^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."
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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"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