wide  side  porch  leading  into  the  dining  room.  A 
cement  platform  held  the  double  lawn  swing.  A  coal  furnace 
was  in  the  basement.  Father  would  buy  bananas  by  the 
bunch  and  hang  them  there,  apples  by  the  barrel,  and  a  25 
pound  turkey.  Ice  cream  was  frozen  there  for  a  special  treat. 

Our  yard  had  catalpa  trees  that  made  a  big  leaf-burning 
fire  after  we  had  lined  playhouses  with  them.  I  was  at  a  stage 
where  the  low  wall  in  front  was  fun  to  keep  my  balance  on. 
When  it  rained,  we  enjoyed  wading  in  the  deep  ditch  in  front. 
Games  we  played  were  Statue,  Jacks,  Hop-scotch,  Jumping 
Rope  to  a  Rhyme,  and  trying  to  Jump  Rope  100  times 
without  missing. 

The  boys  hung  a  big  swing  on  a  high  hmb,  and  1  learned 
what  the  world  looks  like  upside  down.  I  liked  to  sit  on  the 
outside  stairway  and  play  school.  Father  would  make  out  a 
set  of  Arithmetic  problems  for  me  to  solve.  We  also  played 
school  bouncing  a  ball  to  go  from  one  grade  to  a  higher  one, 
on  the  steps. 

The  side  street  around  the  corner  slanted  up  to  Western 
Avenue  and  was  a  favorite  place  for  skating  on  my  wooden 
skates.  Behind  us  on  Western  Avenue  hved  my  best  friends, 
Dorothy  and  Harriet  Maxwell.  I  was  allowed  to  play  there  an 


117 


hour  at  a  time.  Their  attic  was  a  playroom  where  we  played 
house  and  dressed  up  in  costumes.  We  each  had  doll  buggies 
and  took  the  dolls  on  the  sidewalk  at  times. 

At  Blaine  School  just  before  noon  a  girl  ran  a  crochet 
hook  into  her  stomach,  and  was  in  great  pain,  scaring  us  all. 
One  activity  there  involved  an  exercise  in  the  aisle,  and  my 
partner  was  a  black  boy  named  Sonny.  He  followed  it  up  by 
giving  me  a  sack  of  candy.  That  was  enough  for  father,  and  he 
enrolled  us  in  Garfield  School.  I  liked  the  handwork  there, 
especially  weaving  paper  for  a  lantern.  I  had  two  mishaps  in 
that  school.  At  recess  I  fell  on  an  ash  pile  and  skinned  my 
knee  so  badly  I  stayed  home  a  day  or  so,  sitting  in  the  Morris 
chair  in  father's  study.  Another  time  I  mashed  my  finger  in 
the  hinge  side  of  the  toilet  door,  and  had  to  go  home. 

I  picked  some  petunias  on  a  nearby  lot  going  home  one 
noon,  and  was  told  I  should  not  have  done  it.  Across  from  the 
petunias  I  saw  a  white  wreath  on  the  door,  and  learned  a  little 
girl  had  died  there. 

Mother  raised  chickens,  and  a  fence  was  relocated  to 
keep  them  in.  When  the  rooster  got  loose,  my  brother  Elliott 
was  asked  to  get  it  in.  After  chasing  it  unsuccessfully,  he 
threw  a  rock  at  it  and  killed  it.  For  punishment  he  had  to  stay 
in  his  room  when  a  church  youth  party  was  held  in  the  yard. 
A  picture  shows  him  with  his  face  pressed  against  the  win- 
dow. 

Mother's  dinner-bell  called  us  to  meals.  I  sat  next  to 
father,  and  he  cut  my  meat  in  quarter  inch  squares.  I  Uked 
hver  best,  which  he  often  got  free.  When  we  were  picky  we 
were  told,  "Remember  the  starving  Armenians."  And  when 
not  a  morsel  was  left.  Mother  would  say,  "I  judged  your  ap- 
petites." Donald  bought  three  packages  of  gum  for  10<t  and 
sold  to  the  rest  of  us  for  5C  a  piece.  Hucksters  going  through 
the  neighborhood  chanted,  "Rags,  old  iron,  old  copper,  and 
old  brass."  Another  said,  "Bananas— lOt  a  dozen."  We  took 
the  Peoria  newspaper,  but  on  Sunday  the  Comics  were  hidden 
away  until  Monday! 


My  parents  had  their  25  wedding  anniversary  in  1915, 
and  my  older  brothers  gave  them  a  monogrammed  silverwear 
set,  which  we  used  only  on  Sundays.  We  had  individual  small 
plates,  cups,  and  saucers  for  Sunday  supper  of  homemade 
peanutbutter  sandwiches,  cocoa,  and  cake.  Cake  was  served 
on  a  big  plate,  going  back  and  forth  by  ages  to  all  at  the  table, 
giving  me  the  last  piece. 

At  Christmas  father  bought  a  five  pound  box  of 
chocolates  which  he  doled  out  one  piece  at  a  time  around  the 
family.  Mine  were  put  on  a  high  shelf  so  I  had  to  ask  for  a 
piece. 

The  Sunday  school  had  a  picnic  in  "South  Park."  In  the 
afternoon  mother  had  a  heat  stroke  and  was  brought  home  in 
an  ambulance. 

My  hair  had  a  "cow-hck."  After  a  Saturday  shampoo 
mother  tied  it  up  with  kid  curlers,  and  I  would  sleep  uncom- 
fortably on  it.  It  would  be  curly  all  week.  At  school  it  became 
infested  with  lice,  and  mother  got  a  very  fine  comb  to  get  the 
gnits  out. 

My  first  movie  was  The  Birth  of  A  Nation.  The  scene  of 
the  negro  chasing  the  little  girl  haunted  me  for  years.  Father 
took  me  to  a  Charlie  Chaplin  Comedy  on  Adams  Street,  and 
after  a  few  minutes  I  made  him  leave  because  I  thought  it 
was  too  silly. 

Beckers  had  us  for  supper  just  before  we  left  Peoria, 
Kenneth  and  Eleanor  were  good  friends.  Coming  home  at 
night  down  a  hiU,  father  carried  me  on  his  shoulders,  though  I 
weighed  48  pounds. 


PEONIES  ON  DECORATION  DAY 

Harriet  Bricker 

In  the  twenties.  Memorial  Day,  or  Decoration  Day  as  we 
called  it,  was  one  of  the  high  points  of  the  year,  a  mixture  of 


118 


solemnity  and  holiday  mood.  Discussion  of  whether  the 
peonies  would  be  "right"  by  May  30th  began  at  least  two 
weeks  before  the  end  of  May.  Would  they  be  in  fuU  bloom  or, 
in  view  of  delayed  warm  weather,  be  green  buds?  Just  to 
think  of  Decoration  Day  brings  the  aroma  of  peonies! 

Well,  before  May  30th,  communications  flew  back  and 
forth  from  Bushnell  and  Chicago  to  ascertain  whether  my 
Aunt  Sadie  and  cousins  would  be  coming  and  join  in  the 
festivities  and  the  general  family  get-together.  And  most 
years,  word  arrived  that  indeed  they  would  come,  which  add- 
ed to  the  general  excitement,  especially  for  me  as  I  could  ex- 
pect with  certainty  that  my  doting  relatives  would  bring  me  a 
present!  Maybe  the  red  glass  elephant  candy  jar,  the  pink 
silk  parasol,  or  the  black  pottery  kitty  with  green  eyes  which 
curled  up  on  an  old  braided  rug  in  my  bedroom  55  years  later! 
The  parasol  is  preserved  in  a  photograph,  and  also,  the 
elephant  lasted  until  the  early  years  of  my  marriage  when  I 
broke  it  one  sad  day. 

If  the  Chicago  folks  drove  down,  they'd  arrive  the  day 
before,  and  they  had  Ukely  stopped  along  the  way  to  buy 
some  peonies  "to  help  out."  What  with  the  blooms  we  already 
had  picked  and  put  in  buckets  of  water,  the  cool  back  porch 
smelled  mightily  of  peonies  and  iris  and  lemon  lilies.  If  they 
came  by  train,  it  would  be  on  the  "Eli,"  the  11  o'clock  train.  I 
always  made  up  my  mind  I'd  stay  awake  until  it  steamed  and 
chugged  into  town,  and  sometimes  I  did! 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning,  Grandpa  put  up  the  flags 
in  his  yard  and  our  yard.  He'd  made  the  flagpoles,  and  to  top 
them,  he  took— took  without  a  word— two  of  my  croquet 
balls,  gilded  them,  and  fastened  them,  irretrievably  but  effec- 
tively, on  the  poles!  That  played  havoc  with  my  croquet  set. 

Breakfast  was  over  in  a  jig  time  so  the  cemetery  trips 
could  be  organized  and  we'd  have  time  to  arrange  the  bou- 
quets for  all  the  dear  departed.  Also,  the  schedule  included 
Aunt  Grace  in  Bushnell,  who  was  very  diligent  in  remember- 
ing every  known  relative  which  turned  the  occasion  into  a 


reaOy  monumental  task.  It  also  necessitated  absolute 
cooperation  with  Dad  and  Uncle,  as  they  had  to  chauffeur  the 
women,  kids,  and  flowers.  So,  our  big,  open  Packard  touring 
car  was  filled  up  with  containers  of  flowers,  an  extra  bucket 
of  water  and  the  women  in  hats.  And  Uncle  Charles  drove  his 
smaller  Hupmobile  filled  with  the  same. 

It  seems,  in  retrospect,  that  Decoration  Day  was  always 
hot,  and  often  windy.  And  such  atomospheric  conditions  were 
emphasized  in  those  open  cars!  The  ladies  hung  onto  their 
brimmed  hats  with  one  hand  and  steadied  the  blooms  with 
the  other;  the  flowers  threatened  to  blow  to  pieces  if  not  com- 
pletely out  of  their  containers;  water  splashed  and  sloshed  on 
our  feet,  and  the  driver  patiently  followed  all  the  directions, 
like  "Go  slow  around  the  comer!,"  "Oh,  do  try  to  miss  the 
holes!,"  "Stop  here!  No,  go  on  a  bit  further!,"  and  "This  is 
fine.  Now,  let's  see,  we'U  take  that  one  first.  No!  That  one!"  I 
loved  it. 

Visiting  the  Bushnell  Cemetery  was  relatively  simple, 
being  a  short  trip,  and,  in  those  days  there  were  not  too  many 
graves  to  visit.  But  Aunt  Grace  would  have  a  special  bouquet 
for  each  individual  in-law,  and  she'd  trot  here  and  there 
remembering  each  and  searching  for  an  occasional  unmarked 
lot.  In  not  too  many  years,  her  Charles  would  be  there  and  the 
Hupmobile  long  gone. 

But  the  visit  to  Oakwood  in  Macomb  was  different. 
That  was  retrogressing  back  into  times  long,  long  ago,  and  as 
a  child,  I  felt  it.  First,  there  was  Uncle  "Paint"  (Painter), 
whose  only  claim  to  fame  was  that,  as  a  photographer  in 
Macomb,  he  took  an  ambrotype  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  1858. 
He  returned  safely  from  the  Civil  War  and,  ironically,  was 
killed  driving  a  fractious  team  of  horses  home  from  a  funeral 
in  this  same  cemetery!  They  ran  away,  throwing  him  in  the 
ravine  along  the  then  narrow  road.  And  I'd  always  wander  to 
the  foot  of  the  sloping  lot  to  the  grave  of  poor,  disgraced 
Cordelia,  the  divorced  wife  of  war  hero  Louis  Waters.  Why 


divorced?  I  was  never  told.  I  was  only  a  child  in  the  twenties, 
and  it  never  was  mentioned  later. 

There  was  always  a  discussion  about  the  big  oak  tree  on 
the  lot,  threatening  to  turn  the  family  stone  with  its 
spreading  roots.  I  visualized  old  coffins  being  pushed 
through  the  sod!  But  nothing  so  dire  ever  happened.  The 
great  grandmother  here  was  buried  soon  after  the  Civil  War 
but  great-grandpa  had  been  left  in  Pennsylvania  years 
before— a  sheriff,  a  storekeeper,  representative  to  the  State 
Legislature  and  "mysteriously"  murdered.  How  intriguing! 

And  so  the  women  wandered  about,  visiting  with 
friends  and  viewing  other  old  lots  where  familiar  names  were 
recorded.  It  didn't  seem  to  bring  sadness  as  much  as 
satisfaction  and  a  sense  of  peace. 

Old  stories  were  told  and  re-told,  many  which  I 
remember.  I  gained  a  sense  of  family  continuity,  and  now  it's 
good  to  remember. 

Today  there's  no  group  to  accompany  each  other.  I  take 
peonies  to  those  who  led  me  around  through  family  history  so 
many  years  ago.  "Sally,"  "Uncle  Newt,"  and  "little  Eugene" 
lie  in  unadorned  graves,  but  are  not  forgotten— yet.  My 
grandchildren  may  come  some  day,  seeking  ancestors  along 
with  their  mother,  who's  not  unfamiliar  with  the  old  names, 
just  temporarily  removed!  But  those  graven  names  will  never 
come  to  Ufe  as  they  did  for  me.  They  wiO  never  be  surrounded 
by  those  who  knew  the  long-gone  ones  as  parents, 
grandparents,  aunts,  and  cousins. 

It  makes  me  feel  odd  to  realize  I'D  be  an  ancestor  some 
day!  "Here's  the  peonies  for  Grandma  Bricker!"  That  old 
family  continuity!  I  hope  it  is  carried  on  with  the  peonies  on 
Decoration  Day. 


DECORATION  DAY  AT  THE  CEMETERY 

Leta  Rogers  Spradlin 

In  the  second  decade  of  the  twentieth  century,  nobody  I 
knew  ever  said  "Memorial  Day."  To  us,  it  was  Decoration 
Day  because  it  was  the  time  we  expressed  respect  and 
remembrance  for  our  dead  loved  ones  by  decorating  their 
graves.  Each  May  13  the  descendents  of  my  great 
grandparents  met  at  their  burial  site,  the  little  country 
cemetery  known  as  Davis's.  Located  near  Clements  Station 
in  Morgan  County,  Illinois,  it  was  a  small  fenced  area  set  in  a 
big  pasture.  Its  big  shady  oaks  and  elms  provided  an  ideal 
spot  for  our  observation  of  the  Holiday,  for  to  us  Decoration 
Day  was  not  merely  the  trimming  of  graves.  Though  that  was 
important,  as  was  a  day  away  from  homely  duties,  it  was 
most  highly  anticipated  as  a  once-a-year  time  to  reunite  with 
kith  and  kin. 

I  lift  forward  one  of  those  treasured  occasions. 

Very  early  on  Decoration  Day,  Mama  began  fixing  her 
basket  dinner  of  the  choicest  foods  she  could  layhands  to: 
baked  country  ham,  shced  and  sandwiched  by  her  home 
baked  bread,  cottage  cheese,  deviled  eggs,  baked  beans,  and  a 
huge  bowl  of  leaf  lettuce  for  starters.  Crisp  red  radishes  and 
tender  green  onions  aU  scrubbed  and  garden  fresh  that  very 
morning.  Then  there  was  the  very  peak  of  Mama's  pride,  a 
gallon  milk  crock  heaping  full  of  ripe  strawberries,  frosty 
with  sugar.  I  couldn't  resist  borrowing  a  couple  when  Mama 
wasn't  looking!  All  of  those  foods  were  of  our  own 
production,  minus  the  flour  and  sugar  used. 

While  Mama  was  thus  engaged.  Papa  did  the  chores, 
then  stripped  our  yard  of  every  available  blossom.  Mostly 
they  were  roses,  peonies,  and  flags  (Iris  to  you  moderns). 
Papa  got  a  bucket  of  cold  water  from  the  well  and  plunged  the 
flowers  in  half  way  up  their  stems  to  keep  them  fresh  during 
their  ride.  Then  he  harnessed  old  Bill  and  Dolly  and  hitched 
them  to  the  farm  wagon,  putting  in  plenty  of  feed  for  their 


120 


dinner.  Also,  he  loaded  his  long  crook-handled  scythe,  axe, 
and  other  tools  the  men  would  need  when  clearing  the  grave- 
sites. 

The  buggy  would  have  been  a  lighter  vehicle  to  use  on 
the  road,  but  it  wouldn't  accommodate  our  cargo. 
Preparations  being  finished,  we  each  took  a  turn  bathing  in 
the  galvanized  wash  tub  behind  the  kitchen  stove  and 
dressed  for  a  day  of  outdoor  activity. 

Mama  wore  a  blue  checked  gingham  dress  with  a  wide 
white  collar  and  full  gathered  skirt  which  extended  to  the 
tops  of  her  laced  shoes.  Also,  she  wore,  as  would  most  of  the 
other  ladies,  a  big  white  apron.  Her  long  red  hair  was  twisted 
into  a  "bun"  on  top  of  her  head. 

Papa  wore  a  sturdy  "hickory  stripe"  shirt  with  his  bib 
overalls.  His  shoes,  a  brand  made  famous  by  Mont- 
gomery Ward,  were  known  as  the  "Six  Month  Guarantee" 
work  shoe.  In  plainly  stated  words,  the  company  promised 
right  there  on  the  catalog  page,  to  replace  any  shoe  which 
failed  to  last  that  long,  even  against  the  rigors  of  manure  and 
soil  acid.  They  were  expensive— three  dollars  and  49  cents 
plus  12  cents  postage— but  worth  every  dime  because  of  their 
durability. 

My  cotton-like  hair  was  usually  in  braids,  but  for  this 
important  day.  Mama  had  the  night  before  "done  it  up  in 
rags"  to  produce  banana  curls.  My  dress  was  red  checked 
gingham,  made  with  a  dropped  waist  line,  a  full  gathered 
skirt  that  came  exactly  to  the  middle  of  my  knees.  I  proudly 
wore  the  newly  popular  half  socks  with  my  black  two- 
strapped  sUppers.  Underwear  consisted  of  a  cotton  underslip 
and  panties  which  buttoned  on  to  a  waist.  I  envied  my  friends 
who  had  fashionable  black  sateen  bloomers  with  convenient 
elastic  at  waist  and  knee  but,  alas.  Mama  was  of  the  opinion 
that  elastic  was  damaging  to  one's  blood  circulation. 

Finally,  we  began  our  seven  mile  journey.  Even 
anticipation  of  the  reunion  could  not  overshadow  the 
inspiration  of  the  sunshiney  surroundings  as  we  passed  lush 


pastures  populated  with  grazing  livestock  and  new  corn 
sprouting  up  from  rain-freshened  earth.  Birds  sang  as  they 
fhtted  between  hedge-rows  and  the  continuous  search  for 
food,  while  wild  flowers  bloomed  in  profusion  in  many 
roadside  areas.  Spring  was  so  much  in  evidence  that  it 
demanded  our  recognition  and  gratitude. 

Driving  past  the  homes  of  friends.  Papa  would  call  out, 
"Whoa  there!"  and  we'd  pause  a  few  minutes  to  greet  anyone 
who  chanced  to  be  out  in  their  yard.  Friends  met  in  the  road 
got  the  same  courtesy. 

At  last  we  sighted  the  taD  Clements  grain  elevator,  then 
the  grocery  store  where  folks  could  trade  farm  produce  for 
groceries  or  cash.  Nearby  were  the  stockyards  and  the 
railway  depot  where  the  chuffy  big  locomotives  stopped  their 
trains  of  cars  to  exchange  passengers,  livestock,  freight,  or 
whatever.  Around  a  corner  of  the  road  and  we  saw  the  big 
reservior  where  those  engines  slurped  up  water  for  their 
steam  chests.  Up  one  little  hill  and  there  appeared  tall 
gravestones,  indicating  that  our  destination  had  been 
reached. 

Papa  drew  our  team  into  the  line  of  shade  at  the  side  of 
the  cemetery  and  hurriedly  unhitched  them  from  the  wagon, 
tying  each  securely  to  the  back  axle.  There  they  would  have 
all  day  to  munch  hay  and  switch  flies  with  their  tails.  Then 
Papa  joined  the  men  already  busy  at  clearing  the  graves  of  a 
year's  rampant  growth  of  weeds  and  brambles.  Mama,  with 
her  precious  load  of  food,  went  to  help  with  the  organization 
of  dinner.  I  went  to  look  for  kids. 

This  was  a  day  for  comparison,  at  our  tender  ages.  A 
year's  growth  makes  a  lot  of  difference,  taller  and  heavier 
being  the  coveted  achievements.  We  held  foot  races,  broad 
jumps,  hide-and-go-seek  and  darer's  base  contests,  and  then 
as  our  energy  waned  we  played  mumblety  peg,  marbles,  and 
jacks.  All  those  attractions  paled  in  interest  as  the  sights  and 
smells  of  dinner  turned  on  our  hunger  pangs. 

Table  cloths  were  spread  on  the  grass,  which  was  so  tall 


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it  had  fallen  over,  making  a  soft  springy  place  for  sitting 
around  the  feast.  Each  arriving  family  added  to  the  bountiful 
supply  of  food  to  be  placed  on  the  ever-growing  line  of 
colorful  cloths.  Ladies  hurried  here  and  there,  arranging  the 
delicious  outlay,  praising  elaborate  cakes,  clucking  over  the 
inevitable  spills  as  they  sought  the  most  advantageous  way 
to  feed  the  hungering  crowd. 

AO  was  in  order.  The  men  had  finished  their  work, 
dinner  was  announced,  and  the  oldest  great-aunt  was  asked 
to  give  the  blessing.  Irreverently,  I  hoped  she'd  be  quick 
about  it  as  I  knew  I  was  starving.  That  was  a  short-lived 
hope,  for  Aunt  Mary  picked  up  momentum  as  she  continued 
on  and  on.  My  stomach  began  to  growl  so  loudly  that  the 
cousin  sitting  next  to  me  heard  it  and  elbowed  me  hard  in  the 
ribs.  At  long  last,  amens  echoed  around  the  banquet  and  we 
could  dig  in!  M-M-M-M,  I'll  never  hve  long  enough  to  forget 
that  meal.  Ambrosia!  Each  cook  had  expended  every  effort  to 
make  the  best  possible  impression.  A  friendly  rivalry  it  was, 
but  very  high  satisfaction  belonged  to  the  lady  with  the  most 
requested  recipe.  It  was  a  long  and  leisurely  meal  during 
which  we  pretty  much  ignored  whatever  etiquette  suggested 
eating  Ughtly.  We  really  stocked  up. 

While  the  ladies  cleared  away  the  dinner,  the  men 
carried  out  the  waiting  buckets  of  flowers,  and  then  everyone 
set  to  work  making  the  arrangements.  Those  graves  which 
had  not  a  family  representative  there  were  put  in  order  and 
decorated  anyway  so  they  wouldn't  seem  neglected.  Children 
helped  with  the  flowers,  too,  but  they  were  warned  not  to 
speak  loudly,  laugh,  or  step  on  graves.  A  reverent  attitude 
prevailed  over  the  little  burial  ground;  it  seemed  a  haUowed 
place.  Even  we  children  felt  that  atmosphere  as  we  read  the 
stories  the  gravestones  had  to  tell.  Many  babies  and  children 
our  own  ages  were  there  and  young  adults,  especially 
mothers.  It  was  a  sobering  experience. 

After  the  labor  of  love,  we  children,  seriousness 
forgotten,  ran  off  for  a  final  romp  on  a  grassy  hillside.  The 


adults  settled  in  the  shade  to  rest  and  finish  catching  up  on 
each  individual's  adventures  since  last  year's  gathering.  This 
peaceful  pastime  continued  until  the  sun  began  to  slip 
downward  past  the  trees.  In  those  days,  we  didn't  try  to  work 
many  appointments  into  the  same  day,  but  savored  our  time 
together.  The  good-byes  were  put  off  until  the  last  possible 
moment  of  departure  that  would  allow  chores  being  finished 
before  dark. 

Bill  and  DoUy  stepped  at  a  lively  clip  going  home,  being 
anxious  to  get  their  harness  off  and  have  a  relaxing  roU  in  the 
barn  lot  dust  to  dry  the  sweat  of  travel.  We  concluded  it  had 
been  a  wonderfully  enjoyable  day,  yet  how  good  it  was  to  be 
home  and  kick  off  my  unaccustomed  shoes.  Home  really  was 
best,  even  with  water  to  pump  and  eggs  to  gather. 

Having  failed  to  make  a  good  showing  in  the  taller  and 
heavier  competition,  I  determined  to  begin  eating  a  lot  more 
in  preparation  for  the  next  Decoration  Day.  That  decision 
was  very  easy  to  come  by,  for  I  was  sure  that  crock  still  had 
some  strawberries  in  it. 


FRESH  AND  LASTING 

Dorothy  Green  Liehr 

Whenever  the  winds  of  spring  blow  softly  across  this 
valley  of  the  Illinois,  I  remember  again  the  spring  of  1947  and 
the  Memorial  Day  weekend  observance  in  our  town. 

Here,  in  Perry,  where  family  ties  are  strong,  the 
commemorative  holiday  is,  traditionally,  a  veritable 
homecoming  and  a  time  of  family  reunions. 

As  usual,  several  weeks  of  work  and  preparation  had 
preceded  the  great  weekend.  While  lawn  mowers  had 
hummed  around  the  hilltop  and  over  the  steeply  sloping  sides 
of  the  Perry  McCord  Cemetery,  many  of  the  townspeople 
were  busily  tidying  up  their  family  plots.  And,  at  the  same 


time,  members  of  the  Perry  American  Legion  Post  (originally 
called  the  "Edward  Crippen  Post")  were  carefully  searching 
out  the  graves  of  every  veteran,  marking  each  with  a  small 
American  flag. 

Rue  Witham,  veteran  of  the  First  World  War,  had 
always  made  it  his  personal  responsibility  to  see  that  no 
veteran's  gravesite  was  overlooked.  Now,  on  that  memorable 
weekend  in  1947,  he  was  walking  around  the  cemetery  with 
other  Legion  members,  occasionally  pausing  for  a  while  at 
some  veteran's  grave.  Often,  there  was  a  personal 
reminiscence  to  relate,  or  a  notable  story  to  tell. 

One  grave  receiving  Rue's  special  attention  was  that  of 

Edward  Crippen.  The  headstone,  at  this  time,  was  standing 

upright,  and  the  inscription  was  legible.  The  four  line  verse 

inscribed  on  the  stone  were  the  words  written  in  Crippen 's 

own  hand,  and  found  pinned  to  his  uniform: 

EDWARD  W.  CRIPPEN 

Color  Bearer 

28  yrs.        10  months        9  days 

Farwell  my  wife  and  children  all. 

From  you  a  father  Christ  hath  called. 

Mourn  not  for  me;  it  is  in  vain 

To  caU  me  to  your  side  again. 
A   few  more  words,   concise,  yet  eloquent,   complete  the 
epitaph:  "Mortally  wounded  at  the  Battle  of  Missionary 
Ridge,  Nov.  25,  1863." 

The  cemetery  having  been  satisfactorily  prepared  for 
Memorial  Day  services,  attention  now  turned  from  the  dead 
to  the  hving.  By  two  o'clock,  the  whole  town  had  turned  out, 
filling  Main  Street,  many  in  their  cars,  waiting  for  the  parade 
to  the  cemetery  to  begin. 

Vivid  memories  in  profusion  vie  for  my  recall  of  that 
moment:  returned  servicemen  ("our  boys")  representing  the 
Army,  the  Navy,  and  the  Marine  Corps,  looking  very  neat, 
very  trim  in  their  uniforms  .  .  .  combat  ribbons  .  .  .  the 
knowledge  that  here  among  these  30  plus  young  men  were 


recipients  of  bronze  stars,  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  and  a  purple 
heart  .  .  .  the  solemn  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  older 
World  War  One  veterans  .  .  .  veterans  of  both  world  wars 
marching  four  abreast,  shining  rifles  aglint  in  the  sun  . . .  and 
just  enough  breeze  to  ripple  "Old  Glory." 

Heading  toward  the  cemetery,  the  townspeople 
foUowing  at  a  respectful  distance  in  the  rear.  The  veterans 
had  difficulty  keeping  in  step.  That  would  not  do!  What  was 
needed  here  was  "cadence  count." 

"Had  a  girl  in  Baltimore, 

Streetcar  ran  right  past  her  door!" 

"Sound  Off!" 

"One,  two," 

"Sound  Off!" 

"Three,  four" 

"SOUND  OFF!" 

"One,  two,  three,  four. 

One,  two  .  .THREEFOUR!" 
Smartly  now,   all  marching  in  unison,   the  veterans 
wound  their  way  to  the  top  of  the  cemetery  hill. 

Now  came  the  townspeople,  quite  a  crowd,  to  find  their 
places;  it  was  time  to  begin. 

The  speaker  for  the  afternoon  was  the  young  theological 
student,  Leon  Wilder,  who  came  down  to  Perry  every  other 
Sunday  to  fill  the  pulpit  at  the  Presbyterian  Church.  Inspired 
and  inspiring,  his  speech  reflected  the  altruism  and 
patriotism  of  the  day. 

I  remember  Leon  quoting,  "No  more  shall  war's  fierce 
cry  sever.  Nor  winding  rivers  be  red  .  .  .,"  but  what  comes 
back  to  me  most  poignantly  of  all,  is  the  memory  of  little 
children  around  five  and  six  years  old  and  under  the 
supervision  of  Genevieve  Brim,  very  quietly  so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  speaker,  placing  bouquets  of  fresh  flowers  on 
each  veteran's  grave. 

The  speech  being  over,  the  time  had  come  to  fire  a  three 


volley  salute  over  the  grave  of  the  veteran  who  had  most 
recently  died. 

The  echoes  of  the  shots  died  away;  then  came  the 
playing  of  "taps." 

The  observance  had  come  to  an  end,  but  people  were 
reluctant  to  leave  the  beautiful  tree-shaded  cemetery  in  their 
old  town. 

Back  at  the  American  Legion  Building,  veterans 
divested  themselves  of  their  rifles,  and  made  sure  that  the 
American  flag  was  secure  in  its  holder.  On  the  wall,  a  framed 
CivU  War  sketch  of  a  young  man  stared  resolutely 
ahead— Edward  Crippen,  who  would  be  forever  young  at  the 
age  of  28  years,  ten  months,  and  nine  days. 

In  our  town  today  there  are,  to  be  sure.  Memorial  Day 
observances,  but  they  are  quite  different  in  many  ways  than 
that  very  special  day  in  May  in  1947. 

Looking  back,  I  am  grateful  to  have  experienced  this 
stirring  day,  and  know  it  will  remain  (as  Shakespeare  said) 
"Fresh  and  lasting  ...  in  remembrance." 


THE  QUARANTINE  SIGN 

Martha  K.  Graham 

In  the  early  1900's  little  was  commonly  known,  or  at 
least  practiced,  about  disease  immunization.  Children 
routinely  contracted  measles,  chicken  pox,  mumps,  and 
whooping  cough.  Scarlet  fever,  smallpox,  and  other  dreaded 
diseases  ran  rampant  through  families  and  whole 
communities. 

About  1920  old  Doctor  Clark  gathered  all  the  Roseville 
people  who  were  willing,  or  could  be  coerced,  into  his  office 
which  was  in  his  big  square  house  on  North  Main  Street,  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  that  community,  he  administered 
smallpox  vaccine. 


Horror  stories  about  the  possible  results  of  such  a 
vaccination  had  circulated:  vaccination  gave  one  smallpox; 
the  process  was  so  painful  that  grown  men  screamed;  one's 
arm  swelled  and  ached  unbearably  for  days;  the  vaccination 
should  be  done  on  the  arm  one  used  least  for  writing,  etc., 
because  blood  poisoning  often  set  in,  requiring  amputation  of 
that  arm. 

In  spite  of  all  the  stories,  my  parents  beUeved  in 
smallpox  vaccination,  probably  because  they  believed  in  old 
Doc  Clark,  so  our  whole  family  was  immunized.  It  was  a 
frightening  experience.  One  at  a  time  we  were  taken  into  the 
inner  office  where  the  upper  arm  was  scratched  in  a  small 
screenwire-hke  pattern,  and  the  vaccine  was  apphed  on  the 
bloodied  place.  Then  a  thick  circular  pad,  open  in  the  center, 
was  apphed  around  the  spot  and  bound  with  gauze.  We  were 
cautioned  not  to  bump  that  arm,  not  to  wash  the  spot,  not  to 
bother  the  scab  when  it  formed,  even  though  it  would  itch, 
and  to  come  back  after  the  scab  (a  horrible  looking  thing)  had 
fallen  off. 

None  of  the  horror  stories  proved  true,  and  we  were  no 
longer  afraid  of  smallpox. 

When  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  Mother  caOed  Doctor 
Clark  to  see  about  my  sore  throat  and  fever.  When  he  saw  the 
red  rash  on  my  chest,  he  sprang  into  action,  as  did  the  rest  of 
my  family,  for  I  had  scarlet  fever.  (Now  children  may  have  a 
shght  indisposition  called  scarletina,  which  the  kiUer-and- 
maimer,  old  fashioned  scarlet  fever,  has  become.)  A  sign 
saying  "SCARLET  FEVER,  KEEP  OUT"  was  tacked  beside 
the  door,  and  no  one  was  allowed  to  enter  or  leave  without  the 
doctor's  permission. 

My  whole  family  was  in  the  house,  and  so  were  exposed 
to  the  disease.  My  father  needed  to  get  out  to  work;  my  older 
brother  needed  to  get  to  high  school.  Doctor  Clark  decided  to 
release  them  if  they  would  follow  his  directions  to  the  letter. 

They  were  to  take  clothing  they  would  need,  and 
beddmg  that  had  been  shut  away  in  drawers,  out  to  our 


124 


garage.  There  they  must  take  an  antiseptic  bath  and 
shampoo,  and  have  clothing  and  bedding  fumigated  in  the 
garage.  If,  after  two  weeks,  they  showed  no  symptoms  of 
scarlet  fever,  they  could  consider  themselves  free.  They  were 
to  have  no  contact  with  the  quarantined  ones  in  the  house. 

I  wondered,  and  still  wonder,  why  old  Doc  Clark  could 
continue  to  come  and  go,  ignoring  the  quarantine  sign.  The 
only  precaution  he  seemed  to  take  was  a  thorough  hand 
washing  every  time  before  he  left  us. 

The  quarantine  was  to  last  six  weeks,  but  my  five-year- 
old  brother  contracted  a  light  case  and  extended  the 
imprisonment  another  two  weeks.  My  father  and  my  older 
brother  showed  no  signs  of  the  disease,  so  my  brother  was 
free  to  go  live  with  my  aunt,  whose  home  was  only  a  block 
away,  while  my  father  continued  to  Uve  in  the  garage  so  he 
could  be  as  close  as  possible  to  help  us  in  any  way  he  could. 

He  installed  a  long  thin  pipe  between  the  garage  and  the 
house,  connecting  them,  and  he  and  Mother  conversed 
through  it.  She  would  let  him  know  what  groceries  and  other 
supplies  she  needed,  and  he  would  bring  them  home  and  leave 
them  on  the  back  porch  for  her  to  bring  inside.  My  brother 
would  often  stop  by  and  talk  to  Mother  on  the  speaking  tube, 
and  on  her  way  home  from  work  as  a  clerk  in  Bennet's  Dry 
Goods  Store,  my  aunt  would  stop  and  let  my  mother  know  all 
the  town  news  and  gossip  she  heard  in  the  store. 

Even  with  those  breaks  in  the  routine,  mother  must 
have  almost  gone  out  of  her  mind  with  two  children 
sometimes  out  of  their  heads  with  the  high  fever  of  the  killer 
disease.  But  she  did  everything  she  could  think  of  to  keep  us 
as  comfortable  as  possible.  She  put  cool  cloths  on  our  heads 
and  bathed  us  to  reduce  fever,  brought  trays  of  food  to  give 
us  strength,  and  even  helped  us  cut  pictures  from  the  catalog 
and  made  flour-and-water  paste  so  we  could  make 
scrapbooks.  She  read  aloud  innumerable  books:  The  Five 
Little  Peppers  and  How  They  Grew  and  other  books  in  the 
series,  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,  all  the  Mother  West  Wind 


stories  we  had,  Elsie  Dinsmore,  and  many  others.  I  wanted  to 
read,  myself,  but  was  not  permitted  to  use  my  eyes  in  such  a 
way  because  scarlet  fever  sometimes  "settled  in  the  eyes." 

Doctor  Clark  continued  to  visit  us,  examining  us  and 
bringing  medicines  and  good  cheer.  His  routine  never  varied. 
He  would  come  bursting  into  our  room,  fix  us  with  a 
penetrating  stare,  and  say,  in  his  British  accent  that  turned  r 
into  uh,  "You  dirty  pups!"  Then  he  would  turn,  all  the 
professional  physician,  to  Mother,  and  say  gravely,  "I  need  a 
glass  of  water,  please." 

Finally  Dr.  Clark  came  with  the  good  news  that  the 
seige  was  over.  He  ordered  our  bed  linens  burned  (we  had 
"scaled  off"  on  them),  ordered  all  of  us  to  take  antiseptic 
baths,  and  fumigated  the  whole  house.  The  quarantine  sign 
came  down. 


GRAY  WITH  WHITE  TRIM 

Doris  L.  Chilberg 

My  grandparents'  house  stood  on  Main  Street  in  Orion, 
Illinois,  where  the  State  Bank  Building  is  now  located.  It 
faced  the  east  and  was  built  before  the  turn  of  the  century  by 
Henry  Wilson,  and  he  in  turn  sold  it  to  Walter  Blodgett,  and 
then  my  grandparents,  Andrew  and  Louise  Chinberg,  bought 
it  and  moved  in  from  the  farm  in  1908. 

It  was  L-shaped  with  a  porch  across  the  front  and  much 
"gingerbread"  for  trim.  The  porch  was  always  painted  gray 
with  white  trim.  Many  times  we  sat  on  it  and  listened  to  the 
band  concerts  being  played  in  the  viDage  park.  A  trumpet 
vine  grew  up  on  the  south  end  of  the  porch  and  Grandma  took 
pride  in  her  purple  clematis  that  grew  beside  it.  In  the 
summertime.  Grandpa  had  a  hammock  in  this  area,  which  I 
also  enjoyed.  At  one  time,  a  huge  maple  tree  grew  in  front  of 
the  house  near  the  main  sidewalk,  which  curved  around  the 


125 


tree.  Grandpa  planted  moss  roses  at  it's  base,  which  provided 
color  in  the  summertime.  The  hitching  posts  for  the  horses 
came  down  as  far  as  the  tree. 

This  house  consisted  of  a  kitchen,  dining  room,  sitting 
room,  parlor,  sewing  room,  and  a  front  hall  with  an  open 
stairway  down  stairs.  Upstairs  was  a  hall,  a  small  den  or 
office,  and  three  bedrooms,  plus  a  small  sitting  room.  A  door 
from  this  opened  out  on  the  upstairs  porch,  which  was 
enclosed  with  a  railing. 

Starting  from  the  left  downstairs,  the  one  window  was 
in  the  sewing  room  where  Grandma  spent  a  lot  of  her  time. 
Many  times  I  saw  her  at  that  window,  piecing  quilts, 
knitting,  sewing,  or  crochetting  with  the  curtain  drawn  back 
so  she  could  have  better  hght  but  also  could  see  what  was 
going  on  on  Main  Street.  Grandpa  had  a  cot  in  this  room  and 
he  spent  a  lot  of  time  reading  as  there  was  a  window  on  the 
south  of  which  afforded  him  better  hght.  There  was  a  floor-to- 
ceihng  cupboard  where  a  lot  of  "goodies"  were  stored.  The 
button  box  was  my  favorite. 

To  the  back  of  this  sewing  room  and  to  the  west,  was  the 
kitchen  with  a  dark  pantry  off  to  the  side.  Rain  water  was 
piped  into  the  kitchen  from  the  cistern,  and  there  was  the 
conventional  sink  with  a  small  pump  on  the  west  waD. 
Grandma's  stove  always  fascinated  me— it  was  a  cook  stove, 
wood  burning,  and  stood  on  legs.  The  stove  pipe  for  it  went 
across  the  ceiUng  to  the  chimney.  A  resevoir  was  at  the  end  of 
the  stove,  and  water  was  poured  into  this  and  was  heated  for 
use  to  wash  with  and  to  wash  dishes.  A  wood  box  stood 
nearby,  where  they  kept  an  ample  supply  of  chopped  wood  to 
keep  the  fire  going.  The  open  draft  on  the  front  of  the  stove 
provided  a  cheery  sight  on  a  cold  wintery  night,  to  see  the 
glowing  embers.  The  oven  had  doors  on  both  sides,  and  many 
a  "goodie"  was  taken  from  there.  The  smell  of  bread  baking 
was  my  favorite.  The  kitchen  was  large  enough  so  they  could 
eat  there  and  to  afford  more  light,  a  window  was  in  the  east 
wall  which  looked  into  the  dining  room. 


The  dining  room  was  the  second  window  from  the  left  in 
front.  A  door  from  the  porch  opened  into  this  room.  The  front 
door  was  on  the  L.  Frosted  glass  panels  decorated  this 
doorway  and  door,  and  it  had  a  "gong"  type  doorbell.  We 
grandchildren  were  allowed  to  ring  it  just  once.  This  doorway 
opened  into  a  hall  with  an  open  stairway.  Many  a  time  I 
played  here— pretending  it  was  my  house  or  I  was  driving 
horses  or  riding  trains.  The  stair  carpet  was  green  with  red 
and  pink  roses— to  me,  so  beautiful.  At  the  end  of  the  haU  and 
off  the  kitchen  was  the  sitting  room  with  the  organ, 
comfortable  rocking  chairs  and  a  fainting  couch.  In  this  room 
under  the  stairs  was  a  closet.  I  think  at  some  time  I  dreamt 
that  I  was  locked  in  there  as  it  always  held  a  horror  to  me  if 
the  door  was  left  open. 

From  the  sitting  room  into  the  parlor  were  open  double 
doors  from  which  hung  the  green  plush  rope  portieres.  There 
was  also  a  lot  of  bric-a-brac  in  this  doorway— lovely  to  look  at 
but  Grandma  complained  they  were  nothing  but  dust 
catchers.  In  the  parlor  were  several  rocking  chairs  and  a 
center  stand  which  held  the  family  Bible  and  album.  On  the 
walls  hung  the  family  portraits.  In  front  of  the  window  to  the 
right  of  the  front  door.  Grandma  had  a  pedestal  which  held  a 
jardeniere  from  which  a  Boston  fern  grew,  to  the  envy  of 
everyone.  In  the  winter,  one  could  always  see  her  Christmas 
catus  fuD  of  blooms,  and  many  stopped  by  to  admire  it.  Some 
of  the  rooms  had  handwoven  carpets,  but  in  the  sitting  room 
and  the  parlor  there  were  rugs. 

The  house  was  heated  by  a  steam  heat  furnace,  and  to 
come  in  on  a  cold  night  and  hear  the  hissing  of  the  radiators 
gave  me  such  a  warm  feeling. 

After  Grandma  and  Grandpa  moved  in,  an  electric  hght 
plant  was  established  in  Orion,  and  since  Grandpa  loved 
progress,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  have  electricity  in  the 
house.  The  wiring  facihties  left  much  to  be  desired,  but  they 
had  the  "Edison"  hght  bulbs,  and  they  were  far  better  than 
the  oil  lamps.  My  aunt  had  one  of  the  first  electric  irons,  and 


those  could  only  be  used  certain  hours  of  the  day  as  they  took 
so  much  electricity. 

The  back  door  was  out  of  the  kitchen  to  the  west,  and 
there  was  a  long  narrow  porch  which  led  into  the  summer 
kitchen.  This  was  a  small  building  used  in  the  summertime 
for  cooking  so  as  not  to  heat  up  the  main  house.  In  there  was 
a  cook  stove  and  laundry  area.  Near  the  back  porch  was  a  weU 
with  the  windlass  and  the  old  oaken  bucket  to  draw  water  up 
from  the  weU.  There  was  a  cover  over  it,  and  it  was  fascinating 
to  see  either  Grandma  or  Grandpa  draw  up  a  bucket  of  water 
and  pour  it  into  the  wooden  spout  to  the  drinking  water 
bucket.  In  the  summertime,  it  served  as  the  "refrigerator"  to 
keep  the  butter  hard  and  the  milk  sweet.  Grandma  let  these 
down  on  little  covered  buckets  by  rope  almost  to  the  water's 
edge.  Those  ropes  were  fastened  to  the  inside  of  the  cover  by 
hooks. 

Down  at  the  end  of  the  sidewalk  was  the  privy,  which 
was  hidden  from  sight  by  hop  vines.  In  back  of  it  was  the  wood 
shed.  At  the  end  of  the  lot  near  the  alley  and  to  the  left,  was  a 
barn  which  housed  Grandpa's  driving  horse  and  buggy.  One 
time  the  post  office  was  robbed  and  everyone  was  very 
concerned  because  they  blew  up  the  safe  and  nobody  heard  it. 
When  Grandpa  went  down  to  take  care  of  his  horse,  both 
horse  and  buggy  were  gone.  It  was  assumed  the  safe  crackers 
had  spent  some  of  the  day  and  night  in  the  hayloft  and  had 
Grandpa's  horse  ready  to  make  a  getaway.  His  horse  and 
buggy  were  found  down  at  the  Uvery  stable  in  Milan.  The  safe 
crackers  made  a  getaway  on  one  of  the  many  trains  that  went 
through  Rock  Island. 

I  spent  a  lot  of  time  at  the  house.  To  go  into  Orion  and 
not  stop  at  Grandma  and  Grandpa's  made  the  trip 
meaningless  to  me.  Their  home  has  always  held  a  special 
place  in  my  heart.  Grandpa  passed  away  in  1928  and 
Grandma  in  1934.  My  aunt  and  uncle  bought  the  house, 
modernized  it,  and  Uved  there  until  their  death,  and  then 
their  daughters  lived  there  until  the  house  was  put  up  for  sale 


when  the  bank  was  built.  Quentin  Stromquist  bought  it  and 
had  it  moved  to  another  location.  A  lot  of  memories  went  with 
it.  However,  I  am  so  thankful  that  it  was  moved  and  not  torn 
down.  My  heart  would  have  been  torn,  too. 


TRUTH  AND  JUSTICE 

Blanche  M.  Harrison 

From  my  viewpoint  as  a  child,  still  clearly  recalled  and 
etched  deeply  in  memory,  my  mother  was  the  greatest,  most 
wonderful,  and  best  loved  person  in  the  whole  world.  Her 
presence  meant  comfort,  warmth,  love— and  good  food  when 
you  were  hungry.  She  caused  everything  to  be  right  in  my 
small  world.  Also  of  great  importance  to  me  was  home,  the 
place  where  all  five  of  us  children  were  born  between  the 
years  of  1894  and  1904.  We  were  all  home-loving.  I  am  sure 
Mother  had  something  to  do  with  that,  for  the  influence  of  a 
good  mother  and  love  of  home  just  go  together  naturally. 

My  mother  was  constantly  busy.  There  was  much  to  be 
done,  living  on  a  farm  with  no  modern  conven- 
iences and  caring  for  a  family  of  seven.  Cooking  took  a  great 
deal  of  her  time.  She  never  neglected  that  part  of  her  work. 
She  baked  bread,  churned  butter,  and  made  deUcious  pies 
with  tender  flaky  crusts.  I  never  did  see  her  measure  the 
ingredients.  Out  came  the  bread  board,  rolling  pin,  a  bowl  in 
which  she  placed  flour,  and  then  swiftly  her  hand  moved  from 
salt  jar  to  lard  container,  deftly  working  these  into  the  flour. 
She  added  a  httle  cold  water,  still  using  her  fingertips  to  mix. 
Quickly  the  dough  formed  a  ball,  which  was  rolled  out 
smoothly  to  fit  the  pan  in  an  unbroken  circle.  Before  you 
knew  it,  her  pies  were  scenting  the  kitchen  with  tantahzing 
odors  from  the  oven  of  the  wood-burning  cook  stove.  The 
shiny  teakettle  sang  while  steam  emerged  from  the  spout, 


127 


providing  humidity  to  us  and  Mom's  house  plants  which 
stood  in  a  row  on  the  window  sill. 

But  getting  back  to  the  pies,  my  mother  made  many 
kinds,  aO  beautiful  to  see  and  delicious  to  eat;  but  she  also 
had  a  few  special  ones,  such  as  dried  apple.  In  the  beginning 
she  prepared  the  apples,  then  dried  them.  They  were  placed 
on  screen  wire  framed  in  wood.  AH  of  this  was  no  small  chore. 
Every  day  those  frames,  covered  with  apple  slices,  were 
placed  on  the  pantry  roof  in  the  sun.  The  fruit  was  covered 
with  cheesecloth  netting.  Everything  was  fine  untO  a  rain 
came  up.  Then  everyone  scurried  to  help  get  the  apples  in.  If 
ever  you  had  a  taste  of  this  delicious  treat,  you  would  agree 
that  it  was  worth  the  effort  to  bring  about  the  finished 
product.  My  mother  was  also  a  master  hand  at  Custard  pie. 
Hers  were  deep,  quivery,  and  golden  yellow  from  country 
eggs,  the  surface  flecked  by  hand-grated  nutmeg.  Beautiful 
to  behold,  out  of  this  world  to  sample.  Another  very  special 
pie,  and  my  father's  favorite  was  a  French  Cream  pie,  unlike 
any  most  people  have  ever  tasted.  It  was  made  with  real 
cream  and  was  very  delicious. 

Beside  the  housework,  cooking,  and  laundry,  my  mother 
had  lots  of  outside  work,  especially  in  the  summertime.  One 
such  task  was  caring  for  the  chickens.  She  set  the  hens, 
fifteen  eggs  to  a  setting,  as  I  recall.  I  Uked  to  go  with  her 
when  she  "took  off"  a  hen  and  chickens.  I  loved  to  see  the 
fluffy  little  baby  chicks.  I  soon  was  quite  a  bit  of  help  in 
putting  them  up  in  the  evening,  getting  the  right  hen  in  the 
right  coop.  My  oldest  brother  was  very  good  at  that  before 
me.  Mother  said  he  could  always  remember  where  each  hen 
belonged.  I  loved  to  watch  the  little  chicks  after  their  evening 
feeding,  tired  no  doubt,  after  the  long  trek  on  their  short  httle 
legs,  following  their  mother  wherever  she  led  and  now  back  to 
the  coop  and  supper.  Then  to  see  them  snuggle  under 
mother's  feathers,  safe  and  warm  for  the  night— a  satisfying 
picture.  That  is  something  you  never  see  now. 

If  I  was  to  write  aU  the  things  my  mother  did,  I  would 


have  enough  material  to  fill  a  book.  For  there  was  a  garden, 
aU  kinds  of  vegetables,  a  large  strawberry  patch,  rhubarb  (we 
used  to  call  it  "pie  plant"),  and  fruit  trees  (peaches,  apples, 
plums,  and  pears).  Then,  in  our  timber  were  wild  gooseberries 
and  blackberries.  Mom  canned  and  made  jeUies,  butters,  and 
preserves  all  summer  and  fall.  There  was  also  the  homemade 
catsup,  chili  sauce,  rehshes,  and  finally,  a  big  jar  of 
sauerkraut. 

She  trimmed  her  boy's  hair  and  made  most  of  our 
clothes.  She  made  her  own  bed  sheets,  pieced  comfort  and 
quilt  tops,  and  then  quilted  them.  She  would  also  crochet  and 
knit.  She  made  lots  of  socks  that  were  sent  overseas  during 
World  War  I.  One  of  her  sons  served  in  that  conflict. 

She  taught  us  truth  and  justice,  not  only  by  word  but 
by  example.  She  encouraged  us  to  go  and  also  accompanied 
us  to  Sunday  school  and  church. 

My  mother  was  a  quiet,  home-loving  woman,  seldom 
leaving  her  own  community,  but  when  there  was  sickness  or 
death  in  a  neighbor's  home,  she  was  there  quietly  and 
efficiently  doing  what  was  needed,  bringing  help  and  comfort 
to  the  family. 

The  Bible  says,  "The  price  of  a  virtuous  woman  is  far 
above  rubies."  Part  of  another  verse  states  that  "She 
worketh  wiUingly  with  her  hands."  Yet  a  third  verse  imphes 
that,  "She  eateth  not  the  bread  of  idleness."  All  these  things 
are  true  of  my  blessed  mother.  How  I  miss  her! 

I  sometimes  dream  of  that  faraway  time  when  God  is 
allotting  us  our  places,  hoping  that  He  just  might  resurrect 
that  Uttle  while  cottage  where  the  big  elm  grew  beside  it. 
High  up  in  its  branches  an  oriole's  nest  made  of  hair  from  the 
manes  and  tails  of  horses  would  sway  hghtly  in  the  breeze, 
and  God  would  look  at  me  and  say,  "Blanchie,  here's  your 
mansion.  Go  and  help  your  mother  put  the  chickens  up." 


"BOOZE" 

Eunice  Stone  DeShane 


I  was  browsing  in  the  hardware  store  last  fall,  just 
looking  around.  When  I  went  down  one  aisle,  I  stopped  short. 
I  couldn't  believe  it— right  in  front  of  my  eyes  was  a  machine 
or  device  set  up  to  make  fuel  or  alcohol  for  your  car!  It  was 
nothing  but  a  "still!"  A  few  years  ago  you  could  have  been 
arrested— maybe  even  sent  to  prison  just  for  having  one  in 
your  possession.  Information  on  the  still  was  available  right 
there,  and  a  demonstrator  was  coming  back  in  a  couple  of 
hours  to  show  how  simple  it  was  to  make  alcohol! 

I  didn't  stay  for  the  lesson,  but  it  sure  did  make  me 
recall  an  incident  that  happened  during  the  1920's  in  our 
neighborhood.  We  hved  on  the  south  edge  of  Moline.  There 
were  small  farms  aU  around  us.  We  didn't  even  have 
electricity.  There  were  some  people  who  lived  about  half  a 
mile  south  and  west  of  us.  They  entered  their  place  off  of 
Sixteenth  Street  and  about  Twenty-Eighth  Avenue.  My 
father  and  other  people  knew  they  were  making  "booze." 
Everyone  referred  to  them  as  "the  bootleggers."  We  could  all 
smell  the  rubber  they  would  burn  to  kill  the  "booze"  odor 
while  it  was  cooking. 

I  don't  remember  exactly  how  long  they  lived  on  the 
place  without  incident,  but  when  my  father  went  to  shred  our 
corn  shocks,  we  got  a  surprise. 

Shredding  the  fodder  was  what  every  farmer  did  at  that 
time.  It  was  a  process  by  which  the  corn  shocks  were  dried  in 
the  field  and  then  hauled  up  to  the  barn  on  a  hay  rack  with 
horses.  The  corn  was  husked  out  as  it  was  shredded  and  then 
blown  up  in  the  barn  by  a  big  fan  that  was  powered  by  a 
tractor  and  belt.  This  was  far  better  than  leaving  the  corn  in 
the  field  to  haul  up  when  the  snow  was  deep.  The  farmers 
helped  each  other.  It  usually  took  three  or  four  teams  to  work 
smoothly.  Mr.  Larson  owned  the  tractor  and  shreader  and  he 
stayed  with  the  machine  while  the  man  hauled  up  the  fodder 


to  him.  The  ears  of  corn  were  bent  out  or  rolled  out  into  a 
container  that  was  emptied  in  the  corn  crib  by  hand. 

As  the  men  got  out  to  the  edge  of  the  field,  they  found 
jugs  of  hquor  hidden  in  the  shocks.  Someone  must  have 
tipped  off  the  bootleggers  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  raid.  I 
guess  they  figured  the  corn  shocks  would  be  a  good  hiding 
place.  Everyone  divided  up  the  "booze"  and  took  it  home 
with  them. 

When  the  crew  of  men  got  done  with  our  corn,  they  went 
to  the  farm  of  Mr.  Ericson  the  next  day.  There  were  car 
tracks  all  around  his  corn  shocks  where  the  bootleggers  had 
picked  up  their  products  over  night.  They  weren't  about  to  let 
any  more  of  their  "booze"  in  the  cornfields  be  discovered. 


MY  TIN  DINNER  PAIL 

Fannie  Lewis  Lynn 

In  1891,  when  I  was  six  years  old,  I  attended  Pontiac 
school,  five  and  one-half  miles  east  of  Chandlerville,  Illinois. 
The  building  is  in  very  poor  condition  now  but  still  standing. 

Each  time  I  hear  the  radio  and  read  in  the  newspaper 
the  menu  for  the  hot  lunches  at  the  schools,  it  brings  to  my 
memory  the  lunches  and  lunch  pails  we  carried.  Our  lunches 
were  not  hot,  not  even  warm.  Early  in  the  morning  our 
mother  prepared  the  food  and  packed  it  in  our  lunch  pails, 
and  we  carried  them  from  our  homes  to  the  school  house  one 
and  one-half  miles  away. 

With  my  two  brothers  and  a  sister,  we  joined  other 
children  along  the  country  road.  The  group  looked  like  a 
bucket  brigade. 

Most  of  the  pails  were  tin.  We  called  them  "dinner 
pails."  They  had  a  hd  that  fit  down  into  the  top  of  the  pail. 
Sometimes   we   used   quart   syrup   buckets.   Some  of  the 


129 


children  had  lunch  boxes  from  the  store.  They  were  usuaOy 
reddish  color  and  made  from  material  hke  heavy  cardboard. 
Very  few  could  afford  that  kind. 

When  we  got  to  school,  we  placed  our  dinner  pails  on  the 
floor  in  the  back  of  the  school  room  just  below  a  hook  where 
we  hung  our  coats.  We  always  wanted  to  get  our  coats  hung 
up  and  our  pails  placed  before  the  teacher  went  outside  in  the 
school  yard  to  ring  the  tardy  beU.  One  time  I  remember  we 
heard  the  tardy  bell,  and  we  were  close  enough  to  see  the 
school,  but  my  brother  Andrew  wouldn't  let  us  go  in  because 
we  were  tardy.  Andrew  was  four  years  older  than  me,  and  he 
sorta  looked  after  the  other  three  of  us.  He  wanted  to  do 
everything  just  right,  and  he  explained  to  us  that  we  would 
wait  outside  until  recess  and  then  go  into  the  school  and  eat 
with  the  other  children.  This  might  have  been  a  good  working 
plan,  but  it  was  a  very  cold  winter  day,  and  we  got  so  cold  he 
said  we  had  better  go  home.  When  we  got  home  our  feet  were 
so  cold  our  mother  got  pans  of  snow  and  placed  our  feet  in 
them  to  get  them  warm. 

We  had  recess,  but  no  one  opened  a  lunch  pail  then. 
However,  when  noon  time  came  we  really  scurried  to  get  our 
own  pail.  We  sat  with  our  favorite  school  mates  and  ate  our 
lunch.  Most  of  the  time  we  ate  in  the  school  room  at  our 
desks,  and  the  teacher  sat  at  her  desk  and  ate  from  a  dinner 
pail  also.  If  the  weather  was  warm,  we  went  outside  and  sat 
on  the  ground  to  eat. 

There  was  an  old  pump  over  a  well  in  the  school  yard, 
with  several  rusty  tin  cups  hanging  on  a  wire  by  the  pump. 
That  is  where  we  got  our  drink. 

There  were  some  big  boys  that  were  always  getting  into 
trouble  and  fighting,  but  I  can't  remember  a  time  when 
someone  took  another  one's  dinner  pail.  Sometimes  on  the 
way  home  from  school  the  big  boys  would  fight  and  use  their 
dinner  pails  to  hit  each  other  with. 

I'll  never  forget  the  aroma  that  came  from  those  pails  as 
we  Ufted  the  lids.  Perhaps  there  would  be  a  sausage  cake 


between  two  crusts  of  homemade  biscuits,  a  cookie  and  an 
egg,  and  maybe  a  shiny  apple.  At  butchering  time  we  had 
tenderloin  or  other  choice  meats  between  the  biscuit  crusts. 
It  was  a  real  surprise  to  find  some  home  canned  fruit  in  the 
pail.  If  someone  went  to  town  to  the  store,  they  would  bring 
oranges  back,  and  those  would  be  put  into  our  pails.  But  that 
was  a  rare  occasion. 

My  mother  made  something  she  called  "Marguerites." 
This  was  made  from  beaten  boOed  egg  whites  and  sugar  and 
placed  on  a  cracker  and  browned  in  the  oven.  One  time  I 
traded  a  Marguerite  for  an  ohve.  I  had  never  seen  an  olive 
before,  but  my  friend  assured  me  it  was  as  good  as  it  was 
pretty.  I  sure  didn't  like  the  taste  of  it,  but  I  didn't  want  to 
hurt  my  friend's  feelings  so  I  hid  it  in  the  bottom  of  my 
dinner  pail. 

Perhaps  our  lunches  would  not  have  been  called  a 
balanced  meal,  but  we  had  plenty  of  energy  to  finish  the  day's 
lessons  and  walk  home  from  school,  swinging  those  dinner 
pails  freely  now  as  we  knew  there  was  nothing  left  in  them  to 
spiU. 


SPINACH,  EPSOM  SALTS,  AND  THE  CHURCH 

Don  Parker 

I  think  I  might  have  had  a  happy  childhood  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  spinach,  epsom  salts,  and  the  ChiU  Presbyterian 
Church.  It's  not  that  I  mean  to  be  sacrilegious  or  anything, 
but  from  personal  observation,  I  have  found  few  young  boys 
who  were  enthusiastic  about  church  services.  And  when  I 
grew  up,  it  seemed  to  me  that  if  something  tasted  bad, 
smelled  bad,  or  made  a  fellow  uncomfortable,  it  was  good  for 
him  and  would  build  body  and  soul.  To  me,  spinach  was  bitter 
and  gritty  and  not  at  aU  to  my  liking,  but  it  got  more 
promotion  than  it  deserved.  Also,  as  a  child  I  had  more  than 


my  share  of  colds  and  sore  throats.  The  family  doctor  was  a 
firm  behever  in  the  idea  that  a  strong  laxative  would  cure 
anything  that  could  go  wrong  with  a  boy's  innards,  and 
epsom  salts  was  one  of  his  favorite  purgatives.  Anyone  who 
has  taken  a  heaping  spoonful  of  epsom  salts  in  half  a  cup  of 
warm  water  knows  how  bad  it  tastes  and  that  it  is  a  strong 
laxative— but  "into  every  hfe  a  little  rain  must  faO."  It  builds 
character,  I  guess. 

On  Sunday  morning,  it  wasn't  just  a  Uttle  rain.  It  was 
more  hke  a  cloudburst  when  I,  a  "barefoot  boy  with  cheek 
(and  toes)  of  tan"  tried  to  squeeze  my  feet  into  a  pair  of 
polished  shoes,  which  were  new  except  for  previous  trips  to 
Sunday  school  and  church.  They  were  reserved  for  that 
purpose.  Going  barefoot  was  not  only  fashionable  for  country 
boys  but  comfortable  and  also  economical,  a  fact  which  kept 
parents  from  discouraging  the  idea.  To  add  insult  to  injury,  I 
always  had  to  wear  a  tie  because  it  wasn't  right  to  go  to 
church  not  properly  dressed.  It  didn't  do  any  good  to  fake 
illness  because  that  would  bring  on  the  epsom  salts 
treatment,  which  was  as  bad  as  going  to  church. 

Sunday  school  wasn't  too  bad,  except  for  the  pinched 
toes  and  hot  tie,  but  the  church  service  seemed  to  drag  on  and 
on  and  had  Uttle  redeeming  value  as  far  as  I  could  see.  The 
prevailing  theory  was  that  children  should  be  seen  and  not 
heard,  and  no  place  was  that  more  strictly  enforced  than  at 
church.  Every  time  I  moved  it  seemed  to  create  a  noise  that 
reverberated  throughout  the  church.  Gum  chewing,  reading  a 
book,  or  whispering  were  all  considered  disrespectful,  and  I, 
of  all  people,  should  show  respect,  for  my  great  grandfather 
had  helped  build  the  first  church  in  the  community  in  1843, 
and  from  that  time  on,  the  family  had  been  active  in  its 
operation,  a  fact  that  didn't  exactly  thriU  me  at  the  age  of 
eight.  Furthermore,  in  1867,  he  had  helped  build  the 
structure  we  were  using.  The  logs  had  been  floated  down  the 
Mississippi  to  Warsaw,  where  they  were  sawed,  and  he  had 
helped  haul  the  lumber  to  Chih  with  a  team  and  wagon. 


The  building  was  32  feet  by  44  feet  with  a  14  foot 
ceihng,  but  it  seemed  as  big  and  airy  as  all  outdoors  to  me. 
There  were  four  tall  windows  on  each  side,  a  double  door  in 
the  middle  at  the  east  and  opposite  to  the  pulpit.  A  partition 
down  the  center  of  the  church  segregated  the  men  from  the 
women.  There  were  two  rows  of  pews  on  either  side  with  a  few 
pews  missing  on  both  outside  rows  to  make  room  for  coal  and 
wood-burning  stoves.  A  stovepipe  went  out  of  the  top  of  the 
church  well  over  the  heads  of  the  congregation  to  a  common 
flue.  Six  kerosene  lamps  with  white  glass  shades  hung  on 
rods  from  the  ceiling  and  lighted  the  building  some  for  night 
meetings. 

By  the  time  I  came  along,  the  church  was  pretty  much 
as  built,  but  the  congregation  was  no  longer  divided  by 
sex— no  doubt  a  change  brought  about  by  a  revolutionary 
younger  generation,  which  had  little  respect  for  tradition  or 
God.  The  town  of  Chili  had  diminished  in  size  so  much  that 
the  congregation  was  too  small  to  afford  a  full-time  pastor. 
After  years  of  sharing  ministers  with  another  church  or 
group  of  churches  of  assorted  denominations,  a  retired 
Presbyterian  minister  moved  into  Chili  and  offered  to  serve 
the  church  for  the  small  salary  the  group  could  manage. 

Now  I  hked  Reverand  Chapman,  most  of  the  time.  He 
was  a  kindly  old  gentleman,  but  he  was  definitely  from  the 
old  school  of  preaching  and  would  pound  the  pulpit  and  shout 
his  glowing  description  of  the  fiery  coals  of  hell  in  such  a  way 
that  even  I,  as  a  child,  could  see  the  need  for  changing  my 
ways.  It  was  enough  to  give  a  fellow  nightmares— at  least  it 
did  me. 

Each  holiday  called  for  a  special  program— Easter, 
Mother's  Day,  Children's  Day,  Thanksgiving,  and 
Christmas— and  that  meant  each  child  had  to  learn  and  recite 
a  poem  that  fitted  the  occasion.  Memorizing  wasn't  difficult, 
but  reciting  in  front  of  a  group  terrified  me.  I  dreaded  those 
hoUdays  with  a  passion,  but  the  preacher  said  it  wasn't  easy 


131 


being  a  Christian,  and  I  reckoned  it  was  the  only  way  to 
escape  the  glowing  coals. 

The  heating  stove  on  the  north  side  was  the  only  one 
used  most  of  the  time,  unless  a  larger  crowd  than  usual  was 
expected,  or  on  extremely  cold  days,  both  stoves  were  used. 
One  time  the  congregation  was  looking  forward  to  a  series  of 
night  meetings  to  be  conducted  by  a  visiting  singing 
evangelist.  Miss  Davie  Gladstone— the  first  lady  preacher  in 
the  church.  On  Sunday  morning,  the  lady  evangelist  and  a 
two-burner  cold  snap  arrived  at  about  the  same  time.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  seated  in  the  congregation  as  I  was 
marched  in  between  my  folks  that  morning,  and  as  soon  as  we 
were  seated,  I  turned  around  for  a  better  look  but  was  quickly 
corrected.  Church  was  not  the  place  for  gawking,  but  I  had 
seen  enough  to  know  she  was  pretty,  slender,  blonde,  and 
wore  a  bright  green  dress— boy,  was  she  pretty!  She  looked  to 
me  as  if  she  might  have  just  stepped  out  of  one  of  those  shck 
color  pages  in  a  Sears  Roebuck  Catalog. 

That  morning,  just  as  the  preacher  reached  a  pulpit- 
pounding  crescendo,  a  wire  that  held  the  horizontal  pipe  from 
the  north  stove  broke,  letting  the  pipe  sag  enough  to  spew 
soot  down  on  the  congregation,  including  the  guest,  and  her 
pretty  green  dress.  That  was  one  of  the  shortest  sermons  I 
recall  ever  hearing  at  Chili,  but  still  my  day  was  ruined.  We 
were  supposed  to  have  gone  to  my  grandparents'  house  for 
dinner  that  day,  where  my  favorite  cousins  were  visiting,  but 
we  had  to  hurry  back  immediately  after  eating  so  my  folks 
could  help  others  clean  the  church  for  the  evening  service. 

Every  summer  the  church  held  one  or  more  ice  cream 
socials  to  help  raise  a  few  dollars  for  maintenance.  Members 
brought  home-made  ice  cream  and  cakes  with  thick,  finger- 
Ucking  good  icing.  There  was  a  family  that  Uved  a  mile  and  a 
half  north  of  town  who  always  brought  ice  cream.  She  was 
known  for  her  abiUty  to  cook,  and  he  was  known  as  a 
financially  conservative  man  who  was  not  fully  sold  on  the 
idea  that  "it  is  more  blessed  to  give."  He'd  never  get  their 


freezer  out  of  the  car  until  dark,  and  then  would  place  it 
behind  a  tree  or  some  place  where  it  wouldn't  be  noticed  until 
after  the  social  was  over.  Then  he  could  take  his  freezer  full  of 
ice  cream  home  to  enjoy.  One  night  a  couple  of  the  older  boys 
kept  an  eye  on  him  and  saw  where  he  hid  his  freezer.  A  Uttle 
later,  they  took  it  out  behind  the  church  where  several  of  us 
boys  enjoyed  its  contents.  When  the  family  was  ready  to  go 
home  that  night,  he  couldn't  find  his  freezer  and  created  quite 
a  commotion.  1  thought  the  whole  episode  was  funny  and 
didn't  feel  the  least  bit  guilty  about  my  participation  in  the 
crime  until  that  night,  when  I  had  another  nightmare  about 
the  "fiery  coals  of  hell."  Since  that  time  I  have  never 
participated  in  the  theft  of  ice  cream,  nor  do  I  have  any  plans 
for  doing  so  in  the  future,  but  it's  plain  to  see  that  without 
the  strict  up-bringing  of  the  Chih  Presbyterain  Church,  I 
might  have  continued  in  a  life  of  crime.  Perhaps  it  did  help 
build  character  and  soul,  you  know,  but  I'm  still  not 
convinced  that  the  spinach  or  epsom  salts  ever  did  me  much 
good. 


A  DAY  OF  QUESTIONS 

Lillian  C.  Peterson 

On  this  cold  February  morning  I  jumped  out  of  bed  in 
our  unheated,  upstairs  bedroom  and  quickly  reached  for  my 
black  cotton  stockings.  After  folding  over  my  long  winter 
underwear  I  carefully  began  pulling  up  the  stockings,  when  I 
discovered  a  familiar  hole  by  the  big  toe.  Of  course,  my  high 
shoe  would  cover  it,  as  it  had  many  times  in  the  past,  but  I 
took  a  chance  and  called  down  the  stairs  to  mother.  "Mama, 
there  is  a  big  hole  in  my  stocking.  Should  I  wear  my  Sunday 
school  stockings  to  school  today?" 

To  my  bewilderment  the  voice  of  Aunt  Anna  answered, 
"Yes,  put  on  your  good  stockings." 


132 


Two  things  were  obviously  very  wrong.  First,  there  was 
no  way  that  mother  would  really  want  me  to  wear  my  good 
stockings  to  school.  And  second,  what  was  Aunt  Anna  doing 
in  our  house  at  this  time  of  day? 

I  quickly  pulled  the  old  stockings  up,  fastened  the 
garters,  and  shpped  into  my  black  shoes  that  easily  concealed 
the  hole.  In  no  time  at  all  I  was  into  my  cotton  shp  and  school 
dress  which  had  one  more  day  to  go  to  finish  out  the  week.  By 
this  time,  my  little  four-year-old  sister,  Elsie,  and  six-year-old 
brother,  Arthur,  were  dressed  and  on  their  way  down  the 
steps  ahead  of  me. 

When  I  came  down,  my  older  sister,  AHce,  was  at  the 
kitchen  cupboard  busily  packing  homemade  bread  and  jelly 
sandwiches  in  four  tin  Karo  syrup  pails,  for  our  school  lunch. 
Freddie,  my  older  brother,  was  out  helping  Pa  with  the 
morning  chores. 

Aunt  Anna  was  busy  at  the  cook  stove,  fueling  the  fire 
with  corn  cobs  and  sticks  of  wood.  She  had  oatmeal  ready  for 
us  three  smaller  children.  And  then  there  was  mother, 
obviously  very  sick,  in  bed  in  the  guest  room.  The 
atmosphere  was  indeed  strained.  Early  in  our  hves,  we  httle 
ones  learned  not  to  ask  questions  when  the  situation  seemed 
serious  or  troubled.  We  knew  that  we  might  find  out  what 
was  troubling  our  folks  if  we  just  kept  our  eyes  wide  open  and 
Ustened  with  big  ears! 

After  we  quietly  ate  our  oatmeal,  the  clock  showed  that 
it  was  getting  close  to  school  time.  We  hurried  into  our 
homemade  coats  and  stocking  caps.  Aunt  Anna  said  that  Pa 
would  drive  us  to  school  this  morning.  This  was  something 
that  seldom  happened.  We  usually  walked  that  long  mile  to 
our  one-room  school,  all  the  time  looking  back  for  a  friendly 
car  to  stop  and  give  us  a  lift.  There  was  never  a  question  of 
our  safety.  With  delight  we  jumped  into  any  car  that 
stopped.  Most  of  the  time,  we  had  a  late  start,  and  by 
hurrying  we  suffered  side  aches.  It  was  considered  a  horrible 
disgrace  to  be  late  for  school. 


But  this  was  a  different  morning.  As  we  were  about  to 
leave.  Aunt  Anna  asked  Artie  and  me  if  we  wanted  to  see  the 
baby.  She  led  us  into  mother's  bedroom  and  took  us  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  Here  she  Ufted  a  little  blanket  and  showed  us 
a  tiny  baby.  Mother  watched  us  sadly  but  said  nothing. 

Aunt  Anna  asked,  "Isn't  it  cute?" 

We  nodded  our  heads.  The  blanket  went  down  again 
over  the  baby's  head  and  we  were  taken  out.  Then  the  four  of 
us  were  whisked  off  to  school  in  Pa's  Model  T  Ford. 

Usually,  upon  arriving  at  school,  the  children  would  run 
to  meet  us,  and  we  would  be  swept  up  in  the  early  morning 
activities.  This  morning,  as  we  entered  the  classroom,  the 
children  all  stood  back  and  quietly  looked  at  us  with  a  "what 
should  we  do?"  expression.  I  had  no  way  of  knowing  that 
early  that  rhorning  Pa  had  gone  to  the  phone  and  had  rung  a 
long,  a  short,  and  a  long  ring  to  get  his  brother  on  our  15 
party  line.  Many  receivers  went  off  the  hooks  as  the 
neighbors  listened  in  to  news  of  the  expected  arrival  at  the 
Schick's  house. 

The  teacher  rang  the  bell.  We  took  our  seats  and  school 
went  on  as  usual.  Except  for  my  little  chum  whispering  to  me, 
"We  didn't  think  that  you  would  come  to  school  today," 
nothing  was  mentioned  all  day  long. 

As  classes  were  caDed  and  the  children  took  their  turns 
at  the  recitation  bench,  I  wondered  and  worried  about  what 
had  happened.  I  thought  of  Mama  lying  so  sick  in  the  guest 
bedroom.  I  pondered  over  why  someone  had  put  big  loops  of 
rope  on  both  sides  at  the  head  of  her  bed.  I  was  hopelessly 
wishing  that  things  were  not  what  they  seemed  to  be.  It 
would  be  such  a  joy  to  have  a  new  baby  at  our  house.  All  day 
long  that  httle  bundle  at  the  foot  of  mother's  bed  remained  on 
my  mind.  At  our  house  the  doctor  brought  the  babies.  But 
why  would  he  bring  a  dead  baby?  At  the  age  of  seven  I  wasn't 
to  be  told  that  a  country  doctor,  in  1919,  had  no  way  of 
saving  both  a  mother  and  her  breech  baby  all  by  himself  in  a 
farmhouse  bedroom. 


133 


At  the  end  of  the  school  day  the  lower  grades  were 
excused  early,  and  Artie  and  I  started  off  for  home  by 
ourselves.  As  we  began  talking  about  what  had  happened, 
Artie  seemed  quite  happy  and  anxious  to  get  back  and  see  the 
baby. 

Finally,  facing  reahty,  I  spoke  those  dreaded  words:  "I 
think  the  baby  is  dead." 

Surprised,  he  answered,  "Oh,  I  don't  think  so." 

"But  Aunt  Anna  put  the  blanket  over  its  head,"  I 
reasoned. 

We  trudged  along  the  rest  of  the  way  with  heavy  hearts. 
When  we  arrived  at  home,  there  was  no  baby.  No  one  said 
anything  about  it.  Mamma  was  still  in  bed.  Aunt  Anna,  the 
practical  nurse  that  went  on  baby  cases,  was  still  there.  Little 
Elsie  whispered  to  us  that  Pa  had  gone  to  town  and  had  come 
home  with  a  Uttle  box.  The  baby  had  been  put  into  it  and  had 
been  taken  away.  We  asked  no  questions  because  it  seemed 
that  no  one  was  ready  to  talk  about  what  had  happened. 

Shocking  as  this  experience  was  to  us  httle  children,  it 
was  even  more  so  for  mother,  who  had  easily  given  birth  to 
five  babies  before  and  who  took  months  to  physically  recover 
from  this  tragic  pregnancy. 

Years  later,  a  httle  granddaughter  ran  into  Mother's 
house  to  show  off  her  new  "sleepy-time"  doll  with  its  eyes 
painted  fast  asleep. 

Mother  took  one  look  at  it  and  said,  "I  don't  like  that 
doO." 

It  reminded  her  of  the  httle  baby  so  long  ago  that  never 
opened  its  eyes. 


THAT  HORSE  ISN'T  SAFE 

Ruth  (Poiset)  O'Donnell 


I  was  bom  on  December  8,  1896.  My  grandparents  on 


both  my  mother  and  my  father's  sides  of  the  family  came 
from  France.  They  all  settled  in  the  Uttle  village  of  Avon, 
which  had  other  French  settlers.  When  I  was  very  young  my 
mother  and  grandmother  went  to  visit  relatives  in  a  sleigh  led 
by  a  very  frisky  horse.  When  we  were  almost  home  the  horse 
got  scared  and  upset  the  sleigh.  I  landed  in  a  snow  bank. 
Grandma  grabbed  me  and  began  moaning,  "She's  dead,  she's 
dead."  But  I  wasn't,  of  course.  I  never  even  let  that 
excitement  wake  me  up! 

Then  when  I  could  toddle  around,  I  decided  to  roam  a 
bit.  The  family  thought  I  had  drowned  in  the  cistern.  I  was  so 
tiny,  like  a  minnow,  it  took  them  awhile  to  reahze  I  wasn't  in 
those  gloomy  depths.  They  must  have  looked  everywhere. 
Finally,  they  found  me  peacefully  rocking  on  Ida  Schultz's 
lap  in  the  tenant  house. 

I  was  about  three  or  four  when  I  had  another  interesting 
experience.  It  seemed  that  when  a  neighbor  came  over,  my 
grandfather  Poiset  would  take  him  down  to  the  cellar  for  a 
drink  of  cider.  I  always  went  along,  and  I  got  so  I  just  loved 
the  stuff.  One  day  my  mother  was  making  mince  pies  and  had 
a  big  glass  of  cider  to  put  in  them.  I  can  remember  taking  a 
drink  and  gazing  peacefully  out  the  screen  door.  Occasionally 
I'd  take  another  drink.  Finally,  I  started  into  the  dining  room 
and  fell  against  the  heating  stove,  which  was  cold.  Mother 
was  horrified  as  I  went  down  like  I'd  been  hit  with  a  club.  In 
perfect  health  one  minute  and  dead  the  next.  She  ran  for 
reinforcements,  and  as  some  of  the  rescuers  sailed  through 
the  kitchen,  somebody  noticed  the  empty  glass.  So  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do  but  let  me  sober  up.  Things  soon  got  back 
to  normal. 

The  most  exciting  episode  of  my  childhood  happened  a 
few  years  later.  It  took  a  lot  of  horses  to  keep  everybody 
happy  on  that  farm.  Grandpa  had  to  have  his  saddle  horse; 
the  hired  hand's  wife  had  to  have  one  at  her  disposal  when 
she  had  to  go  to  town;  Mama  needed  a  horse;  and  we  kids  also 
wanted  a  horse.  So  one  day,  sad  to  say,  when  there  was  no 


134 


horse  for  me,  I  decided  I'd  go  out  in  the  pasture  and  get  an 
old  horse  that  had  been  retired  as  being  too  old  to  work.  He 
was  the  ugliest  horse  in  the  neighborhood.  He  was  so 
swaybacked  that  Grandpa  said  he'd  made  a  good  calvary 
horse  because  the  enemy  could  only  shoot  the  soldier  from 
the  side.  Oria  Shultz  and  I  hitched  him  to  that  awful  old 
creeky  buggy  and  rode  merrily  off  to  town.  I  'd  be  ashamed  to 
be  seen  in  that  outfit  now.  We  soon  found  out  he  made  a 
wonderful  race  horse,  and  we  raced  all  the  neighbor  kids.  He 
was  too  lazy  to  hold  the  buggy  back  going  down  hill  and  so 
would  run.  We  would  laugh  and  yell  and  he  would  just  run 
harder.  One  day  we  were  going  around  a  comer  by  Tick 
Wood's,  pell  mell,  and  they  had  put  a  new  sewer  pipe  in  and 
left  a  big  hump.  Too  late  to  stop  so  we  went  over  it  on  high 
and  broke  the  dashboard  off  of  that  old  buggy.  Our  fun  soon 
ended  as  other  members  of  the  family  began  driving  him. 
When  he  started  miming  down  hill  they  tried  to  stop  him, 
which  made  him  mad,  and  he  would  break  the  buggy. 

After  Ida,  Mama,  Uncle  Jacob  Hovell,  and  Grandpa 
all  had  a  castastrophe  with  him  and  all  but  one  of  the  buggies 
were  broke  up.  Papa  would  always  say,  "just  another  old 
woman  driving;  wait  until  I  get  a  hold  of  him."  These  words 
and  gruesome  tales  were  discussed  at  the  table.  I  don't  know 
how  I  kept  a  straight  face.  Why  somebody  didn't  ask  me  why 
I  didn't  get  mn  away  with,  I  don't  know,  but  maybe  they 
thought  breaking  the  dashboard  off  was  enough. 

So,  the  day  came  when  Papa  drove  him.  And  sure 
enough,  going  down  the  hill  by  Avondale  Lake,  the  horse 
started  to  run.  Papa  grabbed  the  whip  and  whipped  him, 
instead  of  trying  to  stop  him.  As  he  started  up  MaOaird  HiU, 
Jim  Standard  came  over  the  brow  leading  an  old  cow.  Papa 
yelled  at  him  to  get  out  of  the  road  and  kept  on  traveling  full 
speed  ahead.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  a  freight  train  passed  on 
the  crossing  and  the  race  was  over.  Papa  said  he  had  intended 
to  run  him  until  he  would  never  want  to  run  again. 

The  bad  news  came  at  the  super  table.  "That  horse  isn't 


safe  for  anybody  to  drive.  He's  going  back  in  the  pasture  and 
stay  there."  WeO,  the  news  could  have  been  worse. 


BEAUTY  CAN  BE  A  SUNSET 

Charles  P.  Oberling 

Ninety-one  years  ago,  and  weighing  only  three  and  a 
half  pounds,  I  arrived  in  this  world.  My  home  was  a  log  house 
in  Columbus  Township  in  Adams  County.  It  had  one  room 
upstairs  and  two  rooms  downstairs— a  gray  log  house  with 
plaster  to  fill  the  cracks.  Babies  were  born  at  home  with  no 
incubator  or  registered  nurse  on  hand  in  those  days.  It  was  a 
bitter  cold  January  14,  1891,  when  my  Uncle  George  rode  his 
horse  to  Coatsburg  to  get  the  doctor.  The  horse  was  white 
with  frost  when  he  returned. 

Papa  later  built  a  better  house,  but  on  October  12,1902, 
it  was  put  to  the  test.  It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening  between 
seven  and  eight  p.m.  when  the  tomado  hit.  I'll  never  forget  it. 
Mama  was  fixing  a  pallet  on  the  floor  for  us  boys  to  sleep 
downstairs  since  it  was  so  stormy.  Before  I  knew  what  was 
happening,  windows  were  being  blown  in,  my  bed  upstairs 
was  smashed,  and  the  house  was  moved  off  its  foundation 
about  three  inches.  The  tornado  killed  our  turkeys.  A  piece  of 
glass  cut  my  foot.  I  still  have  the  scar  today.  That  storm 
made  a  direct  hit  on  our  neighbor,  Mr.  Longlett's,  house.  He 
said  in  his  German  accent,  "Der  boom,  der  rattle,  der 
bang— and  I  was  sitting  in  der  kitchen  vit  no  vails." 

How  does  a  farm  boy  spend  his  time  in  the  late  1800's? 
When  I  was  eight  years  old  I  herded  our  seven  milk  cows 
along  the  public  highway,  as  we  had  no  pasture  land.  Even  on 
Sundays  I  herded  cattle.  I  went  barefoot  from  early  spring 
until  late  fall.  Oh,  how  I  hated  that  itch  weed.  It  would  cause 
your  feet  to  break  out  and  itch.  To  help  time  pass,  I'd  make 
willow  whistles,  smoke  grapevines  and  dry  elm  root,  eat  red 


haws,  and  swing  on  vines.  Sometimes  I'd  skinny  dip  in 
McGee  Creek. 

When  it  was  time  to  go  to  school,  I  still  had  to  work 
mornings.  Then  I'd  run  the  mile  to  school  so  I  could  have  ten 
minutes  to  play  with  the  other  kids  at  noon  recess.  I  had 
some  good  teachers.  Most  of  them  worked  for  $20.00  a 
month.  I  always  liked  cipherin'  matches,  but  I  hated  spelling 
bees.  I  remember  going  down  once  on  the  word  "ache."  I 
spelled  it  "ake." 

Occasionally  Italian  peddlers  with  back  satchels  would 
stop  by  our  house.  They'd  sell  socks,  ties,  and  trinkets. 
Salesmen  from  Harper  Brothers  in  Chicago  also  came  by  to 
take  grocery  orders,  which  were  later  mailed  to  the 
householder. 

I  can  remember  traveling  with  Grandma  and  Grandpa 
Senner  to  Quincy.  We'd  travel  the  12  miles  by  horse  and 
buggy.  Grandma  would  take  butter,  eggs,  cottage  cheese, 
dressed  chickens,  and  garden  vegetables  to  sell  to  the  stores. 
I  can  remember  that  when  we'd  get  to  downtown  Quincy,  I'd 
wonder  where  did  all  that  cement  come  from  to  make  all  those 
sidewalks  in  front  of  those  buildings. 

My  Uncle  Willie  McNeal  used  to  run  a  store  in 
Columbus.  He'd  go  to  the  wholesale  houses  in  Quincy  to  get 
supplies  for  his  store,  and  sometimes  I  'd  get  to  go  along.  We 
used  to  eat  at  the  Franklin  House.  That  was  a  restaurant  in 
Quincy  where  you'd  sit  at  a  big  table,  and  they'd  serve  you  a 
meal  of  beans,  potatoes,  bread,  butter,  slaw,  and  custard,  all 
for  25<t.  Prices  were  a  lot  different  then.  You  could  buy  any 
shoe  in  the  Good  Luck  Shoe  Store  in  Quincy  for  $2.50, 
overalls  for  $1.50,  a  shirt  for  50<t.  You  could  buy  a  straw  hat 
for  25<t.  One  hundred  pounds  of  sugar  sold  for  $5.00,  a  ton  of 
coal  for  $5.50,  a  cord  of  wood  for  $4.00.  A  pound  of  Arbuckle 
coffee  beans  sold  for  IOC  Of  course,  wages  were  low,  too. 
When  I  was  in  my  teens,  I  worked  out  for  other  farmers  for 
$18.00  a  month.  The  hours  were  4:00  a.m.  to  8:00  p.m.,  and  at 


the  end  of  the  month,  I  turned  over  all  the  money  I  earned  to 
my  dad.  I  didn't  get  to  keep  any  earnings  until  I  was  21. 

I  married  Eunice  Leach  on  May  15,  1912.  She  was  a 
pretty  young  teacher  who  came  to  teach  at  Hazelwood  School 
and  boarded  with  my  uncle.  With  her  savings  from  three 
years  of  teaching,  she  bought  a  woodburning  stove,  a  table,  a 
pump  organ,  and  a  dozen  hens.  I  had  a  horse,  cow,  low- 
wheeled  wagon,  walking  plow,  cultivator,  and  harrow.  We 
settled  on  a  40  acre  farm  along  McGee  Creek  and  labored  side 
by  side  for  the  next  47  years.  We  lost  one  son  at  the  age  of  18 
months  with  pneumonia,  but  we  had  another  son  and  two 
daughters.  They  are  all  grown,  married,  and  have  given  us 
eight  grandchildren. 

Neighbors  needed  each  other  in  those  days.  We 
maintained  our  own  roads.  We  walked  and  repaired  the 
telephone  line.  We  threshed  and  harvested  with  everybody 
furnishing  teams,  wagons,  and  labor.  Butchering  was  another 
community  effort.  I  moved  up  from  shooting  and  cleaning  the 
hog,  to  rendering  the  lard  in  those  black  iron  kettles,  to 
becoming  chief  sausage  maker.  That  last  job  was  almost  an 
art.  You'd  be  mixing  the  sausage  for  a  family  to  eat  all  winter. 
You  didn't  dare  put  in  too  much  salt,  pepper,  or  sage,  or  your 
reputation  was  done  for. 

I'd  like  to  see  all  the  com  I've  picked  in  one  pile.  I  got 
paid  3<f  a  bushel  plus  my  dinner  when  I  worked  for  others. 
Several  times  I  shucked  100  bushels  a  day.  My  weight  got 
down  to  125  pounds  because  I'd  sweat  so  much.  Sometimes  I 
was  so  weak  I  'd  weave  when  I  walked. 

I've  only  owned  three  cars  in  my  91  years.  My  first  was 
a  black  Overland.  It  had  black  snap-on  cloth  curtains  with 
ising-glass  windows.  It  got  me  over  the  muddy,  rutty  roads. 
If  it  got  too  bad,  I'd  just  hitch  up  a  team  of  horses  to  the 
spring  wagon,  and  if  the  whole  family  was  going,  set  in  some 
kitchen  chairs  so  we  could  get  to  the  school  socials  and  not 
get  stuck.  I  later  owned  a  1947  Chevy.  My  last  car  was  a  1958 
Chevy.  I  just  sold  it  last  month. 


136 


About  20  years  ago  I  sold  the  farm,  which  had  grown  to 
120  acres.  Eunice  and  I  retired  to  Camp  Point,  Illmois.  We 
enjoyed  our  home,  children,  grandchildren,  and  our 
community.  Eunice  passed  away  two  years  ago,  just  before 
her  ninetieth  birthday.  We  used  to  ride  by  the  "home  place," 
and  we  noticed  that  it  began  to  change.  The  house  is  gone. 
The  garage,  granary,  outhouse,  barn,  cow  stable— all  are 
gone.  Only  the  machine  shed  remains.  The  willows  are 
choking  McGee  Creek.  Fence  rows  are  hard  to  find.  The  lane 
to  the  mailbox  is  unused.  It  is  no  longer  a  family  farm  home. 
It  is  investment  acreage  for  someone  else  now. 

Sometimes  as  I  sit  and  puff  on  my  pipe  with  my  eyes 
closed,  I  can  still  see  my  McGee  Creek  farm.  I  wish  I  could 
paint  aU  those  pictures  I  see.  I  remember  each  hickory  and 
walnut  tree  in  the  south  pasture.  I  remember  the  bittersweet 
growing  in  the  fence  row,  parts  of  which  came  home  in  my 
hunting  coat  for  a  winter  bouquet.  I  can  see  the  bob-whites 
strutting  along  a  fence  Une.  I  can  see  the  catfish,  schools  of 
minnows,  frogs,  and  watersnakes  that  co-existed  in  McGee 
Creek.  That  same  creek  that  roOed  over  its  banks  in  the 
spring  and  flooded  the  bottom  fields  and  then  turned  quiet 
and  scummy  green  in  late  August.  And  the  miles  of  fresh- 
turned  furrows  of  soil,  field  after  field,  year  after  year,  all 
representing  lonely,  hard  work.  However,  it  supported  the 
dreams  of  husband,  wife,  and  three  children.  It  demanded 
enough  to  make  us  rise  each  morning  for  work.  It  tired  us 
enough  to  sleep  peacefuOy  each  night.  It  taught  us  that 
beauty  can  be  a  sunset,  a  fresh-grown  radish,  or  a  loaf  of 
home-baked  bread.  And  it  nourished  a  family's  love,  which 
survives  to  this  day. 


ffi^^25^ffi<s^^affi- 


l\iL,Wsj:/it  ilVyWWJj  llW4i'iJ  llWv^"'  uVwW^i'if  i^/J/z^af  il\ 


VIZ     How  It  Was  Done 


139 


HOW  IT  WAS  DONE 

When  these  senior  citizens  were  young,  the  United 
States  was  much  closer  in  a  great  many  ways  to  the 
American  frontier  than  it  was  to  the  world  which  now  exists. 
To  look  into  any  geographical  atlas  in  1925  was  to  find  most 
of  the  lands  of  the  earth  colored  pink— possessions  of  the 
British  Empire,  upon  which  "the  sun  never  set."  It  is  true 
that  the  automobile,  best  exemplified  by  the  Model  T  Ford, 
was  found  everywhere,  but  then  so  were  horses  and  buggies. 
There  was  space  between  the  towns— between  Baltimore  and 
Washington,  between  St.  Louis  and  the  villages  later  to 
become  suburbs— and  the  population  was  probably  100 
million  less  than  it  is  today.  While  most  houses  in  cities  were 
electrified,  a  great  part  of  the  nation  was  not,  and  one  could 
stroll  out  dusty  lanes  into  the  countryside  at  dusk  and  see, 
one  by  one,  farm  houses  illumined  by  the  duU  light  of 
kerosene  lamps.  The  leading  pubhsher  of  children's  school 
books,  Scott,  Foresman,  and  Company,  still  emphasized  in  its 
readers  the  virtues  of  good  citizenship,  group  cooperation, 
honesty,  bravery,  and  initiative.  Schoohng  was  available  for 
all  those  who  aspired  to  success,  but  the  size  of  a  high  school 
freshman  class  was  usually  considerably  greater  than  it 
would  be  on  graduation  day  four  years  later.  That,  in  itself, 
was  a  sign  of  the  rigor  and  common  sense  of  the  earlier  years. 
In  others  words,  it  was  a  long  way  from  the  "Dick  and  Jane" 
stories  of  the  post- World  War  II  period. 

A  great  many  things  were  done  differently  in  1925.  A 
family  lucky  enough  to  have  a  telephone  was  usuaUy  on  a 
"party  line."  The  recipient  of  a  phone  call  was  given  a  certain 
predefined  ring— three  shorts  and  a  long,  for  instance.  As  one 
of  our  contributors  (Eva  Baker  Watson)  points  out,  it  was 
pretty  much  accepted  that  anything  said  over  a  telephone 
was  fair  game  for  anyone  else  on  the  party  line.  It  was,  as  she 
so  aptly  writes,  part  of  the  spice  of  life. 

The  1920's  was  a  decade  in  which  one  still  found  wooded 


areas  to  cut,  blacksmiths  who  made  a  living  from  the  horse 
trade,  and  hired  men  who  wandered  by  in  the  Spring  and 
stayed  until  Fall.  Robert  Frost  celebrated  these  wandering 
laborers  in  his  marvelous  1914  poem,  "The  Death  of  the 
Hired  Man."  Frost  saw  them  as  the  driftwood  of  civilization: 
"Nothing  to  look  backward  to  with  pride.  And  nothing  to 
look  forward  to  with  hope." 

The  counterpart  of  the  hired  man  was  the  girl  who 
worked  out.  Louise  Anderson  Lum  tells  her  own  story  of  such 
employment  in  her  youth.  Hired  girls  were  different, 
however;  theirs  was  seldom  a  Lifelong  career.  They  were  to  be 
found  in  every  medium-sized  midwestern  town,  of  course,  but 
such  work  was  only  a  transitional  phase  in  each  girl's  life 
until  marriage  or  another  job.  And  as  Sinclair  Lewis's  Elmer 
Gantry  described  the  techniques  of  pastoral  visitation, 
"Don't  neglect  hired  girls:  be  cordial." 

Each  of  the  senior  citizens  below  relates  a  fascinating 
story  of  "how  it  was  done"  in  the  past.  Elma  M.  Strunk  was  a 
dowser:  she  learned  the  art  from  her  father.  Burdette  Graham 
describes  the  making  of  a  farm  fence,  and  Edna  L.  Thompson 
tells  of  the  intricacies  of  making  apple  butter.  Albert 
Shanholtzer  narrated  a  marvelous  story  about  his  training  as 
a  "printer's  devil."  There  were  countless  chores  to  be  done  in 
each  season  of  the  year.  Geese  needed  to  be  plucked,  horses  to 
be  broken,  and  housework  to  be  done.  Talents  and  skills  were 
passed  from  generation  to  generation,  grandparent  to 
grandchild.  It  is  not  hard  to  moralize  about  all  of  this— the 
arts  which  have  nearly  been  lost,  the  drives  to  conquer 
whatever  Life  had  to  offer,  and  the  diminishing  place  of 
grandparenting  in  modern  society.  It  is  true  that  a  mind  is  a 
terrible  thing  to  waste,  but  that  argument  can  be  apphed  to 
the  old  today  more  easily  than  to  the  young. 

The  frankness  with  which  the  old  talk  about  the  facts  of 
life  as  they  were  in  the  past  is  refreshing.  The  rural  or  small 
town  outhouse  was  one  of  those  hard  facts.  As  a  type,  the 
structure  had  been  in  use  for  centuries.  But  one  finds  no 


140 


reference  to  it  in  Bartlett's  Familiar  Quotations,  a 
compendium  of  information  covering  a  great  span  of  British 
and  American  literature.  Lew  Atherton  makes  no  reference  to 
it  in  his  Main  Street  on  the  Middle  Border  Yet,  in  the  span  of 
time  covered  in  Atherton 's  book,  the  United  States  went 
from  a  period  in  which  outhouses  were  far  more  common  than 
flush  toilets  to  an  era  in  which  the  reverse  was  true.  As  Keith 
L.  Wilkey  points  out  in  his  illuminating  (and  obviously 
pioneer)  piece  on  the  family  backhouse,  they  ranged  from 
fancier  vine  covered  structures  to  termite  eaten  shacks. 
They  were,  as  Wilkey  and  other  contributors  have  noted,  fair 
game  for  the  neighborhood  boys  on  Halloween.  Many  of  the 


structures  only  survived  that  night  because  of  an  all  night 
vigil  kept  by  members  of  particular  families.  In  time  and 
through  a  kind  of  progress,  the  outhouse 
disappeared— mainly  because  it  was  considered  a  mark  of 
indigence,  slovenliness,  and  sloth.  Now,  parts  of  Illinois  and 
the  rest  of  the  old  Middle  Border  states  are  being  doused 
almost  daily  with  "treated"  sewage  from  the  larger  cities  and 
towns.  It  is  a  privilege  that  comes  with  age— the  right  of  one 
to  say  that  the  more  things  change,  the  more  they  remain  the 
same. 

Victor  Hicken,  Editor 


MOTHER'S  GEESE 

Lydia  {Barton)  Waite 

One  of  the  first  things  in  my  life  that  I  remember  was  a 
basket  with  a  soft  cloth  lining  sitting  on  the  open  oven  door 
in  the  kitchen  of  our  farm  home.  In  the  basket  were  several 
little  goslings,  and  my  mother  was  trying  to  satisfy  their 
appetites  with  a  pan  of  bread  soaked  in  sweet  milk.  When  I 
grew  older,  this  scene  was  repeated  several  times  each  year 
until  the  flock  sometimes  numbered  nearly  one  hundred.  Also 
included  in  their  diet  when  they  grew  older  was  the  abundant 
supply  of  lettuce  that  grew  in  the  garden. 

Those  goshngs  were  a  hardy  bunch  of  little  rascals  and 
were  always  ready  for  something  to  eat.  It  was  very 
important  to  see  that  the  garden  gate  was  never  left  open. 

As  I  grew  older,  1  was  entrusted  to  watch  over  the 
young  goslings.  When  a  thunderstorm  threatened,  they  had 
to  be  herded  immediately  into  shelter.  If  not,  those  silly 
goslings,  until  they  got  feathered  out,  would  stand  out  in  the 
rain  with  their  heads  in  the  air  and  drown  themselves. 

We  always  had  an  enclosure  to  keep  them  in,  but 
sometimes  they  would  get  through  the  fence  and  wander  off. 
Often  they  would  get  in  the  road  that  ran  by  our  home  and  no 
telling  where  they  would  go.  We  were  fortunate  to  have 
neighbors  to  tell  us  when  and  where  they  saw  them.  On  one 
occasion,  they  wandered  over  a  mile  away.  Another  of  their 
favorite  spots  was  the  spring  branch  down  below  the  barn. 
Quite  often,  if  we  did  not  find  them,  snapping  turtles  would 
have  a  goose  for  dinner. 

It  was  also  my  job  to  take  the  goslings  out  and  watch 
them  while  they  ate  on  a  new  patch  of  grass  which,  as  they 
grew  older,  was  a  main  part  of  their  diet. 

At  an  early  age  I  began  to  help  my  mother  "pick  the 
geese."  As  soon  as  the  old  geese  stopped  laying,  they  were 
relieved  of  their  feathers.  We  would  herd  them  into  a  shed 
and,    following   close   behind,    we   would   fasten    the   door 


securely  from  the  inside.  Inside  this  shed  we  had  previously 
placed  our  stools,  copper  wash  boilers  (now  valuable 
antiques),  sacks  and  stockings.  First,  each  of  us,  my  mother 
and  I,  would  grab  a  goose  by  the  neck.  Being  careful  to  avoid 
the  vicious  strokes  of  the  wings,  we  placed  a  stocking  over  its 
head  and  neck  to  prevent  its  beak  from  biting  our  arms.  Now, 
while  sitting  on  the  stool,  the  goose  on  its  back  in  our  lap,  its 
head  and  neck  under  our  arm,  and  with  boOers  held  securely 
between  our  knees,  we  proceeded  to  remove  the  feathers, 
beginning  at  the  neck  and  working  downward.  It  was 
through  experience  that  you  learned  to  remove  the  feathers 
and  down  with  a  rubbing  motion  without  tearing  the  skin.  If 
the  geese  cooperated,  which  they  seldom  did,  it  took  about 
ten  minutes  to  finish  each  one.  When  the  boilers  were  full,  the 
feathers  were  emptied  into  white  musUn  sacks.  The  operation 
then  continued  until  all  the  geese  were  picked.  In  six  weeks 
the  geese  were  ready  to  be  picked  again.  In  the  Fall  when  we 
also  picked  the  young  geese,  which  were  full  feathered,  it 
would  take  us  all  day  to  get  done. 

A  few  of  the  geese  were  sold  to  the  neighbors  for 
Thanksgiving  or  Christmas,  but  mostly  the  local  store  took  a 
good  part  of  them  in  return  for  provisions  to  be  used  during 
the  Winter.  We  did,  however,  always  have  a  goose  for 
Christmas  dinner.  Mother  was  always  careful  to  save  the 
excess  fat,  which  she  mixed  with  turpentine.  This  mixture 
was  her  favorite  remedy  for  croup.  It  was  applied  to  the  chest 
of  a  child  and  then  covered  with  a  flannel  cloth. 

Those  feathers  that  I  helped  harvest  were  most  welcome 
when  I  chose  to  marry  a  young  share  cropper  in  the 
community.  Where  most  young  farm  brides  used  a  tick 
stuffed  with  straw.  I  was  fortunate  to  have  two  feather  beds 
and  pillows  for  each. 

It  was  quite  common  in  those  days  for  share  croppers  to 
move  from  farm  to  farm  on  March  1,  trying  to  find  a  more 
desirable  location.  Then  those  feather  beds  were  used  to 


142 


protect    the   mirrors,    clocks,    and    other    fragile   pieces   of 
glassware. 

Now,  fifty-five  years  later  and  after  serving  through  six 
different  moves  as  share  croppers,  during  which  time  we 
experienced  several  crop  failures  due  to  droughts  and  floods, 
as  well  as  the  Depression,  those  feather  beds  have  been 
retired.  They  no  longer  are  needed  in  our  centrally  heated 
home. 


GRANDMA'S  RECIPE  BOOK 

Louise  E.  Efnor 

Cleaning  and  Polishing  Stoves,  Dishwashing.  Care  of 
Kitchen  Ware,  Care  of  Glassware  and  Cut  Glass,  Steel  Knives 
and  Forks,  Care  of  Silverware,  Care  of  Sinks  and  Disposal  of 
Garbage,  Chamber  Work,  Care  of  Lamps— these  were  all 
topics  discussed  at  great  length  in  "The  Day's  Routine"  in 
Grandma's  Household  and  Recipe  Book.  A  recipe  in 
Grandma's  time  was  not  just  in  connection  with  food 
preparation;  said  recipe  might  be  a  "Better  Way  To  Black  a 
Stove,"  "How  To  Make  a  Stove  Holder"  (the  early  version  of 
a  potholder,  made  by  putting  a  piece  of  asbestos  between  two 
heavy  pieces  of  cloth),  or  "The  Best  Way  to  Soften  Hard 
Water."  One  recipe  for  the  latter  required  you  to  place  a 
quantity  of  wood  ashes  into  a  tightly  closed  woolen  bag,  and 
then  immerse  the  bag  in  a  tub  of  water— the  required  amount 
of  ashes  being  ascertained  by  experiment! 

Many  of  the  first  recipe  books  were  family  Bibles,  and 
Grandma  used  her  Bible  in  this  fashion,  filing  among  the 
pages  of  her  precious  Scriptures  favorite  recipes  of  neighbors 
and  loved  ones  and  little  momentoes  of  by-gone  days. 
Grandma  used  her  Bible  daUy,  so  what  better  place  to  keep 
her  prized  recipes? 

The  daily  journal,  a  big  thick  book  with  lined  pages,  was 


also  handy,  especially  to  write  recipes  in.  Along  side  of  the 
recipe  might  be  written  the  name  of  the  household  or  person's 
name  who  gave  the  recipe.  Other  pages  would  no  doubt  tell  of 
baby's  first  tooth,  Uncle  Joseph's  death,  the  breeding  dates 
for  cows  and  sows,  how  much  corn  to  plant,  and  a  list  of  all 
the  butter,  eggs,  and  other  produce  sold  during  the  year. 
Grandma  noted  that  "My  chickens  are  going  into  stew  pot; 
I'm  not  selling  anymore  at  such  a  give-away  price,"  or,  "made 
this  cake  for  Pearl's  wedding.  Needs  more  flavoring." 

No  time  or  temperature  was  given  in  Grandma's 
recipes— nothing  telUng  how  long  to  bake  the  product  or  how 
hot  the  oven  should  be.  They  usuaUy  read,  "cook  until  done," 
"bake  'til  it  springs  back  when  touched  lightly"  (this  one  is 
still  in  use  yet  today),  or  "boil  down  'til  it  is  thickened." 
Proper  doneness  was  determined  according  to  color— light, 
medium,  or  dark  brown!  If  a  recipe  failed,  perhaps  it  was  the 
fault  of  too  big  a  "pinch,"  too  small  a  "smidgen,"  or  the 
"butter  the  size  of  a  walnut"  being  not  the  exact  size  of  the 
person  giving  the  recipe  to  you.  How  do  you  measure  a 
"dollop"  and  how  much  does  half  an  egg  shell  hold,  were 
questions  only  to  be  answered  by  the  person  making  up  the 
recipe.  Even  when  teaspoons  and  tablespoons  were  used  in 
Grandma's  measuring,  they  could  be  different  in  size  from 
those  of  a  neighbor  because  all  were  not  manufactured  or 
made  the  same  size.  Grandma's  old  stoneware  coffee  cup  was 
used  to  measure  flour,  sugar,  molasses,  milk,  or  vinegar;  a 
neighbor  might  measure  these  ingredients  in  a  dainty  china 
teacup.  Small  wonder  the  finished  product  never  quite 
measured  up  to  Grandma's! 

Grandma's  first  real  cookbook  (she  still  refered  to  it  as 
her  recipe  book!),  was  from  the  Warsaw  Milling  Company  at 
Warsaw,  lUinois.  They  recommended  the  use  of  Grace  MiUs 
Flour,  which  product  they  manufactured.  They  also  sold 
other  brands  which  they  made,  such  as:  AAA  1  Patent,  Red 
Cross,  Purity  Patent,  Spring  and  Winter  Patent,  and  Echpse, 
all  made  from  the  best  of  wheat.  The  recipes  were  compiled 


143 


(for  the  benefit  of  the  Warsaw  Free  Public  Reading  Room)  by 
the  Women's  Club,  whose  president  was  Donna  M.  Parker, 
M.D.  The  publishing  date  reads  April,  1900.  and  the 
price— fifty  cents. 

Enjoyment  could  be  found  in  reading  the 
advertisements  in  Grandma's  book.  Walter  Baker  and  Co., 
Ltd.  of  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  advertises  Pure  High 
Grade  Cocoas  and  Chocolates;  no  chemicals  are  used  in  their 
manufacture.  Baron  von  Liebig,  one  of  the  best  known 
writers  on  dietetics,  says:  "Cocoa  is  a  perfect  food,  as 
wholesome  as  deUcious,  a  beneficient  restorer  of  exhausted 
power  ...  It  soothes  both  stomach  and  brain,  and  for  this 
reason,  as  well  as  for  others,  it  is  the  best  friend  of  those 
engaged  in  literary  pursuits."  Other  advertisers  must  have 
let  their  products  sell  themselves;  they  wrote  their  ads  very 
simply:  Rumford  Baking  Powder,  Dwight  Cow  Brand  Soda, 
Arm  and  Hammer  Soda  (Bad  Soda  Spoils  Good  Flour);  Frank 
H.  Jones— Shirts  Made  to  Order;  J. A.  White— Stock  and 
Windmill  Tanks;  Northwestern  Yeast  Company  and  Health 
Yeast,  Perfection  Starch,  Eagle  Health  Pepsin  Gum— all 
made  by  the  Ralston  Yeast  Company.  If  the  recipes  made  you 
ill,  you  could  always  call  H.  Cames,  M.D.,  who  also  had  an  ad 
in  a  very  prominent  place  in  the  book! 

"Too  many  bitter  herbs  spoil  a  stew"  is  found  under  the 
heading  of  SOUPS.  Vegetables  are  very  pleasantly 
introduced  with  this  couplet: 

"Vegetal  wealth  a  luscious  hoard. 
Within  our  garden's  bound  are  stored." 
Such  niceties  are  found  throughout  Grandma's  book  and 
gave  her  a  "lift"  as  she  toiled  over  the  recipe.  You  could 
always  tell  which  pages  she  had  enjoyed  most  by  the  well- 
worn,  smudged  recipes! 

Grandma's  "recipe  book"  and  her  Bible  (with  all  of  its 
memorabilia)  played  a  very  important  role  in  her  life— one 
providing  food  for  the  body,  the  other  food  for  the  soul.  As 
much  as  she  used  and  enjoyed  her  recipe  book,  she  used  her 


Bible  more.  It  was  her  "recipe  book"  for  daily  living.  Her 
favorite  quote  from  the  precious  Book  would  surely  have 
been:  "O  taste  and  see  that  the  Lord  is  good.  .  ." 


SAWMILL  MEMORIES 

John  P.  Kramer 

In  September,  1921,  Clark  Cox  moved  his  sawmill  to  my 
father's  eighty-acre  timber.  This  was  a  dense  timber  because 
my  grandfather  had  never  allowed  anyone  to  cut  trees  unless 
they  were  dead.  Timberland  was  as  valuable  as  level  farm 
land  when  my  grandfather  purchased  that  timber  in  1897. 

Since  there  was  no  running  water,  it  was  necessary  to 
dig  a  well.  Mr.  Cox  and  his  helpers,  Mr.  Phillips,  a  saw  mill 
operator,  and  Mr.  Smith,  a  steam  engineer,  chose  a  spot  in  a 
ravine  where  the  soil  was  very  mucky.  They  were  thinking 
they  would  have  a  shallow  well.  They  spaded  and  shoveled  a 
hole  six  feet  in  diameter  and  eight  feet  deep.  This  type  of 
work  was  new  to  them.  They  had  had  plenty  of  experience 
digging  trenches  while  serving  in  World  War  I.  They  built  a 
windlass  with  three  poles,  six  inches  by  six  feet,  bolted 
together  at  the  top.  Two  poles  that  supported  the  hand  crank 
shaft  were  set  closer  together  so  the  rope  on  the  shaft  that 
lowered  and  raised  the  buckets  could  be  cranked  at  a 
standing  position.  After  digging  a  hole  eighteen  feet  deep  and 
still  finding  no  water,  they  reduced  the  diameter  to  four  feet, 
which  was  the  size  of  most  wells.  After  digging  another 
twenty-two  feet  they  hit  a  smaU  vein  of  water.  Then  they 
bored  a  six-inch  hole  ten  feet  deeper  and  hit  a  gusher.  A  pump 
operated  with  a  gasoline  engine  and  a  pump  jack  working  for 
several  hours  did  not  pump  it  dry.  Mr,  Cox  offered  to  wall  the 
weU  with  bricks  if  my  father  would  furnish  them.  Since  it  was 
so  far  from  our  home,  my  father  did  not  see  a  need  for  it.  He 
later  regretted  his  decision. 


Assured  of  an  adequate  water  supply,  the  next  task  was 
clearing  a  road  wide  enough  for  the  saw  and  a  single  cylinder 
"Buffalo"  steam  engine.  It  was  necessary  to  cut  the  tree  as 
close  to  the  ground  as  possible.  That  was  a  very  difficult  and 
back  breaking  job,  using  a  cross  cut  saw  and  axes.  By  going 
around  the  larger  trees,  they  ended  up  with  a  very  winding 
road.  The  work  took  longer  than  they  had  expected.  They 
were  anxious  to  get  a  clearing  made  east  of  the  well  on  a 
south  slope  where  the  mill  would  sit. 

Mr.  Cox  had  a  team  of  Percheron  horses  that  he  used  to 
snake  the  logs  from  the  roadway  to  the  miU  site.  On 
Saturdays  they  stopped  working  in  time  to  hitch  the  horses 
to  their  carriage,  drive  to  Avon,  leave  the  horses  at  the  hvery 
barn,  and  catch  the  train  to  Galesburg.  They  returned  on 
Monday  morning  with  their  provisions  for  the  week. 

When  they  had  finished  clearing  the  road  and  mill  site, 
they  had  enough  logs  cut  for  two  cabins,  two  barns,  and  a 
lining  for  the  well.  They  used  sugar  maple  for  this  hning 
because  some  kinds  of  wood  would  color  and  flavor  the  water. 

They  were  ready  to  set  up  the  mill.  They  dug  a  hole  four 
feet  square  and  three  feet  deep.  The  saw  blade  was  to  be 
placed  over  it.  The  dirt  from  the  hole  was  used  to  level  the 
ground  that  the  mill  frame  was  to  be  placed  on.  Then  they 
lowered  a  belt  conveyor  into  the  hole  to  carry  the  saw  dust  to 
the  south  side  and  set  the  steam  engine  near  the  well.  The 
logs  were  piled  on  a  slope  north  of  the  mill,  which  made  it 
easier  to  get  them  onto  the  table  that  moved  back  and  forth 
by  a  reversible  winch  that  it  was  cabled  to.  They  used  cant 
hooks  to  roll  the  logs  and  to  turn  the  logs  as  the  slabs  were 
sawed  off. 

When  the  sawing  began,  Mr.  Cox  hired  two  Harvey 
brothers  from  Kirkwood  to  do  the  off  bearing,  that  is,  piling 
lumber  and  slats.  As  soon  as  they  had  enough  boards  sawed, 
they  began  building  two  cabins.  By  this  time,  it  was  getting 
too  chilly  to  live  in  a  tent  as  they  had  been  doing.  The  first 
cabin  was  sixteen  feet  long,  fourteen  feet  wide,  and  nine  feet 


high,  with  a  door  and  a  small  window  on  the  south  side.  The 
north  side  was  seven  feet  high.  The  frame  was  constructed  of 
two  inch  lumber.  The  siding  and  roof  were  made  of  one  inch 
lumber.  All  of  it  was  covered  with  black  tar  roofing  paper 
lathed  every  three  feet.  The  floor  was  also  of  rough  sawed 
lumber.  There  were  two  built-in  beds  along  the  north  side. 
There  a  smaU  table  and  nail  kegs  served  as  chairs.  The  stump 
burner  stove  would  hold  twelve  inch  chunks  cut  eighteen 
inches  long.  They  heated  water  and  did  some  cooking  on  top 
of  this  stove,  but  did  most  of  it  on  a  two  burner  kerosene 
stove.  Kerosene  lamps  and  lanterns  were  their  sources  of 
hght.  Mr.  PhiUip's  cabin  was  similar  to  the  first  one  but  much 
larger  because  his  wife  and  two  sons  planned  to  join  him  in 
the  spring. 

Two  barns  were  constructed  similar  to  the  cabins.  The 
cracks  were  covered  with  narrow  strips  of  boards.  There  were 
two  double  stalls  and  a  small  bin  to  store  feed.  One  half  of  a 
hollow  log  served  as  feed  trough  and  the  other  half  as  a 
watering  trough.  The  ends  were  boarded  and  puttied  with 
blue  clay  secured  from  the  well  digging. 

With  their  building  project  completed,  they  began 
sawing  logs  which  were  to  be  made  into  railroad  ties  and 
hauled  to  Youngstown,  a  distance  of  six  miles.  When  they 
had  to  drag  logs  farther,  they  used  an  A-shaped  skid  made 
from  the  fork  of  a  tree. 

After  they  had  enough  ties  sawed,  Mr.  Cox  hired  three 
teamsters:  Sam  McCracken  of  Abingdon,  with  his  Belgium 
team,  Edward  Kissick  and  his  son  of  Roseville,  each  with  a 
Percheron  team.  They  had  heavy  breeching  brass  mounted 
harnesses  much  heavier  than  that  used  in  farming.  The  teams 
were  sharp  shod.  The  shoes  had  to  be  reset  and  sharpened 
every  three  weeks.  The  blacksmith  was  the  busiest  place  in 
town.  It  was  a  good  place  to  get  the  news  and  swap  stories, 
for  it  was  first  come,  first  served. 

The  ties  were  hauled  on  the  running  gears  of  a  high- 
wheeled  wagon.  The  number  of  ties  hauled  depended  on  the 


145 


condition  of  the  road.  If  the  road  condition  was  good,  the 
average  haul  would  be  sixteen  ties.  Riding  back  to  the  mill  by 
straddUng  the  coupling  pole  on  the  hounds  that  were  two- 
and-one-half-inch  wooden  pieces  and  shaped  to  the  rear  axle 
would  make  riding  a  mechanical  buU  child's  play.  It  was  a 
very  rough  ride  when  the  roads  were  frozen  and  very  dirty 
when  the  mud  splattered  in  the  driver's  face. 

Mr.  Cox  hired  a  local  boy.  Forrest  "Shorty"  Long,  to 
haul  lumber  for  the  frame  of  a  large  barn  still  standing  on  the 
Wilhs  Chase  farm  located  three  miles  north  of  Bushnell.  He 
used  a  high  wheeled  wagon  gear  with  coupHng  pole  extended, 
for  he  was  hauUng  lumbers  more  than  twice  as  long  as  ties. 
He  also  hauled  planks  to  be  used  for  bridge  floors.  He  drove 
his  father's  span  of  large  sorrel  mules. 

The  more  sawing  they  did,  the  larger  the  pile  of  sawdust 
the  PhiUips  brothers  and  I  had  to  play  in.  Farmers  who  had 
ice  houses  came  for  sawdust  which  they  packed  around  the 
cakes  of  ice.  It  was  used  for  paths,  banked  around  the  cabins 
and  barns  to  keep  out  the  cold  and  for  bedding  in  the  barns. 

I  remember  getting  home  from  school,  fiUing  the  wood 
box,  gathering  the  eggs,  and  hurrying  to  the  timber  to  see 
what  progress  had  been  made.  We  boys  picked  wild  flowers, 
swang  on  the  wild  grapevines,  and  chewed  sUppery  elm. 

I  was  fascinated  with  all  the  activities  during  those  two 
and  a  half  years.  I  remember  how  sad  I  was  when  they  moved 
out  of  our  timber  and  I  heard  the  whistle  of  the  steam  engine 
for  the  last  time. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

Louise  Parker  Simms 

My  father,  James  Parker,  was  the  village  blacksmith  in 
the  town  of  Abingdon,  Illinois,  for  nearly  fifty  years.  As  far 


as  stature  was  concerned,  he  in  no  way  resembled  the  "village 
smithy"  that  stood  "under  the  spreading  chestnut  tree"  in 
Longfellow's  poem.  He  was  a  small  man,  like  his  father  before 
him.  He  stood  scarcely  five  feet  four  inches  tall.  But  he  did  a 
big  man's  work— work  that  required  muscle  and 
strength— and  he  did  it  well. 

In  addition  to  the  usual  blacksmith  work,  he  was  also  a 
horseshoer.  Many  times  I  have  seen  his  strength  challenged 
by  a  huge  team  of  horses  he  was  fitting  with  shoes. 

Dad's  blacksmith  shop  was  a  one-story  brick  building  in 
the  first  block  of  East  Martin  Street.  Many  years  ago,  in  the 
early  part  of  this  century,  there  was  a  livery  stable  next  door, 
with  only  an  alley  separating  them. 

One  side  of  the  shop  had  a  floor  of  thick  wood  planks 
over  the  concrete.  This  is  where  the  horses  stood  while  being 
shod.  The  adjacent  wall  held  heavy  metal  rings  to  which  the 
horses  were  tied. 

The  exposed  rafters  overhead  held  horseshoes  hanging 
in  pairs  on  nails.  They  were  secured  with  the  aid  of  a  long 
slender  pole  with  a  hook  on  the  end.  The  straight  ends  of  the 
shoes  had  to  be  heated  in  the  forge  until  the  metal  was  phable 
enough  to  be  hammered  on  the  anvil  and  bent  down  at  just 
the  right  location.  This  was  determined  by  "fitting"  the  shoe 
to  the  horse's  hoof  before  the  shoe  was  heated. 

During  the  icy  winter  months  often  a  shoe  called  a 
"never  shp"  shoe  was  used.  This  had  special  tips  applied  to 
the  ends,  making  the  shoe  easier  to  grip  the  ice  without 
shpping. 

After  the  shoe  was  nailed  to  the  horse's  hoof,  the  nail 
ends  were  cut  off  and  then  filed  down  smooth  along  the  side 
of  the  hoof.  Any  ragged  edges  of  the  hoof  were  neatly 
trimmed.  This  worried  me  when  I  was  a  child  until  I  learned 
that  shoeing  the  horse  and  triming  the  hoof  didn't  hurt  any 
more  than  it  does  to  trim  the  cuticle  on  our  fingernails. 

During  the  summer,  when  the  big  wide  doors  were  open, 
there  was  usually  an  audience  of  curious  children  standing  in 


the  doorway,  watching  the  horses  being  shod.  This  didn't 
bother  Dad,  for  he  loved  children.  His  only  concern  was  that 
they  did  not  get  close  enough  to  be  hurt. 

In  warm  weather  the  horse's  owner  or  someone  would 
use  a  special  brush  to  keep  flies  from  bothering  the  animal. 
The  brush  resembled  a  horse's  tail  fastened  to  the  end  of  a 
stick.  This  method  usually  kept  the  horses  standing  still 
while  being  shod. 

My  father  had  httle  formal  education.  He  had  learned 
the  blacksmith  trade  under  a  man  named  Tom  Austin,  who 
had  a  shop  in  the  first  block  of  East  Pearl  Street.  Dad  opened 
his  first  shop  across  the  street  from  the  location  where  he 
worked  for  the  last  thirty-three  years  of  his  life. 

Dad  was  an  ingenious  man  who  learned  many  things  on 
his  own  whenever  the  need  arose.  I  never  remember  anything 
which  was  brought  into  my  dad's  blacksmith  shop  which  he 
couldn't  figure  out  a  way  to  fix.  Farmers  depended  on  his 
skills  to  keep  much  of  their  machinery  operating.  And 
eventually  "Jimmie"  (as  his  friends  knew  him)  sharpened 
their  plows  and  discs. 

All  the  horses  to  be  shod  were  not  work  horses.  Some 
were  riding  horses  or  horses  used  to  take  the  family  to  town 
and  to  church  in  a  buggy  or  surrey  (if  the  family  was  very 
large).  Dad  had  a  rack  of  buggy  whips  for  sale.  They  were 
displayed  on  the  partition  between  the  large  front  work  shop 
and  the  smaller  "back  room." 

In  this  smaller  room  he  painted  buggies— first  with  a 
brush  and  later  by  spray  painting.  The  finishing  trim  on  a 
buggy  consisted  of  a  fine  line  of  contrasting  color  outlining 
the  body  and  accenting  each  wood  spoke  of  the  wheels.  This 
took  a  steady  hand  and  a  good  eye— something  which  became 
more  difficult  as  Dad  grew  older. 

But  the  time  soon  came  (around  1920  or  before)  when 
buggies  were  replaced  by  the  automobile,  and  tractors  were 
introduced  to  replace  the  horse.  Consequently,  there  were  not 
as  many  horses  needing  to  be  shod  nor  buggies  in  need  of 


paint.  So  Dad  started  painting  automobiles  and  lettering 
trucks. 

After  automobiles  became  more  numerous,  he  added 
equipment  to  vulcanize  tires,  learning  this  trade  on  his  own. 
That  was  when  every  tire  had  a  "casing"  (the  heavier  outer 
tire)  and  an  "inner  tube"  (the  inflatable  rubber  ring  which  fit 
inside  the  casing).  The  inner  tube  could  be  cold  patched  (much 
like  applying  a  band-aid)  or  it  could  be  vulcanized  (which 
involved  the  application  of  heat,  but  lasted  longer). 
Vulcanizing  a  casing  which  had  "blown  out"  involved 
cementing  a  patch  on,  then  placing  the  injured  section  of  the 
tire  in  a  special  mold  which  was  then  heated. 

Sometimes  the  tire  was  so  badly  damaged  it  wasn't 
worth  the  cost  of  repairing.  So  Dad  added  a  line  of  new  tires 
to  sell.  I  remember  they  were  U.  S.  Royal  Cord  tires  and  were 
considered  to  be  the  top  of  the  hne. 

During  slack  times  in  the  winter,  the  old  pot-bellied 
stove  in  his  blacksmith  shop  was  a  favorite  gathering  place 
for  many  of  his  farmer  customers  and  friends— much  the 
same  as  they  would  gather  now  at  a  local  coffee  shop  to 
discuss  local  and  world  affairs.  "Kangaroo  Court"  they  called 
it.  I  am  sure  a  diversity  of  opinions  were  expressed  by  the 
circle  of  men  around  that  stove! 

Dad  sort  of  rolled  with  the  punches  and  flowed  along 
with  the  times,  making  changes  in  his  Line  of  work  whenever 
changing  times  dictated  it.  He  never  made  a  fortune,  but  he 
provided  for  his  family  of  four  with  honest  labor. 


DELIVERING  MAIL  ACROSS 
TROUBLESOME  CREEK 

Addra  Icenogle  Graham 

"Thunder,  lightnin',  rain,  mud,  and  Daddy!"  announced 
my  four-year-old  brother.  Homer,  as  he  was  looking  out  the 


147 


window  one  black,  miserable  evening.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
and  we  had  been  anxiously  waiting  since  before  six  for  some 
member  of  the  family  to  spot  the  old  mail  wagon  pulled  by 
"Jack  and  Jenny,"  the  two  faithful  mules  that  would  be 
bringing  my  father  home  from  an  all-day's  drive  over  twenty- 
five  miles  of  muddy  mail  route. 

My  mother  started  towards  the  kitchen  to  move  supper 
to  the  front  of  the  wood  range;  my  brothers,  Elmer  and 
Clement,  jumped  up  and  put  on  their  overcoats  and  boots  to 
unhitch,  feed  and  groom  the  team;  and  everyone  else  quit  all 
the  bickering  and  worrying  because  "Daddy"  was  home. 
Here  he  come  into  the  kitchen,  dog-tired,  wet  to  the  skin, 
carrying  his  old  kerosene  lantern  and  dinner  pail.  Nobody 
was  left  out,  though,  as  he  greeted  everyone  with  a  hug  and  a 
kiss  before  taking  off  his  dripping  sheepskin  overcoat  and 
boots  and  dropping  into  a  chair. 

The  hfe  of  a  rural  mail  carrier  in  the  twenties  was  far 
from  easy.  He  had  to  arise  winter  and  summer— fair  weather 
or  foul— at  5:30  a.m.  to  do  his  chores  and  get  to  the  post  office 
in  time  to  case  the  mail  and  be  ready  to  start  out  on  the  route 
by  about  8:30  a.m.  All  the  roads  in  summer  were  dusty  dirt  in 
good  weather  and  muddy  to  just  a  slough  in  bad.  In  the 
winter  they  were  frozen  rough  ruts  or  drifted  full  with  snow, 
but  most  people  expected  the  mail  to  be  delivered  even  if  they 
couldn't  get  to  town  themselves. 

My  father,  after  trying  to  make  a  living  for  his  family  of 
nine  working  at  the  potteries  in  Macomb,  decided  in  1918 
that  he  would  take  the  civil  service  test  which  aU  candidates 
for  the  rural  carrier  jobs  were  required  to  pass  before  they 
could  qualify.  I  can  remember  hearing  about  how  my  mother 
quizzed  my  father  in  math,  place  geography,  and  grammar  in 
preparation  for  taking  the  exam  and  how  elated  they  were 
when  he  finally  received  word  that  he  had  been  hired  to  carry 
the  mail  on  old  Route  4  south  of  Macomb. 

That  route  went  south  of  the  post  office  on  Randolph 
Street  to  Grant  and  then  east  to  Maple  Avenue,  south  the 


length  of  that  road,  east  one  mile  past  the  county  farm,  on 
south  across  Troublesome  Creek  to  Ebenezer  Church  and  to 
Camp  Creek  Cemetery.  Then  it  went  east  to  Route  67  down 
Baumgartner  Lane,  then  north  to  Camp  Creek  Church  and 
one  mile  east  to  McMillan  Lane,  back  to  Route  67.  Then  it 
went  back  west  to  Frank  and  Charhe  Patrick's  to  Fairmont 
School,  and  then  past  Tom  Cash's  house  and  west  on  Grant 
to  Randolph  and  back  to  the  post  office. 

The  first  thing  my  father  had  to  do  was  to  get  horses  to 
puU  his  mail  rig.  I  have  been  told  that  his  first  team  was  "Ole 
Topsy,"  a  bay  that  weighed  about  1800  pounds.  She  dragged 
one  foot,  but  she  could  pull  well.  "NeUie,"  an  almost  black 
road  horse  that  weighed  only  about  700  pounds,  was  the 
other  half  of  this  team.  When  they  were  working  together,  it 
looked  hke  "Topsy"  was  pulling  "Nelhe"  as  well  as  the 
wagon,  and  my  older  brother  and  sisters  used  to  laugh  and 
say,  "Here  comes  the  elephant  and  the  mouse." 

One  can  just  imagine  what  it  would  look  hke  to  see  those 
two  horses  pulUng  the  old  green  mail  wagon.  And  what  a 
wagon  it  was!  There  has  never  been  one  hke  it  before  or  since 
because  it  was  fashioned  by  my  father,  Elmer  C.  Icenogle,  to 
his  individual  specifications.  It  was  built  with  pine  lumber  on 
a  buggy  chassis  in  a  box  shape  about  four  feet  by  three 
feet— barely  big  enough  for  my  dad  and  the  mail.  He  cut  two 
holes  in  the  front  for  the  reins  to  go  through,  to  eUminate 
frigid  air  from  getting  in.  He  made  a  glass  "windshield" 
which  could  be  raised  and  hooked  to  the  ceihng  for  fresh  air  in 
warm  weather.  There  were  two  small  doors  about  14  inches 
wide  on  each  side  and  glass  windows  that  sUd  in  a  groove 
from  the  back  across  those  doors  to  make  the  wagon  as  snug 
as  possible.  My  father  often  took  heated  bricks  and  put  them 
in  a  blanket  or  rug,  in  which  he  then  wrapped  his  feet  to  keep 
them  warm.  Also,  the  kerosene  lantern  was  kept  Ughted  in 
the  winter  for  warmth,  but  it  was  considered  dangerous 
because  of  its  fumes  and  because  of  the  hazard  of  fire  in  case 
of  a  runaway.  When  the  bricks  had  cooled  off  or  when  the 


glass  "windshield"  would  get  frosted  over  from  his  breath, 
my  father  would  get  out  and  walk  along,  driving  the  team  and 
keeping  warm  through  exercise.  Sometimes  in  freezing  and 
thawing  weather  the  mud  would  collect  on  the  wheels  until 
they  wouldn't  turn.  Then  he  would  have  to  clean  the  freezing 
mess  off  the  wheels  before  he  could  go  any  further. 

What  an  impression  all  this  must  have  made  on  a  four- 
year-old  to  prompt  my  little  brother  to  connect  bad  weather 
with  the  coming  home  of  our  father! 


THE  DURHAM  TOWNSHIP  WOLF  HUNT 

Robert  R.  Wagner 

During  the  mid-twenties,  several  farmers  in  the  north 
part  of  Hancock  County  were  losing  young  livestock  due  to 
wolves  in  the  area.  For  two  years  a  man  reported  to  be  a 
government  wolf  hunter  was  in  the  area  to  try  to  eliminate 
them.  I  do  not  know  if  he  caught  any  or  not,  but  I  am  sure 
several  stray  dogs  disappeared. 

In  the  winter  of  1928,  the  Hancock  County  Farm 
Bureau  decided  to  sponsor  a  wolf  hunt  in  Durham  Township. 
There  were  several  reasons  for  selecting  that  location.  It  was 
a  square  township  easily  identified  by  roads  around  it,  and 
there  were  no  towns  or  villages  that  would  bother  the  drive. 
The  east  side  encompassed  Lamoine  River,  then  known  as 
Crooked  Creek,  and  the  northwest  part  of  the  township  had 
Camp  Creek.  Both  areas  were  known  to  be  the  habitat  of 
wolves.  The  center  of  the  township  was  level  land  where  the 
hunters  could  see  any  wolves  that  would  be  within  the  drive. 

The  date  for  the  drive  was  set  for  February  2,  1928.  The 
problem  was  that  the  weather  did  not  cooperate  very  well. 
The  temerature  was  ten  above  zero,  and  it  was  snowing.  The 
winds  were  pretty  sharp.  They  stationed  men  all  around  the 
township— eight  per  mile.  Not  more  than  every  third  man 


was  allowed  to  carry  a  gun  for  fear  someone  would  be 
accidently  shot.  As  the  township  is  six  miles  square,  it  took 
about  two  hundred  volunteers  to  start  the  drive.  At  nine 
o'clock  a.m.,  everyone  started  to  walk  toward  the  center  of 
the  township.  I  was  attending  grade  school  at  Bross  School, 
and  I  remember  seeing  two  men  cross  our  school  yard  about 
10:30. 

At  about  12:00  noon,  they  all  converged  on  a  square 
forty-acre  field  on  the  Bartlett  Farm  southwest  of  the 
Durham  Church,  and  in  the  center  were  two  wolves.  The  field 
was  a  pasture  where  there  was  no  place  for  the  wolves  to  hide, 
and  it  sloped  slightly  to  the  northwest.  By  that  time,  the 
snow  was  blowing  so  badly  that  the  hunters  could  barely  see 
across  the  field.  The  wolves  kept  circling  inside  the  field  just 
out  of  gun  range  until  finally  they  decided  to  make  a  break  to 
the  northwest,  or  low  corner  of  the  field.  As  they  approached 
the  corner,  hunters  on  both  the  north  and  west  sides  began 
shooting  pretty  much  toward  each  other.  The  wolves  actually 
made  it  through  the  Une,  but  those  in  the  hunt  said  they 
thought  they  were  actually  hit  before  that  but  sheer 
determination  and  speed  carried  them  through.  Then  they 
died. 

After  the  hunt,  the  ladies  of  the  Durham  Church  served 
soup  and  sandwiches  to  some  two  hundred  and  twenty  men 
who  participated  in  the  drive.  The  next  day  my  parents  took 
me  to  see  the  wolf  carcasses.  The  male  wolf  stood  about  four 
feet  tall  and  the  female  was  about  the  size  of  a  German 
Shepherd  dog.  Although  there  was  some  disappointment 
that  there  were  only  two  wolves  killed,  that  seemed  to  end  the 
problem  of  the  livestock  disappearing. 


HE  WAS  A  DOWSER 

Alma  M.  Strunk 

Yes,  he  was  a  dowser,  and  I  am  a  dowser,  too. 

What  is  a  dowser,  you  ask?  Well,  a  dowser  is  a  person 
who  has  mystical  powers,  or  you  might  call  it  a  "gift."  Not 
much  is  required  of  one  to  be  a  dowser.  My  father  was  one 
and  a  very  good  one,  I  should  add.  He  wanted  his  sons  to 
follow  him  in  that,  but  it  was  his  only  daughter,  me,  who 
could  dowse. 

You  just  need  a  forked  stick,  preferably  one  cut  from  a 
young  peach  tree.  Leave  the  bark  on  if  you  really  want 
something  strange  to  happen.  The  bark  will  peel  off  the  ends 
of  the  stick  where  you  are  holding  it  as  well  as  the  skin  off 
your  thumb  and  finger.  You  can't  keep  it  from  doing  this.  But 
a  green  peach  stick  isn't  really  necessary.  Any  forked  branch 
will  do,  even  bahng  wire  will  work  as  well.  We  still  have  the 
wire  which  Dad  used  in  later  years.  It  is  in  his  trunk,  stored 
with  many  other  memorabillia.  You  fold  the  wire  into  a  V 
shape  with  each  side  about  fifteen  inches  long.  This  will  work 
as  well  as  a  stick  but  it  is  still  just  as  hard  on  the  thumb  and 
finger,  if  you  grasp  too  hard. 

Maybe  it  is  time  to  tell  you  what  "dowsing"  is.  A  more 
common  name  for  a  dowser  is  "water  witch."  Witching  is 
trying  to  find  an  underground  stream  of  water  where  people 
can  dig  a  well  and  be  sure  to  get  water  instead  of  a  dry  hole. 
When  we  Lived  at  Dow,  Illinois,  we  had  one  such  well, 
completely  dry,  but  it  was  a  grand  place  to  hang  cream, 
butter,  and  such  to  keep  them  cool.  My  first  httle  China  tea 
set  is  in  the  bottom  of  that  twenty-foot  well.  I  threw  them  in 
there  in  a  fit  of  anger.  My  cousin  wanted  to  play  with  them 
and  I  didn't  want  her  to.  Well,  needless  to  say,  she  didn't  play 
with  them,  nor  did  I. 

Anyway,  Dad  witched  for  another  well  and  found  a 
stream  about  twenty  feet  away  from  the  dry  one,  where  they 
dug,  and  that  new  one  couldn't  be  pumped  dry. 


People  from  miles  around  would  come  to  get  Dad  to  find 
the  best  spot  in  which  to  dig  a  well.  He  would  take  his 
"witch"  and  say,  "Elma,  come  with  me,"  and  we  would  go  to 
where  this  particular  person  thought  he  wanted  a  well. 
Sometimes  it  was  in  the  barnyard  for  watering  stock,  or 
maybe  near  the  homestead  for  family  use.  He  would  begin  to 
walk  over  the  terrain  in  different  directions  to  see  where  he 
could  feel  the  most  pull  on  his  "witch."  He  would  grasp  his 
forked  stick  with  both  hands,  thumb  and  first  finger  holding 
the  ends  with  the  V  up.  If  he  was  near  the  underground 
stream,  that  stick  would  begin  to  turn  downward,  turning 
toward  the  body  and,  as  he  came  near  to  where  the  stream 
was,  and  as  he  crossed  it,  the  "witch"  would  point  straight 
down  and  no  amount  of  trying  could  keep  it  upright.  If  you 
grasped  too  hard,  it  would  pull  the  skin  right  off  your  thumb 
and  finger.  At  the  point  where  the  witch  turned  straight 
down  was  the  right  place  to  dig.  Often  I  was  elected  to  stand 
on  that  spot  while  Dad  tried  other  places.  1  wasn't  always  the 
best  marker,  as  I  moved  a  lot.  However,  when  he  was  sure  he 
had  found  the  strongest  spot,  the  next  step  was  to  find  how 
deep  the  stream  was  below  the  surface  of  the  ground.  The 
depth  was  determined  by  the  number  of  feet  from  where  you 
felt  the  pull  on  the  "witch"  to  the  point  where  it  pointed 
straight  down.  Dad  was  quite  successful.  He  had  only  two 
failures  that  I  know  of,  and  for  no  reason  that  he  could 
determine.  His  services  were  sought  after  for  miles  around, 
maybe  because  they  were  free,  as  he  never  charged.  He  said  it 
didn't  cost  him  anything  to  get,  so  why  charge  for  a  God- 
given  gift. 

How  did  I  become  a  dowser?  As  I  said.  Dad  took  me 
with  him  quite  often,  and  he  would  have  me  use  the  "witch" 
too.  (Later  I  had  a  httle  one  of  my  own.)  I  guess  he  just 
wanted  to  prove  to  people  it  worked  for  someone  else  beside 
him.  So  I  learned  from  experience.  I  had  many  a  sore  thumb 
and  finger  before  I  learned  not  to  grasp  so  tight.  It  does  pull 
on  your  shoulders  and  arms  and  they  become  tired  and  sore  if 


you  work  too  long.  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  reaUy  believe  I 
could  do  it.  But  after  seeing  positive  results  of  water  in  the 
holes  that  were  dug,  I  beheve. 

Dowsing  is  a  real  gift  and  is  authentic,  and  my  dad  was 
a  good  one. 


GRANDMAS  SPRING  CLEANING 

Beula  Setters 

"Wake  up,  Beula,  we  clean  the  west  bedroom  today!" 
Grandma  called.  "Grandpa  has  started  the  fire  in  the  summer 
kitchen  and  brought  in  a  fresh  ham  from  the  smokehouse. 
You  can  start  breakfast  while  I  milk  old  Betsy.  I'll  make  the 
biscuits  when  I  get  back,  we  must  have  a  good  breakfast 
today  for  we  can't  stop  long  for  dinner.  I'U  put  the  soup  beans 
and  a  ham-hock  on  the  back  of  the  cook  stove  to  simmer." 

That's  what  I  heard  at  six  o'clock  on  a  bright  May 
morning  back  in  1912. 

We  all  had  our  work  to  do  before  breakfast.  Grandpa 
opened,  swept,  and  cleaned  his  store,  which  was  next  door, 
Grandma  did  the  chores,  and  I  cooked  the  breakfast. 

When  Grandma  came  back  with  a  two  gallon  bucket  of 
warm  milk,  she  took  the  fresh  strainer  rag  from  the  kitchen 
cabinet,  strained  the  milk,  and  placed  the  crocks  of  milk  on  a 
side  table.  We  called  Grandpa  and  sat  down  to  a  breakfast  of 
fried  ham,  eggs,  potatoes,  gravy,  hot  biscuits,  coffee,  and 
postum  for  me.  Also  a  covered  honey  dish  with  a  comb  of 
honey  was  a  permanent  fixture  on  Grandma's  table. 

After  breakfast  Grandma  said,  "Beula,  you  can  clean  up 
the  table  and  do  the  dishes  while  Pa  and  I  move  the  furniture 
out  of  the  bedroom.  Then  it  will  be  ready  for  you  to  take  up 
the  carpet.  " 

Soon  my  father  appeared  to  help  Grandma  take  down 
the  little  box  stove,  a  small  rectangular  iron  stove  with  a  door 


in  front  through  which  one  could  place  a  good  sized  log.  It 
wasn't  as  hard  to  move  as  the  big  pot-belHed  stove  in  the 
sitting  room,  but  it  did  take  two  men  to  move  it  and  to  take 
down  the  stove  pipe. 

"Now  where  did  we  store  that  flu-stopper  last  fall?" 
Grandma  asked. 

The  flu-stopper  was  a  carved  brass  plate,  with  a  pretty 
picture  in  the  center,  which  was  placed  in  the  round  hole  near 
the  ceiling  when  the  stove  pipe  was  removed.  This  was 
necessary  to  keep  the  soot  from  coming  into  the  room  in 
stormy  weather,  as  well  as  chimney  swallows  that  often  built 
nests  in  the  chimney  in  summer. 

The  heavy  mahogany  wardrobe  was  the  biggest 
problem,  but  it  had  to  go  outside  the  room,  so  the  wall  to  wall 
rag  carpet  could  be  taken  up.  We  had  no  closets  built  in  the 
house  in  the  early  days,  so  this  six  foot  piece  of  furniture  with 
double  doors,  shelves,  drawers  and  hooks  inside  was  used  for 
our  clothes.  Also  the  clean  chamber  pot  was  stored  in  the 
wardrobe  during  the  day.  The  chamber  pot  was  a  pretty 
white  pottery  vessel  with  a  Ud,  kept  under  the  bed  at  night 
for  one's  convenience  when  the  call  of  nature  came  during 
unfavorable  weather. 

The  bed  was  taken  apart,  the  featherbed  placed  on  the 
clotheshne  to  air,  the  straw-tick  (used  in  place  of  springs)  was 
laid  on  the  grass,  the  wood  slats  were  washed  and  placed  in 
the  sun  to  dry. 

Grandma  and  I  moved  the  smaller  pieces  of  furniture. 
■Very  carefully  we  carried  the  little  commode  with  the  large 
china  bowl  and  pitcher  into  the  parlor.  If  one  remembered  to 
fill  the  pitcher  at  night  there  was  warmer  water  to  wash  with 
in  the  morning.  Then  there  was  Grandma's  platform  rocker, 
in  which  she  always  sat  by  the  window  to  relax  and  sew  quilt 
blocks. 

After  all  the  furniture  was  out  of  the  room,  we  removed 
the  pictures  from  the  walls,  such  as  the  framed  motto  "Home 


Sweet  Home,"  a  sampler  embroidered  in  wool  and  human 
hair. 

"Here's  Grandpa's  wild  west  picture,"  said  Grandma  as 
she  handed  it  to  me.  "It  always  reminds  me  of  the  time  Jesse 
James  stayed  in  St.  Mary's  at  Mrs.  Morris'  house." 

"Grandma,  when  I  was  little  and  Mama  left  me  with 
Mrs.  Morris,  I  always  took  a  nap  in  her  spare  bedroom.  Do 
you  suppose  I  slept  in  the  same  bed  that  Jesse  James  slept 
in?" 

"I  reckon  you  did.  She  only  had  two  bedrooms," 
Grandma  rephed. 

"Ah!  how  awful,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Now  let's  get  busy  taking  up  this  carpet,"  Grandma 
said  impatiently.  "You  can  take  out  the  tacks  around  the 
wall.  My  rheumatism  talks  to  me  when  I  stoop." 

So  with  a  tack  remover  I  settled  down  to  an  hour's  work 
of  pulling  out  tacks.  When  I  had  finished,  we  called  the  men 
to  put  the  carpet  on  the  clotheshne  and  beat  it  with  a  carpet 
beater,  which  was  an  oval  wire  contraption  with  a  handle, 
somewhat  hke  a  tennis  racket.  All  day  long  we  took  turns 
beating  the  dust  out  of  that  carpet.  The  straw  that  had  been 
on  the  floor  under  the  carpet  was  picked  up  to  burn. 

While  I  was  taking  out  the  tacks.  Grandma  took  down 
the  lace  curtains  and  green  bUnds.  She  dusted  the  blinds 
inside  and  out,  washed  the  lace  curtains  and  pinned  them  on 
the  curtain  stretcher  frames,  a  rectangler  wood  frame  with 
small  nail  like  projections  every  two  inches  on  which  the 
curtains  were  stretched  and  pinned.  These  too  were  placed  in 
the  sun  to  dry.  She  then  ripped  open  the  pillow  ticks  and 
threw  away  the  feathers,  washed  the  pillow  ticks,  and  later 
filled  them  with  fresh  goose  feathers. 

After  the  carpet  and  dirty  straw  were  taken  out  of  the 
room,  my  job  was  to  wash  the  windows.  Grandma  gave  me  a 
cake  of  Bon-Ami.  I  had  fun  rubbing  the  white  paste  on  the 
window— and  drawing  pictures  when  Grandma  wasn't 
looking.  Suddenly  1  heard,  "Now,  Beula,  no  foolin'  around, 


take  that  dry  rag  and  shine  those  windows.  We  want  to  finish 
this  room  before  dark." 

Last  of  aD  we  cleaned  the  rose  covered  wall  paper  with  a 
special  dough  that  Grandma  had  mixed.  The  dough  was 
kneaded  like  bread  dough  as  we  wiped  downward  to  clean  the 
waU.  The  woodwork  was  washed  with  ammonia  water. 

When  we  had  finished.  Grandma  scrubbed  the  pine  floor 
with  lye  soap  until  it  gleamed.  After  the  floor  had  dried,  we 
put  down  fresh  straw,  and  then  began  the  long  hard  process 
of  laying  the  well  beaten  carpet,  stretching  and  tacking  it 
wall  to  wall.  Then  all  the  furniture  was  carried  back  into  the 
room.  If  we  finished  before  dark  we  were  lucky. 

Oftentimes,  as  soon  as  the  bed  was  set  up,  I  would  drop 
into  it,  exhausted,  revehng  in  the  fresh  aroma  of  the  clean 
room. 


FEATHERWEIGHT  MEMORIES 

Zella  Sill 

Our  Grandma  McMeen  raised  poultry— not  just 
chickens,  but  geese,  ducks,  guineas  and  turkeys,  and  more  of 
them  than  ever  in  the  summer  of  1918.  She  was  doing  her 
part  at  home,  as  their  youngest  son  was  over  in  France  and  a 
World  War  1  star  hung  in  the  parlor  window. 

When  we  visited  Grandma  on  her  farm  northeast  of 
Canton,  if  we  children  were  very  quiet,  we  could  go  into  the 
part  of  the  chicken  house  where  the  setting  hens  nested. 
Grandma  knew  just  which  day  each  nest  of  eggs  would  hatch. 
What  fun  it  was  to  carry  the  tiny  chicks  into  the  summer 
kitchen  and  put  them  in  a  box  by  the  big  old  range  to  keep 
them  safe  until  the  whole  setting  was  hatched.  The  next  day 
the  hen  and  her  brood  were  taken  to  a  httle  coop  in  the 
orchard.  The  hen  was  shut  in,  but  the  chicks  would  come  in 
and  out,  untU  they  were  old  enough  to  keep  up  with  their 


152 


mother  as  she  foraged  all  over  the  place.  But  she  knew  her 
own  coop  when  bedtime  came. 

Big  pans  of  skimmed  milk  were  set  on  the  back  of  the 
range,  and  the  clabber  was  fed  to  the  young  poultry  or 
finished  off  into  cottage  cheese  for  us.  The  goshngs  and 
ducklings  Uked  bread  and  milk.  They  made  a  lot  of  noise  and 
nibbled  your  bare  toes  if  you  got  to  close.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
big  geese  and  turkeys. 

I  don't  think  that  Grandma  had  any  commercial  feed, 
just  wheat,  oats,  and  cracked  corn,  and  lots  of  fresh  water.  No 
fair  dipping  it  from  the  horse  trough,  though.  We  had  to 
pump  and  pump.  That  was  hard  work  for  a  ten-year-old.  Then 
we  ventured  out  past  all  those  noisy  birds  to  fiU  their  water 
pans.  The  ducks  were  experts  at  getting  the  water  dirty,  but 
if  we  could  get  out  there  while  they  were  at  the  far  corner  of 
the  orchard,  that  gave  the  other  birds  a  chance. 

One  time  I  walked  into  the  summer  kitchen  and  found 
Grandma  plucking  the  down  off  the  old  geese.  They  didn't 
need  it  in  the  summer  time.  Grandma  had  a  big  piece  of 
canvas  stretched  over  her  lap,  and  held  the  goose  over  a  big 
tub  as  she  plucked  the  down.  She  held  the  goose's  head  back 
under  her  arm  to  keep  it  from  biting  her.  The  geese  didn't 
seem  to  mind,  for  they  didn't  struggle  much  while  she 
plucked  them.  She  made  pillows  and  feather  ticks  for  aU  the 
family  with  a  mixture  of  the  down  and  feathers. 

One  hot  night  the  thunder  began  to  rumble  and 
Grandma  hopped  out  of  her  bed,  threw  a  shawl  around  her 
shoulders,  and  lighted  the  lantern  to  go  check  on  the  coops  of 
roosters  she  had  shut  up  to  go  to  the  market  the  next  day. 
She  put  some  heavy  planks  over  them  to  protect  them  from 
rain  and  wind,  and  then  hurried  along,  stopping  at  the  back 
house.  From  that  shelter  she  could  see  the  many  small  coops 
that  were  staked  down.  Satisfied  that  they  were  all  secure, 
she  went  back  to  bed.  Then  came  the  gully  washer  and  the 
next  morning  the  coops  and  roosters  were  all  gone.  It  had 


been  real  handy  for  someone  to  carry  them  across  the  orchard 
to  the  road,  and  their  tracks  were  all  washed  away. 

I  don't  know  whether  Grandma  was  more  angry  at  her 
loss  or  more  frightened  at  the  thought  that  those  fellows 
might  have  been  lurking  in  the  shadows  as  she  tended  her 
flock. 

After  the  Armistice  was  signed,  it  was  soon  Christmas 
and  there  was  a  big  celebration  with  aU  of  the  famihes  there 
to  welcome  Uncle  Elmer  home  from  the  war.  We 
grandchildren  were  called  into  the  kitchen  to  see  the  roast 
turkey,  the  goose,  the  ducks,  the  guineas  and  chickens,  and 
the  big  kettles  of  other  things,  and  then  we  were  shown  the 
long  dining  table  set  with  her  finest  linens,  china,  and  silver. 

After  that,  the  youngest  aunts  took  us  into  Grandma's 
bedroom.  It  looked  strange  in  there.  The  furniture  had  been 
removed,  except  the  big  round  stove,  and  there  was  room  to 
play  games.  Hidden  behind  bedsheets  was  a  Christmas  tree 
that  reached  the  high  ceiling,  but  we  couldn't  see  it  until  we 
had  eaten  at  "second  table." 

I'm  sure  Grandma  made  many  of  the  small  gifts  that 
hung  on  that  tree,  and  Santa  came  in  time  to  see  us  get  them. 
I  think  our  little  cousin,  Guy  McMeen,  was  the  only  one  who 
talked  to  him.  He  wanted  to  know  why  Santa  had  boots  just 
Like  his  daddy's. 


BUILDING  A  FARM  FENCE 

Burdette  Graham 

The  pioneer  farmer  came  to  a  new  era  and  new  home  and 
usually  brought  along  some  farm  animals,  or  acquired  some 
soon  to  provide  power  and  food.  Also,  a  garden  and  some 
crops  were  necessary,  but  the  animals  and  crops  could  not  be 
aDowed  together,  so  farm  fences  were  a  next  step.  These 
fences  had  to  be  built  out  of  materials  at  hand,  as  money  was 


153 


scarce  to  buy  lumber,  or  wire.  So  the  fence  which  required 
nothing  except  wood  and  labor  became  common  on  most 
farms.  The  fence  which  could  be  built  with  nothing  but  wood 
was  Split  Rail  or  Zig-Zag  Fence.  Instead  of  being  built  on  a 
narrow,  straight  line,  the  rails  zigged  back  and  forth  over  the 
line  and  made  a  fence  taking  up  about  six  feet  in  width.  As 
years  went  on,  and  land  became  more  valuable  for  growing 
crops  and  the  chore  of  keeping  weeds  down  along  this  fence 
required  too  much  wasted  time  and  labor,  the  zig-zag  fence 
was  replaced  by  another  rail  fence  called  the  Straight  Rail 
Fence. 

To  build  a  rail  fence  required  rails,  which  were  spht  from 
logs  usually  about  ten  feet  long,  but  they  could  be  any 
desired  length.  I  missed  most  of  the  labor  in  the  timber 
because  it  was  a  winter  job  done  by  Dad  and  the  hired  man 
while  I  was  in  school,  but  a  few  times  I  was  able  to  go  along 
and  see  how  things  were  done. 

The  common  tree  used  for  posts  and  rails  was  White 
Oak,  but  others  could  be  used.  Felling  a  tree  was  not  much 
different  than  today,  except  for  using  hand  tools  instead  of 
chain  saws.  First  a  notch  was  cut,  usually  with  an  axe  on  the 
side  in  the  direction  the  tree  was  to  fall.  Then  sawing  from  the 
opposite  side  was  done  with  a  two  man  saw.  If  only  one  man 
was  available,  the  axe  was  used  for  this  cut,  too.  Once  the  tree 
was  down  and  trimmed  up,  it  was  cut  into  lengths  of  logs 
desired  for  the  rails  needed.  Ten-foot  rails  were  used  for  the 
lateral  part  of  the  fence  and  six-foot  rails  needed  for  posts  or 
props. 

Splitting  was  done  with  a  mail  or  sledge  and  steel 
wedge.  Sometimes  wedges  made  from  elm  were  used,  called 
gluttons.  They  had  a  tendency  to  bounce  back  at  the 
woodsman  after  being  hit  with  the  sledge. 

Rails  were  usually  hauled  to  the  fence  site  on  a  sled,  but 
if  no  snow  was  on  the  ground,  wagons  were  used.  Rails  were 
piled  in  bunches  along  the  fence  line  ready  for  fence  building 


as  soon  as  the  frost  was  out  of  the  ground  to  allow  for  setting 
end  posts  and  brace  rails. 

To  begin  building  a  rail  fence,  two  posts  were  set  where 
the  end  of  the  fence  was  to  be,  either  at  a  corner  or  gate. 
These  two  posts  were  set  beside  each  other  and  about  four 
inches  apart  to  allow  rails  to  be  inserted  between.  The  two 
posts  were  fastened  at  the  top  with  wire  or  an  iron  loop  to 
keep  them  from  separating. 

Next  the  laterals  were  laid.  Instead  of  being  laid  directly 
down  the  fence  line,  they  were  laid  to  cross  over  the  line  and 
form  the  zig-zag  to  hold  the  fence  up,  much  as  we  see  today  in 
a  folding  screen.  First,  a  rail  was  laid  with  one  end  between 
the  two  set  posts,  and  then  the  rail  was  moved  at  the  other 
end  about  three  feet  to  the  right  of  the  direct  fence  line,  this 
making  the  first  zig.  Now  another  rail  was  laid  with  one  end 
on  top  of  the  first  rail,  and  the  other  end  zagged  across  the 
fence  line  to  about  three  feet,  where  the  third  panel  was 
begun  with  a  rail  being  placed  on  top  and  zig-zag  back  across 
the  fence  line.  This  process  could  now  be  carried  out  as  far  as 
desired,  but  after  a  few  panels  were  started,  the  second  rail 
could  be  added.  To  begin,  a  foot  long  piece  of  rail  was  laid 
between  the  two  end  posts,  on  top  of  the  first  rail.  The  second 
rail  was  now  laid  on  top  of  the  spacer  and  zig-zagged  across 
the  fence  line  above  the  first  rail,  and  the  end  of  the  rail  of  the 
second  panel  became  the  spacer.  The  second  rail  was  now  laid 
on  aU  but  the  last  starting  panel. 

The  third  raO  was  laid  in  the  same  manner,  and  as  many 
more  as  desired,  usually  six  high.  This  was  followed  to  the 
end,  which  was  finished  up  as  begun  with  two  end  or  gate 
posts. 

Now  the  brace  rails  were  ready  to  be  set  up.  This  part 
required  digging  a  hole  about  a  foot  deep  on  each  side  of  the 
zig  and  about  two  feet  from  the  rails.  The  braces  were  then 
leaned  over  the  top  of  the  zig  from  both  sides.  To  anchor 
these  at  the  top  required  the  seventh  rail,  called  the  key  rail, 
which  was  laid  in  the  notch  formed  by  the  brace  rails  at  each 


zig  or  zag.  When  the  key  rail  was  laid  on  top  of  all  panels,  the 
fence  was  done.  These  brace  posts  caused  trouble  because 
animals  ran  into  them  and  field  equipment  would  hit  and 
break  them.  Some  less  strong  braces  were  used  by  making 
the  braces  longways  with  the  fence,  but  these  did  not  offer 
much  side  bracing  and  animals  could  more  easily  push  the 
panel  over. 

An  improved  method  of  building  a  rail  fence  allowed  a 
narrow  straight  hne,  and  was  usually  used  along  lots.  To 
make  this  straight  rail  fence  required  using  two  posts,  the 
ends  of  the  rails  of  each  panel  serving  as  spacers  for  the  rails 
of  the  next  panel.  This  required  wire  or  metal  loops  at  the  top 
of  each  panel,  and  this  wire  or  iron  had  to  be  purchased  with 
dollars  which  were  not  always  available.  This  got  rid  of  the 
weed  patches,  and  allowed  more  land  to  be  used  for  cultivated 
crops,  but  this  was  the  beginning  of  removing  sheltered 
places  for  wildlife. 

Some  farm  fences  were  built  by  pihng  up  stumps,  but  I 
never  saw  one  of  those,  probably  because  our  farm  was  too 
far  from  the  timber,  and  hauling  stumps  was  almost 
impossible,  while  rail  hauling  was  easy. 

Some  parts  of  the  country  built  fences  from  rocks 
which  had  to  be  hauled  from  the  fields,  but  we  had  no  rocks  in 
Illinois  prairies. 

Many  farm  fences  were  built  from  sawed  lumber,  but 
this  was  usually  seen  around  the  farm  house,  and  came  after  a 
number  of  years  of  farming  and  money  making. 

Another  fence  was  very  popular  because  it  cost  nothing, 
except  labor  in  planting  and  trimming.  That  was  the  Osage 
Orange  hedge  fence.  Many  farms  were  fenced  by  hedge.  It 
required  a  few  years  after  planting  before  it  could  serve  as  a 
Uvestock  fence,  but  thousands  of  miles  were  planted  on  field 
and  farm  boundaries.  Much  of  it  was  planted  by  contract 
fence  planters,  but  that  required  cash  outlay  so  many  were 
planted  by  the  farmers. 

Hedge  balls  were  gathered  in  the  fall  after  they  had 


fallen  from  mature  hedge  trees.  These  required  about  four 
months  of  dormancy  before  the  seeds  would  sprout.  Many 
times  the  hedge  balls,  or  hedge  apples,  as  some  called  them, 
were  placed  in  a  sack  and  suspended  in  a  pond  or  creek  until 
spring.  At  that  time  they  were  decomposed,  and  seeds  could 
be  separated  from  the  pulp  and  planted.  Some  people  plowed 
a  furrow  along  the  fence  line  with  a  walking  plow  and  after 
scattering  the  seeds  along  about  one  foot  apart,  the  furrow 
was  closed  or  covered  by  another  trip  with  the  walking  plow, 
moving  the  plowed  soil  back  over  the  seeds.  Others  used  a 
spade  and  made  a  hole  six  inches  deep,  dropped  the  seed  in, 
and  filled  the  hole  again. 

In  about  four  years  the  fence  had  to  be  trimmed  and 
could  be  used,  but  it  did  not  yet  make  a  good  fence  until  a  few 
more  years  of  growth  and  trimming. 

Trimming  was  a  spring  job  and  usually  one  when  too 
wet  to  do  other  things.  The  hedge  knife  was  about  three  feet 
long  with  a  foot  long  handle  and  a  hook  at  the  end  of  the 
handle  to  prevent  the  knife  from  slipping  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  trimmer  and  striking  the  other  trimmer,  who  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fence.  If  the  trimmed  brush  was  left,  it 
provided  an  excellent  place  for  wildlife.  Many  times  it  was 
piled  and  burned. 

I  did  not  have  the  opportunity  to  plant  any  hedges,  but 
I  have  an  Osage  Orange  tree  in  my  back  yard,  which  was  left 
when  the  old  Currens  Farm  was  turned  into  a  housing  area. 
We  still  gather  hedge  baUs,  usuaOy  disposing  of  them,  but  we 
always  have  a  few  which  decompose  and  start  new  hedge 
trees.  I  have  been  on  several  farms  which  have  pastures 
which  have  been  neglected  which  are  almost  solid  with  hedge 
trees. 

My  main  memories  of  the  hedges  in  our  community  are 
of  the  walks  to  school  along  the  hedge  rows.  Just  about  every 
kind  of  bird  could  be  found  there,  with  their  nests,  songs,  and 
Uttle  ones.  The  brown  thrashers,  and  doves,  and  many  others 
were  down  low,  while  the  crows  and  jays  were  up  higher.  I 


remember  the  workers  pulling  the  trees  down  by  using  some 
of  the  bigger  ones  as  anchors,  and  employing  chains  and 
pulleys  and  a  team  on  a  windlass  or  tree  puller.  Workers  then 
worked  the  down  trees  into  posts,  and  fire  wood  and  pUed  the 
brush  and  burned  it. 

Then  a  new  metal  barbed  wire  or  woven  fence  took  the 
place  of  the  hedge  and  the  birds,  and  now  a  crop  could  be 
grown  right  up  to  the  fence  and  the  weeds  mowed  so  no 
wildlife  could  exist. 


WORKING  WITH  HIRED  MEN 

Arthur  Bowles 

My  Dad  farmed  a  large  acreage  of  ground,  most  of  it  in 
the  Mississippi  bottoms  three  and  a  half  miles  northwest  of 
Quincy.  We  farmed  with  horses  and  mules— no  air- 
conditioned  tractor  cabs  in  those  days!  Dad  had  a  lot  of 
different  hired  hands.  He  would  hire  about  the  first  of  March 
for  the  season's  work.  The  pay  was  about  $30.00  a  month, 
including  board.  Then,  when  the  wheat  harvest  started,  he 
would  hire  a  couple  more  hands,  but  only  by  the  day.  He  paid 
$2.00  a  day  for  hay  and  wheat  shocking.  The  day  workers 
would  go  home  each  evening,  as  most  hved  in  bottom  lands  in 
log  shanties.  They  were  old  bachelors,  or  they  sure  seemed 
old  to  me.  When  threshing  started,  there  were  more  men 
hired,  but  they  were  never  hard  to  find  as  they  followed 
threshers  from  place  to  place.  They  were  called  "the  old 
steam  threshing  outfits,"  and  it  took  a  lot  of  men  to  keep 
them  going.  These  men  ate  their  meals  where  they  were 
working  and  slept  in  a  hay  loft.  For  several  years  I  remember 
the  same  men  showing  up  each  season.  There  was  a  man 
known  as  "Iowa  Slim."  No  one  ever  knew  his  real  name.  Some 
men  never  told  their  real  names  or  where  they  were  reaOy 
from.  "Iowa  SHm"  wrote  his  name  on  the  inside  of  the  big 


shding  door  on  our  big  red  barn.  He  had  the  neatest 
penmanship  anyone  ever  saw.  That  was  about  1916,  and  it 
was  still  there  when  the  barn  was  torn  down  just  a  few  years 
ago.  If  1  had  known  this,  I  would  have  gotten  the  board  with 
his  name  on  it. 

There  was  also  a  man  called  as  "Jimmy  the  Pig."  He  did 
say  he  had  just  come  over  from  Ireland,  but  that  was  all  he 
would  tell  us.  He  and  I  got  along  very  good.  One  day  he  made 
me  a  rubber  shooter,  and  I  kept  it  for  years.  When  they  got 
through  threshing  at  our  farm  and  Dad  was  paying  with 
checks,  he  asked  Jimmy  what  his  real  name  was.  He  told  my 
Dad  just  plain  old  "Jimmy  the  Pig"  and  it  came  back  from 
the  bank  endorsed  just  that  way.  "Iowa  Shm"  would  not  take 
a  check  but  insisted  on  cash.  Then  there  was  "Dude 
Armour";  he  was  a  little  older  than  Jimmy  or  Iowa  Shm.  He 
was  a  very  clean  cut,  courteous  man.  He  always  wore  a  derby 
hat  and  shaved  each  morning,  putting  on  clean  clothes  each 
time.  He  washed  his  clothes  every  evening  at  the  pump. 

One  morning,  Seeley,  a  neighbor  to  the  west,  called  and 
wanted  to  know  if  Dad  needed  any  help.  He  had  run  onto  a 
boy  in  Quincy  that  wanted  a  farm  job.  Dad  hired  him  and  he 
worked  several  days.  Dad  said  he  tried  hard  but  didn't  have 
much  experience.  Two  days  later  the  sheriff  caUed  and  asked 
if  we  had  a  seventeen-year-old  boy  working  for  us.  Dad  told 
him  yes,  and  he  asked  Dad  to  let  the  boy  ride  to  town  with 
him  the  next  day  and  go  by  the  courthouse.  The  sheriff  was 
waiting  and  took  him  into  custody.  "He  was  a  Girl."  She  had 
run  away  from  Kansas  City  and  was  posing  as  a  boy.  In  those 
days,  the  teenagers  didn't  wear  tight  clothes,  only  levis  or 
jeans  and  a  sweater.  It  was  easy  to  make  that  mistake. 

There  was  also  a  one-armed  man.  He  could  drive  a  team 
with  the  lines  around  his  waist.  He  could  not  shock  wheat  or 
do  any  shovehng  or  forking.  He  was  always  the  wheat  binder 
driver.  There  were  four  horses  "abreast"  on  the  binder.  When 
people  asked  him  how  he  lost  his  arm,  he  would  tell  them  he 
was  cocking  a  cannon  in  the  Civil  War  and  it  backfired. 


156 


taking  his  arm  off.  The  truth  was,  he  was  laying  at  the  side  of 
the  railroad  drunk  with  his  arm  over  the  track  and  a  train 
went  by  and  cut  his  arm  off. 

Dad  employed  a  multitude  of  hired  hands  and  I 
overheard  several  of  them  saying,  "You  don't  go  to  bed  at 
Bowies'.  Just  lean  on  that  board  that  is  leaning  against  the 
barn  to  get  a  little  sleep."  I  gathered  that  Dad  was  a  little 
hard  to  work  for.  One  old  fellow  came  to  work  for  him.  They 
had  supper  that  evening,  and  the  next  morning  Dad  called 
them  to  breakfast  it  was  still  dark.  The  old  fellow  ate  and 
pushed  back  from  the  table,  saying,  "Tis  is  a  fine  place  to 
work:  two  suppers  in  one  night,  and  now  for  bed  again!" 


APPLE  BUTTER  DAYS 

Edna  L.  Thompson 

Apple  butter  making  was  an  annual  event,  an  enjoyable, 
hard  working,  two-day  Job,  in  the  fall  after  the  apples  had 
been  picked. 

It  took  place  on  the  J.  G.  Thompson  farm,  in  the  back 
yard,  in  FaU  Creek  Township,  Adams  County,  Illinois,  about 
two  and  one  half  miles  west  of  Payson,  Illinois.  I  went  there 
to  live  in  1918,  after  I  married  J.  Ben  Thompson,  son  of  J.  G. 
Thompson.  The  first  day,  in  order  to  get  ready  to  make  apple 
butter,  we  had  to  clean  the  forty-gallon  copper  kettle.  It  had 
been  stored  in  an  outside  building  in  the  back  yard.  It  was 
just  dusty,  as  it  had  been  scoured  bright  and  shiny  outside 
and  cleaned  on  the  inside  after  the  last  using.  There  were 
about  three  bushels  of  apples  on  the  back  porch  to  be  washed 
and  cored  and  cut  into  fourths,  and  then  cut  in  two  again  so 
they  would  cook  up  faster.  Those  apples  had  been  grown  in 
the  orchard  right  on  the  farm  where  we  Uved.  They  were 
drops  and  other  apples  that  were  not  salable.  The  good  ones 


were  stored  for  winter  use  and,  so,  were  sold.  We  cut  out  all 
bruises,  worm  holes,  and  Uttle  rotten  spots.  There  were 
Jonathans,  Roman  Stems,  and  Minklers. 

They  were  prepared  the  day  or  evening  before  the 
cooking  outdoors  day.  My  good  friend  and  neighbor,  Mildred 
Dunn,  hved  on  the  farm  next  to  the  Thompson  Farm  (down  a 
hill  and  up  a  hill  away)  and  was  always  on  hand  to  help, 
whether  it  was  apple  butter  making,  threshing  dinners, 
butchering  day,  or  paper  hanging.  She  was  there  with  her 
smile  and  enjoyable  sense  of  humor,  along  with  her 
helpfulness. 

The  next  morning  Ben,  my  husband,  fixed  a  wood  fire, 
and  then  left  the  rest  of  the  job  to  us  women.  There  was  an 
iron  frame  that  the  forty-gallon  copper  kettle  rested  on  above 
the  fire.  About  two  gaUons  of  water  was  heated,  and  the 
sliced  apples  were  put  into  the  kettle  and  cooked,  and  stirred 
and  stirred  until  soft  enough  to  mash  with  a  fork  against  the 
side  of  the  kettle.  The  apples  were  then  taken  out  and  run 
through  the  colander.  This  was  a  boring  job,  but  there  wasn't 
any  short  cut.  We  all  took  turns.  This  colander  was  made 
especially  for  apple  butter  cooking  out  of  doors,  on  a  big 
scale.  It  was  about  thirty  inches  long  and  twenty  inches  wide 
or  so.  It  was  platter  shaped,  made  by  a  tin  smith.  It  was 
study  metal  and  was  an  important  piece  of  equipment.  The 
holes  were  larger  than  an  ordinary  colander.  This  was  put  on 
top  of  a  huge  dish  pan  or  small  tub.  The  apple  sauce  was 
rubbed  and  pushed  around  until  only  the  skins  were  left  in 
the  colander. 

The  next  step  was  putting  aU  the  apple  sauce  into  the 
copper  kettle,  and  the  stirring  began  again  and  it  never 
stopped  until  the  apple  butter  was  ready  to  can. 

The  wooden  stirrer  was  quite  a  thing,  one  of  the  most 
important  pieces  of  equipment.  It  was  made  of  hard  smooth 
wood,  probably  five  and  a  half  by  six  feet  long.  Long  enough 
that  one  could  stand  back  from  the  fire  and  stir  and  stir  and 
not  be  too  uncomfortable.  At  the  end  of  the  stirrer,  at  right 


angles,  was  a  piece  of  smooth  wood  ten  or  twelve  inches  long 
and  four  inches  wide,  with  about  three  or  four  holes,  close  to 
the  edge,  holes  big  enough  to  poke  clean  corn  husks  three 
inches  long  into  them  and  tie  snugly  there  with  heavy  string. 
This  kept  the  apple  sauce  from  sticking  to  the  bottom  of  the 
copper  kettle.  Also,  two  or  three  silver  dollars  were  scoured 
clean  and  put  into  the  apple  sauce  loose.  They  also  kept  the 
apple  sauce  moving,  so  it  wouldn't  scorch.  I  have  never 
tasted  scorched  apple  butter.  It  never  happened  to  us 
because  we  followed  carefully  the  plans  and  directions  of  our 
mothers  and  grandmothers. 

This  cooking  and  stirring  went  on  and  on,  with  no  rest 
for  the  stirrers.  They  kept  the  silver  dollars  moving  in  that 
sea  of  apple  sauce. 

The  firewood  was  there  handy  and  was  replenished  as 
needed.  The  fire  was  not  a  brisk  one— just  enough  that  the 
apple  butter  kept  cooking  and  kinda  slowly  bubbling  (a  lovely 
sound). 

The  sugar  was  added  gradually,  three  or  four  cups  at  a 
time,  and  the  stirring  went  on  and  on,  and  you  added  more 
sugar  to  taste— not  too  much. 

When  it  thickened  up  and  got  a  good  reddish  brown 
color,  you  put  a  spoonful  on  a  saucer,  let  it  cool,  and  put  your 
finger  in  it  to  taste  it.  Then  you  got  everyone  to  help  taste 
and  give  their  opinion.  But  since  it  was  your  apple  butter,  you 
had  the  final  say  so. 

When  it  was  cooked  enough  to  have  the  right 
consistency,  it  was  tasted  again.  No  one  ever  made  a  sloppy, 
juicy  apple  butter.  It  never  happened.  Using  a  knife,  it  will 
"stay  put"  on  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and  not  sUde  off. 

One  time  I  helped  make  eighty-three  quarts  of  apple 
butter,  and  we  finished  canning  at  9:00  p.m.  by  lantern  light. 
That  was  for  two  families  and  gifts  for  friends. 

Now  the  clean  up  time.  The  copper  kettle  had  to  be 
scoured  bright  as  new  on  the  inside  and  out.  It  had  been 
blackened  with  the  smoke  of  the  fire,  but  the  lady  (my 


mother-in-law)  who  owned  the  kettle  insisted  it  must  be 
polished,  and  it  was  put  back  in  the  shed  until  next  year.  I 
didn't  see  the  need  to  scour  the  outside  (the  inside  was  always 
bright  and  shining).  Of  course,  it  was  black,  but  it  would  get 
black  again  when  used  next  year.  But  my  mother-in-law  was 
the  owner  and  the  ruler  of  the  copper  kettle,  so  of  course  I 
scoured  it,  but  my  heart  wasn't  in  it.  I  used  brick  dust  and 
ashes  for  scouring. 

Many  years  later  the  copper  kettle  was  sold  on  the  farm 
at  an  auction. 


MEDICINE  MAMMA'S  WAY 

Clarice  Stafford  Harris 

When  springtime  arrived  we  were  dosed  with  either 
sulphur  and  molasses  or  sassfras  tea  to  thin  the  winter  blood. 
Lucky  for  me,  my  folks  preferred  the  tea,  and  though  it 
lacked  its  supposed  power,  it  was  a  very  good  beverage  that  I 
still  love  to  this  day.  Spring  was  the  time  to  be  wormed,  need 
it  or  not,  and  so  we  were  dosed  with  a  patent  medication 
called  vermifuge.  This  wasn't  too  bad,  so  we  didn't  mind 
taking  it,  and  would  probably  have  taken  more  if  allowed. 

If  a  tummy  ache  was  the  problem.  Mama  mixed  one 
drop  of  peppermint  oil,  two  teaspoons  of  sugar  in  a  cup  of  hot 
water,  or  two  tablespoons  of  vinegar  in  half  a  glass  of  water, 
adding  half  a  teaspoon  of  baking  soda,  and  stirring  to  a  fizz 
much  hke  the  seltzer  of  today. 

To  warm  the  insides  and  stop  cramps,  one  fourth 
teaspoon  of  ground  ginger  spice,  and  sugar  to  taste,  in  a  cup 
of  hot  water  was  surprisingly  effective.  One  had  to  stir 
between  sips  to  keep  the  ginger  from  settling  to  the  bottom  of 
the  cup. 

Crushed  catnip  leaves  were  bandaged  on  the  affected 
area  for  poison  ivy  cure.  I  was  the  victim  of  the  ivy  plant 


158 


every  year,  come  berry  picking  time,  and  spent  hours  quietly 
on  the  couch  bandaged  to  the  neck  in  wet,  soggy  catnip. 
Cloverleaf  salve  was  a  must  in  the  medicine  chest  and  used 
for  anything  and  almost  everything. 

A  weak  solution  of  warm  salt  water  was  good  for 
bathing  the  eyes  and  could  be  sniffed  up  the  nostrils  for 
sinus.  This  was  prescribed  many  years  later  by  an  elderly 
doctor  when  I  was  having  a  sinus  problem.  It  was  a  surprise. 
Tobacco  smoke  was  blown  into  an  aching  ear,  and  if  that 
didn't  work,  warm  sweet  oil  was  dropped  into  the  ear  and  a 
wad  of  cotton  inserted  to  keep  the  oil  from  running  out. 

A  makeshift  hotwater  bottle  substitute  was  an  eight- 
inch  square  bag,  stitched  from  closely  woven  material  and 
filled  with  salt  or  clean  sand.  This  was  heated  in  the  oven  and 
held  the  heat  for  quite  a  long  time.  This  helped  many  a  tooth 
or  ear  ache  and  soothed  many  sore  muscles  at  our  house. 

Sore  throats  were  swabbed  with  iodine  and  a  dirty  sock 
was  pinned  around  the  neck.  That  was  unsanitary,  I  know, 
but  then  again,  the  asafetida  bags  that  hung  around  our 
necks  to  keep  illness  away  was  worse.  The  odor  alone  was 
enough  to  discourage  any  self  respecting,  stray  germ  that 
might  venture  near. 

Mama  concocted  a  cough  syrup  of  sugar,  vinegar,  and 
margarine  boiled  to  a  thin  syrup.  Sometimes  she  got  carried 
away  and  added  an  onion  to  the  mixture,  but  that  left  much 
to  be  desired. 

One  old  time  remedy  that  I  know  of  saved  many  small 
fry  from  a  death  of  strangulation.  This  consisted  of  one  or 
two  drops  of  kerosene  on  a  teaspoon  of  sugar.  This  sounds 
terrible,  was  poison,  and  probably  tasted  horrible;  however  it 
brought  up  the  cause  and  cured  the  croup.  The  best  remedy, 
at  least  to  me,  was  honey  in  the  comb.  There  was  never  any 
objection  when  I  had  to  take  it. 

Chest  colds  were  treated  with  many  kinds  of  strange 
rubs:  warm  goose  grease,  saved  from  a  Christmas  goose,  and 
onions  fried  in  lard  using  the  strained  and  potent  grease.  Also 


Vicks  Vaporub,  musterole,  mentholatum  and  mustard 
plasters— to  name  a  few  bought  at  a  drug  store.  Any  one  of 
these  might  be  spread  over  the  chest,  and  perhaps  the  back 
and  soles  of  the  feet  and  soft  flannel  cloth  over  aU.  The  fumes 
were  overpowering,  and  bundled  as  we  were,  it  was  harder  to 
breathe  than  from  the  cold. 

Since  we  didn't  possess  a  vaporizer,  a  steam  tent  was 
used.  We  sat  on  chairs  circled  around  a  stool  that  held  a  pan 
of  hot  water.  A  spoonful  of  vaporub  was  melted  in  the  water, 
and  a  blanket  was  draped  over  like  a  tent.  Sometimes  Mama 
had  to  sit  with  us  to  hold  the  youngest.  The  hot  vapor  fumes 
were  very  effective,  for  we  coughed  and  blew  our  noses  and 
wiped  away  tears,  hopeful  that  our  ordeal  would  soon  be  over. 

It  also  was  surprising  what  Mamm's  Kiss  could  cure. 


MISS  ADA  AND  HER  NIMBLE  THIMBLE 

Ardith  E.  Williams 

The  sun  is  just  showing  itself  over  the  barn.  Morning 
chores  done  and  breakfast  under  his  belt,  Pa  hitched  old  Dick 
to  the  buggy  and  went  off  to  town  to  fetch  Miss  Ada. 

Miss  Ada,  the  town  dressmaker,  was  coming  for  her 
twice  a  year  sewing  stint,  so  the  family  would  be  presentably 
dressed  for  the  coming  season. 

What  a  flurry  of  cutting,  basting  and  pressing!  Lengths 
of  cloth  everywhere:  dimity,  percale,  mushn,  and  voile  for 
summer.  Alpaca,  foulard  and  gabardine  for  winter.  Black  silk 
for  that  one  really  good  dress. 

Miss  Ada  slept  in  the  spare  room  and  ate  at  the  big  table 
with  the  hired  girl,  the  hired  man,  and  the  rest  of  the  family. 
Cornbread  and  sorghum,  fried  chicken  and  scrapple,  biscuits, 
honey  and  garden  stuff  were  typical  fare  for  a  growing  family 
in  the  year  1907. 


She  stayed  for  several  days  or  a  week,  or  more  if  there 
happened  to  he  a  wedding  or  a  graduation  in  the  offing. 

First  to  be  served  were  the  ladies.  There  was  much 
studying  of  pattern  books,  decision  making,  and  laying  out  of 
patterns,  everything  tactfully  maneuvered  by  Miss  Ada. 
Such  tucking  and  ruffhng,  laughing  and  gossiping!  Such 
standing  on  chairs  to  have  a  hem  hung!  Miss  Ada,  her  mouth 
full  of  pins,  reigned  supreme. 

Pa  was  not  forgotten.  Just  get  the  unbeached  mushn 
and  run  up  some  undershirts  and  drawers.  A  length  of  cotton 
flannel  for  a  warm  winter  nightshirt  and  work  shirts  of 
chambray.  The  girls  helped  with  the  basting  and  the 
buttonholes. 

Outgrown  or  worn  clothing,  previously  ripped  apart  and 
carefully  washed  and  pressed,  was  fashioned  into  clothes  for 
the  younger  ones.  A  plaid  wool  with  new  velvet  collar  and 
cuffs  for  little  sister.  New  knickers  for  Junior  out  of  Pa's  old 
Sunday  pants.  Patterns  were  turned  and  twisted  to  miss 
worn  spots. 

Miss  Ada,  seamstress,  was  a  town  fixture,  a  helper  in 
need,  a  life  saver  for  the  ladies  not  "handy  with  a  needle."  She 
was  a  maiden  lady,  plump  and  pleasant,  with  her  graying  hair 
in  a  knot  atop  a  head  full  of  current  styles.  She  had  ways  to 
make  ample  ladies  look  slim  and  methods  to  pad  up  the 
skinny  ones.  She  was  a  bringer  of  neighborhood  news,  a  lover 
of  people  and  Ufe,  and  a  friend. 

Having  no  family  of  her  own,  she  was  a  lover  of  all  the 
little  ones  who  passed  through  her  hfe,  and  was  known  to  put 
a  secret  pocket  in  the  seam  of  a  dress  to  dehght  a  httle  girl. 

But  time  moved  on,  and  with  the  advent  of  the  Sears 
Catalogue  and  department  stores  with  their  ready-mades, 
another  tradition  passed.  Miss  Ada  stayed  in  her  little  home 
in  town,  and  the  ladies  came  to  her  in  their  "Fords"  and  their 
"Maxwells"  to  have  a  hem  adjusted  or  a  seam  let  out  and  to 
have  hand-me-downs  made  over  (much  to  the  disgust  of  the 


recipients).  Wouldn't  she  be  amazed  at  the  billowing  wave  of 
sewing  covering  the  country  today? 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  BACKHOUSE 

Keith  L.  Wilkey 

The  backhouse  was  a  basic  fact  of  personal  family  living 
from  the  time  of  the  first  settlers  until  the  Era  of  Gracious 
Living,  beginning  in  the  1950's  and  1960's. 

Today  folks  may  speak  as  casually  of  "going  to  the 
bathroom"  as  they  would  of  going  to  any  other  room  in  the 
house.  But  there  was  a  time— a  long  period  in  the  history  of 
Western  Illinois— when  any  reference  to  a  "body  waste 
elimination  station"  was  referred  to  in  discreet 
language— perhaps  with  guarded  words. 

But  when  company  was  not  present,  most  families 
referred  to  the  httle  upright  rectangular  structure,  usually 
located  about  seventy-five  to  one  hundred  feet  from  the 
house,  by  a  variety  of  names.  Some  of  the  more  common  were: 
privy,  outhouse,  backhouse,  out-back,  httle  shanty,  doohe, 
and  simply  "the  can." 

Somehow  it  was  always  just  there.  It  defied  the  endless 
changing  of  the  seasons  and  paid  httle  heed  to  the  ravages  of 
time.  Though  buffeted  by  the  elements,  through  summer 
heat  and  winter  snow,  it  somehow  didn't  completely  wear 
out.  Actually,  1  don't  ever  recall  our  family  or  any  of  the 
neighbors  ever  having  a  brand  new  one. 

There  were  two  basic  architectural  designs— one  with  a 
gable  roof  and  the  other  a  slanted  roof.  There  never  seemed  to 
be  any  dead  right  or  absolutely  wrong  way  to  build  one.  Most 
were  about  six  feet  by  six  feet  wide  with  seven  or  eight  foot 
sidewalls. 

The  bench  type  seat  was  about  eighteen  inches  above 
the  floor  and  eighteen  or  twenty  inches  wide.  Two  holes,  eight 


160 


to  ten  inches  in  diameter,  had  been  cut  in  the  seat.  But  there 
were  variations;  some  privies  had  only  one  hole,  then  there 
was  the  type  with  a  child's  seat.  It  was  only  about  half  the 
height  of  the  full  seat,  with  a  smaller  hole  to  sit  on.  These 
were  most  often  found  in  public  places,  such  as  the  school,  the 
church,  the  railroad  depot,  etc. 

The  outhouse  floor  was  usually  about  six  or  seven 
inches  above  the  ground,  though  some  older  buildings, 
perhaps  never  too  well  constructed  in  the  first  place,  had 
sagging  floors  not  more  than  two  inches  above  grade  level. 

In  one  corner  of  the  building  was  a  box,  or  old  nail  keg  or 
some  similar  container  containing  hme,  which  was  used  as  a 
deodorant.  Either  a  screen  door  hook,  or  a  home  made  one 
fashioned  from  No.  9  smooth  wire,  was  used  to  secure  the 
door  latch.  Some  doors  swung  inward  while  others  swung  to 
the  outside. 

Directly  beneath  the  seat  was  the  pit,  about  four  by  four 
feet,  or  whatever  requirements  corresponded  with  the  seat. 
This  was  periodically  cleaned,  usually  by  intinerant 
scavengers. 

The  outward  appearance  of  most  rural  backhouses 
corresponded  with  the  general  demeanor  of  the  rest  of  the 
premises.  The  neat  and  discriminating  homeowner  usually 
painted  his  doolie  the  same  color  as  the  house,  barn  and  other 
outbuildings.  Seldom  indeed  was  the  inside  ever  graced  by 
paint. 

Frequently  a  lattice-type  trellis  would  be  constructed  in 
front  of  the  can  by  the  owner,  and  embellished  by  the 
housewife.  Morning  glories,  rambler  roses,  trumpet  vines, 
honeysuckle,  and  other  types  of  flowering  vegetation  all  but 
camouflaged  the  building  from  general  view. 

So  much  for  the  physical  description  of  this  personal 
habitue.  It  was  the  outhouse;  it  was  always  there.  Distance 
sometimes  made  it  an  inconvenience,  but  it  was  accepted  as  a 
way  of  life.  Everyone  had  a  backhouse.  What  was  so  funny 
about  that? 


During  the  pleasant  days  and  long  summer  twilights, 
members  of  the  family  went  to  the  backhouse  with  no 
thought  except  for  the  physical  relief  if  afforded.  In  the  early 
spring,  when  robins  sang  and  bluebirds  nested,  and  in  the 
autumn  time  of  red  and  yellow  leaves,  it  was  "no  big  deal." 
But  it  was  a  different  story  when  the  north  wind  howled,  the 
snow  swirled,  and  sleet  and  freezing  rain  filled  the 
atmosphere. 

And  there  were  those  times  when  low,  gray  clouds 
scudded  across  the  sky  bringing  rain,  first  in  big  drops,  then 
settling  in  for  a  steady  downpour.  During  such  a  time,  the 
person  leaving  the  house  for  the  privy  had  to  wear  a  raincoat, 
rubbers  or  galoshes,  a  headgear  and  frequently  an  umbrella. 
When  the  snows  of  January  blanketed  the  landscape,  a  snow 
shovel  was  always  kept  in  a  handy  place. 

Unfortunate  indeed  was  he  who  "got  caught"  in  the 
backhouse  during  a  thunderstorm,  unprepared  for  such  a 
turn  of  events. 

After  darkness,  the  preparation  included  a  flashlight  or 
a  lantern.  Not  only  did  the  kerosene  lantern  assure  good 
footing,  but  once  the  destination  had  been  reached,  it  seemed 
cozy,  snug  and  warm  inside,  with  the  friendly  rays  of  the 
lantern  beaming  against  the  interior  walls. 

Before  toilet  tissue  had  become  such  a  commonplace 
item,  this  requirement  was  met  by  last  season's  catalogue 
and  outdated  newspapers  and  magazines. 

In  the  north  temperate  zone  the  weather  was  hospitable 
most  of  the  year.  Summer  time,  however,  presented  its 
hazards.  Wasps  and  mud  daubers  found  the  inside  of  the 
backhouse  just  the  place  to  build  their  mud  ceOs  and  nesting 
places.  No  question  about  it,  a  sting  from  a  wasp  was  an 
occupational  hazard. 

I  once  heard  a  story  concerning  a  neighboring  housewife 
who  entered  the  privy  after  a  quick  dash  from  the  kitchen, 
leaving  her  housework,  and  discovered  a  blacksnake  lazily 
reposing  on  the  floor  behind  the  inward-swinging  door.  She 


161 


still  has  little  enthusiasm  for  certain  experiences  of  "the  good 
old  days." 

At  any  time  during  a  warm,  summer  day  there  was 
always  the  possibiUty  of  a  wandering  honeybee  or  yeOow 
jacket  entering  the  can  for  a  look  around.  Flies  could  be 
heard,  with  their  monotonous  buzzing  sound,  as  the  rays 
from  the  summer  sun  penetrated  the  cracks  in  the  sidewaUs. 
As  the  poet  Thomas  Gray  once  said,  "All  the  air  a  solemn 
stillness  holds,  save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 
fhght." 

The  backhouse,  Uke  its  successor,  the  bathroom, 
provided  the  dawdler  with  a  refuge.  The  teenage  boy  who  had 
weeds  to  cut  on  a  hot  afternoon  could  find  it  easy  to  spend  a 
great  deal  of  time  loitering  in  the  outhouse. 

For  many  decades  the  backhouse  was  the  prime  target 
for  Halloween  pranksters.  Most  cans  were  placed  flat  on  the 
ground,  or  perhaps  a  two-by-four  foundation,  without 
anchorage.  Two  or  three  boys  could  push  on  the  back  side, 
and  soon  the  Uttle  house  would  be  lying  horizontal,  with  the 
door  down.  In  most  locahties  in  the  old  days,  it  was  hard  to 
find  an  upright  privy  anywhere  in  town  the  morning  after 
Halloween. 

As  part  of  the  New  Deal  rehabilitation  during  the 
Depression  years  the  rural  outhouse  underwent  its  most 
radical  change  since  it  first  came  into  being  on  the  North 
American  continent.  Privies  were  now  constructed  with 
concrete  floors,  a  concrete  pedestal-type  seat  and  an 
overhanging  roof,  which  provided  ventilation  as  weO  as  being 
screened  against  insects. 

They  were  constructed  of  good  quality  tongue-in-groove 
lumber,  and  the  interior  as  well  as  the  exterior  was  painted 
with  several  coats  of  enamel  finish  white  paint. 

The  backhouse  was  once  the  sole  facility  of  middle  and 
lower  class  Americans,  and  even  some  of  society's  "better 
people."  Even  today  in  isolated  places,  the  old  backhouse  is 
still  being  used,  but  their  numbers  are  decreasing  rapidly. 


For  most  the  old  outhouse  has  gone  the  way  of  the  horse 
and  buggy,  the  threshing  machine,  three-legged  milking 
stool,  and  other  accouterments  of  Life  in  the  past.  But  the 
remembrance  of  the  old  backhouse  lives  on  and  remains  a 
vivid  memory  to  many  residents  of  West  Central  Ilhnois. 


REACHING  OUT  A>JD  TOUCHING-CIRCA  1920 

Eva  Baker  Watson 

When  1  was  a  child  we  reached  out  and  touched 
somebody  every  day  except  Sunday,  all  day  long,  from  six  in 
the  morning  until  eight  at  night.  And  even  on  Sunday  we 
did— and  in  the  night,  too— when  the  "distress  ring" 
sounded.  Five  ominous  longs. 

The  phone  that  hung  on  the  wall  of  the  living  room  was 
our  Unk  with  the  outside.  The  IlUnois  Central  Railroad 
brought  the  mail  and  daily  paper  into  the  village  of 
Brownfield  but  the  telephone  gave  us  social  intercourse,  real 
back-and-forth  communication.  Our  family  lived  on  a  farm  in 
the  isolated  hills  of  Southern  IlUnois  and  the  ringing  of  the 
phone  was  a  welcome  interruption  to  whatever  we  were 
doing.  Mama  always  ran  to  answer  it.  I  can't  recaU  ever 
seeing  her  walk  calmly  when  it  rang. 

It  was  a  miracle  in  the  days  before  electronic  miracles 
had  become  commonplace.  It  held  us  together  and  at  the 
same  time  allowed  us  to  reach  out.  It  kept  us  in  touch  with 
the  scattered  community  that  was  my  world  back  then. 

We  were  on  a  party  line.  Everybody  was.  We  were 
served  by  the  central  office  located  in  Temple  Hill  and 
operated  by  a  Mr.  Slankard  and  his  family.  When  they  were 
in  the  house,  that  is.  We  forgave  their  absences  for  we 
understood  that  the  garden  had  to  be  tended,  the  cows  must 
be  milked,  the  stock  and  chickens  fed,  the  eggs  gathered. 

When  we  rang  Central  we  would  never  be  so  formal  as  to 


say  "Operator."  We'd  either  say  "Temple  HiO"  or  simply 
"Mr.  Slankard."  Or  "Thelma"— or  whoever.  Sometimes 
"Central." 

To  me  Mr.  Slankard  was  just  something  that  went  along 
with  the  telephone,  a  remote  voice  associated  with  a  strange 
apparatus  I'd  heard  about  called  a  "switchboard."  It  came  as 
a  shock  when  one  day  I  saw  him  in  the  flesh  and  reahzed  he 
was  just  a  ordinary-looking  man,  old— probably  35  at  least— a 
famihar  voice  in  a  strange  body. 

He  was  an  integral  part  of  our  hves,  serving  as  liaison 
person  between  all  residents  of  viUage  and  countryside,  and 
also  with  far  away  places  whenever  there  was  a  death  to  be 
reported.  Long  distance  calls  and  telegrams  usually  meant 
trouble. 

When  my  father  wished  to  caU  someone  on  another 
party  line  he  always  first  chatted  with  Mr.  Slankard  just  to 
be  friendly  and  to  catch  up  on  local  happenings— if  there  were 
any  new  cases  of  diphtheria,  what  family  had  moved  into  the 
old  Smith  place,  or  if  the  Bay  Bottoms  roads  were  flooded. 
(We  knew  he  monitored  most  phone  conversations,  so  he  was 
a  rehable  source  of  information.)  Only  after  these  amenities 
were  disposed  of  would  Papa  say  who  he  was  calling. 

Most  of  the  time  we  didn't  bother  to  give  numbers.  Oh, 
of  course  everyone  had  a  number.  And  it  was  in  the  phone 
book— wherever  that  was!  But  why  confuse  Mr.  Slankard  by 
rattling  off  a  bunch  of  digits  when  we  could  cut  through  the 
red  tape  and  say  in  plain  EngUsh  who  we  wanted?  "Ring 
McClanahan's  Store,  please,  Mr.  Slankard." 

He  knew  everybody  and  what  was  even  more  helpful,  he 
recognized  everybody's  voice.  Once  a  women  who  didn't  have 
a  phone  came  to  use  ours  to  call  her  father.  She  rang  central 
and  without  identifying  herself  said,  "Hello,  Temple  Hill, 
ring  Papa,  please!"  And  Temple  Hill  rang  Papa  forthwith. 

It  was  an  all-purpose  answering  service,  many  times 
going  beyond  the  call  of  duty.  If  the  party  we  were  trying  to 
reach  didn't  answer,  Mr.  Slankard  was  often  able  to  let  us 


know  it  was  useless  to  try  anymore  until  late,  for  he'd  seen 
them  pass  his  house  going  to  Metropolis  and  they  hadn't  had 
time  to  be  back.  Now  and  then  someone  hstening  on  the  line 
would  break  in  to  teU  us  why  the  party  didn't  answer,  where 
they'd  gone  and  why,  and  about  when  they'd  return. 

Each  subscriber's  ring  was  a  different  combination  of 
longs  and  shorts.  Bad  weather  seemed  to  foul  up  this 
functioning  and  the  rings  would  be  garbled.  At  these  times,  if 
we  weren't  sure  the  rings  were  our  "four  shorts"  we  felt 
justified  in  Ufting  the  receiver  and  asking,  "Did  'ja  ring 
Baker?" 

Then  if  the  call  had  not  been  for  us,  we  might  just  stay 
on  the  hne,  anyway,  if  it  sounded  interesting.  "Listening" 
was  a  popular  pastime  back  then  before  soap  operas.  But 
Mama  told  us  never  to  do  it.  Told  us  it  was  rude,  nosey,  and 
none  of  our  business.  Besides,  she  was  embarrassed  because 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  keep  my  httle  brothers  quiet 
enough  so  people  couldn't  recognize  us  as  the  eavesdroppers. 
I  never  did  eavesdrop  except  when  1  could  beat  my  sister  to 
the  phone. 

There  were  some  who  weren't  so  inhibited  as  my 
mother.  And  if  they  had  trouble  understanding  what  was 
being  said,  they  didn't  hesitate  to  break  in  with  "Pardon  me, 
Mary,  but  who'd  you  say  got  married?" 

Eavesdroppers,  though,  were  not  necessarily  a 
nuisance.  Early  phones  weren't  the  smoothly  efficient 
instruments  we  know  today.  Often  the  "audio  portion"  was  a 
mess.  This  was  comphcated  by  several  receivers  being  down. 
The  caller  would  know  this  and,  being  good  natured,  would 
simply  ask,  "Will  someone  hstening  please  repeat  for  me?" 

There  was  one  time,  however,  when  everybody 
admittedly  and  unashamedly  eavesdropped  and  that  was 
when,  during  off  hours,  the  distress  ring  was  heard.  Off  hours 
were  after  eight  at  night,  before  six  in  the  morning,  and  on 
Sunday.  And  if  the  midnight  stillness  or  the  Sabbath  peace 
were  shattered  with  those  five  long  rings,  not  only  Mr. 


Slankard  but  everyone  on  the  line  would  jump  out  of  bed— or 
up  from  Sunday  dinner— and  every  receiver  would  go  down. 

This  was  a  well-oiled  alarm  system  for  it  alerted  the 
community  when  someone  needed  help.  Regardless  of  the 
reason  for  the  call,  all  neighbors  stood  ready  to  do  what  they 
could.  The  phone  was  the  neighborhood  hot  line. 

When  the  telephone  first  made  its  appearance  in  our 
community,  to  many  it  seemed  a  strange  gadget  requiring 
some  skill  to  learn  to  operate.  One  man,  though,  announced 
with  pride  to  his  cronies  sitting  on  the  store  porch  that  he  had 
mastered  it  and  it  was  simple: 

"All  you  have  to  do,"  he  told  them,  "is  wind  up  the  bell, 
take  down  the  deceiver,  and  holler,  'Hello,  Sentinel!" 

And  holler  they  did.  People  were  a  long  time  reahzing 
they  didn't  have  to  shout  and  turn  the  crank  hard  and  long  to 
get  results.  One  woman  was  notorious  for  her  shouting  into 
the  transmitter.  During  a  lengthly  phone  session  she 
sometimes  turned  aside  to  say  in  a  low  tone,  "George,  go  set 
the  beans  off  the  fire!"  She  never  knew  that  these  asides  to 
her  husband  carried  better  than  her  hollering. 

When  it  was  very  cold  the  telephone  wires  strung  from 
pole  to  pole  would  begin  to  hum.  This  humming  on  a  cold 
night  would  tell  us  we  were  now  in  the  dead  of  winter.  And  in 
the  coziness  of  home  and  fireside,  one  of  the  family  would 
always  say,  "I'd  hate  to  be  a  poor  tramp  out  on  the  road 
tonight!" 

Those  early  years  saw  in  me  the  beginning  of  a 
dependence  on  the  telephone  that's  almost  frightening. 
Today  I  Uve  in  a  small  town  surrounded  by  friendly 
neighbors;  the  sheriff's  office  is  just  across  the  courtyard.  I 
can  see  our  doctor's  home  down  the  street.  Two  blocks  in 
another  direction  lives  a  veterinarian,  and  my  husband's 
business  is  within  sight.  If  I  opened  my  front  door  and  simply 
raised  my  voice  it  would  be  easy  to  summon  all  kinds  of  help. 
Yet  in  this  pampered  age  (and  probably  because  of  early 
conditioning)  if  I  lift  the  phone  and  get  a  silence  instead  of  a 


dial  tone,  I'm  panic-stricken.  Here  I  am,  I  gasp,  stranded 
with  a  dead  phone. 

For  me,  no  computerized  service  today  can  equal  what 
Mr.  Slankard  gave  us  back  then.  And  no  fancy  color- 
coordinated  phone  sitting  on  my  desk  can  compare  with  the 
one  hanging  on  our  hving  room  waU  that  served  as  the 
"backyard  fence  "  across  which  we  reached  out  and  touched 
our  friends,  near  and  far. 


HIRED  GIRL 

Louise  Anderson  Lum 

I  was  fifteen  when  I  first  went  to  work  as  a  hired  girl.  It 
was  in  the  httle  town  of  Niota,  Illinois,  population  200.  The 
year  was  1937.  And  I  would  earn  $3.00  a  week— an 
unbehevable  amount,  a  fortune!  Of  course  I  knew  that  every 
cent  of  what  I  earned  would  have  to  go  for  groceries,  but  that 
once  in  a  while  Mom  might  get  us  each  a  banana,  or  maybe 
some  green  grapes,  or  the  very  best  treat  of  all,  a  loaf  of  soft- 
as-cake  Sweetheart  store  bread.  It  was  exciting  to  have 
something  to  look  forward  to. 

I  would  work  for  the  Roofs  from  7:15  in  the  morning  till 
6:30  at  night  during  the  week,  and  until  about  1:30  on 
Saturday. 

Vera  worked  across  the  river  at  the  Shaeffer  Pen 
Company  in  Fort  Madison,  Iowa.  Her  husband,  Blondy,  was 
gone  aU  week  as  he  worked  for  the  Bridge  and  Building 
Department  of  the  Santa  Fe  Railroad.  I  would  be  keeping 
house  for  Vera  and  their  two  httle  girls. 

Smiling  with  high  hopes  I  walked  the  block  and  a  half  to 
the  Roof  home  to  arrive  at  7:00  Monday  morning.  The  two 
httle  girls  were  not  old  enough  to  be  in  school,  and  hovered 
about  while  Vera  told  me  what  to  do.  There  was  a  bushel 
basket  full  of  mostly  starched  clothes  to  iron.  The  wooden 


kitchen  table  and  four  chairs  were  to  be  scrubbed,  and  the 
children's  shoes  polished,  and  the  usual  routine  household 
chores  to  be  done.  I  listened  intently  and  stood  a  Uttle  taller 
because  she  talked  to  me  as  if  I  were  grown  up. 

Then  she  showed  me  around  the  house  and  said  to  have 
supper  ready  at  5:30— just  whatever  I  wanted  to  have.  If  I 
needed  any  groceries  I  should  charge  them  at  Shaile's. 

Smihng,  she  walked  off  to  catch  her  ride.  She  was 
stylishly  dressed,  wore  rouge  and  Hpstick,  and  as  always, 
looked  real  fixey. 

That  first  morning  1  pumped  water  and  did  the  dishes, 
scrubbed  the  table  and  chairs,  ran  the  carpet  sweeper,  swept 
the  kitchen  floor,  and  tidied  up  the  house.  Then  I  sprinkled 
the  clothes,  rolled  them  tightly,  and  put  them  back  in  the 
basket  to  draw  through. 

For  dinner  I  made  potato  soup.  When  we'd  eaten  it,  I 
flaked  a  small  can  of  salmon  with  rolled  crackers  and  an  egg 
for  salmon  cakes  and  put  them  in  the  ice-box  ready  to  fry  for 
supper. 

Wanting  to  make  a  good  first-day  impression,  I  decided 
to  have  a  fancy  dessert.  There  was  a  cookbook  in  the  kitchen 
cabinet  which  I  could  have  spent  hours  perusing  since  I  loved 
to  cook.  Mom  thought  cookbooks  were  a  waste  of  money,  so  I 
too  cooked  "by  guess  and  b'  gosh."  Thumbing  through  the 
book,  I  found  a  recipe  for  Rich  Blancmange,  which  I  stirred 
up  and  left  on  the  counter  to  cool. 

By  then  it  was  hot  in  the  house,  so  I  walked  the  girls  a 
half  mile  north  to  the  river  to  stand  on  the  levee  and  gaze  at 
the  bluffs  across  the  Mississippi.  Water  lapped  softly  at  the 
shore,  and  since  our  town  is  in  the  path  of  the  westerlies, 
there  was  a  daytime  breeze  to  flutter  the  cottonwoods.  1  sat 
on  the  grass  and  dreamed  long  dreams  of  being  rich  and 
important. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  house  1  started  ironing.  The 
clothes  had  been  starched  with  Satina  and  smelled  hke  wind 
off  the  plum  blossoms.  The  five  white  shirts  out  of  the  way,  1 


ironed  the  other  things  including  the  sheets,  pillow  cases,  and 
tea  towels.  The  girls'  fourteen  dresses  1  had  saved  until  last.  I 
enjoyed  ironing  every  ruffle,  bow,  and  ribbon.  After  ironing 
the  puffed  sleeves  dry,  I  laid  them  flat  and  ironed  around 
them  in  almost  a  circle  to  so  that  they  stood  up  sharp  and 
perky. 

By  then  it  was  late  afternoon  and  water  had  to  be 
heated  in  a  huge  pan  to  bathe  the  children.  I  put  a  towel  on  a 
kitchen  chair,  stood  the  youngest  on  it  and  soaped  her.  Then 
she  sat  in  the  pan  on  the  floor  while  I  rinsed  her  by  dipping 
the  water  up  in  a  pan  and  pouring  it  over  her.  When  she  was 
dried  and  dressed,  1  emptied  the  water  on  the  hollyhocks  and 
refiOed  the  pan  for  her  sister.  Clean  and  starched,  they  had  to 
stay  inside  and  play  with  dolls  while  I  fixed  supper. 

I  had  found  some  shelves  in  the  basement  with  a  few 
jars  of  home-canned  fruit  and  vegetables  and  took  up  a  jar  of 
snap  beans  and  a  pint  of  beets.  1  peeled  potatoes  and  put 
them  on  to  boil. 

Vera  was  home  soon,  looking  tired  and  shopworn.  By 
the  time  she  had  put  her  things  away  and  washed,  supper  was 
on  the  table  and  her  two  soap-scented  daughters  were  at  the 
table  clamoring  for  food. 

The  table  did  look  nice.  The  old  bean  jar  filled  with  wild 
flowers  made  it  seem  like  a  special  occasion. 

I  mashed  the  boiled  potatoes  with  a  little  butter  and  salt 
on  each  girl's  plate.  The  salmon  cakes  were  brown  and  crispy, 
the  pickled  beets  just  the  right  accent.  There  was  cream  from 
the  top  of  the  milk  to  put  over  the  Rich  Blancmange.  I  held 
my  breath  when  Vera  poured  some  on  hers  and  tasted  it. 

"My,"  she  exclaimed,  "this  cornstarch  pudding  is 
delicious."  So  much  for  my  Rich  Blancmange.  "And,"  she 
continued,  "this  house  has  never  looked  better.  And  the  girls 
are  so  clean  they  look  like  they've  been  hcked.  And  you  didn't 
even  charge  anything  on  the  store  bill!" 

She  told  me  that  some  of  her  hired  girls  hadn't  done 


165 


much  of  anything  but  sit  around  and  read  True  Stories  and 
eat  cookies  they'd  bought  on  the  biU. 

After  supper  I  washed  and  dried  the  dishes  and  put 
them  away,  and  swept  the  kitchen  floor. 

Before  I  knew  it,  it  was  Saturday.  When  dinner  was  over 
and  I  had  swept  the  floor,  Vera  came  to  the  kitchen  carrying 
her  pocket-book. 

"I  guess  you  feel  like  you've  earned  this,"  she  said 
counting  out  three  one-dollar  bills.  "I'll  see  you  on  Monday." 

The  little  girls  coaxed  to  walk  down  a  piece  with  me,  and 
she  let  them.  As  we  started  down  the  dirt  path  toward  home, 
tears  stung  my  eyes.  This  was  the  beginning,  but  of  what?  I 
thought  about  Vera's  faith  in  me,  her  patience, 
understanding,  and  good  humor.  It  made  me  determined  to 
be  the  best  hired  girl  she'd  ever  had. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  WITH  A  HORSE 

Newton  E.  Barrett 

A  forceful  maiden  lady  of  unspecified  age,  named,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  Agnes  Ryder,  owned  a  family  farm  some 
four  miles  east  of  Geneseo,  Henry  County,  out  on  the  Blue 
Mound  road.  A  trusted  Swedish  immigrant,  Nels  Anderson, 
served  as  general  farm  hand.  She  had  determined  to  move  to 
the  city,  and  leave  everything  to  him.  Through  Mark 
Hosfold,  a  leading  real  estate  figure  there,  she  had  bought  a 
residence  from  Hugh  Cole,  recently  widowed,  who  was 
moving  in  with  cousin  Glen. 

The  property,  typical  of  the  time,  anyone  today  would 
find  entirely  lacking  in  much  that  we  consider  indispensable. 
Instead  of  gas  and  electric  lights  and  appliances,  there  were 
kerosene  lamps,  with  ornamental  translucent  shades, 
containers  for  the  oil,  and  wicks  of  soft  weave  reaching  from  a 
burner  down  into  it,  ignited  by  a  sulphur  match,  and  giving 


forth  a  dim  yellow  hght.  And  candles,  formerly  of  tallow,  later 
of  paraffin,  could  be  carried  to  dark  corners.  Barns  were 
dependent  on  lanterns;  lamps  with  enclosed  flames  not 
extinguished  by  the  wind,  could  be  carried  about  by  a  bail, 
and  hung  on  a  nail.  Food  was  cooked  by  a  wood  fire  in  an 
antique  stove.  Agnes  found  a  few  sticks  of  oak  wood  in  the 
back  yard  near  the  pump,  which  provided  the  drinking  water. 
By  one  corner  of  the  house  stood  a  large  barrel  to  catch  soft 
or  rain  water  from  the  roof. 

She  walked  down  to  the  barn,  which  resembled  the 
house  but  which  was  smaller;  and  which  was  entered  by  a 
large  carriage  door.  The  interior  was  divided  into  several 
sections:  two  stalls  large  enough  to  stand  in  (horses  rarely  lie 
down,  even  to  sleep);  a  half  closet  for  curry  comb,  axle  grease, 
etc.  and  the  rest  of  the  space  for  a  carriage  and  a  cutter,  or 
sleigh,  for  use  in  winter's  snow.  From  a  wall  projected  pegs 
on  which  to  hang  harness.  A  rough  stair  led  up  to  the  second 
floor  or  mow,  entirely  designed  for  a  year's  supply  of  hay. 
This  was  pitched  down  through  a  chute  or  hole  in  the  floor 
above  each  stall  to  a  manger,  which  contained  a  feed  box  for 
oats.  A  rear  door  led  to  the  barnyard  adequate  for  a  horse's 
exercise,  and  for  the  manure  pile  which  would  grow  until  it 
could  be  forked  into  a  spreader  and  hauled  to  a  garden  plot  or 
field. 

Just  at  this  time  a  young  man  named  George 
Ammerman  appeared  in  town,  seeking  contracts  to  break 
horses  for  riding  and  driving.  He  had  already  had  an 
adventurous  career  with  them,  for  which  he  cherished  a  deep 
affection,  and  possessed  an  instinctive  understanding. 
Thrilled  at  the  exploits  of  the  great  Buffalo  Bill  Cody,  he 
applied  and  was  admitted  into  the  exciting  cast  of  his  Wild 
West  show. 

Then,  four  years  before  the  time  of  our  story,  when  the 
Spanish-American  War  broke  out,  he  was  electrified  by  the 
news  that  Teddy  Roosevelt,  already  widely  known,  had 
organized  some  buddies  into  a  cavalry  troop,  called  the 


Rough  Riders.  Through  his  friend.  General  Leonard  Wood, 
they  were  enlisted,  George  among  them,  and  sent  to  Cuba. 
There  they  became  famous  and  adored  when  they  stormed  up 
San  Juan  Hill  near  Santiago,  and  dislodged  the  strongly 
fortified  enemy.  Inevitably  they  suffered  heavy  casualties, 
including  George,  whose  skull  was  creased  near  the  right 
temple  by  a  Cuban  bullet,  which  left  him  unconscious.  Soon  a 
couple  of  clean-up  men  saw  him  lying  there;  and  one  cried, 
"Oh,  there's  Ammerman!"  "Too  bad!"  cried  the  other,  "He 
was  a  good  man."  But,  surprisingly,  almost  awake,  with  a 
supreme  effort,  he  gave  a  feeble  kick.  They  carried  him  to  the 
base  hospital  where  he  soon  recovered. 

He  was  a  deeply  tanned  man  of  medium  height, 
tremendously  strong,  and  wearing  a  stiff  moustache.  He  sat 
his  mount  as  though  he  had  grown  there,  being  reminisent  of 
Bellerophon  on  Pegasus,  in  Greek  legend.  Distinguishing  him 
was  a  livid  scar  on  his  temple— a  grim  souvenir  of  his  war 
experience.  He  recalled  Buffalo  Bill's  enthusiastic  comments 
about  Geneseo.  Being  born  just  across  the  Father  of  Waters, 
near  LeClaire,  he  knew  it  from  visits  to  the  Henry  County 
Fair  in  Cambridge,  where  their  horsemen  won  many  blue 
ribbons.  Hence,  George  came  here  to  practice  his  trade. 

Introduced  to  Agnes,  he  agreed  to  condition  her  horse 
Cady  for  riders  on  either  regular  or  women's  side-saddles.  At 
the  appointed  time,  Saturday  morning,  they  met  at  the  town 
house,  accompained  by  a  small  crowd  of  men  who  had  heard 
about  the  event,  along  with  a  delegation  of  us  boys. 

Anderson  hadn't  ventured  to  break  Cady  as  a  yearling, 
as  was  the  custom,  and  by  now  he  had  matured  into  a  fuU- 
grown,  perfectly  developed  lustrous  chestnut  gelding,  with  a 
white  spot  on  his  forehead,  which  friends  insisted  was  a  star. 
He  was  16  hands  high  and  nearly  950  pounds,  a  rare  specimen 
of  equine  power  and  beauty. 

Nels  led  him  out  into  the  wide,  dead-end  street,  with  no 
picket  fences  on  either  side,  as  was  common  nearer  the  center 
of  town;  and  he  held  him  while  Ammerman  threw  his  saddle 


over  him,  and  firmly  tightened  the  belly-band.  With 
everything  secure,  he  put  his  right  foot  into  the  stirrup, 
swung  his  left  leg  over  to  the  other  side  till  that  foot  slipped 
into  its  stirrup,  and  he  was  ready.  "O.K.!"  he  called.  Nels 
released  the  horse,  and  the  battle  was  joined. 

Surprisingly,  instead  of  tearing  off  down  the  road,  Cady, 
frantic  at  the  unaccustomed  sensation  of  a  burden  on  his 
back,  bolted  to  the  left,  across  Mrs.  Merriam's  yard.  Though 
the  universally  observed  wash  day  was  Monday,  she  had 
hung  a  wet  sheet  and  some  small  pieces,  now  flapping  wildly 
in  the  stiff  breeze,  on  her  heavy  wire  line.  Now  Cady's  fright 
was  added  to  his  fury.  Ammerman,  seeing  himself  hurling 
toward  the  barrier,  braced  himself,  preparing  to  break  off  the 
line  with  his  chest.  But  some  artisan  had  done  his  work  well, 
and,  in  football  parlance,  the  line  held.  As  Cady  lowered  his 
head  and  dashed  under  it,  the  rider  was  stopped  dead,  was 
torn  off  the  saddle,  and  thrown  to  the  ground.  Fortunately, 
instead  of  a  hard  road-bed,  he  landed  on  a  soft  lawn,  and  was 
unhurt. 

Instinctively,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  kept  a  tight  hold 
on  the  reins,  and  was  dragged  several  yards,  until  the 
maniacal  animal  slowed. 

Ammerman  pulled  himself  to  his  feet.  Undeterred,  he 
led  Cady  back  into  the  road,  coddUng  him  with  a  few  strokes 
on  his  muzzle,  and  soothing  him  with  reassuring  words.  The 
conflict,  however,  wasn't  so  quickly  won.  Skittish  and 
straining  at  the  bit,  the  nervous  animal  sidled  and  pranced, 
yet  he  made  no  serious  effort  to  free  himself  from  the 
exasperating  restraint.  Ammerman  remounted,  and  by  slow 
and  painful  degrees,  Cady  ventured  forward,  responding  to 
the  gentle  but  firm  directions  conveyed  by  pulls  on  the  lines. 
Step  by  step,  then  cautiously  breaking  into  a  trot,  up  and 
down  the  road  the  pair  moved,  until  in  perfect  accord  they 
proceeded. 

Cady  was  broken  to  a  greater  and  nobler  freedom. 


167 


I  WAS  A  PRINTER'S  DEVIL 

Albert  Shanholtzer 

As  a  boy  I  was  an  avid  reader,  impressed  with  the 
impact  the  printer  and  his  newspaper  had  on  the  community. 
The  earliest  newspaper  in  Coatsburg  existed  in  the  decades 
before  the  turn  of  the  century.  It  was  named  "The  Adams 
County  Review."  The  "Community  Enterprise"  came  next, 
edited  and  pubhshed  in  1915  by  RoUa  Stokes.  The  shop  had  a 
large  front  window  near  which  a  lady  typesetter  spent  long 
hours  on  a  high  stool  before  the  type  cases,  setting  type.  This 
caught  the  eye  of  passing  school  children  (including,  on 
occasion,  me)  who  would  stand  on  the  sidewalk  and  watch. 
With  nimble  fingers  she  placed  letters  in  the  composing  stick 
setting  line  after  line  of  news.  The  press  was  in  the  back,  out 
of  sight,  we  could  hear  its  rumble  on  press  day.  Exhaust  from 
the  gasoline  engine  emerged  from  a  pipe  through  the  waU  in 
odd  puffs  as  the  engine  fired  unevenly. 

In  June,  1917,  my  father  began  a  long  Civil  Service 
career  as  a  Rural  Letter  Carrier  at  Loraine,  Ilhnois,  where  we 
moved.  The  Postmaster,  Roy  Adair,  was  also  owner  of  "The 
Loraine  Times,"  a  weekly  paper.  His  printing  plant  occupied 
all  of  the  building  except  a  small  front  room  used  as  the  Post 
Office.  Roy,  a  genial  man,  was  a  friend  to  all  children.  When 
my  dad  mentioned  my  interest  in  printing,  he  suggested  I 
come  by  on  press  day  and  he  would  "show  me  around." 

The  following  Thursday  I  arrived  before  press  time,  and 
met  the  Linotype  operator,  Ray  Gibson,  about  twenty-three 
years  of  age,  a  young  man  capable  of  doing  every  job  in  the 
shop.  He  and  Roy  finished  filling  the  four  page  forms  on  the 
imposing  stones,  took  a  block  of  hard  maple  and  mallet  to 
plane  down  the  forms  and  lock  the  pages  each  in  their  own 
chase  with  several  sets  of  Hempel  quoins  and  the  special  key: 
carried  each  to  its  proper  place  on  the  CampbeU  cylinder 
press,  securing  all  with  locking  devices  built  in  the  press  bed. 
They  explained  every  move  and  patiently  answered  every 


question  I  asked.  When  the  stack  of  newsprint  was  placed  on 
the  feed-board  which  sloped  slightly  toward  the  press 
cylinder,  they  showed  me  the  four  pages  already  printed  had 
articles  of  general  interest,  even  a  cartoon,  and  some  national 
advertising.  Roy  explained  it  was  "WNU"  print,  and 
weeklies  bought  it  at  a  reasonable  price  since  the  Western 
Newspaper  Union  in  St.  Louis  merely  put  the  paper's  name 
slug  at  the  top  of  each  page.  In  additon  to  what  the  printer 
paid,  they  received  advertising  compensation  from  the 
national  advertising.  The  several  ink  rollers  were  lowered  to 
contact  the  ink  plate,  the  pressman  mounted  the  steps  to  the 
feed-board,  grasped  the  corner  of  a  large  sheet  and  with  a  flip 
of  the  wrist  floated  it  down  on  a  bubble  of  air  to  rest  on  brass 
stops  at  the  lower  edge.  The  electric  motor  was  turned  on,  the 
belt  shifted  to  the  drive  puUey  and  as  the  cylinder  turned 
contra-clockwise  a  row  of  small  curved  clamps  emergedom 
the  cylinder,  grasped'*  to  the  drive  pulley  and  as  the  cyhnder 
turned  contra-clockwise  a  row  of  small  curved  clamps 
emerged  from  the  cylinder,  grasped  the  paper  smoothly  and 
securely,  and  paper  and  inked  form  met  as  the  cyhnder 
turned.  Quickly  the  belt  was  shifted  to  the  loose  pulley  and 
the  press  halted  with  a  hardly  a  touch  of  the  brake,  so  the 
first  copy  could  be  rechecked  for  accuracy.  When  the  run 
began  for  completion  I  was  intrigued  by  the  way  the  printed 
copy  slid  freely  onto  the  set  of  smooth  oak  fingers  which  laid 
it  gently  on  the  delivery  table.  The  sheets  were  run  through 
the  folder,  emerging  folded  and  trimmed. 

Upon  arriving  home  I  said,  "I'd  hke  to  work  in  a  shop 
Uke  that."  When  my  dad  told  Roy  about  this  remark,  he 
suggested,  "Have  him  stop  and  see  me."  I  did.  His  opening 
remark  was,  "I  can  use  a  little  extra  help  at  the  print  shop. 
Would  you  hke  to  work  on  Saturday  mornings  and  a  couple 
hours  after  school?"  Breathlessly  I  rephed,  "You  bet  I 
would!"  He  suggested,  "You  can  start  right  now.  Sweep  out 
and  burn  the  paper."  Gratefully  1  repUed,  "Thank  you,  Mr. 
Adair,  I  '11  do  that! "  The  push  broom  stood  in  a  nearby  corner. 


168 


I  seized  it  and  got  busy.  "Your  pay,"  he  said,  "will  be  a  dollar 
a  week."  Looking  back  on  how  I  quickly  absorbed  a  lot  of 
learning  about  the  printing  trade,  I  reahze  this  was  a  bonus, 
for  it  was  the  least  costly,  most  enjoyable  education  a  tall 
skinny  twelve  year  old  ever  had! 

For  two  years  as  a  printer's  devil  I  progressed  from  one 
skill  to  another,  setting  type  for  sale  bills  and  other  forms, 
feeding  the  Gordon  job  press,  using  the  paper  cutter,  finally 
mastering  the  Campbell,  and  floating  the  big  sheets  down  on 
a  bubble  of  air.  Cleanup  after  press  day  included  putting  used 
lino  slugs  in  the  hell  box,  disbributing  display  type  from  dead 
advertising,  putting  six  point  slugs,  two  point  leads  and 
wood  reglets  up  by  lengths. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  dad  transferred  to  a  better  route 
in  Coatsburg,  moving  back  to  our  former  residence.  I 
reluctantly  bid  my  first  "boss"  farewell. 

The  skills  I  had  gained,  plus  a  $35  investment  in  a 
Baltimore  handlever  press  with  some  type  gave  me  a 
"bedroom"  shop  of  my  own  printing  small  jobs.  Completing 
high  school  at  Camp  Point  Community  High,  I  worked  for 
the  "journal"  two  summer  vacations  and  part  time  after 
school  for  20  cents  an  hour.  With  graduation  my  second 
newspaper  job  ended.  Opening  the  "Coatsburg  Printery"  I 
began  replacing  my  equipment  with  better  machinery, 
gradually. 

On  Tuesday  the  "Clayton  Enterprise"  called,  asking 
help  to  get  the  weekly  issue  off  the  press.  Their  printer  had 
quit!  It  was  a  challenging  job!  Their  old  Campbell  sat  on  a 
wood  floor;  vibrations  when  running  mandated  frequent 
stops  to  keep  leads  and  slugs  from  working  up  and  printing. 
Their  lady  typesetter  composed  the  news,  all  else  was  my 
obligation.  Meeting  the  challenge  for  three  months,  I  had  to 
return  to  my  own  increasing  business. 

From  hand  set  to  machine  set  we  owned  first  a  used 
Linotype,  then  a  rebuilt  Linograph  vertical  magazines, 
finally  an  Intertype.  Our  odd  jobbers  were  replaced  by  newer; 


our  shop  was  the  first  in  rural  Adams  County  with  a  Kluge 
automatic.  A  power  cutter,  drill,  folder,  metal  saw,  binding 
equipment,  wider  selection  of  display  type  and  a  second 
Kluge  automatic  was  a  giant  step  from  the  old  newspaper 
shops.  But  a  new  trend  developed— from  letterpress  to  offset! 
Purchasing  an  eleven  by  fourteen  AB  Dick  with  platemaker, 
soon  eighty  per  cent  of  production  was  by  offset,  produced  in 
less  time!  The  old  days  were  fading  away. 

Before  retiring  we  bought  a  larger  offset  press— but 
kept  our  letterpress  equipment.  The  business  continues  to 
grow  under  new  management,  building  and  equipment  being 
leased.  We  reserved  the  privelege  of  doing  occasional  small 
jobs  for  ourselves,  on  letterpress.  It's  hard  to  keep  printer's 
inkstains  off  an  old  printer's  hands!  Only  a  few  are  left  who 
learned  the  craft  as  a  printer's  devil. 

Thank  God,  I  had  the  chance! 


^ 


wm^iu  iiv 


VIU     Peodc  of  the  Past 


PEOPLE  OF  THE  PAST 

To  write  about  the  people  of  western  Illinois— especially 
people  who  hved  decades  ago— is  to  depict  small-town  folks. 
Thus,  so  many  of  the  memoirs  in  this  section  characterize 
individuals  against  a  background  of  village  society,  or 
community  life  on  a  hmited  scale. 

Of  course,  the  most  famous  book  based  on  the  region. 
Masters'  Spoon  River  Anthology,  does  exactly  the  same 
thing,  but  it  is  interesting  to  notice  the  contrast  between  the 
poet's  perspective  and  the  collective  view  expressed  by  these 
senior  citizens.  Here  is  no  "revolt  from  the  village."  no  sense 
of  the  small  town  as  a  repository  of  frustrated  and  broken 
hves,  no  expose  of  midwestern  narrowness  and  provinciahty. 

On  the  contrary,  although  no  author  explicitly  refers  to 
it,  there  is  an  underlying  theme  in  many  of  these  memoirs: 
the  positive  nature  of  community  Ufe.  Holhs  Powers'  "The 
Folks  in  Petersburg"  is  particularly  interesting  because  his 
subject  is  Masters'  home  town— albeit  several  decades  after 
the  poet  hved  there.  His  characterizations  include  such  good 
people  as  the  female  high  school  principal  who  encouraged 
her  students,  the  banker  who  had  faith  in  his  fellow  men,  the 
newspaper  editor  of  firm  principles,  and  the  physician  who 
urged  people  to  get  well. 

As  his  memoir  also  suggests,  the  small  town  was  a 
special  world  of  its  own,  a  place  where  residents  came  into 
close  and  repeated  contact.  From  that  experience, 
townspeople  developed  an  interest  in  each  other's  hves,  and  a 
concern  for  local  people,  which  was  not  unhke  the  attitude  of 
family  members.  As  Lillian  Nelson  Combites  mentions  at  the 
end  of  her  memoir  about  Uncle  Harl  Robbins  of  Good  Hope, 
"Uncle  Harl  wasn't  my  uncle.  Mama  taught  each  to  us  to  call 
all  our  elderly  residents  Grandpa,  Grandma,  Uncle  or  Aunt. 
We  loved  them  that  way,  too.  ..."  And  her  characterization 
also  reveals  that  the  deep  sense  of  community  in  small  towns 
often  extended  to  former  residents  who  lay  buried  in  the  local 


cemetery— the  people  for  whom  Uncle  Harl  frequently 
erected  gravestones. 

Indeed,  it  is  clear  from  several  of  the  memoirs  that 
small-town  people  were  bound  together  by  their  common 
memories  of  former  residents.  Although  "The  Life  of  Louis 
Silberer"  was  written  by  his  son,  that  biographical  sketch 
closes  with  local  tributes  to  the  man,  which  reveal  his  impact 
on  the  community.  Likewise,  Earl  F.  Carwile's  memoir 
portrays  Monmouth  auctioneer  Faye  Houtchens  as  he  must 
have  appeared  to  the  entire  town,  and  the  author  closes  by 
asserting  that  "He  was  a  good  friend  of  many  and  is 
remembered  by  all." 

The  two  pieces  which  focus  on  doctors— both  tributes 
by  admiring  daughters— indicate  that  the  small- 
town physician  of  years  ago  was  not  a  professional  in  some 
medical  office  or  hospital.  He  was  a  neighbor,  involved  with 
and  aware  of  the  lives  of  local  people.  Even  when  the 
physician's  practice  included  more  than  one  town,  as  in  the 
case  of  Dr.  Cowles  of  Woodhull,  it  was  carried  out  with 
consideration  for  the  social  context:  "Dad's  practice 
extended  from  Woodhull  to  Alpha,  New  Windsor,  Rio, 
Opheim,  North  Henderson,  Oneida,  and  the  adjoining 
countryside.  He  saw  each  patient  as  an  integral  part  of  a 
family,  and  each  family  as  part  of  a  community." 

Certainly  one  of  the  most  remarkable  memoirs  in  this 
volume  is  Hazel  R.  Livers'  characterization  of  Lyle  Tricky, 
"the  town  idiot"  of  Ipava.  She  handles  with  great  sensitivity 
a  subject  which  few  people  have  ever  written  about, 
demonstrating  in  the  process  that  even  the  mentally  retarded 
had  an  accepted  place  in  the  small  town  of  many  years  ago. 

With  the  possible  exception  of  blacks,  the  only  people 
who  did  not  fit  into  midwestern  village  hfe  early  in  the 
century  were  those  who  did  not  want  to.  Beula  Selters  depicts 
such  a  couple  in  "Queer  Folks."  Her  presentation  of  Rufus 
and  Sally  Wiggins  through  the  limited  experience  of  another 
local  couple,  her  grandparents,  is  an  ideal  technique,  for  it 


emphasizes  the  isolation  of  that  strange  couple  from  others  in 
the  village  of  St.  Marys.  At  the  same  time,  the  author 
demonstrates  that  those  queer  folks  did  become  an  aspect  of 
community  life— if  only  through  local  talk,  speculation,  and 
folklore. 

Other  memoirs  in  this  section  focus  on  people  who  were 
not  community  members  but  transients.  Perhaps  the  most 
surprising  pieces  for  the  modern  reader  are  the  Craven  G. 
Griffitts  and  Everett  Trone  characterizations  of  hoboes  they 
knew  many  years  ago.  At  that  time,  such  men  were  common, 
and  they  were  not  viewed  with  the  kind  of  fear  and  suspicion 
that  surrounds  homeless  outsiders  today.  The  hobo  jungle, 
too,  was  a  more  or  less  accepted  aspect  of  many  communities. 


While  most  western  Illinois  residents  still  live  in  small 
towns,  individuals  and  families  are  no  longer  in  close  and 
continual  contact.  That  is  both  good  and  bad.  The  gradual 
opening  up  of  such  communities  has  brought  more  individual 
fulfillment  and  less  pressure  to  conform,  but  it  also 
diminished  the  deep  sense  of  closeness  that  was  once  the  very 
essence  of  small-town  hfe.  Most  of  the  people  described  in 
this  section  of  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  II  were  not  significant 
or  memorable  because  of  their  achievements  but  because 
they  related  well  to  the  people  around  them.  Therein  Ues  a 
challenge  to  members  of  our  present-day  communities,  of 
whatever  size. 

John  Hallwas,  Editor 


173 


GYPSIES 

Enid  Woolsey 

"The  Gypsies  are  camped  in  Lover's  Lane."  So 
announced  an  arriving  neighbor  on  a  summer  morning  in 
1928.  Our  family  lived  on  a  farm  two  miles  north  of 
Williamsfield,  Illinois,  in  Knox  County,  at  that  time.  Lover's 
Lane,  not  a  well-cared-for  road,  was  then  a  short  stretch  of 
often-impassable  narrow  lane,  bordered  by  brush  and  shade 
trees.  The  Gypsies  camped  near  a  little  stream.  It  was  very 
near  our  small  town  and  was  the  sort  of  place  we  believed 
Gypsies  liked:  lonely,  wooded,  water  conveniently  near,  and 
rather  pretty. 

Word  of  the  arrival  of  the  Gypsy  caravan  spread  rapidly 
through  the  community,  and  the  real  or  imagined  doings  of 
those  temporary  visitors  was  the  favorite  conversational 
topic  for  several  days.  Many  people  feared  and  distrusted  the 
Gypsies,  beheving  they  might  steal  livestock  or  even 
children.  Prejudice,  although  most  of  us  didn't  use  the  word 
at  that  time,  was  our  response  to  most  of  the  people  we  knew 
Uttle  about. 

This  Gypsy  caravan  consisted  of  several  horses  pulling 
wagons  covered  in  various  ways.  There  were  dark-skinned 
men,  and  women  with  colorful  skirts,  sometimes  made  of 
many  pieces  of  worn  material  sewn  together,  and  often 
consisting  of  many  layers.  The  women's  legs  were  not  to 
show  and  they  usually  wore  heavy  earrings.  Children  and 
dogs  completed  the  groups  and  all  seemed  dirty  and 
mysterious.  Food  was  cooked  over  open  fires,  there  was 
singing,  and  no  one  in  our  family  ever  saw  the  caravan 
traveling.  Although  Gypsies  arrived  several  different  years, 
their  arrival  and  departure  always  seemed  to  be  in  the  night. 

We  heard  many  tales  of  the  horse  trading  the  Gypsy 
men  did  at  the  surrounding  farms.  Although  most  of  the 
farmers  believed  the  traders  could  not  be  bested,  it  was  a 
challenge  to  try  to  do  so.  Care  and  treatment  of  horses  was 


very  important  to  those  travelers,  and  the  men  did  seem  to 
excel  at  curing  sick  horses.  They  could  trade  for  horses  that 
seemed  less  healthy,  collecting  money  for  the  difference.  By 
putting  a  horse  into  good  condition,  they  could  later  sell  or 
trade  it  to  their  advantage. 

Apparently,  most  Gypies  were  illiterate,  and  they  saw 
nothing  wrong  with  petty  thievery,  such  as  grass  for  a  horse, 
wood  for  fires,  etc.  The  robberies  did  usually  seem  to  be  out  of 
need.  Some  people  beheve  Gypies  will  not  steal  from  each 
other. 

More  interesting  stories  concerned  the  activities  of  the 
Gypsy  women,  who  were  considered  to  have  magic  powers. 
They  did  fortune  telling  by  reading  hands  and  tea  leaves,  and 
by  analyzing  dreams.  Some  of  us  girls  were  excited  by  the 
possibility  that  the  Gypsy  women  possessed  the  evil  eye  or 
love  charms  or  magic  cures.  Some  of  the  women  were  beggars 
and  seemed  to  present  themselves  as  ill,  sometimes  coughing 
and  being  so  unattractively  dirty  that  one  would  want  to  get 
rid  of  them  as  soon  as  possible.  That  may  have  been  a 
dehberate  ploy. 

What  excitement  the  arrival  of  the  Gypsies  provided  in 
those  rather  quiet  times  of  long  ago!  Their  freedom  and  lack 
of  concern  for  the  things  we  beheved  to  be  important  seemed 
rather  glamorous,  and  we  wondered  if  we  would  like  to  travel 
with  them.  What  did  they  do  about  school  and  real  hvelihood, 
we  puzzled. 

In  later  years,  we  saw  Gypsies  who  traveled  in  big  cars, 
but  that  was  not  nearly  so  interesting.  I  know  that  World 
War  II,  the  draft,  social  security,  welfare,  the  movies, 
television,  and  desire  for  consumer  goods— all  have 
contributed  to  a  change  in  the  Gypsy  lifestyle.  On  the  rare 
occasions  when  I  have  seen  Gypsy  women  begging  in  cities,  I 
always  think  of  those  who  camped  in  Lover's  Lane  and 
wonder  if  those  city  beggars  might  have  been  children  there. 


THE  HIRED  MAN 

Burdette  Graham 

March  the  first  was  for  many  years  the  time  of  change 
on  the  farms  of  most  of  the  country,  and  especially  in  the  corn 
and  oat  growing  area  of  the  Middle  West.  If  a  farmer  was 
moving  to  another  farm  or  renting  more  acreage,  or  if  he  had 
become  anew  owner,  the  time  to  move  was  March  the  first. 
Leases  all  read  "March  the  first"  as  possession  time.  This 
date  was  picked  because  weather  sometimes  permitted  field 
work,  while  being  cool  enough  to  get  the  horses  and  mules 
toughened  up,  and  many  spring  jobs  could  usually  be  done 
during  March,  so  as  to  be  ready  when  field  work  began  in 
earnest. 

Jobs  which  could  be  done  on  our  farm  included 
scattering  oat  seed  over  the  standing  corn  stalks,  disking  the 
seed  and  stalks,  harrowing  to  level  the  stalks,  and  covering 
the  seed  and  levehng  the  disked  soil.  This  many  times  was  a 
very  cold  job,  with  brisk  winds  and  cool  temperatures  making 
it  necessary  to  walk  behind  equipment  just  to  keep  warm. 

Other  jobs  included  repairing  fences,  nailing  up  loose 
boards,  and  putting  new  staples  in  wire  fences,  and  when  the 
frost  got  out,  setting  posts  for  new  fences.  Also,  all  the 
harness  had  to  be  cleaned  and  dipped  in  a  vat  of  harness  oil 
and  allowed  to  drip  and  dry.  Newly  oiled  harness  always 
strained  hands,  gloves,  and  clothes  which  had  to  come  into 
contact  with  the  harness.  On  warmer  days,  machinery  had  to 
be  repaired  and  broken  parts  taken  to  the  blacksmith  shop 
for  welding  or  making  new  parts. 

Late  in  March  the  cattle  and  horse  drive  took  place. 
About  a  dozen  horses  and  20  or  30  head  of  cattle  had  been  on 
winter  pasture  on  a  hillside  farm  four  miles  northeast  of 
Adair.  They  had  wintered  there  on  tall  grass  that  had  not 
been  pastured  during  summer.  They  drank  from  a  spring  that 
never  froze.  We  had  to  take  them  salt  about  every  two  weeks 
and  check  to  see  that  they  were  all  there  and  in  good  health. 


When  we  went  to  get  them,  they  were  fat  as  butter  balls  from 
the  good  grass  which  they  could  get  by  breaking  through  the 
snow.  They  had  had  good  wind  protection  by  getting  in  the 
gullies.  They  had  become  somewhat  wild  during  this  period  of 
having  few  people  around,  so  a  good  force  of  drivers  was 
needed  to  keep  them  on  the  right  road  and  out  of  farm  yards 
and  gates  which  might  be  open. 

All  of  these  jobs  and  many  more  around  the  average 
farm  required  more  help  than  the  farmer  himself  could 
provide,  so  until  the  children  became  old  enough  to  help,  the 
hired  man  was  a  necessity.  The  hiring  of  those  men  took  place 
anytme  after  the  crops  were  havested  the  fall  before.  Some 
men  hired  on  with  the  same  farmer  year  after  year,  and  some 
stayed  around  aU  winter,  doing  work  for  board  and  room.  A 
few  farmers  had  enough  work  with  livestock  to  employ  them 
the  year  around,  this  being  more  hkely  if  a  tenant  house  was 
available.  Usually  the  year-around  man  was  married,  and 
Uved  in  the  tenant  house  and  was  furnished  one  cow,  and  feed 
for  the  cow,  a  flock  of  chickens,  and  at  least  one  hog  to 
butcher. 

If  the  hired  man  was  single  and  hved  with  the  farm 
family,  some  special  arrangements  had  to  be  made  when  he 
came.  Unless  the  farmer  had  an  extra  bedroom  available,  as 
was  not  usually  the  case,  someone  had  to  give  up  a  room,  and 
that  meant  one  of  the  kids  or  maybe  more  had  to  move  in  with 
someone  else.  One  year,  we  had  a  hired  girl  also  to  help  when 
a  new  baby  came  in  March.  This  time  the  hired  girl  used  a 
folding  bed  in  the  living  room,  and  when  the  hired  man  came 
and  pushed  me  out  of  his  room,  I  ended  up  with  the  hired  girl. 
I  remember  she  had  long  red  hair,  but  I  also  remember  she 
brought  us  head  lice,  and  we  all  got  the  head  dip  in  Black 
Leaf-40  or  tobacco  juice.  I  think  I  was  six  years  old. 

One  of  the  goals  of  the  hired  men  was  to  be  on  their  own 
in  a  few  years.  They  saved  their  mone.y  and  developed  a 
reputation  in  the  community  as  to  character  and  abihty  to 
farm,  and  when  some  farm  became  available,    if  they  had 


saved  enough  to  buy  a  team,  a  plow,  and  a  cow  and  sow,  and 
could  borrow  seed  from  some  neighbor,  they  became  full 
fledged  farmers.  Jess  Castor  and  Ben  Hopping  and  Ralph 
Foster  were  three  who  started  this  way.  They  were  all  fine 
gentlemen  who  helped  surpervise  us  kids  just  like  we  were 
their  own. 

There  were  many  who  came  through  the  country, 
usually  walking  and  looking  for  a  job.  Usually  we  did  not  hire 
any  of  those,  but  we  did  get  one  during  World  War  I,  a  Mr. 
John  Snyder,  who  had  left  Poland  because  of  not  liking  the 
coming  war  in  Europe.  He  was  a  big  man,  with  the  biggest 
feet  I  think  any  man  could  carry— and  also  the  dirtiest.  He 
was  very  odd  in  many  ways.  He  would  get  up  early  before 
daylight  and  go  to  the  cornfield.  One  day  he  drove  over  a  line 
of  new  small  fenceposts  which  had  just  been  set  to  allow  early 
pasture  for  the  first  picked  rows.  Those  all  had  to  be  replaced. 
Another  time,  when  Dad  got  to  the  field,  he  could  not  find 
which  rows  John  was  picking.  When  asked,  John  said,  "I'm 
just  taking  a  wide  swath."  The  usual  number  was  two  rows, 
or  maybe  three.  He  was  taking  from  two  to  six,  so  it  was  hunt 
and  seek  to  follow  him. 

Another  hired  man  was  a  young  fellow  from  Gin  Ridge 
who  dressed  hke  a  millionaire,  and  who  told  us  kids  so  many 
stories  that  I  have  heard  few  new  ones  since.  He  was  nice  to 
us  and  took  us  with  him  on  Saturday  nights  to  Table  Grove, 
but  he  was  not  one  to  work  after  a  certain  time,  even  if  some 
hay  was  still  in  the  field.  He  also  had  the  most  beautiful  pair 
of  brown  dress  shoes,  which  he  had  shined  each  time  he  went 
to  town.  When  he  left  us,  he  came  to  Macomb  and  worked  in  a 
bakery.  His  name  was  Buck  Runkle. 

An  older  gentleman,  Mr.  John  Pearce,  was  a  good  but 
slow  worker  and  a  pipe  smoker.  We  usually  did  not  allow 
smoking  because  of  the  danger  of  fire.  He  came  back  to  visit 
one  Sunday  afternoon  and,  while  at  the  barn,  lighted  his 
pipe, and  that  night  the  barn  burned,  but  of  course  we  never 
knew  why  it  caught  on  fire. 


1  am  not  sure  of  the  wages  these  people  earned  but  I 
think  they  got  from  30  to  50  dollars  per  month,  plus  their 
keep,  and  usually  a  horse  and  buggy.  If  they  had  their  own 
horse  and  buggy,  a  place  for  it  and  feed  were  furnished. 

After  chores  and  supper,  we  usually  went  to  bed,  but 
sometimes,  when  weather  was  bad  outside,  and  we  got  in 
earher,  story  reading,  or  card  playing,  and  sometimes  singing 
around  the  piano  took  place.  Also  sometimes  some  of  us 
would  go  to  neighbors  to  visit  or  play  cards,  or  maybe 
neighbors  came  to  our  house. 

The  hired  man  became  one  of  the  family  and  helped  to 
take  the  kids  to  school  or  get  them,  or  bring  groceries  from 
town,  or  even  deliver  the  cream  and  eggs.  As  we  children  got 
older,  we  began  to  take  the  place  of  the  hired  man  in  doing 
chores  and  some  of  the  field  work,  and  eventually  some  of  us 
got  through  high  school,  and  the  hired  man  was  not  needed. 
Also,  machinery  began  to  change  as  tractors  took  the  place  of 
the  horse,  and  a  whole  new  breed  of  hired  man  came  along. 
Then  he  was  the  mechanic  in  town  who  came  out  to  the  farm 
when  you  broke  down.  He  was  needed,  but  he  was  no  longer 
part  of  the  family. 


SAM,  THE  HOBO 

Craven  G.  Griffitts 

It  was  spring,  and  dusk  of  the  evening  had  settled.  I 
could  see  the  flicker  of  a  campfire  about  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  I  knew  that  the  hoboes  had  started  their  campfire  to 
keep  away  the  spring  chill  and  to  cook  their  muUigan  stew. 

I  was  about  ten  years  old.  It  was  1913,  and  we  lived  in 
Roseville,  Illinois.  Our  home  was  at  the  southeast  edge  of 
town,  just  a  short  distance  from  the  C.  B.  &  Q.  Railroad  track. 
Hobo  Jungle  was  located  about  a  quarter  mile  down  the 


176 


track.  The  hoboes  had  two  or  three  small  shacks  built  there. 
They  were  made  from  cardboard,  bits  of  tin,  or  just  about 
anything  that  they  could  get  out  of  the  dump  that  was  close 
by.  In  a  small  clearing,  they  had  their  campfire,  and  each 
hobo  would  contribute  something  for  the  stew.  Someone 
would  have  a  big  soup  bone  that  had  been  begged  from  the 
local  butcher  shop;  others  might  have  some  sort  of  vegetables 
they  had  been  given.  They  have  been  known  to  help 
themselves  to  garden  vegetables  when  they  were  available. 
Even  chickens  from  neighbors'  chicken  houses  found  their 
way  into  the  hoboes'  stew. 

My  father  had  told  my  brother,  Dave,  and  me  to  keep 
away  from  the  camp,  but  the  stories  that  these  men  would  teU 
would  bring  my  brother  and  me  back  time  and  time  again, 
whenever  we  could  slip  away.  Those  men  would  tell  of  their 
travels  across  the  country— walking,  and  riding  freight 
trains,  always  carrying  their  worldly  possessions  in  a  sack 
flung  over  their  shoulder.  From  the  East  Coast  to  the  West 
Coast,  they  knew  where  every  Hobo  Jungle  was  located. 
They  knew  which  houses  along  the  way  they  could  stop  at 
and  usually  get  a  handout.  The  way  they  knew  where  to  stop 
was  by  markings  that  hoboes  before  them  had  left.  On  a  post 
out  front,  on  a  tree,  or  maybe  on  a  barn  nearby,  would  be  this 
mark  or  sign.  I  still  remember  some  of  the  signs:  ®  meant 
very  good, [^meant  bad  dog,  and  <'X'' meant  safe  camp.  There 
were  several  others  that  I  cannot  recall. 

My  brother,  Dave,  and  I  always  looked  forward  to 
spring  and  the  possibihty  of  seeing  our  friend  Sam  again. 
Sam  was  just  one  of  the  many  hoboes  we  had  talked  to,  but 
Sam  was  different.  He  always  seemed  as  glad  to  see  us  as  we 
were  to  see  him.  He  would  always  give  us  good  advise.  Sam 
would  come  to  camp  early  in  the  spring  and  usually  stay  till 
fall.  There  were  always  hoboes  coming  and  going,  and  usually 
they  never  stayed  but  a  few  days  at  a  time.  Some  hoboes 
would  look  for  a  day  or  two  of  work;  most  of  them  wouldn't. 
Sam  would  always  manage  to  find  a  httle  work,  and  one  job 


was  carrying  in  the  wood  for  the  local  bakery  shop  that  Doc 
Tinder  operated.  They  heated  their  ovens  with  wood.  Sam 
was  able  to  keep  himself  in  smoking  tobacco  and  a  few  of  the 
necessities.  He  was  a  big  man,  always  shaven,  and  he  tried 
the  best  he  could  to  keep  clean. 

One  day  when  Dave  and  I  were  to  have  been  hoeing  the 
garden,  we  shpped  down  the  track  to  visit  Sam.  He  was 
preparing  to  shave.  He  had  one  razor  blade  that  I'm  sure  had 
been  used  many  times.  He  showed  us  how  to  sharpen  a  blade. 
He  took  a  drinking  glass,  put  the  blade  inside,  and  with  his 
fingers  slid  the  blade  back  and  forth.  In  fact,  in  later  years  I 
tried  this  and  it  certainly  worked.  One  day  Sam  was  going  to 
shave  and  he  couldn't  find  his  razor;  he  was  sure  one  of  the 
hoboes  that  left  camp  during  the  night  had  stolen  it.  Anyway, 
that  didn't  stop  Sam.  He  walked  to  the  trash  dump  that  was 
close  by  and  came  back  with  a  broken  window  glass.  He 
lathered  his  face  with  a  bar  of  soap,  got  the  piece  of  mirror, 
and  shaved  with  the  straight  edge  of  the  window  glass.  I 
never  did  try  that  trick. 

There  were  times  that  we  would  play  hookey  from 
school,  and  Hobo  Jungle  was  a  good  place  to  hide  out  till  time 
for  school  to  be  out,  and  then  we'd  stroll  home.  There  were 
several  times  that  we  were  afraid  of  some  of  the  hoboes,  but 
Sam  would  warn  them  not  to  bother  the  boys. 

He  was  very  artistic,  too.  From  the  dump  he  would  find 
buckets  with  a  httle  paint  left  in  them,  and  on  a  piece  of  tin  or 
wood  he  would  paint  beautiful  pictures.  One  picture  in 
particular  that  I  remember  was  painted  on  a  tail  vane  from  an 
old  windmill.  He  had  a  package  of  Bull  Durham  smoking 
tobacco,  and  on  the  front  was  a  picture  of  a  bull.  He  looked  at 
the  package  and  painted  the  bull  on  the  weather  vane.  I 
wanted  that  picture  so  badly  that  he  gave  it  to  me.  Knowing 
that  I  couldn't  take  it  home,  I  hid  it  in  a  cornfield  nearby, 
coming  back  occasionally  to  look  at  it. 

As  fall  approached  and  not  many  hoboes  were  coming 
into  camp,  we  knew  it  would  soon  be  time  for  Sam  to  leave. 


177 


One  evening,  Dave  and  I  went  to  the  camp  and  it  was 
deserted;  everyone  was  gone,  even  Sam.  As  we  walked  up  the 
tracks  towards  home,  we  pulled  our  coats  a  httle  tighter 
around  us  to  keep  out  the  chilly  wind.  Our  hearts  were  sad, 
but  we  knew,  come  spring,  the  hoboes  would  be  back,  and 
hopefully  our  friend  Sam. 


THE  SWAN  CREEK  HOBO,  SELDOM  SEEN 

Everett  Trone 

It  was  a  snowin'  and  a  bio  win'  wintery  day  when  Seldom 
Seen  got  off  the  freight  at  Swan  Creek,  Illinois,  in  1914.  He 
stopped  at  the  blacksmith  shop  and  asked  if  he  could  stay 
overnight.  The  blacksmith,  feeUng  sorry  for  him  said,  "all 
right."  Seldon's  only  visible  possessions  were  the  two  bed 
roUs  that  he  was  carrying  made  from  box  car  paper  sewed 
inside  burlap  sacks.  He  would  use  one  as  a  mat  under  him  and 
covered  up  with  the  other  one.  This  was  the  way  he  was  to 
sleep  on  the  wooden  floor  of  the  blacksmith  shop  that 
evening. 

When  the  blacksmith  came  to  work  the  next  day,  he 
found  that  Seldom  had  swept  and  cleaned  up  the  shop.  The 
blacksmith  was  impressed  and  told  him  he  could  stay  as  long 
as  he  hked.  Seldom  remained  at  the  blacksmith  shop  for  a 
couple  of  years.  He  later  moved  to  the  pool  hall  and  slept  on  a 
cot  at  the  rear.  He  remained  around  Swan  Creek  for  five  or  six 
years,  until  after  World  War  I  was  over. 

Seldom  stood  well  over  six  foot  six  inches,  a  very  tall 
man  for  that  day.  He  wore  a  white  sailor  hat  sometimes, 
which  made  him  look  even  taller.  He  was  not  bald  but  had 
extremely  thin  black  hair  that  was  slicked  back.  He  was  not 
handsome,  yet  he  was  always  clean  and  well  shaven.  He  was 
not  one  to  gamble  or  drink,  but  he  did  carry  a  wad  of  snoose 


in  his  lower  Up  most  of  the  time.  Oh,  I  suppose  he  had  a  drink 
now  and  then,  but  he  was  not  reaUy  a  drinker. 

I  doubt  if  he  had  much  book  learnin';  however,  as  a 
young  lad,  I  thought  he  was  quite  intelhgent.  You  could 
mention  any  town  of  any  size  and  he  would  tell  you  the 
railroad  that  went  through  there.  He  rode  them  all.  I  think 
the  reason  he  showed  up  at  Swan  Creek  was  because  they 
were  cracking  down  on  hoboes  due  to  the  coming  of  the  war. 
They  were  getting  tough  about  riding  the  rails,  and  he 
decided  to  sit  it  out  in  Swan  Creek  until  it  blew  over. 

Of  course,  it  was  not  uncommon  for  a  little  branch  line 
that  ran  up  through  Swan  Creek  to  have  four  or  five  hoboes 
sitting  in  the  open  door  of  a  box  car  as  they  went  through 
town.  It  was  different  in  the  larger  towns,  for  they  would 
have  to  duck  out  of  sight  or  be  apprehended  by  the  railroad 
authorities. 

Seldon  was  a  good  worker.  Many  housewives  around 
Swan  Creek,  and  especially  at  Monmouth,  relied  on  him  to  do 
their  fall  and  spring  house  cleaning.  He  beat  rugs  and 
draperies  and  washed  windows.  In  fact,  he  cleaned  the  whole 
house  from  top  to  bottom.  The  women  did  not  have  to  do  a 
thing  except  to  tell  him  what  they  wanted  done.  His 
reputation  followed  him  that  way  from  place  to  place.  When 
they  would  not  let  anyone  but  Seldom  clean,  you  know  he  was 
doing  the  job  about  right. 

Seldom  also  did  gardening  and  was  hired  by  a  few  of  the 
Swan  Creek  townspeople  to  take  care  of  their  gardens.  He 
charged  30  cents  per  hour.  He  knew  quite  a  bit  about  plants 
and  always  raised  productive  crops. 

Seldom  was  an  artist,  too.  He  did  sign  work  on  store 
windows  or  fronts,  not  only  in  Swan  Creek  but  surrounding 
towns.  I  recall  that  he  drew  a  detailed  picture  of  Swan  Creek 
in  pencil  and  then  colored  it  in  with  crayons.  It  was  almost 
perfect,  with  the  stores  and  other  buildings  in  their  proper 
places.  It  hung  in  a  prominent  place  in  my  dad's  grocery  store 
for  a  long  time.  I  wish  I  knew  what  became  of  it. 


We  had  a  preacher  fella  come  to  town  one  day,  who  took 
to  preaching  on  the  street  corner.  He  was  an  ordained 
minister.  He  attracted  a  smaU  following  around  him  and  soon 
began  talking  about  having  the  drinkers  and  gamblers 
arrested.  Of  course,  this  did  not  go  over  with  the  local  boys. 

He  was  having  one  of  his  evening  gatherings  on  the 
corner,  and  after  it  was  rolUn'  pretty  good,  some  of  the  older 
men  around  town  decided  that  if  he  could  preach  on  one 
corner,  they  could  sing  on  the  other  one.  So  they  did.  The 
preacher  became  irritated,  had  them  arrested,  and  they  were 
hauled  up  to  Monmouth  for  the  trials.  Of  course,  the  httle 
congregation  appeared  with  the  preacher  to  witness  against 
the  guys.  It  seems  that  Seldom  knew  this  preacher  from  some 
other  towns  he  had  been  in,  so  they  got  him  to  appear  as  a 
witness  for  them.  When  Seldom  got  on  the  stand,  he  told  the 
judge  where  he  had  been  and  what  the  preacher  had  done  in 
the  other  towns,  and  the  judge  dismissed  the  case.  The 
preacher  never  returned  to  Swan  Creek— he  just  kept  right  on 
going. 

Nobody  in  Swan  Creek,  that  I  know  about,  ever  knew 
that  Seldom  had  a  different  name.  He  was  just  known  as 
Seldom  Seen.  One  summer  when  I  was  stayin'  at  my  sister's 
at  Knoxville,  Illinois,  Seldom  shared  his  real  name  with  me. 
He  was  cleanin'  my  sister's  house  at  the  time.  We  were  sittin' 
out  under  the  tree  when  he  said,  "Everett,  I  never  did  tell 
anybody  in  Swan  Creek  my  real  name  but  since  I'm  leavin' 
I'll  tell  you.  Do  you  notice  the  three  M's  carved  on  my  tool 
box— the  large  one  and  the  two  small  ones?  They  stand  for 
Marvin  Max  McShea." 

Seldom  wrote  to  a  person  called  Often  Seen  several 
times  and  received  letters  in  return.  We  never  saw  a  return 
address  on  the  envelope  but  thought  it  was  from  Often. 

Seldom  left  Swan  Creek  and  I  did  not  see  him  again  for 
fifteen  years.  I  was  married  at  the  time  and  Hved  at  the  edge 
of  town.  I  was  walking  up  town  one  day  and  noticed  Seldom 


sitting  on  the  store  porch.  I  sat  down  beside  him  and  struck 
up  a  conversation.  He  appeared  happy  that  I  recognized  him. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  been  back  before,  since  it  had  been  a 
long  time  since  1  had  seen  him.  He  said  that  he  had  gone 
through  on  a  freight  a  time  or  two.  One  time  he  said,  "I 
stayed  aU  night  outside  of  town.  Jack  King  had  some  oat 
shocks,  and  I  carried  four  or  five  of  them  into  the  box  car  and 
had  a  good  night's  sleep." 

He  had  begun  to  look  pretty  seedy.  I  would  say  he  was 
probably  around  65-70  years  old  at  the  time.  I  told  Henry 
Sands  that  I  had  seen  Seldom,  and  he  said  that  they  had  had 
him  over  for  dinner.  I  know  Seldom  hked  that  since  Henry's 
wife  was  a  good  cook. 

Sittin'  and  talkin'  with  Seldom  on  the  porch  was  the  last 
time  I  was  to  see  him  again.  He  told  me  he  was  leavin'  to  go 
back  to  Cahfornia,  where  they  were  building  glass  rails  a  mile 
long.  He  said,  "I  want  to  go  back  out  there  to  ride  them 
rails." 


THE  PEDDLER 

Vernice  Morrell  Dees 

There  were  many  peddlers  on  the  dirt  roads  of  Illinois 
during  the  summers  of  the  nineteenth  and  early  twentieth 
centuries.  Most  walked,  although  some  drove  horses,  usuaUy 
bony  plugs,  hitched  to  carts  or  wagons. 

They  sold  a  variety  of  things,  ranging  from  books  and 
subscriptions  to  magazines,  to  orders  of  enlargements  of 
family  photographs,  patent  medicines,  remedies  for  animal 
ailments,  and  an  occasional  wagon  load  of  fish  (supposedly 
caught  the  night  before  from  the  nearest  river).  There  was 
also  the  egg  man,  who  made  his  rounds  once  a  week  to  collect 
the  farm  wife's  cases  of  eggs  and  to  leave  empty  cases  for  the 
next  week's  collection.  The  egg  man  drove  a  horse-drawn 


179 


wagon  with  a  cover  over  it  and  carried  a  supply  of  staple 
groceries,  candy,  and  chewing  gum,  which  were  to  be 
bartered  for  eggs  and  poultry.  At  times,  there  would  even  be 
a  salesman  driving  a  fancy-looking  automobile  and  trying  to 
sell  stock  in  the  company  which  manufactured  it. 

Although  there  were  many  peddlers  on  the  roads,  Joe 
was  the  most  interesting.  My  family  had  known  Joe  since  he 
first  began  to  peddle.  He  was  very  young  then— perhaps  in 
his  late  teens  and  perhaps  new  to  IlUnois.  When  I  first 
remember  him,  he  was  probably  in  his  early  20's,  although  he 
seemed  much  older  to  me.  He  was  dark  and  handsome,  with 
black  curly  hair  and  dark  eyes.  He  was  tall  and  very  strong. 
Joe  was  from  one  of  the  Middle  Eastern  countries  and, 
judging  from  his  name,  was  probably  Lebanese.  If  my  family 
knew,  they  did  not  say. 

Joe  hved  in  Peoria,  so  he  must  have  come  to  Rushville 
by  train.  He  may  have  had  an  arrangement  for  storing 
merchandise  at  some  convient  place  in  Rushville.  He  always 
arrived  at  our  place  in  the  late  afternoon  and  spent  the  night 
with  us. 

I  was  about  seven  years  old  at  the  time  I  remember 
seeing  him  for  the  first  time.  Our  family  had  moved  from 
where  they  had  first  known  him,  and  he  had  lost  touch  with 
them  until  that  summer,  but  they  seemed  happy  to  see  each 
other  again.  Joe  had  learned  to  write  English,  but  was  having 
some  trouble  with  some  capital  letters,  and  I  remember 
helping  him  with  them.  From  that  time  on  for  several  years 
he  made  his  rounds  and  spent  a  night  with  us  each  summer. 

Joe's  pack  was  a  carton  made  of  a  very  strong 
compressed  paper  material.  It  was  maroon  in  color  and  about 
two  and  one  half  feet  in  width,  heighth,  and  depth.  It  had  a 
cover  of  the  same  material  and  dimensions  which  fitted 
snugly  over  the  bottom.  The  two  parts  telescoped  so  that 
when  there  was  more  merchandise  than  the  top  could  hold, 
the  pack  could  be  expanded.  The  carton  was  held  together  by 
heavy  leather  straps  and  also  had  straps  attached  to  fit  over 


the  shoulders  for  carrying.  That  was  before  the  age  of 
plastics. 

Besides  the  pack,  Joe  carried  a  small,  black,  leather- 
covered  case,  which  was  fitted  with  compartments  for  storing 
and  carrying  all  kinds  of  small  articles  of  household  use.  In 
his  case  would  be  needles,  papers  of  pins,  thimbles,  and  a  few 
pairs  of  scissors.  There  would  also  be  razors,  neckties,  hair 
ribbons,  shoe  laces,  button  hooks,  etc.  Usually  there  were 
several  pieces  of  jewelry,  as  well  as  hairpins,  combs,  and 
other  small  articles  of  interest  to  a  family. 

It  was  not  until  after  he  had  spent  the  night  and  had 
breakfast  that  Joe  opened  his  pack  to  show  his  wares.  It  was 
mostly  filled  with  linens.  There  were  beautiful  scarves,  table 
clothes,  pillow  cases,  doilies,  and  other  household  items.  Most 
were  in  hnen  and  embroideried  and  lace  trimmed.  If  there  are 
any  left  today,  they  are  collectors  items.  I  remember  one 
particular  white  Irish  linen  table  cloth  which  was  embossed 
with  an  antlered  stag  in  the  middle.  It  was  banquet  size  and 
very  colorful.  Other  things  were  just  as  elaborate.  They  were 
the  type  of  things  which  we  did  not  see  often  and  which,  for 
the  most  part,  we  had  httle  use,  but  my  mother  did  buy  some 
of  the  plainer  things. 

Before  leaving,  Joe  would  give  my  mother  some  piece  of 
merchandise  in  gratitude  for  his  night's  lodging.  He  would 
not  have  been  allowed  to  pay  otherwise. 

The  last  time  we  saw  Joe  was  in  the  late  20's.  At  that 
time  he  was  driving  a  nice  horse  hitched  to  a  covered  cart.  We 
hadn't  seen  Joe  for  some  time.  He  had  married  and  had 
started  a  retail  business  in  Peoria.  This  last  trip  was  purely 
nostalgic.  He  had  missed  traveUng  about  and  wanted  to 
make  one  last  trip  through  the  countryside  to  see  the  people 
he  had  known,  and  with  whom  he  had  become  friends  during 
his  years  as  a  peddler. 


DR.  RENNER  OF  BENLD 

Grace  R.  Welch 

All  doctors  Live  on  the  brink  of  crisis,  but  the  early 
horse-and-buggy  doctors  were  pioneers  as  well,  learning  not 
alone  from  books  and  predecessors,  but  also  from  their  own 
experiences.  They  were  breaking  ground,  building  where 
nothing  had  existed  before,  and  when  there  was  nothing  to 
build  with,  they  created— out  of  their  concern  and 
understanding  and  love  for  their  fellow  man. 

Such  a  doctor,  my  father,  came  out  of  St.  Louis 
University  Medical  School  in  1906  to  begin  his  practice  in 
Benld,  Illinois.  The  town  was  growing  rapidly  as  four  coal 
mines  were  operating  in  the  vicinity.  Most  of  the  land  in  this 
area  and  many  of  the  businesses  were  owned  by  Ben  L. 
Dorsey;  in  fact,  the  name  of  the  town  was  formed  by  using  his 
given  name  and  two  initials.  Probably  there  is  no  other  town 
anywhere  using  that  name. 

When  the  doctor  and  his  bride  came  to  Benld,  all  of  the 
roads  in  the  area  were  new  and  were  all  but  impassable  in 
certain  seasons.  He  was,  by  necessity,  a  horse-and-buggy 
doctor.  At  times,  even  the  buggy  had  to  be  left  by  the  road  as 
he  rode  the  horse  through  blowing  snow  or  across  a  swollen 
creek.  Sometimes  a  farmer  met  him  with  team  and  wagon  to 
take  him  to  a  remote  residence.  He  bought  a  car  a  few  years 
later,  but  kept  the  more  primitive  means  of  transportation 
until  he  left  Benld  in  1920  to  settle  in  his  hometown  of 
Lebanon,  Illinois,  where  he  practiced  until  1966. 

The  early  years  in  Benld  were  busy  ones.  His  office 
hours  were  8:00-11:30  a.m.,  1:00-4:30  and  6:00-8:00  p.m., 
except  Sunday,  when  he  took  the  afternoon  off.  Like  other 
doctors  of  his  day,  he  made  house-calls,  charging  $1.00 
during  the  day  and  double  for  night.  Office  calls,  including 
the  medicine  which  he  provided,  were  25  cents  to  50  cents.  He 
prescribed  a  lot  of  calomel,  hinkle  tablets,  gargle,  and  cough 


syrup— a  thick  sweet  mixture  which  patients  loved,  and  also 
more  recognizable  medicines  like  digitalis  and  quinine. 

Babies  were  always  born  in  homes;  for  "confine- 
ment," as  his  records  Listed  it,  he  charged  $10.00.  The  nearest 
hospital,  fifteen  miles  away,  he  used  for  emergencies  or 
nearly  hopeless  cases  that  required  nursing,  and  he  usuaOy 
transported  his  own  patients  there.  Patients  requiring  major 
operations  were  turned  over  to  a  surgeon,  but  he  set  broken 
bones  and  did  stitching  he  was  proud  of.  Once  in  a  while,  he 
pulled  an  aching  tooth.  He  was  often  caUed  back  to  the  office 
late  on  Saturday  nights  when  there  had  been  too  much 
revelry,  and  he  sometimes  treated  fearsome  injuries  suffered 
in  mine  accidents. 

By  1916  Benld  had  a  population  of  3.500,  a  mixture  of 
nationalities  as  the  names  on  his  records  show:  Sakellaris, 
Dmytryk,  Lanfarnski,  Firth,  MacDonald,  Marcacci,  Morgan, 
and  Powchick.  His  daybook  held  a  day's  work  on  a  single 
page,  where  he  Usted,  in  abbreviated  form,  the  patient's 
name,  diagnosis,  prescription  and  charge.  Each  entry  was 
clear  enough  to  be  transcribed  later  to  individual  cards  by  his 
one  "office  girl"  or  himself.  He  had  survived  sleepless  nights, 
frozen  ears,  and  long  hours  for  ten  years  without  vacation, 
but  nothing  could  have  prepared  him  for  the  crisis  soon  to 
erupt. 

In  1917  America  went  to  war.  The  other  doctor  in  town 
was  accepted  for  service,  but  my  father,  just  a  little  older, 
was  refused  because  he  would  be  needed  to  serve  the  town. 
He  became  chairman  of  the  local  unit  of  the  Red  Cross,  even 
as  he  worked  longer  hours  to  do  the  work  of  two  doctors.  The 
pages  in  his  daybook  began  to  look  crowded  as  the  daily 
patient  load  began  to  jump  to  20,  25,  and  more.  When  a 
strange  new  illness,  influenza,  began  to  spread,  the  usual 
page  would  no  longer  hold  the  names,  even  in  his  neat,  small 
writing,  and  he  was  forced  to  use  the  margins  and  eliminate 
some  of  the  detail.  By  October  of  1918,  the  peak  of  the 
epidemic,  he  cHpped  in  extra  sheets. 


The  disease,  previously  unknown  in  this  country,  had 
come  in  from  Europe  on  the  east  coast,  and  gradually  swept 
the  country.  Because  it  was  new,  people  had  no  immunity 
built  up  and  doctors  had  no  cures.  It  could  be  a  killer  as 
deadly  as  the  bullets  and  gas  that  husbands,  fathers,  and 
sons  were  facing  overseas.  Country  and  city  doctors  alike 
could  treat  only  symptoms.  In  spite  of  their  best  efforts,  the 
patients  often  remained  weak  for  a  long  time  or  succumbed  to 
pneumonia  and  other  complications. 

Before  the  month  was  over,  he  was  going  night  and  day, 
and  finally  he  had  to  call  for  help.  Retired  doctors  who  were 
willing  to  help  in  emergencies  were  registered  with  the  State 
Board  of  Health,  and  two  came  in  answer  to  his  call. 
Although  these  men  would  see  patients  only  during  office 
hours,  leaving  the  night  calls  stiU  to  be  answered  by  my 
father,  he  was  able  to  snatch  enough  sleep  to  keep  going.  A 
nurse  who  took  his  temperature  at  the  hospital  when  he  was 
delivering  a  patient  tried  in  vain  to  talk  him  into  staying,  but 
he  went  on  back  to  the  people  who  were  depending  on  him.  I 
heard  him  boast,  years  later,  that  he  had  never  been  iU 
enough  to  have  a  meal  in  bed. 

He  was  a  marvelous  story-teller,  later  recounting  his 
experience  by  reflecting  the  lighter  side  of  that  stressful 
period.  As  he  was  leaving  a  household  where  practically  all  of 
the  family  members  were  suffering  from  influenza,  a  neighbor 
came  to  meet  him  at  the  car. 

She  rolled  up  the  long  apron  in  front  of  her  as  she  asked, 
"Are  the  Gaudinos  getting  any  better?  My  Patrick  Ukes  to 
play  with  their  Tony,  and  he's  always  wanting  to  know  when 
he  can  see  him." 

Doc  decided  to  share  one  of  his  worries  with  this  kind, 
concerned  woman.  "Yes  they're  improving,  but  they're  not 
gaining  strength  very  fast  because  there's  no  one  well  enough 
to  cook  good  nourishing  meals." 

"Oh,  the  poor  dears!  Could  I  just  cook  up  a  pot  of  nice 
broth  for  them?" 


"That's  exactly  what  they  need.  It's  good  of  you  to  think 
of  it." 

"I'U  be  takin'  it  over  tomorrow." 

"Don't  go  in.  Just  leave  it  at  the  door." 

On  Doc's  next  trip  to  the  Gaudino's,  he  was  pleased  to 
learn  that  the  soup  had  been  deUvered,  but  surprised  by  the 
recipient's  comment  about  it:  "Yes  Mrs.  Flaherty  sent  over 
something  she  called  soup,  and  she  was  a  very  kind  lady, 
but-" 

"Didn't  you  eat  it?"  asked  Doc. 

Mrs.  Gaudino  was  flat  on  her  back,  but  her  voice  was 
strong:  "It  was  hke  eating  the  dishwater.  Nothing  in  it!  She 
sent  over  the  water  she  had  cooked  her  meat  in." 

The  Gaudinos  recovered,  but  the  Flahertys  caught  the 
flu.  Mrs.  Gaudino  decided  to  return  the  favor;  she  felt  she 
could  give  Mrs.  Flaherty  a  lesson  in  soup-making.  The  doctor 
heard  about  it  when  he  called. 

"Did  you  ask  Mrs.  Gaudino  to  send  us  some  soup?" 
asked  Mrs.  Flaherty  weakly. 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  them  since  they're  well." 

Mrs.  Flaherty  raised  her  head  with  difficulty  from  the 
pillow,  but  her  voice  gained  strength  as  she  spoke:  "She  sent 
over  something  she  called  soup,  bless  her  heart,  but  we  had  a 
wee  bit  of  trouble  enjoying  it.  She  must  have  cleaned  out  her 
pantry;  it  had  everything  in  it!  Slop,  I  called  it." 

Doc  hved  until  1967,  acknowledging  many  changes  in 
his  profession  but  he  never  ceased,  in  sixty  years  of  practice, 
to  make  house  calls  and  provide  his  own  medicine.  When  the 
town  celebrated  his  50th  anniversary,  of  both  medical 
practice  and  marriage,  he  had  dehvered  more  than  3,500 
babies.  He  had  also  had  an  enormous  impact  on  the  health 
and  well  being  of  the  community. 


DR.  COWLES  OF  WOODHULL 

Genevieve  Hagerty 

It  has  been  eighty-five  years  since  the  handsome  young 
doctor  and  his  bride  stepped  off  the  C.  B.  &  Q.  "Dolly"  at 
Woodhull,  Illinois.  But  the  young  wife  later  died  during 
tumor  surgery  in  their  home,  and  nothing  the  Chicago 
specialists  nor  he  did  could  save  her  life. 

That  left  the  village  with  an  attractive  widower,  Dr. 
George  H.  Cowles,  and  a  ten-year-old  son,  and  it  took  a 
woman  named  Myrtle  Tilden,  twenty  years  younger,  to 
recapture  his  heart.  I  was  one  of  the  nine  children  of  this  1912 
marriage,  but  my  earliest  reahzation  that  he  was  also  a  doctor 
came  when  he  took  me  into  the  bedroom  on  October  20,  1919, 
to  see  the  newest  baby,  John.  When  Dad  died  in  1936,  I  was 
on  my  way  to  becoming  a  registered  nurse,  so  we  had  talked  a 
lot  about  the  early  days  of  medicine. 

When  my  father  first  came  to  Woodhull,  old  Dr.  Lowery 
already  had  a  flourishing  practice.  So  at  least  once  a  day.  Dad 
harnessed  a  team  of  horses  to  the  buggy  and  made  a 
galloping  dash  through  town  and  out  a  mile  or  so.  The  next 
day  he'd  take  a  different  route,  and  soon  the  people  were 
whispering  about  how  busy  the  new  doctor  was,  and  that 
perhaps  he  could  cure  their  ills. 

His  offices  were  two  rooms  of  his  large  frame  home.  The 
first  had  a  table  where  he  did  his  bookkeeping,  a  balance 
beam  scale,  a  huge  black  safe  piled  with  thick  medical  books, 
a  rocker,  two  straight  chairs,  a  large  Boston  fern  in  the  north 
window,  a  rag  rug  on  the  lineoleum,  and  his  sheepskin  and 
diploma  from  Rush  Medical  College  and  Northwestern 
University. 

The  operating  room,  just  off  our  kitchen,  was  dwarfed 
by  the  long,  narrow,  wooden  table  with  its  thin  pad.  One  wall 
held  a  glass-enclosed  case  of  instruments.  There  hung  the 
shiny  bone  saw  with  which  he'd  amputated  "Cap"  Clay's  leg 
after  a  well  drilling  accident.  There  was  the  skuU  trephine 


which  dad  used  at  least  once.  Among  his  momentos  is  a 
picture  of  the  patient,  a  little  girl.  He  wrote  on  the  back 
"Abscess  of  brain  operation,  April  6,  1898.  Successful." 
There  were  four  forceps  he  used  to  puU  teeth  until  a  dentist 
came  to  town.  Also  in  the  case  where  hemostats,  scissors, 
suture  material,  needles,  catheters,  obstetrical  forceps, 
retractors,  and  other  tools  of  his  trade. 

A  corner  cupboard  held  rubber  aprons,  rubber  sheets, 
bedpans,  urinals,  and  specimen  bottles.  Nearby  was  a 
commode  with  pitcher,  basin,  and  bar  of  soap  for  the 
surgeons  to  wash  their  hands.  As  his  practice  grew.  Dad 
preferred  to  give  the  drop  (ether  or  chloroform  anesthetic) 
and  let  others  do  the  surgery. 

Another  wall  of  this  room  had  long  shelves  to  hold  the 
few  medicines  available  at  the  time.  Dad  had  apprenticed 
himself  to  a  Dr.  Dale  in  Wisconsin  before  graduation,  so  he 
was  able  to  be  licensed  by  the  state.  The  early  physicians 
were  almost  hypnotists  in  their  prescribing  and  dispensing  of 
medicines,  willing  many  poeple  back  to  health.  Dad 
prescribed  fever  tablets  with  the  label,  "Dissolve  ten  in  half 
glass  of  water  and  take  a  teaspoon  every  hour."  He  ordered 
syrup  of  epicac,  rather  than  the  old  remedy  of  kerosene  and 
lard,  to  get  the  croupy  child  to  vomit  the  phlegm.  Castor  Oil 
was  given  to  young  and  old,  for  most  diseases.  With  his 
pestle  and  mortar,  he  crushed  tablets:  with  the  tip  of  his  pen 
knife  he  measured  out  the  right  amount  to  administer;  and 
with  his  expertise  he  mixed  gallstone  medicine,  tonics,  cough 
remedies,  and  ointments.  He  had  absolutely  no  use  for  patent 
medicines,  such  as  Fletcher's  Castoria,  Mother  Burns  Salve, 
or  Denver  Mud.  He  compared  the  latter  to  the  efficacy  of 
fresh  cow  dung! 

One  aid  the  country  doctor  had  was  mustard  plasters  to 
treat  the  deadly  pneumonia.  My  father  taught  the  family  how 
to  mix  the  right  amount  of  flour,  powdered  mustard,  and 
vinegar  and  apply  as  a  poultice  to  the  chest.  The  reaction 


brought  blood  churning  to  the  lungs  to  hopefully  rid  them  of 
infection. 

The  stomach  pump  was  another  great  palliative.  The 
treatment  gave  the  family  something  to  do  for  the  patient,  it 
focused  attention  on  the  sick  one,  and  the  sufferer  certainly 
felt  better  when  the  treatmen*  stopped.  Dad's  future  mother- 
in-law  was  his  very  first  patient  when  he  came  to  Woodhull 
(attested  to  by  an  engraved  gold  cross  she  gave  him  for  a 
watch  fob),  and  Grandma  Katie  Tilden  always  claimed  the 
treatment  had  saved  her  life. 

Most  babies  were  breast  fed  in  that  era,  but  the  few  who 
couldn't  were  considered  starving  babies.  Dad  became  a 
specialist  in  concocting  cow's  milk  formula  for  those  babies. 
When  one  family  argued  that  goat's  milk  would  do  the  trick. 
Dad  sputtered,  "Hang  the  goat  by  the  horns  and  I'll  save 
your  baby."  And  he  did. 

Other  remedies  concerned  diets  for  patients  suffering 
from  cholera,  typhoid,  or  other  gastrointestinal  maladies. 
There  was  hot  milk  toast  with  pepper  and  salt  added,  the 
toast  well  browned.  In  more  severe  cases,  flour  was  scorched 
in  a  skillet,  salt  and  milk  added  to  make  a  thick  gravy,  and 
the  patient  was  fed  a  teaspoon  every  fifteen  minutes. 

Dad  was  one  of  the  first  in  town  to  buy  and  drive  a  car, 
but  until  the  roads  were  paved,  he  still  had  to  resort  to 
horsedrawn  vehicles  part  of  the  time.  The  last  Ford  he  bought 
was  a  yellow  and  blue  taxicab.  It  was  easily  identifiable,  and 
the  patients  along  the  eighteen-mile  drive  to  Galesburg 
hospitals  could  flag  him  down,  and  save  another  trip  for  a 
house  call.  Another  signal  he  used  was  to  have  the  family 
place  a  chair  in  the  driveway  if  they  needed  him.  It  stood  out 
like  a  beacon  in  the  country. 

My  youngest  brother  and  sister  never  knew  the 
excitement  of  the  Galesburg  surgeons  like  Dr.  Michael 
Winters,  Dr.  Moses  Griffith,  and  Dr.  Charles  Finley,  arriving 
by  night  train  at  Alpha  and  being  transported  the  three  miles 
over  snow  packed  or  muddy  roads  to  our  home.  For  them,  it 


was  almost  a  lark,  a  night  away  from  the  city,  and  they  would 
oeprate  on  the  four  or  five  patients  Dad  had  scheduled. 

One  evening  they  arrived  just  as  two  of  our  children, 
Bobby  and  Kathleen,  had  chmbed  up  on  a  dresser  on  our 
enclosed  back  porch.  They  had  planned  to  get  a  drink  from 
the  tin  dipper  in  the  ten-quart  pail  of  well  water,  but  the 
dresser  tipped  over.  The  water,  a  large  crockful  of  beets 
pickhng  in  vinegar,  and  a  gallon  of  milk  went  with  it.  As  the 
red  and  white  cascade  soaked  the  children  and  flooded  the 
kitchen,  my  mother  was  in  tears,  but  the  doctors  waded 
through  and  had  the  best  laugh  of  the  day. 

I  well  remember  the  mixture  of  pride  and  fear  I  felt 
when  Raymond  was  about  five  and  he  was  being  carried  into 
the  operating  room  for  surgery.  He  looked  vulnerable  in  his 
pajamas,  but  it  took  all  the  doctors  to  get  him  on  the  table. 
As  they  went  through  the  door  from  the  kitchen,  he  grabbed 
the  two  heating  pipes  to  the  upstairs,  held  on  with  a  death 
grip,  and  screamed  for  big  brother  Gerald  to  help  him. 

Most  children  came  for  tonsillectomies,  and  were  carried 
to  our  folding  bed  in  the  living  room  after  surgery.  They  each 
stayed  about  thirty  minutes  to  be  sure  there  was  no  bleeding, 
then  were  bundled  up,  winter  or  summer,  and  taken  home  to 
recuperate. 

Many  more  patients  were  seen  in  their  homes  than  in 
the  office.  Dad's  practice  extended  from  Woodhull  into  Alpha, 
New  Windsor,  Rio,  Ophiem,  North  Henderson,  Oneida,  and 
the  adjoining  countryside.  He  saw  each  patient  as  an  integral 
part  of  the  family,  and  each  family  as  a  part  of  a  community. 
He  delivered  more  than  2,000  babies,  usually  at  home,  often 
by  kerosene  lamplight.  He  sat  broken  bones  perfectly 
without  X-rays;  he  stiched  up  lacerations  without  blood 
transfusions.  He  treated  influenza,  diptheria,  malaria, 
whooping  cough,  measles,  and  tuberculosis  without  specific 
drugs,  and  he  lost  as  many  patients  as  all  doctors  did  before 
the  advent  of  immunizations  and  antibiotics.  He  thought 
fever  thermometers  in  the  hands  of  layman,  and  even  the 


chicken  scales  on  which  the  farmers  weighed  their  newborn 
babies,  were  unnecessary  adjuncts  to  good  medical  practice. 
But  what  Dad  had  that  many  modern  physicians  do  not 
have  was  time— time  to  hsten  to  the  sick,  time  to  be  patient 
for  the  birth  of  a  baby,  time  to  wait  out  the  crisis  of 
pneumonia,  and  time  to  comfort  the  family  at  the  death  of  a 
loved  one.  The  children  of  Dr.  Cowles,  as  weO  as  his  patients 
during  the  forty  years  he  practiced,  owe  him  a  deep  debt  of 
gratitude  for  giving  us  those  moments  and  hours  of  his  talent 
and  concern. 


WILLIAM  H.  HARTZELL,  TRIAL  ATTORNEY 

Leon  L.  Lamet 

Before  the  turn  of  the  century  and  the  wide  use  of 
telephones,  it  was  only  natural  that  people  would  satisfy 
their  curiosity  and  seek  entertainment  from  court  trials.  The 
latter  provided  local  drama  and  glamorized  the  participants. 

Law  schools  were  few  in  number,  and  their  location, 
distance,  and  expense  made  them  beyond  the  reach  of  most 
young  people  who  had  the  desire  to  enter  the  profession.  The 
accepted  method  of  gaining  the  right  to  practice  was  by 
becoming  a  student  in  the  office  of  a  practicing  attorney  or 
attorneys  who  were  members  of  the  legal  bar.  In  that  way, 
young  men  studied  the  full  body  of  the  law  and  gained 
guidance  in  procedures  until  they  were  able  to  demonstrate 
the  abiUty  and  show  a  level  of  responsibihty  that  justified 
their  admission  to  practice  in  our  courts.  Rare  were  those 
lawyers  in  western  Illinois,  in  those  early  days,  who  were 
admitted  to  practice  by  any  other  preparation. 

Into  this  scene  came  WiUiam  Henry  Hartzell,  a 
graduate  of  the  LaHarpe  Seminary,  who  found  acceptance  as 
a  student  in  the  law  office  of  Charles  J.  Scofield  and  AppoUes 


W.  O'Hara  in  Carthage.  Mr.  Hartzell  was  born  November  8, 
1869,  one  of  the  sons  of  Noah  and  Rebecca  Westherington 
Hartzell,  on  a  farm  in  Durham  Township  in  Hancock  County. 

His  diligence  and  determination  was  such  that  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Illinois  Bar  at  age  21,  and  two  years  later,  he 
was  elected  State's  Attorney  of  Hancock  County  in  the  great 
Cleveland-Harrison  campaign  of  that  year.  Between  those 
two  notable  events,  he  married  Inez  E.  Charter  of  LaHarpe. 
Their  home  was  a  happy  one,  to  which  there  were  born  six 
children— namely,  Ruth,  Eloise,  Grace,  Lucille  (Billy),  Phillip, 
and  FrankUn. 

After  dissolution  of  the  firm  of  Scofield  and  O'Hara,  Mr. 
Hartzel  practiced  by  himself  for  some  years.  For  a  period,  he 
was  associated  with  Wilham  C.  Hooker  of  Carthage  and 
Truman  Plantz  of  Warsaw  under  the  firm  name  of  Hooker, 
Plantz,  and  Hartzell.  Later,  he  was  associated  with  B.  M. 
Cavanagh  and  Edward  S.  Martin  under  the  firm  name  of 
Hartzell,  Cavanagh,  and  Martin. 

After  Edward  S.  Martin  decided  to  practice  alone,  Mr. 
Hartzell  appeared  to  feel  that  his  advancing  years 
necessitated  that  the  firm  name  be  changed  to  Cavanagh, 
Lamet,  and  Irwin,  with  him  retaining  only  the  position  of 
"counsel."  I  was  the  "Lamet"  in  that  firm,  and  so  I  got  to 
know  him  well. 

The  talent  for  perception  of  human  reaction  is  one  that 
Mr.  Hartzell  developed  advantageously  and  used  with 
impressive  results  throughout  his  career.  As  his  abihty  as  a 
trial  lawyer  attracted  wide  attention,  his  services  were 
eagerly  sought  by  many,  especially  those  who  suffered 
misfortune. 

His  expertise  in  cross-examining  witnesses  was  rarely 
equalled,  and  his  abihty  to  draw  from  a  witness  those  aspects 
that  were  favorable  to  his  cUent  and  repeat  them  by  different 
approaches  was  impressive.  One  example  that  I  recall  was  his 
cross-examination  during  a  murder  trial  that  occurred  in  the 
late  years  of  his  practice.  The  prosecuting  witnesses  were 


185 


young  people,  who  were  questioned  about  their  use  of 
intoxicating  liquor  throughout  the  evening  of  the  murder. 
There  was  no  proof  concerning  the  amount  of  liquor  used,  nor 
was  it  probable  that  there  was  much  used,  but  Mr.  Hartzell's 
repetition  in  the  questioning  of  the  occasions  where  a  drink  or 
drinks  was  comsumed  was  so  extensive  that  on  appeal  to  the 
Illinois  Supreme  Court,  the  Court  found  that  witnesses  who 
had  consumed  such  a  quantity  of  liquor  could  not  be  relied 
upon. 

Another  of  his  impressive  talents  was  to  leave  a  witness 
at  a  point  that  the  opposing  counsel  got  the  impression  that 
the  situation  was  advantageous  to  him.  However,  the  baited 
lawyer  always  experienced  disappointing  results. 

In  his  cross-examination  of  witnesses,  I  was  sometimes 
reminded  of  the  peeling  of  an  apple  down  to  the  core.  He 
questioned  the  witness  around  and  around  until  he  had 
extracted  from  him  all  the  knowledge  that  he  had  on  the 
subject— and  then  he  would  expand  his  questions  in  the  area 
of  those  matters  of  disadvantage  to  the  oppenent,  and 
emphasize  them. 

Over  the  years,  he  developed  expressions  that  made  an 
impact  upon  the  jury.  He  could  reflect  joy,  sorrow,  disgust, 
suspicion,  and  other  reactions  by  various  arm,  hand,  and 
facial  expressions.  And  he  seemed  to  develop,  by  reason  of 
need,  words  and  phrases  that  fit  the  occasion  and  were 
lasting  to  the  hsteners.  In  all  of  this,  he  had  high  respect  for 
the  presiding  judge,  avoiding  situations  that  would 
embarrass  the  court  in  any  way. 

Until  the  Great  Depression  of  the  30's,  Mr.  Hartzell  was 
a  frequent  user  of  cigars.  One  could  make  no  mistake  about 
his  identity  when  he  was  walking  down  the  street  thinking 
about  a  problem.  There  seemed  to  be  a  puff  of  smoke  from  the 
cigar  with  every  step. 

His  striking  physical  appearance  was  largely  due  to  his 
deep  black  hair,  less  than  tall  stature,  and  a  heavy  black 
beard.  The  beard  stood  out  prominently  in  those  earlier  days 


when  shaving  was  not  a  daily  practice.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
beard  that  earned  him  the  nickname  of  "Pig."  Although  a 
dignified  man,  he  accepted  the  title  affectionately. 

Intoxicating  liquors  were  distasteful  to  Edward 
Hartzell  throughout  his  hfe.  He  frequently  gave  lectures 
opposing  their  sale  and  use  in  every  way.  In  his  final  illness, 
at  age  sixty  eight,  when  the  attending  physician 
recommended  the  use  of  whisky  for  stimulation  of  his  heart, 
he  responded  that  it  was  his  "first  taste  of  the  fluid." 

Most  of  the  lawyers  that  have  had  experiences  with 
William  H.  Hartzell  are  deceased.  However,  those  who  were 
his  adversaries  or  had  participated  with  him  at  the  trial  table, 
in  their  day,  expressed  the  view  that  his  talent  as  a  trial 
lawyer  was  unexcelled  in  western  Illinois.  He  was  one  of  the 
people  who  made  Carthage  a  special  place  many  years  ago. 


THE  BARBERS  OF  RUSHVILLE 

Guy  Tyson 

My  grandpa  had  white  whiskers  and  a  mustache.  He 
never  shaved.  That  was  the  thing  I  remembered  most  about 
him  when  I  was  a  kid,  because  he  always  insisted  on  a  kiss 
and  the  whiskers  scratched  my  lips.  I  didn't  like  that.  The  top 
of  his  head  was  bald,  and  when  the  hair  on  the  sides  and  back 
got  too  long.  Grandma  snipped  it  off  with  her  scissors.  When 
I  got  older,  I  noticed  that  most  of  the  men  my  grandfather's 
age  wore  whiskers  and  mustaches,  but  the  younger  men  my 
papa's  age  only  wore  a  mustache. 

Papa  only  shaved  once  a  week,  unless  we  were  going 
some  place.  When  he  shaved,  he  would  lather  his  face  using  a 
shaving  brush  and  soap.  After  sharpening  his  razor  on  a 
strap,  he  would  shave  off  his  whiskers  then  wash  his  face 


with  hot  water.  There  was  no  perfumed  aftershave  lotion,  no 
hair  spray,  no  dandruff  remover,  or  hair  tonic. 

Papa  would  drive  the  team  and  buggy  to  town  every 
Saturday  afternoon  and  buy  enough  groceries  to  last  a  week. 
He  got  to  going  to  the  barber  shop  before  he  came  home  to 
get  a  shave.  The  barber  would  tip  the  chair  back,  lather  his 
face,  and  cover  it  with  a  hot,  wet  towel  to  soften  the  whiskers 
before  shaving  them  off.  The  price  was  ten  cents  for  a  shave 
and  15  cents  for  a  hair  cut. 

One  Saturday  when  he  came  home,  we  kids  ran  out  to 
meet  him  and  carry  in  the  groceries,  and  see  if  he  had  brought 
us  a  sack  of  candy.  Our  little  sister  took  one  look  at  the  man 
in  the  buggy,  ran  into  the  house  and  told  Mama  a  strange 
man  had  driven  Papa's  buggy  home  and  left  Papa  in  town. 
Papa  had  shaved  off  his  mustache.  When  he  came  into  the 
house.  Mama  took  one  look  at  him,  burst  into  tears,  and  ran 
into  the  bedroom  so  we  wouldn't  see  her  cry. 

There  were  four  boys  in  our  family,  and  it  would  have 
cost  too  much  to  have  our  hair  cut  in  a  barber  shop,  so  Papa 
bought  a  pair  of  hand  clippers  and  he  cut  our  hair.  I  don't 
remember  ever  going  into  a  barber  shop  before  I  went  to  high 
school.  When  we  boys  got  older,  we  would  use  the  clippers,  a 
comb,  and  Mama's  scissors  and  cut  each  others's  hair. 

When  I  went  into  the  army  in  1918,  my  uncle  gave  me  a 
Gem  Safety  Razor.  It  came  with  an  extra  handle  and  a  strap 
so  you  could  sharpen  the  single  edge  blade  and  use  the  same 
blade  several  times  before  it  had  to  be  replaced.  It  was  a 
wonderful  improvement  over  the  old  straight  razor. 

There  were  twenty-seven  barbers  in  Rushville.  They 
opened  their  shops  at  7:00,  seven  days  a  week,  and  closed  in 
the  evening  when  the  last  customer  was  through.  Rushville 
was  a  Saturday  night  town.  Everyone  had  cars  so  they  came 
to  town  to  visit  and  shop.  None  of  the  stores  closed  before 
10:30  p.m.  The  barbers  got  lots  of  customers  after  the  stores 
closed. 

AO  the  barbers  had  a  meeting  in  the  courthouse  to  talk 


about  not  barbering  on  Sunday.  Some  of  them  said  they  had 
to  stay  open  because  too  many  of  their  customers  wanted  a 
shave  before  they  went  to  church  that  morning.  The  others 
said  they  could  get  a  shave  late  Saturday  night.  They 
wouldn't  agree  so  they  decided  to  wait  a  week  and  meet 
again.  The  night  group  cut  their  prices  that  week  from  35 
cents  for  a  hair  cut  to  25  cents  and  took  most  of  the  trade  that 
week  so  they  all  decided  to  close  on  Sunday. 

One  day  two  young  fellows  drifted  into  town  and  got 
Jobs  in  one  of  the  barber  shops.  Later  they  married  my  sister 
and  her  girlfriend. 

My  brother,  Lester,  never  cared  much  for  farming.  Our 
brother-in-law  had  such  good  working  conditions  and  made 
much  better  money  as  a  barber  than  farming,  that  Lester 
decided  to  be  a  barber  also. 

After  graduating  from  a  barber  college  in  Davenport, 
Iowa,  he  barbered  in  Bushnell  for  a  year  then  came  home  and 
got  a  job  in  Rushville.  The  owner  collected  thirty  percent  of 
the  money  taken  in  and  furnished  everything  except  the 
tools. 

Most  of  the  shops  had  a  shoeshine  chair,  and  a 
shoeshine  boy  would  shine  your  shoes  for  a  dime.  Some  of  the 
shops  had  a  bathtub  in  the  back  room  where  you  could  take  a 
bath  with  plenty  of  hot  water,  soap,  and  a  clean  towel  for  25 
cents.  Not  many  homes  had  running  water  or  a  bathtub. 
Most  of  the  better  barber  shops  had  a  rack  on  the  wall  that 
held  fifty  or  more  shaving  mugs  and  brushes.  A  regular 
customer  could  buy  his  own  mug  and  the  barber  never  used 
that  mug  or  brush  on  anyone  else. 

During  the  Depression,  Lester  rented  a  small  building  in 
Pleasantview,  and  every  Wednesday  night,  and  all  day 
Sunday  he  would  barber  for  the  folks  in  Pleasantview.  No 
barber  ever  closed  their  shop  until  six  o'clock  or  until  the  last 
customer  was  taken  care  of,  so  for  several  years  besides 
working  ten  or  eleven  hours  in  Rushville,  he  worked  till 
midnight  on  Wednesday  and  all  day  every  Sunday. 


187 


When  the  soldiers  came  home  from  the  Korean  War, 
there  were  not  enough  jobs  for  everyone.  Jerry,  our  youngest 
son,  came  home  from  high  school  one  night  and  said  he  had 
been  talking  to  Uncle  Lester  and  asked  what  we  thought  of 
barbering  as  a  trade. 

He  liked  the  idea  that  a  barber  was  always  inside.  The 
work  was  clean,  and  when  you  went  home  at  night  your  day's 
pay  was  in  your  pocket.  All  the  barbers  in  town  owned  their 
own  home  and  a  good  car,  took  a  vacation  each  year,  and 
some  of  them  owned  an  extra  house  or  farm.  We  liked  the 
idea,  too.  He  started  planning  and  saving  his  money  toward 
going  to  barber  school  after  graduation  from  high  school. 
Harold,  his  oldest  brother,  quit  his  job,  and  they  both  took  a 
thirty-nine-week  course  in  a  barber  college  in  Decatur  and 
graduated  in  1955. 

Before  Harold  and  Jerry  graduated  from  barber  college, 
Lester  open  up  a  shop  of  his  own  with  two  chairs,  and  when 
they  came  home  Jerry  started  barbering  with  Lester.  Harold 
got  a  job  with  a  barber  in  Beardstown.  After  graduation  you 
had  to  barber  two  years  under  a  licensed  barber  before  you 
could  get  a  barber's  license. 

Times  were  changing.  The  law  required  the  tools  to  be 
disinfected  between  customers,  and  a  clean  towel  for  every 
customer.  The  customer  also  liked  a  neck  paper  under  the 
hair  cloth  and  a  vacuum  to  suck  the  loose  hair  from  around 
the  collar.  They  also  wanted  a  ten  second  electric  massage  on 
the  neck  and  shoulders  before  they  got  out  of  the  chair.  A  few 
days  before  Jerry  started  barbering  in  RushvilJe,  the  barbers 
all  met  and  decided  to  raise  the  price  of  a  hair  cut  from  75 
cents  to  one  dollar.  It  was  the  first  raise  they  had  had  in 
seven  years. 

In  1970  the  building  where  they  had  their  shop  was  sold 
and  they  had  to  move.  Lester  had  been  barbering  for  forty-six 
years,  and  his  legs  were  bothering  him  so  he  didn't  want  to 
start  over  with  a  shop  of  his  own.  He  decided  to  go  in  with  his 


old  partner,  "Mutt  Root,"  and  Jerry  leased  an  empty 
building  and  built  a  new  barber  shop. 

The  electric  razor  was  so  handy  most  men  shaved 
themselves  every  morning,  and  they  had  their  hair  cut  more 
often.  They  were  always  in  a  hurry,  which  brought  on  the 
"appointment"  barber  shop.  Jerry's  was  the  first  one  in 
Rushville. 

Lester  retired  in  1976.  He  had  been  barbering  for  fifty- 
two  years.  No  wonder  his  legs  hurt  him. 

Jerry  bought  a  building  in  1979  and  built  a  new  barber 
shop.  The  walls  and  ceihngs  are  covered  with  old  barn  siding 
and  old  wooden  beams  are  overhead. 

A  modern  barber  shop  must  keep  a  full  line  of  toilet 
articles,  such  as  shampoos,  dandruff  remover,  hair  sprays, 
mustache  combs,  electric  massagers,  hair  curlers,  blow 
driers,  wigs,  and  if  they  haven't  got  what  you  want,  they  will 
get  it  for  you. 

Now,  in  1982,  you  can  get  a  hair  cut  for  $4.50,  a  shave 
for  $3.00,  and  a  shampoo  for  $2.50.  If  you  are  getting  a  little 
gray,  he  will  tint  it  for  you,  or  dye  it  black,  red,  or  any  other 
color  you  choose  for  $10.00.  If  you  don't  like  your  kinks  or 
curls,  get  them  straightened  for  $12.50.  If  you  think  there  is 
something  wrong  with  your  hair,  he  will  test  it  and  tell  you  if 
it  lacks  protein  or  what  will  correct  it. 

There  are  three  barbers  in  RushviUe,  and  Jerry  is  the 
youngest.  The  other  two  are  getting  ready  to  retire.  The  old 
barbers  think  the  law  should  be  changed  so  that  a  young  man 
should  have  to  go  to  school  long  enough  to  learn  all  about  the 
trade,  and  then  when  they  graduate,  they  could  open  up  a 
shop  of  their  own  just  like  the  beauty  operators  do.  No  barber 
can  afford  to  hire  an  apprentice,  teach  him  the  trade,  and  take 
care  of  all  the  red  tape  required  by  the  government  when  you 
are  an  employer. 

Will  Rushville  be  without  a  barber  in  a  few  years?  The 
barbers  say,  "No,  there  will  always  be  someone  to  do  the 
job,"  but  we  know  several  of  our  neighboring  towns  who  have 


no  barbers.  Maybe  some  of  the  young  men  who  are  out  of 
work  because  their  factories  went  broke  or  have  been  laid  off 
countless  times  because  of  strikes  or  loss  of  business  by  the 
company,  would  like  to  have  a  trade  where  you  are 
guaranteed  a  job  every  day  for  the  rest  of  your  hfe  at  a  good 
living  wage,  under  good  working  conditions.  Also,  you  have 
money  in  your  pocket  every  night,  and  you're  the  boss. 
Think  about  it.  You  might  like  it. 


THE  FOLKS  IN  PETERSBURG 

Mollis  Powers 

Geographically,  Peterburg  is  located  in  Menard  County. 
One  mile  South  hes  New  Salem,  which  was  Abraham 
Lincoln's  early  home.  Petersberg  is  nestled  in  beautiful  hills 
that  eventually  slope  into  a  vaUey  on  the  east,  in  which  the 
Sangamon  River  wanders.  Having  had  Lincoln  roam  our  hills 
and  values,  and  Edgar  Lee  Masters  spend  his  early  youth  in 
town,  has  given  us  national  recognition. 

What  follows  is  my  interpretation  of  life  of  some  of  the 
folks  in  Petersburg  decades  ago.  All  of  the  events  are  true. 
The  names  of  people  have  not  been  changed,  but  I  have  used 
their  initials  only. 

In  1916  we  children  in  Petersburg  waited  for  the  ice- 
man to  come  down  the  road  to  deliver  ice.  Juhus  Mallergren, 
the  son  of  the  owner,  always  stopped,  chipped  off  pieces  of 
ice,  and  gave  it  to  us.  His  dad  started  the  first  ice  plant  that 
we  had.  From  the  beginning,  a  coal  mine  was  developed  and 
farm  land  was  acquired. 

H.A.  was  a  banker,  and  he  was  a  land  owner  with  many 
acres.  He  was  genial  and  friendly.  We  sweU  with  pride  today 
when  we  see  the  sons  of  his  past  farm  tenants  with  their  own 
farms,  and  in  some  cases,  the  grandsons  are  occupying  the 
ground  that  their  grandfather  farmed.  H.A.  was  able,  with 


deft  management,  to  keep  his  bank  solvent  during  the  great 
Depression.  He  had  office  space  to  rent  above  his  bank  on  the 
second  story.  Once  a  young  professional  man  in  need  of  this 
space,  and  with  no  finances  with  which  to  buy  his  equipment, 
approached  him  in  his  office.  The  banker's  concerned  answer 
was  "the  tenant  in  the  office  you  desire  has  paid  me  no  rent 
for  three  years.  Would  you  like  to  work  for  me?"  The  young 
prospective  borrower  explained  that  he  had  been  educated 
along  other  lines  and  that  he  knew  nothing  about  the  banking 
business.  The  ensuing  reply  was:  "If  you  wiO  bring  him  into 
my  office,  I  would  like  very  much  to  talk  to  him  as  I  have  not 
been  able  to  contact  him."  Needless  to  say,  this  was  done, 
and  without  force.  Our  neophyte  received  the  loan.  Our 
banker  got  his  rent  money  from  the  tardy  tenant.  .  .  .  Some 
office  equipment  was  obtained  in  the  transfer.  Everyone  was 
happy  and  satisfied.  The  banker  had  lost  no  money  and  had 
transferred  httle.  In  reference  to  the  past  tenant,  earlier  in 
the  year  he  had  expressed  a  desire  to  return  to  St.  Louis,  his 
home. 

Jess  Ballard  and  his  brother  always  Uved  in  Petersburg. 
They  made  a  hving  by  topping  trees.  Sobriety  not  being  their 
strong  point,  they  brought  all  of  us  much  pleasure.  Usually, 
after  a  sleet  storm  they  would  be  very  busy  plying  their 
trade.  Jess  would  squirrel  out  on  a  branch  to  be  cut,  while  his 
brother  was  cutting  with  the  saw  close  to  the  tree.  "It  takes 
the  pressure  off  of  the  saw,"  he  maintained.  On  one 
particularly  cold  and  icy  day,  they  were  at  a  residence  close  to 
the  high  school.  Needless  to  say,  the  school  was  alerted.  As 
we  watched,  the  resident  of  this  home  came  out  of  her  door  to 
admonish  Jess  for  doing  this  dangerous  chmbing.  Never 
wearing  shoes  around  home  was  her  trademark.  Previously  to 
her  upset,  at  the  door,  Jess  had  said  in  no  uncertain  terms 
that  he  was  safer  where  he  was  than  where  she  was.  The  lady 
was  not  hurt.  Later  Jess  and  his  brother  were  struck  by  the 
C.  P.  &  S.  L.  train  as  they  crossed  the  railroad  tracks  in  their 
twenty-year-old  truck.  Mr.  S.,  the  undertaker,  was  giving 


solace  to  Jess  on  having  just  lost  his  brother,  saying:  "It  was 
a  terrible  wreck  and  we  are  saddened  by  your  loss."  "It  could 
have  been  worse,"  was  the  reply.  "How  could  it  have  been 
worse,  Jess?"  "It  could  have  been  me,"  he  reiterated.  I  might 
say  that  all  of  us  were  very  alert  at  that  crossing  after  this 
accident.  Eventually  a  flashing  signal  was  installed. 

About  1910  there  was  a  local  family  named  Wood.  They 
lived  North  of  the  canning  factory.  Two  children  graced  their 
household.  The  son  became  the  Sangamon  County  Judge. 
The  daughter,  after  having  graduated  from  the  University  of 
Chicago,  became  the  English  teacher  and  principal  of  our 
local  high  school.  She  went  on  to  become  Menard  County 
Superintendent  of  Schools.  Remember,  it  was  unprecedented 
in  that  day  (1920-1930)  for  a  lady  to  extend  her  career  to  such 
a  degree.  As  a  principal  in  our  school,  she  helped  to  direct  the 
hves  of  our  students.  She  badgered  us  to  go  farther  with  our 
education.  She  gave  us  encouragement  when  we  needed  it. 
During  all  this  time,  she  was  setting  a  moral  example  for  all 
of  us  to  foUow. 

One  of  her  students  was  Edward  Laning.  As  a  boy,  he 
was  our  local  artist.  After  a  stretch  at  the  University  and  the 
Chicago  Art  Institute,  he  became  very  noted  in  his  field. 
Today  his  murals  grace  the  halls  of  the  Supreme  Court  and 
the  Post-Office  in  Washington,  D.C. 

Another  student.  Wood  Gray,  became  a  teacher  at  the 
University  of  Illinois.  His  high  school  goal  was  to  become  the 
greatest  mile  runner  in  the  nation.  He  traversed  up  and  down 
our  hills  in  winter  and  summer.  He  ran,  ran,  and  ran.  When 
his  times  did  not  improve  because  of  sore  feet,  his  college 
coach  told  him  he  had  ruined  his  feet  in  past  running,  and  it 
would  be  best  to  hang  up  the  spikes  and  concentrate  on  his 
curriculum.  While  being  crushed  by  this  statement,  he  called 
upon  his  past  training  and  went  forward.  As  a  student  in  the 
History  Department,  he  excelled.  Later,  as  a  Professor  in 
History  he  was  asked,  by  the  powers  that  be,  to  go  to  Europe 
and  write  a  history  of  World  War  II.  This  he  did. 


Around  1920,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sept  Weatherby  moved  to 
Petersburg.  Mrs.  W's  father  was  Dr.  Bennett,  M.D.  He  also 
did  some  dentistry,  having  been  the  first  to  do  so.  They  were 
neighbors  of  mine.  In  their  90's  they  still  were  able  to  tolerate 
the  neighborhood  youngsters  very  well.  The  key,  I  believe, 
was  that  they  had  several  grandchildren  of  their  own.  One 
was  and  still  is  my  very  good  friend.  Upon  my  desire  to 
further  my  academic  career,  they  presented  me  with  some 
ancient  dental  tools  used  by  the  doctor.  While  cleaning  out  an 
old  tool  box  in  their  shed,  they  had  discovered  them.  They 
date  back  to  the  time  of  Lincoln.  Rusty  and  pitted,  the  story 
that  they  could  teU  would  be  significant.  Considerable  time 
has  been  spent,  both  by  reading  and  by  research  to  place 
these  instruments  in  Lincoln's  mouth.  Until  now,  this  has 
been  fruitless.  We  do  know,  nevertheless,  that  the  New 
Salem-era  Lincoln  was  young,  and  the  probability  remains 
that  he  never  needed  the  services  of  a  dentist. 

Dinger  Darling  was  a  comical  character.  Innocently 
making  the  scene  each  and  every  day  was  his  personal 
pleasure.  The  two  railroad  stations  seemed  to  be  his  favorite 
milieu  around  1920.  Upon  hearing  the  train  whistle 
approaching  the  station,  he  would  dash  to  the  area  and,  with 
great  speed,  sling  the  ten  gallon  cream  cans  that  were 
destined  to  the  creamery  onto  the  baggage  car.  His  obsession 
with  that  task  would  sometimes  merit  a  dime,  just 
sometimes. 

The  Watkins  family  had  a  drugstore.  The  mother  and 
son  were  both  pharmacists.  When  Mrs.  Watkins  died  in  her 
90's,  she  was  the  oldest  active  living  pharmacist  in  Illinois. 
The  family  was  thrifty.  They  had  a  paper  bailer  in  the  back  of 
their  store.  When  some  of  the  customers  dropped  any  paper, 
even  a  chewing  gum  wrapper,  it  would  immediately  be 
retrieved  and  popped  into  the  bailer.  This  conservatism 
spilled  over  and  was  noted  by  the  general  public.  In  a  certain 
and  almost  indistinguishable  way,  they  always  came  to  the 
aid  of  people  that  needed  help.  In  1915,  a  daughter  did  social 


work  in  Chicago.  A  son,  Lyle,  carried  on  the  business  in 
Petersburg.  He  had  gone  to  the  Culver  Military  Academy 
before  becoming  a  pharmacist.  Since  the  family  owned  almost 
one  half  of  the  buildings  around  the  square,  they  had  many 
apartments  to  rent.  Many  of  those  rooms  were  rented  to  the 
poor.  When  those  people  needed  help,  Lyle  would  come  to 
their  rescue,  giving  them  shelter.  Strangely,  however,  he  lost 
interest  in  both  the  up-keep  of  the  apartments  and  the 
renters  when  they  were  once  on  their  feet.  With  dwindling 
finances,  toward  the  end,  he  still  did  his  best  to  put  some 
cover  over  the  heads  of  the  poor.  His  Masonic  membership 
during  his  many  years  was  a  shinning  example  of 
devotedness. 

In  the  same  vein,  allow  me  to  state  that  this  family 
owned  the  first  car  in  our  town.  For  twenty  to  thirty  years, 
people  from  all  walks  of  Ufe  tried  to  inveigle  Lyle  to  sell.  It 
had  the  appearance  of  a  buggy  with  a  splash  board.  He  would 
not  sell.  Rumor  had  it  that  the  Studebaker  organization 
would  trade  him  even,  giving  him  a  brand  new  President 
Studebaker  in  exchange.  Eventually,  he  sold  this  car  to  a  man 
whom  we  know  had  the  patience  of  Job  and  the  leisure  of 
Methuselah. 

The  editor  of  the  Observer  was  a  kind  and  gentle  man. 
He  reported  the  news  with  carefullness.  Some  of  it  was 
excellent,  some  borderline,  but  never  slanderous.  His 
knowledge  of  people  was  a  thing  to  behold.  All  allegations 
were  checked  out,  often  with  the  family  of  the  accused,  before 
the  presses  started  to  run  the  story.  That,  I  might  add,  took 
courage.  Although  he  has  been  dead  many  years,  his 
nostalgic  columns  are  still  being  carried  in  the  Observer.  The 
future  of  the  paper  is  assurred  because  the  present  operating 
staff  is  adherent  to  his  principles. 

Dr.  Wilkins  was  our  physician  from  1909  until  he  died. 
He  was  a  gaunt  and  tail  man.  He  made  house  calls.  The 
oldsters  in  their  last  years  would  call  him  to  hsten  to  their 
complaints  and  age  problems.  He  would  Usten  first,  then  with 
meticulous  bedside  manner  plead  and  flatter  them  to  once 


again  rise  and  get  better.  It  worked.  Many  of  us  beheve  those 
people  lived  longer  because  of  him.  His  Andy  Gump 
mustache  was  his  trademark. 

John  Lucht  owned  a  grocery  store.  In  1916,  the  children 
would  converge  there  to  buy  round  jawbreakers  at  a  penny 
apiece.  They  came  in  cinnamon,  licorice,  and  peppermint 
flavors.  They  were  in  a  huge  jar  at  the  front  of  the  store. 
Those  of  us  without  the  necessary  lucre  were  his  guests. 

Edgar  Lee  Masters  of.  Spoon  River  Anthology  fame, 
was  claimed  as  a  native  of  Petersburg,  primarily  because  he 
still  had  relations  here.  I  understand  that  Lewistown  hkes  to 
share  some  of  the  ownership,  too.  Edith  Masters,  his  niece, 
was  a  history  teacher  in  our  local  high  school.  On  one  of  his 
trips  from  New  York  to  Petersburg  to  visit  with  the  Masters 
clan,  the  school  was  alerted.  Shortly  it  was  decided  that  I 
should  be  the  one  to  invite  him  over  to  the  assembly  hall  the 
next  morning  to  be  at  opening  exercises  before  the  entire 
student  body.  On  the  way  home  to  dinner,  I  was  to  stop  off  at 
the  Masters  residence  and  make  this  appeal.  I  knocked  on  the 
door  and  was  ushered  into  the  dining  room.  Edgar  Lee  looked 
up  and  said  in  a  booming  voice,  "What  do  you  want?"  I  told 
him  my  request.  His  manner  was  both  gruff  and  brusque  as  he 
retorted,  "I  never  lecture  before  kids."  He  continued 
indulging.  I  just  stood  there,  hoping  to  apologize  for  the 
erratic  timing  of  this  request  and  for  my  impingement  on  his 
valuable  time.  The  words  flowed  out  rather  awkwardly,  I 
know.  Excusing  myself,  I  then  made  a  hasty  retreat  to  the 
door.  The  report  that  I  made  back  to  the  school  was 
disappointing.  The  next  morning,  back  at  school  stood  a 
wonderful  surprise.  There,  in  person,  was  our  author,  Edgar 
Lee  Masters.  History  now  tells  that  Edgar  Lee  was  a  curt  and 
very  critical  person. 

Double  E.  Brass  had  a  canning  factory  on  the  North 
edge  of  Petersburg.  He  canned  sweet  corn  and  pumpkin  in 
season.  His  "Man-in-the-Moon"  label  was  known  far  and 
wide.  Many  large  cities  stocked  his  brand.  When  I  was  very 


191 


young,  being  a  friend  of  the  Brass  children,  I  went  to  work 
with  them  stacking  cans  that  were  shunted  off  on  a  raih-oad 
siding  of  the  Old  C&A  railroad  track  at  the  plant.  Conveyor 
belts  carried  those  empty  cans  out  of  the  boxcar  to  the 
second  floor  of  the  factory  warehouse.  Here  they  were  stored 
until  used.  In  the  boxcar,  we  had  a  tool  that  looked  hke  a 
short-handled  bow  rake  with  the  tines  on  a  long  axis  to  the 
handle.  The  cans  in  the  car  were  in  soUd  rows  that  contained 
many  thousands.  The  tines  on  this  rake  affair  were  spaced  so 
that  one  could  reach  and  deliver  twenty  cans  from  this  stack 
to  the  conveyor.  From  here  they  were  whisked  away  to  the 
warehouse.  There  another  crew  was  busily  engaged,  reUeving 
the  conveyor  that  always  seemed  to  be  stuffed  full.  Then  the 
neat  stacks  of  cans  were  placed  against  the  wall.  The  rows 
were  30  to  40  feet  long.  The  height  was  as  high  as  we  could 
reach,  possible  seven  feet.  The  early  labels  were  pasted  on  by 
hand.  Later,  a  labehng  machine  was  purchased.  Mr.  Brass 
had  a  keen  mind.  He  was  an  inventor.  Many  of  his  inventions 
are  now  being  used  in  factories  that  do  that  particular  kind  of 
canning.  One  of  the  most  noted  inventions  was  the  "shaker" 
he  used  on  the  cans  of  corn.  Previously,  at  that  time,  when 
the  housewife  would  pour  out  a  can  of  corn  into  her  baking 
dish,  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  a  spoon  and  scrape  the  starch 
out  of  the  bottom  of  the  can  that  had  settled  there.  After  the 
innovation,  the  corn  always  remained  in  a  homogeneous 
mixture  in  the  can.  Mr.  Brass  always  paid  the  crew  on 
Monday.  He  stated  that  by  so  doing  he  was  assured  of  a  full 
crew  with  which  to  start  the  next  week. 

Preacher  Groves  was  a  banker.  On  Sunday  he  would 
venture  forth  to  some  neighboring  community  to  read  the 
Gospel.  Many  stories  were  related  in  the  early  20's  regarding 
his  method  of  making  loans.  Most  of  them  were  true.  One  in 
particular  struck  my  fancy.  It  might  show  his  faith  in  his 
fellow  man:  A  farmer  would  approach  Preacher  Groves  at  the 
bank  to  borrow  for  the  operation  of  his  farm  for  the  coming 
year.  Invariably  the  man  was  told  that  the  bank  did  not  have 


any  money  to  loan  at  that  particular  time.  "I  do,  however, 
have  some  personal  money  that  I  might  loan.  When  can  you 
repay  the  loan?"  The  reply  was  always  similar:  "Three  o'clock 
on  such  and  such  a  day."  The  loan  was  always  satisfied  at 
that  time.  Binding  this  contract  was  a  hand-shake  at  the  time 
of  the  loan.  Today,  I  am  sure  with  the  banking  standards  now 
in  existence  Mr.  Groves'  way  would  be  frowned  upon. 

Father  Conley  had  a  large  dog  that  he  had  trained 
himself.  Everyone  marveled  at  his  obedience.  He  taught  his 
parishioners  that  they  too  must  be  trained,  restrained  and 
follow  his  teachings.  His  masses  were  well  attended.  The 
Catholic  church  stands  today  as  it  did  after  the  turn  of  the 
century.  The  only  changes  are  that  the  old  church  school  has 
been  torn  down,  and  gold  leaf  has  been  added  to  the  steeple. 

Sheriff  Clary  was  a  good  man.  During  Prohibition  he 
broke  many  bottles,  both  on  and  off  the  bodies  of  the  accused. 
Whether  the  laws  were  good  or  bad  he  taught  us  to  uphold 
them.  The  majority  did  that.  He  was  very  busy  in  his  office 
but  not  too  involved  to  take  his  two  boys  fishing.  Having 
been  told  by  Bill  Craig,  our  local  commercial  fisherman,  that 
there  was  a  great  catfish  just  below  the  steep  banks  of  the 
river,  he  went  forth  to  catch  it.  After  it  broke  the  tackle  many 
times,  it  was  finally  landed.  It  weighed  48  pounds.  The 
Layman  Owens  restaurant  purchased  the  fish,  serving  it  to 
their  customers.  It  was  caught  at  Charter  Oaks,  the  place 
below  the  new  Petersburg  First  National  Bank,  at  the  bend  in 
the  river. 

Colby  Beekman  was  everyone's  friend.  It  seems  that  he 
was  always  the  Menard  County  Superintendent  of  Highways. 
He  was  fat  and  round,  with  a  constant  sparkle  in  his  eye.  In 
1968,  in  his  90's,  he  could  tell  a  story  second  to  none.  He  also 
was  a  booster  for  the  young.  His  road  crews  were  both  tough 
and  gentle,  but  they  were  dedicated.  Howard  Bell,  one  of  the 
gentler  road  men  went  forth  to  become  the  head  of  the 
Menard  Electric  Cooperative.  Gravel  for  the  roads  in  Menard 
County  would  come  in  on  a  rail  siding  north  of  the  first 


192 


trestle.  One  of  those  dynamic  workers,  Henry  Altig,  would 
start  to  unload  a  car  of  gravel  at  7:00  a.m.  sharp.  His  shovel 
would  never  stop  nor  would  he  stand  erect  to  rest  until  he  had 
the  car  unloaded  at  about  2:30  p.m.  I  would  challenge  anyone 
to  break  his  shoveling  record.  This  was  accomplished  with 
sweat,  gruehng  labor,  and  an  intense  desire  to  exceed  the 
work  of  all  the  rest  of  the  workmen. 

Thus  the  life  in  our  small  community  was  endowed  with 
people  who  cared  for  their  fellow  man,  and  for  the  legal, 
social,  religious,  political,  and  practical  aspects  of  life.  The 
wealthy,  in  most  cases,  joined  hands  with  the  less  fortunate. 
In  turn  this  elated  us,  knowing  that  what  we  were  doing  was 
good  for  all  of  us.  We  in  Petersburg  do  not  have  to  prove  that 
we  have  been  an  asset  to  our  state  and  to  our  nation.  We  can 
see  the  flag  waving  every  time  we  recall  the  past  generations 
in  town. 

I  am  happy  to  have  been  associated  with  all  these 
people. 


THE  .LIFE  OF  LOUIS  SILBERER 

Howard  Silberer 

He  was  a  short  man,  five  feet  two,  with  black  curly  hair 
and  black  eyes  and  dark  skin.  A  man  of  restless  energy,  he 
couldn't  sit  down  without  going  to  sleep,  so  he  kept  active. 
Prone  to  use  far  more  vigor  than  necessary  on  any  task,  even 
his  speech  was  louder  than  necessary.  He  loved  to  call  the 
dances  in  full  voice,  proud  of  the  fact  that  Ben  Rogers,  a 
farmer  south  of  town,  told  him  that  on  a  frosty  night  they 
could  hear  him  calling  the  dances  way  out  there.  YeUing  for 
the  kids  to  come  in  to  supper,  he  would  fill  the  whole 
neighborhood  with  sound.  During  the  week  he  always  wore 
overalls,  and  in  winter,  layer  after  layer  of  sweaters  and 
jackets,  and  a  corduroy  cap  with  ear  flaps.  Dressed  thus,  he 


gave  off  a  sweaty  smell.  But  on  Saturday  nights  he  shaved 
and  went  downtown  to  loaf  in  a  suit,  shirt,  and  tie,  with  a  big 
stick-pin  in  the  shape  of  a  bull-dog.  Then  he  radiated  the 
happy,  spicy  odor  of  bay  rum. 

The  decisive  event  in  my  father's  life  happened  in  1876 
when  he  was  eight  years  old,  in  Kansas  City,  Missouri.  He 
was  helping  his  father,  who  was  a  butcher  in  a  packing  house. 
A  Kansas  rancher  drove  a  herd  of  cattle  to  that  market.  He 
saw  the  boy  working,  and  offered  the  father  a  sum  of  money 
for  the  son  to  work  on  his  ranch  for  five  years.  That  was  the 
opportunity  my  grandfather  was  looking  for,  in  order  to  take 
his  wife  and  family  to  Bushnell,  Illinois,  and  set  up  a  butcher 
shop  of  his  own.  So  the  boy  carefully  memorized  the  name  of 
the  town,  and  went  off  to  work  on  the  ranch. 

He  was  on  a  horse  from  dawn  to  dark,  herding  cattle.  If 
things  went  wrong,  he  got  a  beating.  He  stayed  there  for 
three  years,  until  he  was  11.  One  day,  after  being  beaten,  he 
got  on  a  train  and  told  the  conductor  he  wanted  to  go  to 
BushneO,  Illinois. 

It  was  a  wild  and  woolly  boy  who  arrived  in  town.  His 
father  put  him  to  work  in  the  shop.  He  attempted  to  make 
Louis  go  to  school,  but  that  was  a  failure.  After  his  tough  life, 
and  with  his  rough  speech,  sitting  down  to  learn  the  ABC's 
with  fh-st-graders  was  impossible.  He  never  did  learn  to  read 
or  write. 

About  three  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  Bushnell,  a  troupe 
of  gypsies  came  to  town.  They  had  a  racing  horse  which  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  matching  with  local  horses.  The  Korn 
family  in  Bushnell  had  some  racers,  so  they  challenged  the 
gypsy  horse.  With  my  father  up,  the  Korn  horse  won  easily. 
That  was  the  start  of  his  twenty-three  years  as  a  jockey. 
Every  Spring  John  Korn  took  my  father  and  two  or  three 
horses,  and  together  they  made  the  round  of  fairs  and  other 
excuses  for  racing.  They  would  go  down  south  as  far  as  New 
Orleans  and  north  as  far  as  Chicago.  In  the  winters,  they 
came  back  to  Bushnell,  and  my  father  butchered  for  the  shop. 


193 


One  night  it  burned  down  and  my  grandfather  lost 
everything.  He  and  his  sons  were  forced  to  work  for  other 
butchers.  Because  of  Dad's  illiteracy,  he  couldn't  work  in  a 
shop,  where  he  would  have  to  be  able  to  write  down 
customer's  names.  He  worked  mainly  at  the  BushneU 
slaughter-house,  and  moonhghted  by  caUing  for  dances.  That 
was  where  he  met  my  mother,  who  played  the  piano  or  reed 
organ  for  dances.  She  had  often  watched  him  race.  She  told 
me  he  had  more  personality  than  any  other  jockey,  and  was 
more  aware  of  the  spectators.  When  he  rode  out  in  his  black 
and  yellow  finery,  he  would  acknowledge  the  applause  by 
standing  up  in  his  stirrups,  removing  his  cap,  and  bowing 
right  and  left. 

In  1894  he  narrowly  escaped  death  in  a  race.  There  was 
a  pile-up  of  horses;  one  jockey  was  killed  and  several  hurt. 
Several  horses  had  to  be  shot,  including  McGinty,  my 
father's  mount.  Dad's  left  arm  was  broken  in  three  places, 
and  it  remained  crooked  the  rest  of  his  life.  Recovering,  he 
went  on  racing. 

My  mother  refused  to  marry  him  as  long  as  he  raced. 
She  insisted  that  he  settle  down  and  stay  in  town  the  year 
round.  By  the  time  he  was  thirty-four,  in  1902,  he  was  ready 
to  give  up  the  rough  Ufe,  so  they  were  married. 

Working  free-lance  at  various  jobs— butchering,  calling 
dances,  farm  work,  pick-ups  in  a  pool  hall,  and  Schulze's 
Chicken-house— Dad  never  made  a  large  hving.  Yet  the 
family  always  ate  well.  He  accomplished  this  by  making 
every  square  foot  of  our  httle  property  produce:  fruit  trees  all 
over  our  yard,  a  huge  vegetable  garden,  a  cow,  chickens, 
hogs,  a  team  of  goats  and  a  nanny.  The  goats  were  working 
animals,  cultivating  the  garden,  putting  up  hay,  carrying 
produce  in  their  wagon,  etc.  No,  his  early  life  was  not  one 
which  would  produce  a  money-maker. 

One  might  conclude  that  it  would  also  not  be  good 
preparation  for  fatherhood.  Yet  he  was  a  great  father,  and  an 
imaginative  one.  The  stories  he  told  us  when  we  were  little 


always  included  us  as  characters.  They  would  begin  like  this: 
"WeO  now,  Howard,  you  and  Sissy  were  walking  in  the  woods 
when  you  met  up  with  a  big  mother  bear.  She  was  a  friendly 
bear,"  and  so  on.  When  Dad  wanted  to  go  fishing,  the  whole 
family  went  along  and  fished.  We'd  go  to  a  creek.  Or  for  a  big 
occasion  we'd  board  the  train  to  Seville,  spend  the  day  on 
Spoon  River,  and  come  back  in  the  evening.  When  the  circus 
came  to  town,  he  always  found  money  enough  to  take  us  all. 
His  attitude  toward  his  sons  was  without  partiahty.  He  had 
every  reason  to  prefer  my  brother  to  me,  because  Louis  was 
an  athlete,  loved  to  go  hunting  with  him,  and  was  muscular 
enough  to  be  useful  around  the  place,  whereas  I  was  a 
bookworm  and  stayed  inside  to  practice  my  music.  But  there 
was  never  a  time  when  it  seemed  to  me  that  Louis  was 
favored  over  me. 

In  1917  there  was  rejoicing  when  my  father  got  a  steady 
job,  a  janitor  in  the  West  School.  He  began  at  $50.00  a 
month,  but  every  year  he  got  a  smaO  raise,  until  he  finally 
made  $100.00  a  month.  In  1938  they  let  him  go,  on  account  of 
his  age.  The  next  two  years  he  worked  at  the  Spoon  River 
Locker,  teaching  the  men  how  to  butcher.  In  1940,  at  age  72, 
an  old  rupture  brought  him  down.  He  could  no  long  work 
because  he  was  forbidden  to  Lift  anything.  A  happy 
retirement  was  impossible  for  my  father.  Forced  to  stay  home 
and  sit  around,  he  went  into  an  immediate  decline  both 
physically  and  mentally.  Two  years  later,  in  1942,  he  died. 

After  his  death  two  eloquent  tributes  to  him  were 
published.  The  first  one  appeared  in  the  BushneU  Democrat, 
written  by  the  editor.  It  was  headed  by  the  title  "One  of  My 
Boys."  I  will  quote  the  opening  and  closing  passages  of  it 
here:  "With  the  passing  of  Louis  Silberer,  known  to  many 
people  of  BushneU  and  former  grade  students  as  'Dutch'  or 
'Cookie,'  BushneU  has  lost  a  man  many  folks  could  call  their 
friend.  He  was  the  janitor  at  the  west  side  grade  school  for 
many  years  and  he  watched  over  his  flock  of  children  as  if 
they  were  his  own.  If  some  boy,  who  had  gone  to  his  school. 


194 


did  something  that  was  worthwhile,  he  would  always  tell  his 
friends,  "That  was  one  of  my  boys'.  .  .  .  Mr.  Silberer  liked 
children  and  they  hked  him,  and  many  boys  now  in  the 
service  were  still  'One  of  My  Boys'  to  him." 

The  other  tribute  was  written  by  Marion  Stearns  Curry, 
and  appears  in  her  book,  "Ballads  of  BushneO."  It  is  entitled 
"Red  Men's  Hall"  and  recounts  how  my  father  called  the 
dances  there.  Quoted  here  are  the  last  two  stanzas: 

He  put  a  chair  right  by  a  post 

An'  stood  above  the  crowd. 

An'  then  he  throwed  his  head  way  back 

An'  hollered  good  and  loud; 

An'  ever'body  scraped  an'  bowed 

An'  swung  into  it  brisk; 

T'try  t'cross  the  floor  right  then 

Was  certainly  a  risk. 

The  way  them  folks  all  laughed  and  jigged, 

With  ev'ry  face  a  shine, 

I  said  t'mother  that  I'd  take 

A  fast  square  dance  fer  mine; 

But  though  I've  been  t'many  a  one 

In  other  fellers'  halls, 

The  Red  Men  beats  'em  hell-an-gone 

When  Louie  Silberer  calls. 


THE  TRUMANS  OF  BUSHNELL 

Harriet  Bricker 

From  earhest  childhood  I  recall  a  distinction  about  the 
home.  Upon  entering  the  door,  a  delicious  and  identifying 
aroma  would  greet  you— a  combination  of  fresh  baked  bread, 
EngUsh    pipe    tobacco,    wax,    and    pohsh,    and    if   it    was 


wintertime,  of  wood  burning  in  the  fireplace.  There  was 
tasteful  order  in  this  home  and  the  antique  brasses  gleamed 
either  in  sunhght  or  firelight.  The  pair  of  hackneys, 
statuettes,  pranced  on  the  mantel,  and  the  silver  trophies, 
trays,  pitchers,  candelabras,  urns,  lent  their  shining  splendor 
to  the  pleasant  atmosphere. 

This  was  the  home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.G.  Truman  of  the 
Truman  Pioneer  Stud  Farm,  and  I  remember  it  as  plain  as  my 
own.  There  was  tall  "J.G."  settled  in  his  big  chair,  puffing  on 
his  pipe,  his  long  legs  comfortably  crossed  in  front  of  him, 
speaking  in  his  unmistakable  Enghsh  accent.  And  Mrs. 
Truman,  or  "Lu"  as  her  friends  called  her,  visiting 
companionably  in  her  low,  throaty  voice  which  often  pealed 
with  hearty  laughter.  And  Fanny,  ruddy  of  complexion  and 
smihng  of  face  with  her  Uttle  gold  earrings  in  her  pierced  ears, 
ready  to  pass  a  tray  of  sherry  accompanied  by  a  plate  of  her 
special  sugar  cookies.  Too  close  to  be  domestic  help,  Fanny 
came  over  from  England  at  age  twenty-three  to  help  Mrs. 
Truman  and  became  one  of  the  family,  staying  the  rest  of  her 
hfe. 

Almost  always,  before  the  visit  was  ended,  there  was 
music.  Either  J.G.  and  my  dad  would  rollick  through  a  duet 
or  two  on  the  piano,  or  Lu  would  accompany  her  husband 
while  he  played  his  vioUn.  "Souvenir"  was  one  of  his 
favorites.  If  John  Brant  was  there  with  his  fiddle,  or  dad  with 
his  cornet,  the  music  grew  more  lively,  noisy,  and  gay,  with 
schottishes  and  polkas.  Mr.  Brant  wouldn't  Hke  to  try 
something  new  so  he'd  say,  "Let's  play  something  we  all 
know,"  and  strike  up  with  "Turkey  in  the  Straw."  Many 
years  later,  I,  too,  got  to  take  part  in  the  music-making  in  a 
small  way,  and  I  loved  it. 

If  the  evening  was  long  and  tiresome  to  me,  with 
nothing  but  talk,  I'd  take  a  nap  in  the  front  haU  on  the  "hall- 
seat"  near  the  huge  rosewood  desk,  converted  from  an 
antique  square  piano,  and  watch  the  soft  light  spread  out 
from  under  the  rose-flowered  Tiffany  shaded  table  lamp. 


Upstairs  I'd  take  peeks  at  the  great  "tester"  beds  brought 
from  England  and  wonder  how  it'd  be  to  sleep  in  a  bed  with  a 
roof!  With  a  huge,  round  rose  arbor  in  the  yard,  this  home 
was  lyrically  known  for  a  time  as  "The  Rose  Cottage." 

John  Truman's  world  was  horses.  His  father  had  been  a 
great  importer  of  American  cattle  to  England,  but  when  John 
came  over  to  America  as  a  young  man  in  1878,  he  was  more 
interested  in  horses,  especially  Shires,  which  he  thought  met 
the  requirements  of  draft  horses  for  American  farms.  As 
Bushnell  was  the  junction  of  three  raUroads,  the  C.  B.  &  Q., 
the  T.  P.  and  W.,  and  the  Rock  Island,  he  thought  it  the  ideal 
location,  and  in  1833  the  business  was  established  with  the 
breeding  of  Shire  and  Hackney  horses.  A  family  business, 
they  also  dealt  in  Belgian  and  Percheron  breeds.  The  first 
horse  barns  and  the  hospital  were  under  the  supervision  of 
his  brother,  Reginald,  a  veterinarian.  Brother  Wright  visited 
almost  every  country  in  Europe  and  Canada  to  buy  the  best 
horses.  Horace  was  business  manager,  after  first  managing 
the  branch  at  London,  Ontario.  A  fifth  brother,  Herbert, 
remained  in  England.  Before  these  men  married  and 
estabhshed  homes,  they  all  hved  together!  No  wonder  Lu 
needed  help  from  Fannie,  as  these  often  arrogant  Enghshmen 
required  service  from  the  womenfolk,  including  boot 
polishing! 

Mrs.  J.G.  was  not  Enghsh  but  an  independent-thinking 
young  American  from  Avon,  Lu  Tompkins.  Once  in  awhile, 
the  imperious  Englishman  and  the  self-confidant  American 
clashed.  Lu  liked  to  tell  the  story  of  an  incident  when  J.G. 
was  courting  her.  One  evening  he  stayed  too  long  at  her 
home,  and  she  had  to  tell  him  to  leave.  He  was  so  put  out  that 
when  he  got  into  the  buggy,  he  gave  the  horse  such  a  smart 
slap  with  the  reins  that  she  bolted  and  left  him  sitting  in  the 
buggy,  the  horse  with  the  front  wheels  gone— and  J.G.  sitting 
in  the  seat  on  the  back  wheels! 

It  was  interesting  to  hear  them  tell  of  their  trips  home 
to  England,  especially  the  one  just  before  World  War  I.  Their 


return  was  on  a  camouflaged  liner,  zigzagging  across  the 
ocean  and  pulling  into  unscheduled  ports. 

I  well  recall  when  the  King  of  England  abdicated  his 
throne  for  Mrs.  Simpson,  J.G.  could  not  beUeve  such  a  thing 
could  happen.  And  Horace,  a  stiff-faced  Enghshman  who 
never  became  a  naturalized  American  all  the  years  he  hved  in 
the  States,  was  certain  it  was  the  evil  influence  of  "that" 
woman! 

Another  member  of  the  family  was  a  feathered  one, 
PoUy,  the  parrot.  Polly  could  imitate  Fanny  perfectly,  and 
when  I  took  piano  lessons  there,  often  in  the  middle  of  the 
session  would  come  the  call  "Mrs.  Tru-u-u-man!"  And  Mrs. 
Truman  would  excuse  herself  to  see  "what  Fanny  wanted," 
only  to  return  and  say  it  was  only  "that  parrot!  "  PoUy  would 
spend  summer  days  outdoors  on  the  grass  in  her  cage  while 
cardinals  and  orioles  flitted  around  the  roses  and  cut  leaf 
birches.  She  would  call  the  cat,  "Come,  Tom!"  and  Tom 
would  he  down  by  her  cage  while  she  played  with  his  tail, 
which  was  all  right  as  long  as  she  didn't  nip  it  too  hard!  It 
made  Polly  furious  if  some  man  laid  his  hat  on  top  of  her  cage, 
and  she'd  flash  her  eyes  and  say.  "I  won't  stand  for  it!" 

After  the  barns  on  Main  Street  burned,  the  Truman 
enterprise  bought  the  Melvin  farm  on  the  south  edge  of  town, 
which  was  then  a  fruit  farm  where  there  were  cherries,  apples, 
pears,  and  berries  of  all  kinds.  That  was  where  the  fine  barns 
were  buOt,  for  the  draft  horses,  the  smaller  Hackneys,  and 
the  brood  mares.  A  score  of  employees  worked  there  and  went 
on  the  road,  prize-winning  horses  swept  the  big  shows,  and 
buyers  came  from  all  over  the  nation. 

Mr.  J.C.  Penny  bought  "Prick  Willow  of  Connaught," 
one  of  the  statuettes  I  mentioned,  and  took  him  to  Cahfornia. 
Samuel  InsuU  bought  "Queen  of  Diamonds,"  the  other  one, 
but  the  outcome  was  disastrous.  A  horse  of  high-strung 
temperament,  she  was  mishandled.  She  ran  into  a  barbed  wire 
fence  and  was  so  badly  torn  she  had  to  be  shot— a  real  heart- 
break. 


Recently  I  was  asked  to  tell  "how  they  felt  about  their 
horses!"  What  an  odd  question!  A  family  involved  for  three 
generations  in  stock-raising,  their  horses  were  of  all- 
consuming  interest  and,  considering  the  successes  and 
international  fame,  the  object  of  great  pride  and  care.  The 
Truman  Farm  was  the  most  famous  draft  horse  farm  in  the 
nation  at  that  time,  and  Bushnell  was  proud  of  it,  too.  I  don't 
recall  foolish  sentimentality,  but  they  loved  their  great 
beasts  and  couldn't  imagine  a  world  without  them.  But  that 
eventually  passed  and  the  days  of  glory  were  finished. 

The  era  of  the  Truman  Pioneer  Stud  Farm  was  a  great 
time  for  Bushnell.  I  hope  youngsters  of  today  will  be  able 
someday  to  look  back  upon  something  in  their  early  life  as 
having  been  of  significance.  Although  some  of  the  glitter  had 
tarnished  when  I  was  a  young  person,  enough  remained  to 
instill  a  bit  of  awe  in  me  for  those  days— and  it  still  does. 


FAYE  HOUTCHENS.  AUCTIONEER 

Earl  F.  Carwile 

Have  you  ever  been  to  a  farm  sale  or  auction  on  a  hot 
and  sweaty  day?  The  people  stand  around  growling  at 
everybody  else,  and  even  at  themselves.  Frown  and  gloom  is 
written  all  over  their  faces.  Let  me  describe  for  you  another 
type  of  auction— an  auction  that  is  aUve  and  kicking,  a  "Faye 
Houtchens  Sale." 

As  a  small  child  I  can  remember  Faye  Houtchens,  the 
Monmouth  Auctioneer,  kidding  people,  laughing,  joking 
giving  a  verbal  gouge  in  just  the  right  place.  People  would  be 
smiling  back,  and  they  laughed  as  he  pulled  his  jokes  and 
jibes.  They  would  look  at  one  another  with  a  knowing  smile 
and  mutually  agree  with  each  other  on  what  he  had  just  said 
about  some  third  party. 

He  was  a  master  of  crowd  psychology.  The  auction 


always  started  about  fifteen  minutes  late.  This  got  his 
thinking  started.  When  Faye  started  the  bidding,  the  first 
few  items  went  fast  and  furious  and  at  bargain  prices. 
Everyone  got  into  the  spirit  and  the  bidding  was  hvely.  He 
would  rear  back,  wet  his  lips,  spit  just  a  httle  as  he  started, 
and  then  get  on  with  his  sing-song  chant.  You  were  never 
quite  sure  of  the  bid  unless  you  stopped  him  and  asked.  He 
would  come  to  a  complete  stop— look  the  person  that  asked 
him  right  in  the  eye,  and  say,  "This  is  where  1  am  now."  Then 
he  would  resume  his  chant  and  go  faster  then  ever.  You  also 
wanted  to  look  around  to  be  sure  of  the  person  or  persons  you 
were  bidding  against.  It  was  never  unreasonable  to  think  you 
might  me  bidding  against  a  ghost. 

Faye  Houtchens  moved  to  Monmouth  from  around  the 
Blandinsville  area.  I  don't  know  the  reason  for  the  move,  but 
it  was  to  Monmouth's  advantage.  He  established  a  very  good 
chentele  in  both  farm-and-livestock  and  home  furnishing 
sales.  He  sold  a  lot  of  homes  and  farms,  but  he  was  not  a 
hcensed  real  estate  broker.  He  died  in  1954,  at  sixty,  leaving 
behind  a  very  nice  wife  and  three  boys.  He  also  left  behind  a 
lot  of  friends  that  remember  his  style  of  auction. 

Here  are  a  few  stories  about  him  that  were  left  behind  in 
peoples'  memories: 

One  of  Faye's  favorite  things  to  sell  was  the  porcelain 
chamber  pot.  His  trade  name  for  this  was  "bedroom 
Havilland."  If  there  happened  to  be  a  good  tight  fitting  lid,  it 
was  always  mentioned  and  commented  upon.  If  there 
happened  to  be  a  shy  and  bashful,  blushing  type  of  person 
present,  Faye  was  prone  to  prey  on  them  with  the  "Thunder 
Mug"  phrase.  Everyone  would  laughingly  agree  that  he  or 
she  needed  one  of  these  valuable  things  to  use  on  a  cold  and 
dark  and  rainy  night.  I  remember  standing  in  the  back  row  at 
a  large  auction  on  south  Eighth  Street  in  Monmouth.  Faye 
was  having  trouble  selling  a  large  white  chamber  pot.  He  had 
tried  to  get  bids  on  it  for  some  time,  and  finally  he  blurted 
out,  "Sold  to  Carwile  in  the  back  row  for  a  quarter,  and  you 


can  charge  it  to  me."  At  the  time  I  was  a  young  college 
student.  I  blushed,  I'm  sure,  and  the  crowd  got  a  big  kick  out 
of  it. 

Another  sale  occurred  at  another  place,  and  it  was  just 
about  to  end  when  Faye  finally  said,  "There  is  one  more  little 
item— a  fine  rug  still  on  the  floor  and  we  will  have  to  go  inside 
the  house."  Everyone  hurried  to  get  inside  to  get  in  on  the 
bidding  for  the  rug.  After  the  sale  was  all  over  and  people 
were  settling  their  bills.  Judge  Loren  Murphy  came  up  to  the 
clerk,  Raymond  Fraser. 

Judge  Murphy:  "You  know  the  rug  on  the  floor  in  the 
house  that  I  just  bought— it  has  a  hole  in  it." 

Ray  Fraser:  "I  don't  know  anything  about  the  hole,  all  I 
know  is  that  you  bought  the  rug." 

Judge  Murphy:  "I  know  I  bought  the  rug— but  when 
Fay  sold  it  to  me,  he  was  standing  on  the  hole!" 

Murphy  nevertheless  paid  for  the  rug. 

Another  story  is  told  about  Fay  at  a  horse  auction  at  the 
sale  barn  north  of  Monmouth.  I  said  earher  that  the  auctions 
always  started  fifteen  minutes  late.  This  particular  sale 
started  promptly,  and  the  clerk,  Ray  Fraser,  was  about  five 
minutes  late  in  arriving  for  his  clerking  duties.  His  job  had 
been  taken  over  by  a  local  farmer  named  Lonnie  Boswell. 
Lonnie  had  written  on  a  slip  of  paper  a  few  names  and  figures. 
Ray  took  over  the  slip  of  paper  that  was  handed  to  him.  The 
sale  went  on.  It  was  a  very  hot  day.  The  perspiring  auctioneer 
sold  five  more  horses  and  then,  to  take  a  little  break  in  his 
verbal  cycle,  he  stopped  and  said  in  a  loud  voice  to  the  clerk, 
"How  many  horses  have  we  sold,  anyway?"  Fraser,  the 
clerk,  looked  over  his  list  and  Lonnie's  hst  and  answered, 
"Right  at  40  horses."  "HeU,"  rephed  Faye,  "That's  more 
horses  than  we  started  with!"  All  of  this  brought  a  batch  of 
whistles  and  guffaws  from  the  crowd. 

There  are  other  stories  about  Fay  holding  his  thumb  or 
finger  over  a  crack  or  blemish  in  a  plate  or  dish  as  he 
displayed  it  for  bidding.  One  woman  told  me  that  she  got  a 


genuine  Currier  and  Ives  framed  original  print  for  only  80 
cents.  She  said  the  only  reason  she  got  it  so  cheap  was 
because  the  printing  had  slipped  down  below  the  hp  of  the 
frame  and  Fay  let  it  go  for  the  80  cent  bargain. 

The  sing-song  chant  of  Houtchens  the  auctioneer— I  can 
hear  it  yet.  I  can  hear  his  voice,  see  his  ruddy  cheeks— can 
hear  him  taking  verbal  pokes  at  people,  all  of  them  his 
friends.  I  can  still  hear  him  cajoUng  some  thrifty  farmer  into 
a  bid  of  50  cents  more  on  some  mower  part.  He  was  a  very 
good  friend  of  many  and  is  remembered  by  all  who  ever  saw 
him  work. 

Fay  Houtchens,  Auctioneer:  "What  Am  I  Bid,  Bid,  Bid, 
Bid?" 


AUNT  PRUDENCE  BERRY 

Henry  Hughes 

Prudence  was  the  oldest  daughter  of  Thomas  and 
Nellora  Berry.  They  bought  and  moved  to  a  farm  three  miles 
southwest  of  Table  Grove. 

Soon  they  built  a  new  house,  improved  the  farm,  built  a 
new  barn,  and  began  feeding  large  numbers  of  cattle  and 
hogs.  They  kept  buying  land  until  they  had  500  acres.  While 
the  new  house  was  being  built.  Prudence,  the  oldest  of  six 
children,  was  born.  That  was  in  1853. 

When  15  months  old,  she  became  paralyzed.  The  local 
doctor  gave  her  the  best  care  then  known.  She  regained  the 
use  of  her  arms  and  right  leg,  but  the  left  leg  remained 
paralyzed. 

When  learning  to  walk  again,  she  had  to  use  crutches. 
Her  father  built  the  crutches,  using  broom  handles  and 
putting  a  head  on  them,  which  her  mother  padded  and  bound. 
She  did  not  have  "boughten"  crutches  until  she  was  22  years 
old. 

Prudence  never  allowed  her  affliction  to  keep  her  from 


trying  to  live  a  normal  life.  She  learned  to  sew,  knit,  and 
embroidery  while  very  young,  and  she  learned  to  cook,  bake, 
and  do  other  household  tasks.  She  became  very  proficient, 
too,  in  helping  to  care  for  the  younger  children. 

Foster  Point  School  was  one  mile  west  of  her  home.  She 
walked  this  with  her  crutches,  except  in  bad  weather.  To 
continue  her  education,  she  attended  there  until  17  years  old. 
At  19,  she  attended  Lombard  College  in  Galesburg  for  two 
years,  stopping  when  her  afflicted  foot  was  troubhng  her. 

Her  affhction  did  not  interfere  with  her  making  many 
long  and  short  trips  with  her  family.  She  made  one  trip  to 
New  Orleans,  CaUfornia,  and  Oregon  (by  stagecoach),  visiting 
and  camping. 

After  a  trip  to  Texas  to  visit  her  older  sister,  her  mother 
began  to  fail,  dying  on  January  20,  1879.  In  November,  Mr. 
Berry  married  Hannah  Beers.  Prudence  met  her  stepmother 
cordially  and  turned  the  house  over  to  her. 

Prudence,  when  16,  joined  the  Universahst  Church.  This 
was  when  the  church  was  being  built.  Sunday  School  was 
being  organized,  and  Prudence  was  appointed  teacher  of  the 
young  ladies'  class.  She  was  very  loyal  to  the  church;  it 
became  a  high  priority  with  her,  and  she  was  superintendent 
several  times,  fiUing  in  also  wherever  she  was  needed. 

The  Women's  Christian  Temperance  Union  was 
organized  in  Table  Grove  in  1882,  with  Mrs.  Berry  and 
Purdence  being  charter  members.  They  also  attended  state 
and  national  conventions  of  W.C.T.U.  Seeing  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  national  officers,  especially  Francis  Willard,  inspired 
Prudence  to  come  home  and  organize  a  group  of  young  girls 
into  what  the  W.C.T.U.  called  a  "Bank  of  Hope."  She  gave 
them  talks  on  temperance,  then  taught  them  songs  and 
recitations,  and  put  on  programs.  Soon  the  name  was 
changed  to  the  Loyal  Temperance  Union. 

She  enjoyed  working  with  the  girls.  So  to  keep  them 
from  disbanding,  she  decided  she  would  teach  them  sewing. 
To  raise  money  to  purchase  some  material,  they  were  taught 


songs  and  recitations  for  entertainment.  Another  time  they 
sohcited  nickels  from  the  people  in  town. 

Prudence  taught  them  to  cut  out  and  sew  dresses, 
skirts,  aprons,  and  towels.  They  then  had  a  fair  to  sell  them, 
and  they  auctioned  off  what  was  left.  After  the  first  year  they 
made  dresses  and  other  clothes  for  smaller  children,  which 
Prudence  would  take  to  an  orphan's  home  in  Peoria  as  she 
went  to  visit  her  sister. 

As  she  felt  they  had  no  adequate  place  to  carry  on  this 
work  and  she  thought  Table  Grove  needed  a  hbrary  and  hall, 
in  1891  she  purchased  the  ground  for  a  hall.  She  started 
making  plans  for  a  first  floor  hall  and  interested  the  Odd 
Fellows  to  build  a  second  floor  for  a  meeting  place. 

This  building  was  built  in  1894,  being  called  Progress 
Hall,  and  it  stiO  carries  the  name. 

She  divided  the  first  floor  into  three  parts.  The  south 
part  was  equipped  with  cupboards,  drawers,  and  tables  for  a 
hbrary.  The  middle  had  a  stage,  curtain,  table,  and  chairs.  It 
could  be  used  for  plays,  lectures,  banquets,  and  voting 
booths.  The  back  room  was  equipped  with  a  stove,  sink,  and 
dishes  to  prepare  and  serve  banquets. 

This  hall  became  the  home  of  the  Loyal  Temperance 
Legion  for  their  sewing  lessons.  They  were  taught  how  to 
finish  a  quUt.  This  building  was  the  home  of  sewing  lessons 
until  1900,  when  Prudence  sold  the  building.  By  then,  she  had 
worked  with  the  boys  and  girls  for  15  years. 

Her  father  died  May  25,  1899,  after  being  weakened  by 
pneumonia.  Since  her  father  had  taken  her  to  the  hall,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  to  take  her,  she  sold  the  hall. 

The  estate  was  divided  as  her  father  requested,  with 
Prudence  buying  the  house  and  most  of  the  furniture.  Mr 
Chapman,  a  school  teacher,  and  his  wife  and  two  young 
daughters  Uved  with  her  for  two  years,  and  she  enjoyed  them. 
When  the  Chapmans'  left  she  decided  the  old  home  was  not 
suitable  for  her  and  could  not  be  made  so. 

She  petitioned  the  Universahst  Convention  for  a  permit 


to  build  a  house  on  the  church  block,  to  become  the  property 
of  the  church  for  a  parsonage  when  she  was  through  with  it. 
When  the  permit  came,  she  got  a  contractor  to  build  the 
house. 

She  planned  it  to  be  all  on  one  floor,  with  six  rooms,  and 
a  bathroom,  pantry,  and  three  closets,  to  be  heated  with  a 
warm  air  furnace.  She  later  added  store  rooms  and  a  porch. 

She  soon  had  the  ground  landscaped  and  many  flowers 
planted.  Because  she  was  kind  to  all,  ready  to  share  their  joys 
and  sorrows,  and  always  wilUng  to  counsel,  her  home  became 
known  as  "Sunshine  Corner." 

She  began  having  school  girls  stay  with  her  during  the 
school  year.  I  remember  four  girls  from  one  family  and  there 
were  several  more.  She  lived  alone  in  the  summer,  as  long  as 
she  could  use  her  crutches. 

After  two  falls,  breaking  a  bone  each  time,  she  had  to 
use  a  wheelchair  and  have  a  girl  fuD  time.  She  also  had  ramps 
built  for  her  house  and  the  church. 

She  was  a  charter  member  of  the  Ladies  Aid  Society. 
Their  meetings  had  been  held  in  the  summer  in  the  church 
because  of  no  heat.  At  first  they  pieced  and  made  quilts.  Then 
for  a  few  years  they  made  dresses,  skirts,  towels,  pillow  tops 
for  sale  at  a  fair.  They  soon  made  just  quilts  and  quilted  for 
others.  They  moved  to  Prudence's  house  in  the  winter  to 
quilt,  and  the  house  became  their  storage  quarters. 

After  the  Heflin  Building  was  built  on  the  southwest 
corner  of  the  square,  with  a  basement  and  facilities  for 
cooking,  the  Ladies  Aid  served  chicken  pie  suppers,  gaining  a 
high  reputation.  A  ground  floor  entrance  allowed  Miss  Berry 
to  enjoy  them.  The  fees  from  quilting  and  chicken  pie  suppers 
contributed  to  the  expenses  of  the  church. 

Prudence  Berry  was  my  Sunday  School  teacher  around 
1905,  in  the  Primary  Department,  and  again  later  for  several 
years.  She  had  the  ability  to  keep  her  class  interested  and  set 
high  ideals   for  youngsters   to   strive   for.   No   doubt  her 


examples  and  teachings  inspired  many  to  better  Uving  and 
kindled  a  sincere  love  for  her. 

She  not  only  taught  Sunday  School  but  lived  her 
rehgion.  She  always  maintained  her  interest  in  her  pupils  at 
all  times,  and  knew  of  their  whereabouts. 

I  feel  the  love  and  respect  can  best  be  shown  for  Aunt 
Prudence  by  mentioning  that  Table  Grove  and  the  Table 
Grove  Herald  dedicated  the  entire  front  page  to  her  on  her 
seventieth  birthday,  and  again  at  her  death,  with  tributes 
and  testimonials  to  her  from  home  people  and  others.  I  know 
of  no  one  else  who  was  given  such  respect. 

I  have  tried  to  describe  just  a  few  of  the  philanthropies 
of  this  loved  and  respected  lady.  However,  I  should  Uke  to 
use  a  quote  from  Aunt  Prudence's  own  "Memory  Sketch"  to 
exemphfy  her  true  inner  quality:  "I  had  a  mother's  heart  and 
have  had  beautiful  dreams  of  what  I  could  do  for  my  children 
and  home.  That  dream  did  not  materiahze.  So  I  loved  the 
children  of  others  to  fiU  a  void  in  my  own  heart." 


UNCLE  HARL  ROBBINS 

Lillian  Nelson  Combites 

Living  in  a  small  town,  I  believe  we  were  closer  and 
knew  more  about  one  another.  I  could  write  a  book  about  all 
the  good  people  in  "Our  Town." 

The  one  that  left  the  biggest  impression  on  me  was 
"Uncle  Harl  Robbins."  I  guess  I  first  remember  him  when  a 
little  girl.  My  sister  and  I  used  to  go  to  his  house  on  Saturday 
mornings  to  buy  eggs.  As  long  as  I  remember  he  always  lived 
in  Good  Hope  in  the  South  end  of  town.  He  was  a  very  good 
man,  an  influential  citizen,  and  owned  farms  around  the  area. 
I  guess  you'd  say  he  was  weO-to-do.  Anyway,  it  seemed  he 
was  rich  to  us  poor  folks. 

Uncle  Harl  wasn't  my  uncle.  Mama  taught  each  of  us  to 


200 


call  all  our  elderly  residents  Grandpa,  Grandma,  Uncle,  or 
Aunt.  We  loved  them  that  way,  too,  and  we"d  run  errands  or 
pick  up  the  mail  for  any  of  them.  I  never  saw  my  dad,  nor 
either  Grandpa,  so  these  older  folks.  Like  Uncle  Harl,  filled  a 
big  spot  for  me. 

Uncle  Harl  was  hard  of  hearing  and  had  a  hearing  aid 
shaped  like  a  powder  horn— an  ear  trumpet  they  were  called 
in  those  days.  He  didn't  use  it  all  the  time,  and  one  had  to  talk 
quite  loud.  He  was  a  stocky  built  man,  and  wore  a  billed  cap 
(in  style  at  that  time)  and  knicker  pants  until  styles  changed. 
He  drove  a  touring  car,  but  I  don't  know  what  make  and  am 
sure  it  wasn't  a  Model  T.  He  had  a  big  black  and  brown  dog 
named  Watch  that  was  always  with  him.  I  am  sure  if  anyone 
tried  to  harm  Uncle  Harl,  they  would  have  been  sorry.  He  had 
a  housekeeper.  Aunt  Elsie  Lovejoy,  who  lived  across  the 
road.  I  think  she  was  a  relative.  She  was  always  doing  the 
Saturday  baking.  She  cut  scraps  of  pie  crust  with  a  thimble, 
sprinkled  sugar  and  cinnamon,  and  baked  for  us.  She  made 
tea  and  we  had  a  tea  party  with  play  dishes  and  all  the  dolls. 
There  were  relatives  that  visited  so  they  kept  toys  for  them. 
Many  a  happy  morning  was  spent  playing  there. 

Uncle  Harl  was  civic  minded  and  up  on  everything. 
When  they  were  building  the  Lamoine  Hotel  he  made  the 
remark,  "Macomb's  like  Rome.  It's  going  up  in  splendor."  I 
wonder  what  he  would  think  if  he  were  hving  today,  with  the 
high  rises,  McDonough  District  Hospital,  and  all  the 
University  buildings.  At  that  time  only  one  college  building 
was  there.  I  remember  once  a  year  the  Elementary  and  Rural 
schools  of  the  county  held  Rural  Progress  Day  there.  We 
were  shy  and  in  awe  of  such  a  big  building.  I  still  have  a  blue 
ribbon  I  won  on  a  booklet  on  "Dress"  over  fifty  years  ago. 

One  day  about  dusk  we  saw  Uncle  Harl  come  up  the 
walk.  He  said  the  folks  from  the  farm  were  bringing  a  load  of 
wood.  They  had  been  cutting  hedge  and  the  truck  was  loaded 
with  stove  length  wood.  They  dumped  it  in  the  back  yard 
and,  with  some  coal  to  bank  the  fire,  it  lasted  all  winter.  Our 


dog.  Scout,  and  1  spent  many  happy  hours  playing  up  and 
down  that  woodpile.  He  took  a  load  of  wood  to  another  widow 
in  town,  too.  At  tax  time  Mama  sometimes  couldn't  pay  on 
time  so  she  sent  us  to  Uncle  Harl  with  a  note  asking  to 
borrow  the  few  dollars,  and  Uncle  Harl  always  loaned  it  to 
her.  I  am  not  sure  if  she  was  always  able  to  repay,  but  Uncle 
Harl  never  required  it  by  asking  until  she  could. 

I  later  went  to  Bushnell  to  live,  was  married,  and  on 
February  19,  1937,  our  Sandra  Jo  was  born.  I  was  in  labor  so 
long  that  she  had  severe  head  and  brain  damage  and  only 
hved  three  days.  I  know  God  knew  I  was  not  able  to  cope  with 
Cerebral  Palsy,  so  He  took  her  to  Heaven.  On  a  cold,  bhzzard- 
type  day  they  buried  her,  on  Mama's  lot,  we  thought.  We  had 
our  babies  at  home  in  those  days  and  I  couldn't  go,  as  we  had 
to  stay  in  bed  ten  days.  On  the  ninth  day  we  had  to  lay  as 
still  as  we  could  so  our  organs  could  go  back  in  place,  so  they 
claimed.  In  the  spring  when  the  weather  was  good,  we  went 
to  Good  Hope  to  the  cemetery  and  found  they  had  buried 
Sandra  Jo  on  the  wrong  lot.  We  had  to  dig  her  up  and  put  her 
on  Mama's  lot.  We  saved  our  dimes  a  long  time  to  buy  a 
marker  and  finally  had  $19.00  saved.  My  brother-in-law 
worked  for  Earl  Smith,  the  Sciota  Township  Road 
Commissioner,  and  Earl  had  a  farm  West  of  Good  Hope.  He 
told  my  brother-in-law,  Sylvia  Cogburns,  he'd  let  him  have 
the  ground  if  he'd  buy  potato  seed  and  go  on  shares  to  raise 
potatoes.  My  brother-in-law  came  to  us,  and  we  let  him  have 
our  marker  money  for  seed.  We  never  saved  money  again  for 
the  marker,  but  all  of  us  had  potatoes  for  the  winter. 

Years  later  when  Uncle  Harl  died,  in  his  will  he  left 
money  for  a  number  of  markers  for  the  poor  who  couldn't 
afford  a  grave  marker.  My  brother  put  our  name  down,  and 
Sandra  Jo  now  has  a  marker,  and  I  '11  always  remember  Uncle 
Harl  for  that. 

One  day  when  my  brother-in-law  was  working  with  Earl 
on  the  road.  Earl  was  pounding  with  a  hammer  and  the  end 
hit  my  brother-in-law  in  the  head.  Years  later,  he  got  severe 


headaches  and  eventually  developed  bone  rot  and  died.  He 
was  one  of  Uncle  Harl's  markers  too,  and  so  does  my  father, 
who  died  before  I  was  born. 

A  number  of  people  around  Good  Hope  would  have 
unmarked  graves  if  Uncle  Harl  hadn't  been  so  generous  and 
cared  for  others.  In  a  small  way,  this  has  been  my  chance  to 
give  a  memorial  for  him. 


TRICKY 

Hazel  R.  Livers 

Sometimes  when  our  minds  get  to  wandering  back  to 
the  town  where  we  lived  and  grew  up,  we  begin  to  think  of  the 
various  people  we  knew  back  then.  In  our  mind's  eye  we  see 
the  so-called  important  people  of  the  town— doctors, 
storekeepers,  ministers,  beautiful  girls,  and  young  dudes 
around  town.  But  would  you  believe  that  the  one  person  who 
seems  to  take  precedence  in  my  memory  over  all  the  others  is 
the  town  idiot?" 

Today  such  people  aren't  known  as  "town  idiots."  They 
are  called  God's  Special  Children,  the  mentally  retarded,  the 
mentally  incapacitated,  or  sometimes  children  suffering  from 
Down's  Syndrome,  etc.  Back  then,  as  now,  every  town  had  its 
retarded  citizens,  some  more  so  than  others. 

Ipava,  I  think,  had  one  of  the  most  outstanding,  if  I 
may  use  that  word,  retarded  boy.  I'm  sure  there  isn't  anyone 
who  was  around  Ipava  some  fifty  or  more  years  ago  who 
cannot  immediately  caU  to  mind  this  boy.  His  name  was  Lyle 
Tricky.  Naturally  enough,  everybody  called  him  "Tricky." 
He  was  the  son  of  a  local  much-respected  couple.  His  mother 
kept  him  clean  clothed  and  fed  him,  but  he  was  a  free  spirit 
and  roamed  the  streets  of  Ipava  at  will.  He  did  not  have  the 
physical  characteristics— heavy  short  bodies,  round  heads,  or 
awkward  gait— of  the  mentally  retarded.  He  was  one  of  the 


most  agile  and  graceful  people  I  knew.  He  was  able  to  do  all 
kinds  of  acrobatics,  handsprings,  somersaults,  and  what  have 
you.  He  put  the  rest  of  us  quite  to  shame. 

Back  in  the  Twenties,  before  the  radio  and  television,  all 
the  surrounding  towns,  including  Ipava,  had  what  was  called 
a  fall  festival.  This  consisted  of  various  kinds  of  events, 
contests  of  all  kinds,  a  big  parade,  and  at  night  a  huge 
pageant.  Those  pageants  were  elaborate  affairs,  and  they 
usually  depicted  some  historical  event  and  included  many 
people.  The  theme  of  the  pageant  was  carried  out  by 
speakers,  singers,  and  dancers.  In  this  particular  pageant  I 
was  one  of  a  group  of  Indian  dancers.  The  director  of  the 
pageant.  Minor  Brock,  was  taking  us  through  our  dance  one 
afternoon  without  much  success.  We  just  couldn't  get  it. 
Tricky,  who  always  seemed  to  be  everywhere,  happened  to  be 
an  audience  of  one  at  this  practice  session.  He  watched  us  for 
a  while  and  then,  without  a  word,  came  up  on  the  stage  and 
proceeded  to  go  through  the  dance  with  exact  precision, 
perfect  timing,  and  without  a  mistake  of  any  kind.  And  we 
were  the  ones  who  were  supposed  to  have  the  brains! 

Speaking  of  these  town  festivals,  Tricky  always  seemed 
to  know  what  town  was  having  a  festival  and  when.  He 
always  managed  to  get  there  in  some  fashion.  The  young  men 
of  Ipava  were  good  to  Tricky  and  many  times  took  him  with 
them  to  other  towns  on  these  occasions.  They  never  forgot 
him  either  and  always  saw  to  it  that  he  got  home.  They  saw  to 
it  that  he  had  something  to  eat,  too.  On  one  occasion  I 
happened  to  be  in  the  Bon  Ton  Cafe  in  Lewistown  when  Virgil 
Sowers  and  several  more  Ipava  boys  brought  Tricky  into  the 
cafe  and  bought  him  a  piece  of  pie.  Tricky  loved  to  talk  and 
didn't  get  his  pie  finished  when  Virgil  yelled  in  the  door  for 
him  to  get  a  move  on  or  he  would  be  left.  Tricky  didn't  want 
that  to  happen,  but  what  to  do  with  his  pie?  He  solved  the 
problem  by  telling  Glenna,  the  waitress,  to  put  the  pie  back, 
and  he  said  he  would  finish  it  when  he  came  back  next  time. 

As  I  said.  Trick  always  managed  to  get  to  the  other 


towns.  He  always  knew  the  Ipava  girls  when  he  met  us.  He 
always  managed  to  make  us  feel  conspicuous  in  a  crowd  as  he 
was  never  hesitant  in  speaking  to  us.  He  would,  for  example, 
say  to  us,  "You  Ipava  girl;  me  no  like  Ipava  girl;  Uke  Cuba 
girl  better,"  if  he  happened  to  be  in  Cuba  at  that  time. 

Tricky  was  a  great  show  off.  He  loved  to  hold  forth  on 
the  bandstand  in  the  Ipava  park.  If  he  had  an  audience  he 
could  go  on  and  on,  it  seemed,  for  hours.  He  conducted  his 
own  program,  talking,  singing,  and  dancing.  As  I  have 
indicated,  he  was  very  graceful  and  he  would  conduct  his 
program  with  all  the  gestures,  gimmicks,  and  facial 
expressions  that  you  could  imagine.  I  loved  to  watch  Tricky 
go  through  aU  these  antics. 

Tricky  also  hked  to  perform  and  entertain  the  crowd  at 
the  basketball  games.  He  could  dribble  with  the  best  of  them 
and  could  plunk  the  ball  through  the  hoop  with  the  greatest 
of  ease.  He  would  run  up  and  down  the  court  and  turn 
handsprings  and  somersaults  and  land  on  his  feet  with  the 
grace  of  an  acrobat.  These  antics  were  looked  upon  with 
indulgence  and  he  was  never  considered  a  nuisance  or  bore. 

Years  later,  after  Tricky's  parents  died,  he  was  sent  to 
the  home  for  the  retarded  at  Lincoln.  While  he  was  there, 
some  of  his  faithful  friends,  among  them  Dutch  Ebbert  and 
Virgil  Sowers,  visited  him  off  and  on  until  his  death  some 
years  later.  As  I  said,  he  wasn't  "all  there,"  but  to  me,  and  I 
think  to  other  people  of  Ipava,  he  was  a  very  fine  and 
unforgettable  person. 


QUEER  FOLKS 

Beula  Sellers 

"I  saw  that  ball  of  fire  rolhn'  around  the  old  haunted 
house  again  last  night!"  exclaimed  Grandma  at  the  breakfast 
table. 


"Ah,  such  tom-foolery,  Molly!  Don't  scare  the  child. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  ghosts.  It's  just  your  imagination," 
scolded  Grandpa. 

"Now,  Jim  if  you'd  seen  that  greenish  ball  of  fire  goin' 
up  high  and  then  down  low  you'd  beheve  me.  It  was  playin' 
all  around  last  night  when  you  were  at  the  church  meetin'." 

"Nonsense,  Molly!  Just  because  weird  old  Sally 
Wiggins  died  in  that  house,  there's  no  need  to  beheve  that 
place  is  haunted." 

That  morning  in  1915  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  the 
legend  of  the  old  haunted  house  in  St.  Marys,  the  village 
where  we  Uved.  After  Grandpa  had  gone  to  the  store,  I 
begged  Grandma  to  tell  me  more  about  it,  and  she  told  me 
this  story: 

Years  ago,  when  a  queer  couple  had  moved  into  the 
dilapidated  old  Wheeler  house.  Grandma  thought  she  should 
be  neighborly,  and  so  one  day  she  baked  some  cookies  and 
went  to  call. 

As  she  walked  down  the  weed-covered  path  she  could 
see  that  the  shutters  were  tightly  closed,  wherever  they  were 
not  hanging  on  broken  hinges.  The  unshuttered  windows 
were  covered  inside  with  newspapers.  The  paintless 
weatherboarding  was  off  in  many  places  and  shingles  were 
scattered  everywhere.  Pigeons  were  fluttering  around  the 
shabby  eaves. 

Grandma  walked  into  the  yard  of  knee  high  grass  and 
chmbed  over  a  fallen  tree  that  seemed  to  indicate  "no 
trespassing."  When  she  stepped  upon  the  porch  a  board  flew 
up  in  her  face,  and  many  gaping  holes  showed  other  boards 
missing. 

She  knocked  timidly  at  first,  but  louder  when  no  one 
answered. 

Finally  a  thin  trembhng  voice  sqeaked,  "Who  ere  ye?" 
and  the  tapping  of  a  cane  came  closer.  When  the  door  opened 
several  cats  came  "high  taihn"  out  of  that  dungeon-hke  room 
as  if  the  devil  was  chasin'  them. 


203 

Now  Grandma  was  sure  that  she  had  stepped  into  the         those  hovering,  rolling,  and  jumping  lights,  but  they  were  not 
pages  of  a  story  book,  for  there  stood  a  living  image  of  the  old         caused  by  the  ghosts  of  those  queer  folks  who  once  Hved  in 
witch  in  "Snow  White,"  with  a  broom  turned  upside  down  for         the  old  "haunted  house." 
a  cane.  She  was  dressed  in  an  old  greenish  black  dress  with  a 
dirty  rag  partly  covering  her  stringy  hair.  Her  cheeks  had 
great  hollows  and  her  pointed  chin  turned  up  as  her  toothless 
mouth  turned  down. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  shrieked. 

"I'm  your  neighbor  and  I  brought  some  cookies," 
Grandma  explained,  as  she  handed  her  the  sack. 

The  old  lady  grabbed  the  sack  of  cookies  and  shut  the 
door  in  Grandma's  face. 

Grandma  told  me  that  the  old  woman  probably  treated 
everyone  that  way,  for  no  one  knew  anything  about  that 
strange  couple.  She  never  saw  the  old  man,  Rufus  Wiggins, 
but  folks  said  that  he  was  just  as  queer  as  his  wife. 

One  day  folks  heard  that  old  Sally  Wiggins  had  died  in 
her  sleep.  No  kin  or  anyone  came,  but  the  authorities  took  her 
away  to  be  buried  somewhere.  The  word  got  around  that  the 
old  man,  living  there  alone,  wouldn't  let  anyone  touch  her 
clothes  that  she  had  hung  on  the  rocking  chair  the  night  she 
died. 

It  wasn't  long  after  she  died  that  he  walked  down  the 
weedy  path  to  the  mailbox,  and  he  was  lying  there  dead  when 
the  mailman  came  along  the  next  day. 

"Now  the  old  house  stands  deserted,  just  Uke  they  left 
it,  and  folks  stay  away  from  it  because  their  ghosts  haunt  the 
place,  and  we  see  those  jumpin'  lights  there  ever'  once  in  a 
while,"  Grandma  concluded. 

Grandma  enjoyed  watching  those  balls  of  fire  roll 
around  the  haunted  house  and  telling  me  ghost  stories.  She 
never  knew  of  the  optical  phenomenon  called  will  o'  wisp,  or 
ignis  fatuus,  which  is  a  chemical  reaction  in  low  areas, 
producing  a  round-shaped  phosphorus  glow,  from  the  size  of 
a  candle  flame  to  that  of  a  pumpkin  or  washtub. 

So  Grandma,  and  others  in  St.  Marys,  really  did  see 


i';i'/x\^A\il  /[//'Mm'  'i')iVM\m\  jJ'/'Milll  ii'iir/Mwi 


\]\.Wiih  ]\\ 


IMLWjivir  ilV'Lw^i'it  ilMwW'i'''J!  tlML,Wj'/it  u\L,wJ'r 


JX     Very  Special  Places 


VERY  SPECIAL  PLACES 

"It's  a  whole  lifetime  away,  but  sometimes  in  my  mind's 
eye,  I  see  Grandma  standing  there,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
a  warm  loaf  of  bread  resting  on  her  clean  white  apron  against 
her  tummy,  and  a  knife  in  the  other  hand  ready  to  slice  into 
its  warm  goodness,  and  I  feel  love  flowing  all  around  me," 
writes  Kathryn  A.  Gustafson  about  a  very  special  place:  her 
grandmother's  kitchen. 

As  one  reads  the  following  stories,  one  senses  how 
significant  the  places  are  to  these  authors  who  write  about 
and  remember  them.  By  reading  what  they  have  to  say,  one 
becomes  a  part  of  the  unique  qualities  that  created  that 
significance— for  in  the  early  part  of  the  twentieth  century, 
places  were  still  characterized  by  the  individual  geographical, 
cultural,  and  social  miheu  wherein  they  evolved.  The 
repetitive  and  standard  golden  arches  of  McDonald's  or  the 
orange  roofs  of  Howard  Johnson's  had  not  yet  marched 
around  the  globe,  turning  landscapes  into  familiar 
homogeneity. 

E.  Relph  writes,  in  Place  and  Placelessness,  "To  be 
human  is  to  live  in  a  world  that  is  filled  with  significant 
places:  to  be  human  is  to  have  and  to  know  your  place." 
Certainly  the  authors  represented  here  are  clearly  in  touch 
with  and  aware  of  the  unique  aspects  that  made  the  places 
they  describe  special;  in  the  first  half  of  the  twentieth 
century,  Illinois  people  were  in  touch  with  their  place. 

We  recognize  this  rootedness  when  Ruth  Sorrill 
Koestler  describes  her  grandmother's  farm— a  series  of 
sensory  ghmpses  of  cows  thirstily  gathered  around  a  water 
tank;  the  gurgle  of  water;  the  rubbery  smell  of  overshoes  and 
the  damp,  musty  odor  of  an  ice  box  on  the  screened  in  porch; 
and  a  whiff  of  coal  heat  from  the  furnace  register.  To  have  a 
sense  of  place  is  to  be  aware  of  the  sounds,  smells,  images, 
spaces,  and  feelings  aroused  by  a  particular  location. 


These  sensations  feel  right.  Helen  E.  Rilling  articulates 
this  when  she  writes,  "We  were  part  of  everything  on  the 
farm,"  and  she  voices  a  nagging  doubt  about  the 
prefabricated  sameness  that  has  moved  across  her  world  by 
adding,  "Now,  farms  look  so  sterile  with  their  bright  colored 
vinyl  buildings  .  .  .  Thank  heaven  I  grew  up  when  farmsteads 
had  sheds.  Old  sheds  filled  with  a  myriad  of  interesting 
things.  Things  to  remember  with  affection  ..." 

Things  to  remember  with  affection!  The  smell  of 
German  coffeecakes  in  Averyville!  The  skin  tinghng  sound  of 
a  "mighty  WurHtzer"  vibrating  through  the  opulent  splendor 
of  a  big  movie  palace!  The  aura  of  vacation  spas  that  grew  up 
at  the  turn  of  the  century  around  "health  giving  springs."  A 
nondescript  little  creek  that  offered  nooks  and  crannies  for 
experiencing!  Memories  of  "place"  so  clear  that,  as  Glenn  E. 
Philpott  reminisces  in  regard  to  the  Illinois  and  Mississippi 
Canal,  "At  night,  if  I  listen  carefully,  I  can  still  hear  the  frogs 
croaking,  a  splash  from  a  jumping  fish  and  the  cry  of  the 
Katy-dids  along  the  canal  bank." 

The  frogs,  a  splashing  fish  and  the  cry  of  the  Katy-dids 
make  up  what  Relph  would  call  that  "special  ensemble,"  that 
is,  that  special  combination  of  things  which  distinguish  one 
place  from  another  and  which  combine  to  make  that  place 
meaningful  to  us. 

But  writers  and  thinkers  such  as  Relph  believe  that  the 
majority  of  the  population  today,  instead  of  having  a  keen 
sense  of  the  place  they  use  and  inhabit,  exhibit  a  kind  of 
placelessness.  The  same  prefabricated  house  in  Aurora,  for 
example,  can  be  found  in  Belleville;  the  same  fast  food 
purchased  in  a  Kewanee  cafe  can  be  bought  in  an  identical 
one  in  Carbondale;  and  the  old,  twisting,  winding  roads  that 
once  encouraged  travelers  to  slow  down  and  to  take  in  the 
special  aspects  of  the  countryside  have  been  bulldozed  into 
straight,  uniformly  designed  highways  where  travel  is  fast 
and    efficient    and    interaction    with    the    surroundings 


unimportant.  To  Relph  and  others  like  him,  "places"  have 
become  merely  "interchangeable  locations." 

Relph  cites  a  quotation  from  Robert  Cales,  "It  is  utterly 
part  of  our  nature  to  want  roots,  to  need  roots,  to  struggle  for 
roots,  for  a  sense  of  belonging,"  and  Relph  continues,  "to 
have  roots  in  a  place  is  to  have  a  secure  point  from  which  to 
look  out  on  the  world,  a  firm  grasp  of  one's  own  position  in 
the  order  of  things,  and  a  significant  spiritual  and 
psychological  attachment  to  somewhere  in  particular." 

Certainly  the  authors  in  this  section  describe  the  roots, 
the  "places"  that  have  created  meaning  in  their  lives. 
Perhaps  these  "places"  have  given  them  "...  a  firm  grasp  of 
[their]  own  position  in  the  order  of  things"  and,  perhaps,  any 
placeless  persons  who  may  read  these  stories  will  determine 
to  search  out  and  find  a  meaningful  "place"  for  themselves. 
The  instant  popularity  of  Roots,  the  book  and  television 


series  of  a  few  years  ago,  attests  to  the  fact  that  people  have 
begun  to  question  their  own  mobility  and,  therefore,  the 
circumstance  of  placelessness. 

Leaving,  giving  up,  our  "place"  is  always  a  time  of 
sadness.  Lucius  Herbert  Valentine  writes,  "In  August  of 
1920  we  moved  from  Scott  Mill  .  .  .  This  was  a  very  sad  day 
for  me,  and  it  seemed  to  me  even  our  horses  did  not  want  to 
go  either,  as  they  balked  going  up  the  very  steep  hill  out  of 
the  river  bottom.  As  we  went  over  the  crest  of  Shin  Hill,  I 
looked  back  at  the  river;  then  Scott  Mill  faded  into  history 
and  my  life  changed." 

Roots  may  have  awakened  the  placeless  people  of  the 
United  States  to  their  need  for  "place."  It  is  possible  that  we 
will,  each  of  us,  begin  a  search  for  the  Scott  Mill  we  left 
behind? 

Jerrilee  Cain,  Editor 


209 


GRANNY'S  KITCHEN 

Leta  Rogers  Spradlin 

The  little  frame  farmhouse,  home  for  so  many  years  to 
my  grandparents,  was  located  near  the  village  of  Nortonville 
in  Morgan  County,  lUinois.  My  earhest  recollection  of  that 
long-ago  home  was  in  1916.  The  house  had  three  rooms,  but 
because  of  its  importance  to  the  family,  memory  of  the 
kitchen  is  most  vivid  to  me.  There  was  no  item  of  decoration. 
Each  object  in  the  room  had  a  practical  function.  There  were 
no  curtains  at  the  two  small  windows,  only  green  shades  on 
rollers.  The  walls  had  a  soHtary  "adornment,"  a  calendar  with 
inch-high  numerals  and  ads  for  patent  medicines  purporting 
to  cure  most  any  disease  known  to  man.  Even  in  its  plainness, 
the  room  presented  a  perfect  illustration  of  love  and 
hospitahty.  It  was  the  most  desirable  place  my  four-year-old 
mind  could  imagine  because  it  personified  Granny  and 
Gramps! 

Most  family  routine  mvolved  the  kitchen  in  some  way. 
Meals  were  prepared  and  eaten  there,  of  course,  but  so  also 
were  the  laundry  chores  done,  milk  and  eggs  cared  for, 
canning,  sewing,  and  even  bathing  accomphshed,  too.  Also  it 
was  the  center  for  entertaining  relatives  and  friends.  The 
round  oak  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  surrounded 
by  bow-backed  chairs  beckoning  folks  to  gather  around  for 
refreshment  and  conversation.  At  nightfall.  Granny  would 
hght  the  number-two-sized  lamp  to  shine  out  aU  the  meOow 
glory  of  its  carefully  trimmed  wick  and  spotlessly  polished 
glass  chimney.  When  eating,  reading,  or  hand  work  were  not 
in  order,  number  two  would  be  replaced  by  its  smaUer 
counterpart,  number  one.  This  was  an  economy  measure  to 
save  oil,  as  in  that  home  it  was  considered  wasteful  and 
extravagant  to  use  more  of  anything  than  was  really 
necessary. 

Handy  to  the  table  was  Granny's  pie  safe.  There  were 
kept  her  dishes  and  the  items,  including  food,  which  were 


cleared  from  the  table  after  each  meal.  Atop  the  safe  stood 
the  Seth  Thomas  clock  which  Gramps  wound  every  Sunday 
morning,  assuring  himself  it  would  bang  out  the  hours  and 
half-hours  for  another  week. 

Against  one  wall  of  this  vital  hving  center  was  Granny's 
cookstove.  It  dominated  that  whole  room's  side,  not  because 
of  its  size,  for  it  was  only  a  "four  holer,"  but  its  importance 
gave  it  stature.  It  furnished  not  only  a  means  for  cooking  and 
baking,  but  served  as  space  heater  as  well.  The  cheerful 
glowing  warmth  so  welcome  in  winter  could  trickle  the  sweat 
down  the  user's  back  in  July!  Except  for  the  swirly  blue  and 
white  granite  teakettle,  which  was  Granny's  hot  water 
supply,  all  her  stove  utensils  were  of  cast  iron.  These  included 
skillets,  stew  pots,  a  wash  boiler,  and  the  fleet  of  flat  irons 
with  which  she  ironed  the  clothes. 

Granny  had  a  floor-to-ceihng  cupboard  near  the  stove; 
its  many  shelves  stored  the  groceries  and  cooking  utensils.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  she  could  reach  into  its  depths  and  find  the 
requirement  for  anything  anybody  wanted.  If  Gramps 
decided  to  vary  our  diet  with  a  squirrel  from  the  nearby 
timber,  then  down  from  the  top  shelf  would  come  his  shotgun 
shells.  A  youngster  could  be  pretty  sure  a  candy  peppermint 
stick  was  available,  and  a  borrowing  neighbor  found  her 
needs  fulfilled,  too.  Granny  kept  her  big  wooden  bowl  of  flour 
on  the  handiest  shelf.  Whether  she  planned  to  make 
gingersnaps,  her  fairy-hght  biscuits,  or  one  of  those  cakes 
which  were  the  best  I  ever  set  a  tooth  into,  she  reached  for 
that  bowl  of  flour.  She  would  make  a  "nest"  in  the  middle  of 
the  flour,  stir  in  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  this,  a  splash  of  that, 
and  perhaps  an  egg  or  two  or  a  few  glugs  from  the  molasses 
jug.  Working  in  flour  from  around  the  edges,  she'd  stir 
vigorously  and  have  the  product  ready  to  bake.  She  never 
had  a  recipe  to  her  name,  and  amazingly  the  bowl  of  flour 
looked  exactly  the  same  at  the  end  of  her  effort  as  at  the 
start. 

In  a  far  comer  of  the  kitchen  was  the  washtable  with  its 


210 


cedar  water  bucket  and  tin  dipper.  This  water  was  for  all 
household  use  and  had  to  be  frequently  replenished  from  the 
well  outside.  Here  also  was  the  wash  pan  where  everyone 
"washed  up."  The  soapdish  there  held  two  bars,  one  of 
"Grandpa  Brand  Tar  Soap"  for  the  most  resistant  soil,  the 
other  was  "Jap  Rose  Brand"  for  daintier  requirements.  This 
Jap  Rose  bar  was  nearly  transparent.  So  a  kid  could  hold  it 
close  to  the  eye,  face  the  hght,  and  view  a  world  drenched 
with  gold! 

Taking  this  backward  glance  at  Granny's  kitchen  and 
its  many  limitations,  one  might  consider  that  perhaps  one 
good  thing  about  the  "good  old  days"  is  that  they  ARE  gone. 
Well,  maybe.  But  I'm  so  thankful  for  all  those  precious 
memories! 


THE  PLACE  WHERE  LOVE  DWELT 

Kathrym  A.  Gustafson 

Peering  into  a  kaleidoscope  of  many  remembered 
memories  across  the  passing  years,  I  have  one  that  never 
fails  to  bewitch  and  dehght  me— my  Grandma's  kitchen. 

As  a  child  it  was  my  favorite  room  in  the  whole  world. 
From  it  the  most  enticing  smells  spread  all  over  Jefferson 
Street,  maybe  over  aU  Dutch  Calf-Town,  and  maybe,  over 
Quincy— who  could  tell? 

A  black  cook-stove  trimmed  in  bright  nickelplate 
dominated  the  north  wall  of  the  kitchen.  I  remember 
Grandma  working  there  making  pickles,  chih  sauce,  making 
all  kinds  of  jelly,  and  canning  fruits  and  vegetables,  each  in 
its  own  season.  There  was  a  large  warming  oven  across  the 
back  of  the  cook-stove.  It  was  all  shiny  black  and  trimmed  in 
nickelplate,  too.  The  stovepipe  ran  through  the  warming  oven 
on  its  way  to  the  flue,  and  that's  the  magic  that  kept  the 


meals  warm  for  late  comers,  and  mittens  dry  and  warm  for 
little  hands  cold  from  play. 

The  day  Grandma  would  bake  a  cake  was  the  most 
pecuhar  day  of  all.  Sometimes  she  would  only  put  one  or  two 
pieces  of  coal  in  the  stove  to  keep  the  fire  just  right  for  the 
correct  oven  temperature.  Then  we  had  to  tiptoe  carefuOy 
across  the  floor  so  the  cake  did  not  fall  in  the  oven! 

Grandma  had  a  coffee  grinder  mounted  on  the  wall  near 
the  cook-stove.  Sometimes  she  let  me  grind  the  coffee  beans, 
which  were  stored  in  the  glass  well  at  the  top.  The  beans 
would  jump  and  dance,  as  I  turned  the  handle,  before  falhng 
into  the  grinder  in  the  middle,  and  finally  turn  up  all  ground 
fine  and  smelling  fresh  in  the  wooden  drawer  beneath.  Each 
morning,  Grandma  made  a  large  gray  enamel  coffeepot  fuU  of 
coffee.  As  the  day  went  along,  the  coffee  was  consumed,  she 
added  more  and  more  ground  coffee  to  whatever  remained. 
Like  the  Mississippi  River,  her  coffee  pot  never  ran  dry! 

Saturday  was  Grandma's  baking  day.  There  was  a  large 
oval  table  in  the  center  of  Grandma's  large  square  kitchen, 
and  by  late  afternoon  it  was  groaning  with  homemade 
goodies.  There  were  fat  loaves  of  homemade  bread, 
coffeecakes  rich  in  spices  and  sugar,  pies  of  various  kinds; 
and  there  were  soft,  fat,  sugar  cookies.  Just  thinking  about  it, 
I  can  almost  smell  the  dehcious,  yeasty,  lovely,  fattening 
aroma  of  Grandma's  kitchen. 

And,  you  know,  my  Grandma  was  so  wonderful— she 
never  had  a  failure!  No  matter  how  the  bread  turned  out, 
somebody  liked  it  that  way.  If  it  happened  to  be  just  this  side 
of  burned,  Henry  like  it  burned.  If  it  was  a  trifle  anemic 
looking,  Walter  Uked  it  exactly  that  pale.  With  seven  in  the 
family,  she  never  ran  out  of  good  reasons  why  each  loaf  was 
exactly  the  way  somebody  liked  it. 

Then  the  happy  moment  came  when  Grandma  would 
finally  pick  up  her  knife  and  shce  off  a  warm  crust  for  me. 
"Oh,  Grandma,  may  I  please  have  butter  and  jeOy  on  it!"  I'd 
plead.  I  always  hoped  my  Aunt  Edna  wouldn't  put  in  an 


211 


appearance.  She  felt  either  butter  or  jelly  was  enough,  that  I 
didn't  need  both.  She'd  say  teasingly,  "You  can't  have  both. 
Your  father  doesn't  own  two  houses."  I  never  understood 
that  logic  at  the  time,  but  Grandma  always  came  to  the 
rescue  by  saying,  "Give  the  little  one  what  she  wants." 

It's  a  whole  lifetime  away,  but  sometimes  in  my  mind's 
eye,  I  see  Grandma  standing  there,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
a  warm  loaf  of  bread  resting  on  her  clean  white  apron  against 
her  tummy,  and  a  knife  in  the  other  hand  ready  to  shce  into 
its  warm  goodness,  and  I  feel  love  flowing  all  around  me.  I 
become  a  simple  child  again  surrounded  by  love.  That's  the 
operative  word,  love,  because  that  kitchen  was  very 
definitely  the  place  where  love  dwelt. 


FLY  WITH  ME  OVER  GRANDMOTHER'S  FARM 

Ruth  Sorrill  Koestler 

My  family  had  eagerly  looked  forward  to  moving  to  my 
Grandmother  McConnell's  farm  twelve  miles  east  of  Quincy 
in  Adams  County.  We  children  thought  the  house  had  many 
"kid  pleasing"  characteristics.  We  loved  the  two  screened-in 
porches,  one  on  the  east  side  and  one  on  the  west  side.  Across 
the  front  on  the  north  was  a  large  front  porch,  great  for 
playing  on  a  rainy  day.  There  were  concrete  sidewalks  all 
around  the  house  and  leading  from  each  porch  to  a  gate  in  the 
fence  which  surrounded  the  large  yard.  Naturally,  the  fence 
in  front  was  white  pickets.  Since  the  house  sat  on  a  rise,  there 
was  a  definite  slant  to  all  sidewalks,  making  them  perfect  for 
coasting  in  a  little  red  wagon,  zooming  down  on  a  pair  of 
roller  skates,  or  on  an  icy  day,  good  for  a  fast  sled  ride. 

There  was  also  a  sidewalk  leading  to  a  smokehouse  just 
south  of  the  house.  This  building  was  used  for  smoking  meat, 
storing  unused  laundry  tubs,  old  furniture,  and  chicken  feed. 


I  remember  several  occasions  when  we  were  sent  to  get 
chicken  feed  and  would  reach  into  the  bag  to  scoop  out  the 
feed  only  to  feel  the  smooth  skin  of  a  big  brown  snake.  What  a 
horror  that  was.  The  smokehouse  was  about  the  size  of  a  one- 
car  garage,  and  the  back  was  about  three  feet  off  the  ground, 
making  a  great  hiding  place  for  a  small  boy  trying  to  escape 
the  watchful  eyes  of  two  older  sisters. 

The  sidewalk  on  the  east  side  led  outside  the  gate  to  the 
well,  where  a  horse-watering  trough  was  always  kept 
partially  filled.  The  trough  was  about  eighteen  inches  wide 
and  twelve  feet  long.  It  was  mounted  on  legs  about  three  feet 
in  height.  When  a  herd  of  thirsty  cows  were  using  it,  two 
children  were  required  to  man  the  pump  and  keep  the  trough 
filled.  It  was  great  for  coohng  hot  feet  on  a  warm  summer  day 
if  you  could  do  it  without  getting  caught.  On  the  well 
platform  was  a  httle  door  that  was  hfted  to  lower  food,  such 
as  milk,  butter,  meat,  and  even  desserts  that  needed  to  be 
kept  cool.  They  went  down  in  a  bucket  attached  to  a  long 
rope.  It  was  here  the  cream  was  kept  sweet  until  there  was 
enough  for  churning. 

The  sidewalk  on  the  west  led  to  the  privy,  and  even 
those  memories  weren't  all  bad.  If  you  knew  a  job  was  coming 
up  that  you  didn't  want  to  do  and  you  could  sneak  a  good 
book  out  with  you,  it  was  good  for  a  half  hour  of  quiet,  if 
odoriferous,  reading. 

South  of  the  house  was  a  large  garden.  A  place  we 
children  would  have  liked  to  stay  away  from  but  never-the- 
less  in  which  we  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  hoeing,  weeding, 
and  picking  vegetables  and  fruits. 

The  inside  of  the  house  was  enjoyed  equally  as  much. 
Like  many  houses  of  that  day,  on  the  front  was  a  large  dining 
room  and  parlor,  separated  by  a  very  large  hall  with  a 
staircase  which  had  a  long  beautiful  banister.  It  wasn't  really 
approved  of  but  it  was  great  for  sliding.  The  banister  ended  in 
a  circle  of  wood  that  was  perfect  for  a  safe  landing.  There  was 
no  problem  keeping  the  banister  dusted  and  pohshed. 


The  kitchen,  pantry,  and  storage  room  were  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  The  kitchen  was  huge.  It  would  have  made  three 
of  today's  kitchens.  It  was  where  the  family  spent  most  of 
their  time.  At  that  time,  we  still  had  kerosene  lamps  so  the 
kitchen  table  was  used  for  games,  mending,  homework,  farm 
recordkeeping,  letter  writing,  making  sausage,  4-H 
demonstrations,  threshing  dinners,  food  preparations  of  all 
kinds  (especially  pie  making),  and  many  other 
things— besides  the  three  good  meals  a  day  served  to  the 
family.  We  always  had  a  day-bed  in  the  kitchen,  a  favorite 
place  for  the  sick  or  well.  The  wood  cooking  stove  kept  us 
cozy  in  the  winter  and  cooked  in  the  summer.  A  wood  box 
kept  in  a  closet  just  behind  the  stove  was  kept  filled, 
preferably  by  the  children  old  enough  to  carry  at  least  a  few 
sticks  of  wood.  Having  splinters  picked  out  was  nothing  to 
get  excited  about  in  those  days.  This  closet  which  was  always 
hot  was  the  preferred  place  for  damp  coats,  boots,  and  shoes. 
With  the  door  left  open,  they  dried  quickly  and  were  toasty 
warm  when  needed. 

The  storage  room  on  the  west  side  of  the  kitchen  and  the 
pantry  on  the  east  side  were  very  useful  rooms.  The  storage 
room  was  used  to  store  hnens,  extra  groceries,  coats, 
overshoes,  and  also  for  the  Saturday  night  bath  or  at  any 
time  you  felt  like  bringing  in  water  and  heating  it  for  a  bath. 
The  pantry  contained  dishes,  pots,  pans,  some  groceries  and 
the  slop  buckets.  In  the  slop  buckets  went  peelings,  any 
leftover  food  the  cats  and  dogs  wouldn't  eat,  and  even  some 
dish  water.  All  of  it  went  to  the  poor  pigs.  They  seemed  to 
flourish  on  it  so  I  guess  it  didn't  matter. 

There  were  back  stairs  leading  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
back  bedroom,  used  by  hired  hands,  until  we  children  got  big 
enough  to  help  out.  There  were  four  other  bedrooms. 

The  house  was  heated  by  a  coal  furnace.  There  were 
registers  in  the  kitchen,  dining  room,  hall,  and  parlor  but 
none  upstairs.  The  one  in  the  parlor  was  turned  off  except 
when  company  was  expected.  There  was  a  ceiling  register  in 


my  parents  large  bedroom.  The  hall  register  kept  the 
temperature  in  the  other  bedrooms  above  freezing  if  we  left 
our  doors  open,  and  with  feather  beds  we  were  not 
uncomfortable.  On  a  cold  winter  morning  there  was  a  great 
rush  to  see  who  could  get  downstairs  first  and  get  a  warm 
register  to  get  dressed  on. 

The  screened  porch  on  the  east  was  home  for  the  ice  box, 
boots,  smelly  farm  coats,  and,  last  but  not  least,  the  spring 
and  summer  residence  of  the  wringer  washer.  The  washer  was 
another  implement  we  children  were  not  fond  of  since  if  you 
were  big  enough  to  pump  the  cistern,  you  were  big  enough  to 
bring  in  buckets  of  water  to  fill  laundry  tubs  and  the  wash 
boiler  used  to  heat  water  on  the  kitchen  stove. 

The  west  porch  was  used  to  house  the  big  black  cream 
separator  and  a  table  where,  on  cool  days,  crocks  of  milk 
frequently  sat  waiting  for  the  cream  to  rise.  I  can  still  taste 
the  rich  cream  on  a  bowl  of  hot  cereal  or  on  a  rich  bread 
pudding.  The  butter  churn  was  also  kept  on  this  porch. 
Churning  was  another  arm-tiring,  unpopular,  but  necessary 
job.  However,  the  finished  product  served  on  a  hot  slice  of 
just  out  of  the  oven  bread  with  a  little  sugar  sprinkled  over 
the  top  was  so  mouth  pleasing  you  soon  forgot  how  tired  you 
were. 

Today  you  can  fly  over  or  land  on  Grandmother's  farm, 
but  you  can't  live  on  it  because  it  was  condemned  and  taken 
over  by  the  Quincy  Municipal  Airport  Authority.  The 
buildings  were  all  torn  down.  There  were  no  dry  eyes  among 
us  six  children  or  Mother  and  Dad  the  day  the  old  house  fell, 
but  the  memories  remain. 


213 


THE  WONDERFUL  WORLD  OF  SHEDS 

Helen  E.  Rilling 

How  I  loved  our  farm  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  It  had  a 
very  humble  house  and  an  old  unpainted  barn  with 
extensions  built  on  each  end.  But,  under  the  two  huge  maple 
trees  and  lots  of  fragrant  locusts  there  were  sheds  which 
seemed  to  grow  like  mushrooms  all  around  us.  Our  farm  was 
on  the  western  edge  of  Morgan  County.  It  was  the  perfect 
place  to  grow  up  in  the  early  Twenties. 

The  sheds  were  in  all  sizes  and  shapes.  A  few  wore  faded 
red  paint  on  their  wide  boards,  but  mostly  the  boards  were 
weathered  to  a  soft  grey  with  mossy  green  edges.  They  curled 
at  the  sides  and  left  long  narrow  slits  we  used  as  peepholes 
when  playing  Hide  and  Seek. 

Clustered  in  a  semi-circle  about  the  house  were  five 
sheds.  They  were  joined  by  walks  made  of  two  wide  planks 
laid  on  the  bare  ground.  Rain  and  frost  made  them 
dangerously  slippery.  They  tipped  precariously  from  the 
uneven  ground.  To  the  west  of  the  back  stoop  was  the  smoke 
house.  Here  hung  the  hams  and  bacons,  dripping  their 
caramel  juices  as  they  cured  in  dense  hickory  smoke.  These 
were  red-eye  gravy  hams.  Just  inside  the  door  was  a  wooden 
barrel  of  salt  and  several  sacks  of  bran  for  the  mother  pigs. 
We  loved  to  scoop  up  handfuls  of  bran  and  eat  it  as  we 
romped  through  those  deUcious  days  of  childhood.  The  smoke 
house  was  dark  and  mysterious,  and  we  were  warned  to  never 
leave  the  door  open  lest  a  cat  or  dog  should  carry  off  some  of 
the  meat. 

Just  a  few  feet  to  the  south  stood  a  newer  shed.  It  was 
the  wash  house  and  contained  the  latest  double-tub  washer 
run  by  a  gasohne  engine  connected  to  it  by  a  long  belt.  We 
were  warned  to  stay  well  back  from  the  whirhng  flywheel  and 
belt.  Mother  frantically  tried  to  cope  with  the  new 
"fandangled  contraption"  as  it  erratically  ran  at  full  speed 
with  the  engine  popping  and  banging  every  whipstitch.  The 


wash  water  was  heated  in  two  black  kettles  sitting  over 
bright  red  coals  just  outside  the  door.  A  small  laundry  stove 
heated  the  wash  house  and  dried  clothes  hung  on  Ones  in  zero 
weather.  This  shed  served  as  a  bath  house  for  the  men  of  the 
family. 

A  few  steps  from  the  back  door  was  a  shed  that  leaned 
into  the  west  wind.  It  was  shaped  like  the  very  old  houses 
built  on  the  prairie  with  two  rooms  and  a  loft.  We  used  it  to 
store  corn  cobs.  Coal  heating  and  cook  stoves  used  lots  of 
cobs  to  kindle  fires.  The  family  cats  of  which  there  were 
always  about  twenty  used  the  cob  house  to  hide  in  not  only 
from  us  but  from  the  dogs.  They'd  sit  up  there  on  the  corn 
cobs  motionless  for  minutes  and  then  pounce  on  an  unwary 
mouse.  We  learned  to  appreciate  their  helpfulness,  for  we 
often  found  a  mouse  in  the  bucket  of  cobs  we  carried  into  the 
kitchen.  The  kerosene  barrels  set  up  on  legs  were  kept  there 
along  with  buckets,  baskets,  and  a  funnel  to  fill  the  oil  lamps. 
This  shed  was  a  good  place  to  hide.  We'd  scramble  up  on  the 
pile  of  cobs  and  peek  through  knot  holes. 

Directly  behind  was  the  coal  shed.  It  had  a  low  roof  and 
one  window  where  the  wagon  loads  of  coal  were  scooped  into 
the  shed.  Large  chunks  for  banking  the  fires  at  night  were 
thrown  to  one  side.  Scoops  and  a  sledge  for  breaking  up  the 
lumps  leaned  against  the  pile  of  ebony  coal.  In  one  corner  you 
could  usually  find  a  coonhound  tied  up  after  mother  caught  it 
sucking  eggs  in  the  hen  house. 

The  newest  shed  was  a  shelter  over  the  well.  It  was 
called  the  well  house.  To  us  it  was  just  another  shed  that  held 
many  interesting  objects.  A  long  wide  shelf  was  filled  with 
binder  canvasses,  balls  of  oily-smeUing  jute  twine  used  to  tie 
bundles  of  wheat  and  oats,  and  all  the  things  not  put  where 
they  should  be.  The  foot-pedal  grinder  was  a  deUght  to  play 
on.  We  loved  to  watch  the  orange  sparks  fly  off  an  old  corn 
knife  as  we  ground  away.  The  wash  pans  and  towels  for  the 
hired  hands  were  kept  along  the  back  side.  A  cement  trough 
carried  the  water  outside  for  the  chickens. 


We'd  nail  spools  on  these  sheds  and  run  belts  of  string 
back  and  forth.  This  was  our  first  attempt  at  automation. 
Then  we'd  try  to  keep  turning  as  many  spools  as  we  could  at 
the  same  time. 

Across  the  driveway  was  another  cluster  of  sheds.  In 
the  center  was  an  old  railroad  car.  We'd  hang  out  the  side 
door  and  wave  an  old  lantern  at  an  imaginary  engineer 
signahng  him  to  open  the  trottle  and  we'd  be  off  to 
Jacksonville  on  the  Wabash  Line.  One  end  was  partitioned 
off  for  a  grain  bin.  In  the  rear  of  the  larger  part  racks  held 
harnesses  dripping  black  oil  into  old  tubs  and  buckets.  We 
only  ventured  back  there  to  hunt  bird  nests.  On  one  front  wall 
hung  strips  of  bronze  sleigh  bells.  What  fun  to  ring  them  and 
sing  Jingle  Bells,  be  it  a  hot  July  or  cold  December  day.  A 
work  bench  held  many  tools,  a  vise,  and  extra  leather  to 
repair  the  many  sets  of  harnesses.  Little  hands  found 
hundreds  of  things  to  do  while  precariously  perched  atop  a 
keg  of  nails.  Saddles  hung  from  pegs  along  with  scoops,  pry 
bars,  spades,  and  posthole  diggers. 

All  around  the  old  railroad  car  with  just  a  few  feet 
between  were  sheds  that  housed  a  buggy,  the  extra-long 
bobsled,  and  our  grand  old  storm  rig  with  the  green  felt 
curtains.  A  long  low  shed  sheltered  the  mower,  cultivators, 
and  wheat  driU.  Another  lop-sided  shed  with  wide  doors 
protected  our  Model  T  along  with  the  necessary  barrels  of 
gasohne  and  oil.  In  a  httle  narrow  shed  squeezed  in  between 
we  played  house,  after  we'd  cleaned  out  the  cobwebs  and 
dust.  Kittens  shared  cradles  with  dolls  and  the  dogs  begged 
for  crumbs  from  our  cookies. 

We  must  have  had  more  chicken  houses  than  any  other 
farm  in  the  county.  There  was  a  big  shed  that  housed  the 
laying  hens.  Buckets  of  hot  feed  were  carried  daily  to  them  in 
cold  weather,  along  with  warm  purple-colored  water  to  fill  the 
fountains.  There  was  another  shed  where  the  older  hens  and 
roosters  with  long  spurs  sat  on  oily  roosts  to  keep  the  mites 
off  them.  A  squat  httle  shed  filled  with  rows  of  nests  held  the 


settin'  hens  whose  big  eggs  would  soon  hatch  httle  balls  of 
yellow  fur.  On  the  roof  of  this  shed  we  dried  apples  and  in  the 
fall  black  walnuts  after  they'd  been  hulled.  A  brooder  house 
had  httle  chicks  hatched  in  an  incubator  and  kept  warm  by  a 
kerosene  lamp  and  hover.  Out  under  the  apple  trees  was  a 
divided  chicken  shed  for  mother's  Rhode  Island  Reds  that 
she  showed  at  the  fair.  A  wire  pen  kept  them  safe  from  a 
chance  encounter  with  an  old  black  and  white  rooster. 

In  a  cozy  httle  spot  down  by  the  creek  stood  the  cow 
shed  with  many  stalls.  At  the  back  hung  one-legged  stools, 
and  along  one  waU  sat  boxes  of  salve  for  sore  teats.  Nearby 
was  a  calf  shed  where  suckhng  calves  were  shut  away  until 
time  for  them  to  eat  their  share  of  the  milk  which  was  usually 
one  teat's  worth.  Hog  sheds  Uned  two  sides  of  the  lot  and 
were  filled  with  knee-deep  straw  where  the  little  pigs  snored 
and  suckled  fat  mothers. 

A  long  machine  shed  with  an  open  side  was  fiOed  with 
binders,  plows,  discs,  and  harrows.  Space  at  one  end  was  left 
for  the  extra  horses  to  find  shelter  in  severe  weather.  We 
loved  to  peep  in  the  httle  round  holes  in  the  twine  boxes  on 
the  binders  and  see  the  speckled  eggs  the  wrens  hid  in  nests 
of  thorns  from  the  locust  trees. 

Some  of  these  sheds  had  a  door  and  window  or  an 
opening  directly  into  another  shed.  They  were  swell  places  to 
hide.  You  could  go  from  one  shed  through  another  and  out  a 
window  to  dash  across  the  yard  and  hide  in  another  maze  of 
sheds. 

Besides  these  sheds  were  others,  hke  the  lofty  picket 
corn  cribs  and  stout  graineries  with  cupolas.  We  were  a  part 
of  everything  on  the  farm.  We  would  fetch  any  tool  from  any 
shed.  We  took  our  spankings  hke  a  man  when  we  left  the  good 
saw  out  in  the  rain  or,  worse  yet,  left  a  shed  door  open. 

Now,  farms  look  so  sterile  with  theu  bright  colored 
vinyl  buildings.  There's  no  hog  lots  or  pens  for  horses. 
There's  nary  a  scraggly  chicken  scratching  in  the  driveway. 
Thank  heaven  I  grew  up  when  farmsteads  had  sheds.  Old 


215 


sheds  filled  with  a  myriad  of  interesting  things.  Things  to 
remember  with  affection. 


AVERYVILLE 

Dorothy  A.  (Smith)  Marshall 

If  you  were  a  child  growing  up  in  the  early  20th  century, 
without  electric  lights,  gas  heat,  telephone,  radio,  TV,  or 
automobiles,  chances  are  you  were  intimately  enclosed  in  one 
block  area.  Now,  in  the  so-called  "twilight  years,"  your 
memories  of  that  neighborhood  are  more  vivid  than  your 
present  surroundings.  So  it  is  with  me,  having  lived  in  the 
north  end  of  Peoria,  Illinois,  where  Adams  and  Jefferson 
streets  merge,  bounded  by  Camblin  and  Van  Buren. 

Camblin  Street  was  the  official  beginning  of  Averyville, 
so-named  for  the  red  brick  factory  buildings  stretching  for 
about  a  mile  along  Adams  Street  and  housing  the  Avery 
Farm  Implement  Machinery  factory,  later  Hyster,  and 
currently  WABCO  plants.  Hundreds  of  men  were  employed 
there,  and  when  the  noon  whistle  sounded,  many  of  them 
were  served  delicious  hot  meals  at  nearby  boarding  houses 
run  by  enterprising  women  of  the  neighborhood,  one  of  whom 
was  my  grandmother.  What  meals  I  remember  served!  Huge 
pots  of  potatoes,  succulent  pork  roast  with  beans  baked  in  a 
large  brown  crock  in  the  coal  cookstove  oven,  and  pies  of 
many  varieties,  fresh  from  the  oven  each  day.  I  was  more 
impressed  with  the  foods  than  the  financing,  but  I  venture  to 
say  my  grandmother  collected  less  than  a  quarter  per  meal 
and  certainly  never  seemd  to  have  much  profit  to  show  for  all 
that  effort. 

When  the  new  Avery  office  buildings  went  up  on 
Camblin  and  Adams,  with  its  lovely  expanse  of  cement 
pavement,  it  was  my  joy  of  life  for  roller  skating.  Although  it 
doesn't  seem  steep  now,  to  come  gliding  and  speeding  down 
the  hill  and  making  the  turn  at  the  bottom,  really  put  any 


unaware  pedestrian  in  great  jeopardy!  Across  the  street  in 
the  triangle  where  Jefferson  and  Adams  merge,  stood  no 
stophght,  but  a  huge  cement  water  fountain  by  Easton 
(several  similar  ones  graced  the  city  of  Peoria).  A  few  feet 
away  stood  the  tiny  confectionary  and  tobacco  store  run  by 
"Old  Mr.  Marks."  What  patience  he  had  with  us  children 
when  we  were  lucky  enough  to  have  a  penny  and  came  to  his 
store  for  candy!  It  was  no  easy  matter  as  we  scanned  the 
glass  case  from  top  to  bottom  until  our  choice  was  made. 

Our  block  boasted  a  rare  ethnic  flavor.  My  playmates 
included  three  Uttle  Swedish  girls  and  three  whose  mother 
was  from  the  old  country.  The  tantalizing  smell  of  her 
German  coffeecakes  baking  is  still  in  my  nostrils.  From  the 
homes  of  these  playmates  I  learned  a  few  of  their  native 
words  and  songs  which  I  still  remember.  Next  door  lived  an 
elderly  German  couple  whose  daughter  had  married  and 
moved  across  the  street  from  them.  She  played  the  piano  and 
sang  in  St.  Mary's  Cathedral  choir.  Although  we  were  not 
Catholic,  I  remember  a  snowy  Christmas  Eve,  when  our 
whole  family  trekked  a  mile  and  a  half  to  hear  the  Christmas 
music  at  St.  Mary's  midnight  service. 

In  the  center  of  the  block  and,  indeed,  the  neighborhood, 
was  the  grocery  store  run  by  Irish  M.  Delaney  and  his  two 
sons.  No  self-service  this,  but  customers  went  with  a  list  and 
were  waited  upon.  The  merchandise  included  fresh  and 
canned  foods,  cookies  in  large  boxes  with  glass  doors  or  in  big 
bushel  baskets.  (Quite  a  bagful  cost  a  nickel.)  Coffee  was 
ground  from  the  whole  bean,  while  bulk  sugar,  flour,  dried 
beans,  rice  and  Imperial  Tea  were  weighed  out  per  order. 
Unwrapped  bread  was  delivered  fresh  from  the  baker  each 
day  and  cost  five  or  ten  cents  per  loaf.  Thread  (displayed  in  a 
glass  case)  sold  for  five  cents  a  spool.  Eggs  were  delivered 
fresh  from  the  farmer.  In  the  back  was  the  butcher  shop  with 
its  sawdust  floor.  Don  the  butcher  always  gave  the  children  a 
weiner  to  eat.  Thirty  cents  worth  of  sirloin  steak  was  an 
ample  meal  for  a  family  of  four.  Lard  came  in  bulk  and  was 


weighed  out  in  small  wooden  trays,  as  was  peanut  butter. 
Liver  was  free  along  with  dog  bones.  The  store  had  a  credit 
system.  Your  purchases  were  listed  in  small  individual 
charge  books;  on  "payday"  items  were  totalled  and  payment 
was  made  in  full,  with  a  reward  of  a  bag  of  mixed  candy.  I 
always  accompanied  my  parents  to  pay  the  bill! 

One  of  the  large  houses  at  Van  Buren  intersection  was 
of  stone  and  cement  blocks.  From  a  moderately  large  home,  it 
grew  and  grew  each  year  until  it  covered  the  entire  lot  with 
its  many  additions.  It  stands  there  today,  a  marvel  of 
architecture.  In  mid-block  a  small  inconspicuous  house  set 
back  in  the  yard  was  the  home  of  two  maiden  ladies  and  their 
widowed  sister.  But,  the  most  prominent  and  modern  house 
on  the  block  was  a  large  square  frame  house  with  hardwood 
floors  and  a  garage  with  a  driveway.  Around  1920,  when 
automobiles  were  a  luxury  to  own,  old  Mr.  Broadman  sported 
an  electric  auto— a  square  affair  with  facing  seats  to 
accomodate  four  passengers.  I  would  sometimes  get  to  go  for 
a  Sunday  ride  with  his  granddaughters.  The  hiUs  of  Bradley 
or  Glen  Oaks  parks  were  steep  for  the  car  with  the 
passengers,  so  we  would  disembark,  walk  up  the  hill,  and 
meet  the  vehicle.  Grandfather  Broadman  was  superintendent 
of  the  Peoria  Work  House  where  law-breakers  were  confined. 
It  was  located  near  the  river  on  Grant  Street  and  next  to  the 
Pest  House  which  house  persons  with  contagious  diseases. 
The  Work  House  covered  a  large  area  and  consisted  of  office 
and  residence  of  the  superintendent  and  buildings  where 
prisoners  made  brooms,  bricks,  and  had  their  own  bakery.  I 
visited  this  place  often  with  the  granddaughters.  Sometimes 
the  river  rose  into  the  yards  and  a  boat  was  used  to  and  from 
the  work  areas.  At  least  these  men  were  busy  and  productive 
to  pay  their  debt  to  society!  In  later  years,  these  buildings 
were  eliminated  and  the  Peoria  Baseball  Grant  Park  was 
located  in  its  stead,  later  to  become  Woodruff  Field. 

Down  the  street  was  Central  Park,  a  popular  little 
Sunday  rendezvous.  There  was  a  circular  stone  fountain  of 


sulphur  water  with  drinking  facilities.  Sulphur  water 
supposedly  had  a  therapeutic  value.  There  were  also 
enclosures  for  rare  birds,  such  as  owls  and  loons,  and  another 
for  alligators.  Later  a  public  sulphur-water  swimming  pool 
was  opened  and  was  popular  for  many  years. 

Across  the  street  from  Central  Park  was  the  "Car 
Barn,"  a  brick  building  stretching  from  Jefferson  to  Adams 
covering  rows  of  tracks  on  which  street  cars  were  housed 
when  not  operating.  The  street  car  tracks  ran  on  Jefferson 
and  Adams,  so  transportation  was  quite  convenient  and  cost 
five  cents  a  ride.  In  summer  the  regular  street  cars  were 
replaced  by  "summer  cars,"  which  were  open  air  and  cool, 
somewhat  like  the  San  Francisco  cable  cars. 

Common  to  most  of  the  houses  was  a  wooden  porch 
swing  from  which  the  occupants  viewed  the  neighborhood 
activities.  The  lack  of  the  automobile  was  fiUed  by  the  horse- 
drawn  ice  truck,  garden  huckster,  or  peddlers  of  other  wares. 

Not  far  from  our  block  on  the  river  were  the  ice-houses. 
When  the  lUinois  River  froze  over,  the  ice  was  cut  and  stored 
in  big  ice  storage  buildings.  There  were  the  Woodruff  and 
Detweiler  ice  companies.  Ice  was  delivered  to  customers, 
carried  by  ice  tongs  to  the  back  door  and  placed  in  the 
wooden  ice  box  which  would  have  a  drain  for  the  melting  ice. 
This  dripping  water  was  caught  in  a  dishpan  under  the  icebox 
and  used  as  dishwater  for  its  softness. 

The  vegetable  huckster  would  stop  his  wagon  in  the 
middle  of  the  block  and  the  housewives  would  come  out  with 
their  change,  wearing  their  large  aprons,  to  choose  produce  at 
a  very  nominal  price.  It  was  then  gathered  up  in  the  apron 
and  carried  into  the  house,  eUminating  all  bags  and 
wrappings.  Sometimes  a  peddler  of  miscellaneous 
merchandise  would  stop  his  wagon  to  do  business  in  the  same 
manner  before  the  house-to-house  selUng  became  common. 

Such  was  life  in  the  early  1900's  when  children  walked 
long  distances  to  school,  played  jumprope,  jacks,  hopscotch, 
marbles,    and    mumbly-peg    on    the    sidewalks    of    the 


217 


neighborhoods  and  in  winter,  went  sleighing,  snow-balling, 
and  coasting  down  the  hill  on  a  Flexible  Flyer. 

When  inside,  activities  included  checkers,  rummy, 
dominoes,  and  most  of  all,  reading  books.  If  one  were  very 
lucky,  perhaps  he  or  she  had  a  phonograph  or  piano  and  could 
have  music. 

I  wonder  if  today's  children  think  we  were  deprived. 
Well,  perhaps  not— just  maybe  they  envy  us  a  bit! 


THE  CONSEQUENT  OF  THE  MIGHTY  WURLITZER 

William  P.  Bartlow 

Remember  in  the  1920's,  at  the  big  movie  palaces,  where 
in  the  maw  of  the  spothght,  came  a  rumbhng  sound  that 
thrilled  the  very  marrow  of  your  bones  as  the  Mighty 
Wurhtzer  rose  into  view  and  you  settled  back  in  your  seat  for 
an  evening  in  paradise?  That  was  really  hving!  Each  city  had 
their  favorite  theatre  organ  and  organist.  In  Peoria,  for 
example,  it  was  the  Hinners  Organ  at  the  beautiful  Madison, 
while  Springfield  had  the  big  Barton  Organ  at  the  fabulous 
cavernous  Orpheum,  and  in  Quincy  it  was  the  Mighty 
Wurhtzer  at  the  Orpheum.  Even  the  small  towns  had  their 
favorites,  such  as  Rushville's  Princess  Theatre,  which 
boasted  a  Hinners  Organ.  Sadly,  by  the  1950's,  only  a  few 
remained,  and  one  in  particular  was  left  to  be  saved,  which 
thereby  begins  our  story. 

It  was  a  bright  fall  night  in  October  in  1958  as  my  wife 
Margie  and  I  donned  our  good  clothes  to  head  for  Quincy  and 
the  Orpheum  Theatre  on  Hampshire  Street  to  look  over  and 
start  dismanthng  the  Mighty  Wurhtzer  theatre  pipe  organ 
which  I  had  recently  acquired. 

The  magazine  article  had  read  "Do  It  Yourself— Install 
your  own  theatre  organ."  It  should  have  added  "dummy." 
The  article  made  it  seem  simple  enough:  "Just  be  sure  it  is 
intact  with  no  water  damage  or  missing  parts." 


This  particular  Wurhtzer  organ  had  been  installed  in  the 
Quincy  Orpheum  in  September,  1924.  It  was  number  910  (the 
910th  one  made)  by  the  Wurhtzer  Company.  The  instrument 
was  used  continually  until  about  1929,  when  the  screen 
"spoke";  then  it  feU  silent.  By  1958,  after  years  of  neglect,  it 
was  full  of  dirt,  soot,  dead  birds  and  mice,  discarded  candy 
wrappers,  taffy  apple  sticks,  popcorn,  chewed  gum,  and  other 
refuse.  It  had  the  famous  Wurhtzer  horseshoe  console  with 
two  keyboards  and  five  sets  of  pipes.  The  percussion  included 
a  Xylophone,  Glockenspiel,  Chrysoglot,  and  Chimes.  A  three- 
horsepower  motor  and  DC  generator  supphed  the  wind  and 
power.  The  instrument  was  intact,  and  there  was  no  water 
damage,  but  it  was  unplayable  as  the  motor  was 
disconnected. 

The  Orpheum  had  been  built  in  1916  as  a  vaudeville 
house;  thus  when  pictures  came  into  vogue  it  was  considered 
a  "presentation  house"  with  stage  and  screen  attractions. 
When  the  Mighty  Wurhtzer  was  installed,  it  in  itself  was  an 
attraction. 

That  October  night  in  the  dimly  hghted  empty  theatre 
one  could  visuahze  the  famous  stars  that  once  trod  the 
boards  of  the  big  stage  house  and  see  the  figures  that  played 
its  silver  screen  and  imagine  the  music  that  would  have  filled 
the  room  from  the  Mighty  Wurhtzer  organ.  One  could  stiU 
see  the  faded  grandeur  of  the  once  opulent  interior.  As 
Margie  and  I  removed  the  small  fragile  pipes,  our  hands, 
faces  and  clothes  became  covered  with  soot  and  dust. 

A  theatre  pipe  organ  can  look  compact  and  small  when 
erected,  as  it  does  not  seem  to  take  much  space,  but  apart  it  is 
an  endless  coUection  of  parts,  wind  hnes,  metal  ducts,  pipes, 
wires  and  assorted  pieces.  As  the  dismanthng  continued,  the 
storage  areas  at  home  became  more  cluttered  for  the  garage 
soon  filled,  then  to  the  garage  loft,  after  which  the  house 
basement  overflowed  and  the  balance  spilled  into  the  upstairs 
bedrooms. 

A  friend  told  me  a  Dr.  Klein  in  Muscatine,  Iowa,  had 


218 


purchased  an  organ  from  a  Huntington,  West  Virginia, 
theatre  which  he  reinstated  in  his  home  with  amazing 
success.  So  the  very  next  day  I  made  an  appointment  with 
Dr.  Klein  to  see  and  hear  the  organ  which  was  indeed  as 
grand  as  had  been  said.  Dr.  Klein,  peering  down  over  his  dark 
horn-rimmed  glasses,  told  me  very  direct  that  I  should  hire  a 
good  organ  man  for  instaUation  of  the  organ,  and  that  I 
absolutely  would  make  a  mess  of  it  if  I  attempted  to  do  it 
myself,  that  besides  1  would  ruin  a  perfectly  good  organ.  And 
that  he  had,  in  fact,  a  good  organ  man  lined  up  in  the  next 
room,  his  name  was  Wilham  Hansen,  Jr.  of  Portland,  Oregon. 
I  was  convinced,  and  Hansen  was  hired  on  the  spot. 

The  next  few  weeks  found  Margie  working  and  cooking 
in  the  kitchen  after  Bill,  his  wife  Eleanor,  and  their  new  baby 
moved  into  an  upstairs  bedroom.  The  first  thing  I  learned 
was  that  all  the  pneumatics  (air  valves  under  each  pipe)  had 
to  be  re-leathered.  Now  this  is  a  process  of  considerable  skill, 
to  remove  each  pneumatic,  label  it  so  it  could  be  properly 
replaced,  scrape  them  clean,  cut  leather  to  fit,  glue,  and 
replace  it.  As  there  were  five  chests  which  held  some  700 
pipes  and  each  pipe  controlled  two  pneumatics,  so  with  pipe 
chests,  percussions,  relays  and  console  pneumatics,  it 
roughly  was  2500  pneumatics  to  re-leather. 

The  work  progressed,  with  re-leathering  being 
completed  in  the  summer  of  1959,  so  the  organ  was  put  into 
storage  to  await  installation.  In  the  meantime  we  were 
negotiating  for  another  property  which  would  be  the  home  for 
the  organ  (and  us  too).  Late  1959  saw  the  property  purchased 
and  renovations  started,  so  space  for  the  organ  began  to 
form.  As  organ-builder  Hansen  took  off  for  Portland  for  a  few 
months,  he  recommended  that  we  increase  the  size  of  the 
organ  from  five  sets  to  ten  sets  of  pipes,  which  would  be 
double. 

So  an  earnest  search  began  for  additional  parts.  I 
learned  of  a  smaO  Wurlitzer  organ  in  Cicero,  Illinois,  which 
had  three  sets  of  pipes  with  lots  of  additional  percussions  in 


mint  condition.  It  had  been  originally  purchased  new  in  1927 
from  the  Wurhtzer  Company  (number  1564)  for  instaOation  in 
a  music  studio  to  teach  picture  playing  but  actually  was  used 
very  httle. 

The  hunt  widened  to  the  Springfield  area  where  I 
located  one  poor,  down-trodden,  battered,  beat-up,  tu-ed, 
water-damaged  organ  in  the  now  demoUshed  Strand  Theatre. 
It  was  a  Wurhtzer  organ,  number  721,  installed  in  1923.  A 
fire  in  the  early  1940's  put  the  organ  out  of  commission,  for 
while  it  had  not  burned,  it  had  suffered  a  lot  of  damage.  It 
was  what  we  needed,  so  we  acquired  what  was  left,  hauled  it 
home,  and  our  search  was  ended. 

I  mentioned  earlier  how  much  space  the  original 
dismantled  organ  required;  just  think  what  it  was  hke  now 
twice  the  size.  There  were  even  Diaphones  in  the  bathroom! 

By  working  in  "fits  and  starts,"  the  chambers  gradually 
took  shape,  with  reservoirs,  wind  lines,  blower  and  motor, 
chests,  tremulants  and  shutters  assembhng  in  their 
respective  places.  All  chests  had  been  cleaned,  re-leathered, 
shellaced  and  set  in  place  while  the  drums  and  traps  were 
reconditioned.  Pipes  were  washed  with  soap  and  water. 
Cables  were  reconnected  to  the  relays  and  switches.  The 
console  was  cleaned  and  refinished,  with  the  original  colored 
celluloid  stop  tabs  relettered  in  the  Wurhtzer  style.  By 
December,  1960,  it  was  partially  playing,  and  early  in  the 
spring  of  1961  installation  was  complete.  Its  beautiful  sound 
was  beyond  my  fondest  dreams. 

Today,  in  1982,  the  Old  Orpheum  Theatre  of  Quincy  is 
gone  but  the  Mighty  Wurlitzer  still  plays  on.  We  have  many 
visitors  who  come  to  see  and  hear,  while  other  guests  are  real 
wizards  of  the  keyboard. 

Much  credit  has  to  go  to  my  understanding  wife  who 
stood  by  me  while  the  rest  of  my  family  was  ready  to  have  me 
committed 

The  organ  truly  changed  our  lives.  Its  influence  went  far 
beyond    our    living    room,    creating    dear    and    lasting 


219 


friendships,  and  opened  many  doors  that  widened  our  world 
greatly. 


ONCE  AGAIN,  BRIGHT  LIGHTS 

Alberta  Young  Stegemann 

Nobody  could  have  been  happier  as  I  impatiently 
awaited  the  opening  night  of  the  old  Fort  Armstrong  theatre 
in  1921.  It  is  again  ahve  and  beautiful.  The  marquee  again 
ablaze  with  lights,  naming  the  first  show,  "I  Do-I  Do." 

Sixty  years  ago  the  marquee  was  even  more 
extravagantly  bright,  with  rows  of  dancing,  bUnking  hghts, 
showing  the  opening  attraction,  "A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  with  Conrad  Nagel  and  Conway  Tearle.  The  leading 
lady  I  can't  remember.  I  only  had  eyes  for  Conrad 
Nagel— tall,  blonde,  and  oh,  so  handsome. 

Sixty  years  ago,  six  of  us  girls  went  through  the  doors 
long  before  the  public  was  admitted.  We  met  in  the 
ushers'  room  for  last-minute  instructions  by  Mr.  Hopp.  We 
had  previously  inspected  the  nursery,  which  was  furnished  so 
cute  and  comfortable.  There  were  three  spotless  cribs  for  tiny 
ones  and  playthings  galore  to  fascinate  any  child:  stuffed 
toys,  a  sandbox,  and  large  balls.  There  was  also  a  rocking 
chair  for  Mable  Swail,  who  was  to  take  charge  as  the  nurse. 
The  ladies'  room  was  luxurious  and  spotless. 

The  six  excited  ushers,  dressed  in  white  organdy,  went 
upstairs  and  took  our  stations  at  each  aisle,  and  the  doors 
were  opened  to  admit  the  crowd.  Eddie  Stein  at  the  organ 
began  to  play.  The  hghts  were  on  all  over  the  house,  showing 
how  beautifully  everything  blended,  in  an  Indian  theme.  The 
seats  quickly  filled,  everybody  dressed  in  their  best.  Then  the 
musicians  came  into  the  orchestra  pit,  the  Hghts  dimmed  and 
the  orchestra  began,  with  I.  S.  White  as  the  conductor.  The 
huge  red  velvet  curtain  drew  back  and  the  news  came  on  the 


screen.  The  news  was  always  appreciated,  as  there  was  no  TV 
at  that  time.  On  the  spot  visual  news,  that  was  grand.  The 
whole  theatre  was  filled  clear  to  the  top  of  the  balcony.  That 
was  the  first  night,  and  so  went  every  other  night,  as  such 
good  pictures  were  shown  as  "The  Four  Horsemen  Of  The 
Apocalypse'  with  Rudolph  Valentino.  Then  there  was  "Only 
A  Rose. "  "The  Old  West. "  and  Wallace  Reid  in  "Watch  My 
Speed. " 

That  was  a  wonderful  era  I  so  enjoyed.  Then  I  learned  a 
big  lesson,  a  hard  lesson.  The  managers  changed  our 
uniforms.  We  were  each  issued  huge  Turkish-like  turbans, 
made  of  yards  of  heavy  material.  We  were  top  heavy,  looked 
fooUsh,  felt  foolish,  and  people  laughed.  That  night  at  closing 
time  all  six  ushers,  with  me  as  bigmouth,  rebeled  against  our 
ungainly  turbans.  I  was  told  I  didn't  have  to  wear  the  turban, 
and  to  pick  up  my  paycheck.  The  others  wore  their  turbans 
one  more  night,  and  then  the  monstrosities  were  taken  away. 
I  felt  my  whole  world  was  over  for  awhile,  but  the  Fort  went 
on. 

I  hardly  realized  its  dechne.  I  was  raising  my  family  and 
had  no  time,  until  a  special  occasion  came  up.  We  went  to  the 
Fort.  Ye  Gods!  It  had  a  gaudy  popcorn  machine,  candy 
counter,  and  cash  register  in  the  lobby.  Popcorn  and  candy 
wrappers  were  on  the  dull  carpeting.  A  mother  wandered  up 
and  down  the  aisle  in  semi-darkness,  looking  for  her  toddler 
way  over  on  the  opposite  side,  hanging  on  to  a  bottle,  not  a 
bit  bothered.  The  beautiful  nursery  had  long  ago  gone  to 
wrack  and  ruin  and  was  used  for  a  stock  room.  The  once 
lovely  ladies'  room  had  water  on  the  floor,  hpstick  writing  on 
the  walls,  cigarette  ashes  everywhere.  Upstairs,  the  house 
lights  went  on  to  indicate  intermission  but  the  house  Ughts  at 
best  were  dim,  and  no  wonder,  it  seemed  they  were  well 
ashamed  of  the  so  called  modern  decorating.  The  walls  were 
painted  round  and  round  in  wide  horrible  colors.  The 
orchestra  pit  was  empty,  the  beautiful  organ  was  gone.  As  for 
the  ushers,  there  were  none.  Once  or  twice  an  older  man 


220 


walked  down  the  aisle  to  stand  near  a  group  of  teenagers, 
trying  to  scare  them  into  not  throwing  popcorn,  but  they 
didn't  scare.  The  girls  they  were  throwing  at  giggled,  so  more 
popcorn  flew  through  the  air  while  two  more  girls  ran  down 
the  aisle,  their  thong  slippers  chp  clopping,  shding  in  by  the 
other  girls  so  they  too  could  be  targets  of  the  flying  popcorn. 
What  had  happened  to  my  poor  Fort? 

But  then  it  fell  farther.  Later  there  were  no  hghts  on  the 
marquee,  as  though  it  was  ashamed  of  the  lettering:  XXX 
Rated  Movies.  The  ticket  window  was  cracked  and  dirty,  a 
large  dirty  cardboard  inside.  The  lobby  doors  were  covered 
but  somewhere  tickets  were  sold.  At  times,  but  few  and  far 
between,  odd  people  would  sneak  in.  I  didn't  even  want  to 
imagine  what  it  looked  Uke  inside.  My  poor  gracious  Fort  was 
dying  a  horrible  death. 

When  you  are  growing  older,  decaying  things  seem 
almost  personal.  Restoration  of  the  old  and  tired  is  so  much 
more  cherished.  Somebody  is  bringing  my  Fort  back  to  life.  It 
has  to  be  a  tremendous  operation.  Now  the  bright  lights  are 
on  again.  The  marquee  is  brilliant.  The  lobby  is  fiDed  with 
gracious  people  waiting  to  be  seated  by  six  smiling  ushers. 
Although  I'm  seventy-five,  I  feel  1  am  fifteen  again.  I  am 
oh!  so  happy  and  feel  I  have  a  new  lease  on  Ufe. 


OLD  SILOAM  SPRINGS 

Irene  Van  Ormer  Hare 

When  I  was  a  six-year-old  little  girl  in  1907,  I  lived  with 
my  parents,  an  older  sister,  and  two  younger  brothers  at 
SUoam  Springs  in  Adams  County,  Illinois,  about  twelve  miles 
south  of  Clayton. 

Siloam  Springs  State  Park  is  well-known  in  this  part  of 
the  state,  but  old  Siloam  Springs  is  just  about  gone. 
According  to  my  recollection,  the  old  springs  area  is  just  a 


few  miles  east  of  the  park.  Leaving  the  park  and  heading 
toward  Old  Siloam  Springs,  one  had  to  negotiate  rough,  hilly 
country  on  a  winding  dirt  road.  A  long  and  steep  hill  with  a 
hairpin  curve  is  only  one  of  my  many  recollections  of  trips 
along  that  road.  The  rail  fence  which  followed  the  right  side  of 
the  road  served  as  a  support  for  the  many  wild  roses  which 
bloomed  in  the  summertime. 

The  house  where  we  hved  was  past  the  foot  of  the  hiU 
and  on  the  left  side  of  the  road,  nestled  where  the  turn  in  the 
road  met  the  Siloam  Branch.  The  branch  was  shallow,  and 
since  it  never  had  a  bridge,  had  to  be  forded.  Because  it  was 
spring-fed,  the  branch  never  ran  dry. 

A  short  distance  from  our  home,  on  the  east  side  of  the 
road,  was  the  general  merchandise  store  owned  by  George 
and  Mabel  Kiefer.  This  store  was  the  forerunner  of  a  chain  of 
thirty  Kiefer  stores,  all  owned  by  George  and  located  in 
Adams  and  surrounding  counties.  The  store  housed  the  post 
office  on  the  first  floor  and  a  dance  haO  upstairs.  The  large 
room  on  the  second  floor  was  the  setting  for  square  dances  on 
Saturday  nights.  After  a  number  of  years,  the  store  burned 
down  and  was  rebuilt. 

The  Kiefer  store  and  a  few  houses  filled  a  small  hollow. 
To  the  north  of  the  store,  a  bath  house  and  livery  stable  were 
located.  The  livery  stable  housed  many  horses. 

There  were  no  automobiles  nor  paved  roads  back  in 
those  days.  People  coming  to  Old  Siloam  Springs  rode  in 
horse-drawn  buggies  and  surreys.  I  remember  watching 
many  of  them  pass  our  house  on  their  way  to  the  hotel. 
Siloam  Springs  was  famous  for  its  large  hotel  which  was 
three  stories  high  and  featured  a  porch.  A  circular  drive  in 
front  of  the  hotel  was  hned  with  little  pine  or  fir  trees;  in  later 
years  the  trees  were  trimmed,  making  a  tall  hedge  along  the 
drive. 

People  came  to  the  hotel  from  near  and  far,  some  for  the 
weekend  and  some  for  longer  vacations.  They  came  to  rest 
and  to  eat  the  good  home-cooked  food,  and  particularly  to 


drink  the  spring  water  which  was  supposed  to  have  health- 
giving  properties. 

The  springs  were  numbered  and  some  were  covered  with 
porch-hke  structures  with  open  sides  and  cement  floors.  One 
large  cover  sheltered  three  springs  (I  have  forgotten  their 
numbers).  The  thirsty  visitor  could  have  a  drink  of  the  cool 
spring  water  by  using  the  tin  cup  hanging  on  the  end  of  a 
chain  nailed  to  a  post  near  each  spring. 

My  father  worked  as  a  grounds-keeper  for  Mr.  Sale 
Johnson,  owner  of  the  hotel.  One  day  Dad  took  Mother  and 
us  kids  along  in  his  wagon  when  he  went  to  pick  up  a  load  of 
sod  for  the  hotel's  lawn.  While  Dad  worked,  we  played; 
Mother  sewed  on  a  cushion  top.  I  can  still  remember  it— little 
pieces  cut  from  velvet  scraps  and  silk  neckties,  and  each  piece 
outhned  with  fancy  stitches.  I  treasured  that  cushion  for 
many  years. 

My  paternal  grandfather  had  a  brother  named  Thomas. 
Uncle  Tom  and  Aunt  Nancy  DeJaynes  and  their  six  sons 
lived  about  a  mile  from  us  in  a  rock  house  built  into  the  side  of 
a  hill.  I  think  some  of  that  rock  house  is  still  standing.  One 
Sunday,  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  we  were  going  down  to  their 
house  to  spend  the  day.  Along  the  way,  on  a  hill  off  to  the 
right,  we  saw  Uncle  Tom  when  he  called  out  to  us.  He  had 
removed  his  coat,  tied  the  sleeves  around  his  waist,  and 
gathered  the  body  of  the  coat  up  as  if  it  were  an  apron.  Uncle 
Tom  was  fiUing  his  "apron"  with  morel  mushrooms.  We 
enjoyed  eating  them  later  that  day  at  dinner.  On  another 
Sunday,  my  family  and  1  went  to  Uncle  Tom's  for  a  big  fish 
dinner.  That  day,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  I  watched  my 
Aunt  Nancy  cook  fish  eggs. 

McKee  Creek  is  near  Siloam  and  it  was  a  good  creek  in 
which  to  catch  fish.  One  day  our  family  went  on  an  outing  to 
McKee  Creek.  While  we  kids  played  in  the  sand  and  water, 
our  parents  fished.  After  a  time.  Mother  called  out  that  she 
had  caught  a  big  fish,  so  Dad  told  her  to  walk  backward  and 


221 


pull  it  out  on  the  sand.  She  did  this  and  surprised  us  all  with  a 
fish  that  weighed  six  pounds! 

North  of  the  hotel,  the  men  of  the  community  had  a 
baseball  diamond.  On  Sundays  the  men  chose  sides  and 
played  baseball  while  the  women  and  children  watched.  1  can 
still  remember  a  man  with  crippled  feet  who  was  a  good 
hitter;  someone  else  always  ran  the  bases  for  him.  I  hadn't 
thought  of  this  person  for  many  years;  I  beheve  his  name  was 
Flynn. 

At  some  time  after  my  childhood,  a  large  dance  pavilion 
was  built  on  the  hotel  grounds,  and  a  pubhc  swimming  pool 
was  build  about  one-half  mile  to  the  south. 

On  Sunday,  in  the  late  Thirties  or  early  Forties,  my 
husband  (Ralph  Van  Ormer,  now  deceased),  our  four 
daughters,  plus  other  friends,  went  to  Siloam  Springs  for  a 
picnic.  It  had  changed  so  much.  Although  interesting  to  see 
and  visit,  it  was  not  like  the  Old  Siloam  Springs  I  remember. 


THE  WAIT  FORD 

Truman  W.  Waite 

When  the  first  settlers  came  to  Adams  County,  Quincy 
was  the  point  that  many  arrived  and  from  there  they 
migrated  in  three  directions. 

Wait  Ford,  named  for  Allan  Wait,  who  operated  a  mill 
near  the  ford,  was  on  the  most  direct  route  from  Quincy  north 
and  was  used  quite  often  by  the  people  of  the  community 
until  the  new  bridge  over  Bear  Creek  was  completed  in  1928. 
I  remember  using  several  other  fords  as  short  cuts  to  Loraine 
and  Mendon,  even  after  several  of  the  iron  bridges  were  built. 

The  Wait  Ford  was  near  the  home  of  my  grandmother, 
and  I  crossed  it  many  times  when  1  visited  her.  During  these 
visits,  many  times  she  would  take  my  brother  and  me  down 
to  the  ford  to  fish.  Quite  often  catfish  was  on  the  table  for 
supper. 


The  ford  was  a  shallow  place  in  the  creek,  but  below  and 
also  above  it  the  water  was  very  deep.  This  was  the  cause  of  a 
tragedy  many  years  ago.  A  man  walking  down  the  creek 
wearing  boots  and  not  knowing  of  the  deep  hole  near  the  ford, 
waded  into  the  pool  and  was  drowned  in  about  fifteen  feet  of 
water. 

Another  tragedy  happened  at  the  ford  in  the  Spring  of 
1911.  It  had  been  a  cold  winter  with  lots  of  snow  and  very 
little  of  it  had  melted.  One  of  the  farmers  who  lived  near  the 
ford,  Mr.  Ben  Nesbit,  took  off  very  early  one  morning  for 
Quincy,  about  eighteen  miles  distant.  The  creek  was  low  and 
the  ford  was  frozen  over.  As  it  often  happens  at  this  time  of 
year,  the  weather  turned  off  very  warm.  Nearly  all  the  snow 
melted  that  day,  resulting  in  the  creek  being  bank  full  of 
water  and  floating  ice.  When  Mr.  Nesbit  returned  home  in  the 
early  hours  of  the  following  morning,  as  was  his  usual  habit, 
he  was  quite  intoxicated.  His  team,  being  used  to  crossing 
the  ford,  plunged  into  the  icy  flood  waters  and  were 
immediately  swept  down  stream  to  their  death.  How  Mr. 
Nesbit,  "Old  Ben,"  as  he  was  commonly  known,  escaped  is  a 
mystery.  Some  think  he  got  hold  of  an  overhanging  tree  hmb 
and  got  out. 

A  search  party  found  the  drowned  horses  several  miles 
down  stream  attached  to  part  of  the  wagon.  I  remember  the 
incident  and  of  them  teUing  about  getting  the  running  gears 
of  the  wagon  out  of  the  water,  cutting  the  harness  off  the 
horses,  and  letting  them  float  away  down  the  stream. 

Sometimes  when  we  were  visiting  our  grandmother,  we 
walked  down  to  the  ford  to  see  the  baptismal  services  that 
were  held  quite  often.  There  were  always  many  people  there, 
and  after  the  ceremony,  they  usually  went  to  grandmother's 
house  to  change  into  dry  clothes. 

The  ford  was  still  used  as  late  as  the  Fall  of  1927.  That 
fall  I  was  hired  to  use  my  team  at  the  ford  to  pull  loaded 
trucks  of  wheat  from  the  threshing  machine  up  the  south 
bank  of  the  creek.  As  far  as  I  know,  this  was  the  last  time  the 


ford  was  used.  The  new  bridge  was  nearing  completion  on 
Route  96,  Just  a  short  distance  down  stream. 

Now  all  the  roads  leading  to  the  fords  have  been  vacated 
and  many  are  plowed  up  and  planted  to  crops.  It  was  the  end 
of  an  era. 

TATER  CREEK 

Mrs.  Garnet  Workman 

I  grew  up  on  a  Fulton  County  farm  owned  by  my 
grandfather,  Lewis  Vaughn,  and  later  by  my  parents 
Sherman  and  Gertude  (Vaughn)  Kruzan. 

Through  the  pasture  land  flowed  a  small  stream  which 
meandered  into  Potato  Creek,  located  along  the  northern 
boundary  of  the  farm.  Members  of  my  family  dubbed  the 
small  stream  "The  Branch,"  and  Potato  Creek  was  known  as 
"Tater  Creek." 

I  spent  many  happy  childhood  hours  wading  in  The 
Branch.  At  one  spot  in  the  stream  I  would  occasionally  see  a 
water  moccasin  sunning  itself  on  a  tiny  island,  and  I  would 
cautiously  keep  my  distance.  As  I  recall  these  experiences,  I 
beUeve  my  guardian  angel  was  with  me. 

When  picking  wild  flowers,  I  would  place  my  bouquet  in 
the  shallow  water  of  The  Branch  until  I  was  ready  to  go 
home.  I  also  enjoyed  hunting  pretty  pebbles  and  rocks  along 
the  stream  and  washing  them  in  the  Branch. 

Another  pleasant  memory  of  The  Branch  is  seining 
silvery  minnows  with  Dad,  which  we  used  as  bait  for  fishing 
in  larger  streams.  When  Dad  was  working  in  fields  located 
beyond  the  pasture,  he  would  stop  at  a  deep  hole  in  the 
Branch  and  have  a  refreshing  bath  after  his  long  day's  labor. 

According  to  a  local  history  book  in  the  Lewistown 
Carnegie  Pubhc  Library,  where  I  am  employed.  Potato  Creek 
received  its  name  from  the  great  abundance  of  wild  potatoes 
that  grew  on  its  banks. 

When  I  was  a  child  in  the  late  1920's  and  early  1930's, 


223 


Tater  Creek  was  good  for  fishing,  especially  bullheads. 
Mother  fried  them  to  a  turn  and  they  were  deUcious. 
Grandfather  Vaughn  fished  in  the  Creek  during  the  spring 
that  he  reached  his  eighty-sixth  birthday  in  May,  1933. 

A  water  gap  separated  our  part  of  the  Creek  from  the 
adjoining  farm.  After  a  heavy  rain  my  father  would  don  his 
waders  and  repair  the  water  gap.  My  brother-in-law,  Herbert 
Beadles,  who  farms  for  my  sister  Irene  and  me,  still  has  this 
job. 

Father  attempted  to  teach  my  sister  and  me  to  swim  in 
the  Creek,  but  with  no  success  as  neither  learned  to  swim. 

The  C.  B.  &  Q.  (Chicago,  Burhngton,  and  Quincy) 
Railroad  follows  Tater  Creek,  and  one  of  my  pleasant 
memories  is  waving  at  the  trainmen  as  the  train  sped  by. 

Potato  Creek  empties  into  Spoon  River,  the  river  of 
Edgar  Lee  Masters'  famous  Anthology. 


THE  I.  AND  M.  CANAL 

Glenn  E.  Phitpott 

There's  a  lot  of  people,  especially  in  the  younger 
generation  here  in  Illinois,  who  have  never  heard  of  the  1.  & 
M.  Canal.  It  is  also  known  as  the  Hennepin  Canal.  This 
engineering  feat  in  northern  Illinois  was  accompUshed  about 
the  same  time  as  the  Panama  Canal— around  the  turn  of  the 
century  or  shortly  there  after. 

The  idea  behind  the  construction  of  the  canal  was  to 
make  a  shorter  water  route  between  the  Great  Lakes  and  the 
Tri-city  area  of  Davenport,  Rock  Island,  and  Moline  on  the 
Mississippi  River.  Before  this  construction  all  water  traffic 
was  forced  to  go  south  to  Grafton,  Illinois,  to  the  confluence 
of  the  Illinois  and  Mississippi  Rivers.  Between  1910  and  1940 
there  were  miUions  of  tons  of  grain,  steel,  gravel,  coal,  etc. 


transported  by  way  of  this  canal.  Of  course,  this  held  down 
freight  rates  on  the  raib-oads  because  of  competition. 

The  canal  was  dug  mostly  by  hand  and  by  team  and  shp. 
My  grandfather,  Billy  Philpott,  helped  dig  the  canal  and  later 
became  a  lockman  at  locks  five  and  seven.  It  was  only  natural 
that  my  dad,  Conway  Philpott,  followed  and  became  a 
lockman,  too.  That  is  why  1  grew  up  on  the  canal  and  spent 
the  first  26  years  of  my  life  there.  In  1948  1  became  a  lockman 
at  the  Guard  lock  at  Rock  Falls,  Illinois.  This  made  three 
generations  of  the  Philpott  family  serving  on  the  canal. 

The  main  canal  was  dug  westward  from  Bureau,  lUinois, 
past  the  towns  of  Tiskilwa,  Wyanet,  Sheffield,  Mineral, 
Annawan,  Geneseo,  and  Colona,  to  Milan  on  the  Mississippi 
River— a  distance  of  approximately  twenty  miles.  The 
channel  was  seven  or  eight  feet  deep. 

The  water  supply  for  the  canal  is  drawn  from  the  Rock 
River  at  Rock  Falls.  The  water  flow  is  controlled  at  the  Guard 
lock  at  Rock  Falls  and  flows  south  through  the  "feeder 
section"  or  summit  level  to  the  main  canal,  a  distance  of 
approximately  twenty-five  miles.  This  junction  is  just 
northwest  of  Sheffield  and  is  the  high  point,  because  the 
water  from  here  flows  east  down  to  the  Illinois  River  and 
down  west  to  the  Mississippi  River.  There  are  twenty-one 
locks  going  east  from  here  and  eleven  locks  going  west  to  the 
Mississippi— a  total  of  thirty-two  locks. 

Each  lock  had  its  own  lockman  who  hved  in  a  house 
provided  by  the  government.  Rent  was  deducted  from  his 
monthly  pay  check. 

The  lockman  was  provided  an  acre  of  ground  for  a 
garden  for  his  family,  which  was  sufficient.  My  grandmother 
and  aunt  hved  with  us  most  of  the  time,  so  with  my  three 
brothers  and  three  sisters  and  Mom  and  Dad,  it  was  quite  a 
chore  to  feed  eleven  people  each  meal  time.  We  never  missed  a 
meal,  and  now  1  look  back  and  wonder  how  we  did  it.  We  ate  a 
lot  of  squirrel  and  rabbit  in  season  or  out  depending  on  the 
situation. 


224 


The  distance  between  the  locks  varied  considerably- 
according  to  the  level  of  the  land.  Locks  Fifteen  and  Sixteen 
are  only  about  a  block  apart,  but  Locks  Twenty-one  and 
Twenty-two  are  twelve  miles  apart.  During  my  early 
childhood,  all  lockmen  were  on  duty  twenty-four  hours  a  day, 
seven  days  a  week.  Each  was  given  fifteen  days  leave  time 
each  year.  Of  course,  later  this  was  changed.  He  was  expected 
to  be  available  to  lock  boats  through  his  lock  at  any  time.  The 
government  had  its  own  telephone  line  along  the  canal,  and 
each  lock  was  assigned  a  combination  of  short  or  long  rings. 
Of  course,  nature  being  what  it  is,  each  time  the  phone  would 
ring,  practically  everyone  hstened  in,  so  there  were  few 
personal  secrets.  This  telephone  was  used  to  inform  each 
lockman  as  to  the  arrival  of  the  boats  and  when  they  were  due 
at  each  lock. 

My  father  first  lived  on  a  houseboat  at  Lock  One.  I 
started  to  school  in  1920  after  we  moved  to  Lock  Eight  near 
Tiskilwa.  The  Boushey  family  lived  at  Lock  Nine  and  our 
other  neighbor  here  was  the  Walton  family,  as  he  was  the 
dredge  operator.  Years  later  I  worked  on  the  old  steam 
dredge  Ledgerwood  with  Mr.  Walton  and  on  the  old  steam 
pile  driver  with  Pat  Cooney. 

In  1928  we  moved  to  Lock  Twelve  where  I  graduated 
from  Tiskilwa  High  School  in  1932.  This  was  during  the 
famous  Depression  and  I  remember  it  well.  All  my  "growing 
up"  on  the  canal  involved  no  electricity.  The  old  kerosene 
lamp  served  us  in  the  evenings  while  getting  our  lessons.  We 
listened  to  our  old  battery  operated  radio  until  the  batteries 
were  dead  which  was  quite  often.  Dad  was  finally  able  to  get  a 
gasoUne  powered  Maytag  washing  machine  for  Mom.  As  I 
was  the  oldest,  it  was  my  job  to  siphon  the  gasohne  out  of  our 
old  Studebaker  car  each  Monday  so  Mom  could  wash.  I  went 
to  school  "half  punchy"  a  lot  of  times,  when  the  siphoning 
didn't  work  too  good. 

Most  young  people  today  don't  realize  how  wonderful  it 
is  not  to  have  to  wrap  up  in  an  old  sheepskin  coat  in  the 


winter  and  carry  a  lantern  for  that  pressing  trip  to  the 
outhouse  and  another  look  at  the  old  Sears  and  Roebuck 
catalogue.  I  still  remember  that  the  colored  pages  were  the 
last  to  go. 

During  the  winter  my  dad  and  I  loved  to  trap.  We 
caught  a  lot  of  mink  and  muskrats  as  well  as  coon  and 
skunks.  Dad  was  an  expert  skinner  so  he  did  all  of  that.  The 
winter  time  also  meant  filling  the  icehouse.  This  was  a 
cooperative  effort  by  several  of  the  lockmen  together.  After 
the  ice  on  the  canal  reached  ten  to  twelve  inches  thick  the 
boss  would  assemble  the  lockmen,  and  the  ice  was  cut  and 
blocked  and  put  into  the  icehouse,  and  covered  with  peat,  for 
use  in  the  summer.  There  were  very  few  times  that  someone 
didn't  fall  into  the  icy  waters. 

In  the  summertime  most  lockmen  were  busy  cutting 
grass,  or  trimming  weeds  along  the  canal.  This  enabled  them 
to  be  avaOable  at  any  time  to  take  care  of  the  boat  and  barge 
traffic.  Each  lockage  through  a  lock  took  about  twenty 
minutes.  My  dad  has  had  thirty  lockages  in  one  day  or  one 
every  twenty  minutes  for  ten  hours. 

These  locks  were  operated  by  hand.  Valves  let  water 
into  the  locks  and  wickets  let  the  water  out.  The  old  grain 
boat  Montauk  made  a  lot  of  trips  from  Pekin  and  Beardstown 
on  the  IlUnois  River  up  into  the  feeder  section  to  get  grain. 

Later  the  Mechlin  barge  line  hauled  a  lot  of  steel 
through  the  canal  from  the  steel  mills  around  Chicago  to  the 
Rock  Island  area. 

The  old  canal  for  its  original  purpose  is  a  thing  of  the 
past.  It  has  been  turned  over  to  the  state  now  as  a 
recreational  park.  There  is  no  more  through  travel  now 
except  by  canoe,  as  some  of  the  locks  have  been  converted  to 
spiUways.  This  keeps  a  constant  flow  of  water  through  the 
canal  and  prevents  stagnation. 

There  have  been  a  lot  of  family  names  associated  with 
the  old  canal.  Of  course,  some  have  been  forgotten  over  the 
years.  My  other  grandfather,  George  Hand,  was  a  lockman  at 


Locks  Six  (where  my  mother  and  dad  met)  and  Twenty-two. 
His  sons,  Frank  and  Bert  Hand,  also  lived  on  the  canal.  Other 
names  that  come  to  mind  are  Goldstein,  Bales,  Weber, 
Varble,  Renoad,  Fox,  Cannan,  Puyear,  Jones,  Rodgers, 
Turner,  Underwood,  Garrell,  Goodale,  111.,  Charles,  Luce, 
Webster,  Madsen,  Wagner  and  Yarrington.  Of  course,  then 
men  only  worked  on  the  Eastern  section  because  that's  where 
my  time  was  spent. 

Every  time  I  pass  a  segment  of  the  old  canal,  it  brings 
back  a  lot  of  memories.  One  evening  while  living  at  Lock 
Twelve,  my  dad  saved  a  httle  girl  from  drowning.  I  only 
remember  her  last  name  as  Hull.  She  had  faDen  off  the  lower 
gates  into  the  channel  while  trying  to  walk  across  the  gates. 
It  was  night  time  and  Dad  got  his  pike  pole  and  was  able  to 
snag  her  coat  and  drag  her  out.  He  administered  artificial 
resuscitation,  and  she  was  okay  by  the  time  the  rescue  squad 
arrived. 

Mom  and  Dad  are  both  gone  now,  but  they  left  me  with 
a  lot  of  memories.  Dad  was  always  proud  that  he  was  told  he 
had  the  prettiest  lock  on  the  canal  by  the  inspecting  mayor. 
He  always  had  a  lot  of  flowering  bushes  and  moss  roses 
around  his  Lock  Twelve  area. 

At  night,  if  I  Usten  carefully,  I  can  stiU  hear  the  frogs 
croaking,  a  splash  from  a  jumping  fish,  and  the  cry  of  the 
Katy-dids  along  the  canal  bank. 


LIFE  IN  A  FEMALE  INSTITUTION 

Juanita  Jordan  Morley 

In  the  fall  of  1927,  my  father,  Benjamin  Jordan,  and  I 
drove  from  Watseka,  Illinois,  to  Jacksonville,  a  distance  of 
about  150  miles,  to  enroll  me  in  lUinois  Woman's  College. 
Upon  conferring  with  some  of  his  friends,  my  father  had 


decided  this  was  the  place  for  his  motherless  daughter  to 
receive  her  education. 

1  was  to  find  out  later  that  Jacksonville  was  a  very 
unusual  town  in  that  it  housed  about  every  institution  you 
could  name.  Down  the  street  from  the  college  was  the  Illinois 
School  for  the  Blind,  St.  Francis  Hospital,  now  Frank  A. 
Norris  Hospital,  and  the  school  for  nurses.  To  the  other  end 
of  town,  very  quaint  and  charming,  located  on  a  hilltop,  was 
Illinois  College.  During  my  four  years  at  coOege,  I  was 
fortunate  to  be  able  to  attend  the  100th  celebration  of  its 
founding.  There  was  Routt  College  for  the  Deaf,  a  large  state 
mental  institution,  and  Norbury's  Sanitarium. 

My  aunt  Martha  had  packed,  labeled,  and  assembled  all 
the  things  required  for  me  to  take.  My  personal  things  were 
packed  in  a  black,  shiny  hat  box,  which  over  the  next  few 
years  became  plastered  with  college  labels.  1  beUeve  that 
little  black  hat  box  made  it  all  through  college  with  me  and 
later  was  used  to  house  our  daughters'  toys. 

Upon  seeing  Illinois  Woman's  College  for  the  first  time, 
I  wasn't  exactly  overjoyed.  The  building  I  was  to  live  in  was 
Old  Main,  the  first  building  of  the  college.  It  was  tall,  stern, 
and  drab— very  much  like  our  Dean  Austin,  who  was  to  guide 
my  Ufe.  The  buOding  was  set  not  far  off  the  street  and  had  a 
short,  winding  walk  past  a  magnoUa  tree  to  some  high  steps 
that  led  to  the  entry.  Just  inside  the  massive  front  door  was 
the  "desk,"  where  the  heartbeat  of  the  college  was  monitored. 
To  the  left  was  the  reception  room— a  very  formal,  stiff  room 
with  about  the  biggest  mirror  I  can  ever  remember.  Here  you 
met  your  guests  or  dates,  but  never  just  lounged.  The  Social 
Room,  a  large  room  on  down  the  hall  to  the  left,  was  where 
our  dances,  special  meetings  of  the  Dean,  and  school 
functions  were  held.  Around  the  walls  were  oil  paintings  done 
by  my  art  teacher,  Nellie  Knopf,  of  whom  I  was  very  proud. 
To  the  right  past  the  desk  were  Dean  Austin's  office  and 
other  business  rooms.  At  the  far  end  of  the  hall  was  the 


226 


library.  In  the  basement  was  the  post  office  and  the  dining 
hall,  so  Old  Main  was  just  about  the  whole  college. 

I  had  been  assigned  a  second  floor  room  on  one  of  the 
wings  back  of  the  main  facade.  It  overlooked  a  courtyard, 
from  which  later  I  was  to  enjoy  midnight  serenades  by 
Illinois  College  boys.  The  room  was  dark,  tall  ceilings  with 
the  bare  essentials  for  hving— two  beds  or  cots,  two  dressers, 
two  closets,  and  possibly  a  wash  basin.  One  of  the  first  things 
in  getting  settled  was  a  shopping  trip  with  your  roommate  to 
get  bedspreads,  drapes,  scatter  rugs,  lamps,  and  curtains  for 
the  windows  and  closets. 

A  "big  sister"  was  assigned  to  underclassmen,  and  I 
received  a  "corker."  She  was  collegiate  from  the  word  go. 
Upon  looking  at  me,  she  dubbed  me  "Clara  Bow,  the  Boop- 
oop-a-doop  girl."  It  wasn't  until  Sue  Proctor  left  Illinois 
Woman's  College  that  my  friends  found  I  had  a  name,  and  it 
v/as  shortened  to  "Nita."  WeU,  I  had  a  reputation  to  establish 
to  keep  up  with  my  new  name,  and  the  shy  Httle  gal  from 
Watseka  "emerged." 

In  my  second  year  at  Illinois  Woman's  College,  I 
attended  a  Washington's  Birthday  Ball  staged  in  the 
gymnasium.  It  was  a  costume  ball,  and  many  gathered  to 
watch  from  the  balcony  at  the  back  of  the  gym.  There  was  a 
photographer  on  hand  to  take  pictures  of  the  event,  which  he 
did  from  the  stage  at  the  front  end  of  the  gymnasium.  Since 
the  flash  made  such  a  smoke,  someone  puUed  the  curtain  on 
the  stage  to  keep  back  the  fumes.  Before  we  knew  it,  the 
curtain  had  ignited,  and  for  fear  that  it  might  fall  on  the 
dancers  on  the  floor,  someone  pulled  it  back.  The  flames 
immediately  licked  across  the  room  to  the  balcony,  and  you 
could  hear  the  screams  of  fear  and  panic  from  the  spectators. 
Among  those  spectators  were  the  President's  wife,  Mrs. 
Clarence  P.  McCleilans,  my  art  teacher,  the  school  nurse, 
several  of  my  classmates,  and  many,  many  more.  I 
particularly  remember  the  President's  wife  because  she 
jumped  from  the  ledge  outside  the  windows,  breaking  her  hip 


and  being  hospitahzed  for  what  seemed  ages.  The  school 
nurse,  whom  none  of  us  admired,  escaped  from  the  ledge.  She 
may  have  been  a  "Wonder  Woman"  from  a  previous  age.  One 
classmate  jumped  from  the  ledge  outside  the  window, 
striking  an  iron  guard  rail  and  killing  herself;  another  became 
very  severly  burned,  disfiguring  her  for  hfe.  Some  escaped  by 
pulling  their  coats  over  their  heads  and  taking  the  narrow 
stairs  down  from  the  balcony.  I  was  on  the  main  floor  and 
rather  calmly  made  my  way  out,  past  the  punch  bowl, 
untouched  by  all  save  a  Uttle  colored  boy  who  was  sampling 
its  contents,  on  down  the  steps,  losing  and  replacing  my 
shpper  on  the  way,  to  find  a  roommate  outside  who  was 
frantic  with  fear  for  me. 

That  night  in  the  dormitory  was  one  I  shall  never  forget. 
We  huddled  in  each  other's  rooms,  frightened  with  rumors  of 
the  horrible  things  that  had  happened  that  eve.  I  recall  no 
Ughts,  and  only  the  central  switchboard  being  open.  We  were 
reassured,  however,  that  our  parents  had  been  called.  With 
the  morning  light,  we  were  all  informed  that  we  were  to  go 
home— a  very  wise  decision,  I  am  sure. 

lUinois  Woman's  College  was  fashioned  after  Eastern 
girls'  schools,  so  we  had  no  sororities.  Our  rules  were  very 
strict— student  government  prevailed.  We  could  go  "off 
campus"  only  in  groups  of  three;  we  dared  not  ride  in  cars. 
We  signed  in  and  out  for  whatever  we  did.  Dates  had  to  be 
approved.  There  was  a  "black  Kst"  that  you  dared  not 
associate  with.  Special  permission  had  to  be  obtained  from 
the  Dean,  and  it  took  your  greatest  nerve  to  approach  her. 
We  attended  Chapel  every  day  at  ten.  We  had  assigned  seats 
and  attendance  was  strictly  enforced.  So  you  might  guess 
that  at  that  time  I  was  "Lifting  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  the  Lord"  or  singing  the  college  song,  "By 
stately  elms  surrounded,  our  dear  old  college  stands." 

In  this  same  chapel  some  of  the  finest  Artist  Series 
programs  were  held,  although  at  the  time  I  was  guilty  of 
"cutting"  them.  I  do  remember  the  Russian  Cossack  Chorus, 


Ethel  Barrymore,  Carola  Goya,  Tony  Sarg's  Marionettes, 
and  countless  other  pianists,  sapranos,  baritones,  etc. 

Also,  during  my  second  year,  I  was  "rushed"  to  all  the 
societies  (not  sororities)  on  campus.  That  was  quite  an 
experience,  and  some  lovely  and  clever  parties  were  staged.  I 
joined  Phi  Nu  Society,  of  which  my  senior  year  I  was 
president  and  influential  in  founding  Society  Night,  which 
became  an  annual  affair  and  highly  approved  of  by  the  Dean. 
All  in  all,  there  were  four  main  societies,  and  rooms  in  Harker 
Hall  were  our  meeting  places. 

It  would  not  be  right  to  omit  the  weekly  meetings  called 
by  Dean  OUve  Austin.  She  was  a  tall,  stern,  maiden-lady  that 
made  you  really  wonder  at  her  qualifications  for  all  the  "facts 
of  life"  that  she  was  to  bestow  on  us.  We  didn't  love  her,  but 
rather  feared  her.  But  she  did  bring  about  development  in  our 
lives. 

Illinois  Woman's  College,  being  a  church-endowed 
school,  I  am  sure  needed  help.  The  college  was  growing.  Its 
financial  status  couldn't  have  been  good  as  the  Depression 
was  upon  us.  Some  very  generous,  kind,  and  rich  benefactors 
came  into  the  hfe  of  the  coOege,  and  although  it  didn't  seem 
right  to  us  (those  in  school  then)  the  name  was  changed  to 
MacMurray.  So  I  graduated  from  MacMurray  College  of 
Jacksonville,  still  a  girls'  school.  My  class  was  the  first  to  Uve 
in  Jane  Hall,  a  new  residence  hall  quite  different  from  Old 
Main. 

This  spring,  God  willing,  I  hope  to  attend  my  50th  Class 
Reunion.  I  have  now  reached  the  age  of  those  charming  old 
ladies  I  used  to  watch  attending  their  fiftieth  reunions  when  I 
was  but  a  student.  MacMurray  is  no  longer  a  girls'  school, 
but  coeducational.  There  was  a  rumor  that  the  administration 
approached  lUinois  College,  hoping  to  join  them  in  order  to 
survive,  but  the  two  old  schools  could  not  lose  their 
identities.  From  1846  to  1981  covers  a  lot  of  education. 


GOATS  IN  CHICAGO'S  BACKYARDS 

Elizabeth  Schumacher  Bork 

Near  where  I  lived  in  the  city  of  Chicago  in  the  early 
1900's  there  were  streets  paved  with  wooden  blocks.  The 
wooden  blocks  were  ten  inches  in  diameter.  Because  horses 
were  used  to  haul  most  everything,  the  wooden  blocks  got 
wet  as  the  horses  had  to  reheve  themselves  on  them  during 
working  hours.  The  city  had  street  cleaners,  but  they  could 
not  clean  the  moisture  out  of  the  blocks.  The  odor  was  out  of 
this  world,  especially  on  hot,  steamy  summer  evenings.  For 
sanitary  reasons  the  city  had  to  remove  the  wooden  blocks. 

At  this  time  most  people  heated  their  homes  with  coal  or 
wood.  The  men  working  on  the  removing  of  the  blocks  were 
always  glad  to  have  the  people  carry  them  away.  Friends  of 
our  family  sent  their  girl  out  to  get  a  box  of  the  "used"  blocks 
one  day.  She  was  a  twin  and  the  boss  on  the  job  told  her  she 
had  taken  enough  and  to  go  home.  She  did.  But  her  twin 
sister  didn't  know  that  and  she  went  for  a  load  of  wood 
herself.  The  man  was  very  angry  with  her  and  said,  "I  told 
you  not  to  come  back."  She  told  him  she  wasn't  there  before, 
and  he  would  not  take  her  word  for  it.  He  made  her  cry. 
Finally,  I  explained  to  him  about  their  being  twin  sisters. 

We  had  kerosene  lamps  to  hght  our  homes.  We  children 
were  sent  to  the  store  with  a  gaDon  can  to  get  it.  The  can  had 
a  spout  to  pour  the  kerosene  out,  so  we  had  to  put  a  small 
potato  in  the  spout  to  keep  the  kerosense  from  spilling. 

Some  people  raised  goats  for  the  milk  they  used  for  their 
table.  There  was  another  reason  to  use  goats  milk,  too.  It  was 
for  infants  that  could  not  take  the  mother's  milk  or  even 
cow's  milk.  It  was  very  expensive  per  gallon.  But  the  City  of 
Chicago,  being  so  populated,  and  for  many  other  reasons, 
passed  a  law  to  stop  goat  raising  in  the  city  limits.  Goats 
used  to  eat  people's  clothes  off  their  wash  Ones  and  eat  the 
newspapers  the  boys  put  on  the  porches. 

The  silent  movies  were  5<l;  and  they  had  a  man  or  lady 


playing  the  piano.  The  piano  music  was  very  good  as  it  went 
with  the  action  of  the  silent  movie.  Printed  words  would  be 
shown  on  the  screen,  and  we  used  to  watch  the  people's  lips. 
Mary  Pickford  was  the  best  actress,  and  CharHe  Chaplin  was 
very  popular,  too.  Soon  talking  pictures  came  and  it  was  a 
novelty. 

As  the  neighborhood  that  I  lived  in  had  many  vacant 
lots,  there  was  much  home  building.  One  general  contractor 
built  a  row  of  buildings  a  block  long!  They  were  two  stories 
high  and  all  aUke.  In  the  bathrooms,  the  floors  had  httle  tile 
squares  about  three  inches  square.  They  were  each  laid  in 
cement  next  to  each  other.  When  the  men  went  home  after 
4:30  p.m.,  we  children  went  over  to  the  buildings  and  picked 
up  nails  and  tiles  that  had  been  thrown  out  when  the 
buildings  were  done.  My  parents  didn't  want  me  to  play  near 
those  places,  and  they  knew  I  had  been  there  when  I  came 
home  with  my  pockets  full  of  nails,  tiles,  etc. 

We  moved  to  another  place  in  Chicago.  It  was  a  very 
good  neighborhood.  There  were  many  Jewish  people  hving 
there  who  were  very  religious.  They  didn't  light  their  gas 
stoves  for  certain  days.  But,  if  a  gentOe  hghted  it,  then  they 
could  cook.  They  paid  me  10<t  for  doing  this  for  them. 

I  would  get  up  early  Saturdays  and  make  my  rounds.  I 
came  home  with  at  least  $10.00  in  dimes.  My  father  made 
$18.00  per  week  as  a  foreman  in  the  National  Biscuit 
Company.  He  had  200  girls  working  for  him.  One  day  I  came 
home  with  $50.00  in  dimes.  I  heard  my  mother  say  that  it  was 
more  than  most  husbands  earn  in  one  week  or  even  a  month. 

Mother  was  always  good  to  me.  She  always  gave  me  1 1 
out  of  those  earnings  for  the  colored  paper  lunch  bags  that 
the  candy  store  sold.  I  so  loved  those  bags  with  the  colored 
popcorn  and  some  small  trinket. 

There  was  also  a  "PubUc  Bath  House"  near  my  home.  I 
asked  mother  if  I  could  go  to  the  Bath  House  with  the  other 
children.  She  said  you  have  a  bathroom  in  your  own  house 
and  you  don't  need  to  go  there. 


Well,  she  let  me  go  anyway.  A  man  would  turn  on  the 
water,  and  ask  us  if  it  was  too  hot  or  too  cold.  We  all  said  hot 
or  cold,  and  made  a  lot  of  noise  until  he  called  a  halt  to  the 
noise.  We  had  to  bring  our  own  towels. 

These  are  just  a  few  of  many  of  my  wonderful  memories 
of  childhood  days.  For  me  they  certainly  were  the  "Good  Old 
Days." 


GRANDFATHER'S  OLD  MILL 

Albert  Shanholtzer 

In  1910  the  Coatsburg  Roller  Mill  was  a  thriving 
business,  located  on  five  acres  at  the  south  edge  of 
Coatsburg,  Illinois.  Built  on  a  foundation  of  native  limestone, 
the  rock  walls  of  the  basement  enclosed  the  boiler  room  where 
steam  power  was  generated.  The  strong  belt  extending  up 
from  the  generator's  flywheel  turned  the  pulley  of  the  ground 
floor  Uneshaft  above.  Other  belts  ran  from  several  power 
puUey-idler-pulley  combinations  to  selectively  supply  power 
to  machinery  on  the  third  and  fourth  floor  levels.  Water  for 
the  boiler  room  was  piped  underground,  the  cast  iron  conduit 
extending  from  a  screened  intake  crib  in  the  north  edge  of  the 
large  mill  pond  some  distance  away  to  maintain  a  constant 
water  supply. 

In  1910  my  grandfather,  Jacob  N.  Shanholtzer,  the 
mill's  owner,  was  69  years  of  age  with  many  years  of 
experience  in  four  other  Ilhnois  communities.  His  eldest  son 
and  co-worker,  James,  was  30  years  old  and  was  my  father.  It 
was  a  family  enterprise  with  occasional  extra  help  from  three 
younger  boys  in  the  family.  One  faithful  old  timer,  Joe  Brink, 
was  employed  to  fire  the  boiler  and  help  maintain  some  of  the 
machinery.  I  was  born  in  1905,  and  as  I  heard  my  parents 
discuss  events  at  the  mill,  it  became  interesting  to  me.  By  the 
time  I  was  five  years  old,  I  knew  the  finest  wheat  from  the 


heart  of  Adams  County  was  hauled  in  by  wagon  from 
surrounding  farms,  and  the  milled  white  flour,  shipped  out  by 
carloads  from  the  local  depot,  went  by  rail  to  many  other 
places.  Also,  some  stores  in  rural  areas  and  in  Quincy  were 
supphed  direct  by  wagon.  In  addition  to  white  flour,  the  mill 
produced  graham  flour,  corn  meal,  rye  flour  for  pumpernickel, 
and  "ship-stuff."  This,  I  learned,  consisted  of  sif tings  and 
screenings,  bran,  and  bin  and  shute  residues,  regularly  and 
thoroughly  cleaned  out.  Customers  added  this  to  scraps, 
potato  and  apple  peelings,  with  dishwater,  stirred  into  the 
slop  and  fed  it  to  several  hogs  for  fall  butchering,  a  custom  in 
those  days  among  most  all  families  in  rural  communities. 

Let  me  take  you  on  a  walking  tour  of  the  old  mill  in 
action,  as  I  was  permitted  to  accompany  my  father  on  his 
round  of  inspection.  I  remember  the  unusual  way  it  ended 
once  for  a  tired,  happy  boy  of  five. 

It  was  a  warm  spring  day.  As  operations  resumed  after 
the  noon  meal  (we  called  it  "dinner"  in  1910),  the  first  stop 
was  the  boiler  room.  The  coal  burning  unit  under  the  boOer 
was  being  stoked  and  the  bright  glow  of  the  flames  were 
closed  out  as  the  door  clanged  shut,  but  not  the  heat.  (It  was 
a  comfortably  warm  place  in  winter,  but  a  hot  sweaty  place 
the  rest  of  the  year!)  The  gauges  monitoring  the  water  level 
and  steam  pressure  were  functioning  properly,  and  we  stood 
a  moment  watching  the  big  flywheel  move  silently  and 
smoothly.  I  was  fascinated  by  its  spinning  round  and  round; 
Dad  was  checking  the  endless  belt  as  it  moved  through  an 
opening  up  to  the  ground  floor.  Any  flaw  must  be  detected 
and  remedied  in  time,  or  the  whole  mill  was  out  of  action!  We 
recalled  how  often  Dad  remarked:  "Steam  power,  smoothest 
and  most  dependable  man  ever  discovered."  Our  next  stop 
was  to  look  at  the  pair  of  imported  French  buhrstones  in  the 
adjoining  room.  They  were  not  operating  today,  but  I  had 
learned  before  that  they  were  used  for  grinding  corn  meal, 
graham  flour,  and  rye  for  pumpernickel.  When  the  mill  had 
been  remodeled  and  newer  machinery  installed  at  the  turn  of 


the  century,  they  had  been  retained  just  for  that  work.  (Dad 
had  learned  the  difficult  and  comphcated  procedure  for 
"dressing,"  or  sharpening  these  stones;  and  he  claimed  he 
was  the  only  one  in  this  area  capable  of  doing  so,  and 
assumed  no  one  in  the  community  would  ever  do  that  work  in 
the  future).  Going  up  to  the  main  floor,  walking  over  the  scale 
section  and  across  the  grill  through  which  wheat  cascaded 
into  bins  below  when  wagon  endgates  were  removed  and  the 
rear  wheels  lowered  slightly,  we  went  upstairs  to  stop  on  the 
landing  and  opened  a  small  door  to  observe  the  conveyor  belt, 
whose  cups  were  carrying  wheat  to  machinery  above  for  the 
initial  processing.  Following  the  walkway  between  the  rollers 
we  went  up  a  short  open  stairway  to  the  top  floor.  Several 
drive  belts  for  chutes  ended  there,  and  shorter  belts  returning 
power  to  a  few  machines  below  could  be  checked.  On  a  clear 
day  such  as  this,  you  could  see  miles  across  country  from  the 
windows;  you  could  also  hold  around  a  support  near  one 
opening  and  peer  down  through  all  three  floors  at  the  belts 
and  see  which  machines  were  idle.  As  we  returned  downstairs 
we  passed  a  unit  of  rollers  and  screens  and  an  expanse  of  fine 
French  silk  through  which  the  white  flour  was  sifted.  Back  on 
the  main  floor,  my  dad  went  to  the  bagging  chute  to  complete 
a  skid-load  of  flour.  I  sat  in  Grandpa's  "Captain's  chair"  with 
the  round  back  (he  was  probably  taking  his  afternoon  nap) 
and  watched  how  easily  the  bags  were  filled.  The  tops  were 
folded  under  once  and  stitched  across  with  a  curved  needle; 
an  ear  deftly  twisted  at  each  top  corner  was  wrapped  with  the 
twine  ends,  tied  with  a  "miller's  knot,"  and  the  wheeled  skid, 
four-bags-high,  pushed  to  the  loading  ramp  door  and  wheels 
chocked.  The  long  walk  had  made  me  tired  and  sleepy,  so 
when  Dad  threw  a  canvas  across  the  top  of  the  skid  of  flour, 
folded  a  few  clean  bags,  rejected  as  imperfect,  into  a  pillow, 
his  suggestion  to  take  a  nap  while  he  bagged  another  skid 
was  quickly  accepted.  1  heard  the  hum  of  belts  powering  well- 
oiled  machinery,  smelled  the  aroma  of  the  freshly  milled  flour, 
and  was  soon  in  dreamland.  I  little  reaUzed  then  that  it  was  a 


230 


time  to  remember,  with  much  Joy,  many  years  later.  In  this 
present-day  time  of  restriction,  health  and  safety  rules,  and 
government  regulation,  could  a  day  such  as  that  be 
experienced  by  a  boy  of  five?  I  doubt  it! 


WHITE  OAK  JUST  FADES  AWAY 

Vail  Morgan 

The  land  was  poor,  the  roads  were  poor,  and  so  were 
many  of  the  farm  famihes  in  the  rural  school-church  district 
Number  30  in  Schuyler  County  in  my  grade  school  years  of 
1916-1924.  It  was  the  White  Oak  School  and  Church,  located 
about  50  yards  apart,  in  a  white  oak  grove  midway  between 
Littleton  and  Camden  at  a  junction  of  narrow  rural  roads. 
Despite  what  we  today  would  regard  as  hardships,  the 
residents  of  the  White  Oak  Community  enjoyed  life  as  they 
looked  out  for  and  helped  each  other.  They  joined  together  in 
school,  church,  and  farm  activities. 

Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  would  Hke  to  return  to  the 
community  to  hve  again  those  happy  childhood  days— if  the 
people  and  the  area  were  the  same  again.  But  on  a  recent  visit 
there  I  found  that  the  old  famihes  and  scenes  had  simply 
faded  away,  and  the  community  seemed  lonely,  quiet,  and 
deserted. 

Gone  is  the  old  schoolhouse,  demolished  many  years  ago 
after  the  demise  of  all  rural  schools.  All  that  remains  are 
weeds  and  the  vine-covered  well  platform  and  pump.  Gone  is 
the  old  buffalo-wallow  pond  near  the  school  where  we  skated 
in  the  winter,  and  we  waded,  chased  frogs,  and  puOed  out  the 
tender  centers  of  the  calamus  plants  from  the  water's  edge  to 
eat  while  watching  the  many  red-winged  blackbirds  that 
nested  there  in  the  summer.  Gone  is  the  shade  tree  used  as 
first  base  for  our  school  ball  games.  Second  base  was  a  rock, 
and   third   base   was   a   fence   post.    Since   we   often   had 


insufficient  players  for  basemen,  we  adopted  a  rule  that  a 
runner  was  out  if  the  ball  was  thrown  between  him  and  the 
base  before  he  got  to  it,  or  if  the  ball  was  caught  on  the  fly. 

The  six  foot  deep  guUies  south  of  the  school  where  we 
had  mudball  fights  at  the  noon  hour  are  still  there.  The  blue 
clay  at  the  base  of  the  gulhes  was  always  wet  enough  to  shape 
into  balls  for  bombardment  of  the  enemy  in  the  opposite 
trench.  Sometimes  a  boy  got  a  blackened  eye  if  he  wasn't 
quick  enough  to  dodge  the  missile. 

School  disciphne  was  strict.  One  teacher  meted  out 
punishment  for  fighting  with  a  tire  pump  rubber  hose.  When 
being  punished  the  pupil  had  to  roll  up  his  overall  pants  leg, 
and  the  hose  was  apphed  across  the  back  of  his  legs,  often 
leaving  large  red  marks.  This  was  done  in  front  of  the  other 
pupils,  and  the  punishment  was  never  forgotten.  I  remember. 

The  small  schoolroom  was  heated  with  a  coal  stove  in 
one  corner  of  the  room.  For  several  years  I  walked  a  mile  to 
school  early  each  morning  to  start  the  coal  fire  so  the  room 
v/ould  be  heated  by  the  time  the  teacher  and  the  students 
arrived. 

My  first  teacher  rode  a  horse  three  miles  to  and  from 
school  daily.  The  animal  was  housed  in  the  coal  shed  in  one 
corner  of  the  yard.  Outdoor  toUets  stood  in  other  corners  of 
the  yard. 

Very  few  children  live  in  the  district  now,  and  they  are 
transported  by  bus  but  to  town  schools.  There  were  up  to  28 
students  in  the  rural  school  one  year  I  was  there. 

There  was  a  hitch  rack  along  the  south  side  of  the 
church  as  everyone  came  by  buggy,  carriage,  or  wagon,  or  by 
bobsled  in  winter.  Sometimes  the  rack  space  was  so  crowded 
that  horses  were  tied  to  the  white  oak  trees. 

I  recall  that  each  summer  for  many  years  a  black 
woman,  Mrs.  Brewington,  came  to  the  community  and 
conducted  revival  services  for  a  week  or  two.  She  stayed  with 
a  widow  woman  but  often  was  invited  out  for  meals  in  homes 
of  the  community.  She  was  beloved  by  the  members,  and 


they  always  looked  forward  to  her  appearance  for  preaching 
and  singing  services. 

I  remember  several  church  baptismals  in  the  Lamoine 
River,  known  then  as  Crooked  Creek.  The  river  was  about 
two  miles  from  the  church. 

Most  boys  and  girls  went  barefoot  all  summer,  with  the 
boys  boasting  they  were  the  first  to  go  barefoot  in  the  spring 
even  when  it  was  too  cold  for  comfort.  However,  we  went  to 
church  in  our  "Sunday  Shoes"  and  dressed  in  our  best  attire 
with  red  ribbon  ties. 

But  the  church,  too,  is  gone.  The  structure  has  finally 
collapsed,  reveahng  the  huge  hand-hewn  timbers  that  had 
framed  it,  lying  amidst  a  rubble  of  plaster,  lath,  and  wood 
shingles.  Brush  almost  hides  the  spot. 

One  thing  in  the  area  stands  out  and  undoubtedly  will 
forever.  That  is  the  old  cemetery  where  my  great- 
grandparents,  grandparents,  and  some  other  relatives  were 
buried  along  with  scores  of  others  from  the  pioneer 
community.  The  cemetery  grounds  are  still  kept  neatly 
mowed. 

I  wandered  into  the  nearby  Harrison  Woods  where  a 
classmate,  Francis  Harrison,  and  myself  once  carved  our 
names  with  a  hand  axe  in  a  sandstone  rock  ledge.  The  names 
had  faded  away,  covered  by  soil  that  had  eroded  from  above. 
Those  woods  and  pasture,  kept  almost  like  lawns  by  the 
constant  foraging  by  cattle  and  horses  in  my  school  days,  are 
now  void  of  animals.  They  are  so  dense  with  briars,  brush, 
and  the  pesky  multiflora  roses  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
wander  through  them  as  we  once  did  in  search  of  squirrels, 
arrowheads,  berries,  and  nuts. 

Making  the  district  more  desolate  is  the  absence  of  at 
least  nine  farm  premises  with  their  homes,  barns, 
outbuildings,  gardens,  and  orchards.  Five  of  those  homes 
have  burned;  some  of  the  others  demohshed  to  make  way  for 
larger  modern  farm  operations. 

Family  names  in  my  early  days  at  White  Oak  included 


Harrison,  DeCounter,  Paisley,  Gray,  White  McChntock, 
Learnd,  McNeeley,  Vincent,  Ellis,  Crook,  Lickey,  Nelson, 
Shupe,  and  Morgan.  Today  I  am  unable  to  locate  a  single  one 
of  these  names  among  the  few  families  in  the  White  Oak 
District.  They  just  faded  away  gradually,  some  by  death,  but 
most  to  richer  farm  lands  or  jobs  in  the  city.  At  least  one  of 
the  former  residents  is  now  a  miUionaire. 

Dad  sometimes  grew  white  corn  and  hauled  it  in  the 
wagon  to  the  mill  at  the  Brooklyn  dam  for  grinding  into  meal 
for  mush.  He  also  took  along  corn  to  grind  for  chicken  feed. 
One  time  we  lost  a  stack  of  shelled  white  corn  from  the  back 
of  the  wagon  before  reaching  the  mill.  On  the  way  home  we 
found  it  on  the  road,  no  one  having  passed  that  way  in  the  few 
hours  we  were  away.  While  the  corn  was  being  ground.  Dad 
would  drive  the  team  with  the  wagon  into  the  river  to  let  the 
water  soak  the  dry  wooden  wagon  wheels. 

The  old  mill  and  the  dam,  too,  are  now  gone.  White  Oak 
may  have  faded  away  but  my  memories  of  it  have  not. 


SCOTT  MILL 

Lucius  Herbert  Valentine 

The  place  of  my  birth  was  known  as  Scott  Mill,  located 
on  the  bank  of  the  Lamoine  River  in  Brown  County  of  the 
state  of  Illinois. 

Scott  Mill  consisted  of  one  large  house,  one  store 
building,  a  blacksmith  shop,  and  a  huge  ice  house.  My 
parents  operated  this  business,  selling  groceries  or  trading 
them  for  chickens  or  eggs.  My  daddy  first  drove  a  team  of 
mules  for  delivering  groceries  through  the  community,  while 
mother  attended  the  store.  Later  he  was  able  to  buy  a  truck. 
This  was  a  chain-driven,  high-wheeled  truck  made  by 
International  Harvester  Company.  It  had  solid  rubber  tires. 

My  parents  were  loved  and  respected  by  the  farmers  in 


Brown  and  Schuyler  counties.  One  of  the  most  interesting 
things  I  can  remember  was  in  the  winter  when  they  would  fill 
the  huge  ice  house.  The  ice  came  from  the  Lamoine  River. 
They  would  have  around  24  sleds  pulled  by  horses  or  mules. 
The  ice  was  cut  in  large  square  cakes  and  hauled  to  the  ice 
house  and  packed  in  sawdust  to  keep  for  the  summer  trade. 

The  mill  had  stood  on  a  small  curve  of  this  most 
beautiful  stream  just  above  the  bridge,  where  the  rocks  are 
still  there.  Farmers  came  from  every  direction  for  many  miles 
to  have  their  grain  ground.  Scott  Mill  played  an  important 
role  in  the  development  of  Schuyler  and  Brown  counties.  It 
remained  on  all  Illinois  maps  for  years,  after  all  the  buildings 
were  taken  down  for  the  lumber,  then  it  was  removed  from 
the  map.  Now  they  have  the  road  going  west  from  Route  24 
named  Scott  Mill  Road. 

In  August  of  1920  we  moved  from  Scott  Mill  over  in 
Schuyler  County  to  a  farm  southwest  of  Rushville.  This  was  a 
very  sad  day  for  me,  and  it  seemed  to  me  even  our  horses  did 
not  want  to  go  either,  as  they  balked  going  up  the  very  steep 
hill  out  of  the  river  bottom.  This  hiU  was  known  as  Shin  Hill. 
The  wagon  had  to  be  chocked,  the  horses  removed,  and  other 
horses  hitched  up  to  pull  the  load  on  up  the  hill.  As  we  went 
over  the  crest  of  Shin  Hill,  I  looked  back  at  the  river;  then 
Scott  Mill  faded  into  history  and  my  life  changed.  I  had  been 
a  merchant's  son  and  now  I  was  a  farmer's  son.  Scott  Mill 
never  operated  again. 


Vrf)(Pi[W.  'IT/XTAU'  'I'i  /A\m'.  /i';/M  I'^l'  'i'r/X\ll^l'  'iT/WTll^l'  'JT/Wl'^l 


MLw^'it  iU 


List  0/  Aut/iors 


OUT  OF  STATE 

Lawrence  G.  Anderson,  lA 
Marjorie  Downs  Byers,  MD 
Scott  M.  Holton,  AZ 
Louise  Anderson  Lum,  lA 
Robert  B.  McLaren,  CA 
Mac  Maguire,  NM 
Angelina  Painter  Kern,  MI 
DeUa  RadcUffe.  lA 

ADAMS  COUNTY 

Edith  F.  Aden 
Ruth  E.  Baumbach 
Arthur  Bowles 
Geraldine  Clair 
Feme  Degitz 
Madge  Bates  Dodson 
Flora  Donley 
Roy  E.  Downen 
Gerald  Frieburg 
Harriet  Hahn 
Frances  Hall 
Irene  M.  Hillman 
Frances  A.  Holford 
R.B.  Hulsen 
Lydia  Kanauss 
Jessie  Knowles 
Mable  Welsh  Laughlin 
Emma  Ingles  Loring 
Vera  McFarland 
Charles  P.  Oberhng 
Mrs.  Roy  Owen,  Sr. 
Robert  B.  Partlow 
Glenn  Philpott 


Evelyn  G.  Rhinberger 
Violet  Greenleaf  Rose 
Sarah  J.  Ruddell 
Albert  Shanholtzer 
May  F.  Smith 
Floyd  Stegeman 
John  R.  Taylor,  Sr. 
Margaret  N.  Taylor 
Edna  L.  Thompson 
Dorothy  E.  Viar 
Lydia  Waite 
Truman  W.  Waite 
Keith  L.  Wilkey 

BROWN  COUNTY 

Ellen  Baldwin 

Leon  Fry 

Lena  Nash 

Nellie  F.  Roe 

Erma  Elliot  Swearingen 

Duward  F.  Tice 

Clara  Roberts  Unger 

Verhn  Armitis  VanDeventer 

Ceciha  Wort 

BUREAU  COUNTY 

Donald  R.  Norris 
Mildred  L.  Schwabenland 

CALHOUN  COUNTY 

Flora  Ogal  Dixon 
Esther  Halemeyer 
Warren  H.  Howdeshell 


CASS  COUNTY 

Helen  Smith 

CHRISTIAN  COUNTY 

Mrs.  Henry  Davies 
Josephine  M.  Meinecke 
Alice  (Raintree)  Trapp 
Fern  Hart  Trumbower 
Edith  A.  Wiseman 

CLINTON  COUNTY 

Catherine  Goodwin 

COOK  COUNTY 

Marion  Y.  Baker 
Luella  M.  Edwards 
Martha  HUlyer  Richert 

DE  KALB  COUNTY 

Jennie  V.  Ziegler 

DOUGLAS  COUNTY 

Ruth  Mildred  Kimmel  Quick 
Carl  Rieman 
Guyeth  Walker 

DU  PAGE  COUNTY 

Lola  Wayland 

EDGAR  COUNTY 

Rosemary  Strow 


EFFINGHAM  COUNTY 

NeUe  ShadweU 

FAYETTE  COUNTY 

Esther  Buckley 
Mary  Burtschi 

FRANKLIN  COUNTY 

Zella  Boner  Spani 

FULTON  COUNTY 

Ester  Berry 
Grace  R.  Breeding 
Elizabeth  Bork 
Mabel  Bowman 
Augusta  M.  Cattron 
Leta  Norris  Chatterton 
Hubert  R.  Cripe 
Blanche  AureUa  Dean 
Vemice  Dees 
Louise  E.  Efnor 
Mrs.  Carl  O.  ElUott 
Margaret  Porter  Elliott 
Angelo  J.  Forneris 
Marguerite  Foster 
Bessie  Gash 
Blanche  W.  Hall 
Joe  HeUe 
Jack  A.  Hensley 
Ghlee  R.  Howerter 
Lula  Hughes 
Myra  W.  Hunter 
Esther  Kessler 


Mahala  Lafferty 
Hazel  R.  Livers 
Oliver  Leigh 
Hazel  McMullin 
Edith  Buck  Nelson 
Bertha  T.  Peterson 
Zeretha  M.  Riebling 
Edna  Schoonover 
ZeUa  SiU 
Grace  Smith 
Nellie  R.  Snowden 
George  H.  Staggs 
Fern  Trone 
Mrs.  Loren  Trone 
Lucile  A.  Wilson 
Garnet  Workman 

GREENE  COUNTY 

Lora  G.  Allen 
Floy  K.  Chapman 
Lucille  Herring  Davidson 
Viola  Stout 
Eva  L.  Sullivan 

HANCOCK  COUNTY 

Edith  Peck-Blender 
Lena  Aleshire  Boos 
Florence  Braun 
Jessie  Brooks 
Mrs.  John  C.  Burt 
H.  L.  Donkle 
Mary  Elbe 
Mattie  Emery 
SterUng  Greenleaf 
Blanche  M.  Harrison 
Ora  M.  Hufendick 


Ida  C.  Jackson 
Anna  M. Johnson 
Dorothy  Kamps 
Leon  L.  Lamet 
Carmilee  Larson 
Orville  Larson 
Leota  Lawton 
Delbert  Lutz 
Edward  Maas 
Harriette  Hays  Matthews 
Mildred  M.  Nelson 
Don  Parker 
Kathryn  Roan 
Ceola  E.  Schoenig 
Mary  Frances  Sheets 
Kenneth  Shelor 
Irene  B.  Tinch 
Bernadette  Tranbarger 
Ruth  Carr  Ufkes 
Robert  R.  Wagner 
Mary  Jeanette  Wallitt 
Irene  M.  Wilcox 
Maurine  Wright 

HENDERSON  COUNTY 

Irene  L.  Gibb 
Sylvia  Gillaspie 
Mrs.  John  W.  Kane 
Rev.  Carroll  Oschner 
Margaret  Shelton 
Mabel  B.  Spears 

HENRY  COUNTY 

Helen  Brodd 

Eunice  Stone  DeShane 

Kathryn  A.  Gustafson 


Ruth  M.  Johnson 
Jane  Lund 

Charlotte  E.  Megerkurth 
Kenneth  Maxwell  Norcross 
Marvis  Rasmussen 
Robert  C.  Richards,  Sr. 
Martha  Seabloom 
Donald  B.  Swanson 

IROQUOIS  COUNTY 

Mae  E.  Gelmers 

JERSEY  COUNTY 

Marie  Freesmeyer 
Gerry  Judd 
Ann  Larson 
Thelma  Smith 
Elina  M.  Strunk 
John  Switzer 

KEWANEE  COUNTY 

Dores  M.  Lees 
Marvis  Rasmussen 


KNOX  COUNTY 

Susan  S.  Foster 
Craven  C.  Griffitts 
Genevieve  Hagerty 
Dorothy  Hansen 
Glada  Hatfield 
Martin  Hebns 
Mrs.  Lewis  Hess 
NeO  M.  Johnson 
Catherine  Krapausky 
Vivian  C.  Lyon 


Rick  Lundeen 
Helen  Klarnes  Mower 
Glenrose  Nash 
Ruth  O'Donnell 
Kathy  Palmer 
Joan  Eddy  Pogue 
Marjory  M.  Reed 
Lorraine  Shover 
Louise  Simms 
Imogene  Smith 
Erma  G.  Stiles 
Lorene  Trone  Sullivan 
M.  L.  Thompson 
Maries  Sellers  Thompson 
Eleanor  L.  Verene 


LA  SALLE  COUNTY 

Robert  T.  Burns 
Ernest  Gingerich 
Leon  F.  Gringalunus 
Bulah  J.  Mason 
Kathleen  Shearin 


LEE  COUNTY 

Lillian  C.  Peterson 
Weldon  V.  White 


LIVINGSTON  COUNTY 

Ardith  E.  Williams 


MACON  COUNTY 

Dorothy  Smith  Hughes 
O.  F.  Landis 


MACOUPIN  COUNTY 

Lucille  Ballinger 

MADISON  COUNTY 

Mrs.  Clarence  Beck 

Marjorie  Fisher 

Mary  Rittenhouse  Huebener 

Florence  G.  Madison 

Doris  Shackelford 

Victoria  L.  Stahl 

Pauline  E.  WiUs 

MARION  COUNTY 

Evelyn  Gtrkin 

MARSHALL  COUNTY 

Eleanor  H.  Bussell 

MASON  COUNTY 

Fannie  L.  Lynn 
Roy  B.  Poppleton 
Hollis  Powers 
Alyce  Scherer 
Lucille  J.  Walker 
Florence  Ward 
Mary  Wheat 

MCDONOUGH  COUNTY 

Katherine  Zimmerman  Adair 
H.  Harlan  Bloomer 
Esther  R.  Bossort 
Harriet  Bricker 
Minnie  J.  Bryan 
Doris  Campbell  Cheek 
Elzie  Chenoweth 


Vera  Chenoweth 

Lillian  Nelson  Combites 

Leta  Cook 

Christine  M.  Crook 

Martha  Lewis  Crabb 

Leona  Tuttle  Curtis 

Evelyn  M.  Savidge  Dark 

Eleanor  Gingerich 

Addra  E.  Graham 

Burdette  Graham 

Martha  K.  Graham 

Basil  Halliburton 

Charles  H.  Harper 

Dorothy  Senn  Henderson 

Mabel  Hurst 

Teckla  Keithley 

Herman  R.  Koester 

Ruth  Koester 

Alice  Krauser 

Donald  Lantz 

Everette  W.  Latham 

Mrs.  James  W.  McMillian 

Sara  Beth  Helfrich  McMillan 

Vail  Morgan 

June  Moon 

Juanita  Jordan  Morley 

Thorlo  W.  GUer 

Helen  Starmbough  Olson 

Pauhne  Pace 

Mrs.  Leone  Patrick 

Grace  Payne 

Darlene  Ray 

Lyle  W.  Robbins 

Nell  Windsor  Robinson 

Helen  Boyd  Ross 

Beula  Selters 


Howard  Silberer 
Kathryn  Smithers 
Mary  Cecile  Stevens 
Josie  Torrance 
Leona  Wetzel 
John  C.  Willey 

MENARD  COUNTY 

Elizabeth  B.  Canterbury 
Mabel  Miller  Hinds 

MERCER  COUNTY 

Dorothy  G.  Brown 
Flora  M.  Greene 
Fred  Lipton 
Edith  Nesbitt 
Mae  V.  Scovil 
Vesta  B.  Speer 

MCLEAN  COUNTY 

Eileen  Smith  Cunningham 
Fern  M.  Downs 
Joseph  Paddock 
Neoma  Ewing  Steege 

MONROE  COUNTY 

Al  Hartman 
Elsa  E.  Schmidt 


MORGAN  COUNTY 

Harvey  S.  Bubb 
Garnet  Valentine  Campbell 
Laura  StiUson 
EUiot  W.  WilUams 


OGLE  COUNTY 

Jennie  Sexton 

PEORIA  COUNTY 

Joan  F.  Athen 
Bonita  Lynn  Burgess 
Chuck  Burroughs 
Mary  Jane  Simmone  Conlan 
Glenna  Howard  Lamb 
Dorothy  A.  Marshall 
Mildred  Norton 
Inez  Sparks  Towers 

POPE  COUNTY 

Edna  Trovillion  Baker 
Eva  Baker  Watson 

PIKE  COUNTTY 

Genevieve  Dorsey  Brim 
Owen  Hannat 
Ruth  Townley  Ken- 
Dorothy  G.  Liehr 
Ruth  Lingle 
Dorothy  Ottwell 
Helen  M.  Storey 
Edna  Manire  Wells 

ROCK  ISLAND  COUNTY 

Newton  E.  Barrett 
Carl  Baumann 
Lilian  D.  Carson 
Signe  Evangeline  CheU 
Julia  J.  Claussen 
Doris  L.  Chilberg 
Frances  Wait  Danielson 


Rev.  Carl  E.  Ericson 
Jadelaine  Fluegel 
Julia  D.  Harrel 
Charlotte  Hatfield 
Frances  L.  Hickey 
Blondelle  Lashbrook 
Vivian  Lorri 
Ruth  E.  Pearson 
Robert  L.  Plack 
Rose  Sabath 
John  R.  Smith 
Alberta  Young  Steggemann 
Frances  Stotts 
Mabel  M.  Stover 
Florence  J.  Thuline 
James  Russell  Vaky 


SANGAMON  COUNTY 

Mary  Foster  Brinocar 
Florence  E.  Evans 
Sister  J.  Deters 
Meu-ie  L.  Fee 
Sara  Feuer 
Irma  Johnson 
Laura  M.  Johnston 
Ruby  Davenport  Kish 
Louise  Krueger 
Matilda  Rose  McLaren 
Genevieve  Keller  Murphy 
Frances  O'Laughlin 
Ben  E.  Padget 
Helen  E.  Rilling 
Ruth  Kean  Schacherer 
Virginia  Schneider 


SCHUYLER  COUNTY 

Alline  Armstrong 
William  P.  Bartlow 
Nelda  B.  Cain 
Frieda  T.  Degitz 
Mary  K.  DeWitt 
Clarice  Trone  Dickerson 
Eleanor  Dodds 
Vada  Finch 
Irene  Van  Ormer  Hare 
Ruth  A.  Kearby 
Vivian  Knott 
Marie  G.  Laswell 
Iva  L  Peters 
Robert  E.  Reno 
Laurence  Royer 
Paul  Sloan 

Lillian  Elizabeth  Terry 
Nell  Dace  Turner 
Guy  S.  Tyson 
Lorraine  Unger 

SCOTT  COUNTY 

John  F.  Ellis 
Stella  Hutchings 
Mrs.  Albert  E.  Powers 
Leta  Rogers  Spradlin 
Nina  Vortman 

SHELBY  COUNTY 

Beulah  Knecht 

STARK  COUNTY 

Dorothy  M.  Robertson 


ST.  CLAIR  COUNTY 

Vera  A.  Niemann 
Grace  R.  Welch 

TAZWELL  COUNTY 

Ross  A.  Coil 

Ruth  B.  Comer  ford 

Grace  Gleason 

Olive  M.  Gresham 

E.  Marek 

Richmond  Robison,  Jr. 

Arnold  Kramer  Schoenheider 

Mary  C.  Stormer 

Lucius  Herbert  Valentine 

Enid  Woolsey 


WINNEBAGO  COUNTY 

Dorothy  Van  Barringer 
Ruth  Fay  Bashaw 
Phyllis  Wells  Pinecombe 
Margaret  Potter 
Edith  ToUefsrud 

WOODFORD  COUNTY 

Lloyd  Dunn 


WARREN  COUNTY 

Earl  F.  Carwile 
Carmen  Johnson  Costello 
Hazel  D.  Frank 
Glenn  Guilinger 
John  P.  Kramer 
Anna  Pauline  Miller 
Mabelle  Shimmin 
Everett  Trone 
Omega  White 


WHITESIDE  COUNTY 

Clarice  Stafford  Harris 
Kay  Adair  Harris 
Frank  McFadden 


arjjg^fvi^gj^fg^ig'i^'yg^^ 


"In  1910  the  Coatsburg  Roller  Mill  was  a  thriving 
business  ...  In  addition  to  white  flour,  the  mill 
produced  graham  flour,  com  meal,  rye  flour  for 
pumpernickel  and  'ship  stuff '  Customers  added  this 
to  scraps,  potatoe  and  apple  peelings  with  dishwater, 
stirred  into  slop  and  fed  to  several  hogs  for  fall 
butchering. " 

Albert  Shanholtzer 
Adams  County 

"I  well  remember  one  hole  fin  Rocky  Branch].  .  . 
this  place  was  always  used  for  baptizing.  When  the 
congregation  raised  its  voice  in  'Oh  Happy  Day '  and 
the  preacher  prayed  it  was  extremely  touching.  .  .  it 
was  used  in  both  summer  and  winter . . .  they  just  cut  a 
hole  in  the  ice  and  went  ahead. " 

Ellen  Baldwin 
Brown  County 

"Finally  Dr.  Clark  came  with  good  news  that  the 
siege  was  over.  He  ordered  our  bed  linens  burned  (we 
had  'scaled  off  on  them),  ordered  all  of  us  to  antiseptic 
baths,  and  fumigated  the  whole  house.  The  quaratine 
sign  came  down. " 

Martha  Graham 
McDonough  County 

"There's  a  lot  of  people . . .  who  have  never  heard 
of  the  I&M  Canal.  The  idea  .  .  .  of  the  canal  was  a 
shorter  water  route  between  the  Great  Lakes  and  the 
Tri-City  area.  .  .  The  canal  was  dug  mostly  by  hand 
and  team  and  slip  .  .  .  My  dad  [a  lockmanj  had  30 
lockages  in  one  day  or  every  20  minutes  for  ten  hours. 
These  locks  were  operated  by  hand. " 

Glenn  Philpott 
Adams  County 


"Upon  seeing  Illinois  Woman's  College  for  the 
first  time  11927],  I  wasn't  exactly  overjoyed.  The 
building  I  was  to  live  in  was  Old  Main,  the  first 
building  of  the  college.  It  was  tall,  stem,  and 
drab— very  much  like  our  Dean  Austin,  who  was  to 
guide  my  life. " 

Juanita  Jordan  Morley 
McDonough  County 

"Tales  is  a  visit  over  the  farm  fence  or  at  the 
country  store.  The  reader  senses  the  importance  of  his 
own  roots.  As  he  looks  nostalgically  at  the  strong 
value  system  of  the  past,  he  is  moved  to  re-evaluate 
his  own  purposes  and  direction. " 

Junella  Leach 
The  Prairie  Star 

"The  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council  [has]  looked 
around  to  find  what  was  most  appropriate  to  their 
communities . . .  Here,  as  perhaps  nowhere  else  in  this 
country,  the  arts  have  been  encouraged  to  grow  from 
roots  thrust  deep  into  their  native  soil,  and  they  have 
made  a  difference  in  their  towns. " 

Nan  Levinson  -  The  Cultural  Post 

National  Ednowment  for  the  Arts 

Washington,  D.C. 

"To  the  west  of  the  back  stoop  was  the  smoke 
house.  Here  hung  hams  and  bacon  dripping  their 
caramel  juices  as  they  cured  in  dense  hickory  smoke. 
These  were  red-eye  gravy  hams.  Just  inside  the  door 
was  a  wooden  barrell  of  salt  and  several  sacks  of  bran 
for  the  mother  pigs.  We  loved  to  scoop  up  hands  full  of 
bacon  and  [to]  eat  it  as  we  romped  through  those 
delicious  days  of  childhood  ..." 

Helen  E.  Rilling 
Sangamon  County