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^ales  from  ^^&wo  Rivers  V 


^ales  from  '^wo  Rivers  V 


^ales  from  ^wo  Rivers  V 


edited  by  John  E.  Hallwas  and  Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


A  Publication  of 

Two  Rivers  Arts  Council 

College  of  Fine  Arts  Development 

Western  Illinois  University 

Macomb,  Illinois 


Copyright  1991  by  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council 

Library  of  Congress  Card  No.  81-51362 

The  cover  photograph  and  other  photographs  in  this  book  are  courtesy  of 
Archives  and  Special  Collections,  Western  Illinois  University  Library. 


The  stories  contained  in  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  /,  //,  ///,  TV,  and  V  were  selected  from  manuscripts  submitted  by  Illinois  authors,  over 
sixty  years  of  age,  to  annual  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  writing  contests.  This  documentation  of  the  social  history  of  early  Illinois  as  written 
by  those  who  lived  it  is  sponsored  and  published  by  the  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council,  with  partial  funding  by  the  Illinois  Arts  Council,  a 
state  agency.  These  books  have  been  sold  nationally  beginning  with  Tales  I  in  1982,  and  are  also  available  at  local  outlets  and  through 
the  TRAC  office.  Phone  309/758-5442. 


Two  Rivers  Arts  Council 

A  consortium  of  western  Illinois  communities  working  with 
Western  Illinois  University  to  support  the  arts  for  the  people  of  this  region. 


Board  of  Directors 


David 
Havana,  Illinois 


Gene  Howell 
Beardstown,  Illinois 


Phyllis  Martin 
Bushnell,  Illinois 


Randy  Smith 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Jane  Boyd 
Rushville,  Illinois 


Pam  Johnson 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Jim  O'Toole 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Bill  Wallace 
Monmouth,  Illinois 


Burdette  Graham 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Yvonne  Knapp 
Raritan,  Illinois 


Rossann  Baker-Priestley 
Galesburg,  Illinois 


Carol  Yeoman 
Avon,  Illinois 


Sharon  Graham 
Biggsville,  Illinois 


Pat  Hobbs 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Stephen  Larimer 
Macomb,  Illinois 

David  Mace 
Rushville,  Illinois 


Betty  Redenius 
Carthage,  Illinois 

Robert  Reed 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Sue  Anstine 
Macomb,  Illinois 


William  Brattain 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Advisory  Board 


Dean  James  Butterworth 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Forrest  Suycott 
Macomb,  Illinois 


Executive  Director 


Helen  Thomson 
Table  Grove,  Illinois 


Acknowledgements 


"RESOLVED,  BY  THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES 
OF  THE  82ND  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  . .  ." 
House  Resolution  No.  688,  Offered  by  Rep.  Clarence  Neff, 
Adopted  March  3,  1982. 


"RESOLVED,  BY  THE  SENATE  OF  THE  82ND 
GENERAL  ASSEMBLY  OF  THE  STATE  OF  ILLINOIS, 
that  we  commend  the  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  1  contributing 
authors,  the  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council,  the  Illinois  Humanities 
Council,  the  Illinois  Arts  Council,  and  Western  Illinois  Uni- 
versity College  of  Fine  Arts  Development  for  producing  this 
book  that  will  serve  as  a  record  of  Illinois  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  31,  1982. 


Illinois  Community  Education  Association  honored  the  Two 
Rivers  Arts  Council  at  a  Statewide  Project  Showcase  for  its 
Tales  from  Two  Rivers  project  in  1986. 


The  Congress  of  Illinois  Historical  Societies  and  Museums 
presented  the  Two  Rivers  Arts  Council  a  Superior 
Achievement  Award  for  its  publication.  Tales  from  Two 
Rivers  IV,  in  1988. 


e 


ontents 


There  rise  authors  now  and  then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutabihty  of  language,  because 
they  have  rooted  themselves  in  the  unchanging  principles  of  human  nature. " 

Washington  Irving 


"In  every  man's  writings,  the  character  of  the  writer  must  lie  recorded." 

Thomas  Carlyle 


I      Community  Life 


COMMUNITY  LIFE  John  E.  Hallwas  3 

THE  BROOKLYN  COMMUNITY  James  B.  Jackson  5 

THE  GREAT  DEPRESSION  IN  BROWNING  Helen  Sherrill  Smith  7 

THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  POSSUM  HOLLOW  John  Singleton  9 

THE  TURKEY  HILL  LITERARY  SOCIETY  Lillian  D.  Miller  11 

BIGGSVILLE'S  HOMECOMING  PICNIC  Louise  Gibb  Milligan  12 

THE  MARCH  KING  COMES  TO  MONMOUTH  Martha  K.  Graham  14 

THE  CITY— AT  ROODHOUSE  Ruby  H.  Bridgman  15 

COASTING  ON  THE  MARTIN  STREET  BRIDGE  Louise  Parker  Simms  17 

THE  ONCE  IN  A  LIFETIME  NIGHT  Sidney  Jeanne  Seward  18 

MY  SPIRITUAL  GROWTH  IN  SPRINGFIELD  Gloria  L.  Taylor  19 


U     The  Roaring  Twenties  21 

THE  ROARING  TWENTIES  John  E.  Hallwas  23 

THE  KID  FROM  THE  ROARING  TWENTIES  Armour  F.  Van  Briesen  25 

MY  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ROARING  TWENTIES  Madge  Bates  Dodson  26 

IF  YOU  WERE  A  FLAPPER  IN  1922  Audrey  Ashley-Runkle  28 

THE  FLORENCE  DANCE  HALL  Margaret  L.  Cockrum  29 

THE  TWENTIES  IN  MCDONOUGH  COUNTY  Lillian  Nelson  Combites  29 

WHEN  WOMEN  VOTED  IN  1920  Ruth  Rogers  30 

THE  ROARING  TWENTIES  IN  BROWNING  Helen  Sherrill  Smith  31 

SHINE  RAID  AT  A  BARN  DANCE  F.  Mary  Currie  33 

A  VISIT  FROM  THE  KU  KLUX  KLAN  Jean  Courtney  Huber  34 

A  BABYSITTING  INCIDENT  IN  BOOTLEGGING  DAYS  Irene  Vander  Vennet  36 

THE  TIME  OUR  CHICKENS  GOT  STONED  Sidney  Jeanne  Seward  37 

ROUTE  67  BECOMES  A  HARD  ROAD  Mary  I.  Brown  39 

AUGUSTA'S  TURKEY  TROT  Ralph  Eaton  40 

MY  AIRPLANE  RIDES  IN  THE  1920s  Burdette  Graham  43 

ROARING  SOFTLY:  THE  TWENTIES  IN  LEBANON  Grace  R.  Welch  43 


111   Books  and  Reading 


BOOKS  AND  READING  John  E.  Hallwas  49 

BOOKS!  THEYVE  ENHANCED  MY  LIFE  Alice  Krauser  51 

TRAVELS  IN  THE  REALMS  OF  GOLD  Nelle  E.  Shadwell  52 

I  NEVER  MET  A  BOOK  I  DIDNT  LIKE  Ruth  Gash  Taylor  53 

FICTION,  MY  FIRST  LOVE  Wilmogene  Stanfteld  55 

THE  WONDERFUL  WORLD  OF  A  BOOKWORM  Clarice  Stafford  Harris  56 

THE  JOY  OF  READING  Audrey  Bohannon  57 

PULP  MAGAZINES  Richard  Thom  59 

THE  COMICS  IN  THE  1920s  Phyllis  T.  Fenton  60 

READING  FOR  PLEASURE  AND  INFORMATION  Marie  Freesmeyer  60 

MY  FAIvTTLY'S  STRUGGLE  FOR  EDUCATION  Stella  Howard  Hutchings  62 


IV  Unforgettable  People 


UNFORGETTABLE  PEOPLE  Alfred  J.  Lindsev  67 

C.  H.  KING  OF  ROSEVILLE  Martha  K.  Graham  69 

DONA  DONUT,  UNFORGETTABLE  GIVER  Dorris  Taylor  Nash  71 

EVERYONE  SHOULD  HAVE  AN  AUNT  MARY  Eva  Baker  Watson  73 

MEMORIES  OF  GRANDMOTHER  THOMAS  Eleanor  H.  Bussell  75 

MY  MOST  UNFORGETTABLE  PERSON  Ruth  Rogers  77 

TO  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE  I  WENT  Dorothy  Van  Meter  79 

THAT  CHARACTER  HAPPENS  TO  BE  MY  AUNT  Effte  L.  Campbell  81 

JOE  AND  HIS  AMERICAN  DREAM  Joseph  B.  Adams,  Jr  83 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  GILDED  CAGE  Ruth  Gash  Taylor  84 

OUR  COURAGEOUS  LADY  Betty  L.  Hardwick  86 

THE  LITTLE  DRUMMER  MAN  Dorothy  Boll  Koelling  87 


V    WUTKings 


WILD  THINGS  John  E.  Hallwas  91 

THE  TIMBER  BELT  Floy  K.  Chapman  93 

OUR  WOODS— THE  GOOD  PROVIDER  Garnet  Workman  94 

MORE  THAN  TWO  SCENTS  WORTH  Robert  T.  Burns  95 

ENCOUNTERS  WITH  SNAKES  Glenna  Lamb  97 

THE  FOXES  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD  Maxine  Hawkinson  99 

MY  EXPERIENCES  WITH  BATS  James  B.  Jackson  99 

FISH  GRABBING  Robert  L.  Brownlee  100 

OUR  QUEST  FOR  THE  RED  SPIREA  Lucille  Ballinger  101 

CEDAR  GLEN  Dorris  E.  Wells  103 


VI  Farm  Life  Years  Ago 


FARM  LIFE  YEARS  AGO  Alfred  J.  Lindsey  107 

SILVER  THREADS  AMONG  THE  GOLD  Mary  J.  Conlan  109 

CANNING  Evelyn  Witter  110 

TOYS  MADE  THE  KID  Helen  E.  Rilling  113 

A  STRAWBERRY  PATCH  Florence  Ehrhardt  115 

TECHNOLOGY  COMES  TO  THE  FARM  Mildred  M.  Seger  116 

THE  PRIVY  AND  THE  GOOD  OLD  DAYS  Margaret  Kelley  Reynolds  117 

BELGIAN  FARM  LIFE  IN  ILLINOIS  Margaret  M.  DeDecker  118 

REAPING  THE  HARVEST  Eleanor  Green  119 

HOG  HAULING  Elizabeth  Harris  121 

RAISING  CHICKENS  ON  THE  FARM  Ralph  Eaton  123 

SAVING  THE  CHICKENS  Ivan  E.  Prall  125 

SHIPPING  DAY  AT  NORRIS  FARM  Donald  Norris  126 


VU  My  First  ]oh 


MY  FIRST  JOB  Alfred  J.  Lindsey  13 1 

UNDER  A  NURSE'S  CAP  Hazel  Denum  Frank  133 

I  LOOK  FOR  THAT  FIRST  JOB  Virginia  Schneider  134 

THE  HARD  ROAD  GANG  James  B.  Jackson  137 
LEARNING  TO  WORK  IN  NAUVOO:  A  FRUITFUL  EXPERIENCE  Lydia  Jo  Boston     139 

MY  FIRST  PENNY  Mary  Stormer  141 

MY  FIRST  DOLLAR  Ivan  E.  Prall  142 

MY  FIRST  JOB  IN  AMERICA  Anna  Becchelli  143 

WORKING  AS  A  WAITRESS  Phyllis  T.  Fenton  144 

TEACHING  AT  ROUND  PRAIRIE  SCHOOL  Elma  Strunk  145 


Vlll   The  One-Room  School  149 


IX  Letters  of  Long  Ago 

LETTERS  OF  LONG  AGO  Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


151 


THE  ONE-ROOM  SCHOOL  Alfred  J.  Lindsey 

CHRISTMAS  AT  THE  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  Eva  Hodgson  Hapner  153 

A  ONE-ROOM  SCHOOL  IN  MACOUPIN  COUNTY 

Katherine  Nolo  Thornton  Cravens  153 
CERES  SCHOOL:  MEMORIES  OF  A  RURAL  CLASSROOM 

Ida  Harper  Simmons  ^^ 

THE  ONE-ROOM  SCHOOLHOUSE  Robert  L.  Tefertillar  158 

AS  I  REMEMBER  IT  Blondelle  Lashbrook  160 

FALL  FLORA  AND  "FUN"A  Elizajane  Bates  Suttles  161 

A  DAY  TO  REMEMBER  Marie  Freeesmeyer  163 

THOSE  FOLKS  AT  JOHN  DEAN  SCHOOL  Helen  C.  Harless  165 
FROM  MY  TEACHER'S  PLANNING  SCHEDULE,  1929-1930 

Anna  Rittenhouse 

PERILS  OF  A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  TEACHER  Louise  Barclay  Van  Etten  168 

EXPERIENCES  OF  A  RURAL  TEACHER  Mary  K.  DeWitt  IVO 

THE  OLD  ONE-ROOM  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  Fern  Moate  Hancock  HI 


177 


ABE  LINCOLN'S  BODY  COMES  HOME  Jean  Geddes  Lynn  179 


180 


A  LEGACY  FROM  UNCLE  JOHN  Esmarelda  T.  Thomson 

LETTER  OF  A  FORTY-NINER  Owen  Hannant  182 

A  LETTER  ON  MAKING  MAPLE  SYRUP  Stella  Howard  Hutchings  183 

DEAR  GRANDMOTHER  Hazel  Keithley  185 

A  LETTER  TO  A  SISTER  Helen  Shepherd  Shelton  186 

A  LETTER  TO  JULIE  Signa  Lorimer  188 

A  LETTER  EDGED  IN  BLACK  Louise  E.  Efnor  190 

ROMANTIC  LETTERS  Max  L.  Rowe  191 

A  WORLD  WAR  II  LOVE  LETTER  Katherine  Nola  Thornton  Cravens  193 


X     The  Unforgettahle  Past 


THE  UNFORGETTABLE  PAST  John  E.  Hallwas  197 

HE  STARTED  ME  FISHING  Milton  A.  Powell  199 

WHEN  SHERIFF  COOK  CONFRONTED  AL  CAPONE  LaVern  E.  Cook  200 

HERE  COMES  THE  SHOWBOAT  Marie  Freesmeyer  201 

FLEEING  BEARDSTOWN  WITHOUT  BRAKES  Helen  Shepherd  Shelton  203 

THE  RUSHVILLE  TORNADO  William  P.  Bartlow  205 

STEAM  ENGINES  AND  BRIDGES  Robert  L.  Brownlee  207 
HOT  LUNCH  AT  BREWSTER  SCHOOL:  THE  OLD  HEN 

Margaret  Kelley  Reynolds  208 

RURAL  ELECTRIFICATION  IN  MORGAN  COUNTY  Mary  I.  Brown  210 

MOUTH-WATERING  HOMEMADE  BREADS  Helen  E.  Rilling  211 

LOST  TRAIL  BARBAREE  Ruby  H.  Bridgman  213 
MY  QUEST  TO  KNOW  ABOUT  MY  GREAT-GRANDPARENTS 

Marjorie  J.  Scaife  213 

MY  THOUGHTS  ON  MEMORL^L  DAY  Phyllis  Wells  Pincombe  215 

MY  VISIT  TO  FORD'S  THEATRE  William  E.  Thomson  216 


List  of  Authors 


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1      Lommunity  Life 


COMMUNITY  LIFE 

Communities  have  changed  dramatically  in  the  twenti- 
eth century.  Countless  towns  that  were  once  thriving  places 
have  declined,  and  others  have  grown  so  much  that  older 
residents  can  hardly  believe  they  are  living  in  the  same  commu- 
nity where  they  grew  up  decades  ago. 

And  the  changes  that  have  come  over  Illinois  towns  are 
not  simply  a  matter  of  economics.  Early  in  the  century  most 
communities  were  isolated,  except  perhaps  for  the  railroad  that 
connected  them  to  the  larger  world.  Trips  by  car  were  an 
infrequent  adventure  on  often  difficult  roads.  And  the  national 
news  seemed  remote  from  everyday  life.  No  wonder  many 
small-town  newspapers  reported  very  little  of  it. 

People  were  focused  on  life  in  their  own  community. 
Local  organizations  thrived,  community-wide  activities  were 
well  attended,  people  neighbored  intensively,  and  children 
grew  up  with  a  deep  sense  of  belonging.  Many  an  older  person 
has  returned  to  the  town  where  he  or  she  was  raised,  only  to  find 
that  the  sense  of  community  that  once  pervaded  the  place  has 
dissipated  over  the  years.  Smaller  towns  can  still  be  wonderful 
places,  but  people  live  there  in  greater  isolation  than  they  did 
decades  ago. 

In  contrast,  a  strong  sense  of  social  interaction  is  con- 
veyed by  the  memoirs  in  this  section  of  Tales  from  Two  Rivers 
V.  James  B.  Jackson's  recollection  of  the  village  of  Brooklyn  in 
the  1930s  is  a  case  in  point.  He  depicts  a  very  close-knit 
community:  "We  were  all  bound  together  by  the  school,  the 
stores,  the  Masonic  Lodge,  the  church,  and  the  Domestic  Sci- 
ence Club.  We  were  completely  interdependent."  Jackson 
himself  was  an  outsider,  but  he  apparently  fit  in  quickly  as  he 
became  acquainted  with  the  local  families. 

Lodges  and  societies  once  thrived  in  small  towns,  pro- 
viding much-appreciated  occasions  for  social  activities  as  well 
as  outlets  for  common  interests.  Jackson  recalls  the  Brooklyn 
Masonic  Lodge,  which  he  was  expected  to  join,  and  did.    At 


greater  length,  Lillian  D.  Miller  describes  the  activities  of  the 
Turkey  Hill  Literary  Society,  which  was  simply  "a  group  of  farm 
folks  gathered  together  to  learn,  share,  teach,  play,  and  laugh." 
It  was  obviously  an  extension  of  family-type  interaction  among 
the  residents  of  a  rural  area  who  had  little  but  themselves  to 
draw  upon  for  entertainment  and  edification. 

Community-wide  activities  were  always  exciting  in  towns 
where  little  happened  for  most  of  the  year  and  entertainment 
was  always  scarce.  So,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Louise  Gibb 
Milligan  has  sharp  memories  of  the  Biggsville  Homecoming 
Picnic.  Likewise,  when  the  "march  king,"  John  Philip  Sousa, 
came  to  Monmouth,  that  was  surely  the  event  of  the  decade  for 
local  people.  Martha  K.  Graham's  mother  told  her,  "Don't  ever 
forget  this  day,"  but  it  was  surely  an  unnecessary  reminder. 

Most  socializing  was  of  an  informal  sort,  not  related  to  a 
local  event,  and  for  these  memoir  writers,  who  were  children 
decades  ago,  the  most  memorable  times  were  often  centered 
around  fun  outdoors.  Ruby  H.  Bridgman  recalls  "the  city,"  a 
Roodhouse  park  that  was  "the  hub  of  social  life  for  the  surround- 
ing area  in  the  summertime,"  and  Louise  Parker  Simms  and 
Sidney  Jeanne  Seward  recall  coasting  and  ice  skating,  which 
were  the  most  common  winter  activities  in  most  small  towns. 

There  is  a  tendency  to  idealize  the  past,  to  remember 
only  the  good  times,  for  they  are  apparently  more  important  to 
our  sense  of  identity .  But  community  life  is  not  always  wonderful- 
— nor  was  it  years  ago.  Living  well  in  a  particular  place  takes 
effort  and  engagement.  Gloria  L.  Taylor  reminds  us  of  that  as 
she  recounts  her  initial  loneliness  in  Springfield  and  her  gradual 
development  of  new  friends  there — friends  who  later  had  an 
enormous  impact  on  her  life. 

Perhaps  that  is  the  deepest  truth  about  ourselves — that 
despite  our  American  devotion  to  individualism,  self-realiza- 
tion is  never  an  individual  matter.  We  are  shaped  by  our  social 
interaction.  Hence,  nothing  is  more  important  than  the  quality 
of  our  community  life. 

John  E.  Hallwas 


THE  BROOKLYN  COMMUNITY 

James  B.  Jackson 

When  I  was  a  student  at  Western  Illinois  State  Teachers 
College  in  1928,  I  knew,  vaguely,  that  Brooklyn  lay  on  down 
Crooked  Creek  a  few  miles  to  the  south  and  east.  But  that  was 
all  I  knew  about  it.  After  I  had  graduated,  Claire  Talley,  a 
former  debate  team  partner,  told  me  he  was  moving  from 
Brooklyn  to  Littleton  High  School  as  principal.  He  suggested 
that  I  apply  for  the  position  of  principal  in  Brooklyn.  Alvin 
Roberts  had  been  a  member  of  that  same  debate  team  and  he 
urged  me  to  go  for  it.  He  had  preceded  Tally  in  the  job  and  we 
all  thought  the  old  team  spirit  might  just  land  the  job  for  me.  It 
did.  I  got  the  job  at  $900  per  year.  That  was  in  1936.  My  wife 
and  I  stayed  there  four  years  and  both  our  children  were  born 
there.  I  still  keep  in  touch  with  several  elderly  men  and  women 
who  were  my  pupils  in  that  wonderful  little  two-year  high 
school  where  I  added  four  years  of  higher  education  to  my  hard- 
earned  B.Ed. 

Brooklyn  was  a  close-knit  community  made  up  of  the 
tiny  unincorporated  village  and  the  surrounding  area  for  which 
it  was  a  center.  We  were  all  bound  together  by  the  school,  the 
stores,  the  Masonic  Lodge,  the  church  and  the  Domestic  Science 
Club.  We  were  completely  interdependent.  No  one  bought 
anything  away  from  Brooklyn  if  it  was  to  be  had  at  Fred  Irwin's 
or  Glanden  Lance's  general  store.  The  little  filling  station  next 
to  Lance's  pumped  15c  gas  for  every  one  in  town  and  served 
coffee,  sandwiches  and  pie  for  those  who  had  the  cash  for  such 
fare.  If  you  didn't  have  ready  cash,  you  could  always  get  credit. 
Estie  Daniels  cut  everyone's  hair  in  his  tiny  10'  x  12'  shop.  Once 
I  had  a  teacher  send  Estie's  ten-year  old  boy  over  to  have  four 
months'  growth  of  hair  removed,  and  before  nightfall  the  story 
was  all  over  town.  Estie  and  I  had  a  good  laugh  over  it  and 
several  other  kids'  parents  sent  them  for  a  trim  before  the 
"Perfessor"  nabbed  them. 


Believers  and  non-believers  alike  supported  the  last 
remaining  church  and  Sunday  school.  The  preaching  was  poor 
but  earnest.  The  best  men's  Sunday  school  teacher  I  ever  met 
was  one  of  the  two  town  drunks,  a  well-educated  and  charming 
man.  Hoelscher's  big  building  next  to  Estie's  barber  shop  was 
a  repair  garage  in  the  pre-hard  road  days.  The  "hard  road" 
changed  everything  in  Brooklyn.  It  was  built  in  about  1930: 
Hwy.  101,  running  from  Augusta  through  Brooklyn  and  Littleton 
to  connect  with  Highway  67  some  eight  miles  north  of  Rushville. 
No  one  ever  referred  to  it  as  Highway  101.  The  hard  road 
became  the  main  street  from  west  to  east,  a  full  3/4  of  a  mile. 
Then  it  crossed  Crooked  Creek  Bridge  just  below  the  dam  and 
snaked  on  across  the  bottoms  and  the  hills  and  the  prairie  farms 
to  its  undramatic  end.  The  right  of  way  took  several  feet  off  most 
of  the  lawns  and  adjacent  property.  The  old  hitching  racks  in 
front  of  the  business  places  were  gone  forever.  There  was  barely 
room  on  the  shoulder  to  stop  a  car  in  front  of  the  stores.  The 
porches  with  their  sheet  iron  roofs  were  within  spitting  distance 
of  the  pavement.  There  was  a  loafer's  bench  at  Lance's.  Irwin's 
was  too  close  to  the  road  to  permit  one.  But  there  were  chairs 
inside  around  the  stove  so  we  always  had  a  place  to  visit  with 
our  neighbors. 

There  was  one  long  street  that  ran  south  from  the  center 
of  town.  About  half  the  houses  in  town  were  on  this  street  and 
half  along  the  hard  road,  perhaps  thirty  in  all.  The  only  other 
streets  were  very  short.  One  led  back  to  the  old  mill  on  the  north 
side  and  the  other  one  cut  one  block  south  and  one  block  east  to 
join  the  long  south  street.  No  street  had  a  name  except  on  the 
plat  that  had  been  made  in  about  1830-1835. 

The  Ladies  Aide  Hall  sat  next  door  to  the  church  and  was 
the  center  for  all  community  affairs.  The  junior-senior  banquet 
was  prepared  and  served  by  the  ladies  in  the  hall.  The  pupils' 
mothers  donated  the  food.  The  principal's  wife  went  to  the 
Extension  Classes  in  Rushville  once  a  month  and  brought  back 
materials  for  the  Household  Science  Club.  She  also  taught  the 


classes:  slip  covering,  sewing,  canning,  nutrition,  etc.  The 
attendance  was  good.  Twenty  to  thirty  women  of  all  ages  came 
for  the  companionship  as  well  as  the  instruction.  When  money 
was  needed  for  the  church,  we  all  donated  food.  The  ladies 
prepared  a  feast  and  we  all  went  and  bought  back  our  own 
chicken  or  ham  or  vegetables  or  dessert.  There  was  a  bit  of 
friendly  grumbling,  perhaps,  but  never  an  outright  refusal. 

The  Masonic  Hall  was  small — not  only  the  hall  itself,  up 
above  Fred  Irwin's  store,  buu  in  total  membership.  Even  so, 
practically  all  of  the  leaders  of  the  larger  community  were 
members  in  good  standing.  Although  never  stated  aloud,  it  was 
generally  understood  that  the  high  school  principal,  the 
"Perfessor,"  automatically  would  petition  for  membership  and 
that  he  would  be  automatically  accepted.  And  so  I  became  a 
member  of  A. F. A.M.  The  Masons  did  not  throw  their  weight 
around,  but  anything  the  masons  backed  generally  succeeded. 
Once  a  year  we  had  Ladies'  Day  and  they,  the  ladies,  honored 
us  with  a  lovely  dinner  at  their  hall  which  they  prepared  and 
served. 

The  Post  Office  sat  between  the  filling  station  and 
Lance's  store.  The  mail  came  in  by  car  or,  in  times  of  bad  roads, 
by  horse  and  buggy,  from  Plymouth  via  Birmingham.  All  mail 
for  Brooklyn  residents  had  to  be  picked  up  at  the  Post  Office, 
either  at  the  counter  or  a  private  box.  The  building  was  almost 
the  same  size  and  shape  as  Estie  Daniels'  barber  shop.  The  Post 
Mistress  made  the  living  for  three  beautiful  daughters  and  a 
fine  little  boy.  Her  husband  worked  when  he  was  able;  but  he, 
like  the  Sunday  School  teacher,  was  a  heavy  drinker  and  his 
income  was  far  from  steady.  These  two  good  men  served  as 
excellent  object  lessons  and  they  succeeded  in  making  a  com- 
plete "teetotaler"  of  me. 

When  I  first  saw  it,  I  wondered  why  there  was  a  lattice- 
work gazebo  in  the  corner  of  the  school  yard.  I  soon  found  out 
that  it  was  a  bandstand.  Long  out  of  use,  it  stood  as  a  silent 
reminder  of  the  pre-hard  road  days  when  Brooklyn  had  its  own 


fine  little  band  of  musicians  that  held  Saturday  evening  con- 
certs all  summer  long.  It  was  still  in  pretty  fair  condition,  and 
we  had  not  yet  heard  of  the  word  "graffiti." 

The  town's  founding  fathers  believed  that  the  Lamoine 
River  would  be  navigable  and  that  Brooklyn  would  grow  to  be 
a  metropolis.  The  dream  never  became  a  reality,  but  the  Village 
of  Brooklyn  did  and  the  community  developed  into  one  of 
strongest  in  the  Two  Rivers  area.  This  was  due  in  large  part  to 
the  quality  of  the  early  settlers  and  their  descendents  who  have 
stayed  on  to  become  the  third  and  fourth  generation  leaders. 
The  families  became  related  through  inter-marriage,  and  there 
were  few,  if  any,  family  secrets.  It  was  an  open  society  and  it 
was  easy  to  overlook  the  faults  and  shortcomings  of  such  close 
friends  and  relatives.  I  knew  of  only  one  petty  crime,  the  theft 
of  a  bucket  of  oats  from  "God  Boy"  Walker's  bin  by  a  poor  man 
who  needed  it  for  his  chickens.  He  was  caught  in  the  act  and 
thenceforth  was  known  as  "Oats."  His  wife  later  ran  off  with  a 
hard  road  man,  leaving  Oats  the  burden  of  raising  a  pair  of  fine 
boys,  ages  seven  and  three.  He  did  his  duty  without  a  whimper 
and  kept  the  respect  of  his  neighbors.  It  was  a  great  place  for 
nicknames — "God  Boy"  was  Walker's  favorite  oath. 

Chalk  Curtis  must  have  had  a  name,  too.  Chalk — now 
there  was  the  real  town  character.  He  had  a  wife  in  Macomb 
who  refused  to  live  in  his  shack  at  the  dam.  He  visited  her  often 
and  regularly.  He  shared  her  meager  relief  supplies.  I  was  her 
case  worker  in  1934-35.  But  Chalk's  home  was  the  creek  bank, 
the  old  mill,  and  the  loafer's  bench  in  front  of  Lance's  store.  He 
was  a  fair-to-middling  blacksmith  and  had  a  forge  and  some 
tools  at  the  mill.  In  an  emergency  he  would  fix,  or  try  to  fix,  a 
broken  part,  sharpen  a  plow  share  or  a  mower  blade.  When  I 
drove  into  town  with  our  old  piano  in  a  borrowed  trailer,  I 
stopped  at  the  store  to  get  help  unloading  it.  Chalk  was  sitting 
there  and  recognized  me  at  once.  His  greeting  was  loud  and 
hearty.  I  responded  in  kind.  After  the  banter  had  run  long 
enough,  I  said:  "Chalk,  ifyou  won't  tell  any  lies  about  me,  I'll  not 


tell  the  truth  about  you."  The  men  on  the  bench  roared  and  they 
all  came  trooping  to  put  the  big  old  upright  in  the  house  we'd 
rented  a  block  up  the  street.  When  our  little  boy  was  just  a 
yearling,  I'd  take  him  to  the  store  with  me,  and  Chalk  and  the 
other  men  would  take  care  of  him  while  I  did  the  trading.  The 
baby  chewed  contentedly  on  Chalk's  old  pocket  knife  and  the 
men  seemed  to  enjoy  the  baby  as  much  as  he  did  them. 

We  had  one  maiden  lady  who  was  a  retired  teacher.  She 
kept  an  eagle  eye  on  the  "Perfessor"  and  the  three  women 
teachers  and  seemed  to  be  frustrated  when  she  was  not  able  to 
find  much  to  complain  about.  She  had  a  brilliant  mind  and  a 
good  education,  but  she  was  eccentric.  Six  days  a  week,  rain  or 
shine,  she  walked  the  two  blocks  to  the  store  and  bought  a  pint 
can  of  kerosene  for  her  lamps  which  she  kept  burning  all  night. 
Only  the  business  places  and  a  few  wealthy  residents  had 
private  electric  generators.  Most  of  us  were  content  to  clean 
chimneys  and  trim  the  wicks  on  our  oil  lamps.  They  do  make  a 
nice  soft  light! 

The  other  maiden  lady  was  the  mother  of  one  of  our 
outstanding  citizens.  She  had  reared  him  in  a  day  when  single 
mothers  were  all  too  often  made  to  wear  their  own  invisible 
scarlet  letter.  Not  so  in  this  case.  She  worked  hard  and  raised 
her  child  without  help.  And  she  did  a  good  job  of  it.  He  and  his 
family  were  a  credit  to  a  self-sacrificing  woman.  She  went  to 
church  regularly  and  worked  for  any  one  needing  help  with 
house  work  or  babies  or  sick  folk.  Her  son  and  her  grandchil- 
dren honored  her  just  as  the  rest  of  us  did.  But  she  was  a  shy 
and  self-effacing  person. 

Today,  Brooklyn  is  almost  a  ghost  town.  There  are  no 
stores.  The  Post  Office  is  closed  and  mail  is  delivered  on  Rural 
Route  #3  from  Plymouth.  The  high  school  is  long  since  gone. 
The  bus  takes  the  kids,  my  former  pupils'  grandchildren,  to 
Rushville.  Members  of  the  old  families,  the  Walkers,  Reeses, 
Hoelschers,  VanDivers,  Blackburns,  Morgans,  Lances,  Lewises 
and  many  others,  still  live  in  their  old  homes  and  work  the  old 


farmstead.  And  I  am  quite  sure  there  is  still  a  strong  bond  of 
community  that  lives  on  as  the  sparse  traffic  moves  swiftly  past 
the  dilapidated  buildings  and  the  drivers  have  no  reason  to  slow 
down.  Brooklyn-on-the-Lamoine  lasted  about  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years.  The  community  of  Brooklyn  still  lives. 


THE  GREAT  DEPRESSION  IN  BROWNING 

Helen  Sherrill  Smith 

National  disasters  took  longer  to  be  reflected  in  our 
small-town  than  in  the  great  population  centers,  but  eventually 
the  Depression  reached  us  in  Browning.  Since  commercial 
fishing  and  hunting  provided  the  daily  income  for  many  of  our 
people,  we  began  to  feel  the  depth  of  the  problem  when  orders 
from  city  markets  began  to  lessen,  giving  fishermen  lower 
prices  for  the  catch.  The  market  owner's  inability  to  sell  could 
mean  no  pay  at  all.  This  shortage  meant  less  business  for  the 
stores  and  other  related  businesses,  so  the  pinch  began  to  be  felt 
by  all. 

Before  long  our  handsome  little  bank  went  into 
receivership,  loans  foreclosed,  and  only  the  thriftiest  of  mer- 
chants survived.  Teachers  took  pay  cuts;  the  railroad  workers 
were  laid  off;  soon  the  Works  Progress  Administration  became 
the  biggest  employer.  Despite  all  the  jokes  about  the  laziness 
and  time  wasting  of  the  W.P.A.  workers,  there  were  people  who 
worked  hard  for  their  pay.  And  while  there  were  make-do 
projects,  worthwhile  work  was  also  done.  City  streets  were 
repaved,  public  parks  established,  small  rivers  and  creeks 
cleared  and  deepened,  water  pumping  stations  and  sewage 
systems  repaired  and  rebuilt. 

My  father  went  to  work  every  day,  keeping  the  fish 
market  open,  although  on  some  days  all  his  work  consisted  of 


dipping  off  the  dead  fish  from  the  live  boxes.  Although  he  went 
to  work  regularly,  he  was  paid  only  when  there  was  business  to 
warrant  it.  My  older  brother  Donald  fished  when  there  was  a 
market,  drove  for  the  local  physician.  Dr.  Childs,  repaired  guns 
and  motors.  My  eighteen-year-old  brother  Dale  worked  on  the 
W.P.A.'s  Barberry  gang — hard  grueling  work  through  hills  and 
hollows  grubbing  out  the  bushes  which  carried  over  spores  of  a 
rust  disease  which  could  destroy  wheat  fields.  I  did  housekeep- 
ing and  child  care;  my  mother  and  younger  sister  operated  the 
local  telephone  switchboard. 

None  of  this  brought  in  very  much  pay,  but  all  together, 
we  were  in  better  condition  than  many  of  our  friends  and 
neighbors.  My  brother  Lewis,  who  had  married  and  started  his 
family  while  working  for  the  railroad,  lost  his  job  there  and 
hunted,  fished,  and  did  day  labor  for  anyone  who  needed  a 
strong  willing  worker,  helping  local  farmers  during  their  busy 
season.  He  finally  secured  work  on  the  W.P.A.,  which  qualified 
his  family  for  government  surplus  foods,  which  by  then  were 
being  distributed  in  our  county. 

While  wages  were  low  (even  in  good  times,  my  father 
was  paid  $3.00  for  a  twelve  to  fourteen-hour  day)  food  prices 
were  also  low.  A  trip  to  the  nearest  Kroger  or  A  &  P  store  would 
fill  the  back  seat  of  the  car  for  five  or  six  dollars.  Coffee  was  3 
lbs.  for  49(Z,  bacon  14c  per  pound,  sugar  5  lbs.  for  29?,  bread  9c 
per  loaf.  My  pay  for  cooking,  cleaning,  laundry  and  child  care 
ranged  from  $2.00  to  $2.50  per  week.  But  I  could  buy  lovely 
shoes  for  $1.49,  hose  for  19c,  cotton  dresses  for  98c,  slips  for 
49c — that  is,  when  there  was  money  left  over  for  such  buying. 

When  I  secured  work  for  the  W.P.A.  I  worked  on  the 
garden  and  canning  crew,  preparing  food  to  be  used  in  the  school 
lunch  program  sponsored  by  the  government.  This  group 
worked  hard,  and  when  I  headed  the  lunch  program,  I  worked 
for  some  time  with  one  helper,  a  middle-aged  man  who  had 
never  worked  in  a  kitchen,  and  who  claimed  to  have  just  one 
gear,   "slow  and  steady."     Together  we  served  lunch  to 


seventy-seven  people  five  days  a  week,  everything  prepared 
from  scratch  including  the  bread  of  the  day.  Also,  all  the 
cleaning  was  done  by  the  two  of  us.  I  was  paid  for  eight  hours 
but  often  worked  ten  or  twelve,  just  to  keep  the  project  going. 
Strange  as  it  may  sound  to  today's  workers,  I  was  lucky  to  have 
the  job.  Shorter  hours  and  better  pay  than  housekeeping!  But 
I  didn't  find  the  jokes  about  lazy  W.P.A.  workers  funny  at  all! 

Somehow,  those  of  us  who  lived  then  have  many  good 
memories  of  those  times.  Everyone  was  suffering  to  some 
degree;  no  one  in  town  was  really  affluent.  There  was  a  spirit 
of  togetherness,  and  we  all  shared  whenever  we  could  with 
those  who  had  less.  A  good  friend,  whose  family's  income  was 
whatever  the  father  could  make  from  fishing  and  the  oldest 
son's  pay  sent  home  from  the  Citizen's  Conservation  Corps  (at 
$30.00  a  month,  room  and  board,  clothing,  healthful  outdoor 
work,  it  was  the  salvation  of  many  young  men,  teaching  them 
work  habits  that  stood  them  well  in  later  life),  had  a  hard  time 
managing.  Yet  whatever  food  was  left  from  their  supper  was 
earned  across  the  alley  to  a  family  of  three  who  had  even  less 
income.  My  father  handed  out  fifty  cent  pieces  in  early  morning 
to  men  at  our  back  door  who  needed  to  put  breakfast  on  the  table 
for  their  children.  Not  every  day — he  didn't  always  have  it — 
but  when  we  could,  we  shared. 

Three  meals  a  day  were  always  put  on  the  table — not 
always  what  we  would  have  liked,  but  always  food  there.  In 
living  in  Browning,  we  always  raised  a  lot  of  vegetables,  and 
canned  the  surplus,  as  well  as  all  the  fruit  available.  We  had 
peach  and  pear  and  cherry  trees;  plums  from  neighbors  yard's 
were  free  for  the  picking,  apples  the  same.  We  had  gooseberry 
and  currant  bushes  and  rhubarb  plants;  blackberries  were 
plentiful  in  the  hills,  as  were  walnuts,  hickory  nuts,  pecans  and 
hazelnuts.  Fresh  fish  were  always  available;  sometimes  tliere 
was  turtle  and  frog  legs.  Rabbits,  squirrel,  quail,  pheasant  and 
wild  duck  graced  our  table  in  season — and  sometimes  out  of 
season.   Mother  always  had  a  few  laying  hens  in  the  chicken 


yard  and  some  young  fryers  in  early  summer. 

Rent  for  service  on  the  telephone  exchange  was  often 
subject  to  the  barter  system,  so  in  winter  our  mother  often 
received  good  country  sausage,  a  side  of  bacon,  or  ribs  and 
backbone  from  freshly  butchered  hogs.  Sometimes  she  was 
offered  a  hog's  head,  which  kept  Mother  and  Grandmother 
Lewis  busy  for  days,  cooking,  chopping  and  grinding  its  various 
parts,  giving  us  mince  meat  for  holiday  pies,  also  souse,  scrapple, 
and  head  cheese  for  the  table. 

Much  of  the  meat  we  had  was  served  with  vegetables 
and  sauces  and  gravies  so  as  to  serve  more  with  less.  And  any 
leftovers  were  shared  with  neighbors  and  relatives.  Our  satis- 
faction was  enriched  by  thinking  of  others'  needs  being  filled. 

Since  there  was  little  cash  money  for  recreation,  what 
we  did  have  was  more  valued.  The  radio  was  as  important  to  us 
then  as  the  television  is  to  today's  generation.  It  even  had  some 
added  values,  in  that  one  could  listen  while  working,  not  of 
necessity  being  glued  to  the  box.  We  had  news,  sports,  soap 
operas;  Jack  Benny,  Fred  Allen,  Amos  and  Andy,  One  Man's 
Family — with  the  added  bonus  of  letting  our  imaginations 
picture  them  as  we  wanted  them  to  look.  And  of  course,  there 
was  always  music. 

The  young  people  played  cards  twice  a  week  or  so, 
contributing  plates  of  fudge  and  bowls  of  popcorn.  We  went  to 
square  dances,  we  ice  skated,  and  we  sometimes  chipped  in  5c 
each  for  gas  and  six  or  more  of  us  piled  into  a  Model  A  Ford  and 
went  to  Astoria  where  a  mid-week  double  feature  cost  15c,  pop 
and  popcorn  5c  each,  hot  dogs  10c,  hamburgers  15c.  So  50c 
would  give  you  a  big  evening  of  fun. 

In  the  summer,  Happy  Spillers  would  haul  his  big  truck 
full  of  people  to  the  Bader  reservoir  for  a  whole  evening  of  water 
fun  and  play.  And  during  State  Fair  week  he  carried  a  load  of 
us  to  Springfield  with  blankets  and  bales  of  straw  for  seats,  at 
$1.00  for  adults,  50c  for  kids.  We  packed  our  lunches,  ate  in  the 
WLS  country  music  tent,  looked  at  all  the  free  exhibits,  and  rode 


home  tired  but  happy. 

When  reading  this,  it  doesn't  sound  like  we  really  suf- 
fered in  the  Depression.  We  worked  hard,  we  lived  on  much  less 
than  we  had  been  accustomed  to,  but  we  never  were  faced  with 
the  hopelessness  which  city  people  had  to  endure.  To  have 
hungry  children  and  nothing  but  city  sidewalks  and  streets  to 
see,  no  way  to  get  even  a  piece  of  fruit  or  a  piece  of  cornbread 
except  by  handouts,  must  have  brought  total  despair.  In  our 
small  town  there  was  such  a  sense  of  togetherness,  of  sharing, 
of  making  the  best  of  what  we  had,  that  most  of  our  memories 
were  not  bad  ones.  We  survived  with  strength  reinforced  by 
having  shared  the  essential  goodness  of  the  human  spirit.  We 
believed  that  things  would  change  for  the  better,  if  we  just 
endured.  The  real  damage  was  transitory  and  the  positive 
aspects  helped  us  look  forward  to  a  better  future.  What  reads 
in  the  history  books  as  a  great  disaster  was  for  us,  a  lesson  in 
survival,  in  sharing,  in  making  do  with  what  we  had,  in 
appreciating  friends  and  enjoying  small  pleasures.  The  values 
we  learned  then  have  made  our  later  lives  in  Browning  more 
meaningful. 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  POSSUM  HOLLOW 

John  Singleton 

The  writer  of  this  story  about  a  small  blip  on  the  screen 
of  local  history  spent  his  childhood  years  in  a  community  that 
no  longer  exists — Possum  Hollow.  In  the  exact  center  of  Swan 
Township,  Warren  County,  lies  the  now  quiet  valley  that  is 
bisected  by  a  stream  named  Swan  Creek.  In  the  early  to  mid- 
1800s  a  vein  of  coal  of  some  24  to  30  inches  in  thickness  was 
discovered  underlying  the  hills  which  bordered  the  valley.  The 
availability  of,  and  easy  access  to,  this  resource  attracted 


miners  and  their  families  to  settle  and  establish  their  homes  in 
the  immediate  area.  The  demand  for  coal  increased  and  the 
little  settlement  grew,  prospered,  and  came  to  be  known  as 
Possum  Hollow.  Several  dozen  houses  and  miner's  cabins 
surrounded  the  country  schoolhouse,  officially  named  the  Pos- 
sum Hollow  School.  At  the  peak  of  its  prosperity,  the  community's 
population  reached  about  three  hundred  souls — or  so  we  are 
told  by  members  of  the  Warren  County  Historical  Society.  In  a 
stretch  of  about  one  mile,  numerous  small  slope  mines,  some- 
times termed  "dog-holes,"  penetrated  under  the  hills  on  both 
sides  of  the  valley.  To  this  day  there  is  still  some  evidence  of  the 
old  mines  in  the  slack  piles" — tailings  of  clay,  slate  and  some 
fine  coal  left  from  the  mining.  Nature  is  gradually  healing  these 
scars. 

As  all  things  must  end,  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
Possum  Hollow  came  in  1870,  when  the  Chicago,  Burlington 
and  Quincy  built  a  rail  line  from  Bushnell  to  Monmouth. 
Unfortunately,  it  was  laid  one  and  one  half  miles  south  of 
Possum  Hollow,  through  the  village  of  Youngstown.  Youngs- 
town  flourished,  as  did  the  neighboring  village  of  Swan  Creek, 
located  two  miles  to  the  west;  Possum  Hollow  started  a  slow 
decline.  Population  of  the  community  continued  to  shrink  and, 
just  before  the  end  of  the  century,  Possum  Hollow  School  was 
closed.  Students  still  living  in  the  district  then  went  to  the  new 
consolidated  schoolhouse  which  was  built  in  Youngstown. 

In  1915,  when  I  was  two  years  old,  my  father  purchased 
the  small  farm  that  was  in  the  center  of  Possum  Hollow.  The  old 
schoolhouse  had  stood  on  the  southeast  comer  of  the  property, 
and  I  well  recall  seeing  the  outline  of  the  old  foundation.  In  my 
earliest  recollection,  there  were  a  total  of  four  houses  in  the 
valley,  plus  three  others  located  on  the  hilltops  overlooking  the 
valley.  It  was  there  that  I  spent  my  childhood  years,  along  wdth 
two  sisters,  one  brother  and  my  parents  until  our  mother  died 
when  I  was  twelve  years  old.  All  of  us  children  attended  the 
Youngstown  school  from  first  grade  through  tenth.  A  two-year 


high  school  and  a  compact  gymnasium  were  on  the  second  floor 
of  the  building. 

A  happy  childhood  it  was,  what  with  fishing  in  Swan 
Creek  for  chubs,  sunfish,  and  once  in  a  while  a  catfish,  in  the 
summertime.  In  the  Fall,  squirrels  were  plentiful  in  the 
timberlands  on  each  side  of  the  valley.  In  Winter  there  were 
rabbits  to  hunt  with  a  trusty  .22  and  a  trap-line  to  run  before 
and  after  school.  In  between  kid  chores,  we  could  sled  on  the 
hills  and  skate  on  the  ice  in  the  creek. 

As  Possum  Hollow  declined,  so  Youngstown  blossomed. 
In  the  middle  1920s,  along  with  the  school,  it  boasted  three 
general  stores,  a  church,  two  barber  shops,  a  post  office,  a 
library,  a  blacksmith  shop  and  an  auto  sales  and  repair  busi- 
ness. In  addition,  there  was  the  rail-related  business  of  the 
depot,  freight  house,  elevator,  stockyards,  and  coal  shed. 

Once  again,  transportation  was  cause  for  change  here  as 
it  has  been  in  many  other  instances.  In  1925,  the  "hard  road" — 
now  U.S.  67 — was  built  three  miles  to  the  west  of  Youngstown. 
The  new  road  and  the  growing  development  and  use  of  automo- 
biles started  Youngstown  on  the  pathway  "off  into  the  sunset." 
Now  it  has  no  railroad,  no  church,  no  school  and  no  business  of 
any  kind.  Just  a  few  houses  by  a  crossroad,  quietly  awaiting  the 
lot  that  is  befalling  so  many  small  towns  all  over  the  country. 

For  the  last  thirty-plus  years  we  have  owned  the  small 
acreage  that  is  the  heart  of  Possum  Hollow  and  which  includes 
the  site  of  the  old  schoolhouse.  Sometimes  we  park  our  travel 
trailer  there  and  enjoy  the  peace  which  fills  the  valley.  By  day 
the  quiet  is  interrupted  only  by  bird  songs  and  the  ripple  of  the 
creek.  At  night  we  can  listen  to  the  barred  owls;  sometimes  a 
whippoorwill  or  the  coyotes  give  a  concert.  Though  they  are 
mostly  nocturnal,  deer  can  be  seen  once  in  a  while.  Beavers  now 
inhabit  the  creek  and  wood  ducks  use  some  of  the  nestboxes  we 
have  installed.  Possum  Hollow  rests  in  peace. 


THE  TURKEY  HILL  LITERARY  SOCIETY 

Lillian  D.  Miller 

When  someone  mentions  a  literary  society,  it  is  natural 
to  form  a  mental  picture  of  a  group  of  students  or  intellectuals 
or  perhaps  genteel  ladies  gathered  together  for  the  purpose  of 
furthering  their  scholastic  culture. 

Not  so,  the  literary  society  of  my  childhood  days.  While 
the  members  were  gathered  for  the  purpose  of  increasing  their 
knowledge,  they  were  not  exactly  scholars.  Rather,  it  was 
comprised  of  farmers,  their  wives  and  children — from  babes  in 
arms  to  teenagers.  Some  were  older  couples,  some  "just  mar- 
rieds,"  plus  many  keen  minded  "old  timers."  And,  believe  it  or 
not,  all  were  active  members. 

Many  and  rich,  happy  and  nostalgic  are  the  memories 
we  have  carried  through  the  years  of  the  Turkey  Hill  Literary 
Society,  for  that  was  our  official  name.  We  all  lived  in  a  rural 
community  called  Turkey  Hill,  so  named  by  the  Indians  who 
first  settled  here,  because  of  the  huge  flocks  of  wild  turkeys  that 
made  their  way  to  this  ridge  at  sundown  to  roost  in  the  great 
oaks  growing  there  in  profusion. 

The  society's  bi-monthly  meetings  were  held  in  the 
Turkey  Hill  Grange  Hall,  which  was  centrally  located  and  very 
well  suited  to  meet  our  need.  The  lower  floor  housed  the  Turkey 
Hill  Grange  Hall  School.  The  upper  floor  served  as  the  meeting 
place  for  the  grange  and  for  other  community  meetings.  There 
was  a  large  stage  at  one  end  of  the  hall  which  lent  itself 
beautifully  to  the  plays,  skits,  minstrels,  and  other  forms  of 
entertainment  that  were  part  of  our  "programming." 

It  was  interesting  and  educational  to  watch  and  listen  to 
those  taking  part  in  the  program  and  a  great  thrill  from  time  to 
time  to  be  a  participant.  Our  meetings  were  held  at  night  after 
the  farm  chores  were  completed  for  the  day.  We  children  felt 
quite  "grown  up"  to  be  allowed  from  home  after  dark.  The 
horses  looked  like  ghosts  in  the  moonlight  as  we  climbed  into 


the  buggy,  but  if  the  weather  was  warm,  we  would  walk  the 
three-mile  round  trip.  Later,  of  course,  the  Model  T  replaced  the 
horse  and  buggy. 

Soon  after  arriving,  the  chairman's  gavel  would  fall  and 
we  were  "called  to  order."  Group  singing  usually  opened  the 
meeting,  followed  by  solos,  recitations,  skits,  a  guest  speaker  or 
entertainer,  and  usually  a  debate.  Sometimes  our  teacher 
would  show  us  off  by  letting  her  pupils  furnish  a  number.  Even 
the  pre-schoolers  took  part.  One  such  number  by  a  little  lad  is 
well  remembered.  He  was  dressed  in  his  Sunday  Best  complete 
with  a  huge  red  bow-tie.  His  little  recitation  ran  something  like 
this:  "How  can  I  cut  bread  without  a  knife;  How  can  I  get 
married  without  a  wife?"  He  stood  there  straight  and  proud,  not 
missing  a  word.  When  finished,  he  gave  the  audience  a  very 
surprised  and  frightened  look  and  ran  weeping  and  screaming 
from  the  stage. 

Another  time  one  of  our  upper  grade  girls,  cute  and 
small,  recited  a  very  lengthy  poem  without  error.  When  we 
returned  that  night  Mother  said,  "If  that  little  girl  can  memo- 
rize such  a  long  poem,  there  is  no  reason  I  can't."  We  soon  found 
out  she  could  and  she  did.  I  remember  her  standing  on  the  stage 
reciting  such  old-time  poems  as  "Gone  With  a  Handsome  Man," 
"Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  Tonight,"  "Whistlingin  Heaven, ""Betty 
and  The  Bear,"  and  many  others.  One  day  I  came  in  from  play 
to  find  her  in  the  kitchen  peeling  potatoes.  She  seemed  to  be 
talking  to  herself  and  the  table  where  she  was  sitting  held  a  row 
of  potato  peelings  neatly  lined  up.  Of  course,  I  asked  her  "Why?" 
for  I  was  a  very  "Why,  What,  and  When"  kind  of  child.  I  found 
this  was  her  method  of  making  sure  she  did  not  skip  a  stanza  of 
the  lengthy  poem  she  was  memorizing,  for  each  peel  repre- 
sented a  verse. 

At  almost  every  meeting  there  was  a  guest  speaker  to 
enlighten  the  farmers  on  new  and  better  agricultural  methods. 
And,  to  be  sure,  the  inevitable  debate  could  not  be  overlooked. 
A  timely  and  instructive  topic  was  always  chosen.    Usually 


there  were  four  debaters  but  if  the  topic  was  heavy,  there  could 
be  six.  The  Turkey  Hill  Literary  Society  had  some  members 
with  decided  opinions.  Some  were  "Hot  Heads,"  and  others 
were  "Die  Hards,"  which  made  our  debates  most  exciting. 
Believe  me,  neither  young  or  old  slept  during  a  good  debate.  We 
might  have  nodded  a  bit,  but  sleep? — NEVER!  One  of  the  men 
debating  an  economic  issue  remarked  that  a  woman  often  threw 
out  more  food  with  a  spoon  faster  than  a  man  could  shovel  it  in. 
Consequently,  the  debate  went  far  beyond  the  original  partici- 
pants, for  it  drew  the  wrath  of  the  women,  who  had  their  say  and 
put  the  men  in  their  place.  Another  time  one  of  the  men 
declared  that  husbands  were  killed  more  often  by  their  wives 
using  their  skillets  and  serving  fried  foods  than  by  succumbing 
to  illness — and  another  battle  of  the  sexes  followed!  The  women 
also  had  debating  teams,  but  they  were  less  exciting  than  those 
put  on  by  the  red-faced,  fist  making,  and  loud-yelling  men. 

From  time  to  time,  it  was  necessary  to  raise  some 
expense  money,  which  was  accomplished  by  combining  neces- 
sity and  entertainment.  A  box  social  would  be  scheduled,  and 
for  weeks  prior  there  would  be  much  planning  and  preparation 
by  the  women — first  the  food  and  then  the  most  important  of  all, 
decorating  the  box. 

One  year  the  social  was  scheduled  for  a  few  weeks  before 
Christmas.  Mother  covered  her  box  in  white,  bound  it  with  red 
ribbon,  and  placed  one  pretty  red  Poinsettia  across  the  top.  She 
showed  it  to  Dad  and  told  him  to  take  a  good  look  so  he  would 
be  sure  to  buy  her  box.  Came  the  big  night  and  Dad  had 
forgotten  everything  he  had  seen  except  that  Mother's  box  had 
boasted  a  red  flower.  It  so  happened  that  one  of  the  young  girls 
was  also  holiday  minded  and  had  placed  several  Poinsettias 
across  her  green  box.  Her  beau,  like  Dad,  remembered  only  that 
her  box  had  a  Poinsettia  decoration.  When  Mother's  box  was 
put  up  for  sale.  Dad  and  the  young  man  started  wildly  bidding 
against  each  other.  Other  young  men  who  had  conspired  to  run 
up  the  girl's  box  joined  in  the  bidding,  which  added  to  the 


excitement.  It  was  Dad  who  finally  bought  the  box,  and  while 
he  did  accidentally  get  the  right  one,  it  was  at  a  price  that  made 
the  treasurer  smile. 

The  Turkey  Hill  Literary  Society  was  a  forerunner  of  the 
Farm  Bureau,  Four-H,  and  other  farm  organizations.  It  was 
made  up  of  a  group  of  farm  folks  gathered  together  to  learn, 
share,  teach,  play,  and  laugh  together.  There  were  no  status 
barriers,  no  "each  one  doing  his  own  thing,"  no  generation  gaps, 
and  no  lack  of  communication.  The  memories  of  these  meetings 
as  they  touched  each  individual  are  still  cherished  by  the  very 
few  and  very  old  "Literarians"  who  are  still  around. 


BIGGSVILLE'S  HOMECOMING  PICNIC 

Louise  Gibb  Milligan 

As  I  recall  now,  my  whole  summer  seemed  to  revolve 
around  the  Biggsville  Homecoming  Picnic.  It  was  held  the  last 
Thursday  and  Friday  in  August  for  years.  Finally,  to  satisfy  the 
carnival  company,  one  more  day  was  added. 

As  a  small  child  I  waited  impatiently  for  the  big  week,  for 
the  picnic  really  started  early  for  me.  I  watched  daily  for  the 
first  signs  of  the  carnival's  arrival,  especially  the  Merry-Go- 
Round.  When  the  men  had  it  erected,  they  had  a  trial  run,  and 
everyone  around  had  a  free  ride.  The  first  ride  of  the  first  day 
was  also  free,  and  I  never  aimed  to  miss  a  free  ride.  It  was 
always  assembled  in  the  southeast  part  of  the  park.  When  I  was 
about  twelve,  my  father  and  three  neighbors  bought  an  old 
Merry-Go-Round.  They  ran  it  for  one  summer  to  get  back  what 
they  had  invested  and  then  turned  it  over  to  the  town.  Elmer 
Robbins  kept  it  running,  and  Holmer  Beebe  was  ticket  taker.  I 
can  still  hear  the  calliope  playing  "When  You  Wore  a  Tulip." 
The  price  of  the  tickets  was  five  cents.  The  year  my  father  was 


co-owner  we  all  got  a  free  ticket  to  ride.  How  smug  we  felt 
getting  to  ride  free. 

The  first  stand  to  arrive  was  the  Schultz's  fi-om  Morning 
Sun,  Iowa.  They  had  the  same  spot,  northwest  of  the  Merry-Go- 
Round,  close  to  a  big  tree.  They  had  a  small  son  with  them. 
Their  drawing  card  was  white  taffy,  which  they  pulled  over  a  big 
hook,  fastened  to  the  tree.  Mr.  Schultz  was  tall  and  lean.  Katie 
was  real  short  with  an  Oriental  look.  She  wore  enormous 
amounts  of  make-up.  They  came  many  years  before  their 
scandal.  Katie  had  an  affair  with  a  young  farm  hand.  One  night 
he  climbed  a  ladder  to  a  second  floor  bedroom  and  shot  Mr. 
Shultz.  Both  Katie  and  her  boyfriend  were  sent  to  prison.  The 
Burlington  Hawkeye  Gazette  published  the  whole  trial;  at  that 
time  it  made  scandalous  reading  and  I  never  missed  a  word. 

Just  north  of  the  Schultz's  were  the  carnival  throw 
games.  The  roadway  behind  the  high  school  was  used  for 
parking  for  the  carnival  company.  The  north  side  was  taken  by 
carnival  shows.  There  was  even  a  Girlie  Show,  which  did  not 
last  long  after  the  women  discovered  why  their  men  were  all 
heading  for  the  northwest  corner  of  the  park.  Some  of  the 
carnival  games  gave  Kewpee  Dolls  for  prizes.  These  dolls  are 
now  collectors  items.  The  south  side  was  left  for  the  churches' 
eating  stands.  There  was  also  the  peanut-popcorn  wagon, 
anywhere  it  would  fit. 

One  of  the  big  events  was  getting  your  clothes  ready  for 
the  big  occasion.  We  needed  a  minimum  of  four  outfits.  We 
wouldn't  think  of  wearing  the  same  outfit  twice.  The  year  I 
started  to  high  school  I  went  to  town  and  got  a  new  dress  and  a 
gray  pleated  skirt  and  a  pink  sweater.  What  joy!  My  first  store 
bought  clothes! 

Finally,  came  the  big  day  and  its  parade.  The  parade 
started  at  the  depot  when  the  ten  o'clock  train  arrived  from 
Burlington,  carrying  the  Burlington  Municipal  Band,  all  splen- 
did in  their  red  uniforms.  All  the  entries  were  in  position  with 
Uncle  Billy  Stevenson,  in  his  buggy  pulled  by  his  white  horse 


"Fanny,"  leading  the  parade.  The  route  was  from  the  depot  to 
the  picnic  grounds.  Waiting  cars,  filled  with  basket  lunches  to 
be  eaten  later  on  the  school  grounds,  lined  all  the  streets. 

During  the  afternoon  folks  visited  and  then  headed  for 
the  west  side  which  had  been  left  for  the  band  stand  with  its  red, 
white,  and  blue  bunting.  The  seats  were  row  after  row  of  cement 
blocks  and  planks,  loaned  by  the  lumberyard.  The  band  played 
twice  in  the  afternoons.  Sometimes  there  were  speakers, 
mostly  politicians,  including  William  Cullen  Bryan  and  Gov. 
Len  Small.  There  were  Japanese  tumblers  and  the  "Ride-of- 
Death,"  a  motorcycle  leap  from  one  ramp  to  another.  Then  there 
was  the  ball  game  held  on  the  diamond  one  block  south  of  the 
park. 

Homecoming  really  meant  homecoming  as  people  ar- 
rived from  everywhere  by  train  and  car.  Among  these  were 
Hervey  Fuller  with  his  drum,  Charlie  Kilgore  with  his  fife,  and 
Hugh  Smith  and  his  squeeze  box.  My  uncle,  Dave  Gibb,  joined 
them  with  his  calf  rib  bones. 

At  night  there  were  programs  from  the  band  stand. 
These  programs  ranged  from  talent  shows  to  pantomimes. 

The  American  Legion  conducted  a  bingo  game  on  the 
north  side,  with  Indian  Blankets  as  prizes.  My  husband  and  I 
were  lucky  and  accumulated  quite  a  few  of  these.  We  were  also 
lucky  the  first  year  of  the  drawing.  The  Picnic  Committee 
raffled  off  several  items  to  finance  the  picnic.  We  bought  one 
twenty-five-cent  ticket  and  drew  the  first  prize.  It  was  a  chrome 
and  enamel  drop  leaf  kitchen  table  and  four  chairs  finished  in 
red  and  white.  It  was  the  nicest  piece  of  furniture  we  had  in  the 
house. 

The  South  Henderson  United  Presbyterian  and  Meth- 
odist churches  had  eating  stands.  They  served  meals  as  well  as 
hamburgers,  hot  dogs,  pie  and  ice  cream.  One  year  a  stand  was 
selling  a  dipper  of  ice  cream,  dipped  in  chocolate  and  topped 
with  a  pecan  half,  while  the  barker  chanted,  "Cold  as  ice,  sweet 
as  honey,  tickles  all  the  way  down  and  makes  you  feel  funny." 


It  must  have  bombed  as  they  never  came  back. 

I  had  friends  from  Galesburg  and  Monmouth,  who  came 
down  on  the  train,  to  stay  during  the  picnic.  Mother  fed  us  all 
for  supper  and  sometimes  dinner.  We  all  gobbled  down  the  fried 
chicken,  potato  salad  and  cake,  never  giving  a  thought  to  the 
hours  she  spent  over  the  cook  stove  fixing  it.  We  all  came, 
children,  grandchildren,  and  friends. 

After  they  moved  the  picnic  to  the  ball  diamond,  it  was 
never  the  same.  Those  great  days  of  anticipation  and  elation  are 
gone  forever. 


THE  MARCH  KING  COMES  TO  MONMOUTH 

Martha  K.  Graham 

The  county  newspaper  printed  it  in  big  ads,  and  bills 
tacked  to  telephone  poles  proclaimed  it:  The  famous  John 
Philip  Sousa  and  his  world-traveled  military  band  would  be 
coming  to  Monmouth  to  give  a  concert.  The  people  of  Warren 
County  and  adjacent  counties  were  ecstatic.  No  one  of  such 
universal  fame  as  John  Philip  Sousa,  the  March  King,  had 
appeared  in  Monmouth  within  anyone's  memory.  He  was 
America's  most  famous  composer  of  band  music.  People,  high 
or  low,  whistled  and  hummed  his  famous  march  tunes:  "The 
Washington  Post  March,"  "Semper  Fidelis,"  "The  Stars  and 
Stripes  Forever,"  and  many  more. 

Our  family  would  go,  of  course,  no  matter  how  expensive 
the  tickets  might  be.  My  mother  got  out  her  favorite  album  of 
Sousa's  marches  and  played  them  all.  But  the  piano  couldn't  do 
justice  to  them — no  trumpets,  no  drums,  no  clarinets,  no  flutes 
and  piccolos.  She  loved  a  parade:  the  marching  bands  invari- 
ably stepped  lively  to  Sousa's  stirring  marches.  From  child- 
hood, Mother  had  gathered  a  fund  of  information  about  Sousa 


and  his  bands,  and  she  made  sure  that  we  listened  well  to  every 
enlightening  thing  she  had  to  say  about  them.  She  told  us  that 
if  women  could  be  bandmasters,  she  would  have  tried  to  be  one. 
But  she  had  to  settle  for  a  piano  and  a  family — not  that  she  was 
sorry. 

When  the  great  day  came,  my  mother,  my  Aunt  Millie, 
my  grandfather,  and  my  brother  and  I  (about  8  or  10  then) 
excitedly  crowded  into  our  Rambler  touring  car ,  and  with  father 
driving,  set  off  from  our  home  town  of  Roseville  for  the  twelve- 
mile  trip  to  Monmouth. 

It  was  a  fine  day,  but  the  dust  stirred  up  in  clouds  by  cars 
on  the  road  settled  so  thickly  on  our  dress-up  clothes  that 
Father  had  to  stop  and  snap  on  the  side  curtains.  We  could  see 
only  dimly  through  the  isinglass  windows,  but  the  dust  dimin- 
ished. When  the  tires  hammered  on  the  mile  or  so  stretch  of 
brick  pavement  south  of  Monmouth's  city  limits,  I  knew  we 
were  almost  there. 

Monmouth  had  roped  off  a  block  of  brick-paved  street 
just  south  of  the  old  stone  courthouse,  and  had  set  up  a  huge 
tent,  with  a  big  platform  at  the  east  end.  Inside  the  tent  were 
plank  seats  and  folding  wooden  chairs  from  undertaker  Lugg's 
establishment,  among  others. 

We  were  early  enough  to  find  good  seats  about  a  quarter 
of  the  way  back  from  the  stage.  Soon  there  was  not  a  vacant 
seat,  and  people  were  standing  all  around  the  outside  of  the  tent 
where  the  canvas  sides  were  rolled  up.  People  were  excited  and 
happy.  This  was  an  occasion,  and  they  had  put  aside  the  work- 
a-day  world  to  celebrate.  They  looked  around  at  the  crowd, 
called  to  friends  and  visited  together,  waiting. 

There  was  an  announcing  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the 
celebrated  band  marched  onto  the  stage  and  took  their  places  in 
fine  military  order.  In  navy  blue  dress  uniforms,  their  band 
instruments  shining,  they  were  a  sight  to  behold.  Then  up  the 
steps  to  the  platform  came  the  world-famous  bandmaster,  the 
March  King.  The  cheers  were  deafening. 


Sousa  was  then  well  past  middle  age,  but  he  leaped  up 
those  steps  as  if  he  were  a  young  man  of  twenty.  He  radiated 
energy.  Everything  about  him  was  spotless  white — white  hair 
under  his  white,  gold  braided  military  cap,  white,  straight- 
clipped  mustache,  white  uniform  with  elaborate  gold  braid,  and 
white  gloves.  His  rimless  glasses  gleamed. 

He  acknowledged  his  rousing  reception  with  military 
bows,  then  lifted  his  white  baton.  His  music  seemed  to  come 
straight  out  of  that  baton.  It  was  magic. 

Most  people,  I  think,  enjoy  a  concert  of  music  that  is 
familiar  to  them.  Every  march  played  that  day  must  have  been 
familiar  to  everyone  there,  even  the  young  children.  The 
audience  sat  entranced,  and,  as  each  march  ended,  the  ap- 
plause seemed  to  go  on  forever. 

My  mother  pointed  out  an  instrument  that  stood  out 
because  it  was  white  among  all  the  brass.  It  was  a  kind  of  tuba, 
wdth  its  large  white  bell  jointed  so  it  could  face  forward  instead 
of  upward,  as  a  regular  tuba  does.  She  told  me  it  was  a 
Sousaphone,  named  in  honor  of  the  famous  bandmaster. 

As  the  glorious  afternoon  went  on,  the  formal  military 
stance  of  the  performers  relaxed  a  little.  Band  members  smiled. 
Sousa  smiled.  It  was  as  if  they  could  not  help  responding  to  such 
an  appreciative  audience  in  such  a  friendly  atmosphere.  Too, 
most  of  the  people  were  keeping  time  with  head,  hand,  or  feet. 
Such  a  sight  must  have  amused  and  pleased  the  band  members. 
The  great  Sousa,  back  turned,  missed  this  effect  his  music  had 
on  all  those  midwesterners  from  so  many  different  walks  of  life. 

All  too  soon  the  wonderful  concert  was  over.  The  band 
marched  off  the  platform  and  down  the  steps  like  a  military 
regiment.  We  hurried  out,  hoping  to  catch  another  glimpse  of 
the  blue  uniforms  and  the  spotless  white  one,  but  they  were 
nowhere  in  sight.  No  doubt  they  were  being  spirited  away  to  the 
city  of  their  next  concert. 

Monmouth  had  given  them  a  rousing  welcome  and  rapt 
attention.   I  was  sure  that  they  had  liked  us,  as  we  had  liked 


them,  and  that  made  me  feel  proud  of  Monmouth  for  hosting 
such  marvelous  musicians.  They,  world  travelers,  and  their 
famous  March  King  had  actually  trod  the  streets  of  our  modest 
county  seat,  and,  to  us,  had  hallowed  the  very  bricks  of  the 
pavements  they  walked  on.  I  am  safe  in  saying  that  such 
unabashed  idolatry  had  not  been  known  before,  and  has  not 
been  known  since,  in  Monmouth  or  in  Warren  County. 

Sousa  was  a  great  man,  universally  loved  and  admired, 
whose  stirring  music  warmed  the  hearts  of  many  people,  not 
just  those  select  few  who  profess  to  know  what  music  is  all 
about. 

In  after-concert  euphoria,  we  stopped  at  a  stand  and  had 
vanilla  ice  cream  cones  all  around.  Mother  said  to  my  brother 
and  me,  "Don't  ever  forget  this  day."  I  never  did.  The  scene  is 
as  clear  in  my  mind  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday. 


THE  CITY— AT  ROODHOUSE 

Ruby  H.  Bridgman 

When  someone  in  Roodhouse,  even  today,  says  he  is 
going  to  The  City,  he  does  not  mean  he  is  going  to  a  large 
metropolis.  He  is  going  to  a  park  located  about  3  or  4  miles 
southeast  of  town.  The  name  originated  from  the  fact  that  this 
was  formerly  the  old  city  reservoir.  Prior  to  19 18,  the  people  had 
used  this  reservoir  for  their  "city"  water  even  though  its  dis- 
agreeable odor  and  other  impurities  limited  its  use.  Bathing, 
washing,  and  watering  were  the  main  uses  of  it.  Many  people 
had  their  own  wells.  In  the  backyard  of  our  home  was  a  well 
vrith  a  pump  for  drinking  water,  and,  in  addition,  there  was  a 
pump  on  the  back  porch  for  cistern  water  which  was  used  for 
washing.  The  old  C.  and  A.  Reservoir  was  originally  used  by  the 
railroad,  but  the  water  from  it  coated  the  steam  engine  boilers. 


Therefore,  it  became  necessary  to  find  a  new  water  supply.  The 
people  of  Roodhouse  and  the  railroad  began  a  cooperative 
project  to  make  Bishop  Spring,  which  was  about  eight  miles 
north  and  west  of  Roodhouse,  the  new  source  of  city  water. 

Dynamite  was  used  in  the  excavation  of  the  spring  as 
well  as  a  four-inch  plunger-type  pump,  later  increased  to  the 
size  of  eight  inches.  For  power  for  pumping,  threshing  ma- 
chines were  used.  During  the  excavation  a  strange  phenom- 
enon occurred.  Unusual  fish,  with  a  rainbow  variety  of  colors 
and  highly  sensitive  to  light  and  sound,  appeared  and  were 
identified  by  authorities  as  fish  unable  to  see.  They  were 
probably  from  an  underground  lake.  A  huge  group  of  workers 
helped  in  building  reservoirs,  retaining  walls,  pipe  lines,  pump 
houses,  and  living  quarters  for  employees.  These  workers  and 
the  volunteer  "clean-up  squad"  were  jubilant  when  on  January 
7,  1921,  the  first  water  from  this  pure  natural  spring  came 
through  the  city  main. 

The  C.  and  A.  Reservoir  was  abandoned,  but  it  acquired 
a  unique,  revitalized  aspect.  The  City  became  the  favorite 
"swimming"  hole  for  Roodhouse  and  the  surrounding  communi- 
ties, especially  White  Hall.  There  was  no  need  for  a  Country 
Club  because  The  City  was  a  renowned  mecca  for  all  ages.  An 
in-town  as  well  as  an  intertown  social  life  revolved  around  The 
City,  and  this  led  to  dating  and  to  many  marriages. 

The  City  was  a  large  lake  with  a  shallow  sandy  area  that 
gradually  led  to  quite  deep  water.  There  were  two  rafts,  one 
which  had  a  high  diving  board.  A  bathhouse  with  dressing 
rooms  and  showers  also  included  a  snack  bar.  On  the  railing 
fastened  to  the  bathhouse  was  a  wringer  from  an  old  fashioned 
washing  machine,  which  was  used  to  wring  the  water  from  the 
bathing  suits.  On  the  other  side  of  the  lake  was  a  lovely  wooded 
area  used  for  picnicking  and  camping. 

During  the  1930's  The  City  reached  its  height  as  the  hub 
of  social  life  for  the  surrounding  area  in  the  summertime.  At 
that  time  "Our  Bunch,"  as  my  girlfriends  and  I  called  ourselves. 


went  to  The  City  every  day,  many  times  walking  and  carrying 
food  for  an  all  day  picnic.  We  began  a  system  of  meticulous 
planning  of  the  menu  after  one  disastrous  occasion  when  we  all 
brought  bananas.  Many  times  we  would  carry  skillets  and  pans 
and  cook  a  breakfast  of  bacon  and  eggs.  One  memorable  night 
at  a  slumber  party,  we  decided  to  sleep  in  our  bathing  suits  and 
then  go  to  The  City.  Since  bathing  suits  then  were  made  of  wool, 
we  did  more  scratching  than  sleeping  before  we  arose  at  4  a.m. 
to  start  our  trek  to  the  reservoir. 

A  woolen  bathing  suit  provided  a  situation  highly  em- 
barrassing to  me  but  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  a  young  boy  on  the 
raft.  During  the  winter,  the  moths  had  nibbled  tiny  holes  in  my 
suit.  They  were  practically  indiscernible  until  evidently  a 
chemical  reaction  with  the  water  caused  great  gaping  holes  to 
appear.  This  happened  just  as  I  was  climbing  out  of  the  water 
onto  the  raft.  I  looked  down,  gave  a  screech,  and  bolted  for  the 
bathhouse,  leaving  the  boy  howling  with  laughter  sprawled  on 
the  raft.  Red-faced  and  frantic  I  ran  with  my  hands  crossed  like 
two  fig  leaves  in  front  of  me. 

Often  we  would  plead  for  the  use  of  a  family  car  with  the 
promise  of  hours  of  household  chores  for  its  use.  An  old 
Chrysler,  an  ancient,  but  still  grand  Oakland,  and  an  antique 
red  Essex  could  match  these  small  cars  today  for  mileage.  We 
would  "pile  into"  one  of  them,  "pool"  our  pennies,  and  drive  to  the 
filling  station  operated  by  Tom  Coffman  in  the  north  end  of 
town.  We  would  hold  up  one  finger  and  say,  "Fill  it  up,  Tom."  He 
would  laugh  and,  I'm  sure,  put  in  a  few  more  drops  of  gasoline 
than  the  one  gallon  for  which  we  paid. 

After  our  first  all  day  session  in  the  spring,  we  would  all 
come  home  painfully  sunburned  after  lying  on  our  tummies  on 
the  raft  most  of  the  day.  My  mother,  who  always  wore  a 
sunbonnet  and  thought  a  girl's  skin  should  be  delicately  white, 
would  admonish  me  severely.  Usually  a  very  gentle  person,  she 
would  say,  "You  knew  better  than  this.  I  have  absolutely  no 
sympathy  for  you  whatsoever,"  all  the  while  tenderly  patting 


sweet  cream  on  the  smarting  back  of  her  lanky  daughter  who 
was  moaning  with  pain.  My  pitiful  pleas  of  "Aw,  Mom,  not  now, 
Puleeze  .  .  ."  were  to  no  avail. 

I  drove  out  to  The  City  a  year  ago  and  was  delighted  with 
the  recent  renovation.  I  looked  dreamily  across  the  lake  and 
visualized  us  with  our  bathing  caps  stuffed  with  candy  bars  (for 
a  later  lunch )  on  top  of  our  heads,  "dog-paddling"  to  the  raft  that 
was  located  in  the  deeper  water. 

"Well",  I  sighed,"  as  they  say.  Them  was  the  days!"' 


"running  boards"  on  each  side.  The  "driver"  steered  with  an 
automobile  steering  wheel  which  was  mounted  on  the  front. 
Runners,  as  I  remember  it,  were  made  of  wood  covered  with 
steel. 

There  were  always  a  few  young  men  who  would  eagerly 
give  the  loaded  toboggan  a  "running  push"  to  get  it  started  down 
the  hill  going  east.  Soon  the  snow  would  become  so  packed  it 
was  like  a  sheet  of  ice.  Then  the  fun  started.  Toboggan  drivers 
(and  occupants)  had  a  contest  to  see  how  far  the  vehicle  would 
go  before  it  stopped.  The  farthest  anyone  ever  went  was  to 
Austin  Avenue,  which  is  a  little  more  than  a  block  from  the 


COASTING  ON  THE  MARTIN  STREET  BRIDGE 

Louise  Parker  Simms 

For  the  first  twenty-four  years  of  my  life,  I  lived  at  401 
East  Martin  Street  in  Abingdon.  This  is  only  one  block  east  of 
the  Burlington  Northern  Railroad,  formerly  the  Chicago, 
Burlington,  and  Quincy  (CB&Q)  Railroad.  Consequently,  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  the  railroad  were  veiy  much  a  part  of  my 
early  life. 

One  of  these  familiar  sights  was  the  Martin  Street 
Bridge  over  the  railroad.  This  bridge  with  its  long  approaches 
was  the  source  of  pleasant  memories — memories  of  moonlit 
winter  nights  when  the  bridge  was  crowded  with  young  people 
and  adults  who  found  the  east  side  of  the  bridge  an  ideal  place 
to  coast  when  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow. 

In  addition  to  a  number  of  regular  sleds  that  held  one  or 
two  people,  we  always  had  two  or  more  toboggans  made  by  my 
father,  Jimmie  Parker,  a  blacksmith,  and  his  brother,  Orlie 
Parker,  who  also  had  a  blacksmith  shop  in  the  same  block  as  my 
father's. 

These  toboggans  would  hold  about  six  people,  who 
straddled  the  long  center  section  and  placed  their  feet  on  the 


Of  course,  the  slick,  packed  snow  did  not  make  climbing 
back  up  the  hill  easy.  Many  fell  on  the  way  up,  but  everyone  had 
on  so  much  warm  clothing  that  no  one  was  ever  injured  when 
they  fell. 

My  parents,  who  were  always  part  of  the  coasting  crowd, 
left  their  outside  basement  door  unlocked  so  all  those  who 
wished  could  warm  themselves  by  the  coal-fired  furnace. 

Martin  Street  Bridge  is  not  good  for  coasting  now,  since 
vehicle  traffic  is  too  heavy  on  the  street  which  leads  to  Knox 
County  Road  23.  But  traffic  was  much  lighter  in  the  1920's,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  people  waiting  their  turn  to  coast  down  the 
hill  who  could  signal  a  warningif  a  vehicle  approached.  We  now 
have  many  more  automobiles,  and  our  lifestyles  have  changed. 
But  when  I  was  a  kid  we  had  some  pleasures  which  compen- 
sated for  the  lack  of  cars — and  coasting  on  the  Martin  Street 
Bridge  was  one  of  them. 


THE  ONCE  IN  A  LIFETIME  NIGHT 

Sidney  Jeanne  Seward 

A  teepee  of  flame  shot  high  from  the  bonfire  on  the  Rock 
Island  side  of  the  river.  People  huddled  around  the  blaze 
warming  themselves.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  and  out  on  the  ice 
young  and  old  were  skating,  with  steel  blades  clamped  onto 
their  shoes.  In  those  days  skates  were  held  on  by  a  leather  strap 
slipped  through  the  metal  heel  and  buckled  around  the  ankle. 
Clamps  fitted  on  the  toes  of  the  shoes  and  were  screwed  onto  the 
soles  with  a  key.  If  the  skates  were  not  secure,  a  nasty  fall  could 
result.  Shoemakers  liked  the  winter  days  because  they  did  a 
lucrative  business  replacing  soles  ravaged  by  the  tearing  jaws 
of  the  skate  clamps. 

It  had  been  exceptionally  cold  that  year  of  1916-17.  For 
days  throughout  the  winter  the  temperature  had  hovered  near 
zero.  Now  the  Mississippi  River  was  deeply  frozen — so  deep 
that  even  heavily  loaded  drays  could  safely  cross  to  Davenport, 
Iowa,  on  the  ice. 

My  family  did  a  lot  of  walking  in  those  days.  Summer  or 
winter  we  walked  to  wherever  we  were  going.  Fortunately  for 
me,  my  father  was  a  tall,  strong  man  and  I  made  a  lot  of  the 
journeys  on  my  father's  shoulders. 

We  had  started  out  from  home  that  starry  night  at  my 
father's  urging.  Neither  my  mother  nor  I  knew  where  he  was 
taking  us.  All  he  would  say  was  that  we  must  dress  warmly.  I 
remember  that  Mother  had  a  wine  colored  velvet  hat  and  a 
black,  plush  coat.  That  night  my  father  wore  his  long,  dark 
overcoat  and  a  cap  with  earmuffs.  I  remember  wearing  a 
sweater  under  my  blue  velvet  coat.  A  scarf  was  wound  around 
my  face  and  over  my  velvet  bonnet.  White,  knitted  leggings 
protected  my  legs  from  the  cold.  On  my  hands  were  white 
mittens  connected  by  a  long,  crocheted  string  that  ran  around 
the  back  of  my  neck  and  down  each  sleeve  with  a  mitten  poking 
out  of  the  end.  My  white,  rubber  boots  had  a  bright,  red  tassel 


on  the  front.  When  we  reached  the  river,  we  joined  the  crowd 
near  the  fire.  We  were  cold  after  our  long,  twenty-block  walk 
and  the  heat  of  the  roaring  fire  was  welcome. 

Soon  my  father,  laughing,  swung  me  back  up  on  his 
shoulders  and  said,  "C'mon,  honey,  let's  go  walk  on  the  water!" 
With  the  stars  twinkling  overhead,  we  three  ventured  out  on 
the  gleaming  river  ice.  We  walked  from  Rock  Island,  Illinois  to 
Davenport,  Iowa  and  back  again!  When  we  were  well  out 
toward  the  middle  of  the  river.  Dad  swung  me  down  onto  the  ice 
so  that  I,  too,  walked  on  the  frozen  water. 

From  shore  to  shore  the  river  was  the  scene  of  spontane- 
ous carnival.  A  team  of  roan  horses  pulled  a  sleigh  filled  with 
merrymakers  toward  the  Iowa  shore.  The  sleighbells  on  the 
horses'  harness  mingled  with  the  happy  shouts  of  skaters. 
Some  were  cutting  figure  eights,  and  others  were  playing  a 
game  of  crack  the  whip.  The  last  child  in  the  long  whip  always 
seemed  to  be  the  smallest,  trying  to  prove  he  was  old  enough  to 
play  the  rowdy  game.  Poor  little  sod!  He  never  had  a  chance  of 
hanging  on.  That  night  he  went  sailing  off  the  end  of  the  line 
and  down  the  river.  Mother  was  frightened  as  the  child 
careened  away  from  the  group.  "Oh,  John,"  she  cried,  "what  if 
he  hits  a  patch  of  soft  ice?"  Dad  reassured  her  with  the  reminder 
of  how  long  the  river  had  been  frozen  and  how  brutally  cold  it 
had  been. 

We  were  west  of  the  government  bridge  as  we  made  our 
crossing — that  same  wonderful  bridge  that  now  spans  the  river 
from  the  Rock  Island  Arsenal  to  Davenport.  (It  is  the  only 
bridge  in  the  world  having  train  tracks  above  and  vehicular 
traffic  below  that  turns  360  degrees.) 

As  we  returned  to  Rock  Island,  we  heard  the  long, 
mournful  sound  of  a  train  whistle  as  it  carefully  approached  the 
bridge.  We  waited  at  the  bonfire  until  the  train  had  safely  made 
its  noisy  crossing.  The  sound  of  wheels  grinding  on  the  tracks 
and  cars  crashing  together  carried  far  out  over  the  countryside. 

Two  plumes  of  smoke  rose  into  the  starry  sky — one  from 


the  steam  engine  on  the  bridge,  one  from  the  fire  on  the  bank  of 
the  river.  From  every  person  gathered  there,  small  wisps  of 
steam  rose  as  their  breath  met  the  cold,  night  air. 

It  was  a  special  night,  a-once-in-a-lifetime  night,  a  night 
to  remember.  And  it  was  seventy-five  years  ago. 


MY  SPIRITUAL  GROWTH  IN  SPRINGFIELD 

Gloria  L.  Taylor 

When  I  moved  to  Springfield  to  accept  the  first  job  of  my 
life  at  the  Illinois  State  Library,  I  was  young  and  lacking  in 
experience.  I  was  qualified  for  the  position,  but  I  was  short  on 
general  knowledge.  I  had  never  had  to  manage  my  life  before, 
and  I  was  used  to  living  in  a  big  city.  I  did  not  know  any  one  in 
Springfield,  and  I  could  instantly  see  that  life  was  not  moving 
in  the  "fast  lane"  as  it  was  in  my  home  town,  Chicago.  I  was 
small  physically,  and  so  was  my  pay  check.  Because  of  my  lack 
of  experience,  I  felt  that  the  pay  check  was  fair.  But  I  was  not 
happy  there. 

I  rented  a  one-room  furnished  apartment,  and  after  the 
rent  was  paid  the  balance  of  my  money  went  for  long  distance 
calls  or  trips  back  to  Chicago  to  be  with  my  friends.  I  spent  very 
little  on  food,  and  I  walked  to  and  from  work.  My  problem  was 
loneliness.  After  a  couple  of  months  of  this  I  was  more  than 
ready  to  start  making  foot  tracks  along  the  highway  leading 
back  to  Chicago. 

Just  at  this  time  a  woman  who  lived  in  the  community 
started  to  visit  me.  She  taught  me  how  to  cook  on  the  small  stove 
in  my  apartment.  This  saved  me  money.  She  also  taught  me 
that  a  pot  of  beans  would  feed  me  for  several  days.  She  showed 
me  where  the  day-old  bakery  was  located,  and  she  often  invited 
me  along  with  some  of  her  other  friends,  to  her  home  for  dinner. 


I  began  to  manage  better  because  I  wanted  to  invite  them  to  my 
place. 

My  new  friends  and  I  began  to  go  to  interesting  places 
around  town.  They  were  not  glamorous,  neon-lighted  places 
like  the  ones  in  Chicago,  but  they  were  interesting  and  steeped 
in  local  history.  I  always  did  like  that  kind  of  thing,  but  I  had 
forgotten  about  it.  My  trips  back  home  became  fewer,  and  so  did 
the  phone  calls. 

At  this  important  time  in  my  life  I  felt  like  a  piece  of 
rough  metal  being  hammered  into  fine  steel.  It  was  truly  the 
turning  point  in  my  life.  As  I  became  more  familiar  with  the 
community  I  realized  that  there  were  others  less  fortunate  than 
I  was,  and  that  I  could  be  more  useful  with  my  life.  For  the  first 
time  I  was  able  to  commune  with  my  soul.  I  had  never  before 
known  that  I  had  a  depth  within  me  which  I  had  never  used. 

One  day  a  lady  in  Springfield  told  me  about  a  two- 
month-old  baby  girl  who  was  at  the  hospital .  She  was  born  with 
serious  problems  and  did  not  have  long  to  live.  I  wanted  to  fill 
what  time  she  had  left  with  love  and  comfort,  so  I  legally 
adopted  her.  I  named  her  Angel  Celeste.  She  was  in  every  way 
a  celestial  angel,  and  we  had  great  times  together. 

However,  when  she  reached  the  age  of  two  years  she 
showed  signs  of  not  feeling  well.  The  doctors  in  Springfield  and 
Chicago  could  not  help  her.  I  had  a  friend  whose  husband  was 
an  expert  pediatrician,  so  I  took  the  baby  to  him.  On  our  fourth 
day  there,  when  I  was  looking  out  of  the  window  wondering 
what  to  do  next,  I  suddenly  noticed  that  the  sun  had  lost  its 
glow,  the  trees  looked  dark  and  strangely  tall.  A  swarm  of  black 
birds  suddenly  flew  up  from  the  barren  trees  and  soared  across 
the  dark  skies.  My  heart  was  pounding  against  my  chest,  and 
I  was  stricken  with  fear  to  the  depths  of  my  very  being.  I  went 
to  the  bed  and  I  saw  that  my  little  Angel  had  passed  away.  It 
is  impossible  to  tell  how  sad  and  lonely  I  felt. 

I  learned  another  lesson  that  day,  how  to  accept  heart- 
ache, how  to  hold  up  through  the  experience  of  ultimate  sorrow. 


I  also  learned  how  wonderful  it  is  to  have  real  friends.    My  the  making  of  me.  All  that  I  know  or  ever  expect  to  learn,  all  that 

friends  in  Springfield  offered  their  help  and  stayed  close  by  me  I  have  done,  or  ever  expect  to  accomplish,  I  owe  to  those  people. 

during  that  difficult  time,  both  day  and  night.   They  were  an  They  are  what  made  Springfield  my  home  town, 
inspiration  to  me. 

I  shall  always  be  thankful  for  having  such  wonderful 
neighbors.  They  taught  me  sympathy  and  strength.  They  were 


II   ^he  Roaring  twenties 


THE  ROARING  TWENTIES 

The  Twenties  was  an  era  of  rapidly  changing  values  and 
considerable  social  conflict,  of  individualism  and  anxiety,  of 
lawbreaking  and  frivolous  nonsense.  It  was  arguably  the  first 
decade  of  the  twentieth  century — that  is,  the  first  to  be  charac- 
terized by  twentieth-century  values  and  problems. 

Women  won  the  right  to  vote  with  the  ratification  of  the 
Nineteenth  Amendment  in  1919,  and  Ruth  Rogers  remembers 
the  excitement  of  that  first  visit  of  her  mother  and  grandmother 
to  the  polls.  But  women  in  the  1920s  also  wanted  to  do  much 
more — attend  college,  work  outside  the  home,  and  enjoy  a  less 
restricted  social  life.  Some  also  wanted  to  dance  the  Charleston, 
drive  a  car,  and  perhaps  smoke  cigarettes  and  drink  cocktails  as 
well.  In  short,  women  wanted  to  enjoy  the  same  social  life  as 
men.  So,  the  rebellious  "flapper"  appeared,  wearing  bobbed 
hair  and  a  short  skirt. 

As  the  number  of  cars  multiplied  and  movies  brought  a 
glamorous  world  to  everyday  people,  there  was  a  restless 
questing  for  good  times.  Young  people  began  to  throw  off  the 
shackles  of  tradition  and  attempt  to  rewrite  the  rules  of  social 
behavior.  No  wonder  Madge  Bates  Dodson  looks  back  on  the 
Twenties  as  a  wonderful  era  of  "new  freedoms,  great  music, 
exciting  dances,  and  happy  times  with  friends." 

But  Prohibition  forces  had  succeeded  in  passing  the 
Eighteenth  Amendment,  forbidding  the  manufacture  and  sale 
of  alcoholic  beverages,  so  men  and  women  alike  broke  the  law 
in  unprecedented  numbers  as  the  illegal  liquor  traffic  soared. 
By  1922,  half  a  million  Americans  were  involved  in  bootlegging, 
and  organized  crime  had  begun  to  realize  enormous  profits. 

The  memoir  writers  in  this  section  recall  a  variety  of 
experiences  with  bootleggers  and  speakeasies.  Madge  Bates 
Dodson  recalls  visiting  a  speakeasy  in  Quincy ,  for  example,  and 
Helen  Sherill  Smith  describes  a  floating  bar  and  casino  that 
brought  good  times  to  people  along  the  Illinois  River.    The 


memoirs  by  Irene  Vander  Vennet  and  Sidney  Jeanne  Seward 
recall  humorous  bootlegging  incidents,  but  F.  Mary  Currie's 
piece  is  just  the  opposite — a  frightening  account  of  a  barn  dance 
that  ended  with  a  terrifying  police  raid. 

The  conservative  reaction  to  bootlegging  and  the  "new 
morality"  was  predictable,  and  it  was  especially  forceful  in 
small  towns  and  rural  areas  where  good  country  life  seemed  to 
be  invaded  by  immoral  city  values.  Many  people  became 
frustrated  and  fearful,  inflexible  and  authoritarian.  Revival- 
ism flourished  as  preachers  attacked  the  deadly  poison  of 
"modernism,"  and  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  spread  throughout  the 
rural  Midwest,  intimidating  drinkers.  Catholics,  Jews,  and 
others.  No  wonder  Lillian  Nelson  Combites  declares  that 
"There  was  much  about  the  Roaring  Twenties  that  was  not 
good"  as  she  recalls  the  Klan  in  her  area. 

Writings  about  the  1920s  are  so  often  focused  on  law- 
breaking  and  frivolity  that  we  tend  to  forget  that  the  lives  of 
most  people  were  seldom  touched  by  those  things.  Mary  I. 
Brown  asserts  that  "the  new  hard-surfaced  roads"  had  a  greater 
impact  on  her  family  than  either  the  Eighteenth  or  Nineteenth 
Amendment,  and  that  was  surely  true  for  most  other  families  in 
downstate  Illinois.  The  increasing  mobility  brought  by  cars  and 
hard-surfaced,  all-weather  roads  did  much  to  end  rural  isola- 
tion, but  it  also  initiated  the  decline  of  farm-center  communi- 
ties, as  Ralph  Eaton  points  out  at  the  close  of  "Augusta's  Turkey 
Trot."  By  the  end  of  the  decade,  people  in  ever-increasing 
numbers  were  shopping  and  visiting  regularly  at  the  county 
seats  and  such  larger  communities  as  Peoria,  Quincy,  and 
Springfield.  For  that  reason,  the  Twenties  was  a  pivotal  period 
of  cultural  change  in  Illinois,  as  it  was  throughout  much  of 
America. 

The  wonderful  closing  memoir  in  this  section,  "Roaring 
Softly:  The  Twenties  in  Lebanon"  by  Grace  R.  Welch,  offers  a 
kind  of  corrective  to  many  other,  more  exciting  accounts  of  the 
Roaring  Twenties.  After  all,  what  we  say  about  life  in  the  Jazz 


Age  is  commonly  what  our  culture  tells  us  was  important  then, 
but,  in  reality,  everyday  affairs — the  joys  and  sorrows  of  family 
and  community  life — had  greater  significance  for  most  people. 
They  always  do. 

John  E.  Hallwas 


THE  KID  FROM  THE  ROARING  TWENTIES 

Armour  F.  Van  Briesen 

Any  kid  who  was  growing  up  in  the  "Roaring  Twenties" 
will  tell  you  that  it  was  the  most  interesting  and  exciting  decade 
of  the  century.  The  country  had  pretty  well  recovered  from  the 
World  War  and  it  was  a  happy  time.  People  were  strumming 
ukuleles  and  dancing  the  Charleston  along  with  drinking  bath- 
tub gin.  Girls  wore  long-wasted  dresses  with  short  skirts  and 
little  bowl-shaped  hats.  Young  men  wore  wide-bottom  trousers 
and  lumber  jackets.  College  boys  wore  coonskin  coats,  and 
gangsters  could  be  identified  by  their  black  overcoats  and  light 
grey  hats. 

New  things  were  happening  all  around.  The  first  na- 
tional radio  broadcast  came  from  KDKA  Pittsburg.  Zippers 
were  first  introduced  on  women's  overshoes.  Air-mail  routes 
were  established  and  beacon  lights  were  installed  every  forty 
miles  to  guide  the  air-mail  flyers  at  night  with  their  arc-lights 
across  the  sky.  Charles  Lindbergh  was  the  hero  of  the  day,  and 
when  talking  pictures  came  out,  new  fabulous  theaters  and 
hotels  went  up  in  the  large  cities.  People  became  conscious  of 
the  underworld  when  the  Valentine's  Day  Massacre  happened 
in  1929,  and  the  stockmarket  crash  later  in  the  year  caused  the 
happy  times  to  limp  into  the  1930s,  and  by  June,  a  1930  high- 
school  graduate  could  not  find  a  job. 

By  1920,  the  soldiers  who  had  returned  from  Europe 
were  getting  married  to  the  sweetheart  they  left  behind,  and 
some  of  them  brought  a  bride  over  from  France.  New  houses 
were  being  built  for  them  and  would  have  indoor  plumbing  and 
electricity.  Factories  were  also  making  furniture  for  these  new 
homes.  Thirty-five  cents  an  hour  was  considered  a  good  wage. 

There  were  no  frozen  or  fast  foods  in  the  stores  of  the 
Roaring  Twenties.  Just  staple  items  were  on  sale  as  people 
cooked  from  scratch,  and  such  items  as  potato  chips,  chili,  and 
other  big  items  of  this  day  were  seldom  served.  There  were  no 


drive-ins  or  fast  food  places  around  either.  There  were  hot-dog 
stands  in  the  parks  and  on  street  corners.  Restaurants  cooked 
everything  from  scratch:  potatoes  were  peeled  and  mashed  in 
the  kitchen  and  brown  gravy  was  made  from  meat  drippings. 
Home  made  pies  were  served  for  dessert. 

There  were  lunch  rooms  that  served  short  orders  and 
sandwiches.  Most  of  the  sandwiches  were  ham  or  cheese. 
Hamburgers  had  not  yet  caught  on  and  there  was  a  good  reason. 
The  meat  coolers  in  the  markets  were  not  very  efficient  and 
after  the  meat  was  cut  and  on  display  for  a  day,  it  was  discol- 
ored. It  was  then  ground  into  hamburger  and  sold  three  pounds 
for  a  quarter.  It  was  cheap  food  for  a  family.  Even  if  it  was 
slightly  tainted,  it  was  still  eatable.  It  was  something  a  person 
wouldn't  order  if  he  was  getting  a  sandwich.  It  took  the  eating 
places  a  long  time  to  convince  people  that  their  meat  was  fresh 
ground  beef,  but  after  people  caught  on,  the  hamburger  became 
a  popular  food.  Most  of  them  sold  for  5c  or  10c  with  trimmings. 

If  a  kid  was  lucky  and  his  folks  thought  he  earned  it,  he 
would  get  an  ice  cream  cone  every  second  day  and  a  bottle  of  pop 
once  a  week.  There  were  some  good  soft  drinks  on  the  market: 
Wilson's  Old  Crow  ginger  ale  was  made  in  Rockford,  Illinois  and 
there  was  Green  River,  Cherry  Blossom,  and  of  course  Coca- 
Cola.  There  were  no  Pepsi,  Royal  Crown,  or  other  colas  on  the 
market. 

The  Roaring  Twenties  were  great  for  kids  in  the  country 
or  in  a  small  town.  The  community  pool  was  the  old  swimming 
hole  and  the  kids  were  always  healthy.  The  boys  wore  overalls 
and  went  barefoot  to  school.  They  did  not  want  to  be  city 
slickers.  Parties  were  held  at  school  and  the  churches,  and  hot 
cocoa  was  served  in  the  winter  and  lemonade  in  the  summer. 
There  were  no  cans  of  pop.  A  teacher  could  go  to  teacher's 
college  for  one  term  and  a  six-week  summer  course  and  then 
could  get  a  job  teaching  for  $50  per  month. 

The  Roaring  Twenties  would  not  have  been  near  so 
exciting  if  it  had  not  been  for  Prohibition.   No  sooner  had  the 


Volstead  Act  taken  effect  when  stills  were  springing  up  all 
around.  Kids  were  playing  bootlegger  and  gangster  and  using 
the  new  words  such  as  hootch,  moonshine,  blind  pig,  etc.  Small 
town  doctors  and  druggists  soon  had  things  going  too.  A  doctor 
or  druggist  could  get  alcohol  for  medical  purposes  so  the  doctor 
wouJd  write  out  a  prescription  and  the  druggist  would  fill  it  in 
a  bottle,  slightly  diluted  and  with  a  little  coloring,  and  label  it 
"Cough  Medicine."  The  doctor  and  druggist  both  got  a  profit  and 
many  women  wondered  why  their  husbands  kept  a  bottle  of 
cough  medicine  in  the  barn. 

A  speakeasy  or  blind  pig  could  be  found  anywhere  from 
a  church  basement  to  an  apartment  on  Park  Avenue.  When 
saloons  were  closed  up,  roadhouses  opened  up  for  dine  and 
dance.  There  was  often  a  bootleg  operation  going  on.  If  a  raid 
was  expected,  the  cargo  was  often  buried  in  the  backyard  or  the 
bottles  broken.  A  broken  bottle  could  not  be  used  for  evidence. 
In  the  big  cities,  there  were  big  operators  and  gang  wars, 
increasing  all  through  Prohibition.  Al  Capone  and  Bugs  Moran 
made  a  name  for  themselves  and  rocked  the  country  with  the 
famous  Valentine's  Day  massacre  of  1929. 

The  plain-Jane  cars  were  becoming  dream-boats.  A 
Model  T  Ford  could  be  bought  for  as  little  as  $280  and  most  kids 
knew  how  to  drive  them.  Hudson-Essex  was  the  world's  largest 
producer  of  axles  and  the  world's  third  largest  manufacturer  of 
cars. 

School-kids  always  knew  what  was  going  on  in  the  world 
from  hearing  the  grownups  talk  of  the  "Teapot  Dome  Scandal" 
of  the  Harding  administration,  and  then  "Silent"  Cal  Coolidge, 
who  was  worried  about  people  buying  on  the  installment  plan 
and  having  too  much  debt.  Also,  he  was  worried  about  the 
increase  in  crime  and  the  many  gang  wars. 

Hoover  proclaimed  in  his  inaugural  address  that  the 
country  was  on  the  dawn  of  the  most  prosperous  time  ever 
known.  His  cabinet  were  wealthy  bankers  and  business  men 
like  himself,  but  they  could  not  prevent  the  stockmarket  crash, 


the  closing  of  banks,  and  the  Depression. 

The  kids  of  the  Roaring  Twenties,  like  me,  have  fond 
memories  of  the  days  when  everybody  made  do  with  what  they 
had  and  the  government  was  a  small  operation.  They  were 
golden  years. 


MY  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ROARING  TWENTIES 

Madge  Bates  Dodson 

My  school  days  took  place  in  the  Twenties  at  Maplewood 
School  in  Camp  Point,  Illinois.  I'm  not  sure  how  "roaring"  they 
were,  but  they  were  exciting  nonetheless.  In  1923  I  was  twelve 
years  old  and  ready  for  high  school.  I  still  had  long  curls.  The 
movies  that  I  saw  showed  the  girls  with  "bobbed"  hair  and  short 
skirts.  I  had  to  do  something  about  my  hair.  My  mother  finally 
consented  to  let  me  have  the  curls  cut  off.  I  went  to  the  local 
barber  shop.  The  barber  not  only  cut  off  my  curls,  he  shingled 
the  back  up  to  the  crown  of  my  head.  Now  it  was  really  "bobbed." 
I  went  home  and  gave  my  doll,  who  had  long  curls,  a  haircut. 
Now  she  looked  just  like  me.  My  mother  was  not  happy  about 
our  looks,  but  I  felt  right  in  style. 

My  girlfriends  and  I  were  great  silent  movie  fans,  and  we 
had  our  favorite  stars.  I  had  all  their  pictures  pasted  in  a  large 
book.  Camp  Point  had  a  movie  theater  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
Baley  Opera  House.  A  musician  always  played  the  piano  during 
the  movie.  They  chose  their  music  according  to  what  was 
happening  on  the  screen.  In  fact,  the  stage,  dressing  rooms,  and 
curtain  are  still  there  but  in  very  bad  shape.  The  admission  was 
25(2  for  adults  and  lOc  for  children.  Later  the  price  went  up  to 
35(2  and  150.  Some  of  the  movies  we  saw  in  those  years  were  The 
Vanishing  American,  starring  Richard  Dix,  Beau  Geste  with 
Ronald  Colman,  The  Last  Frontier  with  William  Boyd,  and 


Daddy  starring  Jackie  Coogan.  Once  in  awhile  we  were  able  to 
see  a  movie  in  Quincy,  Illinois.  They  had  several  theaters. 
Some  of  them  were  the  Star,  the  Orpheum,  the  Family,  and  the 
Belasco.  When  the  new  Washington  opened  in  Quincy,  Illinois, 
it  looked  so  beautiful  to  all  of  us.  In  1927  the  father  of  one  of  my 
friends  took  four  of  us  to  the  Washington  to  see  Al  Jolson  in  The 
Jazz  Singer.  The  conversation  was  silent,  but  the  music  and 
songs  were  in  sound.  The  movie  was  so  sad.  We  all  cried  and 
loved  every  minute  of  it.  The  first  talking  movie  was  made  in 
1928. 

Four  of  us  girls  formed  a  fan  club  for  Richard  Dix.  We 
met  at  each  other's  homes,  played  cards,  talked  about  our  "idol," 
and  ate  popcorn  and  fudge.  We  also  tried  to  learn  all  the  latest 
dance  steps.  My  folks  had  an  old  Victrola  with  the  big  horn. 
Another  girl  had  a  player-piano.  We  loved  to  dance  to  Chloe. 
Some  of  These  Days,  and  At  Sundown,  to  name  a  few.  We 
managed  to  learn  the  Fox  Trot,  Charlestown,  and  the  Waltz. 
Naturally  we  called  ourselves  the  A.O.R.D.s,  the  admirers  of 
Richard  Dix.  I  still  have  an  autographed  photo  of  him. 

In  the  early  Twenties,  the  "hard  road"  was  built  through 
Camp  Point.  It  is  now  known  as  U.S.  24.  What  a  thrill  to  be  able 
to  travel  to  Quincy  on  a  paved  road.  We  could  hardly  wait  for 
Dad  to  take  us  for  a  ride  in  our  car.  The  car  was  a  Model  T  Ford 
touring.  In  the  summer,  very  breezy.  In  the  winter,  the  side 
curtains  were  buttoned  on,  and  you  hoped  they  wouldn't  come 
loose  in  zero  weather.  It  was  a  big  occasion  to  drive  to  Quincy 
Christmas  shopping.  Mother  would  heat  bricks  to  keep  our  feet 
warm  and  cover  us  who  were  in  the  back  seat  with  a  comforter. 
I  believe  my  Dad  had  some  kind  of  a  heater  in  the  front  seat. 

In  1926  my  sister  Bess  and  her  husband  came  to  visit 
before  they  started  for  California.  They  had  a  Model  T  Ford 
coupe.  They  planned  to  drive  to  California  and  with  their  gear 
and  camp  along  the  way.  In  fact,  that  is  just  what  they  did.  I 
don't  remember  how  long  the  journey  was,  but  it  took  a  long 
time  in  1926.   While  in  Camp  Point,  Bess  and  I  took  a  trip  to 


Quincy.  We  went  on  the  morning  train.  After  arriving  in 
Quincy,  we  ate  lunch  and  then  went  to  see  the  movie  Peter  Pan 
starring  Betty  Bronson.  After  the  movie  we  went  to  the  Quincy 
Hotel  for  dinner.  Itwas  very  impressive  to  my  eyes.  There  were 
formally  dressed  waiters,  and  there  was  lots  of  silverware  on 
the  tables.  After  dinner  we  went  to  another  movie.  It  was  The 
Merry  Widow  with  Mae  Murray  and  John  Gilbert.  Then  we 
went  back  to  Camp  Point  on  the  late  train.  What  a  day!  I  talked 
and  bragged  about  it  for  months,  and  sixty  some  years  later  I 
still  remember  that  day. 

In  the  twenties,  the  CB&Q  railroad  had  at  least  four  or 
five  passenger  trains  running  daily  between  Chicago  and  Quincy. 
Also,  there  were  many  freight  trains.  Camp  Point  had  a  huge 
water  tower  next  to  the  tracks  by  the  depot.  Many  times  the 
trains  going  through  stopped  and  took  on  water.  The  reservoir 
south  of  town  supplied  water  for  the  tower.  There  was  a 
pumping  station  there  and  that  was  owned  by  the  railroad.  My 
family  lived  in  the  west  part  of  town  near  the  tracks.  This  area 
was  called  "Dublin,"  so-called  because  many  Irish  families  lived 
there  when  the  railroad  was  being  built.  The  old  Catholic 
church  stood  on  ground  a  block  back  of  our  house.  The  old 
church  is  gone  and  a  new  one  was  built  far  away  from  "Dublin." 
A  cousin,  Clarence  Thomas,  was  an  engineer  on  the  CB&Q. 
Whenever  he  went  through,  he  would  really  blow  the  whistle. 
We  would  all  race  outside  and  wave. 

In  my  junior  year  ( 1927),  my  brother  Bill  sent  me  money 
to  buy  a  prom  dress.  I  was  in  seventh  heaven,  of  course.  I 
couldn't  believe  my  good  fortune.  My  folks  took  me  to  Quincy 
shopping.  I  purchased  a  lovely  dress  in  shades  of  green  taffeta. 
It  had  an  uneven  hemline,  short  in  front  and  longer  in  back.  It 
was  beautiful .  The  bodice  buttoned  in  back  at  the  neckline  with 
a  long  bow  hanging  down.  Where  it  buttoned,  it  made  a  small 
triangle  and  showed  my  bare  back.  It  was  so  daring  (or 
Roaring?).  In  fact,  it  was  so  daring  my  mother  sewed  a  piece  of 
lace  in  the  triangle.  I  wasn't  allowed  to  be  "Roaring"  after  all. 


This  was  also  Prohibition  time.  By  the  time  I  was 
eighteen,  I  had  sneaked  a  few  puffs  on  cigarettes  and  tasted  a 
Httle  homemade  wine.  I  also  knew  who  was  making  home  brew, 
wine,  and  "rotgut"  whiskey.  Once  we  actually  dared  to  go  to  a 
"speakeasy"  in  Quincy.  Our  boyfriends  took  my  girlfriend  and 
me.  We  really  thought  we  were  being  very  daring,  and  I  guess 
we  were.  We  were  scared  to  death  the  cops  would  raid  the  joint 
while  we  were  there.  The  boys  knocked  on  the  door  and  gave  the 
password.  We  entered  and  were  escorted  to  the  basement 
where  we  sat  around  a  kitchen  table  and  sipped  on  some  kind 
of  red  drink.  I  don't  know  if  it  was  a  sloe  gin  or  poor  wine. 

The  Roaring  Twenties  for  me  was  a  great  time.  There 
were  new  freedoms,  great  music,  exciting  dances,  and  happy 
times  with  friends.  I  still  enjoy  the  music  and  dancing.  Every- 
one was  optimistic  about  the  future.  We  thought  our  country 
was  the  greatest  and  was  going  on  to  bigger  and  better  things. 
The  stockmarket  crash  of  1929  put  an  end  to  those  dreams  for 
some  time.  The  Roaring  Twenties  were  over. 


IF  YOU  WERE  A  FLAPPER  IN  1922 

Audrey  Ashley-Runkle 

It  is  the  summer  of  1922.  If  you  are  a  teenage  girl 
wanting  to  get  along  with  your  life,  you  would  want  to  dress  like 
other  young  women  who  were  having  good  times.  In  order  to 
look  "keen,"  "groovy,"  like  "the  cat's  meow,"  and  "in  the  swing  of 
things,"  you  would  dress  like  a  flapper. 

Undergarments  would  be  a  brassiere  that  flattened  out 
the  bust  line,  panties  or  Teddies,  and  a  knee-length  slip.  The 
Teddy  was  a  panty  item  that  you  stepped  into.  You  wore  a 
support  belt  for  your  hose  also.  It  was  a  narrow  belt  with  four 
long  supporters  that  would  reach  to  your  hose-or  some  had  six 


supporters,  for  front,  side,  and  back. 

Hose  was  usually  silk  and  expensive,  and  the  silk  ran 
easily.  Your  hose  might  be  Japanese  silk,  artificial  silk,  fine 
lisle,  or  cotton.  Hose  had  seams,  sometimes  starting  at  the  toe, 
but  later  starting  at  the  heel.  In  1922,  girls  had  to  straighten 
their  seams  from  time  to  time. 

Your  shoes  would  be  low-heeled  slippers,  or  for  dress, 
you  might  wear  high-heeled  shoes. 

You  would  have  to  have  a  white,  accordion-pleated, 
knee-length  skirt.  The  pleats  in  the  medium  crepe  would  be 
small  and  run  from  the  waistband  back  to  the  narrow  hem. 
With  this  skirt  you  would  wear  a  mere  nothing  of  a  sleeveless 
blouse. 

Your  hair  would  be  cut  short.  In  most  cases  you  would 
have  to  get  it  cut  in  a  man's  barber  shop.  (Men  were  not 
comfortable  with  women  in  their  shops).  You  might  wear  bangs. 
Many  girls  did.  On  occasion  you  might  have  a  marcel  at  a  beauty 
parlor.  The  marcel  iron  was  a  two-pronged  iron  heated  on  a 
small  canned  heat  stove.  You  would  have  waves  around  your 
head.  At  home  you  could  curl  your  own  hair  with  kid  curlers. 
Such  a  curler  was  about  four  inches  long,  made  of  kid  leather 
with  wire  inside.  You  would  roll  up  your  hair  on  these  and  let 
them  set  for  an  hour  or  more.  You  could  use  a  curling  iron 
yourself  and  heat  the  iron  by  placing  it  at  the  top  of  a  lighted 
lamp  chimney.  For  color  you  could  use  henna  or  peroxide. 

You  tweezed  your  eyebrows  until  they  became  a  fine  line 
a  la  Marlene  Dietrich.  You  also  pursed  your  lips  to  make  them 
"cupid's  bow"  lips  like  Betty  Boop  and  Clara  Bow.  Your 
manners  became  what  you  saw  at  the  movies. 

Dressed  like  this  you  would  be  ready  for  dancing,  say,  at 
the  Country  Club.  At  the  club,  you  would  dance  every  "set" 
played  by  the  band.  The  band  would  have  at  least  one  saxo- 
phone, trumpet,  trombone,  set  of  drums,  piano  and  string  bass 
or  guitar.  It  would  play  the  latest  tunes,  including  foxtrots, 
waltzes,  and  perhaps  Charlestons.    You  would  know  all  the 


29 


words  to  the  music.  Since  all  windows  of  homes  and  clubs  were 
wide  open  to  relieve  the  summer  heat,  people  all  around  would 
listen  to  the  band  as  the  music  wafted  on  the  air.  Around  one 
o'clock  the  dance  would  end  with  "I'll  See  You  in  My  Dreams". 
Next  day  you  would  be  criticized  for  being  a  bit  wild,  and 
your  mother  would  be  on  the  spot  for  letting  you  go  to  dances 
when  you  were  only  sixteen  years  old.  But  it  would  be  worth  the 
criticism  to  share  the  fun  of  being  a  flapper  in  1922. 


was  suspected  of  being  "wet"  with  more  than  river  water,  but 
since  alcoholic  drinks  were  illegal  in  the  early  days  of  the  dance 
hall,  bootleg  liquor  must  have  been  passed  around  surrepti- 
tiously rather  than  openly.  The  surrounding  community  re- 
garded the  place  with  considerable  suspicion,  and  the  line 
between  "wild"  and  respectable  was  drawn  with  the  question, 
"Does  she  go  to  the  dance  hall?" 

In  an  effort  to  placate  the  community,  picnic  tables  were 
installed  and  gradually  the  more  staid  residents  of  the  county 
began  to  meet  there  for  picnics-in  the  daytime,  of  course. 


THE  FLORENCE  DANCE  HALL 

Margaret  L.  Cock  rum 

During  the  Twenties,  after  the  construction  of  Route  36 
had  made  wandering  about  at  night  more  feasible,  one  enter- 
prising Pike  County  resident  who  had  a  bit  of  land  bordering  the 
Illinois  River  decided  to  provide  a  meeting  place  for  the  pursuit 
of  interesting  night  life-a  place  where  the  boys  with  their  family 
"flyers"  could  take  their  girls  with  their  boyish  bobs  and  their 
straight,  short,  long  waisted  dresses  for  a  night-if  not  on  the 
town,  at  least  on  the  village.  So,  the  Florence  dance  pavilion 
was  built. 

It  was  a  low,  round,  or  perhaps  octagonal  building, 
reminiscent  of  the  roof  over  a  merry-go-round,  and  I  seem  to 
remember  that  it  was  painted  orange.  It  was  built  on  the 
narrow  sandy  plain  between  the  bluff  and  the  river,  with  brave 
disregard  for  any  wandering  rattlesnakes.  It  must  have  been  at 
least  a  slight  additional  attraction  that  anyone  not  too  busy 
with  the  music  and  dancing  could  watch  the  riverboats  as  they 
churned  their  way  up  and  down  the  river. 

Of  course,  from  time  to  time  high  water  would  lap 
around  the  edges  of  the  building,  and  the  measure  of  a  flood  was 
"How  close  is  the  water  to  the  Florence  Dance  Hall?"  The  spot 


THE  TWENTIES  IN  MCDONOUGH  COUNTY 

Lillian  Nelson  Combites 

I  remember  a  good  deal  about  what  went  on  in  the  1920s 
in  McDonough  County. 

As  to  women  voting  in  the  Twenties,  it  was  a  settled 
issue  by  then.  I  never  knew  of  any  women  in  an  official  capacity, 
only  a  Post  Mistress.  I  do  remember  the  parties  running  for  an 
office  coming  to  the  door  to  talk  to  my  mother,  vying  for  a  vote. 
They  always  gave  each  of  us  a  candy  bar  and  the  men  a  cigar. 
Candy  bars  only  cost  5c  then.  As  we  only  had  two  brothers,  and 
they  didn't  smoke,  I  don't  recall  the  price  of  cigars.  They  were 
given  candy  bars  too.  We  hardly  had  candy,  only  when  we  paid 
the  grocery  bill  and  the  grocer  gave  us  a  generous  sack  of  candy 
free.  If  we  ever  could  spare  any  sugar,  my  sister  would  make 
fudge.  When  we  had  sore  throats,  we  made  vinegar  candy  (a 
hard,  clear  candy)  to  suck  on.  We  did  look  forward  to  election 
time.  Mama  never  voted  for  the  party,  but  for  the  individual. 

A  big  issue  then  was  women  cutting  their  hair.  All 
women  wore  long  hair  with  braids  wound  around  their  head,  on 
top  of  their  head  with  buns,  or  on  back  of  the  head.  Then  the 


30 


craze  of  short  hair  came  and  men  and  women  had  a  battle  of  the 
sexes.  Some  women  came  to  my  mother  as  they  wouldn't  be 
caught  in  a  man's  barber  shop.  I  remember  one  of  our  school 
teachers  came  and  my  mother  cut  her  beautiful  hair.  Her 
husband  was  so  angry  with  her  they  almost  separated.  For  a 
long  time  they  had  bad  feelings.  Times  have  really  changed. 
Now  men  go  to  women's  salons  and  get  hair  styled  and  permed. 

There  were  also  bootleggers  in  the  Twenties.  I  know  this 
to  be  a  fact  as  some  lived  across  the  street.  All  day,  even  in 
summer,  the  smoke  poured  from  the  chimney  and  the  smell  was 
in  the  air.  At  all  hours  cars  came  and  went  with  men.  Some- 
times they  were  so  drunk,  they  fell  asleep  and  sat  for  hours.  We 
were  afraid  to  be  out  at  night  in  our  own  yard.  Nothing  was  ever 
done  to  them.  There  were  others  around,  but  no  one  com- 
plained. 

There  was  a  man  about  a  half  block  from  us  that  drank 
so  and  got  raving  crazy-''snakes  in  his  boots"  they  called  it.  You 
could  hear  him  all  over  the  neighborhood.  His  children  would 
hide  out  in  the  shed  and  the  stepmother  crawled  out  the 
bedroom  window  and  came  to  our  house  and  stayed  until  he 
passed  out  and  slept  it  off.  She  finally  left  him  with  their  two 
children  and  returned  to  the  town  she  came  from.  His  children 
left  home  when  they  were  old  enough.  He  continued  to  drink 
until  he  died.  Years  before,  my  father  had  been  an  alcoholic  and 
had  committed  suicide,  leaving  five  children  under  ten  years  of 
age,  and  I  wasn't  born  yet.  The  price  of  drinking  was  high  for 
my  mother  and  her  six  children  who  grew  up  without  a  father. 

We  also  had  the  Klu  Klux  Klan.  One  night  when  mama 
was  up  with  the  toothache,  cars  stopped  down  the  street  around 
this  man's  house.  Hooded  men  got  out  and  crossed  over  to  his 
home  and  set  up  a  cross  and  lit  it.  Mama  got  us  up  out  of  bed  and 
we  watched  it  bum.  This  was  a  warning  he  had  better  mend  his 
ways  or  pay  the  consequences.  It  never  did  any  good.  Later  they 
came  again  and  burned  another  cross.  It  was  real  scary  for  us 
children. 


Yes,  the  Klu  Klux  Klan  was  very  active  in  McDonough 
County.  They  met  at  my  sister's  boyfriend's  folks'  farm  north  of 
Sciota.  She  went  to  one  of  the  meetings.  There  were  also  some 
KKK  groups  around  Blandinsville  and  Stronghurst.  It  was  so 
unfair  as  some  members  we  knew  were  as  bad  as  the  ones  they 
were  criticizing.  One  Klan  member  we  knew  drank  and  beat  his 
children  and  kicked  his  wife.  I  don't  know  how  long  the  Klan 
was  active,  but  fortunately  it  finally  disbanded. 

There  was  much  about  the  Roaring  Twenties  that  was 
not  good,  and  I'm  glad  those  things  are  gone. 


WHEN  WOMEN  VOTED  IN  1920 

Ruth  Rogers 

My  family  lived  in  Fulton  County,  in  the  Barnes  School 
District,  which  is  in  Lee  Township.  This  is  east  of  Bushnell, 
Illinois.  My  mother,  Ida  Wheeler  Murphy,  was  a  school  teacher. 
She  had  been  since  1909.  She  was  an  unusually  independent 
woman  for  her  time  and  she  was  very  interested  in  history.  So, 
of  course,  her  interest  turned  to  the  plight  of  women.  I  can 
remember  hearing  her  talk  and  talk  about  women  not  being 
allowed  to  vote.  I  sometimes  suspected  that  the  men  in  our 
family  were  not  so  thrilled  to  hear  her  lamenting  about  this  big 
interest  of  hers.  Then,  in  1920,  women  were  given  the  right  to 
vote.  At  the  age  of  nine,  I  did  not  understand  the  full  importance 
of  the  event.  I  did  not  know  about  the  historical  background,  nor 
the  strength  of  the  women  and  some  men  who  had  fought 
through  the  years  for  the  rights  of  women. 

Everything  was  excitement  that  morning.  My  mother 
said  history  was  being  made.  She  said  the  Armistice  had  settled 
things  for  many  countries,  but  what  was  happening  all  over  the 
United  States,  that  day,  would  affect  all  women  for  all  time. 


The  women  in  our  family  were  going  to  vote  for  the  first 
time.  My  mother  had  managed  to  get  herself  and  my  grand- 
mother, Elizabeth  Laneuy  Wheeler,  registered  to  vote  in  this 
great  1920  election.  Grandma  grumbled  and  growled  about 
going  to  the  election,  but  finally  went  along  with  mom  in  the 
matter.  Remembering  my  mother,  I'm  sure  she  wished  my 
sister,  Myrle  Murphy  (Rouse),  and  I  were  old  enough  to  add  two 
more  votes  to  the  cause. 

My  grandfather,  Joseph  Henry  Wheeler,  a  Civil  War 
veteran,  then  in  his  late  seventies,  must  have  felt  a  little  like 
President  John  Adams,  who  feared  "petticoat  government,"  as 
he  walked  into  that  small  Virgil  School  building.  In  those  days, 
school  was  dismissed  in  the  buildings  where  the  elections  were 
held.  The  little  wooden  cubby  holes,  with  a  curtain  over  the 
front,  to  give  the  voter  privacy,  were  set  up  in  one  corner  of  the 
school  room.  The  teacher's  desk  was  used  for  voter  checking  and 
picking  up  the  printed  ballot.  To  the  side  on  a  little  table  sat  a 
locked  box  with  a  slot  in  the  top,  in  which  to  drop  the  marked 
ballots.  Everything  was  much  the  same  as  country  and  small 
town  voting  is  done  today.  The  big  difference  was  that  all 
election  officials  were  men.  Remember,  women  were  not  al- 
lowed in  our  countries'  election  places  until  after  the  second 
Tuesday  in  November,  1920. 

I'm  glad  my  mother  saw  fit  to  take  her  children.  I  have 
a  memory  of  an  important  event.  Today  I  can't  remember  what 
my  grandfather  said  about  taking  his  women  to  an  event  where 
previously  only  men  had  been  allowed.  But  he  was  a  smart  man; 
he  could  talk  to  a  politician,  a  preacher,  or  a  tramp  with  equal 
ease.  However,  when  my  grandmother  "made  up  her  mind" 
about  something  he  would  retreat  to  the  silence  and  pleasant 
safety  of  his  barn's  entryway.  However,  this  day  he  just  brought 
us  to  vote.  My  bachelor  uncle,  William  Wheeler,  my  mother's 
brother,  who  lived  with  us,  wasn't  so  kind.  He  was  always 
teasing,  but  that  day  he  said  angry,  unkind  things  to  Mom,  and 
Grandma  and  refused  to  go  along  with  us  to  vote  for  Warren 


Harding  for  president. 

Nevertheless,  women  had  obtained  a  victory.  All  her  life 
my  mother  never  failed  to  exercise  her  right  to  vote.  Little  did 
we  know  on  that  cold  day  in  November  what  a  long,  hard  battle 
it  would  be  for  women  to  obtain  other  freedoms  and  eventual 
equality. 


THE  ROARING  TWENTIES  IN  BROWNING 

Helen  Sherrill  Smith 

The  decade  from  1920  to  1930  were  rip-roaring  years, 
both  in  the  world  around  us  and  the  country  and  towns  we  lived 
in.  The  world  was  putting  itself  back  together  after  a  world  war; 
the  country  was  leaning  toward  isolationism;  farmers  were 
beset  by  high  tariffs  and  crop  surpluses.  Men,  hardened  by  the 
trials  of  war,  wanted  better  working  conditions  while  employers 
fought  unions,  and  federal  courts  crushed  strikes  by  injunction. 
The  Klu  Klux  Klan  increased  membership  in  the  Midwest  as 
well  as  in  the  southern  states,  promoting  attacks  upon  Catho- 
lics, Jews,  Negroes,  and  foreigners,  creating  a  reign  of  terror  in 
its  wake.  But  "Big  Business"  prospered,  with  stock  speculation 
and  real  estate  booms  soaring  into  the  bull  market  of  the  last 
years  of  the  decade. 

In  our  area  of  river  towns  with  their  in-built  tendencies 
to  play  as  hard  as  they  worked,  the  era  of  more  money,  the  Model 
T  Ford,  canned  food,  more  ready-made  clothing,  outboard  mo- 
tors, electric  washing  machines  and  irons,  and  the  feelings  that 
good  times  were  due  us  after  the  terrible  war,  led  to  a  light- 
hearted  attitude. 

The  young,  swept  up  in  the  more  permissive  attitudes 
and  with  the  freedoms  of  cars,  music  from  radios,  and  sensa- 
tional newspaper  accounts  of  high  living  society  debs,  motion 


picture  stars,  and  murder  trials,  shocked  the  older  generations 
with  short  skirts,  rolled  down  hose,  and  bobbed  and  shingled 
hair.  Galoshes,  those  utilitarian  four  bucklers  to  wade  through 
snow,  became  a  fashion  item,  worn  unbuckled  and  flapping 
open,  a  real  fashion  statement. 

But  in  our  town,  the  most  traumatic  event  of  the  Twen- 
ties was  the  Eighteenth  Amendment,  passed  in  1919,  prohibit- 
ing the  manufacture  and  sale  of  intoxicating  liquor.  People  in 
Browning  had  voted  the  village  dry  since  early  days,  but  that 
did  not  mean  no  drinking.  Fishing  folk,  who  fought  the  ele- 
ments daily,  believed  freedom  to  drink,  if  they  pleased,  was  a 
God-given  right.  So  river  towns  drank  illegally.  Gangsters  took 
over  the  bootlegging  business,  especially  in  the  big  towns.  In 
smaller  towns  like  Beardstown,  enterprising  householders 
cleared  out  basements  and  put  in  a  bar,  some  tables,  and  a  juke 
box-and  so  local  speakeasies  were  born.  Some  real  liquor  was 
brought  in,  but  a  lot  of  the  home  brewed  variety  was  sold  as  well. 
Stills  were  set  up  and  "white  lightning"  produced;  beer  could  be 
set  up  in  stone  jars  and  soon  bottled,  and  anyone  could  produce 
drinkable  wine  or  bathtub  gin  in  a  few  days. 

Browning  had  no  real  speakeasies  where  one  could  set  in 
a  social  atmosphere  and  drink,  but  potent  drink  was  available. 
Home  brewed  beer  was  common,  though  not  for  sale.  But  a  few 
entrepreneurs  made  a  business  of  it.  There  was  a  large  white 
house  on  the  road  to  the  river  where  one  could  most  always  buy 
a  pint  at  the  back  door;  a  cabin  boat  at  the  river  bank  where  a 
constant  card  game  was  in  session  also  had  liquid  refreshments. 
A  house  on  stilts  up  river  from  town  was  visited  by  fishermen 
who  often  arrived  home  in  a  happier  state  than  when  they 
started  their  day.  And  a  couple  in  a  cabin  boat  near  a  creek 
mouth  up  river  made  excellent  wild  grape  wine,  sold  only  at  the 
door,  a  dollar  a  gallon.  So  Prohibition  did  not  necessarily  mean 
dry. 

The  most  glamorous  result  of  the  Eighteenth  Amend- 
ment in  our  area  was  that  a  local  promoter  bought  a  very  large 


houseboat,  and  equipped  it  with  a  bar,  lounge,  dining  room, 
sleeping  rooms,  and  a  large  casino.  A  floating  hotel,  with  liquor 
and  gambling,  was  always  available.  If  the  local  citizenry  got  a 
little  hostile  at  such  goings  on,  the  Mazel  was  just  moved  up  or 
down  river  until  the  fuss  died  down.  Since  it  could  moor  off 
shore,  local  authorities  could  have  little  if  any  jurisdiction  over 
what  went  on  there. 

During  hunting  season,  when  the  town  was  flooded  with 
rich  Chicagoans  who  came  by  car  and  by  train  to  enjoy  the 
plentiful  supply  of  ducks  on  good  hunting  grounds  with  many 
competent  guides  available,  the  floating  hotel  had  its  busiest 
days.  Some  of  the  would-be  hunters  found  it  more  pleasant  to 
just  stay  there  and  buy  ducks  to  take  home.  Word  got  around 
that  a  number  of  the  regulars  at  the  Mazel  were  reported  to  be 
gangsters  and  mobsters  who  enjoyed  their  stays  as  a  vacation 
from  the  pressures  of  Chicago  life. 

Excitement,  money  flowing,  more  work  for  more  people, 
and  the  element  of  danger-good  times  for  Browning  and 
Beardstown  while  the  Mazel  was  in  operation. 

But  like  many  enterprises,  it  finally  came  to  an  end.  The 
promoter,  enticed  by  the  thought  of  even  bigger  profits,  took 
himself  to  Chicago  where  the  real  money  was.  So  long  as  he 
played  the  fringes,  things  went  O.K.  But  then  he  stepped  into 
taking  over  a  shipment  of  contraband  which  infringed  on  one  of 
the  "Big  Boy's"  territory.  After  a  couple  of  days  and  nights 
hiding  out  in  the  middle  of  a  lake,  our  man  had  seen  more 
danger  than  he'd  counted  on  and  came  home  sadder  and  wiser. 
By  then,  the  Mazel  had  been  closed  down  and  the  stock-market 
crash  of  1929  was  imminent.  The  Roaring  Twenties  was  coming 
to  an  end. 


SHINE  RAID  AT  A  BARN  DANCE 

F.  Mary  Carrie 

The  Time:  1923.  The  Place:  The  country  and  horse  lot 
at  Noah  Sorrel's  place,  in  the  woods  above  East  Fork  Creek.  I, 
sixteen-year-old  Grace  Sullens,  was  there  to  share  in  the  barn 
dance  with  dozens  of  country  folks. 

It  was  a  Saturday  night  in  July,  and  we  were  all  ready 
to  frolic.  Except  for  hat  collections  for  the  neighbor-musicians, 
it  was  all  free.  Called  ear  players,  these  were  whoever  showed 
up  with  an  instrument,  fiddle,  guitar,  or  five-string  banjo-or 
even  two  sticks  to  beat  time. 

The  pay  came  to  Noah,  a  poor  scratchin'  farmer,  who  sold 
moonshine  whiskey  to  keep  him  and  his  kids  a-goin.  His  "Pap," 
Ole  Man  Jake,  lived  with  him.  Raised  in  Ole  Kentuck,  he  was 
a  fine  hand  with  the  mash,  people  said.  Good  whiskey  in 
Prohibition  times.  So,  the  free  crowd  poured  in  for  fun  and 
dancing  and  hid  the  more-money-to-spend  town-people,  slip- 
ping in  for  illegal  booze. 

In  a  pink  organdy  ruffled  skirt  and  black  shiny  pumps, 
I  stood  in  a  bunch  of  other  floaty-skirted  girls,  while  four  couples 
to  each  set  was  arranged.  Eight  sets,  each  with  its  sing-song 
caller,  were  sorted  into  pairs,  while  the  music  boys  whanged 
and  tuned.  Hay  bales  with  blankets  over  them,  under  the  lower 
eves,  made  seats  for  the  watchers.  Quilts  behind  these  took  care 
of  the  little  nappers.  Gas  lanterns  hung  from  the  rafters.  Hay 
covered  the  hay  hole.  The  only  way  in  and  out  was  two  farm 
ladders  at  the  big  loft  door. 

Suddenly,  the  noisy  clamor  hushed  and  rhythm  music 
started.  The  foot-tappin'hand-clappin' kind.  We  dancers  began 
to  sway  and  jig  in  the  figures  swung  out  by  our  various  callers, 
all  shook  up  in  the  fun. 

After  an  hour  of  this  high-steppin'  fast-swinging  on  this 
hot  July  night,  everybody  rested  a  spell,  to  wipe  sweat  and  get 
our  puffback.  Myra  Smith,  an  older  out  from  town  girl,  grabbed 


my  hot  elbow.  "Let's  get  a  cool  drink  at  the  pump,"  she  said, 
"Bucket  in  the  barn  is  flat."  So  down  the  ladder  we  went  out  to 
the  horse  pump. 

There,  surprised,  I  looked  around.  Tied  horses  with 
buggies  stood  all  around.  There  were  a  few  cars,  no  people.  The 
quarter  moon  was  low  in  the  west.  It  made  dim  light  in  the  dusty 
fog-like  air.  The  haunting  smell  of  the  wald  honeysuckle 
mingled  with  the  horse  lot  dust.  The  taste  of  the  pumped  drink 
in  the  tin  cup  was  good.  The  only  sound  was  the  Whippoorwill 
call  down  on  the  creek  below  us,  and  the  Katydids  sawing  away 
in  the  trees. 

The  tinkle  of  the  barn  started.  We  turned,  but  melting 
out  of  the  dust  suddenly,  there  was  a  man  with  a  gun  in  a 
crooked  arm.  "Fast  back  up  the  ladders,  Gals,"  he  said.  We 
needed  no  push.  We,  flew,  one  on  each  ladder,  up  the  rungs.  He 
followed.  "Likely  to  be  shootin',"  he  muttered.  A  strange  man, 
he  plunked  down  at  the  doorsill ,  rifle  pointing  out,  his  feet  on  the 
first  rung  of  the  ladder. 

Another  strange  man  with  a  rifle  appeared  at  the  top  of 
the  other  ladder.  We  were  all  as  still  as  the  barnyard.  We 
huddled  like  sheep,  all  staring.  "Keep  fiddlein',"  he  gestured 
with  the  gun,  "You  all  keep  dancin',  nobodys  comin'  and  nobodys 
goin'  out  til  told." 

We  near  ones  could  see  a  large  badge  shining  on  his 
suspender.  We  looked  at  each  other  and  minded,  stepping  into 
our  couple's  sets.  He  set  his  feet  on  the  ladder,  gun  pointing  out. 
The  music  guys  got  going  with  a  hard  beat,  Turkey-in-the- 
Straw  stomper.  The  groups  picked  up  the  jiggin'  rounds  and 
away  we  went.  But  the  bounce  and  firey  steps  had  blown  out. 
We  were  scared.  This  had  to  be  a  moonshine  raid.  Yells  came 
from  below.  We  all  stopped  and  headed  for  the  door.  The  man 
waved  us  back  with  his  gun.  Nope,  it's  safe  in  here.  Bang!  Bang! 
went  two  barrels  of  a  shotgun.  Noah's  five  hunting  hounds 
squalled,  just  boo-hooing;  then  the  whine  of  flying  rifle  bullets, 
several  of  them. 


We  froze  in  our  footprints.  That  was  our  neighbors, 
Noah,  his  teenage  sons,  Jim,  Joe,  and  Tom,  and  ole  Grandpap, 
all  those  bullets  was  flyin'  at  down  there,  and  from  the  roar  of 
the  shotguns,  was beingre turned.  Shaking,  I  grabbed  Dave,  the 
closest  one,  in  a  near  death  hold.  Everybody  did. 

Wife  and  mother,  Kate  Sorrels,  was  seated  on  a  bale 
nearby.  She  sat  stiffly  up,  hand  pinched  white  on  her  palm  leaf 
fan,  lips  pressed  to  an  invisible  line,  foot  still  tapping.  I  felt 
proud  for  Kate,  but  looked  the  other  way.  Her  stabbed  dark  eyes 
throbbed,  it  hurt  so.  Time  went  slow  amongst  us  in  the  bam. 

Outside,  thank  God,  no  more  shootin'.  Car  doors  banged, 
motors  roared.  Then,  his  sheriffs  star  flashing,  came  a  man  off 
the  ladder.  We  huddled  back.  For  us,  HHwuz  always  bad  news. 
'TVIis  Sorrel,"  he  looked  us  over,  paralyzed  our  speech.  Kate,  tall 
and  sharp-angled,  stood  taller  and  looked  at  him  square  straight. 
"Me,  Sir?",  no  quaver  in  her  chin.  "Brace  up.  Mis  Kate,"  he  said 
to  her.  "Noah  got  a  gut  hit.  He  went  fast  to  the  Vernon  hospital. 
Boy  Jim,  with  a  shoulder  hit,  got  took  too.  Sorry,  but  Noah,  he 
knew  the  law,  been  warned  before." 

Starch  gone,  Kate  crumpled.  "He  knowed,  t'was  the 
onliest  way  to  git  livin  money."  She  started  towards  the  door 
explainin',  "With  no  crops  t'was  honest  trade  he  figured.  Good 
Kentucky  shine  he  made.  They  alius  were  back  to  git  more." 

No  talking  amongst  us  as  we  filed  down  the  steps.  Pearl 
and  me  stepped  on  the  little  iron  steps,  and  got  up  in  our  buggy. 
Brother  Clyde  untied  ole  Buck  from  the  lot  post,  and  we  settled 
on  our  knees  to  drive  the  four  miles  to  our  farm. 

Only  ten-thirty.  We  clopped  down  the  dusty  road, 
unrolling  a  gray  foggy  ribbon  behind,  with  the  setting  moon  in 
the  west,  sparkling  through.  Saying  nothing.  Big  sister.  Pearl, 
said,  "Don't  be  goin'  out  with  Mirey.  They  claim  she's  a  fast  one." 
I  laughed,  "Sure  is,  she  jumped  into  that  loft  'fore  I  wuz  half 
way." 

Noah  and  Jim  recovered,  but  the  law  destroyed  all  his 
bootleg  booze  and  mash-making  equipment.  That  ended  our 
barn  dances  there. 


A  VISIT  FROM  THE  KU  KLUX  KLAN 

Jean  Courtney  Huber 

My  father  and  mother,  William  A.  and  Florence  Hughes 
Courtney,  had  moved  from  New  York  to  the  Midwest  in  the 
1900s.  In  the  '20s,  they  lived  in  a  double  house  on  16th  Avenue 
with  their  two  daughters,  Helen  and  Elizabeth.  My  birth  was 
but  a  few  short  weeks  away.  In  desperation  to  move  his  family 
into  a  bigger  house,  my  father  bought  a  home  on  13th  Street  and 
6th  Avenue,  East  Moline,  in  what  my  mother  called  "the  middle 
of  the  prairie."  In  May  of  that  year  I  was  born. 

Mother  hated  being  so  far  away  from  St.  Anne  Church, 
the  activity  of  the  town,  and  her  friends,  but  living  near  one's 
work  was  important  to  my  father's  livelihood  because  we  didn't 
have  a  car. 

My  father  worked  at  the  John  Deere  Harvester  Works. 
His  uncle,  J.  J.  Courtney,  one  of  the  early  superintendents  at 
Deere  &  Company,  Moline,  Illinois,  had  encouraged  his  four 
nephews,  Tom,  John,  Dave,  and  Bill,  to  come  to  Moline  where 
they  could  get  jobs  working  for  Deere.  Three  came  and  worked 
for  Deere.  Dave  stayed  in  Chicago. 

Living  close  to  work  was  important  those  days  when  it 
came  to  transportation.  Near  the  corner  on  6th  Avenue,  my 
father  could  walk  to  work  across  the  prairie,  along  the  railroad 
tracks,  and  in  the  backway  to  his  office  in  a  few  minutes. 

As  I  grew  older,  I  was  allowed  to  take  my  father  his 
lunch.  I  followed  the  patch  through  the  prairie,  calling  to  the 
meadow  larks,  picking  buttercups,  dark  blue  violets,  a  bunch  of 
what  the  Angel  girls  called  "snot  flowers,"  and  a  dandelion  or 
two.  I'd  hunt  four-leaf  clovers  and  find  a  rare  jack-in-the-pulpit, 
making  a  wildflower  bouquet  for  my  father's  desk. 

Mother  would  watch  from  our  front  porch  as  I  bobbed 
through  the  prairie,  my  mop  of  bright  red  hair  peeking  through 
the  long  grasses.  A  brown  rabbit  would  hop  by  or  a  garter  snake 
would  slither  by  touching  my  foot.  I'd  jump  and  end  up  stepping 


in  sandburs.  I'd  bend  over  to  dig  out  the  sandbur  and  Mother 
would  call  to  me.  I'd  yell  "Sandburs."  She  knew  my  problem. 

I'd  limp  along  the  tracks,  the  Burlington  I  think,  then  I'd 
walk  the  cool  rails,  and  skip  the  ties,  counting  or  making  up 
rhymes  as  I  walked.  The  stones  between  the  ties  slowed  me.  I 
was  fascinated  by  their  glitter  and  filled  my  pockets  with  the 
shiny  ones. 

At  the  factory  door,  I  entered  to  a  chorus  of  "Hey,  Red, 
what  color's  your  hair?"  The  workers  stopped  to  pat  me  on  the 
head  or  walk  me  to  my  father's  office  where  I  left  his  lunch  sack. 

I  loved  going  there,  not  just  for  the  attention,  but 
because  my  father  and  the  workers  showed  me  the  machines. 
They  would  lift  me  up  to  see  the  dark  oil  pouring  over  moving 
machine  parts  or  show  me  how  a  new  tool  worked.  I  knew  about 
tool  rooms  before  I  ever  had  a  doll.  The  clank  of  heavy  metal  and 
the  ring  of  a  clanging  hammer  were  the  "rock  and  roll"  of  those 
days  for  me. 

At  night  I  was  not  a  good  sleeper  so  I  got  up  and  looked 
out  the  big  window  over  my  bed.  In  warm  weather,  I  swung  it 
open  and  looked  south  into  the  trees  watching  the  mystical 
shadows  made  by  the  moon. 

I  heard  a  boat  whistle  to  the  north,  distant  and  haunt- 
ing. I  knew  a  paddle  wheeler  was  struggling  against  the 
current,  heading  up  river.  I'd  run  to  the  bathroom,  swing  open 
the  window,  and,  stand  on  the  toilet  seat  looking  north.  I  covdd 
see  the  moonlight  reflecting  from  the  light-painted  decks  and 
the  outline  of  the  dark  smoke  from  the  boat's  stack.  I  could  sleep 
after  it  left,  dreaming  of  its  voyage. 

One  day  when  I  took  my  father  his  lunch,  things  seemed 
different.  The  men  were  sitting  outside,  their  backs  against  the 
brick  building,  their  greasy  work  caps  turned  backwards,  their 
tired  faces  grim,  their  eyes  turned  downward.  Their  "Hey, 
Red's"  were  silent.  Ifeltlonely,  unloved.  I  hurried  to  my  father's 
office,  left  his  lunch,  and  lingered  a  bit  hoping  for  an  explana- 
tion. I  got  a  kiss,  but  no  answer. 


Iran  mostof  the  way  home.  When  I  arrived  in  my  yard, 
I  found  some  white-painted  criss-cross  sticks  that  looked  like 
they  had  been  set  afire. 

"Look  what  I  found  behind  the  big  tree,"  I  told  my 
mother. 

"Did  you  tell  your  father  about  this?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  just  found  them  when  I  came  home." 

My  two  older  sisters  saw  me  holding  the  sticks  and  were 
abuzz  with  whispers.  Not  a  word  was  said  to  me  about  the 
sticks,  not  even  at  supper  time. 

Bedtime  came  early  that  night.  I  couldn't  sleep  so  I 
looked  out  my  bedroom  window.  It  was  pitch  dark  out.  When 
I  heard  voices  outside,  I  went  to  the  bathroom,  climbed  on  the 
toilet  seat,  swinging  the  window  open  as  I  went.  No  one  in  sight. 
Then  a  deep  blast  of  a  boat  whistle.  The  paddle  wheel  was 
coming,  but  I  couldn't  see  the  boat  or  the  river's  edge  or  the  old 
man's  shack. 

The  churning  of  the  paddle  wheels  and  water  reached 
me  as  the  boat  was  almost  directly  north  of  me.  I  could  see  a  fire 
on  the  banks  of  the  river,  almost  hear  it  crackle  in  the  night's 
stillness. 

I  ran  to  wake  my  folks.  My  dad  got  dressed  and  left 
quickly.  My  sisters  joined  my  Mom  and  headed  outside.  I 
stayed  at  my  bathroom  perch  where  I  could  see  the  most. 

Now  a  huge  cross  burned,  not  unlike  the  small  white 
charred  sticks  I  found  in  our  yard.  I  was  worried.  My  father  was 
heading  for  this  danger. 

The  reflection  from  the  fire  lit  up  the  river  boat,  its  crew 
now  waving  burning  torches  to  light  the  area,  yelling  toward  the 
shack  to  warn  the  old  man. 

Before  my  father  returned,  I  heard  a  car  come  up  the 
alley.  I  could  see  faint  white  shapes  illuminated  by  our  house 
lights.  The  occupants,  hidden  by  white  sheets,  yelled  names  at 
my  mother  and  sisters.  "Dam  Cat-licks!  Get  out!"  They  drove 
close  to  where  my  mother  and  sisters  were  standing,  calling  out 


36 


as  they  went.  My  mother,  a  five  foot-one  inch  lady,  stood  her 
ground.  She  held  her  head  high  and  never  moved  an  inch  nor 
replied  to  their  taunts. 

I  could  hear  footsteps  as  my  father  returned  from  the 
cross-burning.  He  was  furious.  But  he  was  a  quiet  man.  I  knew 
he  would  settle  things  in  the  bright  light  of  the  day-in  his  own 
way. 

I  was  back  in  my  bed  wondering  why  anybody  could  hate 
someone  for  their  religion.  When  he  returned,  my  father  told  of 
a  cross  being  burnt  in  the  yard  of  the  Polite  family.  One  of  their 
sons  had  worked  for  him.  They  lived  just  across  13th  Street. 
He'd  had  enough,  he  said.  It  would  stop.  He  wouldn't  be 
intimidated,  nor  did  either  of  my  parents  consider  our  neighbor- 
hood any  one's  in  particular. 

Next  day  my  mother  handed  me  my  father's  lunch. 

"Is  it  ok  for  me  to  go?"  I  asked.  I  got  a  big  smile  and  a 
"Yes." 

I  followed  the  path  through  the  prairie.  I  wasn't  as 
confident  as  my  mother.  Would  I  now  get  catcalls  because  I  was 
a  Catholic  or  was  there  a  prejudice  against  red  hair?  I  wasn't 
sure. 

I  entered  the  same  factory  door  as  always. 

"Hey,  Red!  What  color's  your  hair?  Where'd  you  get 
those  green  eyes?  Did  that  temper  come  with  your  red  hair?"  I 
knew  then  my  father  had  won.  There'd  be  no  more  crosses 
burned  in  our  neighborhood. 


A  BABYSITTING  INCIDENT  IN  BOOTLEGGING  DAYS 

Irene  Vander  Vennet 

It  was  an  exciting  time  for  me,  many  years  ago,  when  I 
received  permission  from  my  mom  to  babysit  several  blocks 
from  my  home.  I  often  cared  for  the  children  across  the  street 
when  their  parents  went  to  an  early  evening  movie.  But  my 
parents  felt  I  was  too  young  to  go  anywhere  far  from  home.  This 
particular  evening  our  neighbor  called  and  asked  if  I  might  sit 
for  a  friend  of  theirs  for  about  an  hour.  Mom  never  made  snap 
decisions  so  she  said  she  would  think  it  over  and  return  the  call 
soon. 

She  called  me  aside  and  told  me  of  the  request,  asked  if 
I  felt  I  could  handle  the  job  responsibly.  I  assured  and  reassured 
her,  and  when  I  heard  her  make  the  call  to  tell  them  I  could,  I 
felt  very  grown  up. 

Mr.  Bea,  my  charge's  father,  came  shortly  before  eight  to 
drive  me  to  his  home.  There  I  met  Bobby,  age  5,  and  Suzanne, 
age  7.  Their  mother  told  me  they  enjoyed  listening  to  stories  or 
liked  someone  to  read  to  them.  She  said  that  they  would  be  back 
in  about  an  hour  and  she  would  see  to  the  bedtime  on  their 
return.  Mr.  Bea  picked  up  a  large  box  and  off  they  went. 

1  sat  Bobby  and  Suzanne  close  by  me  on  the  sofa  and,  at 
their  request,  continued  to  read  a  book  their  mother  had  started 
to  read  to  them  the  night  before.  I'll  never  forget  the  name  of 
that  hook-The  Bobbsey  Twins  by  the  Deep  Blue  Sea. 

About  fifteen  minutes  later,  Bobby  slipped  off  of  the  sofa 
and  asked  me  to  wait  a  minute  as  he  had  to  go  to  the  bathroom. 
Away  he  went.  When  I  thought  Bobby  had  been  gone  long 
enough  to  complete  his  mission,  I  thought  I'd  better  investigate 
the  delay.  I  went  to  the  bathroom  door  and  called: 

"Bobby,  are  you  all  right?"  No  answer. 

"Stay  calm,"  I  told  myself,  and  called  out  again.  Still  no 
answer.  I  tried  the  door;  it  was  locked. 

"Bobby,  unlock  the  door,"  I  said  in  my  sweetest  voice; 


"it's  time  for  the  treat  your  mom  left,  cookies  and  milk." 

"Just  a  minute"  came  a  frightened  little  voice.  Then 
came  the  sound  of  sloshing  water. 

"Ah,"  I  told  myself,  "typical  child-so  much  fun  to  play  in 
water."  The  lock  turned,  the  door  opened,  and  before  me  stood 
a  naked,  smelly  little  kid.  He  looked  very  white  and  like  any 
little  boy  caught  in  the  act.  "What  happened  Bobby?"  I  asked 
him.  Suzanne  was  right  behind  me  and  filling  in  the  informa- 
tion in  a  loud  voice. 

"You're  going  to  get  spanked  when  Daddy  gets  home" 
and  continued  on.  "Dad  makes  special  water  in  the  bathtub  he 
has  to  test  for  someone  and  we're  not  supposed  to  go  near  the  tub 
when  it's  in  there." 

Now  Bobby  added,  "I  only  wanted  to  taaa "  and  no 

more  words  came  out  of  his  mouth  . . .  only  the  special  water  and 
most  of  his  supper.  Was  it?  Could  it  be?  Itsmelledalotlike  the 
alcohol  that  mom  used  to  rub  on  the  boys'  sore  muscles  when 
they  played  ball.  No  matter,  I  had  to  help  Bobby.  I  bathed  him 
off  (not  in  the  bathtub),  put  on  his  pajamas  and  robe,  and  settled 
him  once  again  beside  me  on  the  sofa  and  started  to  read.  In  no 
time,  my  little  drunk  was  fast  asleep. 

Five  to  nine  a  key  turned  in  the  front  door  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bea  walked  into  the  room. 

"What  a  peaceful  scene,"  said  Mrs.  Bea.  "Bobby  fast 
asleep  and  our  Wide-Awake  up  and  chatting  as  usual."  Chat- 
ting she  was,  words  tum-bling  out  like  autumn's  falling  leaves. 

"Bobby  was  a  bad,  bad  boy  tonight-he  got  into  the 
special  water  tub  and  got  sick-he  said  he  had  to  go  to  the 
bathroom  and  when  he  stayed  too  long,  Fran  went  into  to  see  if 
he  was  all  right-he  had  locked  the  door  but  he  did  open  it  when 
she  told  him  to-but  he  was  all  undressed  and  he  smelled  awful- 
and  then-he  THREW  UP.  .  ."  she  fairly  shouted. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bea  stood  like  mute  sentinels  just  staring 
at  me  and  then  at  each  other.  Mr.  Bea  attempted  to  speak,  but 
only  a  feeble  "uh,  ah,  I,  uh,  I..."  then  nothing.  I  realized  their 


embarrassment  and  came  to  their  rescue. 

I  picked  up  my  coat  and  said,  "Could  you  please  take  me 
home  now:  I  have  much  Latin  to  translate  before  I  go  to  bed." 
I  know  Mr.  Bea  was  relieved  and  hurried  both  of  us  out  the  door. 

He  talked  and  questioned  me  the  entire  ride  home:  "Did 
I  like  school?  What  subject  did  I  like  the  best?  How  did  I  like 
Latin?  (he  never  cared  for  it),"  and  on  and  on  until  we  stopped 
at  my  home. 

Then  he  reached  into  his  billfold  and  handed  me  a  crisp 
dollar  bill.  (A  dollar  for  an  hour?)  I  told  him  my  charge  was  25(2 
an  hour. 

"Well  worth  a  dollar,"  he  said,  "  and  THANK  YOU!"  He 
saw  me  to  the  door  and,  as  soon  as  I  stepped  inside,  he  hurried 
off  of  the  porch  and  into  his  car. 

The  family  was  gathered,  as  usual,  in  the  living  room. 
And  when  I  held  out  my  dollar  bill,  they  all  cried  out:  "Wow,  a 
dollar  an  hour!" 

Then  Mom  asked:  "How'd  it  go  tonight,  dear?  Were  the 
children  good?" 

I  took  off  my  coat  and  related  my  evening  at  the  Bea's 
home.  As  I  was  telling  my  story,  I  noticed  the  eye  communica- 
tion that  was  going  on  between  Mom  and  Dad,  and  it  confirmed 
my  earlier  thought.  Yes,  I  had  cared  for  a  child  who  had  bathed 
in  a  bathtub  of  gin. 


THE  TIME  OUR  CHICKENS  GOT  STONED 

Sidney  Jeanne  Seward 

By  1921,  Prohibition  was  in  full  swing  in  Rock  Island. 
The  saloons  on  Second  Avenue  had  all  closed  their  doors.  No 
longer  did  people  on  the  way  to  the  street  car  stops  have  to  walk 
around  drunken  men  lying  on  the  sidewalks,  in  the  gutters,  or 


on  benches  in  that  green  oasis  of  the  downtown  area,  Spencer 
Square  Park  (now  the  site  of  the  Rock  Island  Post  Office). 

That  year,  too,  is  memorable  for  me  as  the  time  my 
father  was  raising  Leghorn  chickens  as  a  hobby  and  new 
neighbors  moved  in  next  door. 

The  Eighteenth  Amendment  was  in  effect.  Drinking  or 
selling  alcoholic  beverages  was  prohibited.  Oh,  there  were 
people  who  circumvented  the  law  and  made  their  own  booze- 
but  not  my  parents'  friends,  of  course!  My  folks  had  signed 
Temperance  cards,  as  had  most  of  their  friends.  By  signing  the 
cards,  they  took  an  oath  not  to  drink  alcoholic  beverages. 

The  people  who  made  their  own  liquor  were  called 
"Moonshiners"  and  "Bootleggers."  They  used  all  kinds  of  dodges 
to  escape  the  law.  They  built  stills  and  hid  them  in  the  woods 
or  in  their  cellars.  One  man  I  have  heard  about  had  a  still 
hidden  in  the  rushes  near  a  creek.  When  the  booze  was  ready, 
he  bottled  it  and  took  it  back  to  his  home  place  where  he  buried 
it  in  his  cornfield.  The  story  goes  that  when  his  customers  asked 
for  liquor  he'd  say,  "Oh,  I  think  I  can  dig  up  something  for  you." 

My  school  was  near  a  house  where  shades  covered  all  the 
windows.  Though  no  one  seemed  to  live  there,  many  men 
furtively  knocked  at  the  door,  received  something  in  a  brown 
paper  bag,  and  quietly  went  away.  Rumor  had  it  that  a  still  was 
hidden  in  the  house  and  the  many  visitors  were  buying  bottles 
of  whiskey. 

Early  that  summer,  new  tenants  moved  into  the  house 
next  door  to  us.  At  first  I  was  excited  about  their  coming.  They 
had  three  children  and  I  had  never  had  playmates  in  the 
neighborhood.  It  wasn't  long  until  we  all  realized  that  there  was 
something  strange  about  these  people.  They  seemed  surly  and 
unfriendly.  Their  language  included  words  that  I  had  never 
heard  before  and  that  I  instinctively  realized  I  shouldn't  be 
hearing  now.  The  parents  yelled  at  the  children  a  lot.  After  a 
few  offers  of  friendship,  my  family  limited  their  conversations 
to  "good  morning"  or  "nice  day." 


I  didn't  really  mind  not  having  children  to  play  with. 
There  was  a  lot  to  keep  me  busy  in  my  own  backyard. 

These  were  the  "good  old  days"  when  you  could  have 
farm  animals  in  the  city.  Many  people  still  had  horses  and  it 
was  not  unusual  for  people  in  thickly  populated  areas  to  have, 
back  of  the  house,  a  shed  where  a  cow  was  kept. 

That  summer,  five  hundred  white  Leghorn  chickens 
dotted  the  green  lawn  in  back  of  our  house.  When  Dad  appeared 
with  the  feed  pan,  they  gathered  around  him  clucking  happily. 
I  liked  to  hold  the  chickens  and  stroke  their  soft,  white  plumage. 
They  would  come  to  me  and  cluck  to  be  taken  up.  All  but  one. 
I  had  to  watch  out  for  a  big  rooster  who  would  stick  his  neck  out, 
ruffle  his  feathers,  spread  his  wings,  letting  the  tips  drag  on  the 
ground,  and  charge  me,  pecking  at  the  backs  of  my  legs  and  even 
jumping  up  to  peck  my  bottom! 

Now  these  weren't  just  any  old  chickens.  These  were 
prize  winning  birds.  Dad  had  raised  them  himself.  Most  of 
them  had  been  hatched  from  very  special  eggs  in  an  incubator 
in  our  basement.  When  the  time  came,  Mother  and  Father 
would  take  me  downstairs  so  that  I  could  watch  the  tiny  chicks 
peck  their  way  out  of  the  shell.  It  was  such  a  struggle  for  them! 
I  always  felt  that  I  wanted  to  help,  but  Dad  told  me  that  working 
to  get  out  of  the  shell  was  what  made  each  one  strong  enough  to 
survive  without  that  protective  covering. 

When  the  chicks  first  emerged,  they  were  wet  and 
bedraggled,  but  soon  they  dried  off  and  turned  into  charming, 
little,  yellow  balls  of  fluff.  I  was  always  allowed  to  very  gently 
hold  one  of  those  tender  bits  of  new  life  in  my  cupped  hands. 

Dad  watched  his  chickens  carefully  as  they  grew  from 
chicks  to  pullets  and  cockerels  and,  finally,  to  mature  hens  and 
roosters.  He  chose  the  most  perfect  birds  to  go  to  poultry  shows. 
I  remember  how  happy  he  was  when  his  entry  won  first  place  in 
its  class.  At  one  show,  his  rooster  won  best  of  the  show  and  Dad 
received  an  ornate  silver  loving  cup. 

One  morning  after  my  father  had  gone  to  work.  Mother 


39 


and  I  looked  out  the  window  and  saw  the  chickens  all  lying  on 
their  backs,  little  feet  straight  up  in  the  air,  yellow  bills  sagging 
open  to  show  a  sliver  of  pink  tongue.  Mother  rushed  to  the 
phone  to  tell  Dad  that  all  the  chickens  appeared  to  be  dead  or 
dying. 

Dad  hurried  home,  running  up  the  steep  17th  Street  hill. 
By  the  time  he  reached  the  house,  worried  and  out  of  breath,  the 
chickens  were  beginning  to  revive.  Combs  drooping,  they 
staggered  around  the  yard. 

Dad  investigated  and  found,  just  inside  the  fence,  what 
remained  of  a  pile  of  mash  thrown  there  by  our  new  neighbor 
who  had  been  making  whiskey. 

Apparently,  our  prized  flock  had  all  eaten  the  mash  and 
then,  like  the  inebriated  men  of  pre-Prohibition  days,  had 
passed  out. 

My  teetotaling  parents  were  the  owners  of  five  hundred 
drunk  chickens! 


ROUTE  67  BECOMES  A  HARD  ROAD 

Mary  I.  Brown 

During  the  1920s,  booze,  legal  or  otherwise,  was  a 
stranger  to  our  home,  and  it  was  years  later  before  women  in  our 
family  exercised  their  right  to  vote.  Thus,  neither  of  the 
constitutional  amendments  of  the  decade  touched  our  lives.  But 
I  will  tell  you  what  did-the  new  hard-surfaced  roads! 

Today's  population  has  no  idea  of  the  inconveniences 
endured  by  people  previous  to  the  coming  of  cars  and  hard 
roads.  I  have  a  vague  memory  of  the  old  putt-putt,  pop-pop 
steam  engine  and  grader  occasionally  used  to  make  roads  more 
passable.  Cars  were  not  many  on  the  roads  in  summer.  In 
winter  they  were  put  up  on  blocks  in  a  shed,  if  available.  People 


made  their  way  into  the  villages  on  foot  or  by  buggy  or  wagon, 
with  mud  sometimes  hub  or  axle  deep.  They  would  continue  by 
train  when  travel  was  necessary.  This  necessitated  overnight 
plans.  Sometimes  there  were  individuals  available,  who  hauled 
people  and  drayage  from  place  to  place  for  a  fee.  Updating  those 
services  must  have  been  the  stuff  dreams  were  made  of.  The 
coming  of  oil  and  gravel  on  secondary  roads  was  in  the  distant 
future. 

You  can  imagine  the  excitement  when  news  came  that 
plans  were  in  the  works  for  a  hard  road  through  our  area.  Len 
Small  was  responsible  for  the  building  of  more  hard-surfaced 
roads  in  Illinois  than  any  other  governor. 

Our  section  of  road  was  really  going  to  happen.  That 
became  the  topic  of  conversation  when  people  met.  We  lived 
north  of  Manchester,  just  off  the  existing  main  county  route. 
Designated  the  Mississippi  Valley  Highway,  it  wended  its  way 
from  Manchester,  in  eastern  Scott  County,  to  Murrayville,  the 
neighboring  village  in  southern  Morgan  County.  The  telephone 
poles  along  the  route  was  banded  in  color-white,  orange,  and 
green-with  M.V.H.  painted  (one  letter  on  each  band)  in  a 
slanting  pattern.  In  following  the  railroad,  as  was  planned,  the 
new  route-to-be  left  M.V.H.  and  would  intersect  it  at  several 
railroad  crossings  between  Manchester  and  Murrayville. 

In  due  time,  we  heard  of  engineers  and  surveyors  mov- 
ing into  both  villages.  One  such  person  was  M.  J.  Benscoter  who 
married  a  Murrayville  woman  and  remained  in  the  area,  to 
later  become  head  of  Morgan  County's  road  system. 

Road  workmen  secured  room  and  board  with  towns- 
people. I  recall  a  few  places  that  had  room  and  board  available 
to  the  public.  Individuals  having  space  were  happy  to  accommo- 
date ones  wanting  rooms. 

At  the  south  end  of  our  lane  was  where  the  hard  road 
would  come  out  of  Manchester  at  an  angle.  It  was  learned  there 
would  be  an  underpass  at  the  railroad  track.  A  local  man,  Carol 
Brown,  was  hired  to  do  work  there.  He  worked  with  a  team  of 


horses  and  a  hand-operated  scraper,  trying  to  eliminate  prob- 
lems where  an  old  spring  (water)  had  erupted.  Surveyors,  with 
their  equipment  in  hand,  continued  their  work  around  him. 

Just  up  the  track  was  where  the  country  neighborhood 
kids  crossed  on  their  way  to  school.  We  were  a  wide-eyed  bunch 
watching  the  interesting  processes  going  on,  on  "our  turf." 

Soon  we  began  to  see  large  earth-moving  caterpillar 
machines  making  their  cuts.  Where  needed,  the  crews  with 
dump  wagons  and  mules  made  fills  and  did  leveling.  When  up 
to  the  surveyor's  specifications  of  grade,  that  group  moved  on 
and  set  up  a  short  distance  away,  to  do  the  same  thing  at  that 
location. 

Form  setters  moved  in  next.  When  the  sections  of 
reinforcing  steel  mesh  were  being  put  in  place,  we  were  so 
fascinated  that  we  lingered  too  long  at  our  crossing  and  had  to 
run  to  avoid  being  tardy  at  school.  That  season  ever-muddy 
boots  and  splattered  coat-tails  were  with  us  when  it  rained. 

Model  T  dump  trucks  hauled  in  the  mixed  concrete  in 
small  batches.  Our  dad  told  us  that  it  was  loaded  from  a 
temporary  way-station  beside  the  railroad  tracks  on  down  the 
line. 

I  do  not  recall  the  actual  completion  of  our  section.  It 
must  have  come  after  the  closing  of  school  that  year. 

In  the  fall  when  school  opened,  the  pavement  was  there. 
Men  were  raking,  leveling,  and  seeding  the  shoulders.  One 
thing  which  is  still  done  today  was  the  straw  put  on  to  cover 
until  the  grass  grew. 

This  section  of  road  was  first  designated  Route  67 
(south).  Not  too  many  years  later  a  new  road  was  built  to  the 
east  of  Murrayville,  going  south.  It  became  new  67  (south)  and 
our  route  from  the  overpass  bridge  and  the  intersection  then 
became  267  (alternate). 

The  first  ride  I  took  on  our  new  good  road  was  destined 
to  be  in  a  procession  for  the  funeral  of  a  favorite  aunt,  Miss 


It  was  soon  to  be  the  road  I  traveled  each  day  while  I 
attended  Murrayville  High  School  for  four  years. 

We  later  believed  that  a  mistake  was  made  by  the  people 
who  maneuvered  the  hard  road  route  through  the  main  streets 
of  Manchester  and  Murrayville.  In  a  few  years,  many  cars 
appeared.  Travel  became  so  easy  and  common  that  people 
(being  as  we  are)  sped  right  on  through  to  the  neighboring  cities 
of  Jacksonville,  Springfield,  and  Alton,  to  the  south.  Our  local 
business  places  dwindled  and  only  a  few  have  survived. 


AUGUSTA'S  TURKEY  TROT 

Ralph  Eaton 

My  wife  says  that  "Turkey  Trot"  sounds  like  a  dance. 
Well,  figuratively,  the  people  of  Augusta  were  dancing  in  their 
street  that  day-dancing  on  brand  new  concrete  streets! 

But,  permit  me  to  back  up  just  a  bit,  to  explain  why  these 
people  were  so  jubilant.  I  can  recall,  for  instance,  that  the 
spring  of  1928  was  a  very  wet  one!  My  family,  consisting  of  my 
parents,  my  older  brother,  Wayne,  and  myself,  lived  approxi- 
mately four  miles  southeast  of  Augusta  on  what  was,  then,  the 
main  road  from  Augusta  to  Brooklyn.  It  was  also  known, 
earlier,  as  the  old  Waubonsie  Trail.  The  road  was  neither  paved 
nor  gravelled,  so  any  cars  that  ventured  over  it  in  the  spring 
quite  often  wound  up  stuck,  either  in  the  ditch,  or  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  It  was  not  at  all  uncommon  for  my  father  to 
hitch  up  his  team  of  horses  to  pull  some  brave  traveler  out  of  a 
mud  hole.  Wayne  was  in  the  sixth  grade  and  I  in  the  fourth 
during  that  muddy  spring  of  1928.  We  walked  a  mile  to  and 
from  Highland  School.  We  walked  the  fence  rows  as  much  as 
possible,  but  we  couldn't  avoid  the  sea  of  mud  altogether.  The 
mud  would  stick  to  our  overshoes  and  become  so  heavy  that  we 


could  hardly  lift  them!  More  than  once,  I've  had  mud  rub  from 
boot  to  pantleg  and  actually  work  its  way  on  the  inside  of  the 
pantlegs  all  the  way  up  to  the  crotch! 

One  evening  that  spring,  when  Wayne  and  I  got  home 
from  school,  our  folks  were  not  at  home.  Since  it  was  so  muddy, 
they  had  gone  to  Augusta  with  a  team  and  wagon  to  deliver 
cream  and  eggs  and  buy  groceries.  They  had  expected  to  be 
home  by  the  time  Wayne  and  I  arrived  home  from  school.  They 
rode  a  spring  seat  on  the  double  side  boarded  wagon.  Just  as 
they  reached  the  center  of  Augusta,  which  was  also  a  sea  of  mud, 
something  startled  the  horses!  They  bolted  suddenly.  My 
mother  was  thrown  back  into  the  wagon,  leaving  her  shoes  on 
the  footboard  on  the  front  of  the  wagon.  Dad  was  thrown  off  the 
wagon  into  the  mud  and  the  bolting  horses  pulled  the  rear  wheel 
of  the  wagon  right  over  his  body  at  the  rib  cage.  He  was  wearing 
a  suede  leather  jacket  and  I  can  still  vividly  see  that  two-inch- 
wide  track  of  the  wheel  across  the  back  of  his  jacket  when  they 
finally  arrived  home  after  dark  that  night!  Fortunately,  some 
kind  soul  caught  the  horses  and  no  one  was  injured  but  for  a  sore 
rib  cage  for  a  couple  of  days. 

Experiences  such  as  these  were  rather  commonplace 
before  the  days  of  paved  streets  and  hard  roads.  So,  when  the 
streets  of  Augusta  were  paved  for  the  first  time  between 
October  14th  and  the  first  week  of  November  of  1928,  the 
merchants  and  village  trustees  planned  a  gala  celebration. 

The  hard  road  west  of  Augusta,  from  West  Point  to 
Bowen  to  the  west  edge  of  Augusta,  was  all  poured  in  1927  by 
Peter  Simons  and  Sons  of  Quincy,  reaching  the  west  edge  on 
November  3,  1928.  The  CB&Q  viaduct  was  not  yet  completed. 
Details  had  to  be  worked  out.  B.  G.  Swanson,  the  mayor,  finally 
got  them  resolved  the  next  year  by  putting  up  some  of  his 
personal  funds.  Ironically,  Mayor  Swanson  was  to  be  struck 
and  killed  by  a  CB&Q  train  at  this  same  viaduct  crossing 
sometime  after  its  completion. 

I  attended  the  gala  celebration  which  was  held  on 


Saturday,  November  24, 1928,  known  as  the  Turkey  Trot.  The 
weather  was  bright  and  crisj>- a  beautiful  day  for  late  Novem- 
ber. Festivities  were  scheduled  from  11:00  a.m.  to  3:00  p.m. 
People  came  by  train  and  car  (the  roads  were  drier  then).  Cars 
were  not  permitted  to  park  in  the  immediate  business  district, 
but  they  seemed  to  be  everywhere  else  to  this  nine  year  old!  The 
crowd  was  estimated  at  between  2,500  to  3,000  people,  which 
must  have  included  just  about  everyone  in  the  town  of  just  over 
1,000  and  the  entire  rural  population  for  several  miles  around! 
It  had  been  announced  that  turkeys,  geese,  ducks,  guineas,  and 
chickens  would  be  donated  by  the  merchants.  Please  keep  in 
mind  here  that  November,  1928,  was  during  the  days  of  eco- 
nomic depression,  especially  for  farm  folks.  How  were  these 
fowl  distributed-by  drawing  a  number  or  a  lottery?  Not  at  all! 
They  were  tossed  from  the  tops  of  the  two  story  buildings  to  the 
excited  crowds  below! 

The  turkeys,  of  course,  were  the  choice  prizes-and  right 
at  Thanksgiving  time,  too.  There  were  three  turkeys  donated 
by  the  merchants  that  day.  The  first  was  to  be  tossed  from  the 
top  of  the  F.  M.  King  &  Sons  Department  Store  at  the  west  end 
of  the  pavement.  This  store  is  now  known  to  Augusta's  present 
residents  as  the  Red  Fox  Grocery.  Down  came  turkey  number 
one  into  a  frenzied  crowd  to  a  terrible  fate.  Credited  with  the 
win  was  Kenneth  "Joe"  Lord  who  was  then,  I  believe,  a  husky 
high  school  youth.  But  Joe  didn't  win  without  a  scrap!  Young 
boys  piled  on  that  poor  turkey  as  football  players  after  a  pigskin! 
The  turkey  didn't  last  long!  What  Joe  really  came  out  vrith  was 
a  dead  turkey  minus  two  drumsticks  and  a  wing!  It  wasn't  a 
pretty  sight! 

A  few  other  fowl  were  tossed  from  various  buildings  with 
less  severe  results.  Then,  the  second  turkey  was  to  be  released- 
this  one  from  near  Pitney's  store  (now  Pitney  Park)  on  Center 
Street.  But,  some  rules  were  laid  down  this  time-this  was  to  be 
a  "Mother's  Turkey."  Only  ladies  were  permitted  to  gather 
beneath  the  spot  of  release.    And,  it  went  as  intended.    This 


42 


turkey  was  caught  by  Mrs.  Lloyd  (Goldie)  Belden  of  the  Pulaski 
area.  Her  son,  Harold,  who  still  farms  in  the  Augusta  area,  was 
a  very  small  boy  then.  Some  other  fowl  were  released  from  that 
same  location.  Pekinese  ducks  can't  fly  very  well,  but  I  remem- 
ber one  flying  clear  across  the  street  trying  to  avoid  the  out- 
stretched hands  beneath,  but  he  never  reached  the  ground! 

The  third,  and  last,  turkey  of  the  day  was  released,  as  I 
recall,  from  above  B.  B.  Grain's  clothing  store.  This  stood 
approximately  where  the  State  Bank  of  Augusta  is  today.  This 
poor  bird  met  the  same  general  fate  that  the  first  turkey  had. 
The  Augusta  Eagle  identified  the  winner  as  "a  big  man-out  of 
town."  I'm  afraid  that,  in  fact,  there  were  several  "winners." 

In  all,  there  were  three  turkeys,  eighteen  ducks,  eleven 
guineas,  five  roosters,  and  several  hens  released  from  building 
tops  that  day.  I  remember  one  Rhode  Island  Red  hen  that  really 
entertained  the  crowd.  She  was  released  from  over  Weinberg's 
Hardware.  She  was  tossed  out,  but  alighted  on  one  of  the  CIPS 
highline  wires  (they  are  still  there).  She  was,  perhaps,  fifteen 
feet  out  from  the  top  of  the  building.  So,  someone  got  a  long  pole 
and,  very  carefully,  poked  her  back  side  which  they  could  just 
barely  reach.  But  she  wasn't  about  to  come  down  into  that  mob 
of  humanity!  She  clung  to  that  wire  and  swung  with  it,  bobbing 
her  head  up  and  down  to  maintain  her  balance.  She  entertained 
the  crowd  for  probably  fifteen  minutes  and  many  of  us  were 
hoping  that,  somehow,  the  chicken  would  win,  for  we  would 
cheer  her  each  time  she  was  pushed  for  a  wire  swinging  ride. 
But,  finally,  as  she  swung  toward  the  building,  a  poke  from  the 
pole  dislodged  her,  and  she  flew  into  the  waiting  grasp  of 
someone  below. 

The  finale  of  the  festivities  was  the  "greased  pig  contest." 
For  this  event,  a  large  human  circle  was  formed  approximately 
the  width  of  the  street,  just  east  of  the  intersection.  Contestants 
were  to  weigh  a  certain  amount-as  I  recall,  around  250  pounds 
or  more.  The  idea  was  that  it  was  really  supposed  to  be  for  fat 
men.  A  ninety-pound  shoat  was  thoroughly  greased-I  thought. 


then,  with  axle  grease,  but  it  may  have  been  lard-and  released 
into  that  circle.  Whoever  caught  the  pig  got  to  keep  it.  It  didn't 
last  long.  Some  tall,  raw  boned  man,  who  probably  did  meet  the 
weight  requirements,  captured  the  pig  without  difficulty.  I 
never  did  think  that  was  fair-I  wanted  to  see  some  of  those  fat 
fellows  (yes,  I  could  name  some  of  them,  but  won't)  wrestle  with 
that  pig! 

So,  the  festivities  ended,  and  a  new  era  had  begun!  The 
next  summer,  grading  and  paving  east  of  Augusta,  on  Route 
101,  began.  The  hard  road  didn't  go  past  our  place,  but 
hundreds  of  dump  trucks  did,  hauling  sand,  gravel,  and  cement 
to  the  mixer.  Dust  got  six  inches  deep  on  that  dirt  road!  Pouring 
of  concrete  started  at  the  county  line  two  miles  east  of  Augusta 
on  September  3,  1929,  and  went  west  to  Augusta.  The  tenth 
annual  Livestock  Show  was  held  that  year  on  September  11,12, 
and  13th.  I  rode  in  our  touring  car  with  my  mother  on 
September  11th  over  that  new  hard  road  from  which  the 
protective  straw  had  just  been  removed.  What  an  exhilirating 
experience! 

Never  again  could  such  an  event  as  Augusta's  Turkey 
Trot  take  place.  Nor  should  it!  In  this  day  and  age,  the  Society 
for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  would  have  a  field  day 
in  chastising  those  noble  merchants  and  city  fathers  who  were 
so  delighted  to  finally  see  progress  in  their  little  town  that  they 
wanted  to  celebrate.  They  saw  it  as  the  dawning  of  a  day  when 
the  growth  of  their  community  was  assured.  What  a  sad  turn 
of  events  it  has  been  that  the  very  thing  that  they  celebrated 
would  facilitate  the  movement  of  people /row  the  community, 
rather  than  into  it! 


43 


MY  AIRPLANE  RIDES  IN  THE  1920s 

Burdette  Graham 

One  nice  sunny  day  in  1927  we  saw  a  biplane  land  in  our 
pasture,  which  at  that  time  was  almost  one  half  mile  long.  The 
cows  were  off  to  one  side,  and  the  pilot  had  to  land  as  he  was 
almost  out  of  gas.  Of  course,  me  being  just  one  year  out  of  high 
school,  and  my  eight  brothers  and  sisters  were  all  younger  then 
I,  we  all  rushed  to  the  plane  to  find  out  the  trouble. 

We  brought  him  to  our  gas  tank  and  he  took  two  five- 
gallon  cans  to  the  plane.  I  don't  remember  whether  he  paid  for 
the  gas  or  not,  but  he  offered  to  take  me  for  a  ride,  which  I  gladly 
accepted.  He  took  off  and  fiew  around  over  the  farm  a  few  times, 
then  landed.  While  going  along  on  the  ground  the  prop  picked 
up  a  piece  of  old  fence  wire  and  threw  it  into  the  wing.  Only  a 
small  hole  in  the  wing,  and  this  did  not  seem  to  worry  the  pilot 
at  all.  Where  the  wire  had  hit  the  prop,  a  small  notch  about  one 
inch  long  and  one  quarter  deep  and  about  six  inches  from  the 
end  of  the  prop  was  discovered.  The  pilot  thought  it  might 
unbalance  the  prop,  but  he  started  it  up  and  there  seemed  to  be 
only  a  slight  vibration-at  least  that  was  his  comment. 

He  took  off  and  headed  for  Havana.  In  the  news  the  next 
day  we  heard  that  a  plane  had  made  a  forced  landing  near 
Havana  because  part  of  his  prop  had  fallen  off.  We  never  heard 
anything  more  of  this  plane,  but  I  was  glad  I  took  my  ride  before 
he  hit  the  wire. 

Soon  after  this  time  my  neighbor,  Glenn  Sayers,  and  a 
friend  of  his  had  a  plane  and  were  flying  all  over.  Something 
happened  to  destroy  this  plane,  either  a  crash  landing  or  a  wind 
storm.  In  order  to  rebuild  it,  they  wanted  me  to  join  them  as  a 
partner  to  furnish  the  cash  for  repairs.  For  this  they  would 
teach  me  to  fly.  My  main  source  of  money  was  from  my  dad,  for 
work  I  did  on  the  farm.  He  thought  it  a  bad  idea,  so  I  never 
learned  to  be  a  pilot. 

I  did  fly  a  few  times  with  Roy  Pearce,  Macomb's  pioneer 


aviator.  He  had  his  plane  on  his  farm  northeast  of  town,  and  he 
also  flew  from  the  airport  just  south  of  the  turn  toward  Indus- 
try. I  flew  alone  with  him  two  times  and  had  nice  rides  around 
the  Macomb  area.  One  Sunday  afternoon.  Scratch  Trotter  went 
with  me  for  a  ride  with  Roy  Pearce.  For  some  reason,  Roy 
decided  to  show  us  how  a  plane  could  roll  over  and  make  a  loop, 
dive  a  ways  and  then  level  out.  He  did  a  few  of  these  stunts  and 
then  landed.  When  we  got  out  of  the  plane,  I  was  glad  to  be  on 
the  ground.  Scratch  looked  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  he  could  not 
walk  without  help.  He  was  so  sick  that  he  could  not  eat  the  rest 
of  the  day-and  maybe  the  next. 

That  was  my  last  airplane  ride.  After  the  stunt  flying 
which  made  Scratch  sick,  I  just  did  not  care  to  fly  anymore. 

Two  years  later,  Roy  Pearce  also  had  his  last  plane  ride. 
While  taking  off  from  that  same  field,  he  hit  some  trees  and  was 
killed. 

Now  that  I  look  back  on  them,  I  realize  that  my  early 
experiences  reveal  how  dangerous  flying  was  in  the  Roaring 
Twenties.  Perhaps  that's  why  Lindbergh  seemed  like  such  a 
hero. 


ROARING  SOFTLY:    THE  TWENTIES  IN  LEBANON 

Grace  R.  Welch 

In  my  town,  the  Twenties  didn't  roar;  they  whimpered, 
and  we  scarcely  noticed.  Lebanon  was  then  and  still  is  a 
community  of  less  than  3,000  people,  harboring  a  small  college, 
McKendree.  We  read  about  bathtub  gin  and  gang  warfare,  but 
most  of  us  went  quietly  about  our  own  business.  Mine  in  those 
days  was  growing  up  and  getting  an  education. 

By  1920,  my  father  was  ready  to  make  a  move  from  the 
busy  mining  town  where  he  had  started  his  medical  practice  in 


1908  to  his  old  hometown  where  he  could  give  me  the  advan- 
tages of  an  agricultural  community  and  a  good  small  college. 
One  of  my  grandmothers  had  worried  about  the  foreign  element 
in  Benld,  but  while  we  were  there  none  of  us  had  seen  any 
violence  or  kidnapping. 

As  the  new  decade  rolled  in,  then,  I  found  myself  in  the 
seventh  grade  in  a  new  town  where  I  knew  only  one  girl  who 
lived  behind  my  grandmother's  house .  As  we  played  together  at 
recess  in  the  seventh  and  eighth  grades,  I  found  a  best  friend 
who  lived  across  the  street  from  me,  and,  scattered  through 
three  grades,  six  more  friends  who  would  last  a  lifetime. 

As  we  moved  into  high  school,  the  boys  began  to  appear 
at  our  frequent  Saturday  meetings  at  someone's  home.  No 
agenda  was  ever  planned;  we  simply  enjoyed  being  together.  It 
was  not  unusual  for  a  parent  or  two  to  arrive  for  a  straggler,  but 
many  times  we  walked  home  in  pairs  with  no  fear  of  being  on 
streets  alone  after  dark. 

Music  was  an  important  part  of  those  days.  Most  of  my 
friends  sang,  and  sometimes  I  accompanied  them  on  the  piano. 
Often  our  Saturday  evenings  ended  with  a  sing-a-long,  indoors 
around  the  piano  or  outside  in  lawn  chairs  or  swing.  Irving 
Berlin's  tunes  were  favorites,  but  we  sang  "Three  O'Clock  in  the 
Morning"  or  "After  I  say  I'm  Sorry"  or  "I  Wonder  What's  Become 
of  Sally?"  with  equal  abandon.  We  also  knew  many  of  the  show 
tunes  from  the  musicals  we  occasionally  saw  at  the  Municipal 
Opera  in  St.  Louis,  like  "Desert  Song." 

McKendree  College  had  an  Interscholastic  Day  every 
spring,  a  Saturday  when  athletes  and  "intellectuals"  from  area 
high  schools  competed.  Solos,  quartets,  and  declamations  made 
up  the  literary  events,  with  eliminations  in  the  morning  and  a 
program  at  night  featuring  the  top  three  in  each  category. 
"Asleep  in  the  Deep"  was  often  a  winner  for  an  aspiring  basso 
who  could  show  off  his  low  notes.  Carrie  Jacobs  Bond's  senti- 
mental songs  appealed  to  the  girls,  and  Poe's  "Telltale  Heart" 
always  appeared  among  the  declamations. 


Clothes  and  hair  in  that  period  were  often  a  reflection  of 
the  fads  and  fashions  of  the  day.  After  all,  we  were  only  twenty- 
five  miles  from  St.  Louis  where  many  of  us  shopped  regularly, 
making  the  trip  by  street  car.  Alas,  our  tendency  to  shop  in  the 
same  stores  resulted  once  in  three  party  dresses  alike.  My  best 
friend  and  I  had  each  shopped  with  her  mother,  but  we  came 
home  one  day  with  identical  taffeta  dresses,  except  that  hers 
was  yellow  and  mine  was  peach.  Since  we  liked  each  other,  it 
didn't  matter.  We  had  a  shock,  though,  when  another  classmate 
turned  up  with  the  same  "robe-de-style"  in  white  for  gradua- 
tion. 

Hem  lines  were  going  up  and  down  during  our  high 
school  days.  Once  when  very  long  skirts  were  stylish.  Mother 
bought  me  a  coat  which  reached  to  my  ankles.  Before  she  got 
around  to  shortening  it,  I  managed  to  slip  out  to  a  basketball 
game  before  she  saw  me.  She  saw  me  come  in,  though,  and  the 
next  day  she  cut  off  the  extra  length. 

Long  hair,  in  my  case  two  long  braids  which  I  sometimes 
wound  around  my  head,  was  cut  by  the  local  barber  when  bobs 
became  the  fad.  He  was  a  very  slow,  very  gentle  old  man  who 
moved  with  exasperating  precision.  When  he  ran  the  clippers 
down  the  back  of  my  neck,  I  felt  sure  he  was  going  right  on  down 
my  spine.  I  didn't  have  a  permanent  until  I  finished  college,  but 
many  of  the  college  girls  did.  One  whose  hair  was  so  bushy  and 
thick  that  no  one  wanted  to  sit  behind  her  at  the  movies  had  to 
put  up  with  boys  throwing  chewing  gum  into  her  curly  coiffure. 

The  negroes,  as  we  called  them  then,  were  old  familiar 
families  whose  children  went  to  the  same  school  we  did.  But  at 
the  movies,  they  had  to  sit  in  a  special  section,  down  front  and 
on  one  side  only.  None  ever  appeared  in  the  downtown  ice  cream 
parlor  or  drug  store. 

We  knew  of  a  schoolmate's  older  sister  who  came  back 
home  with  a  baby  and  no  husband,  and  was  promptly  thrown 
out  by  her  prim  and  proper  parents.  We  heard,  too,  of  people 
who  drank  too  much,  in  spite  of  Prohibition,  but  we  were 


45 


untouched  by  all  of  that.  We  didn't  even  dance,  although  there 
was  a  dance-hall  in  town.  Our  junior  and  senior  proms  were 
banquets  served  by  the  Home  Economics  class.  A  few  of  the  boys 
smoked,  but  we  girls  frowned  on  that.  I  must  admit,  though, 
that  a  few  of  us  tried  smoking  Cuban,  medicated  cigarettes,  in 
the  dark  one  night  when  we  were  ice-skating.  And  there  was  a 
time  or  two  when  a  boy  broke  into  the  Home  Ec.  Lab  when  we 
were  practicing  a  play  to  sample  the  vanilla. 

My  best  friend  and  I  made  fudge  after  school  at  least 
once  a  week,  never  worrying  about  the  calories.  My  home 
project  for  cooking  class  was  making  desserts.  Our  hired  girl 
and  my  mother  stood  around  wringing  their  hands  because  I 
wouldn't  let  them  help,  but  I  turned  out  Brown  Betty  and  baked 
custard  and  fresh  oranges  with  coconut-which  we  ate. 

None  of  our  crowd  was  overweight,  perhaps  because  we 
walked  everywhere.  Although  the  school  was  eight  or  nine 
blocks  away,  we  always  came  home  for  lunch,  and  sometimes 


went  back  in  the  evening  for  games  or  practice.  One  Halloween 
I  walked  to  a  party  in  the  gymnasium,  alone,  because  I  didn't 
want  anyone  to  see  my  costume.  My  dad  had  helped  me  design 
a  pumpkin  to  wear-cloth  spread  over  a  wire  frame  which  ended 
at  my  knees.  The  wire  around  my  knees  hampered  walking 
more  than  I  anticipated,  but  I  couldn't  have  sat  in  a  car  even  if 
one  had  been  available.  My  dad  always  had  evening  office 
hours,  and  my  mother  didn't  drive. 

We  accepted  all  the  events  and  inventions  of  that  period 
as  normal,  only  mildly  exciting.  I  remember  watching  the 
course  of  Lindbergh's  flight  across  the  ocean  in  a  St.  Louis 
department  store  window,  and  sometimes  we  saw  movies  in  one 
of  the  lavish  palace-like  houses  in  the  city-Loew's  State  or  the 
Ambassador-hummed  Gershwin  tunes,  or  listened  to  far-away 
programs  on  the  radio.  But  in  those  growing-up  years  such 
things  were  no  more  exciting  than  our  own  basketball  games, 
the  Junior-Senior  Banquet,  and  graduation. 


Ill  ^ooks  and  Reading 


BOOKS  AND  READING 

Reading  is  no  longer  highly  valued  by  the  young.  Tele- 
vision (including  VCR  movies)  is  more  exciting  than  books,  and 
most  children,  sooner  or  later,  have  almost  unlimited  access  to 
it.  No  wonder  teachers  today  lament  the  decline  of  avid  book 
readers  and  the  unwillingness  of  most  students  to  do  their 
reading  assignments. 

This  situation  is  very  unfortunate.  Watching  TV  is  a 
passive  activity.  It  does  not  require  the  mental  engagement- 
the  concentration,  imagination,  and  applied  intelligence-that 
reading  does.  And  even  with  a  satellite  hookup  that  pulls  in  one 
hundred  channels,  TV  offers  only  a  small  fraction  of  what  is 
available  in  books.  Much  of  what  the  world  can  teach  can  never 
be  learned  by  the  non-literate-those  who  refuse  to  read. 

Decades  ago  things  were  different.  Reading  offered  a 
world  of  wonder  and  entertainment  to  the  young,  whose  lives 
were  otherwise  limited  to  encounters  with  familiar  people  in 
well-known  places.  So,  many  children  fed  their  curiosity, 
opened  their  minds,  and  increased  their  sensitivity  to  others 
through  books.  Thinking  of  them,  one  is  reminded  of  the  fine 
short  poem  by  Emily  Dickinson  that  conveys  the  spiritual 
impact  of  reading: 

He  ate  and  drank  the  precious  words, 

His  spirit  grew  robust; 
He  knew  no  more  that  he  was  poor. 

Nor  that  his  frame  was  dust. 

He  danced  along  the  dingy  ways, 
And  his  bequest  of  wings 

Was  but  a  book.  What  liberty 
A  loosened  spirit  brings! 


The  memoirs  by  Alice  Krauser,  Nelle  Shadwell,  and 
Ruth  Gash  Taylor  attest  to  the  important  influence  that  books 
can  have  on  someone's  life.  All  three  of  them  have  traveled  far 
in  the  pages  of  books,  and  they  also  view  reading  as  an  impor- 
tant thread  of  continuity  that  connects  their  childhood  with 
their  later  years. 

The  various  pleasures  of  reading  are  presented  in  sev- 
eral of  these  memoirs.  For  example,  Wilmogene  Stanfield  loved 
fiction — even  more  than  movies-because,  as  she  says,  "as  I 
read,  I  was  living  every  movement  and  thought  with  every 
character."  For  her,  the  magic  of  empathetic  identification  with 
others  made  reading  endlessly  fascinating.  In  contrast,  Audrey 
Bohannon  has  always  liked  "a  well-spun  tale,"  although  much 
of  her  reading  has  also  been  a  quest  for  knowledge.  Clarice 
Stafford  Harris  has  enjoyed  "the  enchanted  world"  of  books 
since  the  third  grade,  and  she  also  reminds  us  that  where  you 
read  can  be  a  memorable  part  of  your  reading  experience. 

Other  kinds  of  reading  also  had  a  big  impact  on  young- 
sters years  ago.  One  of  the  memoirs  is  devoted  to  pulp  maga- 
zines, those  now-vanished  purveyors  of  exotic  adventure.  Rich- 
ard Thorn  recalls  the  role  they  played  in  his  development  as  a 
reader.  Likewise,  Phyllis  T.  Fenton  remembers  the  Sunday 
comics,  which  are  still  around  but  do  not  fascinate  today's 
youngsters  as  much  as  today's  adults  who  have  read  them  since 
they  were  young. 

Perhaps  the  richest  evocation  of  the  world  of  reading 
decades  ago  is  Marie  Freesmeyer's  account  of  the  books,  maga- 
zines, and  newspapers  that  filled  her  life  as  a  child.  And  she  also 
recalls  a  once-common  activity  that  perhaps  did  more  than 
anything  else  to  stimulate  an  interest  in  books-reading  aloud. 
That  was  also  an  important  kind  of  shared  experience  for  her 
family,  as  it  was  for  many  others. 

But  the  most  touching  memoir  in  this  section  is  surely 
Stella  Hutchings'  account  of  a  man  who  was  denied  access  to  the 
fascinating  world  that  the  authors  here  have  so  enjoyed.  Her 


father,  Frank  Howard,  was  uneducated  and  illiterate,  but  he 
raised  a  family  that  not  only  received  diplomas  but  knew  the 
importance  of  reading  and  learning.  That  is  more  than  many 
literate  parents  in  our  own  time  have  managed  to  accomplish. 

John  E.  Hallwas 


BOOKS!  THEY'VE  ENHANCED  MY  LIFE 

Alice  Krauser 

I  don't  know  when  I  learned  to  read,  but  I  know  it  was 
before  I  started  to  school.  In  my  early  memories  reading  was 
something  one  did  like  eating  and  sleeping,  and  I  have  no 
recollection  of  anyone  teaching  me  how  to  do  it. 

There  were  always  books  in  our  home,  and  I  often  saw 
my  father  with  a  book  in  his  hand  in  the  evenings  when  farm 
work  was  done  or  on  Sundays  or  during  stormy  weather  when 
outdoor  work  was  impossible. 

When  I  started  to  school  at  Hickory  Grove,  northwest  of 
Macomb,  I  remember  we  were  taught  the  sounds  of  the  letters, 
and  this  was  called p/zon(cs.  It  seemed  so  unnecessary  to  learn 
the  sounds  for  I  already  knew  the  words,  but  I  went  along  with 
the  idea  because  I  loved  the  first  grade  teacher,  Beulah  Graves, 
a  beautiful,  gracious  woman. 

When  I  was  in  the  lower  grades,  sometimes  I  wanted  to 
read  books  that  had  bigger  words  and  nicer  pictures  than  my 
little  books,  so  when  I  could  manage  to  get  an  upper  grade  book, 
I  would  read  it,  and  if  someone  seemed  to  be  watching  me,  I 
would  pretend  I  was  only  looking  at  the  pictures.  I  was  afraid 
the  "big  kids"  might  laugh  at  me  for  thinking  I  could  read  their 
books.  The  library  at  Hickory  Grove  was  a  bookcase,  and 
through  the  grade  school  years,  I  read  all  the  books  in  it  even 
though  I  didn't  always  understand  what  I  was  reading. 

I  went  to  high  school  at  St.  Mary  Academy,  a  girls' 
boarding  school  at  Nauvoo.  I  remember  one  of  the  incentives  to 
work  hard  was  that  if  one's  grades  were  high  enough  one  didn't 
have  to  take  the  semester  exams  and  could  go  to  the  library.  It 
was  wonderful  to  be  able  to  read  anything  I  wished  for  hours  at 
a  time. 

My  early  interest  in  reading  led  to  a  lifetime  of  wonder- 
ful experiences  with  books.  Some  of  them  I  shall  never  forget. 
History  did  not  seem  interesting  to  me  until  I  read  The  Tree  of 


Liberty  by  Elizabeth  Page.  This  novel  of  colonial  times  gave  me 
such  a  vivid  picture  of  the  problems  and  turmoil  of  that  era  that 
I  still  think  of  that  story  when  I  see  countries  of  the  Third  World 
struggling  to  govern  themselves.  The  Journals  of  the  Lewis  and 
Clark  Expedition  also  fascinated  me.  In  my  mind,  I  went  along 
on  that  marvelous  expedition,  seeing  our  country  before  it  was 
settled. 

I  gained  an  understanding  of  the  Indian  viewpoint  in 
conflicts  with  the  white  men  and  an  appreciation  of  the  charac- 
ter of  their  leaders  from  a  book,  Bury  My  Heart  at  Wounded 
Knee  by  Dee  Brown.  When  I  read  Wallace  Stegner's  books,  The 
Angle  of  Repose,  The  Spectator  Bird,  and  Crossing  to  Safety,  I 
lived  the  excitement,  joys,  frustrations,  and  heartbreaks  of  his 
grandparents  and  gained  an  appreciation  of  what  it  had  meant 
to  be  part  of  the  development  of  the  West. 

Scientific  research  sounded  important  but  dull  to  me 
until  I  came  across  Curious  Naturalists  by  Niko  Tinbergen. 
Reading  it  allowed  me  to  share  the  difficult,  painstaking,  yet 
thrilling  experiences  of  scientists  as  they  added  to  the  world's 
knowledge.  The  books  by  Thor  Heyerdahl,  Kon-Tiki,  Fatu- 
Hiva,  The  Ra  Expeditions,  opened  to  me  the  world  of  the  oceans- 
with  their  myriad  forms  of  life-through  the  descriptions  of  his 
voyages,  which  sought  to  establish  how  the  earliest  people  of  the 
Old  World  came  to  the  Americas.  While  reading  Richard  E. 
Byrd's  book.  Alone,  I  realized  the  courage  needed  to  overcome 
the  risks  and  difficulties  of  exploration  as  he  added  to  the 
world's  knowledge  in  describing  the  winter  he  spent  alone  in 
Antarctica. 

Insight  into  the  dark  side  of  life  came  to  me  when  I  read 
Darkness  at  Noon  by  Arthur  Koestler.  This  book  made  me 
aware  of  the  horrors  of  imprisonment  and  the  strength  of  the 
human  spirit. 

One  summer  I  went  to  Panama  on  a  "banana"  boat  to 
visit  friends  living  in  the  Canal  Zone.  This  trip  opened  a  new 
world  to  me,  but  I  felt  I  had  had  only  a  glimpse  of  it.   When  I 


returned,  I  read  all  the  books  our  public  library  had  on  that 
area.  Panama  by  David  Howarth  gave  me  the  story  of  the 
Spanish  and  their  lust  for  the  riches  of  the  New  World.  This 
book  put  life  into  the  small  remaining  part  of  the  Spanish  Trail, 
which  I  had  seen.  This  trail  across  the  isthmus  had  been  used 
to  transfer  by  muleback  the  pearls  of  the  South  Sea  Islands  and 
the  treasures  of  the  Incas  to  the  Spanish  galleons  which  waited 
on  the  Atlantic  side.  The  Path  Between  the  Seas,  an  account  of 
the  creation  of  the  Panama  Canal  by  David  McCullough,  made 
my  trip  through  the  canal  an  even  more  exciting  experience 
than  it  already  was.  All  of  this  has  given  me  an  interest  in  and 
a  sympathy  for  the  people  of  Central  and  South  America  as  they 
struggle  with  the  problems  that  plague  them. 

In  much  the  same  way,  after  a  trip  to  Africa,  I  turned  to 
books  in  order  to  travel  once  more  that  interesting  continent, 
which  I  would,  most  likely,  never  again  have  a  chance  to  visit. 
Out  of  Africa,  by  Isak  Dinesen,  and  a  more  recent  book,  Shamba 
Letu,  by  Kate  Wenner,  gave  me  an  understanding  of  the  indig- 
enous people  that  I  had  seen  on  my  trip  but  had  had  no 
opportunity  to  mingle  with.  Joy  Adamson's  book.  Born  Free, 
and  the  books  that  followed  it  gave  me  an  understanding  of  the 
way  of  life  of  lions.  I  could  imagine  that  the  pride  of  lions  we  saw 
one  day  near  the  road,  resting  and  ignoring  our  van,  could  have 
been  descendants  of  Elsa.  And  the  elephants-I  again  experi- 
enced the  thrill  of  seeing  them  when  I  read  Among  the  El- 
ephants by  Ian  and  Orea  Douglas-Hamilton. 

My  interest  in  and  knowledge  of  the  outdoors  and  my 
desire  to  experience  it  firsthand  have  been  enhanced  perhaps 
more  by  the  books  of  Virginia  Eifert  than  by  any  others.  Her 
Journeys  in  Green  Places,  which  I  have  read  and  reread,  always 
leaves  me  enchanted  with  the  natural  world  as  she  describes  its 
changing  aspects,  its  beautiful  wildflowers,  and  its  minute 
insect  and  plant  life. 

Birds  are  my  special  interest,  and  I  have  enjoyed  many 
books  about  them.  Sandhill  cranes  will  always  be  special  to  me 


after  reading  So^c/y  by  Dayton  0.  Hyde.  He  tells  of  a  crane  that 
lived  on  his  farm  and  thought  she  was  a  member  of  his  family. 
And  I  realized  that  one  can  see  and  enjoy  birds  almost  anywhere 
when  I  read  Birding  From  A  Tractor  Seat  by  Charles  Flugum. 
Through  the  years,  books  have  brought  me  pleasure, 
relaxation,  inspiration,  and  knowledge.  They  have  enhanced 
my  life. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  REALMS  OF  GOLD 

Nelle  E.  Shadwell 

Books  were  not  plentiful  in  the  small  village  of 
Funkhouser,  Illinois,  during  my  school  years.  From  1924 
through  1931,  our  school  library  consisted  of  perhaps  sixty  or 
seventy  books,  which  I  read  over  and  over.  My  developing  love 
of  reading  caused  me  some  problems,  however. 

I  remember  particularly  a  bright  spring  day  during  fifth 
or  sixth  grade.  I  had  finished  my  lessons  and  asked  permission 
to  read  a  library  book  until  time  for  spelling  class  to  begin.  I 
chose  a  book  called  Arlo,  A  Little  Swiss  Boy.  I  was  deeply 
engrossed  in  Arlo's  adventures  when  I  became  conscious  of 
laughter  from  my  classmates.  I  looked  up  to  see  everyone 
looking  at  me.  The  teacher  was  giving  us  our  spelling  words.  I 
slammed  the  book  and  grabbed  my  paper  to  write  my  words,  but 
the  teacher  had  no  compassion  for  an  avid  reader.  "No,  Nelle," 
she  said  firmly.  "You  go  on  and  read  your  book.  You  can  take 
a  zero  for  today's  lesson."  My  heart  was  broken,  since  I  always 
made  a  hundred  in  spelling. 

That  wasn't  the  only  time  I  got  in  trouble  over  my 
intense  love  of  books.  I  had  checked  out  Charles  Dickens' Z)ai;icf 
Copperfield  on  one  occasion.  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  it.  When  I 
returned  it,  a  classmate  was  standing  by  the  teacher's  desk  and 


asked  if  it  was  a  good  book.  I  heartily  recommended  it,  so  she 
asked  the  teacher  if  she  could  check  it  out  next.  The  teacher  said 
she  could  and  my  classmate  walked  off  with  the  book.  Two 
weeks  later,  the  teacher  came  to  me  and  said,  "Nelle,  you  have 
David  Copperfield  out  and  it  is  overdue."  I  said,  "Oh,  no.  Ellen 
checked  it  out  the  day  I  brought  it  back."  The  teacher  said,  "Did 
you,  Ellen?"  To  my  surprise,  my  friend  replied,  "No,  I  didn't." 
The  teacher  told  me  I  would  either  produce  the  book  or  I  would 
pay  for  it. 

My  mother,  Amanda  Stewart,  was  not  one  to  be  pushed 
around.  When  I  told  her  what  the  teacher  said,  she  responded, 
"I  am  not  paying  for  the  book  and  that's  that!  "  For  a  couple  of 
weeks,  I  had  a  rough  time  at  school.  I  was  miserable.  Then  one 
day,  to  my  surprise,  Ellen  walked  in  with  the  book.  "My  mother 
had  laid  this  up  on  top  of  a  cabinet  so  my  little  brother  couldn't 
reach  it,"  she  explained.  "We  just  found  it  last  night."  I  never 
heard  a  word  of  apology  from  the  teacher  for  the  grief  she  caused 
me  over  her  own  poor  record-keeping. 

The  final  and  most  devastating  experience  with  this 
teacher  came  when  my  classmates  and  I  were  helping  to  clean 
the  book  cabinet.  We  were  all  discussing  good  books.  I  said, 
"Some  day  I  want  to  have  a  library  in  my  home."  The  teacher 
broke  out  in  laughter.  "Yow  with  a  library?"  I  was  crushed. 

This  incident  formed  a  permanent  scar.  Many  years 
later,  after  I  was  married  and  had  a  family,  I  saw  this  woman 
in  a  store  in  nearby  Effingham  and  could  not  resist  the  desire  for 
revenge  for  my  childhood  pain.  I  walked  up  to  her  and  identified 
myself.  "Do  you  remember  once  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  have 
a  library  in  my  home  and  you  laughed  at  me?"  She  replied  that 
she  did  remember  the  incident.  I  said,  "Well,  I  now  have  over 
a  thousand  books."  I  walked  away  feeling  very  proud  of  myself 
for  my  determination  and  for  confronting  this  demon  from  my 
past. 

The  encounter  was  many  years  ago.  I  now  have  over  two 
thousand  books  and  I  can  see  things  more  clearly  in  retrospect. 


What  I  should  have  done  is  to  thank  her,  for  without  her 
opposition  and  scorn,  my  determination  to  keep  reading  good 
books  and  to  collect  them  in  my  home  might  not  have  happened. 

My  love  of  books  has  extended  to  my  four  daughters. 
One  of  them  wrote  a  story  once,  in  which  she  said,  "My  mother 
always  read  us  good  books.  I  think  she  used  to  diaper  us  with 
one  hand  and  hold  David  Copperfield  in  the  other."  Yes,  I  read 
David  Copperfield  to  them-unabridged!  I  even  read  the  Bible 
(King  James  version!)  to  them  in  its  entirety.  I  wondered,  as  I 
read,  why  didn't  I  remember,  "Do  unto  others  as  you  would  have 
them  do  unto  you?"  instead  of  seeking  revenge? 

In  his  poem,  "On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer," 
John  Keats  said,  "Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
/  And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen."  In  a  lifetime  of 
reading  poetry,  classic  novels,  biographies,  and  travel  books,  I 
can  truly  say  with  him,  "Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of 
gold."  But  it  all  started  with  a  small  girl  who  loved  to  read  in  the 
one-room  Funkhouser  schoolhouse  many  years  ago. 


I  NEVER  MET  A  BOOK  I  DIDN'T  LIKE 

Ruth  Gash  Taylor 

As  soon  as  I  knew  what  words  were,  I  was  a  reader.  My 
first  book  was  Four  Little  Cottontails  at  Play  by  Laura  Rountree 
Smith.  It  had  a  bright  orange  oilcloth  cover  with  a  dark  green 
border  and  red  lettering.  All  these  years  later  I  remember  the 
bad  little  rabbit,  Snubby  Nose,  who  "cried,  and  he  screamed, 
and  he  howled"  when  things  didn't  go  right. 

Santa  always  brought  me  a  book.  Early  gifts  were  A 
Girl's  Book  of  Treasures  and  Arabian  Nights,  which  I  loved.  I 
also  cried  my  way  through  Black  Beauty. 

Soon,  my  appetite  for  reading  was  insatiable,  and  it  was 


54 


a  long  time  between  Christmases.  So,  I  turned  to  my  father's 
books.  He  favored  Zane  Grey,  Harold  Bell  Wright,  Jack  London, 
and  John  Fox,  Jr.  Thus,  I  read  Riders  of  the  Purple  Sage,  The 
Rainbow  Trail,  Call  of  the  Canyon,  Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The 
Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,  The  Sea-Wolf  White  Fang,  and  The 
Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine. 

Charles  Scofield  of  nearby  Carthage  had  written  two 
books,  so  Dad  bought  them  and  I  read  hoth-Altar  Stairs  and  A 
Subtle  Adversary.  The  latter  book  had  a  story  line  about  the 
evils  of  alcohol.  (The  Rev.  Mr.  Scofield  had  married  my  par- 
ents.) 

A  special  favorite  was  In  the  Days  of  St.  Clair,  in  which 
Hester  Lovelace,  a  rich  plantation  owner,  bribed  Indians  to 
massacre  settlers  and  carry  off  her  rival,  a  poor  girl.  The  hero, 
aided  by  his  faithful  slave  and  a  Shawnee  named  Silverheels, 
eventually  rescued  his  sweetheart,  and  they  lived  happily  ever 
after.  At  the  time,  I  simply  thought  it  was  an  exciting  story. 
Now,  I  realize  that  I  absorbed  a  lot  of  history  as  I  read  about 
Arthur  St.  Clair's  governorship  of  the  Northwest  Territory  in 
the  late  eighteenth  century. 

One  book  led  to  a  Christmas  present,  when  I  was  nine, 
that  has  never  been  equaled  for  me.  I  had  read  Captives  Three 
by  James  A.  Braden.  The  story  dealt  with  Clay  and  Nell  Castle 
and  Fred  Fravel,  three  youngsters  who  had  to  fend  for  them- 
selves during  an  Indian  uprising.  The  book  ended  with  a 
sentence  about  a  copper-colored  arm  stretching  from  the  bank 
to  halt  the  canoe  in  which  the  children  hoped  to  quit  the  scene 
of  their  misfortunes.  The  reader  was  then  instructed  to  read 
about  the  continuing  adventures  of  the  three  in  a  sequel.  The 
Cabin  in  the  Clearing. 

I  was  inconsolable.  We  did  not  own  the  sequel.  So,  I 
walked  three  and  one-half  miles  from  our  farm  to  Warsaw  to  ask 
for  it  at  the  library.  "No,"  said  Miss  Bell.  "I  don't  have  the  book. 
Besides,  Indian  stories  are  not  suitable  reading  for  a  girl." 

The  Great  Depression  was  upon  us.  I  knew  Mother,  by 


then  a  widow,  could  not  afford  to  buy  the  book.  But  Christmas 
came  and  The  Cabin  in  the  Clearing  was  under  the  tree.  I  was 
thrilled. 

Years  later.  Mother  told  me  she  had  ordered  the  book  at 
one  of  the  Warsaw  drug  stores,  expecting  it  to  cost  no  more  than 
30(Z  or  35c.  When  the  book  came,  the  cost  was  unheard  of-60c. 
After  much  scrabbling  in  her  pocketbook-as  purses  were  then 
called-Mother  could  locate  only  49c.  She  was  acutely  embar- 
rassed. Then  Mr.  Brinkman  looked  at  the  book  again,  and  said, 
"Bless  my  soul!  I  read  that  4  as  a  6.  The  price  is  40c."  Blessings 
on  him,  indeed. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  I  walked  to  town  to  check  out 
as  many  books  as  Miss  Bell  would  let  me  have,  usually  no  more 
than  three.  She  introduced  me  to  Gene  Stratton-Porter's 
works,  and  I  reveled  in  Freckles,  A  Girl  of  the  Limber  lost.  Keeper 
of  the  Bees,  and  Laddie. 

When  I  was  in  high  school,  a  classmate  lent  me  St.  Elmo. 
I  was  fascinated  by  the  Byronic  hero,  reclaimed  from  sin  by  the 
heroine's  cautious  affection  and  ardent  prayers.  The  highlight 
of  my  teens  was  visiting  Alabama  and  seeing  the  Mobile  home 
of  St.  Elmo's  author,  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

I  also  devoured  Charles  Lindbergh's  We,  Richard 
Halliburton's  travel  books,  and  Osa  Johnson's  accounts  of 
experiences  she  and  her  husband,  Martin,  had  with  animals  in 
Africa. 

In  high  school,  too,  a  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  minister,  said 
she  would  give  me  a  Bible  if  I  would  promise  to  read  a  chapter 
every  day  until  I  was  through  both  testaments.  I  kept  my 
promise. 

Thomas  Gregg's  huge  History  of  Hancock  County  held 
me  enthralled.  Since  then,  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  convince 
me  that  novels  are  more  exciting  than  history. 

I  read  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  because  I  was  told  the  book 
inspired  the  residents  of  Spunky  Point  to  change  the  town's 
name  to  the  more  genteel-sounding  one  of  Warsaw.    And,  of 


course,  it  was  a  point  of  honor  to  be  familiar  with  John  Hay's 
Pike  County  Ballads.  He  was  Warsaw's  most  illustrious  citizen. 

As  a  child,  I  often  heard  Mother  recite  Will  Carleton's 
"Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poor  House."  It  haunted  me.  When  I  was 
earning  my  own  money,  I  bought  Carleton's  Farm  Ballads  and 
City  Ballads. 

When  my  piano  teacher  and  her  mother  were  getting  rid 
of  unwanted  possessions,  they  gave  us  several  boxes  of  books.  It 
was  like  giving  me  the  key  to  Fort  Knox.  One  of  the  books  was 
Shacklett  by  G.  Walter  Barr  of  Keokuk.  Warsaw  was  a  thread 
in  the  story.  I  was  quite  impressed  because  the  volume  was 
autographed.  It  was  the  first  autographed  book  I  had  ever  seen. 

Most  people  probably  think  the  wheel  was  man's  most 
important  invention.  I  like  to  believe  that  the  momentum  for 
civilization  got  under  way  with  the  development  of  books.  I 
know  I've  loved  every  word  that  I  have  read,  from  Louisa  May 
Alcott  to  Zechariah. 


FICTION,  MY  FIRST  LOVE 

Wilmogene  Stanfield 

In  1930  when  I  was  seven,  our  second  grade  class  from 
Oak  Street  School  visited  the  Taylorville  library.  It  was  hard  to 
believe  there  could  be  so  many  books  in  the  world.  Shelves 
reached  away  above  our  heads,  and  every  shelf  was  filled  with 
books,  big  ones,  thin  ones,  red,  brown,  and  green  ones. 

Each  of  us  was  allowed  to  check  out  a  book.  I  can't 
remember  the  title  or  the  author  of  mine,  but  I  was  certainly 
impressed  by  the  story.  It  was  about  an  old  lady  who  owned 

a  small  grocery  store.  The  lady  and  a  little  girl  just  my  age  were 
good  friends.  One  day  the  lady,  who  was  waiting  for  her 
grandson,  a  sailor,  to  come  home  for  a  visit,  had  to  leave  for  a 


short  time.  The  girl  said  she  would  mind  the  store  for  her.  While 
she  was  alone,  a  young  man  in  a  sailor  suit  came  in  and  tried  to 
rob  the  store. 

I  have  forgotten  how  the  brave  little  girl,  just  my  age, 
prevented  the  robbery,  but  when  it  was  all  over,  she  was  asked 
how  she  knew  the  robber  wasn't  the  lady's  grandson.  She  said 
it  was  because  his  eyes  were  brown,  and  she  knew  all  sailors  had 
blue  eyes. 

Living  in  central  Illinois  and  never  having  seen  a  sailor 
in  uniform,  nor  even  a  ship  for  that  matter,  I  truly  believed  all 
sailors  had  blue  eyes.  The  book  had  said  so,  and  I  thought 
anything  printed  in  a  book  was  true. 

Years  later,  during  World  War  II,  of  course  I  saw  sailors 
on  the  college  campus,  in  stores,  and  in  church.  I  discovered 
they  did  not  all  have  blue  eyes.  I  had  also  learned  the  difference 
between  fact  and  fiction. 

Once  when  I  was  at  home  for  Christmas  break,  I  met  a 
young  man  who  had  lived  across  the  street  from  me  when  we 
were  children.  We  had  remained  friends  through  high  school. 
Neither  of  us  had  plans  for  that  evening,  so  we  went  together  to 
a  dance. 

He  had  dark  brown  eyes.  When  I  told  him  about  my 
childhood  mistake,  he  laughed  a  lot  and  gave  me  a  button  from 
his  Annapolis  uniform. 

The  button  reappears  from  time  to  time  when  I  am 
rearranging  keepsakes  and  jewelry .  I  always  smile,  remember- 
ing my  first  library  book  and  a  sailor  with  brown  eyes. 

My  mother  did  not  like  for  me  to  get  books  from  the 
library  because  they  might  have  germs.  I  did  not  check  out  a 
second  book  for  several  years,  but  I  had  many  books  of  my  own 
during  my  childhood.  They  were  the  best  part  of  my  life. 

For  years  my  friend  Ruth  and  I  gave  each  other  a  new 
Bobbsey  Twins  book  every  Christmas  and  for  our  birthdays.  We 
read  them  before  exchanging  them  as  gifts.  If  someone  in  our 
family  gave  us  new  ones,  we  lent  them  to  each  other.  Between 


us,  we  kept  up  with  all  the  twins'  activities,  and  by  the  time  we 
outgrew  them,  we  must  have  read  the  entire  series,  probably 
fifty  volumes. 

For  very  young  readers  there  were  Cricket  and 
Honeybunch  stories.  I  loved  them.  As  I  grew,  I  lived  through 
many  adventures  with  Grace_Harlowe  and  Nancy  Drew.  I 
borrowed  my  brother's  adventure  books,  The  Black  Arrow ,  Tom 
Sawyer,  Huckleberry  Finn,  and  the  Hardy  Boys. 

I  read  and  reread  Heidi  and  the  Alcott  books,  laughing 
and  crying  with  Little  Women,  Little  Men,  Jo's  Boys,  An  Old 
Fashioned  Girl,  Eight  Cousins,  Rose  in  Bloom,  and  my  favorite. 
Jack  and  Jill.  I  lived  every  adventure  and  every  sorrow  in  every 
book.  My  parents  could  never  understand  why  I  laughed  aloud 
while  reading.  I  cried,  too,  but  I  never  let  anyone  see  me. 

In  high  school  I  fell  in  love  with  George  Gordon,  Lord 
Byron.  Didn't  every  girl?  I  even  read  a  thick  book  about  him. 
While  I  preferred  stories  to  poetry,  I  thought  "To  Julia"  must  be 
the  loveliest  love  poem  ever  written,  even  better  than 
Shakespeare's  sonnets. 

To  get  credit  for  second  year  high  school  Latin,  we  were 
required  to  read  two  classics-in  English,  thank  goodness.  I  read 
The  Vestal  Virgins  and  Quo  Vadis.  A  few  years  later  I  saw  Quo 
Vadis  come  to  life  as  a  movie  and  was  deeply  moved.  Usually  I 
enjoyed  reading  a  book  more  than  seeing  it  as  a  movie  because, 
as  I  read,  I  was  living  every  movement  and  thought  with  every 
character,  and  I  sensed  things  differently  than  they  appeared 
on  the  screen. 

Mother  signed  up  for  me  to  receive  books  by  mail  when 
I  was  in  high  school.  It  wasn't  the  popular  Book-of-the-Month 
Club,  but  was  a  club  that  provided  me  with  a  book  every  month 
for  several  years. 

They  were  my  first  really  grown-up  books:  Kings  Row, 
The  Sun  Is  My  Undoing,  A  Tree  Grows  in  Brooklyn,  The  Razor's 
Edge,  and  many  more.  My  favorite  World  War  II  story  was 
Assignment  in  Brittany. 


When  Gone  With  the  Wind  was  published,  there  was  a 
waiting  list  at  the  library.  I  didn't  get  to  read  it  before  the  movie 
came  to  Taylorville.  After  seeing  the  movie,  I  didn't  bother  to 
read  the  book.  I  would  have  missed  the  thrill  of  becoming  part 
of  the  drama  as  I  read. 

Then  came  college  and  a  whole  new  perspective.  No 
longer  could  I  become  the  characters  and  laugh  and  cry  as  they 
did.  I  was  required  to  analyze  them  and  write  papers  about 
them,  telling  why  the  author  chose  to  develop  a  personality  in 
a  particular  way  and  how  that  choice  made  the  story  a  classic. 
It  was  an  interesting  procedure,  but  I  did  not  feel  comfortable 
nor  was  I  ever  at  home  with  it. 

After  graduation  in  1945,  fiction  was  only  an  infrequent, 
friendly  visitor.  After  a  stint  as  a  news  reporter,  there  followed 
marriage,  a  family,  and  twenty-four  years  of  teaching  second 
and  third  grade  children  to  read  and  write  stories. 

In  1984,  upon  retirement,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  read 
twenty  books  of  fiction,  many  of  them  old  friends.  They  made 
me  realize  why  fiction  had  been  my  first  love  so  many  years  ago. 


THE  WONDERFUL  WORLD  OF  A  BOOKWORM 

Clarice  Stafford  Harris 

I  discovered  the  world  of  books  when  in  the  third  grade 
at  the  North  Central  Grade  School  in  Dixon,  Illinois.  My 
teacher.  Miss  Diviney,  instilled  in  me  a  joy  and  love  for  books 
that  has  been  with  me  these  sixty  years. 

Each  day,  if  we  were  well  behaved,  she  would  lay  aside 
her  work  to  say  these  magic  words,  "Class,  you  have  been  very 
good  today.  Put  aside  your  things  and  I  will  read  more  of  the 
Bobbsey  Twins  to  you."  For  half  an  hour,  or  until  the  dismissal 
bell  rang,  we  enjoyed  the  exciting  tales  of  those  mischievous 


twins.  It  took  a  month  or  more  to  finish  one  book  but  only  one 
or  two  times  of  "No  reading  today"  to  shape  up  our  class,  for  we 
were  all  intrigued  with  the  antics  of  the  twins. 

Our  home  was  in  the  Assembly  Park,  once  a  religious 
youth  camp.  However,  it  was  seldom  used  for  this  purpose  at 
this  time.  All  of  the  cabins  were  sold  and  privately  owned.  Our 
place  had  once  been  the  locker  and  club  house  for  a  golf  course. 
We  had  a  very  large  yard  with  an  empty  field  adjoining  it.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  field  grew  an  old  pine  tree  with  wide  and 
spreading  branches.  It  was  a  delightful  place  to  grow  up  in,  and 
I  lived  there  until  I  was  eighteen  and  married. 

In  the  summer  when  it  was  warm  and  nice  outside,  I  did 
my  reading  lolling  on  a  blanket  under  a  shade  tree  or  in  a  nest 
hollowed  among  the  tall  grasses  in  the  center  of  the  field.  There 
I  hid  from  the  world,  my  nose  buried  in  a  book  or  magazine 
provided  by  a  neighbor. 

I  also  had  another  quiet  spot  for  reading  during  the 
cooler  and  the  rainy  seasons.  This  was  in  the  back  seat  of  our 
old  touring  car,  if  Dad  was  not  using  it.  It  had  side  curtains  and 
roomy  pockets  in  the  doors  where  I  could  store  my  reading 
material.  No  one  ever  disturbed  my  books,  but  I  lost  several 
when  Dad  traded  the  car  in  for  another  one.  I  also  lost  a  good 
reading  place. 

In  my  freshman  year  of  high  school  I  discovered  the 
library,  and  what  a  bountiful  discovery  it  was  for  a  book-hungry 
young  girl.  If  only  I  had  applied  myself  as  ardently  to  the  books 
provided  for  my  education.  In  the  library,  I  discovered  the  books 
of  John  Fox,  Jr.,  and  I  was  so  impressed  with  his  Trail  of  the 
Lonesome  Pine  that  I  changed  my  quiet  reading  places  for  the 
sticky  branches  of  the  old  pine  tree.  Pithy  as  it  was,  it  had  a 
heavenly  aroma,  and  the  soft  whisper  of  the  breeze  through  its 
branches  was  a  lovely  and  soothing  combination  for  pleasant 
reading. 

Just  as  in  that  book,  my  pine  tree  had  a  niche  where  a 
lover's  note  could  be  hidden.  At  my  age  I  had  not  yet  discovered 


boys,  so  I  did  not  have  a  lover.  I  did  not  want  one,  nor  did  I  have 
the  wiles  to  get  one  to  have  a  tryst  with.  Therefore,  no  lover's 
notes  were  ever  exchanged. 

In  winter  when  my  quiet  places  were  cold  and  barren, 
after  school  and  chores,  I  curled  up  with  my  book  on  the  long 
window  seat  in  our  living  room,  oblivious  to  the  bleak  world 
outside  my  window  or  to  the  disturbance  of  my  younger  siblings, 
totally  engrossed  in  an  enchanted  world  until  daylight  faded 
and  I  could  no  longer  see.  I  did  no  reading  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp  at  night,  for  I  needed  glasses  and  there  was  none  to  be  had 
until  much  later.  I  did  have  to  do  homework  in  the  evening 
when  Dad  could,  very  reluctantly,  help.  I  am  afraid  my  school 
work  suffered  because  of  the  dim  lighting. 

My  world  as  a  confirmed  bookworm  has  been  super 
wonderful.  Today  I  collect  many  of  the  books  that  I  read  in  my 
tender  years.  They  contain  so  many  lovely  memories. 


THE  JOY  OF  READING 

Audrey  Bohannon 

Reading  has  been  one  of  my  favorite  pastimes  since  the 
age  of  five,  when  I  first  discovered  Dick,  Jane,  and  Spot  and 
their  exciting  adventures.  I  loved  it!  Whereupon  I  then 
embarked  on  an  insatiable  reading  quest  to  learn  all  I  could  find 
out  about  anything  and  everything.  It  has  given  me  much 
pleasure  along  the  way. 

Of  course,  it  goes  back  a  bit  farther  than  that.  The  stork 
by  whom  I  was  delivered  did  me  a  stupendous  favor  by  depos- 
iting me  in  the  bosom  of  a  family  of  readers.  Along  with  mother's 
milk,  I  was  nurtured  on  tales  of  Mother  Goose  and  tasted  the 
magic  ofthe  fairy  tales  ofthe  Brothers  Grimm.  The  latter,  along 
with  a  slim  volume  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  A  Child's 


58 


Garden  of  Verses,  are  two  of  my  treasured  mementos  of  child- 
hood. Later  I  adventured  with  the  Bobbsey  Twins,  followed 
Alice  into  Wonderland,  and  I  improved  my  outdoor  skills  with 
the  Campfire  Girls.  Being  a  tomboy  and  ever  a  lover  of 
mysteries,  I  also  enjoyed  the  intrepid  escapades  of  the  Hardy 
Boys,  Tom  Sawyer,  and  Huckleberry  Finn. 

I  volunteered  to  work  in  the  library  in  both  grade  school 
and  high  school  because  it  gave  me  first  access  to  new  addi- 
tions— naturally  I  read  all  the  books  that  were  of  interest  to  me 
as  soon  as  possible.  They  were  not  very  large  libraries  in  a  one- 
room  grade  school  and  small-town  high  school!  But  oh!  when 
I  got  to  college  and  worked  in  the  library  there ,  I  was  in  Seventh 
Heaven.  I  was  always  happy  to  shelf- read  (a  task  others  often 
tried  to  avoid)  and,  believe  me,  it  took  me  quite  a  while! 

In  high  school  most  of  my  allowance  was  spent  on 
paperback  Pocketbooks  which  were  just  beginning  to  be  pub- 
lished and  could  be  purchased  for  twenty-five  cents.  Thus 
began  my  collecting  of  favorite  authors  through  the  years,  an 
inexpensive  way  of  obtaining  all  of  their  books.  At  one  time  or 
another  I  have  been  a  member  of  every  book  club  that  has  come 
down  the  pike;  however,  the  current  price  of  hardback  books  has 
put  an  end  to  unlimited  purchases. 

My  reading  tastes  are  very  eclectic.  I  have  read  the  Bible 
through  in  its  entirety  several  times,  not  even  skipping  the 
"begats";  and  one  winter  when  I  had  pneumonia  and  measles  in 
rapid  succession,  I  read  the  entire  set  of  the  Book  of  Knowledge 
encyclopedias.  I  have  even  been  found  in  the  midst  of  meal 
preparation  absorbedly  perusing  the  label  on  a  can  of  creamed 
com  or  keeping  a  load  of  wash  waiting  while  I  studied  the 
ingredients.  This  being  so,  after  half  a  century  plus,  my  library 
fills  one  large  room  and  spills  over  into  all  the  other  rooms  of  my 
house,  and  my  mind  runneth  over!  My  books  range  over  every 
conceivable  subject,  from  leather-bound  classics  to  reference 
books  on  "How  To."  I  suppose  that  much  of  my  library  would  be 
classified  as  escape  literature-murder  mysteries  (which  I  adore 


with  a  purple  passion),  spy  stories,  gothic  romances,  and  his- 
torical novels.  I  also  have  an  extensive  section  on  parapsychol- 
ogy, psychology,  Atlantis,  Flying  Saucers,  Lost  Continents,  and 
other  esoteric  subjects. 

I  have  many  favorite  authors:  the  list  would  be  almost 
endless.  Some  of  the  ones  I  read  over  and  over  again  are  Helen 
Maclnnes,  John  J.  McDonald,  Shakespeare,  Jane  Roberts,  Carl 
Sandburg,  Agatha  Christie,  Alexander  Dumas,  Leslie  Ford, 
Rex  Stout,  Mary  Stewart,  Victoria  Holt,  and  Robert  Heinlein. 
The  truth  is,  I  like  any  author  who  can  grab  my  attention  with 
a  well-spun  tale  and  take  me  out  of  my  ordinary  world  into  his 
or  her  world.  I  am  constitutionally  unable  to  lay  down  such  a 
book  until  I've  finished  reading  it.  Fortunately,  I  can  now  save 
these  books  until  I  have  ample  time  to  savor  them.  I  turn  off  the 
telephone,  muffle  the  doorbell,  lock  the  door,  and  curl  up  in  my 
favorite  old  armchair  (which  has  shaped  itself  to  my  body  after 
years  of  use)  and  totally  immerse  myself  in  that  book! 

Few  things  in  life  have  been  as  satisfactory  and  given  me 
as  much  pleasure  as  books.  Reading  is  a  happening,  an 
experience,  where  one's  mind  is  touched  by  another  and  one 
feels  as  though  one  has  met  an  old  and  valued  friend.  Now  that 
I  am  not  as  physically  active  as  I  once  was,  I  read  and  re-read 
my  favorites;  and  each  time  I  discover  something  I  have  missed 
in  former  readings.  I  have  also  acquired  a  plethora  of  knowl- 
edge which  I'll  probably  never  have  a  practical  use  for,  but  what 
matters  to  me  is  the  knowing.  And  the  acquiring  was  pure  joy. 

That  is  why  I  read. 


PULP  MAGAZINES 

Richard  Thorn 

I  wish  that  I  could  say  that  great  literature  ignited  some 
latent  interest  that  resulted  in  a  lifetime  love  affair  with 
reading,  books,  and  libraries.  My  earliest  authors  included  L. 
Frank  Baum  and  his  delightful  Oz  adventures,  Edgar  Burrough's 
Tarzan  and  Pellucidar  series,  Horatio  Alger's  stories  of  success 
through  hard  work  and  pluck,  anything  about  King  Arthur  and 
his  brave  knights,  Richard  Halliburton's  exotic  travels  and 
Deep  River  Jim's  trail  book. 

However,  after  paying  homage  to  these  authors  I  must 
confess  that  my  first  reading  inspiration  was  not  from  any  book 
at  all,  but  rather  several  pulp  magazines  which,  after  being 
discarded  by  my  father,  were  claimed  by  me. 

The  rise  and  fall  of  the  pulp's  popularity  took  place 
during  my  lifetime,  which  began  in  1922.  The  dimensions  of  the 
pulp  magazines  were  the  same,  the  size  of  a  National  Geo- 
graphic. But  the  pages  were  of  thick  gray  paper,  similar  but  of 
poorer  quality  than  newsprint,  which  is  why  they  were  referred 
to  as  pulp  magazines.  The  paper's  texture  was  so  rough  that  I 
don't  recall  ever  seeing  them  in  outhouses  where  catalogs  and 
newsprint  routinely  made  their  last  useful  contribution.  Fru- 
gality discouraged  the  use  of  toilet  tissue  and  the  lack  of  pipes 
in  a  pit  toilet  made  the  use  of  bulky  paper  feasible  if  not 
comfortable.  The  cover  was  in  color  and  featured  a  scene  filled 
with  action.  The  pictures  inside  were  black  and  white  illustra- 
tions. 

Each  magazine  specialized  in  a  specific  interest,  such  as 
railroading,  detective  stories,  western  adventures,  and  fantasy. 
My  dad's  two  favorite  pulps  were  Argosy  And  Adventure ,  which 
contained  stories  of  general  adventure.  After  he  was  through 
with  the  magazines  I  colored  the  black  and  white  illustrations 
with  my  crayons  and  sometimes  with  water  paints. 

As  I  learned  to  read,  my  interest  in  coloring  decreased 


and  I  started  to  read  the  stories.  They  held  me  spellbound. 
Peter  the  Brazen,  who  made  Indiana  Jones  look  like  a  sissy, 
roamed  the  world  on  missions  fraught  with  enormous  dangers 
and  enemies  that  he  routinely  overcame. 

I  don't  remember  too  much  romance  but  once  in  a  while 
some  lady  was  saved  from  a  fate  worse  than  death.  My  dad, 
when  I  inquired  about  this,  told  me  that  I  would  have  to  be  older 
to  understand  this  condition.  My  mother  didn't  even  answer  me 
and  said,  "Henry,  Richie  shouldn't  be  reading  your  trashy 
magazines."  Since  I  didn't  have  any  sisters  to  advise  me,  I  asked 
the  girl  that  I  walked  with  to  school  about  the  fate  that  was 
worse  than  death.  She  didn't  know  either  but  said  the  worst 
thing  she  could  think  of  was  being  barefoot  in  a  room  full  of 
snakes  and  those  June  bugs  that  crack  when  you  step  on  them. 

My  favorite  stories  were  written  by  George  Surdez  and 
were  about  the  French  Foreign  Legion.  The  stories  concerned 
heroic  exploits  in  the  North  African  desert,  where  legionnaires 
fought  Bedouin,  Tuareg,  and  Rif  tribesmen. 

Those  legionnaires  were  really  tough,  and  I  knew  all 
about  them  from  these  stories.  The  officers  were  the  top 
graduates  of  the  military  school  at  St.  Cyr.  The  legionnaires 
were  recruited  from  countries  all  over  the  world.  The  soldiers 
wore  hobnailed  boots  without  socks.  I  made  my  cap  resemble 
the  Legion  kepi  with  neckpiece  by  sticking  a  white  handkerchief 
over  the  back  of  my  head  under  the  cap. 

The  Bedouin  tribesmen  were  very  savage.  In  one  story, 
the  tribesmen  silently  spread  opium  paste  inside  the  soldiers' 
shoes  while  they  slept.  The  next  day  during  the  march  the  drug 
was  absorbed  through  the  skin,  causing  hallucinations.  The 
soldiers  wandered  into  the  desert  to  die  of  thirst.  This  type  of 
mischief  was  common  from  the  wily  tribesmen. 

That  story  got  me  interested  in  opium,  which  my  mother 
didn't  appreciate  as  many  of  her  poppy  blooms  were  ruined  in 
my  unsuccessful  research. 

Legionnaires  knew  how  to  have  a  good  time  when  they 


60 


returned  to  the  fort  after  being  in  the  field  fighting.  They  would 
go  to  the  bistro  and  drink  cognac,  play  cards,  gamble,  and  visit 
with  the  ladies  that  hung  out  there.  I  wanted  to  do  that  too. 

The  years  passed  and  I  moved  on  to  other  reading.  The 
pulp  magazines  faded  out  with  the  rental  books,  three  days  for 
a  dime.  Argosy  and  Adventure  later  appeared  briefly  in  a  new 
but  disappointing  version,  with  glossy  paper  and  slick  photos, 
that  didn't  capture  the  loyal  audience  of  old. 

I  wish  I  could  see  a  few  old  pulps,  but  apparently  they 
have  vanished.  The  local  librarian  had  never  heard  of  them 
when  I  tried  to  find  some  specific  facts  that  were  vague  in  my 
memory.  I  feel  like  Rip  Van  Winkle:  I  seem  to  be  the  only  person 
who  remembers  that  wonderful  era  of  the  pulp  magazines. 


THE  COMICS  IN  THE  1920s 

Phyllis  T.  Fenton 


Kayo  were  street-wise  kids  who  sulked  about  school  and  slipped 
through  the  chinks  of  parental  discipline-like  no  kid  on  our 
block  could  ever  get  away  with. 

We  also  loved  the  freedom  and  impudence  of  Harold 
Teen,  the  callow  youth  in  the  raccoon  coat  who  loafed  at  the 
corner  drug  store  and  whistled  at  a  girl  named  Lillums. 

Our  favorite  comic  strip  character  was  Skeezix,  the 
infant  found  on  a  doorstep  on  Valentine's  Day  in  1922  by  a 
bachelor  named  Uncle  Walt,  who  then  raised  him.  Skeezix  grew 
through  the  years  as  we  did,  and  today,  if  he's  still  around,  he's 
a  grandfather,  while  Orphan  Annie  is  still  twelve  years  old. 

Orphan  Annie  and  Harold  Teen  soon  became  WGN 
radio  series  during  the  five  to  six  o'clock  children's  time  slot. 
But  we  always  liked  them  better  in  the  newspaper,  where  we 
could  see  them.  The  comics  were  fascinating  for  us  back  in  the 
twenties-long  before  television  gave  us  the  world  of  the  pack- 
aged image. 


In  the  middle  1920s  my  juvenile  reading  included  the 
comics.  The  Chicago  Tribune  comics  reflected  the  insular 
security  of  the  Midwest  middle  class  and  were  really  humorous, 
at  least  to  children.  The  daily  Tribune  printed  four  picture 
strips  in  black  and  white,  but  on  Sunday  the  "funnies"  were  in 
spectacular  color  on  a  full  page. 

As  we  sprawled  on  the  living  room  floor  to  read  them,  we 
giggled  and  chuckled  with  the  Gumps,  a  family  of  no  chins  but 
some  odd  sounding  names-Chester,  Min,  Andy,  baby  Goliath, 
and  Uncle  Bim.  Then  we  held  our  breath  while  we  read  Orphan 
Annie,  the  clifThanger.  Annie  had  large  ovals  for  eyes  and  a  dog 
named  Sandy.  She  also  had  a  penchant  forgetting  into  personal 
hazards,  at  which  time  roving  Daddy  Warbucks  miraculously 
appeared  to  snatch  her  from  peril. 

Comic  strip  pranksters  like  Smitty,  Perry  Winkle,  and 


READING  FOR  PLEASURE  AND  INFORMATION 

Marie  Freesmeyer 

Reading  for  pleasure  and  for  information  were  both  very 
important  to  most  farm  families  during  the  early  decades  of  this 
century.  At  that  time  much  emphasis  was  placed  on  oral 
reading,  both  at  school  and  at  home.  Daily  Bible  reading  was 
common  in  many  homes.  This  was  enhanced  by  one's  ability  to 
read  well  orally  and  to  comprehend  when  reading  silently.  Both 
skills  were  stressed  because  reading  was  our  chief  way  of 
gaining  knowledge  and,  also,  our  greatest  pleasure. 

Having  had  parents  who  had  taught  school  and  four 
older  brothers,  I  inherited  many  textbooks  at  all  reading  levels. 
We  were  blessed  by  having  many  books  in  our  home,  both  fact 


and  fiction.  Most  ofthese  books  had  been  Christmas  gifts.  They 
ranged  all  the  way  from  Mother  Goose  Rhymes  to  Captain 
Cook's  Voyages.  Some  of  the  ones  that  were  most  common  in  the 
households  of  that  era  were  Aesop's  Fables,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen's  Fairy  Tales,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin, 
and  Children's  Bible  Stories.  Many  homes  also  had  biographies 
of  great  men  such  as  Lincoln,  Washington,  Columbus,  DeSoto, 
Longfellow,  Emerson,  Roosevelt,  McKinley,  and  Bryan. 

I  read  and  often  reread  most  of  the  books  mentioned 
above,  but  the  ones  I  remember  best  are  Black  Beauty,  Little 
People  of  Japan,  Eskimo  Children,  and  Aunt  Martha's 
Cornercupboard  (a  book  filled  with  informative  articles  about 
the  many  things  founds  in  our  cupboard-salt,  pepper,  sugar, 
cinnamon,  tea,  coffee,  etc.).  The  textbooks  were  mostly  readers. 
They  ranged  from  the  McGuffey  Readers,  which  my  parents 
used,  to  Barnes  Readers,  which  were  still  in  use  at  that  time. 
McGuffey  Readers  included  stories  which  stressed  moral  val- 
ues and  principles  of  character  to  be  either  emulated  or  shunned. 
Along  with  Ray's  Arithmetic  and  McGuffey  Readers,  we  had 
readers  which  were  informative  in  many  areas.  One  ofthese 
that  I  still  own  is  called  Instructive  Reader,  or  A  Course  in 
Reading  in  Natural  History,  Science,  and  Literature.  Another, 
which  my  eldest  brother,  Avery  Wilson,  used  when  he  attended 
Hardin  School  in  1905,  is  A  Progressive  Course  in  Reading,  Fifth 
Book.  These  elementary  readers  were  not  a  collection  of 
entertaining  stories,  but,  as  their  names  signify,  they  were 
filled  with  information.  Early  reading  textbooks  instructed  the 
student  in  science,  history,  geography,  and  literature.  Most  of 
them  also  gave  specific  instructions  on  oral  reading,  dealing 
with  such  topics  as  correct  pronunciation,  pitch,  tone,  inflec- 
tion, and  emphasis.  The  fifth  grade  reader  named  above  would 
make  an  adequate  text  for  a  course  in  reading  in  our  present- 
day  secondary  schools.  Having  read  several  of  these  early 
textbooks,  I  can  understand  how  my  father,  W.  S.  Wilson,  who 
taught  from  such  books,  was  able  to  read  aloud  to  us  on  winter 


evenings,  and  hold  our  rapt  attention  for  hours. 

My  appetite  for  reading  was  whetted  by  my  parents 
reading  to  me  and  by  the  great  amount  of  oral  reading  that  I 
heard  from  others.  My  own  endeavors  began  with  my  personal 
magazine  called  Little  Folks.  This  magazine  contained  a  two- 
page  story  which  had  all  the  concrete  nouns  pictured.  With  the 
aid  of  the  many  pictures,  I  was  able  to  supply  the  missing  words 
and  "read"  the  story  for  myself. 

School  was  always  interesting  and  challenging  for  me 
because  of  the  many  books  there-which  were  few  by  today's 
standards.  The  Primary  Reader  contained  many  poems  which 
were  read  and  reread  until  they  were  memorized.  Later  we 
studied  many  great  poets  and  their  works.  Probably  most  of 
those  of  my  generation  can  still  quote  some  of  the  poetry  that 
they  learned  from  those  early  readers. 

Magazines  were  very  important  to  farm  families  during 
the  early  part  of  the  century.  Very  few  of  these  families 
subscribed  to  the  more  sophisticated  magazines,  such  as  The 
Ladies'  Home  Journal.  Some  that  we  took  and  were  common  in 
farm  households  were  Capper's  Farmer,  Farm  and  Fireside, 
Prairie  Farmer,  Comfort,  and  Youth's  Companion.  The  first 
three  were  strictly  farm  magazines,  but  they  contained  some- 
thing of  interest  to  each  member  of  the  family.  My  father  read 
them  from  cover  to  cover,  even  the  advertising. 

Comfort  was  one  of  several  inexpensive  women's  maga- 
zines. It  contained  recipes,  stories,  household  hints,  patterns, 
and  such  like.  I  liked  to  visit  in  homes  where  they  subscribed 
to  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal.  That  magazine  had  a  page  of 
paper  dolls  with  a  complete  wardrobe.  Given  this  page  and 
some  scissors,  I  could  entertain  myself  for  hours  while  the 
adults  visited.  Once  I  had  acquired  these  paper  dolls  and  pasted 
them  on  cardboard,  I  spent  my  happy  hours  dressing  them  in 
various  costumes  by  bending  the  small  tabs  left  at  the  shoul- 
ders. 

The  Youth's  Companion,  as  the  name  implies,  was  a 


magazine  for  teenagers  and  young  adults.  There  were  only  a 
few  such  magazines  published,  and  I'm  sure  many  young  people 
in  Illinois  looked  forward  to  receivingthis  interesting  periodical 
as  much  as  we  did.  It  contained  many  interesting  stories,  one 
of  which  was  a  serial  that  always  ended  at  the  most  exciting 
point  and  left  us  eagerly  awaiting  the  next  issue.  The  stories  in 
this  magazine  were  the  ones  our  father  read  aloud  to  us  as  we 
sat  around  the  dining  table  on  cold  winter  evenings. 

All  Calhoun  County  citizens  were  familiar  with  the 
Mississippi  River  and  the  steamboats  that  regularly  plied  the 
river.  Therefore,  the  writings  of  Mark  Twain  were  among  the 
favorites  there.  There  was  no  public  library  where  such  books 
could  be  borrowed,  so  most  of  them  were  purchased  by  some 
family  in  the  neighborhood  and  loaned  to  others.  When  we 
procured  a  new  book,  either  by  purchase  or  by  borrowing, 
several  of  us  vied  for  it.  The  argument  was  sometimes  settled 
by  having  Papa  read  it  aloud  after  supper. 

Another  book  which  I  recall  hearing  my  father  read  was 
Slow  Train  Through  Arkansas.  This  book  was  hilarious.  Papa 
would  have  to  stop  frequently  and  have  a  good  laugh  before  he 
was  able  to  continue  reading.  One  passage  stayed  with  me 
through  the  years,  probably  because  it  was  repeated  many 
times  by  some  member  of  the  family  when  one  of  our  vintage 
cars  stalled  on  a  hill  or  in  mud  or  snow.  When  this  "Slow  train" 
stalled,  the  conductor  would  call  out,  "First-class  passengers 
keep  your  seats;  second-class  passengers  get  out  and  walk; 
third-class  passengers  get  out  and  push." 

During  the  era  before  television  or  radio,  the  daily  paper 
was  of  utmost  importance.  It  was  the  only  medium  for  obtaining 
national  and  international  news.  My  father  subscribed  to  the 
St.  Louis  daily  paper.  The  Globe  Democrat,  if  I  recall  correctly. 
He  was  intensely  interested  in  political  issues  and  world  events, 
so  he  thoroughly  read,  enjoyed,  and  usually  discussed  the 
articles  which  he  read. 

For  local  news  most  families  in  the  county  subscribed  to 


the  Calhoun  Herald  which  was  published  weekly  at  Hardin,  the 
county  seat.  Each  village  and  many  communities  had  a  corre- 
spondent who  contributed  news  items  to  be  included  in  this 
paper.  It  has  continued  to  the  present  time  very  much  as  it  was 
during  the  early  part  of  the  century.  Other  county  papers  have 
been  published  for  short  periods  of  time.  In  1915  C.  C.  Campbell 
and  A.  B.  Greathouse  began  publishing  the  Calhoun  News,  also 
a  weekly  paper  that  is  still  fulfilling  its  original  purpose. 

With  the  abundance  of  books,  magazines,  and  newspa- 
pers readily  available  today,  more  reading  is  being  done,  but 
probably  few  are  reading  as  much  as  many  people  once  did.  I 
don't  believe  the  blessing  of  having  good  reading  material  is 
appreciated  as  much  as  it  once  was.  Family  reading  hours  have 
given  way  to  hours  of  watching  television.  Our  old  classics  are 
being  neglected  for  modern  types  of  literature.  I'm  sure  my 
peers  will  agree  that  the  poems  written  by  the  earlier  poets, 
which  rhymed  and  could  be  memorized  so  easily,  are  far  supe- 
rior to  the  modern  free  verse.  I  regret  that  the  lives  of  our 
grandchildren  have  not  been  enriched  by  the  wonderful  litera- 
ture that  we  enjoyed  years  ago. 


MY  FAMILY'S  STRUGGLE  FOR  EDUCATION 

Stella  Howard  Hatchings 

As  I  look  around  my  home  at  shelves  overflowing  with 
the  books  that  I  treasure  and  at  tables  stacked  with  far  more 
magazines  than  I  can  get  read  before  the  next  issues  arrive,  I 
pause  to  wonder  why  reading  is  so  important  to  me. 

For  the  answer,  I  look  back  nearly  a  century.  My  parents 
grew  up  in  Scott  and  Greene  counties  of  Illinois,  in  poor  but 
respected  homes.  Both,  by  today's  standards,  were  underprivi- 
leged as  children.   My  dad,  Frank  Howard,  was  reared  by  his 


63 


mother  and  step  father,  Mary  and  Oscar  Walls.  Both  Mary  and 
Oscar  could  read  and  write,  but  didn't  consider  that  a  blessing. 
Therefore,  they  did  not  send  Mary's  three  sons,  Chris,  Oatis, 
and  Frank,  to  school.  They  lived  in  the  Lovelace  School  district 
in  Greene  County,  but  Mary  thought  that  the  mile-and-a-half 
walk  to  school  was  just  too  much  for  the  boys.  If  there  was  a  law 
enforcing  parents  to  send  children  to  school,  Mary  and  Bub 
Walls  ignored  it.  The  three  Howard  boys  grew  up  illiterate.  In 
later  years  they  found  it  hard  to  forgive  their  parents. 

My  mother  was  bom  in  the  northern  part  of  Greene 
County  in  1885.  Her  parents  were  Irvin  and  Serilda  Law.  The 
baby  was  named  Hattie  Agnes.  Serilda  died  when  little  Hattie 
was  two.  Grandfather  Law  kept  his  family  together.  His  four 
older  daughters  cared  for  Hattie  and  kept  house  for  their  father 
and  brother  William.  As  she  reached  school  age,  Hattie  at- 
tended school  first  in  Glasgow  and  later  in  the  one-room  country 
school  west  of  Glasgow.  It  was  called  the  Zion's  Neck  school.  By 
the  time  she  had  finished  fourth  grade,  Hattie  had  to  assume 
most  of  the  care  of  housekeeping.  Her  brother  William  had 
married,  gotten  divorced,  and  then  moved  home  with  his  small 
daughter,  Edith.  So  Hattie  had  to  give  up  school  to  care  for 
Edith  and  the  home.  During  her  fifteenth  summer,  Hattie  had 
the  entire  care  of  the  household  and  her  little  niece.  Then  her 
beloved  father  became  ill  and  needed  care,  too.  He  died  in  the 
early  fall. 

Five  months  past  her  sixteenth  birthday,  Hattie  Law 
and  Frank  Howard  were  married.  They  began  housekeeping  in 
a  tenant  house  near  Winchester  on  a  farm  where  Frank  worked. 
They  kept  Edith  with  them.  Later,  after  I  was  bom,  my  dad  took 
a  farm  job  for  James  Lovelace,  north  west  of  Patterson,  Greene 
County.  Uncle  Jim  (as  we  always  called  him)  and  his  daughter, 
Melissa,  lived  in  a  very  neat  home  across  the  road  from  the 
Lovelace  School.  We  lived  in  a  small  house  a  fourth-mile  down 
in  the  wooded  pasture.  It  was  the  only  home  I  remember  having 
until  I  was  a  teenager.  It  was  a  wonderful  place  to  grow  up  close 


to  nature. 

When  I  was  only  five  and  a  half  years  old  I  started  school; 
I  was  a  very  bashful  child.  Except  for  my  sister,  Gladys,  and 
brother,  George,  I'd  had  no  one  to  play  with  except  once  in 
awhile  when  a  neighbor  child  might  come  for  an  afternoon  visit. 
I  was  scared  to  go,  but  Mother  and  Dad  had  talked  so  much 
about  the  wonders  of  school  that  I  knew  I  was  supposed  to  like 
it,  so  I  did.  But  the  most  wonderful  thing  about  it  was  the  books. 
I'd  never  seen  so  many.  Miss  Lora  Hahn  was  a  lovely,  gracious 
teacher.  Right  from  the  start  she  let  me  handle  those  lovely 
books  and  look  at  the  pictures.  I  think  she  must  have  been  a 
good  teacher  for  primary  kids.  Very  soon  I  was  able  to  read  and 
there  were  many  little  books  for  beginning  readers. 

A  new  child  was  added  to  our  family  every  two  years,  and 
we  all  loved  school  and  books.  We  would  carry  our  books  home, 
and  Mother  would  read  them  aloud  in  the  evenings.  Dad 
listened  intently  with  us.  I  remember  that  he  especially  enjoyed 
the  series  of  Deerfoot  stories.  Deerfoot  was  a  young  Indian 
brave  who  befriended  white  pioneer  boys  and  helped  them  in 
their  projects. 

People  in  the  community  thought  that,  of  course,  the 
Howard  kids  would  be  through  with  school  when  they  finished 
the  eighth  grade  at  Lovelace,  and  be  available  for  work  in  homes 
or  on  farms.  But  no,  Frank  Howard  was  determined  that  his 
children  would  have  all  the  education  he  could  get  for  them. 
Many  laughed  at  the  idea  of  a  poor  man  with  a  large  family  even 
thinking  of  such  a  thing,  but  Dad  wanted  us  all  to  get  high  school 
diplomas.  By  the  time  for  school  to  start  again.  Dad  had 
arranged  for  me  to  live  in  Patterson  in  the  home  of  his  cousin, 
William  Ford.  I  was  to  work  for  my  board,  share  a  room  with  the 
Ford  daughter,  Ruth,  and  go  to  high  school.  Miss  Edith  Hyatt 
was  the  principal. 

I  didn't  fit  in  well  with  the  students.  I  was  very  home- 
sick, and  I  was  very  self-conscious  about  my  home-made  dresses 
and  having  no  money  for  treats,  as  ray  classmates  had.    But 


64 


there  again  were  many  books,  so  when  I  wasn't  studying  I  was 
reading.  Never  once  did  I  even  think  of  dropping  out  of  school. 

Then  Dad  rented  forty  acres  of  good  farm  ground  in  the 
Illinois  River  bottom,  borrowed  money  for  a  good  team  of  young 
horses,  and  moved  to  a  small  pasture  place  on  the  road  that 
separated  Greene  and  Scott  counties.  We  were  still  in  Greene 
County  and  Lovelace  district.  My  brothers  and  sisters  now  had 
to  walk  one  and  a  half  miles  through  wooded  pastures  to  school. 
We  were  five  miles  over  dirt  roads  to  Patterson  and  the  high 
school. 

For  my  second  year  of  high  school  I  went  to  Blue  Mound 
in  Macon  County  and  worked  for  my  board  with  a  cousin  on 
Mother's  side  of  the  family.  Again,  I  was  very  homesick  and 
went  home  for  the  summer.  Dad  bought  an  over-sized  buggy 
and  a  very  old  pony  for  me  to  drive  to  Patterson  for  my  third  year 
of  high  school  in  Patterson.  It  was  only  a  three-year  high  school, 
so  even  though  I  graduated,  I  wanted  to  return  to  Blue  Mound 
for  my  last  year.  Dad  helped  me  do  that  too.  Before  graduating, 
I  had  passed  the  examination  for  a  teacher's  certificate,  and  had 
been  hired  to  teach  in  a  one-room  country  school  in  Christian 
County,  just  a  mile  from  Blue  Mound.  My  salary  was  a  fabulous 
one  hundred  dollars  for  an  eight-month  term. 

Dad  was  very  proud  of  me,  and  of  my  brothers  and 
sisters.  Gladys  finished  her  high  school  in  Blue  Mound  and 
began  teaching  in  Macon  County.  George  rode  horseback  to 
Patterson,  graduated,  then  got  his  fourth  year  in  White  Hall. 
Earl  graduated  from  White  Hall,  too.  Soon  after,  he  was  killed 
in  a  hunting  accident. 

Glenn  a  finished  two  years  of  high  school  in  Patterson 
when  our  parents  moved  again.  This  time  to  western  Greene 
County,  almost  on  the  bank  of  the  Illinois  River,  directly  across 
from  the  village  of  Pearl  in  Pike  County.  Dad  and  Mom  could 
see  no  way  to  get  both  Glenna  and  Carl  enrolled  in  a  high  school. 
He  owned  no  car  and  there  were  too  many  miles  to  get  over. 
There  was  a  good  school  in  Pearl,  but  the  river  was  between. 


Glenna  would  be  a  junior  and  Carl  a  freshman.  They  had  to  get 
across  that  river.  He  borrowed  a  row-boat  from  the  man  who 
operated  the  ferry.  "Peelie"  Jones  also  taught  them  how  to  row, 
how  to  ride  the  waves,  and  to  always  have  a  target  on  the 
opposite  bank  to  head  for,  and  to  always  keep  in  sight  of  the 
railroad  bridge.  They  had  many  exciting  times  and  a  few 
dangerous  experiences  during  that  winter. 

The  next  year  the  family  moved  back  to  a  farm  near 
Alsey.  Carl  graduated  from  Alsey  and  went  to  Winchester  for 
his  final  year  of  high  school.  Glenna  worked  for  her  room  and 
board  in  White  Hall.  A  new  law  had  been  passed  and  Glenna 
could  not  get  a  teacher's  certificate  by  writing  an  examination 
as  her  sisters  had  done.  She  borrowed  money  and  enrolled  in 
the  state  university  in  Normal.  After  two  years  of  skimping  and 
cooking  her  own  meals,  she  had  earned  a  college  degree  and 
gotten  a  license  to  teach. 

At  last  Dad  was  ready  to  give  up  trying  to  farm  small 
farms  with  horses  in  the  age  of  cars  and  tractors.  He  sold  out 
and  bought  a  small  home  in  Drake,  midway  between  Patterson 
and  White  Hall.  Mom  and  Dad  were  content.  Of  course,  their 
lives  had  been  filled  with  hard  work  and  problems,  and  they  had 
buried  three  sons,  Loren  as  a  baby  and  both  George  and  Earl  as 
young  married  men.  But  two  remaining  sons  and  three  daugh- 
ters were  married  and  rearing  families.  All  were  well  respected 
citizens.  And  all  had  completed  high  school,  except  Buell.  He 
had  earned  the  respect  of  the  community  when  he  quit  school  at 
the  time  that  the  levy  broke  and  flooded  the  river  bottom  farms. 
He  wanted  to  help  our  parents  because  they  had  lost  their  entire 
crop.  He  never  returned  to  school,  but  he  had  a  useful  life. 

Dad  had  always  felt  humiliated  because  he  was  illiter- 
ate. But  to  me,  he  and  Mom  had  every  right  to  be  very  proud  of 
their  achievement.  They  are  both  gone  now,  but  they  left  a  love 
for  reading  and  books,  and  a  desire  for  diplomas  and  college 
degrees,  that  made  an  enormous  difference  in  the  lives  of  their 
children. 


IV  UnforgettahleTeople 


UNFORGETTABLE  PEOPLE 

It  is  fascinating  to  consider  humankind.  Philosophers, 
theologians,  and  writers  focus  on  all  aspects  of  men  and  women 
that  captivate  the  imagination  and  interest.  One  thing  is  clear: 
Every  person  has  the  capability  of  accomplishing  great  good 
and  shameful  evil.  Thought  by  humanists  to  be  basically  good 
and  by  conservative  theologians  to  be  basically  evil,  human 
beings  remain  an  enigma.  Thus,  the  argument  rages,  as  it  has 
done  since  the  beginning  of  recorded  history:  What  is  the  nature 
of  humankind? 

And  this  query  leads  to  a  myriad  of  other  questions. 
What  is  admirable  in  people?  What  is  base?  What  makes  them 
special?  What  is  there  to  love?  What  is  there  to  hate?  What 
makes  people  unforgettable? 

The  questions  grow  and  proliferate.  It  is  to  these 
questions  and  others  that  the  writers  of  the  memoirs  addressed 
themselves  in  presenting  and  analyzing  their  favorite  and 
unforgettable  people.  The  resulting  verbal  portraits  present 
many  fine,  admirable  individuals.  Indeed,  an  affirmation  of 
people,  those  they  present,  is  apparent.  It  is  comforting  to  read 
of  such  worthy  persons  and  their  capacity  for  love  and  right 
action.  It  is  also  captivating  to  note  the  richness  of  their 
characters.  In  like  manner,  it  is  quite  revealing  to  note  the 
integrity  and  character  of  those  who  wrote  the  memoirs. 

To  whom  do  the  ten  writers  turn  their  attention?  For  all 
but  one,  relatives  are  the  most  interesting  characters  they  have 
known:  three  wrote  about  their  grandfathers,  one  about  her 
mother,  two  about  their  fathers,  and  two  about  their  aunts. 

In  writing  of  her  grandfather,  Dorothy  Van  Meter  re- 
calls her  loved  one's  hard  work  and  love.  Eleanor  Bussell 
provides  an  indepth  characterization  of  her  grandmother,  while 
Ruth  Rogers  speaks  fondly  of  her  remarkable  grandfather,  who 
was,  in  fact,  like  a  father  to  her. 

In  a  touching,  exquisite  memoir,  Martha  K.  Graham 


recalls  her  grandfather,  an  extraordinary  man  who  loved  his 
family  dearly  and  who  was  a  person  of  great  quality.  Joe  Adams' 
father  was  a  new  American  who  was  a  master  craftsman  as  well 
as  a  good  and  decent  man. 

Doris  Nash  wrote  an  unforgettable  tribute  to  her  mother, 
in  which  she  said: 

For  over  sixty  years,  I  have  copied  this  extraordi- 
naryn  lady  in  many  ways,  and  I  have  used  her 
methods  for  raising  my  own  children.  I  live  many 
miles  from  her,  but  she  lightens  my  heart  each 
time  I  drive  to  Grout  Street,  enter  the  small 
house,  and  see  her  happy  welcoming  smile. 

Eva  Watson  and  Effie  Campbell  wrote  tributes  to  their 
aunts.  Eva  shares  how  her  Aunt  Mary  built  her  self-confidence, 
and  Effie  told  of  an  aunt  ■mth  an  "undaunted  spirit"  who  was  a 
perfectionist  in  all  things. 

Ruth  Taylor  tells  of  a  woman  who  was  not  lovable  and 
who  put  up  with  no  foolishness  whatsoever.  Included  is  the 
intriguing  tale  of  her  murder  and  the  eventual  solution  to  the 
crime.  Betty  Hardwick  shares  the  life  of  a  fine,  noble  lady  of 
courage,  Helen  McClay,  whose  response  to  tragedy  is  summed 
up  this  way: 

Helen's  sorrow  was  deep  but  her  faith  in  her  God 
kept  her  going,  and,  as  always,  she  was  every  inch 
a  lady.  Helen  McClay's  spirit  was  never  broken, 
and  she  never  gave  up  or  became  embittered. 

Included  in  these  memoirs  are  compelling  character 
studies  of  ten  people.  Nine  of  them  were  wonderful,  loving 
people;  one  was  not-but  even  she  demonstrated  an  indomitable 
will.  In  these  portraits,  there  is  much  that  is  admirable.  Such 
people  offer  models  for  a  nation  sadly  in  need  of  them. 


Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


C.  H.  KING  OF  ROSEVILLE 

Martha  K.  Graham 

For  many  years  my  father  C.  H.  King  (Herb  King,  as 
everyone  called  him)  was  a  blacksmith  in  Roseville.  To  be  a 
blacksmith  was  to  know  everyone  in  town  and  in  the  county 
around  for  miles. 

On  my  way  home  from  grade  school,  I  often  stopped  at 
his  shop  to  watch  him  at  work.  The  smell  of  horses  and  leather, 
the  heat  of  the  forge  where  he  fired  horseshoes  and  other  metals 
until  they  were  red  hot,  the  clang  of  the  heavy  hammer  on  the 
anvil  where  he  shaped  horseshoes  to  the  horses'  hooves,  the  acid 
smell  of  red  hot  metal  being  plunged  by  heavy  tongs  into  cooling 
water — all  these  are  as  clear  to  me  as  if  they  were  happening 
this  minute. 

Any  kind  of  horse  might  be  in  the  shop — farm  work 
horses,  ponies,  driving  horses,  riding  horses,  even  race  horses 
(one  called  Minor  Heir  was  owned  by  someone  in  Monmouth). 

My  grandfather,  Perry  McCaw,  a  carpenter,  was  always 
there  building  cabinets  and  other  things  made  of  wood  to  a 
customer's  order.  There  were  always  men  waiting  around  and 
talking.  They  took  no  notice  of  me. 

A  wink  from  my  father  was  the  only  way  I  knew  that  he 
knew  I  was  there.  He  didn't  stop  work.  On  the  knee  of  his 
leather  apron  he  took  up  the  horse's  foot,  pared  down  the  hoof, 
made  a  horseshoe  to  fit  the  horse's  hoof,  and  finally  nailed  it  on 
while  the  horse  stood  quite  still. 

While  work  was  going  on  I  could  look  around  at  things, 
if  I  stayed  out  of  the  way.  Sawhorses  stood  around  loaded  with 
waiting  saddles  and  leather  harness  straps.  From  the  walls 
and  the  rafters  hung  hundreds  of  horseshoes  like  so  many  bats 
hanging  in  their  cave.  The  walls  were  hung  with  cabinets  whose 
drawers  and  doors  held  nails,  nuts,  bolts,  hammers,  saws,  files, 
chisels,  and  all  kinds  of  metal  equipment.  On  a  shelf,  a  Seth 
Thomas  clock  chimed  the  hour,  its  mahogany  case  blistered  by 


the  heat.  Under  the  shelf  was  displayed  a  collection  of  fancy, 
whimsically  designed  horseshoes  that  my  father  had  made  for 
fun.  Captain's  chairs  stood  around  for  the  customers'  conve- 
nience, with  a  spittoon  or  two  alongside. 

No  matter  how  often  my  grandfather  wielded  the  push- 
broom,  the  floor  was  always  oily  and  dirty  with  sawdust  strewn 
with  metal  filings  and  woodshavings,  horseshoe  nails,  and 
other  things  that  caught  a  child's  notice.  I  would  stir  up  the 
sawdust,  collecting  horseshoe  nails  for  my  friends  and  me  to 
take  to  the  railroad  tracks  for  flattening  when  the  frequent 
trains  went  through.  Those  nails  with  their  thick  tops  made 
fine  miniature  swords  and  scissors. 

It  was  always  very  hot  in  the  shop,  no  matter  what  the 
weather  outside,  so  my  father  always  wore  a  sleeveless  under- 
shirt leaving  his  muscular  arms  bare.  Seeing  him,  I  was  always 
reminded  of  "The  Village  Blacksmith,"  which  we  had  memo- 
rized in  school.  "The  smith,  a  mighty  man  was  he."  Indeed,  I 
was  proud  of  such  a  father. 

Sometimes  farmers  brought  in  plows  for  him  to  sharpen, 
and  other  machinery  to  be  repaired.  One  awful  day,  a  blade 
slipped  as  he  was  sharpening  it  and  cut  his  leg  to  the  bone.  I  was 
not  there  to  see  it. 

One  ghastly  night  my  father's  shop,  a  frame  building, 
burned  to  the  ground.  His  only  consolation  was  that  no  lives 
were  lost.  He  immediately  rebuilt  on  the  same  spot.  That 
concrete  block  building  still  stands  and  has  served  Roseville  in 
several  capacities  since  its  beginning  as  a  blacksmith  shop. 

Much  as  my  father  loved  horses,  he  fell  in  love  with  the 
new  automobiles  when  they  took  the  country  by  storm.  Gifted 
in  the  understanding,  the  working,  and  the  repairing  of  ma- 
chines, he  could  fix  anything,  and  soon  he  was  doubling  as  an 
automobile  mechanic.  He  was  aware  that  the  automobile  would 
inevitably  make  his  work  with  horses  obsolete,  yet  he  owned 
one  of  the  first  automobiles  in  Roseville,  a  St.  Louis,  and  later 
a  Rambler.  Spoofing  the  unreliability  of  the  early  automobile 


70 


engines,  there  was  a  popular  song  of  the  day  called  "Get  Out  and 
Get  Under."  More  than  once  my  father  "got  out  and  got  under" 
when  he  took  the  family  out  for  a  joy  ride.  He  kept  a  kit  of 
wrenches  and  repairs  handy  for  just  such  emergencies. 

Competition  from  several  new  Roseville  garages  made 
my  father  decide  on  another  kind  of  business — plumbing.  He 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  pass  a  stiff  examination  which 
involved  mathematics  and  the  practical  application  of  certain 
plumbing  skills.  He  had  been  able  to  acquire  only  a  fourth- 
grade  education  before  his  father  had  kept  him  out  of  school  to 
do  a  man's  work  on  their  farm,  so  he  was  quite  concerned  about 
the  examination. 

Many  a  night  we  two  sat  at  the  round  dining  table,  I  with 
my  homework  and  he  with  his  correspondence  course  on  plumb- 
ing. Together  we  figured  out  the  mysteries  of  3.1416  (pi)  and 
what  uses  plumbers  could  make  of  it. 

My  father  regularly  sent  in  his  correspondence  assign- 
ments, and  when  he  had  successfully  completed  the  course,  a 
Mr.  Entrikan  of  Monmouth,  a  Master  Plumber,  checked  him  out 
on  the  practical  skills  of  the  plumbing  business.  How  proud  we 
were  of  his  success  when  he  received  his  Master  Plumber 
License.  He  framed  it  and  hung  it  in  his  place  of  business.  (  I 
still  have  that  framed  certificate  with  its  gold  seal  of  approval, 
and  it  is  a  pleasure  just  to  look  at  it.) 

At  that  time,  plumbing  was  not  the  lucrative  business 
that  it  is  today,  so  after  several  years  as  a  plumber  he  cast  about 
for  something  better. 

It  happened  that  the  home-owned  Roseville  Telephone 
Company  needed  a  manager  who  could  understand  the  intrica- 
cies of  a  telephone  switchboard  and  do  a  lineman's  work  as  well. 
The  Board  of  Directors  knew  that  my  father  could  fix  anything, 
so  they  hired  him.  Once  more  the  dining  table  was  piled  with 
books  to  study,  this  time  without  benefit  of  a  correspondence 
course. 

My  mother,  good  at  figures,  helped  with  the  office 
bookkeeping.   She  prepared  our  noon  meal  before  she  left  for 


work  each  morning,  and  left  it  to  cook  slowly  in  an  electric  All- 
Day-Cooker,  a  new  gadget  that  my  father  had  brought  home. 
She  enjoyed  the  company  of  the  several  telephone  operators, 
among  whom  were  Goldie  Reed,  Ethel  Mink,  Millie  Hoffnagle, 
and  Inez  Watson. 

Two  parents  working,  unusual  at  that  time,  was  frowned 
on  in  certain  circles.  My  mother  had  to  drop  out  of  some  social 
activities.  Her  working  hours  did  not  coincide  with  meeting 
times  of  some  organizations.  But  the  King  family  was  happy, 
and  prospering. 

Suddenly,  the  Great  Depression  descended.  The  Roseville 
Telephone  Company,  in  order  to  survive,  had  to  merge  with 
other  small  companies.  My  father's  services  had  to  be  dispensed 
with,  and  my  mother's,  too. 

From  that  time  on,  for  the  rest  of  my  father's  life,  and  of 
the  lives  of  those  of  his  generation,  everything  was  all  "down- 
hill." He  worked  at  whatever  he  could  find  to  do,  and  set  up  a 
repair  shop  at  home.  Often  his  customers  could  not  pay.  He 
kept  a  strict  account  of  his  income  and  his  expenses  in  a  small 
notebook.  (I  still  have  this  little  book.  It  is  a  heartbreaking 
testament  of  one  family  man's  struggle  to  survive  in  the  Depres- 
sion years.) 

My  father's  household  grew  from  five  to  ten,  as  it  became 
necessary  to  take  in  relatives  who  could  no  longer  adequately 
support  themselves.  He  lost  the  house  we  lived  in,  remodeled 
another,  and  lost  that.  Finally,  he  rented  a  large  old  house  wdth 
room  enough  for  his  dependents.  The  only  breadwinner  besides 
himself  was  my  Aunt  Millie  McCaw,  who  continued  to  work  at 
cut  wages  in  Bennett's  Dry  Goods  Store,  which  had  been  sold  to 
other  owners,  and  who  took  in  sewing.  She  made  all  our  clothes, 
turned  my  father's  shirt  collars,  and  patched  and  mended.  My 
father  planted  a  big  garden,  as  always,  and  my  mother,  as 
always,  "put  up"  the  surplus.  The  ten  of  us  did  not  even  come 
close  to  starving.  Neither  did  the  tramps  (who  must  have  had 
our  house  marked)  who  ate  many  a  well-filled  plate  of  food  as 
they  sat  on  our  back  porch  steps. 


My  father's  relief  and  joy  knew  no  bounds  when  he 
finally  found  a  job  as  a  garage  mechanic,  working  in  his  old 
blacksmith  shop.  When  his  employer  put  in  plow  sharpening 
and  other  such  services  to  farmers,  once  more  he  had  use  for  his 
blacksmithing  skills.  Things  seemed  at  last  to  be  looking  up, 
and  he  was  glad  to  work  long,  steady  hours. 

But  things  for  my  father  had  come  full  circle.  One 
extremely  hot  summer  day,  hard  work  in  the  overpowering  heat 
of  the  shop  was  too  much  for  him.  Carleton  Gossett  of  Roseville 
came  into  the  shop  that  day  and  found  him  sitting  there 
helpless,  unable  even  to  speak,  and  knew  that  he  had  had  a 
stroke.  My  father  was  aware  of  this  last  tragedy  that  had 
befallen  him.  No  one  knew  how  long  he  had  been  sitting  there 
waiting  for  help  to  come,  nor  what  his  thoughts  must  have  been. 

My  father  was  a  man  of  high  intelligence,  integrity, 
ingenuity,  and  determination.  He  was  gifted  in  the  understand- 
ing of  things  mechanical,  in  drawing,  in  original  thinking,  and 
in  inventions.  He  was  versatile,  adaptable,  and  creative  in 
many  ways.  I  have  wondered  what  his  life  would  have  been  like 
if  he  had  had  the  advantage  of  higher  education. 

Like  most  Roseville  people,  my  father  saw  everything 
that  he  had  worked  for  swept  away  and  could  do  nothing  about 
it  except  to  work  when  he  could  and  to  endure.  Determined  to 
carry  on  at  work  too  exhausting  for  a  man  of  his  age,  he  died 
trying  to  save  those  dependent  on  him. 

On  the  wall  beside  his  telephone,  my  father  had  hung 
two  small  wooden  plaques,  one  of  Washington,  one  of  Lincoln  (I 
still  have  them.).  Below  them  was  this  motto: 

Be  thou  not  false  unto  thyself, 

And  it  must  follow  as  the  day  the  night, 

Thou  can't  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

He  saw  this  motto  every  time  he  lifted  the  receiver  off  its 
hook.  No  truer  words  could  have  been  said  about  the  way  he 
lived  his  life. 


DONA  DONUT,  UNFORGETTABLE  GIVER 

Dorris  Taylor  Nash 

Dona,  a  lanky,  freckled  offspring  of  a  Baptist  preacher, 
learned  early  in  life  about  hard  work.  Nicknamed  "Donut"  by 
schoolmates,  her  school  days  were  over  due  to  a  near  fatal 
mysterious  lung  disease.  Among  her  family  photographs  is  a 
picture  of  a  gaunt  twelve-year-old  face  peering  at  a  camera  with 
her  clothing  loosely  hanging  on  her  shrunken  figure.  Her  family 
wanted  a  picture  of  the  child  before  she  died.  But  she  lived, 
crediting  her  Irish  background  and  prayers  to  God  for  survival. 
As  a  teen,  she  worked  hard  in  cane  fields  during  hot  Illinois 
summers  to  further  the  family  sorghum  molasses  venture. 
Believing  she  was  the  homely  one  in  the  family,  she  was 
surprised  when  a  very  handsome  man  named  Irven  Fisher  from 
nearby  Belltown  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  They  married  in  1923. 

Marriage  brought  years  of  hard  work  for  the  couple. 
They  lived  as  tenant  farmers  for  awhile  and  then  Irven  got  a 
factory  job.  Ten  babies  arrived  the  first  twenty  years,  and  Dona 
buried  four  of  her  children  in  her  lifetime.  Two  died  as  infants: 
Gene,  the  happy-go-lucky  son,  died  in  an  auto  accident  as  a 
young  husband,  and  Jo  Ann,  unable  to  cope  with  the  breaking 
up  of  her  marriage,  committed  suicide. 

Christmas  always  makes  me  remember  Dona's  efforts 
to  put  holiday  cheer  in  her  house.  Money  was  scarce  for  so  many 
years,  but  the  live  tree  always  was  decorated  with  popped  com 
garlands  and  twisted  strips  of  red  and  green  crepe  paper.  A 
honeycombed  bell  always  hung  from  the  ceiling  light  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  I  still  think  true  Christmas  colors  are  red 
and  green. 

The  family  motto  was  "make  do  with  what  we  have,"  so 
the  vegetable  garden,  the  cow  in  the  small  bam  on  the  back  of 
the  lot,  the  flock  of  chickens  in  the  small  hen  house,  and  the  pig 
raised  and  butchered  each  winter  provided  good  food  and 
nutrition  at  her  table  each  day.   She  opened  her  home  to  any 


relative  who  needed  a  temporary  home  and  never  seemed  to 
mind  the  crowding  the  family  put  up  with  to  make  room  for  a 
guest. 

During  the  1930s,  her  kitchen  door  was  almost  a  daily 
target  by  the  occupants  of  the  local  hobo  jungle  a  couple  blocks 
away  by  the  railroad  tracks  in  White  Hall,  Illinois.  No  hungry 
man  was  turned  away,  and  whatever  the  family  was  eating  the 
hoboes  got  a  share  of.  One  day  as  she  was  sweating  and 
diligently  scrubbing  away  on  the  washboard  under  a  tree  in  her 
backyard,  a  hobo  walked  around  the  house  and  asked  for  a  meal. 
It  was  nearly  noon. 

Receiving  a  plate  of  beans  and  corn  bread,  the  wash  day 
menu,  he  ate  hungrily  and  then,  seated  on  the  porch  steps, 
began  to  answer  questions  about  his  travels.  He  told  her  he  and 
his  wife  had  been  diamond  hunters  in  South  America  in  part  of 
the  Amazon  River  basin.  When  asked  if  he  found  diamonds,  he 
replied  in  the  affirmative. 

Looking  at  the  hard  working  woman,  fanning  herself 
with  a  folded  newspaper  in  an  effort  to  cool  off,  he  said,  "I  like 
your  face,  ma'am.  Your  high  forehead  tells  me  you  are  honest, 
so  I  am  going  to  show  you  something.  I  will  trust  you  not  to  tell 
what  I  have  with  me.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  real  diamond?" 

On  seeing  the  negative  shake  of  her  head,  he  continued, 
"One  day  my  wife's  horse  kicked  up  a  big  diamond  in  some  sand 
along  the  Amazon.  We  had  to  share  our  find  with  the  Brazilian 
government,  but  we  smuggled  that  one  out  of  the  country.  Later 
I  had  it  cut  up  into  several  smaller  stones  and  polished.  They 
are  my  security  when  I  quit  roaming  the  country.  I  will  show 
you  some  of  them." 

Reaching  down  into  the  hidden  recesses  of  his  clothing, 
he  removed  a  roll  of  cloth  from  a  dark  pouch.  Unrolling  several 
layers  of  cloth,  he  revealed  four  stones,  probably  two  carat 
weight  each,  sparkling  in  the  noon  day  sun,  and  Dona  saw  the 
first  diamonds  in  her  life. 

She  asked  why  he  was  bumming  when  he  had  that  kind 


of  security  and  he  replied  that  his  wife  had  died  shortly  before 
and  he  was  trying  to  cope  with  loneliness  by  moving  around. 
Strangely  enough  he  even  told  Dona  his  name  and  his  home- 
town name  downstate.  Fifteen  or  so  years  later.  Dona's  son  Pat 
brought  a  co-worker  home  from  a  munitions  plant  at  East  Alton, 
Illinois.  He  mentioned  his  hometown  and  it  was  the  same  as  the 
hobo.  She  asked  the  young  man  if  he  knew  John  Chance  in  his 
town.  He  said  John  Chance  lived  alone,  kept  to  himself,  and 
nobody  knew  much  about  him  except  that  he  seemed  to  be  able 
to  look  after  himself 

Dona  didn't  tell  that  he  probably  was  living  off  dia- 
monds, for  she  had  promised  not  to  tell.  It  gave  her  a  good 
feeling  to  know  he  had  finally  settled  down  and  made  a  home  for 
himself  at  last. 

With  all  her  daily  chores.  Dona  found  time  to  devote  to 
her  children.  Stories  were  told,  games  played,  and  right  and 
wrong  was  taught.  Grout  Street,  where  she  lived,  was  three 
blocks  long  and  was  kid  heaven  as  nearly  forty  boys  and  girls, 
including  a  few  who  drifted  over  to  play  from  Porter  Avenue, 
gathered  in  the  three-acre  plot  of  ground  across  from  her  house. 
She  kept  an  eye  out  for  fair  play,  settled  arguments,  wiped 
bloody  noses,  showed  the  kids  how  to  slog  a  Softball  across  the 
pasture,  and  sent  home  any  kid  that  created  trouble  or  wouldn't 
play  "fair."  Tin  can  shinny  was  a  popular  game  if  the  kids  could 
sneak  the  game  when  she  wasn't  watching.  Tin  can  shinny  was 
a  form  of  street  hockey  with  a  tin  can  representing  the  puck. 
The  best  part  of  the  game  was  getting  a  couple  of  tins  cans 
smashed  and  bent  to  clamp  onto  the  soles  of  their  shoes  so  they 
made  a  clatter  during  the  game.  She  paddled  her  kids  once  in 
awhile  for  tearing  off  shoe  soles  with  the  tin  cans.  New  shoes 
were  scarce  at  her  house. 

Dona  gave  much  of  her  time  and  self  to  anyone  who 
needed  her.  The  barnyard,  chicken  house,  and  garden  put  food 
many  nights  on  neighborhood  tables.  Clothing  was  exchanged, 
and  she  helped  to  sit  at  nights  with  a  sick  child  other  than  her 


own.  She  had  an  inner  strength  that  helped  her  through  each 
day  and  whatever  problems  it  brought  her. 

At  age  forty,  she  gave  birth  to  her  last  child  and  then 
gave  a  lot  of  help  to  her  children  who  were  married.  She  took 
care  of  every  newborn  grandchild  who  came  along.  It  was 
simply  taken  for  granted  that  Dona  would  be  there  to  help. 

In  her  forties,  she  was  appointed  chairman  of  the  local 
VFW  Auxiliary  Christmas  drive  and  held  the  position  for  over 
twenty  years.  She  talked  people  into  donating,  and  all  her 
family  at  one  time  or  another  assisted  in  carrying  the  Christmas 
donations  to  the  homes  of  the  needy  on  Christmas  eve.  I  recall 
my  husband  coming  back  from  his  trip  with  her  one  year 
laughing  heartedly  at  a  question  from  a  four-year-old  boy  who 
had  never  seen  anyone  but  her  bring  Christmas  to  the  house. 
He  clutched  my  husband's  hand  to  get  his  attention,  looked  up 
seriously  in  his  face,  and  asked,  "Is  her  Missus  Santa  Claus?" 

Dona's  spirit  and  health  began  to  fail  in  her  seventies 
following  the  death  of  her  beloved  Jo  Ann.  Her  grief  was  soul 
deep  and  the  light  went  out  within  her.  It  grieved  her  family  to 
see  her  become  a  victim  of  strokes  and  serious  heart  disease. 
She  is  eighty-five  now  and  she  must  sit  and  let  others  do  for  her. 
Her  memory  span  is  short  and  sometimes  she  doesn't  recognize 
her  sons  and  daughters  when  they  come  home.  She  is  so 
beautiful  with  her  Irish  blue  eyes  still  bright  and  smiling  under 
her  silver  white  hair.  Her  family  sees  beauty  in  her  worn  face 
and  they  recognize  the  inner  love  of  this  woman  who  has  given 
all  her  life  to  help  and  do  for  others.  She  put  family  first,  friends 
second,  and  herself  last.  She  is  an  avid  television  wrestling  fan, 
getting  excited  when  dirty  wrestling  occurs  and  whooping  with 
glee  when  her  favorite  wrestler  wins.  Her  family  gets  quite  a 
chuckle  out  of  her  enthusiasm. 

"To  know  Dona  was  to  love  her."  I  am  so  thankful  I  was 
around  to  know  her  during  my  lifetime.  I  saw  her  tears  when 
she  buried  her  children.  I  watched  her  feed  the  hoboes,  I  saw  the 
diamonds,  too,  and  helped  carry  Christmas  gifts  for  her  to  the 


poor  and  even  donned  a  Santa  suit  once  when  her  Santa  didn't 
show  up.  I  absorbed  her  Irish  sense  of  humor,  her  talkative 
nature,  and  witnessed  her  delight  when  she  finally  got  an 
automatic  washer  and  dryer  when  she  was  sixty  years  old.  I 
learned  that  if  you  don't  laugh  at  life  you  sure  will  cry  a  lot  and 
that  God  takes  care  of  all  of  us  in  His  own  way  and  time. 

Dona's  small  green  cottage  no  longer  rings  with  the 
sound  of  children  except  on  holidays  when  the  clan  gathers.  She 
uses  a  walker  to  move  around  and  spiritedly  gives  her  husband 
an  argument  when  she  doesn't  agree  with  him.  Some  of  her 
funny  remarks  are  family  treasures. 

For  over  sixty-six  years,  I  have  copied  this  extraordinary 
lady  in  many  ways,  and  have  used  her  methods  for  raising  my 
own  children.  I  live  many  miles  from  her,  but  she  lightens  my 
heart  each  time  I  drive  to  Grout  Street  and  enter  the  small 
house  and  see  her  happy,  welcoming  smile  in  response  to  my 
saying,  "Hi,  Mom,  I'm  home  again!" 


EVERYONE  SHOULD  HAVE  AN  AUNT  MARY 

Eva  Baker  Watson 


When  we're  bogged  down  in  a  project  that  seems  impos- 
sible, when  our  morale  takes  a  nosedive  and  our  wheels  begin 
to  spin,  we  all  need  a  special  someone  to  say,  "OF  COURSE  you 
can  do  it!"  That  someone  for  me  was  my  Aunt  Mary.  For  who 
knew  better  than  she  about  overcoming  obstacles,  about  mak- 
ing the  most  of  opportunities? 

Aunt  Mary  Trovillion  Musgrave,  bom  in  the  late  1800s, 
grew  up  on  an  isolated  farm  near  the  small  Southern  Illinois 
village  of  Brownfield.  She  was  the  daughter  who  "stayed  home 
with  Mother"  after  all  the  others  had  fled  the  nest  for  higher 
learning  and  marriage.   Her  formal  schooling  ended  with  the 


eighth  grade  in  a  rural  school,  but  this  did  not  stunt  her 
education  or  the  development  of  a  pattern  of  industry  and 
creativity  that  enriched  her  life  and  the  lives  of  others. 

In  her  teens  she  shared  her  artistic  talent  by  leading  an 
art  class  for  other  young  people  in  the  community.  Later,  for  a 
time,  having  a  natural  bent  for  figures,  she  served  as  assistant 
cashier  of  the  First  Bank  of  Brownfield.  Approaching  middle 
age,  then,  she  was  appointed  postmistress  there.  Ten  years  she 
held  this  office,  walking  two  rugged  miles  daily,  morning  and 
evening,  rooming  and  boarding  near  her  work  only  when  the 
weather  was  its  worst.  Our  family  lived  close  by  and  we  thought 
it  was  a  treat  when  Aunt  Mary  would  spend  the  night  with  us. 

In  the  post  office  position,  her  horizons  broadened.  This 
small  office  served  the  village's  one  hundred  citizens  and  two 
rural  routes.  With  Aunt  Mary  in  it,  it  became  a  bustling  place, 
not  because  of  mail  that  came  and  went  by  I.C.  Railroad  and  two 
carriers,  but  because  of  the  extras  she  inaugurated.  Postal 
duties  required  Aunt  Mary's  presence,  but  didn't  fill  her  time, 
so  she  used  unoccupied  hours  to  provide  other  services. 

The  world  of  reading  was  opened  to  local  people  with  the 
lending  library  Aunt  Mary  established  with  books  brought  in 
from  the  State  Library  in  Springfield.  The  nearest  public 
library  was  ten  unpaved  miles  away,  so  readers  of  the  commu- 
nity were  delighted  with  this  convenience.  Aunt  Mary  also  did 
retailing-sold  gift  items,  millinery,  and  magazine  subscrip- 
tions. With  her  love  for  people,  her  friendliness  and  gracious- 
ness  to  her  patrons,  she  soon  became  everyone's  beloved  "Miss 
Mary." 

I,  who  had  never  had  a  job  and  was  just  out  of  high  school 
in  the  middle  of  the  depression  and  had  no  chance  to  attend 
college,  was  thrilled-and  scared-when  she  made  me  her  assis- 
tant. Even  though  such  responsibility  was  frightening,  espe- 
cially when  I  was  left  alone  there,  Aunt  Mary  simply  said,  "Of 
COURSE  you  can  do  it!"  And  I  did.  Her  trust  gave  my  self- 
confidence  a  needed  boost. 


Sandwiched  in  all  this  activity  was  Aunt  Mary's  avoca- 
tion: writing.  In  every  spare  minute  she  pecked  away  with  two 
fingers  at  her  old  Oliver  typewriter,  and  features  with  her 
byline  soon  began  appearing  in  an  ever-growing  number  of 
publications.  Then  came  upheaval. 

Election  results  put  her  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  political 
fence  and  suddenly  she  no  longer  was  postmistress.  This  proved 
to  be  a  plus  for  her,  for  now  she  could  write  all  the  time  and  her 
writing  career  burgeoned. 

It  was  not  long  afterwards  that  Cupid  came  calling  on 
Aunt  Mary.  Romance  entered  her  life  when  the  Reverend  J.  A. 
Musgrave,  pastor  of  McKinley  Avenue  Baptist  Church  in  Har- 
risburg,  came  courting.  This  was  a  love  match  from  the  start 
and  she  was  his  happy  bride  at  age  fifty. 

My  deeply  religious  Aunt  Mary  found  fulfillment  as  a 
minister's  wife.  Later  when  Mr.  Musgrave  was  made  an- 
nouncer and  coordinator  for  the  WEBQ  daily  radio  program,  the 
Baptist  House,  she  became  his  assistant. 

After  only  a  few  years  of  happiness.  Aunt  Mary  was  left 
a  widow.  She  then  was  appointed  to  fill  her  late  husband's  place 
at  WEBQ.  There  her  influence  took  on  a  new  dimension  and  she 
touched  many  other  lives  as  her  compassionate  voice  spoke 
daily  to  a  broad  range  of  listeners  in  Southern  Illinois  and 
Kentucky  for  twenty-five  years. 

All  through  these  changes  in  her  life.  Aunt  Mary  contin- 
ued turning  out  human  interest  features,  news  stories,  and 
poems  for  The  St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch,  The  St.  Louis  Globe- 
Democrat,  Kessinger's  Midwest  Review,  The  Paducah  Sun- 
Democrat,  The  Golconda  Herald  Enterprise,  The  Evansville 
Courier  and  Press,  and  a  number  of  other  publications. 

When  I  began  my  amateur  writing  career  more  than 
twenty-five  years  ago.  Aunt  Mary  was  my  mentor,  encouraging 
me  in  this  as  she  always  had  in  other  ventures.  After  her  death, 
it  was  inspiring  to  me  to  realize  she  again  was  urging  me  on,  this 
time  in  a  legacy.  She  willed  to  me  her  large  office  desk  and  her 


electric  typewriter.  As  I  use  them  today  I  hear  her  still  saying, 
"Keep  writing!  You  can  do  it!"  She  lives  for  me  now,  unforget- 
tably, a  symbol  of  encouragement. 

Everyone  should  have  an  Aunt  Mary. 


MEMORIES  OF  GRANDMOTHER  THOMAS 

Eleanor  H.  Bussell 

My  memories  of  Grandmother  Thomas  reach  back  about 
seventy  years.  One  of  my  very  first  recollections  is  the  delicious 
meat  pie  that  Grandmother  served  at  the  round  dining-room 
table  on  a  Sunday  when  my  father  and  mother  and  my  younger 
brother,  Jim,  were  my  family  and  we  four  were  at  Grandmother 
and  Grandfather  Thomas's  home  on  the  edge  of  town  for  Sunday 
visiting. 

Surely,  I  must  have  been  about  four  when  I  sat  on 
catalogues  placed  just  so  on  a  chair  to  raise  me  high  enough  to 
sit  at  the  table  with  the  grownups.  Grandmother  would  come 
bustling  to  the  table,  I  remember,  carrying  a  big  blue  and  white 
pan  (the  forerunner  to  the  ceramic  casserole,  I  am  sure)  and  set 
it  in  front  of  Grandfather  for  the  serving.  There  was  a  crusty 
light  brown  cover  punctured  with  slits  that  gave  off  a  fragrant 
aroma  inviting  us  all  to  pass  our  plates  to  the  head  of  the  table. 
After  the  meat  pie  that  had  a  side  dish  of  Grandmother's  yellow 
tomato  preserves,  I  think  there  was  more  often  than  not  pie  for 
dessert. 

Grandmother  knew  that  her  son-in-law,  my  father,  was 
a  great  lover  of  pie-pumpkin,  apple,  cherry,  or  custard-just  as 
long  as  it  was  pie.  Of  course,  the  children  drew  slim  slices  as  it 
was  unwritten  there  were  two  sizes  of  pie.  My  father  was 
generous  with  his  praise  and  complimented  his  mother-in-law 
by  saying  something  like,  "Mrs.  Thomas,  your  pie  is  very  good" 


(with  emphasis  on  the  very)  and  everyone  around  the  table 
would  laugh  in  a  contented,  well-fed  way. 

Grandmother  walked  very  fast-or  so  it  seemed  to  me. 
She  usually  whistled  in  an  undertone  between  her  teeth  as  she 
sailed  about  the  kitchen-to  the  stove  to  get  another  heavy 
flatiron  and  then  back  to  the  ironing  board  that,  because  it  was 
legless,  was  laid  with  the  wide  end  resting  on  the  dining  table 
and  the  smaller,  rounded  end  resting  on  the  back  of  a  kitchen 
chair.  And  she  almost  always  whistled  when  she  came  in  from 
the  back  room  or  summer  kitchen  with  a  big  crock  of  milk  she 
wanted  to  skim.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  ask  why  Grand- 
mother whistled  between  her  teeth  that  way.  Children  of  my 
time  (circa  1916-17)  did  not  ask  such  inquisitive  things  of  their 
Grandmother. 

Grandmother  Thomas  wore  sunbonnets.  Usually  they 
were  blue  and  white  checked  gingham.  Some  of  them  may  have 
been  calico,  but  always  the  predominant  color  was  blue.  Often 
the  sunbonnet  matched  her  apron.  And,  they  were  always  the 
same  style-those  made  with  a  gathered  shawl  which  flowed 
over  her  shoulders  and  gave  protection  from  the  sun  as  she 
worked  in  the  garden.  Of  course.  Grandmother  made  her 
sunbonnets  and  starched  the  wide  brims.  Whenever  she  stepped 
outside  she  wore  her  sunbonnet,  whether  to  the  garden  or  to 
step  down  the  hillside  to  milk  the  cow. 

Her  garden  had  the  finest,  sweetest  strawberries.  Once 
when  I  was  very  small  and  was  visiting  for  a  few  days  at 
Grandmother's  during  the  strawberry  season,  I  was  fed  a  big 
bowl  of  strawberries  with  yellow  cream  poured  over  them  for 
being  obedient  and  taking  a  nap.  I  felt  rather  special  and 
rewarded. 

Grandmother  did  not  have  a  cream  separator  as  we  did 
out  on  my  father's  farm.  She  poured  the  milk  from  the  pail  into 
large  brown  crocks  ( two  gallon  size  they  must  have  been )  and  let 
the  cream  rise.  Then  she  skimmed  off  the  cream  and  poured  it 
into  a  squatty  pitcher  for  its  place  on  the  round  dining-room 


table.  I  was  fascinated  to  watch  Grandfather  pour  the  thick 
cream  into  his  coffee  and  then  to  pour  some  of  the  portion  from 
the  cup  into  a  deep  saucer  to  cool  it  to  drinking  temperature.  I 
presume  the  reason  it  fascinated  me  so  was  because  I  never  saw 
my  father  saucer  his  coffee. 

I  have  a  recollection  of  one  of  my  visits  when  a  dark- 
skinned  man  came  to  the  back  door  and  wanted  milk  and  eggs. 
Grandmother  gave  him  some  brown  eggs  and  put  some  milk  in 
a  tin  syrup  pail.  She  said  the  man  was  a  Gypsy  who  was 
"travelling  through."  Later,  my  mother  told  me  the  Gypsies 
frequently  camped  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  nearby  and  were  known 
to  be  "light-fingered."  Grandmother  said  they  always  asked  her 
for  food  even  though  she  was  quite  sure  they  had  inspected  the 
hens'  nests  before  they  came  to  the  door.  However,  I  never 
heard  her  openly  accusing  them  of  stealing.  It  was  Grandfather's 
opinion  that  they  stole  whatever  they  could  before  they  came  to 
ask  for  any. 

Grandmother  was  a  great  knitter,  too.  She  knitted  socks 
and  mittens  and  caps  and  scarves  by  the  dozen.  All  her 
grandchildren  from  infancy  and  through  grade  school  years 
received  either  a  pair  of  mittens  or  a  pair  of  socks  for  Christmas. 
Every  grandchild  could  count  on  it.  Those  mittens  had  a  knitted 
yam  string  attached  to  each  cuff.  The  string  went  through  the 
coat  sleeve  so  that  the  mittens  dangled  and  gave  no  excuse  to  the 
wearer  for  losing  either  one  or  the  pair.  I  regret  to  say  a  half 
century  later  that  this  grandchild  did  not  appreciate 
Grandmother's  mittens.  Today  I  recall  the  ubiquitous  mitten 
string  whenever  I  lose  a  glove. 

Grandmother  was  a  wonderful  woman,  talented  in  so 
many  ways,  from  knowing  how  to  make  a  poultice  to  treat  a  bee- 
sting  to  the  making  of  the  best  sugar  cookies  anyone  could  eat. 
The  rabbit-  and  chicken-shaped  cookies  that  she  fashioned 
always  had  raisin  eyes.  Her  cookies  were  always  so  plump  and 
tasty.  She  used  buttermilk  in  the  recipe,  I  remember  hearing 
my  mother  say.   Sometimes  she  sprinkled  a  little  bit  of  sugar 


over  the  top  of  the  cookie  just  before  they  were  popped  into  the 
oven  of  the  old  ironclad  range.  And  then  she  sometimes  served 
graham  cracker  "sandwiches"  filled  with  either  lemon  or  vanilla 
flavored  frosting.  I  also  remember  that  when  we  children  went 
to  Grandmother's  we  were  forbidden  beforehand  to  ask  for 
cookies  or  anything  to  eat.  We  children  were  at  that  time 
brother  Jim  and  little  sister  Libby  and  me.  We  were  instructed 
to  wait  until  Grandmother  said  briskly,  "Well,  who  wants  a 
cookie?"  She  usually  added  that  she  baked  them  fresh  after  she 
got  the  churning  done  that  morning. 

Of  course,  we  wanted  a  cookie.  And  we  ate  carefully  with 
nibbles  so  as  not  to  spill  any  crumbs.  If  it  were  summer  and 
some  of  the  other  grandchildren  were  also  visiting,  we  took  our 
fat  cookies  or  the  frosted  graham  crackers  out  to  the  side  porch 
where  we  could  eat  without  fear  of  dropping  crumbs  on  the  red 
and  white  carpet  in  the  sitting  room. 

Grandmother  laid  the  carpet  at  the  Thomas  home,  too. 
She  had  the  same  red  and  white  carpet  pattern  in  the  sitting 
room,  in  the  parlor  (which  was  seldom  used),  and  on  the  stairs. 
Nor  did  any  leftover  pieces  go  to  waste.  Those  smaller  pieces 
worked  just  dandy  for  chair  seats,  especially  on  the  kitchen 
chairs.  One  of  my  treasured  souvenirs  is  the  carpet-tack 
hammer  with  a  slot  near  the  base  of  the  handle  to  hold  the  entire 
tack  while  another  was  being  tacked  into  place.  Not  only  is  it 
a  genuine  antique,  but  has  additional  sentimental  value  be- 
cause it  was  Grandmother's  tool. 

And  Grandmother  could  do  the  double  feather-stitch 
embroidery  beautifully  and  evenly.  She  made  splashers  for  the 
bedroom  washstands.  Her  favorite  pattern  was  a  graceful  swan 
embroidered  among  red  floating  lily  pads.  Off-white  muslin 
was  the  material  and  the  swan  was  framed  in  double  feather 
stitching-always  in  red. 

She  embroidered  a  muslin  coverlet  using  the  same  red 
embroidery  thread.  She  made  blocks,  with  each  block  contain- 
ing a  simple  object  such  as  a  cup  and  saucer,  a  chair,  a  vase  of 


flowers,  and  so  on-drawing  out  each  pattern  herself.  In  one 
corner  block,  the  date  of  the  embroidery  was  stitched  in.  And 
the  blocks  were  set  together  with  the  double  feather-stitch.  She 
made  that  coverlet  in  1891,  the  year  my  mother  was  born. 

I  won't  forget  the  cold  rainy  morning  in  early  May  when 
Grandmother  died.  There  had  been  a  hard  storm  in  the  night 
and  Grandmother  just  couldn't  get  her  breath,  Grandfather 
said.  The  lightning  had  damaged  the  telephone  line,  and  he 
walked  into  town  to  the  nearest  telephone  to  call  a  doctor.  But 
it  was  too  late  to  get  help  for  Grandmother.  The  same  storm  had 
damaged  the  phone  lines  out  at  our  farm  and  Grandfather  could 
not  reach  us.  About  7:30  in  the  morning,  a  neighbor  drove  his 
team  and  wagon  into  the  yard  to  give  my  father  and  mother  the 
news.  He  had  intercepted  the  jangling  phone  on  the  party  line 
and  had  talked  with  Grandfather. 

It  was  a  home  funeral .  Grandmother  was  laid  out  in  the 
not-often-used  parlor.  She  was  dressed,  I  remember,  in  a  black- 
rusty  silk-her  very  best  dress.  I  can't  recall  having  seen  her 
wear  it  often.  Usually  I  saw  Grandmother  in  neat  calico  prints 
and  a  blue  and  white  checked  apron.  I  do  not  recall  the 
minister's  text  nor  who  was  the  minister.  I  believe  he  was  from 
the  Congregational  Church  as  that  was  the  church  my  grand- 
parents affiliated  with.  It  was  the  first  large  funeral  I  recall 
attending.  The  little  Thomas  home  on  the  east  edge  of  town  was 
a  somber  place  with  a  lavender  bowed  wreath  hanging  on  the 
front  door.  I  recall  that  we  children  came  home  to  the  farm  after 
the  funeral  in  a  horse  and  buggy.  I  believe  my  mother  stayed  in 
Lacon  that  night.  I  remember  there  were  muddy  roads  and  Dad 
left  the  little  car  there  for  mother  while  he  drove  the  buggy  home 
as  there  were  chores  to  do.  I  was  old  enough  to  get  the  supper 
with  Dad's  help. 

It  was  a  sad  funeral  and  people  all  around  were  so  quiet 
and  spoke  in  hushed  voices.  I  believe  that  we  children  harbored 
sober  thoughts  about  the  chicken-  and  rabbit-shaped  sugar 
cookies  that  Grandmother  would  no  longer  stir  up  after  she  had 


done  the  churning  of  the  morning. 

Grandmother  was  bom  the  next  to  the  last  day  of  1852. 
She  died  in  early  May,  1929,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six. 


MY  MOST  UNFORGETTABLE  PERSON 

Ruth  Rogers 

When  I  was  sixteen  months  old  my  father  left  us.  Left 
us,  left  my  mother  and  me,  alone  in  an  old  rundown  country 
house  with  no  food  and  no  means  of  transportation.  My  mother, 
seven  months  pregnant,  walked  the  mile  and  a  half  over  the  hot 
dusty  roads,  pushing  me  in  a  baby  buggy,  to  the  newly  built 
home  of  her  parents.  There  we  found  a  warm  welcome  for  all  of 
us  and  it  remained  so  until  the  death  of  my  grandfather  when 
I  was  fifteen  years  old.  As  we  girls  grew  up,  our  grandparents 
were  more  like  parents  and  our  own  mother,  who  taught  school, 
was  like  an  older  sister. 

This  grandfather,  my  most  unforgettable  person,  was  a 
Civil  War  veteran  of  Company  13,  103rd  Regiment  of  the 
Illinois  Volunteer  Infantry-brave,  strong,  honest,  compassion- 
ate, forthright,  a  good  provider,  good  to  all  who  came  into 
contact  with  him,  a  hard  worker,  and  generous  with  his  time 
and  his  money.  On  and  on  I  could  go  with  adjectives  to  describe 
this  grandfather  who  became  and  is  the  most  unforgettable 
person  in  my  life.  He  died  on  October  21,  1925. 

To  you,  my  reader,  it  may  seem  that  he  lived  a  very  quiet 
uninteresting  life.  Wrong!  In  reality  his  life  was  active  and  he 
lived  each  day  as  if  it  were  a  new  adventure.  He  also  had  the 
ability  to  include  others  in  this  exciting  journey. 

At  seventeen  years  of  age,  he  ran  away  from  home  to  join 
the  Yankee  army  to  preserve  the  Union  and  to  free  the  slaves. 
His  parents,  farmers  from  the  Fairview,  Illinois  area,  were  so 


78 


concerned  about  him,  the  oldest  of  their  eight  children,  they 
traveled  from  home  to  Peoria,  Illinois,  by  horses  and  a  wagon, 
to  tell  the  recruiter  that  their  son  was  not  old  enough  to  be  a 
soldier.  He  had  already  enlisted  when  they  arrived  and  had 
gone  home  to  get  ready  to  be  gone  for  a  time.  They  missed  him 
again.  He  had  already  left,  to  be  gone  for  three  and  a  half  years. 

He  left  home  a  boy,  returned  a  man,  afraid  of  nothing  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  He  was  not  afraid  to  live;  he  was  not  afraid 
to  die. 

He  did  not  belong  to  a  church;  however,  he  upheld  and 
lived  the  same  values  as  Christians.  He  loved  his  neighbors,  he 
helped  the  poor,  and  he  gave  meals  to  and  bedded  down  tramps 
who  came  through  the  country.  His  compassion  and  kindness 
extended  to  the  grandchildren  he  sheltered. 

He  sat  between  us  at  the  table,  helping  two  little  folks. 
He  dressed  us  when  we  were  very  small.  He  doctored  us  when 
we  were  sick.  He  cheerfully  helped  my  aging  grandmother  care 
for  us;  after  all,  they  were  respectively  sixty-five  and  seventy 
when  I  was  bom. 

He  instilled  a  love  of  reading  and  respect  for  history  in 
me.  Each  evening  after  supper,  we  sat  at  the  dining  room  table. 
With  a  little  girl  on  each  side  of  him,  he  helped  us  do  our 
homework.  Patiently  and  carefully  he  taught  us  reading, 
spelling,  and  arithmetic.  He  was  smart! 

Homework  done,  he  read  to  us.  First  from  the  biography 
of  Sherman,  his  general  in  the  Civil  War.  Then,  to  our  great 
delight.  Peck's  Bad  Boy.  He  knew  how  to  balance  our  reading 
program  from  serious  to  fantasy.  Peck's  Bad  Boy  would  do  some 
irrational  unrestrained  things,  which  we  would  never  have 
dared  to  do.  As  the  episodes  continued  for  several  years,  we 
were  given  stretches  of  imagination  and  release  in  our  own  lives 
which  might  never  have  happened  otherwise.  So,  we  were 
guided  into  a  lifelong  love  of  reading. 

My  most  unforgettable  person  knew  how  to  turn  work, 
hard  work,  into  play.  My  sister  and  I  would  help  him  work;  then 


we  could  slide  downhill,  skate  in  winter,  or  swim  in  summer.  A 
special  treat  was  the  weekly  trip  to  town  to  shop  and  do  errands. 
We  always  got  to  buy  something,  a  bit  of  candy,  a  pencil,  or 
something  we  had  been  wanting.  You  see  he  taught  us  to  work 
hard  when  there  was  work  to  be  done  and  to  play  equally  hard. 
We  developed  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  in  work  well  done, 
sprinkled  with  activities  which  are  fun. 

Occasionally  my  grandmother  would  become  angry  at  us 
for  some  act  of  naughtiness  and  would  threaten  to  "skin  us 
alive!"  if  we  did  it  again.  Grandpa  would  lead  us  away  to  the 
barnyard,  to  the  pasture,  or  to  the  creek  and  would  soon  have  us 
running  and  laughing  with  our  dog.  We  felt  safe  and  happy;  we 
knew  our  grandma  would  never  "skin  us  alive." 

I  never  did  hear  my  grandfather  say  a  bad  word  about 
another  person.  He  would  tell  my  sister  and  I  to  love  other 
people  and  they  would  love  us.  He  helped  me  grow  up  in  an 
atmosphere  of  love,  "loving  our  neighbors  as  ourselves."  He 
truly  believed  and  lived  this. 

He  knew  how  to  keep  his  land  green  and  luscious-by 
rotating  crops  and  by  raising  many  cattle.  He  used  natural 
fertilizer.  His  farm  was  a  joy  to  behold-a  safe  refuge. 

During  his  lifetime  he  became  affluent,  with  hard  work 
and  careful  money  management.  He  raise  cattle  and  shipped 
them  by  the  railroad  car  load  to  the  International  Stockyards  in 
Chicago.  After  he  had  been  to  Chicago,  he  had  many  funny 
stories  to  tell. 

When  I  was  twelve  years  old,  he  bought  a  new  1923  Ford 
car  and  paid  cash  for  it.  He  was  proud  of  the  new  car,  but  never 
did  learn  to  drive  it.  I  did.  My  mother  was  the  family  chauffeur. 
Fascinated,  I  watched  her  start  it,  push  in  on  the  clutch  to  get 
it  into  gear,  and  start.  I  watched  her  guide  it  and  turn  the 
steering  wheel  to  turn  a  corner.  It  didn't  seem  much  different 
to  me  than  pulling  on  the  bridle  of  my  horse— either  turned  when 
you  pulled  or  turned.  So,  one  day,  tired  of  waiting  for  my  mother 
to  get  ready  to  go  to  town,  I  found  myself  out  along  the  road 


where  the  car  was  parked.  All  at  once  I  found  myself  behind  the 
wheel,  turning  the  key,  pressing  on  the  starter,  and  pushing  in 
on  the  clutch.  I  was  soon  turning  into  the  lane  which  went  to  a 
neighbor's  house.  All  went  well  until  I  came  to  the  end  of  the 
lane.  Oh!  Horrors!!  The  gate  was  closed  and  I  realized  that  with 
all  my  great  knowledge  of  driving,  I  hadn't  noticed  how  to  stop 
it.  Needless  to  say,  I  drove  right  through  the  gate.  Fortunately 
for  the  new  car,  the  gate  was  old  and  brittle,  the  boards  broke 
and  flew  in  all  directions,  not  leaving  a  dent  or  scratch. 

Into  a  pasture  I  drove.  The  daisies  were  a  healthy  crop 
that  year.  I  made  a  road  in  them  as  I  drove  around  and  around 
in  the  pasture.  Finally,  I  ran  out  of  gas  and  came  to  a  thankful 
stop. 

By  this  time  our  neighbors  had  telephoned  my  grandfa- 
ther, who  hadn't  missed  me  or  the  Ford.  He  came  after  me!  As 
we  walked  home  he  just  said,  "Well  if  you're  bound  to  drive, 
you'll  have  to  be  taught  how  to  do  it  right."  That  was  part  of  his 
philosophy.  He  was  not  angry:  Hejust  understood  that  a  young 
person  was  growing  up. 

At  thirteen,  I  remembered  beginning  to  cast  my  eye 
around  at  the  boys,  just  as  most  girls  do.  Instead  of  seeing  one 
of  the  boys  my  own  age,  my  eye  landed  on  the  cousin  of  one  of 
them-a  fellow  ten  years  older  than  myself.  After  a  few  Saturday 
night  strolls  around  the  downtown  square  in  Bushnell,  my 
grandfather  talked  to  me.  He  said,  "Now,  Ruth  you  don't  want 
to  go  wdth  that  old  buck.  Now  do  you?"  He  didn't  say  right  out 
"You  can't  go  with  him.  I  wouldn't  permit  it."  He  asked  me. 
Expressed  that  way  of  course,  I  didn't.  "Old  Buck"  really  turned 
me  against  the  fellow;  now  I  can't  even  remember  what  his 
name  was.  I  never  took  another  walk  with  "Old  Buck"  and  got 
pretty  selective  about  my  boyfriends. 

I've  often  wished  my  children  had  an  unforgettable 
grandfather  like  Joseph  Henry  Wheeler  to  help  them  in  their 
growing  up  process. 


TO  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE  I  WENT 

Dorothy  Van  Meter 

Grandma  Gerson  lived  in  the  big,  white,  two-story  house 
down  the  road  from  us.  A  long  porch  stretched  across  the  front 
of  the  house.  A  comfortable  swing  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and 
above  the  porch  was  a  balcony,  unused,  but  decorative.  Several 
sturdy  trees  were  in  the  front  yard,  and  in  the  backyard  were  all 
kinds  of  fruit  trees.  I  remember  eating  succulent  apricots  and 
pears  when  they  were  ripened  to  perfection.  The  cherry  trees 
were  loaded,  and  Grandma  had  buckets  to  can.  In  the  backyard 
there  was  a  smokehouse  for  curing  hams  and  bacon,  and  a 
chicken  house.  Grandma  named  each  chicken.  Considering 
this  familiarity,  I  don't  know  how  she  could  enjoy  cooking  those 
wonderful  chicken  dinners,  but  she  did. 

When  I  was  five  years  old,  we  left  our  farm  in  southwest- 
ern Jersey  County  and  moved  to  Wood  River.  My  father  entered 
the  real  estate  business.  Standard  Oil  Company  had  begun 
operating,  and  it  was  a  good  time  to  begin  this  occupation.  I 
don't  remember  much  about  the  move.  I  entered  school  soon 
after,  and  the  fall  stretched  into  winter,  into  spring,  and  then  it 
was  summer!   It  was  then  that  I  went  to  visit  Grandma. 

My  Aunt  Alice,  Uncle  Frank,  and  Uncle  Addison  were  all 
at  home.  Everybody  worked  hard.  I  can  remember  Grandma 
getting  everyone  up  before  dawn.  She  did  not  need  an  alarm 
clock  to  awaken  her,  but  the  boys  had  to  be  prodded.  She 
grabbed  her  kitchen  broom,  and  with  the  handle  she  would  rap 
it  against  the  ceiling.  The  boys  had  an  upstairs  bedroom 
directly  above  hers.  "Boys,  Boys,"  she  would  call,  "it's  time  to  get 
up."  The  boys  arose  out  of  desperation. 

Early  rising  had  its  rewards.  I  remember  the  complete 
stillness  which  was  broken  at  dawn.  The  birds  began  chirping, 
the  cows  started  mooing,  and  Grandma's  spirally  rooster  began 
crowing.  The  sun,  a  brilliant,  shiny  ball  of  fire,  had  signaled 
that  a  new  day  had  begun.  Buckets  of  water  had  to  be  pumped 


80 


for  the  thirsty  cows,  and  grain  would  be  needed  to  feed  them  as 
well  as  the  hogs  and  chickens.  Also,  it  was  a  good  time  to  weed 
the  garden. 

The  highlight  of  my  visit  to  Grandma's  was  when  the 
threshing  machine  came.  It  was  a  huge,  black  monster.  I  was 
impressed  by  its  enormity.  Itremindedmeof  a  train.  It  huffed 
and  puffed  and  belched  columns  of  black  smoke  as  the  wheat 
was  separated  from  the  straw  and  loaded  into  waiting  wagons. 
Its  shrill  whistle  could  mean  many  things-to  summon  the  men 
from  the  fields,  dinner  time,  or  back  to  work.  However,  Grandma 
had  a  dinner  bell-a  big  bell  on  a  post  which  called  the  men  to 
dinner. 

It  was  fun  to  watch  the  men  come  in  from  the  fields.  The 
hot  sun  and  active  work  made  them  sweaty.  The  man  who 
operated  the  threshing  machine  had  coal  dust  all  over  his  face 
and  clothing.  Benches  were  lined  up  near  the  well,  and  on  the 
benches  were  wash  basins  and  Lava  soap.  Some  of  the  men  held 
their  heads  under  the  pump  and  had  the  added  bonus  of  a 
shampoo.  Others  scrubbed  their  faces  with  the  Lava  soap,  and 
all  felt  refreshed  and  ready  for  dinner. 

The  men  usually  ate  their  dinner  in  shifts  because  the 
table  was  not  long  enough  to  seat  the  entire  crew.  As  the  men 
entered  the  house,  they  were  greeted  by  one  of  the  women 
waving  a  towel  to  "shoo  the  flies  away."  Also,  hanging  from  the 
porch  and  kitchen  ceilings  were  strips  of  Tanglefoot  fly  paper. 
The  flypaper  always  did  a  good  job. 

Once  seated,  the  men  were  faced  by  a  table  overburdened 
with  food. 

I  liked  to  urge  some  of  the  men  that  I  knew  to  try  a  piece 
of  my  cherry  pie.  I  was  about  eight  years  old  at  the  time.  I 
remember  my  Grandma's  patience.  Even  though  she  had  been 
very  busy  in  her  pantry  rolling  out  pies,  she  let  me  have  a  wad 
of  dough  for  my  very  own.  The  dough  felt  good  in  my  hands,  and 
I  rolled  and  stretched  the  dough  again  and  again.  I'm  sure  that 
the  men  who  ate  my  pie  bit  into  a  crust  that  was  tough  and 


unpalatable,  but  they  told  me  that  it  was  delicious,  and  the 
unwarranted  praise  made  me  happy.  After  the  meal  was 
finished,  the  leftover  butter  and  milk  were  put  m  an  empty 
molasses  bucket  and  lowered  by  rope  into  the  well  to  keep  them 
fresh.  There  was  no  refrigeration  at  that  time. 

I  remember  Grandma's  kitchen.  It  reached  from  one  end 
of  the  house  to  the  other.  At  one  end,  a  pump,  bucket,  and  dipper 
stood  handy.  At  the  other  end,  there  was  a  cot  where  a  weary 
one  might  rest.  The  pantry  was  a  small  room  off  the  kitchen 
where  Grandma  stored  her  baking  utensils  and  supplies.  Large 
bins  held  sugar  and  flour.  Grandma  rolled  out  her  pies  in  the 
pantry  and  mixed  her  marvelous  angel  food  cakes;  many  times 
she  used  the  whites  of  goose  eggs. 

As  Grandma  worked  in  the  pantry,  she  sang.  She 
enjoyed  singing  and  sang  enthusiastically.  I  remember  her 
singing  a  favorite,  "We'll  never  say  goodbye.  For  in  that  land  of 
joy  and  song,  we'll  never  say  goodbye." 

Grandma  also  sang  as  she  ironed.  Her  irons  stayed  hot 
on  the  cook  stove.  One  iron  could  replace  the  other  as  it  cooled. 
The  irons  were  made  to  glide  more  easily  by  being  rubbed  over 
a  bar  of  bee's  wax. 

The  big  house  was  always  clean  and  neat  in  spite  of  the 
many  various  chores  that  had  to  be  performed.  My  favorite 
room  was  the  parlor,  a  small  room  that  was  reserved  for 
company.  The  walls  were  papered  in  a  large  floral  design. 
Heavily  starched  lace  hung  from  rods  above  the  windows.  I  was 
captivated  by  the  organ  sitting  in  the  corner.  However,  I  was 
disappointed  because  when  I  pulled  the  stops,  a  mournful 
discordant  sound  was  emitted,  not  at  all  like  the  melodious 
tones  I  had  expected. 

Grandma's  lace  doilies  decorated  every  room.  These 
were  crocheted  in  her  spare  time.  She  also  knitted  and  braided 
rugs  from  scraps.  Beautiful  quilt  designs  were  cut  and  as- 
sembled from  scraps  of  material.  Much  of  the  clothing  that  the 
family  wore  had  been  sewn  by  her. 


Grandma  was  also  a  candy  maker.  At  Christmas  we  all 
received  some  of  her  divinity  and  chocolate  creams. 

Her  abilities  were  endless.  The  routine  tasks  in  her  life 
were  lightened  because  of  her  faith  in  God.  She  praised  Him  as 
she  sang  the  old  hymns,  "Work,  for  the  Day  is  Coming"  and  "God 
Will  Take  Care  of  You." 

Today  we  are  concerned  with  a  search  for  self-fulfill- 
ment, but  Grandma  didn't  search  for  it.  She  never  knew  it  was 
her  right.  Self-fulfillment  came  to  her  naturally.  She  had  work 
to  do,  and  she  did  it.  She  was  at  peace  with  the  world.  She  was 
fulfilled! 


THAT  CHARACTER  HAPPENS  TO  BE  MY  AUNT 

Effie  L.  Campbell 

"You  don't  have  to  be  rich  to  be  clean.  Anyone  can  buy 
a  bar  of  soap."  That  was  the  old  cliche  my  Aunt  Mina  lived  by. 
I  think  she  was  one  of  the  most  fastidious  persons  I've  ever 
known. 

She  prided  herself  on  being  properly  attired  for  any 
occasion.  And  for  "best,"  she  always  wore  hat  and  gloves  and 
usually  a  navy  blue  or  dark-colored  dress,  with  perhaps  snow- 
white  collars  and  cuffs  of  lace  or  organdy.  By  the  time  I  got  to 
know  her,  she  had  bobbed  her  wavy  black  hair  and  wore  it  in  a 
neat,  combed  back  style  the  way  my  mother  wore  hers.  Aunt 
Mina  was  my  mother's  eldest  sister. 

Mom  was  the  youngest  of  ten  children,  only  seven  of 
whom  survived  childhood.  My  grandmother  died  shortly  after 
her  birth,  and  Aunt  Mina,  who  was  a  teenager  at  the  time,  took 
over  the  household  duties  and  the  rearing  of  the  younger 
children.  And  that  was  before  the  turn  of  the  century  when 
housekeeping  was  hard,  back-breaking  work-carrying  water 


from  a  well,  heating  it  on  a  wood-burning  stove,  scrubbing 
clothes  on  a  washboard,  and  hanging  them  outdoors,  even  in 
wintertime  when  "long  Johns"  froze  so  stiff  they  resembled  a  row 
of  Ichabod  Crane's  "headless  ghosts." 

Their  home  was  in  Brown  County,  near  Mt.  Sterling,  but 
as  they  grew  up  the  family  drifted  away.  Our  family  settled 
near  Beardstown;  Aunt  Mina  and  Uncle  Guy  lived  in  Rushville. 

All  went  well  for  us  until  my  father  died  in  1926,  and  the 
farm  was  sold.  Then,  with  five  kids  still  at  home.  Mom  moved 
us  into  Beardstown.  And  from  then  on,  it  was  uphill  sledding- 
especially  when  the  Great  Depression  came  knocking  at  our 
doors.  But  it  was  during  that  time  that  I  became  better 
acquainted  with  my  Aunt  Mina. 

We  had  sold  the  family  Dodge,  and  had  to  depend  on 
"Shank's  mare"  to  get  around.  So,  when  we  saw  Aunt  Mina  and 
Uncle  Guy  it  was  when  they  came  driving  over  in  their  Redbird 
Overland.  Uncle  Guy  never  learned  to  drive.  It  was  Aunt  Mina 
who  chauffeured  the  Redbird,  and  she  was  a  "nervous"  driver. 

All  passengers  riding  with  my  aunt  were  cautioned  to  sit 
quietly  and  keep  their  voices  down  while  the  car  was  in  motion. 
Otherwise,  any  disturbance  could  get  on  Aunt  Mina's  "nerves" 
and  cause  her  to  have  an  accident.  I  remember  once  how  my 
little  sister  Marcella  got  into  the  car  with  her  doll,  and  looking 
into  the  dimpled,  bisque  face,  shushed  it! 

But  it  wasn't  one  of  us  (or  the  doll)  who  caused  Aunt 
Mina  to  have  her  one  and  only  accident.  According  to  our  Uncle 
Guy,  it  was  a  foolishly  brave  toro.  The  bull  jumped  a  fence  and 
planted  himself  directly  in  the  path  of  the  oncoming  Redbird. 
Aunt  Mina  hit  him  squarely  in  the  rear  end! 

Uncle  Guy  said  mildly,  "Mina,  you  hit  that  bull." 

From  some  accounts ,  my  aunt  used  a  word  not  ordinarily 
in  her  vocabulary.  But  she  insisted  she  merely  said,  "That  cow 
shouldn't  have  got  in  my  way." 

Whatever  she  said,  she  somehow  managed  to  maintain 
her  status  as  a  lady  by  avoiding  the  use  of  the  word  "Bull." 


Ladies  simply  did  not  use  the  word.  Instead,  they  decorously 
called  them  "male  cows,"  or  in  the  case  of  swine,  "Male  hogs." 

Since  she  had  assumed  the  role  of  mother  while  still  very 
young.  Aunt  Mina  continued  to  think  of  my  mother  as  the  baby 
of  the  family.  So  I  guess  it  was  natural  for  her  to  feel  she  could 
remind  Mom  about  any  slips  in  housekeeping.  But  the  one  time 
I  vividly  recall  wasn't  Mom's  fault.  It  was  mine. 

I  was  supposed  to  clean  my  room  and  do  all  the  dusting, 
rug  shaking,  and  dishwashing,  with  some  help  from  my  younger 
sister  Marcella.  But  we  sometimes  let  chores  slip  through  the 
cracks-like  the  time  we  hid  dirty  pans  in  the  oven  after  the  big 
Thanksgiving  dinner,  or  the  many  times  we  gave  the  furniture 
a  hit  or  miss  dusting. 

So  the  stage  was  set  for  Aunt  Mina  to  run  her  fingers 
over  the  top  of  our  old  organ  and  find  dust!  And  Mom  sent  me 
for  the  Old  English  and  the  dust  rag. 

But  if  I'm  beginning  to  paint  a  picture  of  my  Aunt  Mina 
as  an  unlikable  eccentric,  then  I'm  getting  the  picture  lopsided. 
My  aunt  may  have  been  too  high-minded  at  times,  and  a  bit 
eccentric,  but  she  was  far  from  unlikable.  She  had  a  dry  sense 
of  humor  and  a  kind  heart. 

She  was  a  wonderful  seamstress  and  made  clothes  for 
her  two  daughters,  and  later  on,  a  grandchild  she  raised.  Plus, 
she  sewed  and  gave  things  to  the  less  fortunate,  including  my 
sister  and  me.  I  remember  how  I  dreaded  my  eighth  grade 
graduation  because  we  couldn't  afford  to  buy  me  a  new  dress. 
And  then,  two  days  before  the  event,  I  got  a  package  in  the  mail 
from  my  Aunt  Mina.  In  it  was  a  handmade,  hand-embroidered 
new  white  dress! 

On  another  occasion  we  glimpsed  that  innate  humor 
Aunt  Mina  so  seldom  showed.  It  was  the  day  we  all  piled  into 
an  old  car  my  seventeen-year-old  brother  Virg  had  bought  for  a 
few  dollars,  and  we  started  out  for  Rushville.  On  the  way,  we 
had  two  stops-once  to  fill  the  radiator  with  water,  and  another 
to  fix  a  flat  tire.  So  we  were  late  getting  to  Aunt  Mina's 


After  we  explained  the  delay,  my  aunt  took  a  long,  hard 
look  at  our  less  than  luxurious  vehicle,  and  then  with  a  wry  grin 
said,  "Virgil,  I  think  you  did  a  very  good  job  of  driving.  Couldn't 
have  done  better  myself" 

I  loved  to  go  to  Aunt  Mina's  and  to  wander  out  into  the 
big  back  yard  where  she  and  Uncle  Guy  raised  flowers,  fruits, 
and  vegetables.  How  the  two  of  them  must  have  labored, 
dusting  for  bugs,  cultivating,  and  weeding,  to  have  such  a 
beautiful  garden.  Aunt  Mina  cut  many  of  her  roses,  peonies, 
mums,  and  other  flowers  and  sent  them  to  funerals  and  local 
churches.  She  took  pleasure  in  giving  away  the  bounty  of  their 
garden. 

Uncle  Guy  died  of  a  heart  attack  long  before  Aunt  Mina 
was  laid  to  rest.  And  after  he  died,  she  lived  on  alone  in  their 
neat,  small  bungalow. 

After  I  was  married  and  moved  to  a  farm  near  Rushville, 
I  used  to  meet  her  sometimes  on  the  streets  downtown,  doing 
her  shopping-a  lonely  figure,  correctly  dressed  as  ever  in 
clothes  that  were  rapidly  goingout  of  style.  But  she  would  never 
compromise  on  things  that  mattered  most  to  her,  like  keeping 
herself  neat  and  clean. 

One  day  as  I  was  waiting  in  the  local  variety  store  for  a 
clerk  to  package  my  purchases,  I  glanced  up  and  saw  Aunt  Mina 
through  the  window.  As  she  opened  the  door,  the  clerk  whis- 
pered, "That's  Mrs.  Grubb.  She's  a  character." 

I  suppose  to  some  folks  who  didn't  really  know  her.  Aunt 
Mina  may  have  seemed  to  be  just  that.  But  I  saw  her  differently. 
Squaring  my  shoulders,  I  said  proudly,  "That  character  hap- 
pens to  be  my  aunt." 

She  was  nearing  ninety  when  she  became  ill  and  muddled 
in  her  mind  and  was  subsequently  placed  in  a  nursing  home. 
Having  cooked  her  own  well-balanced  meals  all  her  life,  you  can 
imagine  what  she  thought  of  the  food  served  to  her  in  the  home. 
"It's  nothing  but  slop.  I  won't  eat  that.  Take  it  away!" 

Believe  me,  the  aides  in  the  home  had  met  their  match. 


She  hadn't  lost  all  the  sharpness  of  her  mind-not  yet.  Even 
when  I  went  to  see  her  and  she  first  called  me  Evelyn  (one  of  my 
cousins),  she  immediately  corrected  herself. 

"Oh,  what's  the  matter  with  me?  Of  course  you're  not 
Evelyn.  You're  Effie." 

I  smiled  and  squeezed  her  hand.  I  think  it  was  about  the 
next  to  the  last  time  I  saw  her  while  she  was  still  with  us. 
However,  I  often  think  about  her  and  her  undaunted  spirit,  and 
I  know  I  will  never  forget  my  Aunt  Mina. 


JOE  AND  HIS  AMERICAN  DREAM 

Joseph  B.  Adams,  Jr. 

Somehow  it  seems  a  bit  irreverent  to  call  him  by  that 
shortened  version  of  Joseph.  Truthfully,  it  was  most  often 
"Pop". . .  or  just  "Pa."  In  retrospect,  my  feelings  toward  him  were 
more  along  the  lines  ofrespect  or  admiration.  No  hero  stuff.  No 
saying  "I  love  you"  all  the  time.  That  was  reserved  for  certain 
special  occasions,  like  graduation,  or  anniversaries,  or  depar- 
ture for  long  distances  and  extended  periods. 

Joe  completed  his  apprenticeship  as  carriage-maker 
ujider  my  Uncle  Julius  in  Budapest.  He  earned  his  journeyman's 
papers  (called  the  "book")  at  the  age  of  about  eighteen,  but  found 
no  work  in  his  native  Austria-Hungary,  then  an  empire  under 
the  leadership  of  Franz  Joseph.  After  a  year  or  so,  with  a  small 
loan  from  his  grandmother,  Joe  bought  a  train  ticket  to  Naples 
and  passage  on  a  steamer  bound  for  America. 

After  his  processing  at  Ellis  Island,  he  proceeded  by  rail 
to  Sharon,  Pennsylvania.  His  only  meal  on  the  train  was  a 
pumpkin  pie  given  to  him  by  a  Salvation  Army  "lassie."  His 
sponsor  promptly  put  Joe  to  work  in  a  foundry  where  he  pushed 
a  truck  laden  with  large  castings.  Citizenship  then  took  about 


five  years  to  earn,  so  Joe  studied  at  night  school  to  learn  the 
English  language  along  with  Civics  in  order  to  pass  the  test. 

Joe  found  out  about  openings  at  the  large  Pullman 
works  in  Chicago  where  his  brother-in-law  worked.  He  was 
hired  on  with  a  finishing  crew  that  built  the  wooden  interiors  of 
railroad  sleeping-cars.  The  "gangs"  were  really  a  team  of  about 
six  men  who  contracted  to  complete  each  coach  in  a  specified 
time.  Joe  was  elected  leader,  or  "straw-boss,"  to  assign  and 
work  the  various  tasks. 

When  he  learned  about  openings  in  the  Yellow-Cab 
Company  on  the  northwest  part  of  Chicago,  he  applied  for  a  job 
there.  He  was  hired  to  work  on  the  wood  frames  of  the  cabs.  In 
those  days  the  chassis  was  wood,  so  the  vehicles  were  boxy- 
looking  by  today's  standards.  Then  the  Yellow-Cab  Company 
was  bought  out  by  (General  Motors  about  1926,  so  they  moved  Pa 
and  his  family  of  Mom  and  me  to  Pontiac,  Michigan,  where  a 
new  plant  was  built. 

I  remember  spending  my  fifth  birthday  there,  but  soon 
after,  we  moved  back  to  Chicago  because  Ma  didn't  like  the  hard 
water  and  apartment  life.  My  folks  had  not  sold  the  nice 
bungalow  in  Chicago,  so  we  were  glad  to  be  back  in  the  Windy 
City  once  again. 

As  Pa  was  a  skilled  craftsman,  now  a  cabinetmaker,  he 
was  hired  as  pattern-shop  foreman  at  Majestic  Radio  Manufac- 
turing Company  which  took  over  the  entire  plant  that  was 
vacated  by  the  former  Yellow-Cab  Company.  Pa  held  that  job 
from  1927  to  about  1934  when  the  company  went  bankrupt,  as 
did  many  other  industrial  businesses  during  those  trying  days 
of  the  Depression. 

Joe  was  in  his  prime  during  those  seven  years,  and  was 
responsible  for  the  radio  cabinets  from  their  conception  by  the 
engineers  and  draftsmen  to  the  finished  product.  The  pattern- 
shop  produced  the  prototype  models  and  also  made  the  "jigs"  for 
the  various  production  machines.  Radio  manufacture  was  an 
assembly-line  process  from  chassis  to  cabinet,  and  he  answered 


84 


for  the  smooth  operation  of  production  machinery  that  formed 
the  various  parts  of  the  wood  cabinet. 

The  work-week  then  was  five  or  six  days  with  only  a 
Sunday  off.  As  I  recall,  that  day  was  reserved  for  Joe's  dinner 
at  home  and  a  "planning  session"  at  the  dining-room  table  for 
him  and  the  different  foremen  in  charge  of  each  assembly 
process.  Even  the  chief-draftsman  was  there  as  liaison  between 
engineering  and  production.  Mom  would  furnish  a  nice  dinner, 
after  which  the  table  would  be  cleared  and  the  men  would  get 
heads  together  for  a  sort  of  "think-tank"  which  involved  previ- 
ous production  problems  and  also  plans  for  the  coming  work- 
week. There  was  much  discussion  and  conviviality  on  those 
Sunday  afternoons. 

After  the  plant  closing,  Pa  still  returned  to  clean  things 
up  in  his  beloved  pattern-shop.  Finally,  he  asked  me  to  bring  my 
coaster  wagon,  and  we  entered  the  main  gate,  together  walking 
through  the  deserted  factory  to  the  area  enclosed  with  chicken- 
wire.  The  workbenches  were  empty,  and  Pa's  toolboxes  were 
carefully  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  pattern-shop.  He  loaded 
them  onto  my  red  "DeLuxe"  coaster  wagon  and  we  left  behind 
a  tremendous  facility  that  once  produced  thousands  of  radios 
wdth  the  well-known  slogan  of  "Majestic  Radio-Mighty  Mon- 
arch of  the  Air."  Its  symbol  was  a  world  glove  with  an  American 
eagle  perched  over  it.  Pa  was  the  last  production  employee  to 
leave  the  factory.  The  memory  of  that  day  still  lies  vivid  in  my 
mind.  Joe  went  on  to  work  out  his  remaining  years  at  various 
otherjobs  in  Chicago.  He  never  was  really  out  of  work.  He  could 
do  anything  with  wood,  so  was  in  demand  at  the  factories. 

After  over  fifty  years  of  work  at  his  trade,  Pa  somewhat 
reluctantly  retired  at  the  age  of  seventy.  Fulfdling  his  lifetime 
of  hard  and  productive  work,  he  and  Ma  moved  to  California. 
There  on  the  west-central  coast,  he  rests  alongside  Ma.  Just  as 
thousands  of  other  immigrants  had  before  him,  Joe  realized  his 
"American  Dream."  In  the  Hebrew,  Joseph  means  "He  Shall 
Add."  Joe  did. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  GILDED  CAGE 

Ruth  Gash  Taylor 

"Tell  us  about  Mrs.  C,"  I  would  beg  Mother  when  it  was 
story  time  at  our  house. 

Possibly  it  was  the  mystery  surrounding  the  wealthy 
recluse  which  fascinated  me,  but  I  never  tired  of  hearing  as 
much  of  the  story  as  Mother  knew. 

Ellen  C.  lived  south  of  Warsaw,  Illinois,  and  she  had  no 
known  relatives.  She  had  been  married,  but  her  husband 
disappeared.  Neighbors  claimed  Ellen  chased  him  off  with  a 
butcher  knife. 

Certainly  she  regarded  men  with  contempt  and  distrust. 
No  male  was  ever  admitted  to  her  house. 

The  C.  land  was  farmed  on  shares.  At  harvest  time,  the 
owner  stood  in  one  of  the  wagons  to  watch  division  of  the  grain 
in  a  day  when  women  were  neither  seen  nor  heard.  Once,  when 
the  tenant  came  to  settle  up  with  her,  he  essayed  a  pleasantry 
about  the  weather.  "Just  give  me  the  money,  mister!"  was  the 
brusque  reply.  "Never  mind  the  nice  day." 

It  was  whispered  that  Ellen  stored  her  dirty  dishes  in  a 
barrel,  and  washed  them  only  once  a  month.  Mother  did  not 
believe  this.  She  had  been  allowed  in  the  house  a  couple  of  times 
as  a  child  for  cookies  and  milk.  She  had  not  been  permitted  to 
stray  beyond  the  kitchen,  but  she  said  that  room  was  spotlessly 
clean. 

Ellen  ventured  away  from  home  three  days  a  year.  My 
grandfather  drove  a  team  of  horses  to  take  her  to  Quincy  one  day 
and  to  Keokuk  (Iowa)  another  time  for  shopping  expeditions. 
She  paid  for  all  purchases  with  gold  which  she  kept  stored  in  her 
house. 

She  sat  enthroned  on  a  nail  keg  in  the  back  of  my 
grandfather's  spring  wagon  for  these  journeys.  She  was  a  large 
woman,  and  her  turn-of-the-century  skirts  billowed  around 
her.     She  protected  herself  from  the  sun  with  a  big  black 


umbrella. 

Ellen  spent  one  day  a  year  visiting  her  friend,  Elizabeth 
Tyree,  who  was  my  grandfather's  Aunt  Lib.  She  always  took 
along  several  quarts  of  apple  butter.  Aunt  Lib  would  then  spend 
a  day  with  Ellen,  bringing  some  of  her  famous  blackberry 
preserves. 

Incidentally,  Aunt  Lib  was  the  kind  of  housekeeper  who 
probably  waxed  her  window  sills.  It  is  unlikely  she  would  have 
been  friends  with  someone  who  stored  dirty  dishes  in  a  barrel 
for  a  month. 

The  women  lived  only  five  or  six  miles  apart,  but  they 
saw  each  other  only  those  two  days  a  year.  Possibly  months 
went  by  when  Ellen  did  not  see  a  human  being.  She  discouraged 
visitors,  and  she  had  no  telephone. 

Mother  taught  country  schools  between  her  graduation 
from  high  school  in  1912  and  her  marriage  in  1918.  Among  the 
schools  was  Rocky  Run  in  her  home  community. 

She  drove  her  horse  and  buggy  past  the  C.  place  one 
October  Sunday  evening,  en  route  to  her  boarding  place,  and 
she  saw  smoke  lazily  drifting  from  the  chimney.  Ellen  C.  died 
that  night. 

At  first,  it  was  believed  the  house  caught  fire,  and  Ellen 
was  trapped  within.  However,  when  her  body  was  found  in  the 
cellar  with  unburned  cloth  at  the  back  of  her  neck,  it  indicated 
to  the  sherifTthat  she  had  been  strangled,  and  her  house  was 
burned  to  conceal  the  crime. 

It  was  known  that  Ellen  never  set  foot  outdoors  after 
dark.  Herhouse  was  a  fortress  with  bars  at  the  windows.  It  was 
theorized  that  she  had  forgotten,  that  once,  to  shut  up  her 
chickens  and  had  gone  out.  Or,  perhaps  she  heard  a  disturbance 
among  the  chickens,  and  went  out  to  defend  them  against  a 
possum  or  weasel.  Upon  her  return  to  the  house,  she  found  the 
murderer  waiting  for  her. 

It  was  hard  to  find  a  suspect.  While  Ellen  was  eccentric, 
she  had  no  known  enemies.  Some  people  believed  her  husband 


had  returned  for  vengeance.  Others  blamed  woodcutters  who 
had  camped  in  nearby  timber  and  who  might  have  heard  stories 
oftheC.gold. 

Bloodhounds  were  brought  in,  and  they  did  indeed  give 
tongue  as  they  panted  toward  the  cold  ashes  of  the  woodcutters' 
fire.  The  men  had  moved  on  to  other  woods,  and  it  took  some 
time  to  locate  them.  No  arrests  were  made.  All  the  men  could 
satisfactorily  account  for  their  whereabouts  the  night  of  the 
murder. 

Officially,  it  was  an  unsolved  murder. 

Years  later,  after  I  was  grown  and  away  from  home, 
Mother  phoned  one  day  in  great  excitement.  "I  know  who 
murdered  Ellen  C!"  she  declared. 

She  explained  that  a  lifelong  friend  had  visited  her,  and 
confided  that  her  (the  friend's)  aunt,  on  her  death  bed,  confessed 
she  murdered  Ellen  C.  The  murderess  told  her  horrified 
relatives  how  she  waited  until  she  saw  lamplight  in  Ellen's 
windows.  She  described  wrapping  one  arm  with  a  piece  of  torn 
sheet,  and  splashing  it  with  chicken  blood.  Then  she  went  to  the 
C.  house  and  beat  upon  the  back  door  to  importune  help.  Ellen 
took  her  in. 

The  murderess  found  the  gold.  She  waited  a  judicious 
interval  before  inventing  an  inheritance  from  a  relative  in  the 
past.  No  one  had  ever  suspected  the  woman. 

Mother  always  spared  a  flower  for  Ellen's  lonely  grave 
on  Memorial  Day.  My  sister  and  I  do  the  same,  in  Mother's 
memory. 


OUR  COURAGEOUS  LADY 

Betty  L.  Hardwick 

I  did  not  know  Helen  McClay  and  her  husband  A.  L.  in 
their  time  of  power  and  abundance-the  days  when  McClay  was 
a  powerful  name.  Newspapers  boasted  of  the  thousands  of 
bushels  of  apples  being  shipped  each  year  from  the  McClay 
orchard  and  proclaimed  it  as  the  largest  individually  owned 
orchard  in  the  world.  They  talked  of  the  extensive  McClay  farm 
lands  and  their  fine  produce,  their  fine  honey  production  and 
sales,  the  important  gatherings  with  VIPs  in  attendance,  the 
McClay  ball  teams,  and  many  other  things  linked  to  the  McClay 
name. 

Those  were  the  days  when  the  little  towns  of  Hillview 
and  Patterson  grew  and  bloomed.  The  streets  were  filled  with 
people  having  money  in  their  pockets-money  earned  in  McClay 
orchards  and  McClay  fields.  Those  were  the  days  also  when 
businesses  lined  every  downtown  street  in  the  towns,  especially 
Hillview. 

I  first  knew  Helen  McClay  long  after  all  of  these  were 
just  memories  and  they  had  tasted  deeply  the  bitter  cup  of 
bankruptcy  through  no  real  fault  of  their  own. 

A  series  of  misfortunes  dogged  the  progress  of  A.  L. 
McClay  and  his  helpmate  Helen.  A  fire  from  a  carelessly  tossed 
match  cost  them  forty  acres  of  fine  trees  in  1924.  Barely  had  the 
orchard  begun  to  recover  with  new  growth  when  gigantic  floods 
struck  the  low  lying  Hillview  area.  It  began  in  August,  1926, 
and  the  waters  did  not  drain  away  until  February,  1927.  When 
it  was  over,  the  waters  had  stood  upon  the  trees  for  one  hundred 
days,  and  six  hundred  and  forty  acres  of  prime  apple  trees  were 
damaged  or  dead:  the  entire  harvest  of  those  particular  acres 
was  lost  as  was  the  grain  on  the  flooded  farm  land.  The 
Depression  arrived  in  1929  with  the  orchards  still  reeling  from 
the  flood's  massive  blow.  The  McClay  financial  situation 
worsened.  A.  L.  was  forced  to  sell  the  beloved  orchards  to  the 


Chicago  Cold  Storage  Company.  Along  with  this  bitter  disap- 
pointment was  the  loss  of  many  acres  of  prime  farm  land  in 
1930.  The  formerly  prosperous  little  Bank  of  Hillview  closed  its 
doors-the  first  bank  in  Greene  County  to  go  bankrupt.  The 
people  of  the  community,  as  well  as  the  McClays,  were  stunned. 

The  McClays  moved  from  the  big  house  that  had  served 
as  headquarters  for  the  business  to  the  small  house  where 
they'd  started  their  married  life  and  with  determination  started 
over. 

A.  L.  worked  as  an  employee  in  what  had  been  his  own 
orchards,  managing  the  business.  For  about  ten  years  or  so,  the 
orchards  grew  and  prospered.  Then  disaster  struck  again  in  the 
form  of  a  fire  that  wiped  out  the  honey  business.  Gradually  over 
the  next  years  the  orchards  went  into  a  decline.  By  1949  the  last 
of  the  McClay  apple  trees  was  uprooted.  With  the  loss  of  its 
source  of  income,  the  towns'  businesses  and  population  began  to 
move.  How  hard  it  must  have  been  for  Helen  and  A.  L.  to  stand 
helplessly  by  and  watch  all  of  this. 

Fate  had  still  another  blow  in  store  for  Helen.  Her 
beloved  husband  suff"ered  a  series  of  strokes  in  the  1950s  and 
died  in  1957. 

The  countryside  mourned  with  Helen  and  her  children, 
now  grown  up.  There  were  many  who  remembered  the  kind- 
ness, courtesy,  and  respect  with  which  they  had  always  been 
treated  by  the  family,  and  there  were  those  who  remembered 
the  help  A.  L.  had  given  when  they  were  in  need. 

Helen  lived  alone  in  their  first  home  after  A.  L.'s  death. 
She  kept  a  few  cows,  feeding  and  caring  for  them  herself.  The 
farm  land  was  rented  out.  Her  children  and  grandchildren, 
always  precious  to  her,  were  now  even  more  so.  If  she  ever  felt 
disappointment  or  grief  over  any  of  them,  it  was  all  between  her 
and  the  Lord. 

She  loved  the  community  of  Hillview  and  joined  in  all  the 
local  "doings."  She  kept  many  scrapbooks  and  photo  albums 
filled  with  newspaper  clippings  and  pictures  of  the  town  and  its 


activities.  She  was  the  community's  unofficial  historian.  It  was 
to  her  that  all  who  needed  to  trace  the  past  turned  for  informa- 
tion, and  she  was  always  willing  and  eager  to  show  her  records. 
She  loved  to  tell  of  the  days  gone  by,  but  took  a  lively  interest  in 
all  that  was  going  on  about  her,  too. 

Tragedy  struck  at  her  again  when  a  grandson  was  killed 
in  an  auto  accident  and  again  when  a  daughter  died.  Helen's 
sorrow  was  deep  but  her  faith  in  her  God  kept  her  going,  and, 
as  always,  she  was  every  inch  a  lady.  Helen  McClay's  spirit  was 
never  broken,  and  she  never  gave  up  or  became  embittered. 

The  years  sped  by.  Helen  was  past  eighty  years  old.  She 
was  still  active,  caring  for  her  cows,  tending  her  big  yard, 
keeping  up  with  her  church  and  community  work,  and  driving 
herself  wherever  she  went. 

When  her  eyesight  began  to  fail  and  her  health  to  break, 
she  reluctantly  sold  her  cows  and  gave  up  driving  her  car.  In 
time,  she  found  it  financially  prudent  to  sell  the  farm,  reserving 
the  home  for  herself  for  her  lifetime. 

At  the  age  of  ninety,  Helen  McClay  died-still  interested 
in  everything  and  interesting  to  talk  to.  Typical  of  her  dislike 
of  show,  she  had  requested  a  simple  graveside  ceremony. 

When  fall  walks  through  the  hills,  the  spirit  of  what  once 
was  returns  in  the  smell  of  ripe  apples  blowing  on  the  wind  and 
I  remember  once  again  the  courageous  lady,  Helen  McClay. 


THE  LITTLE  DRUMMER  MAN 

Dorothy  Boll  Koelling 

He  was  a  wizened  little  man-old,  perhaps,  but  no  one 
really  knew.  His  small  eyes  sparkled  with  friendliness.  It 
seemed  he  always  cherished  a  happy  secret  that  he  wouldn't 
reveal  to  anyone.  His  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  high  pitched, 


as  one  would  expect  from  his  diminutive  size.  Neatness  pre- 
vailed in  his  dress  that  distinguished  him  from  the  other 
peddlers  who  came  to  our  house  in  those  times.  He  was  most 
meticulous,  from  the  stiff  derby  he  always  wore  and  the  cellu- 
loid collar  with  a  narrow  black  tie  to  the  worn  but  much  polished 
shoes  on  his  feet.  His  dark  suit  showed  signs  of  many  pressings 
and  the  cuffs  of  his  coat  were  a  bit  frayed,  but  it  proved  that  he 
was  making  a  mighty  effort  to  appear  a  successful  businessman 
to  his  customers. 

To  us  children,  living  in  the  rural  area  of  Adams  County 
near  Quincy,  Mr.  Goodygood  was  a  strange  and  fascinating 
person  who  broke  our  lonely  routine  with  his  regular  visits.  You 
ask  about  his  name?  To  this  day  I  don't  know  what  his  name 
really  was.  But  that's  how  it  sounded  when  folks  addressed 
him,  and  I'm  willing  to  accept  it  so. 

Mr.  Goodygood's  name  seemed  to  fit  him  as  well  as  did 
his  horse  and  rig.  We  always  knew  he  was  coming  even  before 
we  could  see  his  horse  pull  into  our  driveway  near  the  kitchen 
door.  His  horse  was  a  perfect  complement  to  her  master.  She 
was  slight  but  strong  enough  to  pull  the  cart.  She  had  rather  sad 
eyes  with  drooping  lids  and  was  a  most  gentle  creature  wanting 
very  much  to  please.  When  we  came  out,  she  would  toss  her 
head  and  the  little  bells  on  her  harness  behind  her  ears  tinkled. 
She  seemed  to  be  very  glad  to  see  us,  especially  when  we  gave 
her  a  bit  of  sugar  or  a  pat  on  her  face. 

After  that  greeting  we  would  turn,  eager  to  see  Mr. 
Goodygood's  wares.  He  was  a  drummer,  as  the  traveling 
salesman  was  called  in  those  days.  His  wagon  was  a  black 
enclosed  cart.  Within,  shelves  lined  the  sides  from  front  to  back. 
Built-in  drawers  held  small  articles  like  buttons,  thread,  rib- 
bons for  the  women  of  the  house;  nails,  bolts,  tools  for  the  men. 
Larger  articles  such  as  clothes,  blankets,  and  bolts  of  material 
for  sewing  were  piled  neatly  on  shelves.  To  look  into  the 
drummer's  wagon  was  like  looking  into  a  wonderland.  Such  a 
variety  of  items,  such  lovely  colors  in  the  fabrics,  such 


excitement  in  trying  to  guess  what  the  drawers  and  boxes 
contained.  Sometimes  he  would  bring  his  cases  into  the  house 
so  we  could  see  the  items  more  closely  and  even  touch  them. 
These  were  usually  the  newer  articles.  Naturally,  his  offerings 
were  seasonal .  In  the  spring,  we  bought  garden  seeds,  or  maybe 
some  leather  to  mend  a  harness,  or  paint  for  the  garden  fence. 
In  the  fall,  we  chose  warm  socks  and  underwear,  maybe  some 
all-purpose  linament  that  would  serve  as  well  for  a  sore  throat 
as  for  a  rash  caused  by  poison  ivy. 

As  he  displayed  his  articles  Mr.  Goodygood  was  most 
polite,  but  not  deferential.  We  recognized  his  pride  both  in 
himself  and  his  occupation.  No  matter  how  busy  Mama  and 
Daddy  were  they  always  took  time  to  look  over  Mr.  Goodygood's 
items,  and  they  would  always  buy  something  even  in  those 
Depression  years  because  they  knew  that  things  weren't  going 
well  for  the  drummer  either.  His  gratitude  was  evident  by  the 
shine  in  his  eyes  and  his  crooked  smile. 

The  wagon  itself  was  deteriorating  as  time  passed.  We 
could  see  patches  of  rust  here  and  there  painted  over  with  a 


glossy  black  paint.  One  time  we  saw  a  new  display  case  added 
to  the  equipment.  Then,  as  time  went  on  the  wagon  boasted  a 
new  wheel,  the  cost  of  which  had  surely  been  a  major  outlay 
from  meager  assets. 

Occasionally  Mr.  Goodygood  would  come  into  the  house 
to  join  us  at  the  large  kitchen  table  for  a  glass  of  milk  with  a  slice 
of  freshly  baked  bread  spread  with  apple  butter.  Once,  there 
was  a  severe  thunderstorm  when  Mr.  Goodygood  was  at  our 
house,  and  we  urged  him  to  stay  the  night  with  us.  He  was  very 
appreciative  of  this  offer  and  he  accepted.  I  think  he  feared 
more  for  his  horse  than  for  himself  if  he  ventured  on.  I 
remember  the  next  morning  when  he  left,  he  gave  us  children 
each  a  long  switch  of  black  licorice,  a  treat  for  us. 

Then  Mr.  Goodygood  came  no  more.  We  realized  an 
emptiness  that  was  only  partially  filled  by  our  memory  of  the 
little  drummer  man  with  his  sad-eyed  horse.  His  existence 
represented  an  era  of  the  past.  In  looking  back  we  came  to 
realize  that  he  had  enriched  our  lives. 


V  Wild  'things 


WILD  THINGS 

Illinois  is  not  a  state  that  is  known  for  its  wild  things  and 
wild  places.  In  the  northeast  corner  it  is  a  crowded  metropolis 
fringed  by  spreading  suburbs,  and  "downstate"  (everywhere 
else  but  Chicago)  it  is  a  com-and-soybean  empire  where  every- 
thing is  long-settled  and  agriculturally  productive.  The  vast 
prairies  that  once  characterized  the  Prairie  State  are  gone,  the 
forests  are  diminished,  and  the  wild  things  are  under  siege-at 
least,  in  most  areas. 

It  is  now  difficult  to  imagine  what  Illinois  was  like  150 
years  ago  when  it  was  still  being  settled.  Fortunately,  some 
vivid  pioneer  accounts  survive.  Perhaps  the  best  is  Eliza 
Farnham's  Life  in  Prairie  Land  (1846),  which  is  based  on  her 
experience  in  the  Illinois  River  Valley  during  the  1830s.  She 
describes  the  flowered  prairies,  the  mysterious  howl  of  wolves, 
and  the  limitless  ducks  and  geese  on  the  Illinois  River.  But  her 
main  focus  is  the  coming  of  civilization  to  the  wilderness,  and 
she  knew  even  then  that  settlement  was  changing  the  state 
forever:  "Broad  farms  open  as  by  magic  on  the  blooming  plain; 
stately  houses  take  the  place  of  the  solitary  cabin;  and  industry, 
that  counts  her  gains,  has  stretched  her  transforming  arm  over 
all  the  fair  land.  The  wild,  the  free,  the  mysterious,  are 
fading  .  .  .  ." 

In  our  own  century,  those  who  want  to  experience  the 
wild  things  in  Illinois  have  had  to  actively  seek  them.  One  of  the 
most  dedicated  and  perceptive  seekers  was  a  self-taught  natu- 
ralist and  writer  from  Springfield  named  Virginia  S.Eifert.  The 
best  of  her  short  pieces  on  the  natural  world  are  collected  in 
Essays  on  Nature  (1967),  available  at  the  Illinois  State  Mu- 
seum. Another  noted  seeker  of  wild  things  was  Leonard 
Dubkin,  a  Chicago  resident,  whose  best  book  is  Enchanted 
Streets  (1947). 

Like  the  writings  of  Eifert  and  Dubkin,  the  memoirs  in 
this  section  of  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  V  reveal  the  importance  to 


human  life  of  experience  with  our  natural  environment.  For 
example.  Garnet  Workman  refers  to  the  woodland  on  her  farm 
as  "the  good  provider,"  and  indeed  it  was.  The  woods  provided 
not  only  nuts,  berries,  squirrels,  wildflowers,  and  wood  itself, 
but  also  a  harvest  of  experiences  that  became  significant  memo- 
ries, as  her  account  reveals. 

In  contrast,  Glenn  Lamb's  "Encounters  with  Snakes" 
and  Robert  T.  Burns's  "More  Than  Two  Scents  Worth"  remind 
us  that  some  wild  things  have  never  been  welcome  neighbors  to 
most  people.  Skunks  have  been  killed  for  their  pelts,  but  snakes 
have  usually  been  killed  for  no  particular  reason-other  than 
fear  of  having  them  around  in  those  instances  when  they  are 
believed  to  be  poisonous.  Public  fascination  with  snakes  reached 
a  high  point  in  Illinois  during  the  later  nineteenth  century, 
when  people  sometimes  competed  to  see  who  could  kill  the 
biggest  snake  and  "snake  stories"  were  fairly  common  in  the 
newspapers.  Perhaps  when  even  snakes  receive  the  kind  of 
respect  that  all  wild  things  deserve,  we  will  have  finsdly  achieved 
a  sense  of  ethical  relationship  to  the  living  earth. 

Several  writers  in  this  section  reveal  their  uncommon 
sensitivity  to  particular  wild  things.  For  example,  a  childhood 
experience  with  foxes  provided  Marie  Hawkinson  with  an 
intuitive  sense  of  the  instrinsic  worth  of  those  very  common 
predators  of  the  Illinois  fields  and  woods.  And  James  B. 
Jackson  vividly  recounts  his  experiences  vrith  bats.  Without 
doubt,  his  life  was  enriched  by  contact  with  those  widely 
misunderstood  and  largely  unappreciated  creatures  of  the 
night. 

Even  plants  can  provide  memorable  experiences.  Lucille 
Ballinger's  fine  story  of  her  quest  for  the  red  spirea  bush  reveals 
how  clearly  that  episode  impressed  itself  on  her  mind.  And  her 
closing  note,  on  the  destruction  of  the  bush  by  subsequent 
residents  of  the  farm,  suggests  the  deep,  unfortunate  truth  that 
plants  and  animals  are  all  the  more  important  to  some  of  us 
because  many  others  do  not  find  any  value  in  them. 


Among  these  authors  Dorris  E.  Wells  is  perhaps  the 
most  ardent  amateur  naturalist.  She  has  spent  a  lifetime 
getting  to  know  the  wild  things  around  her  native  Hamilton, 
located  on  the  Mississippi  River  across  from  Keokuk,  Iowa.  Her 
memoir  of  Cedar  Glen,  which  is  now  part  of  the  Alice  Kibbe  Life 
Science  Station  owned  by  Western  Illinois  University,  reminds 


us  that  wild  places  and  wild  things  are  indeed  precious,  and  if 
future  generations  are  to  share  these  joys  and  have  similar 
memories  to  keep,  the  natural  world  in  Illinois  must  be  our 
perennial  concern. 

John  E.  Hallwas 


93 


THE  TIMBER  BELT 

Floy  K.  Chapman 

In  the  early  days  of  our  state,  the  country  was  divided, 
roughly,  into  three  natural  areas-the  great  prairie  land,  the 
river  bottoms,  and  a  region  between  them  covered  with  great 
hardwood  forests.  Because  the  good  prairie  land  was  taken 
first,  and  because  little  river  towns  grew  up  at  the  edge  of  the 
bottom  area,  wildlife  fled  to  the  timberlands  as  the  white 
settlers  arrived. 

Not  until  Civil  War  days  were  the  timber  lands  invaded 
by  a  group  of  Southern  settlers.  My  grandparents  were  among 
those  who  settled  in  the  Pleasant  Dale  neighborhood  about 
seven  miles  west  of  White  Hall.  The  first  decade  of  my  life  was 
spent  on  one  of  the  small  farms  that  grew  up  on  the  edge  of  that 
great  timber  area. 

Our  house  faced  the  prairie,  but  three  patches  of  virgin 
timber  were  nearby.  Great  oaks,  hickory,  elm,  and  hard  maple 
trees  covered  these  areas.  Wild  grape  vines  as  big  as  our  legs 
climbed  on  some  of  the  trees,  and  covered  them  with  fruit  in 
season.  Paw  paws,  white  dogwood,  red  bud,  and  various  kinds 
of  bushes  grew  under  the  trees  and  the  ground  was  dark  and 
damp. 

We  children  never  ventured  into  the  timber  alone  be- 
cause we  were  afraid  of  the  noises  that  came  from  it  at  night  and 
we  heard  many  stories  of  the  wildlife  there.  Sometimes  we  saw 
wild  cats,  raccoons,  possums,  skunks,  foxes,  a  lynx,  and  many, 
many  squirrels,  rabbits,  and  groundhogs.  In  winter,  the  coun- 
try folks  hunted  and  trapped  fur  for  cash. 

Snakes  of  all  kinds,  harmless  and  poisonous,  were  a  way 
of  life,  and  every  farm  had  guns  over  the  door  and  a  hoe  near  the 
back  door  for  protection. 

Bird  song  filled  the  air,  and  nests  were  always  near  at 
hand.  Bluebirds,  thrushes,  larks,  swallows,  redbirds,  hawks, 
crows,  buzzards,   and  sparrows  of  many  kinds  were  our 


acquaintances.  We  were  not  far  from  the  Illinois  River  bottoms, 
and  every  year  mighty  flocks  of  wild  ducks,  geese,  and  migrat- 
ing birds  of  every  kind  heralded  the  change  of  the  seasons. 

In  season,  and  in  their  particular  area,  Dutchman's 
breeches;  blue,  yellow,  and  purple  violets;  red  and  yellow 
columbine;  spring  beauties;  shooting  stars;  bluebells;  Jack-in- 
the-pulpits;  and  the  rare  and  beautiful  yellow  lady  slippers 
were  ours  for  the  taking. 

Wahoo  bushes  and  bittersweet  vines  clambered  over  the 
rail  fence  back  of  the  barn.  Wild  crabapples  and  plums  covered 
the  hillside,  and  patches  of  wild  gooseberries,  dewberries,  and 
various  sized  blackberries  dotted  the  hilly  bluegrass  pasture 
back  of  the  barn. 

In  warm,  summer  evenings,  my  father  and  mother 
would  sit  on  chairs  in  the  yard  and  we  children  would  lie  on 
pallets  on  the  ground  while  the  house  cooled  off.  We  looked  at 
the  stars-thousands  and  thousands  of  them.  Then,  far  away, 
we  would  hear  "Whip-poor-Will!  Whip-poor-Will!"  from  the 
west  timber. 

Then,  from  the  north  woodlot-"Who?  Who?  Whoo?"  the 
hoot  owl  would  reply. 

We  lay  quietly  listening,  and  soon  the  first  notes  of  a 
mockingbird  would  come  sweetly  from  a  nearby  oak.  Then,  the 
music  became  louder  and  sweeter.  We  went  to  sleep  with  his 
song  filling  the  air  with  harmony. 

It  was  over  eighty  years  ago. 


OUR  WOODS-THE  GOOD  PROVIDER 

Garnet  Workman 

Our  centennial  farm  located  in  Pleasant  Township, 
Fulton  County,  Illinois,  is  comprised  of  farm  land  and  extensive 
pasture  woodland.  As  I  recall  growing  up  on  this  farm,  I  realize 
that  the  wooded  area  was  indeed  a  good  provider  of  many 
things. 

During  the  winter  months,  my  father  hunted  and  trapped 
cmimals  for  their  pelts.  When  I  was  a  small  child,  Dad  promised 
to  buy  a  new  pair  of  shoes  for  me  if  he  caught  a  fur-bearing 
animal  in  his  traps.  I  was  overjoyed  when  I  saw  him  bringing 
home  a  skunk,  and  I  jumped  up  and  down,  clapped  my  hands, 
and  exclaimed  to  my  mother,  "Goody!  Goody!  Daddy  caught  a 
skunk!  I'll  get  a  new  pair  of  shoes." 

During  February,  the  woods  yielded  sassafras  roots 
from  which  my  mother  brewed  delicious  sassafras  tea.  She  said 
it  was  good  for  the  blood. 

In  late  April  and  early  May  we  went  "mushrooming"  for 
the  delectable  morel,  or  sponge,  mushroom.  Mother  would  fry 
these  delicacies  a  crispy,  golden  brown,  and  I'm  sure  they 
rivalled  the  ambrosia  of  the  mythological  gods. 

With  the  return  of  spring,  the  cattle  were  put  out  to 
pasture  in  the  woods,  where  they  grazed  on  the  lush  grass  and 
drank  from  a  branch  or  from  Tater  Creek.  In  later  years,  we  had 
a  pond  and  stocked  it  with  fish. 

The  wildflowers  from  the  woods  provided  many  lovely 
arrangements  for  our  home,  and  Mother  transplanted  bluebells 
along  one  side  of  our  front  lawn.  Besides  bluebells,  we  found 
Sweet  Williams,  Dutchmen's  breeches,  daisies,  violets  (our 
state  flower),  buttercups,  trilliums,  bloodroots,  harebells,  and 
deer's  tongue  or  dogtooth  violets. 

In  July,  we  picked  wild  blackberries  from  the  woods. 
Mother  made  pies  and  cobblers  from  the  luscious  fresh  berries. 
She  also  canned  the  berries  and  made  blackberry  jelly  and  jam. 


My  sister  and  I  sometimes  sold  a  few  gallons,  and  were  very 
pleased  with  the  small  amount  of  money  we  earned. 

In  the  hot  summer  months  the  woods  provided  an  ideal 
place  to  wade  in  the  refreshing  streams.  A  deep  hole  in  the 
branch  also  served  as  a  bathtub  for  Dad  when  he  returned  from 
the  fields  after  a  long  day. 

My  father  enjoyed  hunting  and  would  bag  squirrels  for 
my  mother,  sister,  and  me,  but  he  would  not  eat  them.  Mother 
would  fry  the  young,  tender  squirrels,  and,  in  my  opinion,  they 
were  better  than  chicken.  The  older  squirrels  were  stewed  and 
served  wath  a  smooth,  flavorful  cream  gravy. 

The  creek  provided  bullheads,  sunfish,  and  an  occa- 
sional turtle  for  many  a  tasty  meal.  Grandfather  Vaughn  fished 
in  the  creek  during  the  spring  of  his  eighty-sixth  birthday. 

In  the  fall,  we  gathered  black  walnuts,  hickory  nuts,  and 
hazel  nuts  from  the  woods.  Two  methods  of  hulling  the  walnuts 
were  used:  one  was  to  run  the  car  tires  back  and  forth  over  them 
and  the  other  was  to  run  them  through  the  corn  sheller.  Picking 
out  nut  meats  was  an  enjoyable  project  on  a  cold  winter  night. 
Hickory  nut  candy  was  one  of  my  mother's  special  treats  for 
Christmas. 

Our  woods  also  provided  wood  and  coal  for  cooking  and 
heating.  A  large  woodpile  was  located  west  of  the  garage,  and 
my  sister  and  I  would  carry  armloads  of  wood  to  the  kitchen  for 
Mother  to  use  in  her  large  old-fashioned  range.  We  trained  our 
dog  Rover  to  carry  one  stick  of  wood  in  his  mouth. 

During  the  summer  of  1934,  Dad  and  one  of  my  cousins 
dug  coal  and  sold  it  to  the  Branson  School  in  our  neighborhood. 
With  this  money,  we  drove  our  Model-A  Ford  to  Chicago  and 
attended  the  World's  Fair,  known  as  the  Century  of  Progress. 

Before  Christmas,  Dad,  my  sister,  and  I  would  take  our 
sled  to  the  woods,  where  Dad  would  cut  a  small,  well-shaped 
cedar  for  our  Christmas  tree  and  bring  it  home  on  the  sled. 

Besides  providing  all  these  material  things,  the  woods 
was  a  wonderful  place  to  meditate  and  feel  close  to  God. 


Grandfather  Vaughn  named  one  of  the  large  hills  Mt.  Nebo.  No 
doubt,  when  he  bought  this  farm,  he  looked  over  his  land  from 
this  high  hill  just  as  Moses  viewed  the  Promised  Land  from  Mt. 
Nebo. 

Our  woods  provided  many  things  which  I  remember 
with  gratefulness  and  joy. 


MORE  THAN  TWO  SCENTS  WORTH 

Robert  T.  Burns 

Many  folks  of  the  Illinois  prairies  have  had  disastrous 
run-ins  with  that  beautiful  black  and  often  striped  little  wild 
animal  known  for  his  nauseating  musk  when  he  is  aroused. 
Although  he's  really  the  farmers'  friend  because  of  his  insa- 
tiable appetite  for  mice,  he's  quite  unwelcome  around  home- 
steads. It's  not  only  his  smell  that  marks  him  for  banishment; 
the  skunk  has  always  had  an  affinity  for  eggs  and  young 
chickens,  which  were  staple  commodities  around  farmsteads  of 
the  early  1900s. 

My  first  memorable  encounter  with  this  little  member  of 
the  weasel  family,  whose  fur  is  often  called  "Alaska  sable,"  took 
place  on  our  farmstead  one  mUe  west  of  Greenview,  Illinois,  and 
about  ten  miles  north  of  Lincoln's  New  Salem.  That  and  two 
other  adventures  vnth  skunks  involved  three  domestic  ani- 
mal s-a  beautifvd  tan  and  white  collie  named  Betty,  a  ponderous 
sorrel  Belgian  mare  answering  to  Molly,  and  a  half-wild  little 
horse  of  mixed  ancestry  known  as  Cricket. 

On  a  spring  day  a  year  prior  to  the  American  involve- 
ment in  World  War  I,  we  had  noticed  the  tell-tale  aroma  of 
skunk  as  we  went  about  our  morning  chores.  The  cause  of  the 
stench  was  traced  to  the  area  under  the  com  crib.  Knowing  that 
a  family  of  that  tribe,  or  perhaps  more  than  one  family,  could  be 
a  menace  to  the  new  chicken  crop,  and  could  almost  certainly 


lead  to  human  social  ostracism,  my  father  and  two  older 
brothers  accepted  the  offer  of  our  hired  man  to  enlist  the  aid  of 
his  valiant  little  terrier,  Spot.  The  young  man,  Earl  Eldridge, 
a  son  of  a  prominent  Greenview  doctor  and  somewhat  of  a 
daredevil  by  nature,  was  later  destined  to  become  a  pilot  in  the 
fledgling  American  air  force  in  the  impending  war. 

The  little  terrier  went  to  work.  Spot  instinctively  knew 
how  to  break  the  spines  of  the  intruders,  immediately  killing 
them,  then  triumphantly  depositing  them  at  the  feet  of  his 
young  master.  (My  father,  two  brothers,  and  this  six-year  old 
kid  maintained  discreet  shelters  beyond  the  firing  line.) 

Another  spectator  was  Betty,  our  young  Collie,  just 
emerging  from  the  middle  stages  of  puppyhood.  After  she  had 
happily  observed  Spot's  dexterity  and  success,  she  seemed  to 
say,  as  she  cocked  her  head  from  side  to  side,  "I  want  into  the 
action." 

That  turned  out  to  be  a  rash  and  disastrous  decision. 
Under  the  crib  went  Betty;  out  she  dragged  an  adult  skunk, 
dropped  the  animal  to  get  a  better  hold,  then  mistakenly 
attacked  her  intended  victim  from  the  rear.  Betty's  adversary 
did  what  came  naturally;  the  untutored  pup  received  a  full 
charge  of  the  awful  effluvia  in  the  face  and  mouth. 

Although  I  was  six  years  old  at  the  time,  I  shall  never 
forget  the  extent  of  Betty's  torment.  She  went  into  a  frenzy 
laced  with  yelping,  retching,  eating  dirt,  and  rolling  over  and 
over  while  trying  to  paw  the  pain  of  that  fluid  from  her  eyes. 

Betty  did  recover  from  the  venture,  but  she  retreated 
that  day  to  a  shed  where  Dad  ministered  to  her  as  best  he  could. 
The  unfortunate  pet  was  socially  unwelcome  for  many  days- 
something  a  naturally  happy  and  gregarious  puppy  found  hard 
to  endure. 

A  second  incident  came  some  seven  years  later  as  I  rode 
atop  a  gang  plow  towed  by  a  four-horse  team  with  01'  Molly,  a 
Belgian  mare,  walking  to  the  right  of  her  three  companions. 
Usually  such  a  gentle  and  cooperative  horse  is  chosen  for 


96 


Molly's  position,  to  trudge  along  in  the  furrow  while  the  others 
walked  upon  unturned  soil  to  her  left.  It  was  a  late  spring  day; 
successive  rains  had  set  back  preparations  for  the  new  com 
crop.  The  field  was  flat  and  fairly  smooth;  and  the  horses 
needed  little  driving:  I  was  in  a  trance,  dreaming  about  the 
sumptuous  meal  awaiting  us  at  noon  time. 

It  happened  that  "Uncle  Doc"  and  Aunt  Molly  Hurst  had 
returned  to  Greenview  for  a  visit.  Uncle  Doc  (S.T.)  Hurst  had 
been  a  doctor  in  the  town  for  many  years  service  after  he  had 
done  a  long  stretch  in  the  Civil  War.  Great-Aunt  Molly  and  the 
doctor  were  impeccably  moral;  they  had  always  denounced  the 
silent  movies  of  the  early  '20s  and  yet,  they  had  retired  to 
Hollywood,  virtually  living  among  the  sinners  of  the  screen. 
Uncle  Doc  was  so  straight-laced,  though  an  accommodating 
doctor,  that  he  demanded  his  Sunday  School  teachers  meet  with 
him  in  a  weekly  Saturday  preparatory  session  before  teaching 
their  classes  on  the  Sabbath.  The  Hursts  were  to  be  our  dinner 
guests  today. 

As  I  savored  the  upcoming  meal  (I  am  never  an  unwdlling 
feeder  at  the  festive  board),  there  were  visions  of  salt  tangy 
roast  beef,  brown  gravy  covering  a  mountain  of  mashed  pota- 
toes, capped  with  a  mound  of  Jersey  butter  streaming  down  in 
little  rivulets  of  goodness,  country  fried  chicken,  homemade  ice 
cream,  and  much  more. 

As  I  recovered  from  the  reverie,  I  noted  the  usual  black 
and  gleaming  ripples  of  soil  gliding  over  the  double  plow  shares 
and  mold  boards.  Then  an  alarming  and  unmistakable  whiff  of 
skunk  jerked  me  into  dismay.  Walking  down  the  furrow  ahead 
of  Molly  was  a  mother  skunk  with  her  five  little  offspring, 
apparently  about  half  grown. 

I  could  have  stopped  the  team  and  permitted  the  little 
family  to  retire  unmolested.  But  01'  Molly  was  trodding  upon 
the  furry  creatures.  One  by  one  she  purposely  trod  into 
extinction  three  of  the  critters,  who  before  their  demise,  were 
unloosing  a  dreaded  barrage  of  built-in  ammunition.    Why  a 


naturally  compassionate  and  gentle  mare  would  choose  to  stir 
the  animals  into  retaliation  I  shall  never  know.  Incidentally, 
her  hooves  were  no  larger  than  those  of  a  mastodon;  neither 
were  they  much  smaller. 

Fear  of  the  consequences  overwhelmed  me.  Should  I  be 
caught  in  that  stream  of  vile  and  malodorous  musk,  I  would  not 
be  in  any  way  welcome  at  the  festive  board-in  fact  not  even  in 
the  house.  Setting  the  plow  deep  to  forestall  a  potential 
runaway,  I  high  tailed  it  away  from  the  gagging  smellorama. 

Miraculously,  I  remained  free  of  the  victims'  assault, 
tripped  the  plow  from  the  ground,  and  proceeded  homeward  for 
a  joyous  encounter  with  food  and  fellowship.  But  01'  Molly 
stank  to  high  heaven  for  weeks-even  for  months  after  a  rain. 
We  had  heard  that  bathing  a  victim  of  skunk  spray  in  tomato 
juice  would  assuage  the  situation.  But  bathing  a  2,000-pound 
mare  in  such  a  concoction  is  a  bit  mind  boggling. 

Just  two  years  later,  in  1925,  I  saddled  up  the  dappled 
gray  little  horse,  Cricket,  offspring  of  a  half  Indian-half  Shet- 
land pony  and  an  Arabian  sire.  His  mixed  blood  was  too  much 
for  him;  he  was  never  gentle  and  was  always  planning  some 
outrage  against  his  masters.  In  late  afternoon  we  headed  for  a 
"haunted  house,"  which  sat  long  abandoned  in  a  neighbor's  field 
where  I  had  set  a  trap. 

Before  this  trip,  I  had  caught  a  pure  black  skunk  on  the 
old  structure's  grounds,  but  an  unknown  animal  had  attacked 
my  quarry  in  the  trap  and  had  ripped  its  fur  into  strips, 
rendering  worthless  an  otherwise  valuable  pelt. 

Arrival  on  this  trip  revealed  a  trapped  striped  polecat 
outside  the  window  of  the  old  house.  After  tying  Cricket  to  a 
sapling,  I  entered  the  abandoned  home  of  yesteryear  and 
climbed  the  rickety  old  stairs  to  give  me  a  chance  to  dispatch  the 
furry  prey  with  my  old  single  shot,  22  Stevens  rifle.  I  leaned  out 
the  paneless  window  to  get  a  clear  shot  without  any  retaliation 
from  the  skunk. 

Early  winter  afternoon  had  almost  turned  to  darkness, 


97 


particularly  within  the  gloomy  old  structure.  Then  there  came 
a  squish,  scraping  sound  behind  me.  Elevating  my  rifle  and 
turning  quickly  to  confront  any  intruder,  ghostly  or  not,  amid 
shivers  of  anticipation,  I  was  soon  relieved  to  find  the  eerie 
sound  was  old  loose  wall  paper,  well  weighted  with  paste  and 
old  plaster,  grating  against  a  door. 

But  I  still  had  not  completed  my  mission.  One  shot 
dispatched  the  prey;  then  it  was  placed  in  a  gunny  sack  and  tied 
securely  to  the  saddle  of  the  violently  objecting  riding  horse  who 
was  snorting,  rolling  his  eyes,  and  sniffing  the  gamey  odor  of  my 
catch. 

Cricket  had  never  before  bucked;  he'd  been  content  to 
throw  himself  on  his  side  or,  for  his  idea  of  kicks,  strike  at 
mankind  with  his  front  feet.  As  I  gripped  the  reins  tightly  and 
swung  into  the  saddle,  he  tried  a  new  trick  for  him;  the  frantic 
mount  did  a  perfect  upturn,  causing  me  to  land  upon  his  neck, 
whereupon  Cricket  threw  himself  on  his  side.  I  managed  to 
escape  injury  by  landing  away  from  his  midriff. 

After  getting  both  myself  and  the  little  rascal  quieted 
down,  I  again  swung  onto  his  back  holding  on  to  my  rifle  and  the 
saddle  for  dear  life.  That  evening.  Cricket  was  a  runaway, 
oblivious  to  either  my  commands  or  use  or  reins.  We  arrived 
home  in  record  time ;  I  never  had  a  chance  to  insert  my  right  foot 
into  the  stirrup. 

That  ended  my  days  of  trapping-a  pursuit  that  I  would 
today  frown  upon.  Perhaps  all  my  trials  and  tribulations  on 
that  brief  December  afternoon  could  be  chalked  up  to  poetic 
justice.  Cruelty  can  often  backfire  upon  the  aggressor. 


ENCOUNTERS  WITH  SNAKES 

Glenna  Lamb 

In  Green  and  Scott  counties,  where  I  grew  up,  the 
beautiful  Illinois  River  bluffs  stretch  from  Winchester  to  Hill  view 
and  beyond.  At  intervals,  there  are  long  lines  of  rock  cliffs 
outlining  the  broad  expanse  of  fertile  river  valley.  The  Frank 
Howard  family  farm  was  in  the  hills  back  of  the  cliffs  in  Greene 
County.  It  was  all  beautiful  to  me,  even  the  small  frame  house 
that  was  our  home.  But  there  were  dangers  to  be  aware  of. 

There  were  rattlesnakes  in  the  hills  and  bluffs.  I  have 
heard  my  parents  tell  about  a  time,  shortly  after  they  moved 
there,  when  my  oldest  brother,  George,  went  to  the  door  one 
morning  to  empty  the  dirt  out  of  his  shoes  before  putting  them 
on.  He  dropped  down  on  one  knee,  and  was  emptying  the  dirt, 
when  he  saw  a  small  snake  behind  the  door.  It  turned  out  to  be 
a  baby  rattler. 

When  I  was  around  seven,  my  brother  Earl  had  an 
unusual  snake  experience.  Dad  was  mowing  hay.  Earl  was 
watching,  and  trying  to  catch  baby  rabbits  as  they  ran  from  the 
mower.  He  had  lain  down  to  wait  for  Dad  to  make  another 
round,  the  length  of  the  field  and  back.  He  got  interested  in 
watching  insects  in  the  grass,  and  propped  himself  up  on  one 
elbow.  This  created  a  space  between  his  upper  body  and  the 
ground.  Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  a  snake  was  crawling 
through  that  space.  Earl  had  the  calmness  and  self-discipline 
to  lie  perfectly  still  until  the  snake  had  emerged  from  the  space 
beneath  his  body.  Of  course,  the  last  part  to  emerge  was  a  string 
of  rattles.  I'm  not  sure  if  Earl  knew  it  was  a  rattlesnake  before 
he  saw  the  rattles  or  not.  Neither  did  I  know  what  happened 
next:  whether  the  snake  rattled  and  coiled  to  strike  or  not.  Earl 
did  manage  to  get  Dad's  attention,  and  Dad  got  there  and  killed 
the  snake.  Earl  kept  the  rattles  for  a  souvenir,  and  carried  them 
in  his  pocket  for  quite  a  long  while. 

One  summer  evening  our  little  dog,  Trixie,  bayed  a 


rattlesnake  in  the  valley  between  our  house  and  the  cherry 
orchard.  Trixie  was  barking  furiously;  the  snake's  rattles  were 
singing.  Dad  said,  "There  is  no  mistaking  the  sound.  It  is  a 
rattlesnake."  It  was  after  dark,  and  was  a  serious  situation  that 
must  be  dealt  with.  Dad  considered  it  to  be  his  responsibility. 
He  loaded  the  shotgun  and  took  a  supply  of  shells  with  him.  He 
could  not  see  the  snake  in  the  dark,  so  he  began  shooting  at  the 
sound.  He  kept  shooting  into  the  weeds  until  the  rattling 
stopped.  He  had  no  way  of  knowing  if  he  had  killed  the  snake, 
or  just  shot  off  its  rattles,  so  he  brought  Trixie  and  got  away  from 
the  spot  as  quickly  as  he  could.  When  he  went  back  the  next 
morning,  the  snake  was  dead. 

There  were  other  kinds  of  snakes  in  the  territory,  some 
poisonous  and  some  non-poisonous.  Copperheads  were  another 
poisonous  kind  that  were  sometimes  found  in  our  community. 
I  remember  one  summer  when  one  was  killed  in  a  neighbor's 
field,  about  a  half  mile  from  our  house.  We  felt  concerned;  where 
there  was  one,  there  might  be  others.  There  was  one  kind  which 
my  dad  called  a  kissing  viper,  and  another  that  he  referred  to  as 
a  spreadhead.  They  were  both  said  to  be  poisonous.  Rattle- 
snakes were  the  most  prevalent,  yet  to  my  knowledge,  the  only 
ones  I  ever  saw  were  the  two  that  my  dad  killed. 

Among  the  non-poisonous  varieties,  black  snakes  were 
probably  the  ones  that  I  saw  the  most.  There  were  also  blue 
racers,  bull  snakes,  and  of  course,  garter  snakes. 

When  I  was  twelve,  we  moved  a  short  distance  to  the  Jim 
Dillon  farm  in  Scott  County.  It  was  a  mile  and  a  half  southwest 
of  Glasgow.  The  house  was  a  half  mile  off  the  road,  with  a 
private  road  leading  back  to  it.  The  fields  were  in  the  Little 
Sandy  Creek  valley,  the  pasture  land  in  the  hills  that  outlined 
it.  It  was  a  wonderful  place  for  observing  wildlife,  snakes 
included. 

One  day  Mother  sent  me  to  the  barn  to  get  a  basket  of 
cobs  for  burning  in  the  cook  stove.  When  I  opened  the  door  to 
the  crib,  there  was  a  large  black  snake  making  himself  quite  at 


home.  At  that  time,  I  did  not  know  that  snakes  befriend  the 
farmer  by  eating  insects  and  rodents.  I  thought  all  snakes 
should  be  killed  if  they  were  encroaching  on  your  territory.  This 
one  was  in  our  crib,  and  I  wasn't  about  to  pick  up  cobs  in  the 
same  room  with  him.  So  I  went  out  to  look  for  something  to  kill 
him  with.  I  found  a  good  sturdy  club  about  four  feet  long.  Just 
the  thing,  I  decided.  When  I  opened  the  crib  door  again,  the 
snake  was  crawling  through  a  rat  hole,  making  his  get-away. 
"Oh  no,"  I  thought,  "I  can't  let  this  happen!"  My  next  act  was 
totally  on  impulse.  About  a  third  of  the  snake's  body  was 
already  through  the  hole.  I  should  have  let  him  go.  Instead,  I 
grabbed  him  by  the  tail,  yanked  him  back  through  the  hole,  and 
hit  him  on  the  head.  I  expected  it  to  kill  him,  but  it  only  made 
him  angry.  I  had  no  idea  he  would  fight  so  hard  for  his  life,  or 
that  he  would  be  so  hard  to  kill.  I  would  have  liked  to  just  drop 
the  whole  thing,  but  with  him  fighting  so  hard,  I  thought  I  had 
no  choice  but  to  finish  the  job.  It  was  a  hard  battle,  the  snake 
raring  upon  it's  tail  and  striking  at  me,  and  me  hitting  him  with 
my  club.  I  didn't  get  bitten,  and  I  finally  won  the  battle.  At  last 
the  snake  was  dead.  Suddenly  a  loud  cheer  went  up  from  behind 
me.  My  brothers.  Earl  and  Carl,  and  a  friend,  Wesley  Erwin, 
had  been  watching.  I  hadn't  known  they  were  anywhere 
around.  They  thought  I  was  a  heroine.  I  didn't  want  to  talk 
aboutit.  I  was  tired,  and  glad  it  was  over.  I  filled  the  basket  with 
cobs  and  took  them  in  to  Mother. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  I  had  nothing  to  do,  so  I  decided 
to  go  wading  in  the  creek.  I  walked  across  the  cornfield,  left  my 
shoes  on  the  bank,  and  stepped  into  the  water.  I  kept  wading 
downstream  until  I  was  probably  a  mile  from  where  I  had 
started.  It  was  in  a  particularly  cool,  woodsy  place,  and  one  side 
of  the  creek  had  a  bank  with  weeds  growing  on  it.  I  saw  a  snake 
lying  still  in  the  weeds.  I  picked  up  a  pebble  and  tossed  it  at  him. 
Instead  of  slithering  away,  as  I  had  thought  he  would,  he  raised 
his  head  and  hissed  at  me.  I  picked  up  another  rock  and  threw 
it  at  him,  thinking  that  would  make  him  run,  but  he  stood  his 


ground  and  hissed  louder.  I  considered  him  to  be  my  enemy,  so 
I  kept  on  tossing  rocks  at  him,  and  he  kept  getting  madder  and 
madder.  He  spread  his  head,  and  kept  hissing  loudly,  but  he 
also  began  thrashing  about,  raring  up  on  his  tail  and  striking  in 
my  direction.  The  creek,  about  four  feet  wide  at  that  point,  was 
between  him  and  me,  but  he  was  putting  on  such  a  frightening 
exhibition  that  I  was  very  scared.  I  feared  he  might  jump  across 
the  creek  and  attack  me.  I  retreated  upstream  as  fast  as  I  could, 
and  didn't  stop  until  I  was  back  at  the  place  where  I  had  left  my 
shoes.  In  my  mind,  there  was  no  doubt  but  that  he  was  either 
a  spreadhead  or  a  hissing  viper,  and  that  I  had  been  very  close 
to  being  bitten.  I'll  never  know  what  kind  he  really  was,  but  I 
definitely  know  one  thing:  that  was  the  last  time  I  ever  teased 
a  snake. 

Whenever  anyone  in  the  neighborhood  killed  a  rattle- 
snake or  a  copperhead,  the  news  spread  fast,  both  as  a  warning 
and  as  good  tidings.  It  refreshed  people's  awareness  that 
dangerous  snakes  were  around,  and  that  to  be  bitten  by  one 
could  be  fatal .  It  was  good  news  that  one  of  our  common  enemies 
had  been  destroyed. 


At  first,  they  were  kept  in  a  large  chicken  coop  and  as 
they  grew  were  put  in  a  chicken  wire  pen  with  a  covered  top. 
They  were  never  "pets,"  always  snarling  and  spitting.  They 
would  lacerate  your  hand  if  you  offered  food  in  it  as  we  soon 
learned.  They  would  never  rub  against  you  for  affection  as  a  dog 
or  cat  would. 

As  they  grew  older,  they  found  many  ways  to  escape, 
squeezing  out  between  fence  and  top  or  digging  out  under  the 
fence.  They  became  expert  at  this,  but  they  always  came  back. 

As  they  stayed  in  the  wild  longer  and  longer,  they  only 
returned  to  raid  the  chicken  house.  After  several  such  forays, 
our  chicken  flock  decreased  measurably,  so  my  dad  declared 
war  on  the  invaders.  They  had  to  be  destroyed! 

I  wept  when  I  heard  this  and  I  think  my  brothers,  Sam 
and  Charlie,  did,  too,  secretly.  But  the  lovely  red  foxes  were 
killed  and  their  pelts  were  made  into  Daniel  Boone  caps  with 
the  tails,  or  "brushes"  as  fox  tails  are  called,  hanging  down  the 
back.  I  never  saw  my  brothers  wear  the  caps.  I  doubt  they  ever 
did. 

Some  years  ago  my  husband  and  I  were  driving  in  the 
country  and  saw  a  red  fox  dead  beside  the  road.  I  got  out  of  the 
car  and  stood  beside  him  and  cried  for  him  and  for  the  little  foxes 
of  my  childhood. 


THE  FOXES  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD 

Maxine  Hawkinson 


When  I  was  a  child,  the  youngest  of  eight,  my  two 
brothers  found  a  dead  mother  fox  and  went  to  look  for  her 
babies.  They  found  two  crying  baby  red  foxes  in  a  cave  nearby 
and  brought  them  home  to  raise.  Those  young  red  foxes  were 
the  most  beautiful  creatures  I've  ever  seen.  They  were  so  bright 
and  graceful  and  new  minted  looking.  I  loved  them  from  the 
first,  though  they  were  snarly  and  fierce,  fighting  each  other 
over  food. 


MY  EXPERIENCES  WITH  BATS 

James  B.  Jackson 

Bats  have  always  fascinated  me.  (If  man  were  truly  to 
fly,  wouldn't  he  have  to  be  built  something  like  a  bat?)  I  still  love 
to  see  tiny  brown  bats  at  twilight  feeding  on  flying  insects  while 
it  is  still  almost  daylight.  They  seem  scarcely  larger  than  the 
giant  silk  worm  moths;  in  fact,  they  have  no  greater  wing  span 


than  some  of  the  larger  members  of  that  equally  interesting  set 
of  night  flyers. 

A  very  early  encounter  happened  late  one  fall  in  the 
1920s  as  I  was  prospecting  for  a  new  trap  line  along  the  Lamoine 
River  just  north  of  Macomb,  Illinois.  I  came  upon  a  huge  white 
elm  tree  dead  from  one  of  our  imported  elm  diseases.  It  was  still 
encased  in  its  bark  which  hung  in  a  couple  of  great  sheets  ten 
or  twelve  feet  long.  I  took  hold  of  a  sheet  and  found  it  quite  loose 
except  that  it  was  firmly  fastened  at  one  edge.  When  I  pulled  it 
back  slowly  and  gently  I  was  amazed  to  see  dozens  of  brown  bats 
hanging  to  the  old  tree  trunk,  protected  by  the  loose  bark.  The 
bats  looked  to  be  piled  three  or  four  deep,  all  clinging  in  a  mass 
not  unlike  a  swarm  of  giant  bees.  It  was  cold  enough  that  they 
were  starting  their  winter  hibernation  and  my  intrusion  did  not 
disturb  them.  I  eased  the  bark  back  in  place  and  on  my  next  trip 
that  way  I  brought  a  length  of  bailing  wire  to  secure  the  bark 
enough  to  keep  the  winter  wind  from  blowing  it  away.  Through- 
out the  fall  and  early  winter,  I  checked  it  almost  daily  as  I 
tended  my  traps  and  then  it  was  forgotten  until  one  warm  May 
morning  when  I  came  that  way  in  search  of  morel  mushrooms 
and  I  checked  it  once  again.  This  time  I  untied  the  wire  and 
eased  back  the  bark  several  inches.  The  bats  were  still  there  but 
no  longer  hibernating.  They  swarmed  out  en  masse,  sounding 
their  high  pitched  sonar  signals  and  flying  away  in  all  direc- 
tions. I  replaced  the  bark  and  the  wire  and  sat  down  to  watch 
and  to  rest.  Within  fifteen  minutes  the  bats  were  coming  back 
to  reenter  their  violated  sanctuary.  I  counted  more  than  a 
hundred  before  the  main  body  was  home  and  only  an  occasional 
flittermousecamein.  Then  I  resumed  my  quest  for  morels.  The 
next  time  I  walked  that  way,  two  years  later,  the  bark  was  still 
in  tact. 

Once  I  came  upon  a  well-hidden  cave  and  returned  later 
with  a  couple  of  good  flashlights  to  explore  it  a  bit.  The  passage 
way  curved  rather  sharply  some  thirty  yards  from  the  entrance 
and  no  daylight  penetrated  beyond  that  point.  Shortly  beyond 


the  curve  the  cave  became  two-level.  A  gradual  slope,  sort  of  a 
natural  ramp,  led  off  to  the  right  and  upward.  Both  branches 
had  ten-foot  ceilings  and  the  floors  were  smooth.  I  went  up  the 
ramp  and  found  myself  in  a  large  chamber  much  wider  than  the 
first  part  of  the  cave.  There  was  a  strong  odor  and  the  floor  had 
a  different  feel,  almost  as  if  it  were  carpeted.  When  I  turned  my 
light  on  it,  it  was  indeed  carpeted-with  bat  dung  several  inches 
deep!  I  began  to  hear  tiny  rustling  noises  and  when  I  put  my 
light  on  the  ceiling,  it  was  covered  with  bats  as  far  as  I  could  see. 
As  the  light  hit  them,  they  began  to  drop  off  and  fly  about, 
clicking  and  squeaking  and  darting  past  within  inches  of  my 
face.  When  I  stood  stock  still  and  turned  off  the  light,  the 
activity  seemed  to  intensify.  Suddenly  I  felt  a  chill  of  uneasi- 
ness-fright-then sheer  panic!  I  turned  on  both  lights  and  RAN 
for  the  exit.  The  bats  did  not  come  beyond  the  ramp,  but  I  ran 
until  I  rounded  a  curve  and  could  see  daylight  at  the  mouth  of 
the  cave.  I  quickly  recovered  my  composure  and  sat  a  long  half- 
hour  in  the  sunshine  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  I  felt  much  more 
at  ease  with  the  little  copperhead  snake  who  shared  that  sunny 
spot  with  me  than  I  did  with  those  hundreds  of  furry  bats 
swooping  about  my  head  in  the  dark,  dank  recesses  of  the 
limestone  cave. 


FISH  GRABBING 

Robert  L.  Brownlee 

Years  ago  a  friend  and  I  developed  a  technique  for 
catching  big  fish  without  using  hooks  or  lines:  we  grabbed 
them.  The  Edwards  River  was  full  of  carp  and  catfish.  It's  a  big 
stream  that  flows  down  to  join  the  Mississippi  near  Seaton, 
Illinois.  There  the  leather  back  carp  that  have  just  a  few  large 
scales  grow  to  giant  sizes,  up  to  forty  or  fifty  pounds.    The 


101 


German  carp  are  not  much  behind  them.  And  huge  catfish  come 
upstream  from  the  big  river.  They  all  lie  in  the  holes  between 
the  riffles  around  the  tree  roots  and  drifts.  In  late  summer  the 
water  is  low  and  that's  when  my  friend  Carl  and  I  went  after 
them.  We  could  keep  the  carp  alive  and  get  them  to  market 
where  they  brought  a  fair  price. 

To  catch  big  carp,  we  wore  a  pair  of  bib  overalls  and 
waded  right  in  the  river.  The  water  was  four,  sometimes  five 
feet  deep.  One  day  in  August  we  loaded  the  old  pick-up  truck 
with  gunny  sacks  and  rags  to  keep  the  fish  wet  and  alive.  We 
got  as  close  as  possible  to  the  river  and  found  a  long  strip  of  good 
water  with  some  brush  and  logs  in  it  and  two  or  three  drifts.  We 
caught  several  carp  in  the  shallow  water  just  with  our  hands. 
They  would  weigh  four  or  five  pounds  each.  But  when  you  try 
to  pick  up  one  that  weighs  twelve  or  fifteen  pounds,  its  a 
different  story.  That's  the  reason  for  the  bib  overalls.  When  you 
find  a  big  one,  you  stoop  over  until  the  bib  is  under  the  water. 
Then  you  guide  the  fish  in  next  to  your  chest.  If  you  work  slow 
and  easy,  they  never  get  scared  and  will  slip  right  in  where  you 
want  them.  Now  you  have  your  fish  in  your  bib.  You  tighten  the 
suspenders,  grab  him  by  the  tail  and  walk  out  of  the  crick.  He'll 
flop  and  squirm  but  he  can't  get  away.  Well,  we  got  six  or  seven 
old  leather  backs  that  weighed  well  over  twelve  pounds  a  piece 
and  a  lot  of  four  or  five  pounders,  plus  several  pretty  fair  catfish, 
mostly  blue  cats.  We  put  them  in  the  truck  and  covered  them 
with  wet  sacks  and  rags  before  we  went  on  to  the  next  drift. 

Then  I  felt  around  and  found  a  big  fish.  When  I  ran  my 
hand  over  it,  I  knew  it  was  a  cat  because  it  had  no  scales.  Up 
there  we  called  that  kind  of  catfish  a  "Hoosier."  They  are  golden- 
brown  in  color  and  get  to  be  huge  fish.  This  one  was  lying  on  the 
bottom  right  beside  a  log.  I  hollered  for  Carl  to  get  the  clothes 
line  rope  we  had  in  the  truck  and  a  stick  or  something  so  we 
could  try  to  get  a  line  through  his  gills.  I  stuck  my  head  under 
water  and  tried  to  thread  the  rope  through,  but  couldn't  make 
it.  The  old  fish  was  getting  edgy  and  starting  to  wiggle  a  little 


so  I  let  him  alone  awhile.  Then  we  got  a  piece  of  wire  and  bent 
an  eye  at  one  end  to  take  the  clothesline.  I  got  the  wire  through 
the  gills  and  out  of  his  mouth  with  no  trouble.  He  wiggled  some, 
but  still  didn't  break  loose  from  the  bottom;  just  laid  there  like 
he  was  stuck  down.  I  worked  real  slow  and  got  the  rope  through 
his  mouth.  After  we  tied  a  good  knot,  Carl  pulled  and  I  pried 
with  a  board  against  the  log.  When  he  went,  he  went  fast  and 
furious. 

Eventually  Carl  and  I  drug  him  out  on  the  bank  and, 
man,  he  was  a  big  fish!  We  were  so  excited  we  were  both  shaking 
and  had  to  sit  down  and  rest  before  we  loaded  him  in  the  truck. 
At  Carl's  house  we  put  that  fish  on  the  scales  and  he  weighed 
forty-two  pounds.  Biggest  fish  I  had  ever  had  anything  to  do 
with.  We  took  a  lot  of  pictures  and  then  decided  to  eat  him. 
When  we  cut  off  the  head  it  weighed  twelve  pounds.  Cleaning 
it  was  like  butchering  a  pig.  We  cut  steaks  like  pork  chops,  and 
they  were  wonderful  eating.  We  kept  a  lot  of  it  cool  for  another 
day,  so  the  neighbors  could  enjoy  it  with  us.  When  we  sold  the 
other  fish,  we  felt  we  were  well  paid  for  half  a  day's  work. 

All  of  this  happened  more  than  seventy  years  ago.  I  have 
caught  hundreds  of  fish  since  then,  some  larger  than  the 
"Hoosier,"  but  I  have  never  had  another  such  thrill. 


OUR  QUEST  FOR  THE  RED  SPIREA 

Lucille  Ballinger 

My  brother,  Stanley  Klaus,  and  I,  Lucille  Klaus  Ballinger, 
were  fortunate  to  inherit  the  love  of  flowers,  gardens,  wildflow- 
ers,  and  anything  pertaining  to  nature  from  our  wonderful 
parents,  Clara  and  Otto  Klaus.  During  the  depression  days  of 
the  Twenties,  we  were  so  poor,  but  everyone  else  was,  too.  We 
made  our  own  fun,  and  never  had  to  hunt  for  means  of 


enjoyment,  as  something  was  always  ready  for  us  kids  to  do.  We 
always  helped  in  the  garden,  watered  flowers,  and  helped  put 
in  bulbs,  seeds,  and  plants.  We  loved  it  all. 

A  nearby  neighbor  who  sensed  our  love  for  flowers  and 
shrubs,  told  us  of  a  certain  place  in  the  woods,  about  four  miles 
from  our  home,  that  had  been  his  former  boyhood  home,  but  was 
nothing  now  but  a  wooded  area.  He  remarked  there  should  be 
some  flowering  bushes  remaining  if  the  denseness  of  the  timber 
had  not  taken  over.  Stanley  decided  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to 
go  explore  a  bit.  After  some  deliberation,  parental  permission 
was  granted.  We  both  were  elated. 

One  hot,  sunny  May  day,  Stanley,  ten,  and  I,  age  nine, 
started  out  with  a  spade  and  a  gunny  sack,  on  our  trek  down  the 
railroad  track  nearby.  We  saw  birds,  animals,  a  snake,  and 
many  of  nature's  offerings,  during  our  four-mile  walk.  The 
wildflowers  were  breathtaking  and  so  thrilling.  We  loved  every 
step  we  took.  Finally  we  found  the  exact  area,  amid  thorns, 
downed  trees,  and  wilderness.  We  excitedly  found  the  Red 
Spirea  bush  we  had  been  told  of,  amid  the  great  mass  of  earthy 
growth.  It  was  in  bloom  and  we  thought  it  was  beautiful. 

Stanley  started  digging  with  the  spade  we  had  carried  so 
far,  taking  turns  with  the  awkward  tool.  It  was  a  real  job,  but 
we  knew  we  must  keep  on  as  we  still  had  a  long  way  to  go.  The 
bush,  rather  large,  was  all  in  bloom;  digging  it  up  was  hard,  but 
we  finally  got  it  out  of  the  ground.  We  bumped  off  all  the  excess 
dirt  from  he  roots  to  make  it  lighter  to  carry.  Now  we  were  on 
the  way  back  to  the  railroad  tracks,  homeward  bound. 

As  we  were  climbing  the  steep  grade  up  to  the  tracks, 
Stanley  spied  some  colorful  wildflowers  and  he  suggested  we 
quickly  pick  some  to  take  to  our  little  ones  at  home.  There  was 
one  drawback  for  me  as  we  were  going  to  have  to  cross  the 
railroad  tracks  some  twenty  feet  above  the  big  creek  below. 
Heights  never  did  appeal  to  me  and  I  quickly  told  him  I  could  not 
do  it.  With  much  persuasion  and  the  promise  of  his  help,  I  gave 
in,  as  I  often  did. 


He  held  my  hand  and  we  made  it  until  we  got  halfway 
;  and  I  became  dizzy-headed,  and  could  go  no  further.  We 
had  a  real  problem.  Stanley  decided  I  could  crawl  instead  of 
walk,  and  he  did  tell  me  not  to  look  down  at  the  water  below.  I 
tried  but  that  was  the  only  thing  to  see.  At  times  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
to  empty  my  entire  stomach,  as  I  was  so  upset  and  nauseated. 

Finally,  I  had  crawled  the  entire  span,  and  I  sat  down 
while  he  slid  down  the  side  to  get  an  armload  of  pretty  wildflow- 
ers. All  the  time  I  waited,  I  was  wondering  how  I  would  get  back 
across  the  tracks.  We  finally  crossed  the  trestle,  he  with  the 
armload  of  pretty  wildflowers,  walking  beside  me  as  I  crawled 
along  the  railroad  ties.  He  kept  reminding  me  not  to  look  down. 
I  did  have  to  sit  and  rest  several  times,  but  finally  got  over  it.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  glorious  feeling  as  I  crossed  the  last 
railroad  tie.  I  just  thought  he  would  never  talk  me  into  that 
again!  He  was  a  bit  disappointed  that  I  had  not  been  able  to  pick 
my  share  of  the  lovely  wildflowers.  We  picked  up  our  spade  and 
put  the  bush  in  the  gunny  sack  and  took  off  on  our  return  trip. 
We  got  so  tired,  but  had  to  trudge  on  as  that  sun  in  the  west  was 
going  down  fast.  We  took  turns  carrying  the  sack  and  the  spade. 
Stanley's  armload  of  wildflowers  was  getting  more  limp  as  we 
went  each  step.  We  could  not  imagine  they  could  make  such  a 
change.  About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  home,  we  had  to  step  off 
the  tracks  and  let  a  long  freight  train  go  by,  never  thinking  what 
we  would  have  done  had  it  come  by  an  hour  earlier. 

We  trudged  on  and  on  and  finally  got  home.  Our  parents 
expressed  their  great  concern  for  our  tardiness,  but  we  quickly 
related  our  exciting  afternoon  experiences.  Mom  gasped  for  her 
breath  at  my  telling  of  the  trestle  crawl.  She  excitedly  asked 
why  we  had  gone  so  far,  only  for  me  to  quickly  inform  her  it  was 
Stanley's  idea  to  get  the  pretty  wildflowers  that  by  now  were 
nothing  but  a  drawn-up  mess.  We  put  them  in  water,  only  to  be 
disappointed-there  was  no  change.  The  folks  asked  what  we 
would  have  done,  had  a  train  come  along,  but  we  had  no  answer. 

Our  flowers  were  a  disaster,  but  we  still  had  our  healthy 


103 


looking  bush.  We  put  it  in  a  tub  of  water,  to  be  replanted  the 
following  day.  Each  spring  after  that  our  red  spirea  bush 
bloomed  so  beautifully  and  we  were  so  very  proud  of  it. 

In  time,  our  little  rented  farm  was  sold  and  we  had  to 
move.  Months  after  the  new  owners  had  moved  in,  Stanley  and 
I  begged  Dad  to  go  ask  if  we  might  have  a  start  of  our  bush.  After 
much  deliberation,  he  did  go,  only  to  be  told  that  they  had 
discarded  all  the  bushes  and  shrubbery.  We  were  so  sad  to  hear 
the  news.  But  sixty  years  later,  I  still  love  to  go  to  my  storehouse 
of  memories  and  pull  this  particular  one  out. 


CEDAR  GLEN 

Dorris  E.  Wells 

Cedar  Glen  was  a  special  joy  of  my  teen  years.  How  I  first 
learned  of  that  natural  wild  area  of  a  small  creek  with  limestone 
cliffs,  native  trees,  and  plants,  is  for  the  moment  beyond  my 
memory.  I  lived  across  the  Mississippi  River  in  Keokuk.  Girl 
friends  and  I  counted  a  hike  to  Cedar  Glen  to  be  a  ten-mile  round 
trip  toward  the  G.A.A.  (Girl's  Athletic  Association)  award. 

We  walked  the  old  Keokuk  bridge,  pausing  to  marvel  at 
the  geode  and  rock  crystals  displayed  in  a  window  of  the  old  toll 
house  on  the  side  of  the  bridge.  To  me,  the  prize  of  the  display 
was  the  golden-green  "hairs"  of  millerite  crystals  growing  from 
a  dot  in  transparent  calcite  crystals  and  out  into  open  space. 
This  all  was  exposed  in  solid,  hard,  gray  limestone  from  a 
nearby  Illinois  quarry. 

After  crossing  the  bridge  into  Illinois,  we  immediately 
followed  the  railroad  track  over  a  trestle  and  along  the  Warsaw, 
Illinois,  tracks  toward  Cedar  Glen.  In  this  way  we  avoided  the 
extra  miles  of  the  old  dike  road,  the  wooden  Hamilton  covered 
bridge,  and  the  surrender  of  our  5?  bridge  receipt  we  had 


received  at  the  Keokuk  tollhouse.  To  my  delight,  the  kindly 
tolltaker  assured  us  that  the  5(2  ticket  was  good  as  our  toll  for 
the  return  walk  home. 

Before  my  days  of  hikes  to  Cedar  Glen,  these  railroad 
tracks  had  served  also  as  a  trolley-car  line  between  Keokuk, 
Hamilton,  and  Warsaw.  It  also  made  a  stop  at  Cedar  Glen  for 
picnicking  parties.  When  the  trolley  ceased  operation,  the 
picnickers  ceased,  leaving  but  a  shallow  well  pump  and  a  simple 
shelter  to  remind  us  of  old  trolley  days  and  picnic  outings.  The 
earlier  vehicle  road,  serving  farmers  on  that  river  bottom 
between  Hamilton  and  Warsaw,  had  been  mud  or  limestone. 
Crossing  creeks  such  as  Crystal  Glen  and  Cedar  Glen  required 
fording  the  streams.  The  stream-sides,  at  times  following  high 
water,  could  be  rather  steep  for  autos  of  the  '20s  and  '30s. 

My  love  for  Cedar  Glen  centered  on  the  birds,  trees, 
vines,  brush,  ferns,  wildflowers,  mosses,  and  fungi.  As  a  teen- 
age school  girl,  I  found  challenge  in  trying  to  identify  and  study 
this  nature,  both  at  the  Glen  and  along  the  railroad  tracks.  The 
geology  of  the  area,  the  limestone  cliffs,  the  fossils,  and  occa- 
sional geodes,  also  intrigued  me. 

At  one  place  the  stream  made  a  sharp  hair-pin  turn  to 
form  a  limestone  wall  some  three-feet  wide.  We  could  walk  the 
top  of  this  wall  and  look  directly  down  to  the  creek,  some  twenty 
feet  below  on  each  side  of  us.  We  speculated  about  the  creek 
water  boring  a  hole  through  that  narrow  wall  to  make  a  "natural 
bridge"  in  our  lifetime .  Another  very  high  cliff,  perhaps  100  feet, 
had  through  the  years  become  an  autographing  space  for  the 
rock-clambering  young  men  of  this  area.  Names  or  initials  were 
visible,  printed  with  charcoal ,  sharp  stone,  or  a  soft  chalky  rock. 

This  Cedar  Glen  and  other  adjacent  property  was  pur- 
chased by  Dr.  Alice  Kibbe,  and  used  by  her  in  the  biology  classes 
she  taught  at  Carthage,  Illinois,  some  fifteen  miles  east.  When 
Carthage  College  was  moved  to  Kenosha,  Wisconsin,  Dr.  Kibbe 
sought  for  some  way  that  the  Cedar  Glen  property  could  be  kept 
natural.      She  eventually   deeded  it  to  Western   Illinois 


104 


University.  That  property,  with  added  State  and  Conservancy 
lands,  is  now  maintained  as  the  "Alice  Kibbe  Life  Sciences 
Station." 

I  was  heartbroken  and  irate  when  a  "No  Trespassing" 
sign  first  appeared  at  "my"  access  to  Cedar  Glen.  Now  I  realize 
what  a  good  deal  that  was.  Now  a  Bald  Eagle  roosting  area  is 
protected  through  the  winter  months.  Known  as  a  conservation 
area,  Cedar  Glen  is  now  much  safer  from  vandals  and  careless 
hikers.  Visitors  are  asked  to  register  with  the  ranger,  and  to 
abide  by  certain  rules. 

Springtime  favors  the  area  with  dutchman's  britches, 
squirrel-corn,  spring-beauties,  varieties  of  violets,  hare-bells, 
blue  bells,  wild  pansies,  and  crimson-cup  fungi.  In  early  spring, 
certain  hills  are  brittle  wdth  grey-green  reindeer  moss  (lichen), 
or  bright  with  vivid  green  moss.  Creek  water  teems  with  frogs, 


tadpoles,  and  occasional  minnows.  Wild  bees  buzz  in  and  out  of 
their  hollow  tree  hive. 

My  fondest  memory -of  the  many  of  Cedar  Glen-was  the 
time  that  as  a  teenager  1  was  approached  by  Dr.  Clyde  Ehinger, 
a  noted  bird  and  nature  authority  from  Keokuk.  He  was  at 
Cedar  Glen  with  his  boy's  bird  club;  1  was  there  with  two  or  three 
girl  friends.  Dr.  Ehinger  seemed  to  know  of,  and  trust  me.  He 
took  me  aside  to  show  me  a  very  rare  "walking  fern."  He 
explained  that  the  name  was  for  the  plant's  ability  to  root  a  new 
plant  where  the  long  lance-shaped  leaf  rested  a  tip  on  moist 
fertile  soil.  Since  the  plant  was  rare  in  this  area,  he  trusted  me 
to  keep  it  and  the  location  a  secret.  I  felt  highly  honored,  and 
I  told  no  one.  But,  alas  it  was  so  rare  that  it  is  now  gone  from 
Cedar  Glen! 


osM  smo^ 


VI  ^arm  L^ife  Years  c^go 


FARM  LIFE  YEARS  AGO 

Before  the  technological  revolution,  America  was  prima- 
rily an  agrarian  society.  Farming  was  the  nation's  primary 
business,  and  it  emerged  as  a  romantic  movement  that  was  a 
cornerstone  in  the  building  of  our  nation.  It  was  an  honorable 
life  built  on  the  love  of  the  earth,  the  work  ethic,  a  sense  of 
serving  others,  self-reliance,  and  concern  for  the  family  unit.  It 
both  reflected  and  imbued  an  admirable  consensus  morality 
and  a  way  of  life  that  had  broad  appeal. 

Writer  Jessee  Stuart  had  one  of  his  protagonists  indi- 
cate, "So  many  of  the  people  who  worked,  farmed,  thought,  and 
believed  in  a  way  of  livin  are  gone.  .  .  .  We'll  go  to  new  ground 
where  we  can  raise  what  we  eat  and  eat  what  we  raise  from  the 
good  earth.  It'll  give  us  strength.  It  always  has." 

This  enormous  strength  and  affection  is  reflected  again 
and  again  in  literature.  The  deep  love  for  farming,  in  an  almost 
mystical  manner,  represents  uJtimate  commitment,  dedica- 
tion, and  romantic  reverie.  In  Farm  Boy,  a  farmer  submitted, 

I  heard  someone  once  say  that  Americans  love 
the  land  like  they  love  their  own  skin,  and  they 
love  work  in  the  same  way.  I  think  that's  one  of 
the  things  ofbeing  a  farmer.  Enjoy  farming.  You 
love  the  land-to  plant  things  and  to  see  them 
grow,  and  you  enjoy  the  work  that  goes  with  it. 
That's  farming.  I  think  any  farmer  loves  the 
land.  I  don't  think  you  would  ever  make  a  good 
farmer  unless  you  enjoyed  doing  it  or  working 
with  it.  I  don't  think  I'd  care  to  do  anything  else. 

His  wife  added:  "The  land  is  like  a  child.  Yes.  And  you  grow 
with  it.  It's  like  a  revolving  thing.  As  a  child  you  grow  up  with 
the  land  it  takes  care  of  you,  and  then  one  day  you  plant  and  it 
grows  as  a  child  does,  and  you  take  care  of  it." 


Unfortunately,  though,  this  enormous  love  affair  with 
farming  involves  far  fewer  people  each  year.  In  1820,  over 
seventy  percent  of  Americans  were  involved,  in  one  way  or 
another,  with  agriculture.  In  1940,  the  percentage  fell  to  under 
eighteen  per  cent,  and  in  1985  fewer  than  three  percent  earned 
their  living  in  farming.  Something  of  intrinsic  value  has  been 
lost,  and  many  consider  the  rediscovery  crucial  to  the  rebuilding 
of  America.  What  happened  on  the  farms  in  this  nation  in  the 
era  before  the  ending  of  World  War  II  is  worthy  of  consummate 
examination.  At  the  very  best,  there  may  be  important  answers 
to  America's  most  grave  and  pressing  problems  and  a  recasting 
of  consensus  values-what  Myrdal  identified  as  the  secular  hope 
of  mankind.  At  the  least,  there  is  the  explanation  of  a  remark- 
able, romantic  era  in  American  history. 

The  memoirs  included  in  this  chapter  brilliantly  deal 
with  farm  life  and  allow  the  reader  an  inside  look  at  a  way  of  life 
that  was  very  special.  Overwhelmingly  in  the  memoirs  the 
major  theme  is  love  for  family-the  lovely  and  enduring  impor- 
tance of  the  family.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  a  comprehensive 
family-centered  view  of  life  in  the  rural  areas. 

Margaret  DeDecker  provides  a  compelling  view  of  life  on 
the  farm,  particularly  of  the  difficulty  of  her  Belgian  ethnic 
family  in  the  enterprise.  Speaking  of  hardship,  Margaret 
Reynolds  shares  an  in-depth  vignette  of  the  farm  privy  and  the 
anguish  that  she  and  her  siblings  suffered  when  a  relative 
played  the  practical  joke  of  feeding  Ex-Lax  to  them  claiming  it 
was  candy. 

Technology,  of  course,  profoundly  changed  farming. 
Ralph  Eaton  shared  the  poultry  business  in  which  his  family 
was  involved.  Slow  to  accept  change,  his  father  eventually  used 
the  incubator — but  the  poultry  business  for  small  farmers  was 
destroyed  by  the  new  ways.  Mildred  Seger,  in  a  remarkable 
memoir  about  farm  life,  considers  the  difficulty  her  father 
suffered  in  adjusting  to  the  new  technology. 

And  the  farmers  had  to  overcome  hardships.   To  earn 


extra  income,  Florence  Eckhardt's  parents  worked  with  her  on 
making  a  strawberry  patch  a  profitable  endeavor.  Helen  Rilling 
affectionately  tells  how  she  loved  the  homemade  toys  that  her 
father  made  for  her  because  there  was  not  cash  to  spend  on  such 
things.  Evelyn  Wittier  charmingly  shares  her  experiences  in 
canning  to  stretch  dollars-and  can  she  did,  one  year  canning 
1,000  jars  of  food.  Mary  Conlan  explains  the  extreme  difficulty 
that  the  1929  depression  and  bad  weather  had  on  her  father's 
farming.  A  resourceful  man,  he  began  raising  horses  to  succeed, 
and  his  daughter  shares  her  love  for  both  the  horses  and  her 
father.  Ivan  Pratt  explains  the  chicken  stealing  that  farmers 


faced,  and  shares  an  incident  of  attempted  thievery  on  the 
family  farm. 

Sending  stock  to  market  was  an  important,  demanding, 
and  sometimes  troublesome  task.  Both  Elizabeth  Haines  and 
Donald  Norris  explain  the  joys  and  trials  of  the  endeavor. 

A  lovely  portrait  of  farming  emerges  from  the  memoirs. 
To  be  sure,  they  speak  of  hardships,  but  they  also  show  love. 
The  writers  demonstrate  a  profound  joy  in  their  rural  heritage. 
And  this  speaks  very  loudly  to  a  time  when  so  many  of  the  assets 
the  writers  extol  are  lost.  Perhaps  it  is  time,  and  well  past,  to 
look  backward-even  to  the  rural  areas  and  to  farming. 


Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


109 


THE  SILVER  THREADS  AMONG  THE  GOLD 

Mary  J.  Conlan 

I  was  born  on  a  farm  and  my  parents  owned  three  farms, 
a  grain  elevator,  and  several  businesses,  but  in  1929  during  the 
stock  market  crash  I  saw  them  lose  a  lot.  My  father,  who  always 
seemed  to  have  an  inner  strength,  came  back  from  adversity 
with  the  drive  and  ability  to  make  money  and  provide  for  the 
family.  He  experienced  failure  and  still  managed  to  keep  calm 
and  active. 

When  the  swdrling,  muddy  waters  of  swollen  Dry  Run 
Creek  surged  over  the  cornland  of  Pleasant  Valley  Farm  for  the 
third  consecutive  year,  my  father  vowed  he  would  never  plant 
another  row  of  corn.  With  that  in  mind,  he  grimly  set  about 
scraping  off  the  mud  from  his  eighty  acres  of  bottom  land  with 
but  one  determined  goal  in  view. 

When  other  more  fortunate  farmers  who  lived  on  top  of 
the  hill  far  from  the  threat  of  the  mighty  floods  would  offer  him 
sympathy,  he,  very  mysteriously,  told  them  that  he  aimed  to 
raise  a  crop  that  would  bring  good  money  every  year,  floods  or 
not!  You  can  imagine  everyone's  surprise  when,  out  of  all  the 
wreckage  of  the  damaging  overflow  waters,  there  finally  emerged 
a  beautiful  half-mile  race  track  with  the  comers  graded  to  a  fine 
degree  for  fast-traveling  trotters  and  pacers-to-be. 

What  had  started  out  as  a  hobby  several  years  before 
with  my  father  now  turned  out  a  full-fledged  business:  raising 
and  training  standardbred  race  horses. 

My  earliest  recollections  are  of  driving  a  fast  hobbled 
pacer  around  that  track  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning.  What 
a  thrill  it  is  to  drive  an  eager  colt  that  is  being  taught  to  travel 
at  a  high  speed!  I  had  a  very  small  part  in  the  actual  training 
of  these  fine  race  horses.  The  stable  man.  Earl  Andrews,  very 
generously  allowed  me  to  drive  them  on  the  exercise  cart  and 
assist  in  their  grooming.  I  walked  many  around  the  cooling 
circle  outside  the  stables  as  the  hot,  foam-covered  horses 


relaxed  and  got  back  to  normal  after  a  heat. 

Never  will  I  forget  the  look  of  great  pride  on  my  father's 
face  one  hot  June  morning  when  Lady  Jane  Axworthy,  tired  and 
exhausted  after  a  long  anxious  night  in  a  noisy  thunderstorm, 
presented  a  sturdy  chestnut  sorrel  son  to  the  Pleasant  Valley 
Farm.  This  tiny  foal,  with  his  golden  coat,  white  mane  and  tail, 
and  four  flashing  white  stockings,  completely  stole  our  hearts. 

My  father  affectionately  named  him  "Silver  Threads 
among  the  Gold,"  and  my  mother  rather  tartly  remarked  that 
there  would  probably  be  many  silver  threads  in  her  hair  before 
the  colt  brought  us  any  money.  I  wasn't  interested  in  money, 
though.  I  only  waited  for  the  chance  to  slip  out  the  kitchen  door 
with  a  palm  moistened  with  sugar,  calling  to  Silver  Threads  to 
join  me.  It  wasn't  long  before  he  would  raise  his  head  from  the 
velvet  carpet  of  grass  where  he  was  grazing  with  his  ears  tilting 
in  my  direction.  I  would  call  to  him  and,  assured  of  a  treat 
coming,  he  would  produce  his  best  colt  nicker  and  race  to  meet 
me. 

Silver  did  a  lot  of  growing  that  summer,  and  we  took  his 
first  photograph  when  he  was  five  months  old.  He  was  a  truly 
photogenic  colt,  looking  very  handsome  from  every  angle.  The 
most  beautiful  quality  he  possessed,  though,  was  sweetness  of 
disposition.  I  can't  remember  that  he  ever  kicked  out  in 
defiance  to  an  order.  When  training  sessions  ended  and  the 
halter  was  removed,  he  lovingly  rubbed  his  head  against  my 
shoulder  and  almost  demanded  affection. 

My  job,  when  I  came  home  from  school,  was  to  look  after 
Silver  Threads.  This  meant  to  water  him,  provide  fresh  straw 
for  his  stall,  and  watch  him  in  the  exercise  lot  so  he  kept  out  of 
trouble.  In  early  April  when  I  arrived  at  the  stables  one 
afternoon,  I  found  Earl  Andrews  hitching  Silver  Threads  to  the 
driving  sulky.  When  all  was  ready,  I  was  astonished  to  hear  my 
father  call  out  to  me  to  get  ready  to  drive  Silver  Threads  over  to 
the  track. 

He  said,  "You  halter-broke  him:  you  know  him  and  he 


no 


knows  you.  You  should  be  the  first  to  drive  him  in  the  harness." 
I  climbed  aboard  the  sulky  and  spoke  to  Silver  softly. 
Never  seeming  to  mind  the  harness  on  him  or  the  extra  weight 
of  the  cart  behind,  Silver  Threads  slowly  walked  along  the 
springy  turf  of  the  track.  I  urged  him  into  a  little  pace  that  soon 
picked  up  momentum  until  we  were  traveling  around  that  half- 
mile  like  veteran  racers.  My  father  declared  he  was  a  natural 
pacer  and  with  the  proper  training  and  guidance  would  be  a  real 
two-minute  race  horse.  He  said  that  I  was  a  good  handler  wdth 
excellent  hands,  and  I  knew  that  he  meant  it  because  he  did  not 
give  praise  idly.  My  father  gave  me  a  lot  of  self-confidence  and 
self-esteem. 

Although  I  knew  we  couldn't  keep  all  the  horses  we 
raised,  it  was  a  surprise,  and  not  a  pleasant  one,  on  my  return 
from  school  in  early  May,  to  find  a  trailer  truck  standing  in  the 
loading  arena.  A  shiver  of  apprehension  crept  over  me  and, 
approaching  the  big  van  with  almost  dread,  I  peered  through 
the  corral  bars  at  the  loading  platform.  There,  standing  with  his 
ears  pointed  at  me,  was  Silver  Threads.  Without  asking,  I  knew 
he  was  on  his  way  and  would  be  going  out  of  my  life  in  a  few 
seconds. 

We  raised  and  trained  many  horses  during  my  growing 
up  on  the  horse  farm,  and  my  father  taught  me  how  to  treat  and 
handle  animals  with  care  and  love.  He  was  firm  but  sincere  in 
his  desire  to  make  them  develop  and  be  as  great  as  they  could 
be. 


CANNING 
Evelyn  Witter 

When  Bill  and  Pop  went  to  a  farm  sale  late  in  the  fall  of 
the  first  year  we  were  farming,  I  didn't  know  it  but  that  was  the 
day  I  was  to  begin  home  canning  of  foods  in  a  big  way. 

They  came  home  beaming.  "Guess  what  we  bought?" 
BUI  asked. 

"You'd  never  guess,"  Pop  cut  in. 

"Well,  what?"  I  asked,  not  guessing  that  their  purchase 
was  going  to  affect  me  so  drastically. 

"A  half  of  a  beef,"  they  said  almost  simultaneously. 

"Why  we  couldn't  eat  all  that  meat,"  I  laughed  with  a 
nonchalance  that  clearly  indicated  my  ignorance  of  what  my 
part  was  to  be. 

"We  will  eat  it  over  a  period  of  a  year,"  Bill  was  putting 
on  his  tactful  tone  of  voice  that  rang  a  warning  note  in  my  ears. 

"Sure,"  Pop  said,  "If  you  can  it,  it  will  keep  indefinitely." 

"Can  a  half  of  a  beef?"  I  repeated  unbelievingly.  Looking 
at  the  two  of  them  so  proud  of  their  ability  to  supply  a  good  table 
at  a  minimum  of  cost  and  so  confident  in  my  ability  to  can  the 
meat,  I  didn't  have  the  heart  to  tell  them  what  I  thought.  I  was 
thinking  it  was  a  daring  undertaking  for  one  who  had  never 
canned  anything  at  all  and  that  it  was  a  lot  of  money  to  spend 
when  the  beef  might  prove  to  be  a  toted  waste  if  it  were  not 
handled  correctly.  But  they  had  such  faith  in  my  ability.  They 
didn't  even  seem  to  entertain  a  shred  of  thought  that  maybe  I 
couldn't  do  it. 

So  I  decided  to  can  a  half  of  beef  It  looked  like  a  herd 
rather  than  a  half  when  Pop  and  Bill  carried  it  in  and  laid  it  on 
the  kitchen  table.  It  eclipsed  the  table,  draped  all  around  the 
sides.  "Wow!"  I  managed  to  say  out  of  the  dryness  of  my  throat. 

I  grabbed  a  wrap  and  got  into  the  Chevy  and  into  the 
Home  Bureau  Office  before  I  had  a  chance  to  scare  myself  out 
of  a  job.  Mrs.  Wellman  gave  me  a  government  bulletin  on  meat 


canning  and  advised  me  to  buy  a  pressure  cooker  since  that  was 
the  only  way  the  government  recommended  the  canning  of 
certain  things,  especially  meat,  and  then  she  gave  me  another 
bulletin  on  pressure  cookers. 

It  was  good  to  have  credit.  I  came  home  with  the 
bulletins,  pressure  cooker,  and  some  canning  jars  and  lids. 

I  read  and  read.  I  read  to  digest.  And  as  I  read,  I  mused 
to  myself,  "Huh,  if  I'd  studied  as  conscientiously  as  this  in  school 
maybe  I'd  have  made  an  A  in  that  course  in  Elizabethan 
Dramatists  instead  of  a  C." 

But,  of  course,  I  hadn't  had  the  impetus  of  impending 
disaster  then,  like  the  warning  story  Mrs.  Wellman  had  told  me 
about  the  pressure  cooker.  She  had  said,  "There  was  a  woman 
in  the  country  who  hadn't  studied  the  directions  for  using  a 
pressure  cooker,  and  when  she  went  to  take  her  vegetables  out 
she  didn't  let  the  pressure  go  down  first.  She  unscrewed  the  lid 
right  after  the  processing  time,  and  the  big  volume  of  pressure 
that  had  accumulated  in  the  cooker  forced  the  lid  off  when  the 
screws  were  loosened.  The  heavy  lid  hit  her  in  the  chin  knocking 
out  two  teeth.  The  lid  went  to  the  ceiling  and  when  it  came 
down,  it  fell  on  her  head.  When  her  husband  came  in,  he  found 
her  knocked  out  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  there  was  no  way  of 
knowing  how  long  she  had  been  there." 

I  read  the  directions  to  Bill  when  he  came  in,  and  he  re- 
read them  aloud.  Then  we  went  to  work.  We  cut  up  the  meat 
in  sizeable  chunks,  sterilized  the  jars,  browned  the  meat  in  big 
pans,  packed  them  with  gravy  into  jars,  and  took  turns  most  of 
the  night  watching  that  the  pressure  gauge  stayed  at  fifteen 
pounds. 

I  continued  alone  for  the  next  two  days  and  had  forty 
quarts  of  canned  beef.  I  lined  the  jars  up  in  the  kitchen  and 
enjoyed  the  display.  That,  I  told  myself,  was  a  gratifying  line- 
up if  I  ever  saw  one.  We  waited  anxiously  for  weeks  to  see  if 
there  would  be  any  sign  of  spoilage.  But  we  had  read  well.  The 
meat  kept. 


Realizing  from  the  meat  canning  that  anyone  can  can,  if 
they  have  good  directions  and  read  carefully,  the  garden  veg- 
etables didn't  frighten  me  a  bit.  Another  government  bulletin 
from  the  Home  Bureau  Office  and  a  practical  demonstration 
which  the  state  put  on  in  this  vicinity  gave  me  added  confidence. 

The  spinach  was  the  oddest  vegetable  I  had  to  work  with. 
Jim  brought  in  several  bushels  of  it  and  I  thought  I'd  have  a  lot, 
so  I  washed  up  two  dozen  jars,  but  after  I  wilted  the  stuff 
according  to  the  directions,  it  turned  out  that  all  that  spinach 
made  only  eight  pints. 

Mom  told  me  that  I  had  better  learn  to  make  preserves 
because  men  loved  them  so.  She  came  out  one  day  and  gave  me 
the  lowdown  on  her  delicious  tomato  preserves.  She  showed  me 
how  she  scalded  them  and  then  removed  the  seeds.  How  she 
cooked  them  down  and  then  added  cup  for  cup  of  sugar  and  let 
them  simmer  slowly  until  they  were  thick  and  yummy.  She 
figured  that  we'd  need  ajar  a  day,  so  that  meant  three  hundred 
sixty-five  jars  plus  a  couple  of  dozen  or  more  for  extra  men  and 
company.  Four  hundred  jars  of  jellies  and  jams  were  stored 
away  that  year  and  for  every  year  after  that  until  wartime  sugar 
shortages  made  it  impossible. 

The  tomato  preserves  have  always  been  tops.  Well, 
tomatoes  are  a  wonderful  fruit.  Besides  being  so  rich  in  Vitamin 
C ,  their  various  uses  make  an  interesting  table  the  year  around. 
I've  canned  lots  of  them. 

One  day  the  third  year  we  were  on  the  farm,  the  men 
brought  in  four  more  bushels  of  garden  tomatoes  just  as  I  sealed 
the  lid  on  the  hundred  and  tenth  quart! 

"We'll  be  glad  to  have  them  next  winter,"  Bill  apologized, 
"if  you  can  stand  any  more  canning." 

"Everything  will  be  put  up,"  I  reassured  him  as  he  left  me 
to  "do  something"  with  them  all.  Privately,  I  was  beginning  to 
wonder  if  I  would  ever  see  the  end  of  them. 

Juice  was  what  I  wanted  this  time,  but  how  to  get  it? 
Would  it  be  best  to  push  them-four  bushels  through  a 


colander — or  to  put  them  in  a  flour  sack  and  wring  the  juice  out 
by  hand?  Just  thinking  about  that  much  work  made  me  weary. 

"Now  if  my  hands  were  a  couple  of  rollers,"  I  day- 
dreamed, "I  could  just  roll  them  over  the  sack  of  tomatoes  and 
extract  the  juice  in  one  easy  operation." 

Rollers?  Why  .  . .  the  very  rollers  I  needed  were  on  the 
washing  machine. 

But  before  I  grew  too  enthusiastic  over  my  idea,  I  wanted 
to  make  sure  that  using  the  vmnger  for  making  tomato  juice 
would  not  injure  it  in  any  way.  First,  I  called  my  hardware 
dealer  and  asked  his  advice.  He  assured  me  that  using  the 
wringer  in  this  way  could  not  damage  it  if  I  did  not  force  it.  He 
also  told  me  that  he  had  hand  wringers  that  would  serve  if  I 
were  still  dubious  about  using  my  electric  one. 

This  assurance  was  all  I  needed  to  start  my  big  scale 
canning.  I  carefully  scoured  the  wash  machine,  wringer,  tubs, 
and  boiler.  I  washed  and  scalded  the  fruit  jars  and  turned  them 
upside  down.  Next,  I  gave  the  tomatoes  a  cold  water  bath  in  the 
laundry  tubs.  The  tomatoes  were  cut  into  small  pieces,  after  all 
the  blemishes  had  been  removed.  Into  the  wash  boiler  they 
went,  where  they  cooked  until  they  swam  in  their  own  juice — 
yes,  all  four  bushels. 

The  wash  machine  had  been  made  ready  by  a  hard 
scrubbing,  by  removing  the  agitator,  and  by  fitting  a  flour  sack 
into  the  machine.  (The  sack  was  held  open  by  fastening  its  outer 
edges  to  the  machine  with  clothespins.)  Then,  I  transferred  the 
cooked  tomatoes  from  the  boiler  into  the  sack,  tied  it  with  a 
heavy  cord,  placed  one  comer  in  the  loosened  wringer,  and 
presto  . . .  the  sack  started  through  the  wringer,  and  the  tomato 
juice  poured  freely  into  the  wash  machine! 

I  opened  the  spigot,  caught  the  juice  in  the  wash  boiler, 
filled  my  sterilized  jars  (adding  one  teaspoon  salt  per  quart), 
ran  the  jars  through  the  pressure  cooker  at  ten  pounds  pressure 
for  five  minutes,  and  in  what  seemed  no  time  at  all  had  fifty 
quarts  of  high  quality  tomato  juice  all  ready  to  store  away! 


When  two  more  bushels  of  tomatoes  came  into  the 
kitchen  the  next  day,  and  Bill  said  with  another  apologetic 
smile,  "This  garden  is  a  lot  of  work  for  you,"  I  said,  "Oh,  bring  in 
all  you  can.  I'll  just  take  the  tomatoes  through  the  wringer." 

I  believe  I've  canned  everything  that  was  cannable.  And 
everything  has  come  to  good  stead.  One  year  when  we  had 
threshers,  my  versatility  in  canning  saved  the  day. 

My  mother  was  helping  me,  and  we  divided  the  job  as  we 
had  learned  was  the  systematic  way  to  do.  Mother  had  charge 
of  the  meat  and  desserts.  It  was  roast  beef  again  that  year  and 
I  bought  the  usual  twenty  pounds.  For  roasting  convenience, 
the  butcher  had  cut  it  into  two  ten-pound  roasts.  When  the  first 
roast  had  been  consumed  by  the  men,  I  dashed  into  the  kitchen 
with  the  empty  platter. 

"More  meat!"  I  ordered. 

"More  meat?"  Mother  repeated  looking  into  the  empty 
roaster.  "Why,  that's  all  there  is." 

"Can't  be,"  I  dithered  and  looked  into  the  ice  box.  Sure 
enough  there  was  the  second  roast.  Mother  hadn't  even  seen  it 
and  if  she  had,  she  would  not  have  thought  of  roasting  that  one 
too,  having  the  Chicago  viewpoint  on  eating  which  I  had  long 
since  put  into  the  discard. 

The  situation  was  not  lost.  I  had  canned  chicken.  The 
fall  before,  wholesale  poultry  prices  had  been  so  low  that  Bill 
and  I  had  figured  that  we  could  eat  chicken  more  reasonably 
than  we  could  hamburger  at  the  prevailing  prices,  so  we  had 
canned  the  surplus  poultry  according  to  directions. 

So  the  crisis  of  the  threshers'  dinner  was  averted.  I  went 
down  to  the  cellar,  took  two  quarts  of  chicken  off  the  neatly  lined 
shelves,  reheated  it,  and  before  the  men  had  time  to  notice  the 
lack  of  the  main  course  too  much  there  was  a  platter  of  golden 
brown  chicken  all  tender  and  hot,  ready  for  their  consumption. 

"Boy,  this  is  some  swell  meal,"  one  thresher  remarked. 
"Roast  beef  and  chicken!" 

I  smiled  sweetly  at  the  compliment  and  secretly  vowed 


that  I  would  always  have  some  canned  meat  or  poultry  on  hand 
to  meet  culinary  emergencies  that  seem  always  to  be  arising  on 
the  farm. 

The  year  before  the  baby  was  bom,  Bill  and  I  counted 
nine  hundred  ninety-five  jars  of  canned  food  that  we  had  stored 
in  the  cellar  that  summer.  I  hurried  to  can  five  more  jars  of 
apple  butter  so  that  forever  after  I  could  brag  honestly,  "One 
year  I  canned  one  thousand  jars  of  food!" 

During  World  War  II,  rationing  was  no  problem  except 
that  many  city  friends  knew  of  our  inexhaustible  cellar  and  in 
blue-and-red  point  desperation  forced  themselves  to  drop  out 
about  mealtime.  When  it  seemed  that  we  were  having  more  and 
more  extras  to  feed,  I  kept  track  of  the  company  and  the  extra 
meals  we  served.  It  amounted  to  four  hundred  and  ten  extra 
meals  a  year.  So  we  needed  an  inexhaustible  cellar! 


TOYS  MADE  THE  KID 

Helen  E.  Rilling 

Kids,  when  they  can,  live  in  a  world  of  play,  and  that 
means  a  world  of  toys.  A  long  time  ago  there  were  few  toys  to 
play  with.  Most  families  could  not  afford  to  buy  playthings. 
There  were  tricycles,  bicycles,  sleds,  and  fancy  dolls  for  those 
who  couJd  afford  them.  But  the  lucky  kids  were  the  ones  who 
invented,  built,  and  enjoyed  toys  of  their  own  making.  Our 
family  fit  into  that  group.  Blessed  with  a  set  of  inventive 
parents,  we  made,  made  do,  and  enjoyed  the  happiest  of  child- 
hoods. 

In  the  winters  we  played  on  the  warm  floor  back  of  the 
heating  stove.  We  surveyed  our  world  of  make  believe  while  we 
ate  bowls  of  snow  ice  cream.  We  were  farm  people  from  eastern 
Morgan  County,  and  animals  were  a  big  part  of  our  lives.  We 


carefully  preserved  the  cardboard  backs  from  our  Red  Indian 
writing  tablets.  Father  was  great  at  cutting  out  most  any 
animal.  We  bent  their  legs  each  way  to  make  them  stand  up. 
Each  of  us  had  a  farm  complete  with  horses,  cows,  pigs,  sheep, 
and  chickens.  For  wagons  we  used  match  boxes.  There  were  big 
and  little  boxes  that  served  our  purpose  very  well.  On  the  slick 
linoleum  floor  we  didn't  need  wheels  as  they  slid  along  hitched 
to  our  horses  with  a  bit  of  twine  formed  into  a  set  of  harness. 

We  enjoyed  the  snows  of  winter  with  our  old  homemade, 
wooden-runner  sled  father  made  out  of  scraps  of  lumber.  It 
couldn't  be  steered  but  a  pile  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  was  the 
fun  part  of  sledding.  Mostly  we  pilfered  father's  shiny  grain 
scoops  from  bins  and  corn  cribs.  These  made  wonderful  tobog- 
gans. 

On  one  wall  was  a  piece  of  black  oilcloth.  It  was  our 
blackboard.  We  all  learned  to  draw  on  it  and  worked  arithmetic 
problems  there,  playing  school  by  the  hour  on  bad-weather 
days.  We  thought  it  was  a  game,  but  mother  was  clever  and  we 
learned  spelling,  reading,  and  art  under  her  watchful  eyes. 

We  would  beg  mother  to  save  her  wooden  spools.  We 
used  a  long  and  short  piece  of  matchstick.  By  putting  a  rubber 
band  through  the  spool  and  turning  the  long  matchstick  until  it 
was  twisted  tight  we  had  a  self-propelled  toy  and  enjoyed 
exciting  races  across  the  room. 

Our  father  was  very  good  at  carving  toys  from  a  piece  of 
wood.  He'd  sit  by  the  stove  and  carve  out  the  neatest  guns.  He 
liked  to  carve  horses,  too.  In  the  summer  he  carved  whistles  out 
of  willow  stems.  We  had  tree  creeks,  so  there  were  plenty  of 
wallows  to  choose  from.  We'd  toot  the  whistles  for  days  and  each 
child's  had  a  different  tone.  When  the  weather  warmed  up, 
father  helped  us  make  kites.  We'd  gather  around  the  big  dining 
table.  Father  would  bring  in  a  large  wooden  shingle.  He'd 
carefully  slit  it  into  narrow  strips  and  fasten  them  together  into 
a  frame.  We'd  get  impatient  sometimes  waiting  for  the  home- 
made flour  paste  that  glued  the  paper  to  the  frame  to  dry.  Rags 


were  tied  in  strips  for  tail.  We  always  begged  mother  for  bright 
rags  for  those  tails.  We'd  hunt  up  the  ball  of  twine  and  head  for 
the  pasture.  Against  the  blue  skies,  our  homemade  kites  were 
beautiful  to  our  eyes. 

There  was  one  cutting  job  that  all  of  us  took  part  in.  We 
would  fold  newspapers  many  times  and  then  cut  out  dolls, 
leaving  them  attached  at  the  hands.  These  strings  of  dolls  were 
hung  all  across  the  rooms.  Some  were  very  fancy  with  curls  in 
their  hair  and  shoes  on  their  feet.  We  especially  liked  to  have 
a  pretty  piece  of  colored  paper  to  make  a  string  of  dolls  out  of, 
but  mostly  we  had  to  be  happy  with  newspaper  dolls. 

When  the  spring  rains  came  and  the  creeks  ran  full,  we 
made  water  wheels;  a  frame  was  made  out  of  old  lumber  and 
fastened  to  the  creek  bank  by  driving  sticks  deep  into  the  sod. 
The  wheels  were  put  on  a  shaft  and  carefully  fastened  to  the  side 
so  the  water  just  hit  the  ends  of  the  blades.  They  turned  and 
turned  as  the  water  rushed  along  until  it  quit  raining  and  the 
creek  went  down.  If  we  didn't  take  our  wheels  up  each  time,  the 
horses  and  cows  would  break  them  to  pieces  when  they  crossed 
the  creeks. 

We  girls  had  a  little  black  iron  cookstove  we  pretended 
to  cook  on.  For  our  pans  and  dishes  we  used  the  round  metal  lids 
that  came  from  cocoa  and  spice  cans.  A  long  time  ago  there  was 
a  candy  that  came  in  little  fluted  pans  and  had  a  tiny  spoon  with 
it.  We  saved  all  these  for  doll  dishes.  Our  dolls  were  cupies 
made  of  celluloid.  They  could  be  won  at  fairs  and  carnivals  or 
purchased  at  a  5  &  100  store  for  10«l  or  25c,  depending  on 
whether  they  had  molded  or  real  hair.  They  were  about  five 
inches  tall  and  only  the  arms  moved.  The  elastic  that  held  the 
arms  to  the  body  soon  gave  out  and  we  had  mostly  armless  dolls. 

Another  game  we  girls  enjoyed  was  to  cut  the  green  moss 
that  grew  on  the  north  side  of  our  big  maple  trees  into  shapes 
of  furniture.  Then  we  furnished  our  houses  between  the  big 
roots  of  the  trees.  We  made  tables,  chairs,  beds,  stoves,  daven- 
ports, and  cupboards  out  of  the  moss.  If  it  was  kept  moist  the 


houses  lasted  for  days. 

If  we  needed  a  jump  rope,  we  just  mosied  down  to  the 
shop  that  was  in  the  end  of  an  old  railroad  car  and  cut  a  piece 
of  haymow  rope.  We  used  this  rope  for  lariats  when  we  played 
rodeo.  We  had  a  beautiful  white  Shetland  pony  named  Dixie. 
There  were  other  horses  we  could  ride  if  we  wanted  to  put  on  a 
rodeo  or  just  race  along  our  dusty  lane.  Another  game  was  to 
nail  spools  to  the  many  sheds  about  the  yard  and  string  binder 
twine  between  them  like  a  pulley.  It  took  some  skill  to  keep  the 
spools  turning  as  we  raced  between  them,  giving  a  sharp  pull  as 
we  raced  on  by. 

Father  was  the  greatest  stilt  maker  of  all  time.  At  least 
we  thought  so.  He  used  long  two  by  fours  and  cut  them  in 
lengths  to  fit  each  child.  He  nailed  a  short  piece  on  for  a  step 
about  halfway  up.  Then  he  nailed  on  a  piece  of  old  harness 
leather.  Tugs  made  the  best  holders  to  keep  our  feet  on  the 
steps.  We  walked  about  the  yard  high  in  the  air.  It  took  lots  of 
practice  to  learn  how  to  mount  the  stilts  without  falling  over. 
We  had  many  bruises  before  mastering  those  stilts. 

There  was  a  junk  pile  in  one  of  the  washed  out  ditches  in 
the  pasture.  Junk  from  Alexander  was  hauled  out  there  and 
used  to  stop  erosion.  We  found  many  broken  toys  and  wheels 
that  served  quite  well  in  making  our  own  homemade  versions. 
One  was  a  car  complete  with  a  buzzing  motor.  We'd  find  a  wheel 
and  put  it  on  a  stick .  Then  we  pounded  the  stick  into  the  ground 
and  found  an  old  box  or  bucket  to  sit  on.  For  the  motor  we'd  catch 
bumble  bees  in  a  jar.  There  we'd  sit  twisting  the  wheel  as  we 
rode  along.  Every  once  in  awhile  we  would  kick  the  jar  to  make 
the  bees  buzz.  We  also  found  old  hubs  from  wagon  wheels. 
Using  a  lathe,  we  nailed  a  cross  piece  at  the  bottom.  A  curled 
stave  from  a  keg  worked  very  well.  We  used  this  to  roll  the  hoop 
along,  guiding  it  into  circles  and  over  bumps.  We  could  roll  it 
along  our  lane  a  mile  or  more  without  it  falling  over. 

But,  the  most  fascinating  game  for  us  was  our  corn-cob 
horses.  We  made  them  by  cutting  off  the  small  end  for  horses 


115 


and  the  big  end  for  mules.  We  wove  intricate  harness  from 
bindertwine  for  the  harness.  Holding  the  teams  of  two  or  four 
horses  in  front  of  us  we  drove  them  to  dozens  of  imaginary 
places.  We  cut  the  cobs  in  other  ways  to  make  cows,  sheep,  and 
hogs.  A  whole  play  farm  could  be  built  around  a  few  pretty  com 
cobs.  At  corn  shelling  season  we  searched  other  farms  for 
additions  to  our  stables.  We  had  such  fun  naming  all  the  horses. 
When  I  visit  the  area  east  of  Alexander  where  I  grew  up, 
I  can  still  hear  the  laughter  of  happy  children  floating  across  the 
fields  and  timbers.  We  left  our  mark  on  the  prairie  and  it  left 
us  with  precious  memories  of  a  wonderful  childhood  living  on 
the  farm. 


A  STRAWBERRY  PATCH 

Florence  Ehrhardt 

My  parents  raised  seven  children  on  a  forty-acre  Adams 
County  farm,  twenty  acres  of  which  were  planted  with  fruit 
trees.  Apples,  peaches,  and  pears  were  their  main  crop  and 
were  ready  for  market  in  late  summer  and  autumn.  To  provide 
income  for  the  family  earlier  in  the  year,  my  folks  planted 
earlier-maturing  crops  such  as  cabbage,  pickles,  potatoes,  and 
strawberries.  Strawberries  seemed  to  be  the  most  successful  of 
these  early-maturing  crops. 

I  know  that  my  parents  needed  the  income  from  these 
extra  crops,  but  they  also  had  a  fetish  about  keeping  the  kids 
busy.  An  awful  lot  ofwork  goes  into  raising  strawberries.  The 
plants  are  planted  in  the  spring  and  are  taken  care  of  for  a  whole 
year  before  a  crop  is  produced.  They  must  be  carefully  tended 
to  keep  the  weeds  out  of  the  patch  without  disturbing  the  young 
plants  on  the  end  of  the  runners  from  the  parent  plant.  My 
parents  depended  on  child  labor  for  this  work.  Their  pet  saying 
was  that  kids  didn't  need  to  stoop  as  far  as  a  grownup  does  to 


reach  the  ground  to  pull  those  weeds. 

In  autumn,  the  whole  patch  was  covered  with  a  thick 
layer  of  carefully  spread  straw.  When  the  next  spring  came,  and 
those  beautiful  berries  were  getting  ripe,  we  forgot  all  about  the 
work  of  the  previous  summer.  We  needed  to  get  up  very  early 
in  the  morning  to  get  started  with  the  berry  picking.  Later  in 
the  day  the  sun  was  too  hot.  Pickers  are  near  the  ground  with 
the  heat  reflecting  from  the  straw.  No  breeze  was  felt  there. 
Suntan  was  not  in  fashion  then.  We  all  wore  straw  hats,  long 
sleeve  shirts,  and  long  pants. 

We  had  lots  of  fun  in  the  berry  patch.  The  young  folks 
from  the  whole  neighborhood  came  to  help.  The  wages  for 
picking  berries  were  from  1/2(2  a  quart  to  2c  a  quart  depending 
on  picking  conditions.  Early  in  the  season,  when  ripe  berries 
were  scattered,  and  late  in  the  season  when  berries  were 
smaller,  the  price  for  picking  was  the  best. 

Each  picker  was  saving  his  money  to  buy  something 
special.  My  neighbor  girl  saved  money  to  get  her  first  perma- 
nent wave.  It  cost  her  three  dollars,  and  it  took  most  of  the 
picking  season  to  earn  that  much  money.  One  of  my  brothers 
spent  more  time  complaining  about  other  people's  work  than 
trying  to  improve  his  own.  Whenever  he  saw  someone  do 
something  that  he  could  run  to  Pop  and  tattle  about,  he  lost  no 
time  in  doing  just  that.  Strawberry  patches  do  not  come 
equipped  with  Scotties  Potties,  so  a  nearby  ditch  was  used  to 
meet  our  needs.  One  day  this  brother  came  back  from  the  ditch 
with  a  shiny  dime.  It  didn't  take  long  for  the  pickers  to  make  up 
a  jingle  about  that. 

Snitch,  snitch, 

Fell  in  a  ditch. 

Found  a  dime, 

And  thought  he  was  rich. 

About  nine  o'clock  each  morning.  Pop  took  the  first 
picked  berries  to  the  stores  in  Quincy.  About  eleven  o'clock,  he 
went  with  a  second  load.  I  can  remember  times  when  he  would 


116 


have  to  bring  some  berries  back  home.  He  couldn't  sell  them  at 
any  price.  On  those  days,  we  children  needed  to  get  busy  to  help 
can  those  berries.  Believe  me,  I  was  glad  when  Pop  came  home 
with  an  empty  truck.  However,  on  a  snowy  winter  day,  I  was 
equally  glad  when  we  could  have  some  canned  strawberries 
with  bread  or  pancakes.  Strawberry  preserves  were  usually 
made  from  the  smaller,  end-of-the-season  berries,  and  kept  for 
special  occasions. 

Almost  everyday,  for  over  two  weeks,  we  had  fresh 
strawberry  homemade-biscuit-dough  shortcake.  Mother  baked 
a  large  biscuit  in  an  oversize  pie  dish.  While  it  was  still  hot,  she 
sliced  it  crosswise  and  poured  sweetened  dark  red  mashed 
strawberries  on  the  bottom  portion.  Carefully  turning  over  the 
top  part  to  make  a  second  layer,  she  added  more  strawberries. 
She  then  cut  it  in  pie-shaped  portions.  I  remember  my  brothers 
turning  the  dish  around  four  or  five  times  looking  for  the  biggest 
piece,  while  all  the  rest  of  us  waited  impatiently.  No  one 
worried  about  calories.  How  times  have  changed! 


TECHNOLOGY  COMES  TO  THE  FAKM 

Mildred  M.  Seger 

In  the  late  1930s  our  rural  society  was  poised  on  the 
brink  of  an  ocean  of  change.  The  dawn  of  the  age  of  technology 
was  approaching,  but  there  were  yet  only  a  few  rays  of  the 
coming  morning  of  progress. 

Those  rays,  in  our  home,  were  our  radio  with  its  cumber- 
some batteries,  and  the  telephone  with  the  line  wire  attached  to 
the  large  oblong  box  with  its  two  round  bells  gleaming  like  big 
eyes  from  its  dark,  long  face.  I  always  fancied  the  long  project- 
ing mouthpiece  was  the  nose,  the  shelf  below,  its  mouth,  and  the 
receiver  hanging  beside  it,  a  single  arm.  The  crank  on  the  other 


side  didn't  count.  Why  those  ugly  old  wall  telephones  have 
become  valuable  antiques,  which  some  people  use  to  decorate 
their  homes,  is  more  than  I  can  understand. 

My  father  was  farming  in  much  the  same  fashion  that 
his  ancestors  had  done  for  hundreds  of  years.  He  was  delighted 
with  the  "Johnson  place,"  as  he  had  four  level  fields  of  good  black 
soil.  There  he  could  practice  the  method  of  crop  rotation.  One 
field  was  sowed  in  clover  and  timothy  seed  for  pasture  and  hay. 
This  was  the  field  that  was  being  restored  to  fertility  by  rest 
from  growing  corn.  In  the  spring  he  would  load  up  manure  from 
the  barn  into  the  manure  spreader.  This  was  a  wagon-like 
vehicle  which  had  a  pronged,  rotary  attachment  at  the  back 
which  threw  out  the  manure  as  the  wagon  was  pulled  by  the 
horses  across  the  field.  I'm  not  just  sure  of  the  mechanics  of  the 
implement,  but  it  must  have  had  a  conveyor  belt  and  received 
its  power  from  the  wheels  of  the  moving  vehicle. 

One  field  was  sowed  in  oats.  This  one  always  had 
timothy  and  clover  growing  in  it  after  the  oats  harvest,  too.  I'm 
not  sure,  but  I  think  my  father  had  disked  last  year's  clover  and 
timothy  field  and  sowed  the  oats  there  in  the  spring.  As  soon  as 
the  oats  were  threshed  in  summer,  the  field  became  a  pasture 
for  the  stock.  The  other  two  fields  were  planted  for  the  money 
crop,  corn.  This  was  the  "gold"  that  had  lured  my  father  and 
Uncle  Lawrence  to  the  fertile  plains  of  Illinois  prairie  from  their 
home  in  the  tree-covered  hills  of  southern  Indiana.  The  red  clay 
soil  there  only  grew  "nubbins." 

Daddy  was  strong  and  proud  of  his  muscles.  He  got  up 
early  before  dawn  in  the  corn-shucking  season  and  fed  and 
watered  the  livestock  by  lantern  light.  Meanwhile,  mother 
cooked  a  bountiful  breakfast  of  oatmeal,  salt  pork,  gravy  and 
biscuits.  Sometimes  we  fried  potatoes  left  over  from  those  she 
had  boiled  the  day  before  with  the  "jackets"  on.  She  fried  eggs 
and  made  coffee,  and  there  was  always  apple,  plum,  wild  grape, 
or  strawberry  jelly,  or  maybe  apple  butter  as  well  as  the  butter 
we  had  churned  from  the  milk  our  cows  produced. 


Just  as  the  dawn  was  breaking,  Daddy  would  arrive  at 
the  cornfield  with  his  cap  lapels  pulled  down  over  his  ears,  his 
denim  jacket  buttoned  over  his  overalls  and  flannel  shirt  to 
guard  against  the  morning  chill.  Later,  the  cap  lapels  would  be 
reversed  and  the  jacket  abandoned  as  physical  exertion  and  the 
day's  temperature  increased.  His  hands  were  encased  in  a  new 
pair  of  canvas  gloves,  as  he  wore  out  a  pair  each  day.  (It's  no 
wonder  some  glove  factories  began  to  shut  down  after  technol- 
ogy arrived  in  the  combelt.)  Also,  strapped  on  his  hand  was  a 
sharp  curved  tool,  a  hook,  or  peg,  for  freeing  the  ears  from  the 
cornstalk  and  stripping  the  husks  from  the  ear. 

The  wagon  had  a  bump  board  attached  to  one  side.  This 
kept  the  com  from  going  over  the  wagon  bed  instead  of  into  it. 
When  my  father  twisted  the  ripe,  golden  ears  from  the  stalks 
and  with  his  hook  stripped  off  the  husks,  he  tossed  the  prize  into 
the  waiting  receptacle  without  turning  to  look.  The  steady  old 
farm  team  would  move  up  the  com  row  at  his  signal  as  he 
progressed  up  and  down  the  field.  I  wish  I  could  remember  how 
many  bushels  he  shucked  each  day,  but  I  never  really  listened 
then  or  appreciated  the  enormous  task  as  he  related  his  day's 
progress  to  my  mother. 

Some  farmers  were  beginning  to  subscribe  to  the  new 
technology.  Grandpa  Agan  and  his  sons  proudly  showed  off 
their  new  red  Farmall  tractor  to  us  one  spring.  The  sound  of 
roaring  tractor  engines  sputtering  to  life  in  the  early  spring 
mornings  was  beginning  to  be  heard  more  frequently  in  our 
farming  community.  But  my  father  was  very  conservative,  and 
he  wasn't  sure  it  was  right  to  leave  the  old  ways.  He  was  also 
fearful  of  contracting  a  large  debt,  so  he  fanned  with  his  horses 
longer  than  most  of  our  relatives  and  neighbors. 

However,  in  the  early  1940s  he  yielded  and  bought  an 
orange,  steel-wheeled  Allis  Chalmers  tractor.  The  age  of  tech- 
nology had  come  to  the  Davis  farm! 


THE  PRIVY  AND  THE  GOOD  OLD  DAYS 

Margaret  Kelley  Reynolds 

"Privy"  comes  from  the  word  "private,"  and  our  privy  was 
anything  but  private.  For  my  sister  it  was  a  handy  place  to  take 
refuge  when  there  were  dishes  to  be  done.  It  was  also  a  handy 
place  to  hide  when  playing  games.  It  was  often  occupied  by  a 
stray  cat  or  dog,  maybe  a  snake  now  and  then,  or  a  sparrow 
building  a  nest  under  the  eaves.  A  few  times  we  had  a  skunk  as 
a  very  unwelcome  visitor. 

Our  privy  was  situated  in  the  shade  of  a  gnarled,  old, 
mulberry  tree,  which  was  always  filled  with  birds  dropping 
mulberries  and  bird  doo  all  over  the  place.  A  trip  to  the  privy  in 
the  summertime  in  bare  feet,  even  over  a  well-beaten  path,  was 
sometimes  a  hazardous  journey.  In  the  wintertime,  it  was  even 
worse.  We  slipped  and  slid  on  the  path,  and  sometimes  had  to 
shovel  our  way  through  the  snow.  I  do  believe  that  I've  never 
known  anything  else  as  cold  as  the  wind  whistling  up  through 
that  two-holer  privy  seat.  It  was  a  miracle  we  didn't  freeze  our 
bottoms. 

Our  privy  was  a  tall,  four-foot-square  building  with  a 
swinging  door  that  fastened  with  an  old  leather  strap  and  a  nail. 
Above  the  door  was  a  crescent-shaped  moon  design,  and  perched 
on  top  was  a  bird  house.  Inside  the  door  was  a  bench-like  seat, 
with  two  sawed  out,  rough  edged,  round  holes.  Hanging  over  a 
binder  twine  string  on  one  side  was  an  old  Sears  Roebuck 
Catalogue.  On  the  other  side  in  one  comer  was  a  broom,  used 
to  sweep  out  leaves,  bird  droppings,  and  dirt.  In  the  other  comer 
was  a  small,  bent  coal  shovel  set  in  an  old,  rusty  tin  bucket  filled 
vrith  white  lime.  When  all  necessary  chores  had  been  com- 
pleted, it  was  a  GOOD  IDEA  to  throw  in  a  shovel  of  lime.  This 
was  supposed  to  keep  down  the  odor.  In  the  summertime,  the 
privy  was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  hollyhocks  which  came 
up  voluntarily  every  year  and  were  beautiful  when  in  bloom. 
The  unpainted,  dilapidated  building  didn't  look  too  bad  in  the 


summer.  It  was  a  shady  place  to  sit.  But  in  the  wintertime  the 
flowers  were  gone,  and  the  leaves  had  fallen  from  the  mulberry 
tree  and  in  their  place  was  snow,  ice,  and  icicles  hanging  from 
the  roof. 

I  shall  never  forget  one  summer  when  our  uncle  came  to 
visit  us.  He  was  a  bachelor  and  was  making  the  Army  a  career. 
When  he  was  on  furlough,  he  always  spent  several  days  at  our 
house.  We  were  glad  to  see  him  because  he  usually  brought  us 
something  tasty  to  eat. 

It  was  a  hot  summer  day  in  July  when  our  uncle  came, 
and,  as  usual,  he  brought  something-candy  this  time.  We  had 
it  eaten  long  before  dinner  time,  but  we  were,  as  usual,  hungry 
again  at  meal  time.  We  always  had  something  special  for  dinner 
when  company  came.  After  dinner,  we  were  all  trying  to  get  out 
of  doing  dishes.  It  was  my  sister's  turn  to  wash  while  we  dried, 
but  she  always  managed  to  run  for  the  privy  when  dishwashing 
time  came.  There  she'd  stay  until  the  dishes  were  done. 

Well,  it  was  the  same  old  story!  About  halfway  through 
the  dishes  she  complained  of  a  stomachache.  We  didn't  believe 
her,  but  when  she  took  off  in  a  dead  run  for  the  privy,  we  could 
see  she  had  a  problem.  A  few  minutes  later,  another  member  of 
the  family  ran  for  the  privy,  and,  when  my  sister  wouldn't  open 
the  door,  he  ran  for  the  com  crib.  About  that  time,  I  had  a 
stomach  cramp,  my  sister  wouldn't  open  the  privy  door,  so  I 
jerked  it  open.  Ordinarily,  we'd  never  go  to  the  privy  with 
anyone,  but  those  were  unusual  circumstances.  One  thing  I 
especially  remember  about  the  next  hour  or  so  was  that  the  path 
to  the  privy  and  those  two  holes  on  the  privy  seat  were  the 
busiest  places  you  could  ever  imagine.  There  were  kids  waiting 
in  line  to  occupy  the  rough,  round  holes.  When  we  all  felt  better 
and  the  old  Sears  Roebuck  Catalogue  was  about  depleted,  we 
went  back  to  the  house.  Our  uncle  was  laughing  so  hard  he 
could  hardly  stand  up.  He  told  our  mother  that  in  the  box  of 
chocolate  candy  he  had  put  quite  a  few  pieces  of  EX-LAX!  He 
wantedtoseewhatitwoulddotous.  Well!  He  saw  all  right!  Our 


mother  was  horrified,  but  she  tried  to  explain  to  us  by  saying, 
"He  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  he  hadn't  had  a  'little  nip'  before  he 
came."  We  didn't  find  out  for  several  years  what  a  "little  nip" 
was. 

I  must  say  that  in  my  later  years,  I  never  had  to  worry 
about  eating  too  much  chocolate  candy.  And  Ex-Lax-never! 
This  all  took  place  in  the  Mississippi  River  bottoms  where  I  was 
bom  and  raised  on  a  farm  over  sixty  years  ago;  it  was  near  New 
Canton,  Illinois,  in  Pike  County.  After  I  was  married,  I  thought 
I  was  living  in  the  lap  of  luxury  when  we  had  an  indoor 
bathroom  with  a  tub  and  a  stool,  and  I  never  once  missed 
trodding  the  beaten  path  to  the  privy.  The  privy  served  its 
purpose  in  my  life  and  was  an  essential  part  of  living  then,  but 
to  go  back  to  the  "Good  Old  Days"-NEVER! 


BELGIAN  FARM  LIFE  IN  ILLINOIS 

Margaret  M.  DeDecker 

From  the  lowlands  near  Watervliet,  Belgium,  and  the 
watery  provinces  of  Holland  came  the  Flemish  and  the  Dutch 
burgers  to  settle  on  the  prairies  of  Illinois  near  Geneseo  and 
Atkinson  in  Henry  County.  They  created  a  community  within 
the  melting  pot  of  other  Europeans.  Most  of  them  came  with 
farming  and  related  skills  and  so  were  soon  working  for  estab- 
lished farmers.  With  the  conservatism  of  their  native  countries, 
many  were  in  time  able  to  save  money  to  own  their  own  farms. 

I  was  witness  to  this  moderate  life  style.  I  remember  my 
Dad  and  brother  wearing  bib  overalls  with  patches,  and  their 
darned  rockford  socks  were  almost  total  darning  on  heels  and 
toes.  My  dresses  as  a  little  girl  were  made  of  cotton  print  on  the 
old  treadle  sewing  machine.  Bloomers  and  slips  were  made 
from  cotton  flour  sacks.  Our  other  underwear  was  ordered  from 


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the  Sears  Roebuck  Catalog,  as  was  our  one  good  outfit  for  going 
to  church. 

Going  to  mass  on  Sunday  was  the  normal  thing,  as  most 
of  the  people  came  from  Roman  Catholic  families.  The  priest 
was  the  advisor  in  all  things  as  he  was  the  only  one  with  an 
education.  My  family  joined  our  friends  in  learning  the  English 
language  when  the  children  went  to  school.  Even  though  they 
were  bom  here,  some  of  them  spoke  no  English  until  they  went 
to  school.  This  was  true  in  my  family.  My  brother,  older  than 
I,  went  to  school  first  and  then  taught  me  to  write  my  name. 
When  I  started  school,  I  had  to  learn  to  print  my  name,  but  at 
least  I  could  speak  English. 

Our  medical  care  was  usually  taken  care  of  at  home.  I 
remember  cuts  and  wounds  were  miraculously  healed  with 
Rawleigh's  Salve  and  bound  up  with  soft  strips  of  torn  old 
linens.  One  time  I  stepped  on  a  garden  rake  that  had  been  left 
out  in  the  yard.  Being  a  puncture  wound,  it  became  infected  and 
I  was  chugged  off  to  town  in  the  old  Model  T  to  see  Dr.  Spencer. 
My  Dad  was  so  proud  of  me  because  I  didn't  cry  when  the  doctor 
had  to  lance  the  wound.  My  mother  became  the  midwife  among 
the  Belgian  families  and  delivered  many  of  their  babies.  She 
also  helped  the  doctor  during  the  flu  epidemic  of  the  early  1900s. 
He  teasingly  told  her  she  was  too  mean  to  get  it,  and  she  didn't 

Wonderful  Belgian  cooking  kept  everybody  strong  and 
healthy.  The  soups  cooked  with  vegetables  from  the  garden 
were  filled  with  vitamins.  I  remember  the  huge  round  loaves  of 
home  baked  bread  as  well  as  cakes  and  pies.  Fresh  milk  from 
the  cows  was  a  special  treat.  Many  times  I  helped  turn  the 
barrel  chum  to  make  butter  and  then  buttermilk. 

Gardens  were  usually  the  pride  of  the  women.  Seeds 
were  saved  from  the  year  before  to  plant  peas,  corn,  and 
pumpkins.  Potatoes  were  a  favorite  crop.  And  there  always 
were  fiowers  around  the  vegetable  gardens. 

The  men  had  their  games  of  rolle  bolle  on  Sunday 
afternoons.    You  could  hear  a  "hotfer  domma"  and  everyone 


knew  that  the  player  had  missed  the  stake  with  the  bolle  by  a 
mile.  The  women  played  cards,  usually  bien,  a  game  brought 
over  from  the  old  country.  The  kids  played  baseball  or  went  to 
swim  in  the  canal.  In  the  winter  there  were  house  parties,  and 
there  usually  was  an  accordion  player  for  those  who  wanted  to 
dance  a  polka  or  a  mazurka. 

These  people  had  many  ethnic  beliefs,  such  as,  a  kid  was 
always  to  be  right-handed.  If  he  were  going  to  be  left-handed, 
the  left  hand  was  tied  up.  It  seems  there  was  a  flaw  in  the 
intelligence  if  you  let  the  child  be  left-handed.  Another  belief  or 
myth  that  I  personally  experienced  occured  during  the  process 
of  making  fourteen-day  pickles.  I  was  told  by  my  mother  that 
I  had  to  slice  pickles  in  half  in  a  thirty-gallon  crock  because 
"Gramma  came  to  visit."  It  was  believed  that  if  she  had  touched 
the  cucumbers  when  she  had  her  period  they  would  spoil. 

I  remember  the  wall  phone  was  the  party  line.  Each 
member  had  a  signal .  Our  signal  was  two  longs  and  a  short  ring. 
To  get  central  to  call  elsewhere,  you  had  to  crank  the  handle  on 
the  side  until  the  operator  answered.  Then  everybody  shouted 
to  hear  each  other. 

The  Belgians  and  the  Hollanders  helped  each  other,  but, 
of  course,  at  times  such  as  hay  making  and  threshing  they 
worked  with  neighbors  of  other  ethnic  backgrounds.  I'm  sure 
they  learned  much  from  each  other. 


REAPING  THE  HARVEST 

Eleanor  Green 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  mid  July,  193 1 ,  on  our  farm 
home  near  Media,  Illinois,  in  Henderson  County.  The  sun  was 
coming  up,  the  birds  were  singing,  and  my  dad  (Roy  Rankin) 
was  coming  up  the  board  sidewalk  carrying  a  bucket  of  warm 


120 


foamy  milk.  The  cats  were  at  his  heels,  knowing  he  would  stop 
and  fill  their  pan. 

Mother  was  in  the  kitchen  preparing  a  breakfast  of 
potatoes,  sausage,  eggs,  coffee,  and  a  large  kettle  of  oatmeal. 
She  also  had  three  pies  baking  in  the  oven  for  dinner. 

Dad  had  been  working  in  the  oat  field  for  three  days.  He 
cut  the  oats  about  four  inches  above  the  ground  with  a  binder. 
This  implement  was  drawn  by  a  team  of  horses.  There  was  a 
long  sickle  across  it  for  cutting  the  oats  off.  A  canvas  draper  on 
rollers  carried  the  oats  up  into  the  binder,  and  they  were  tied  in 
bundles  with  binder  twine  which  was  on  a  spindle.  After  the 
bundles  were  tied,  they  dropped  to  the  ground.  Now  it  was  time 
for  the  whole  family  to  help.  We  went  to  the  field  and  stood  the 
bundles  upright,  using  approximately  twelve  bundles  to  make 
a  shock.  Then  we  took  two  or  three  and  laid  them  across  the  top 
of  the  shock  to  keep  water  out  in  case  of  rain.  When  we  were 
finished,  we  had  rows  of  shocks  down  the  field,  ready  for  the 
racks  to  pick  up  on  threshing  day. 

Jake  Livermore  and  his  son,  Ivan,  of  Raritan,  Illinois, 
owned  the  steam  engine  and  separator.  They  went  from  farm 
to  farm  threshing  the  oats  at  harvest  time.  The  big  day  was 
here!  Jake  and  Ivan  were  puJling  in  the  gate  with  the  threshing 
machine.  Dad  went  out  to  meet  them  and  showed  them  where 
to  spot  the  machine.  He  wanted  it  near  the  gate,  so  they  could 
easily  get  loads  of  straw  in  the  winter  for  bedding  the  livestock 
in  the  bams. 

The  neighbors  with  racks,  wagons,  forks,  and  scoops, 
were  beginning  to  arrive.  Some  were  four  miles  from  home.  The 
sun  had  burned  the  dew  off  and  it  was  time  to  start.  Each  rack 
had  two  men  to  pitch  the  bundles  onto  the  rack,  and  the  driver 
spread  them  evenly  from  front  to  back  and  side  to  side  as  high 
as  they  dared  go  and  not  tip  their  load  over.  He  then  drove  to 
the  separator  which  was  powered  by  the  steam  engine,  where 
large,  wide  belts  turned  the  wheels.  The  bundles  were  pitched 
into  a  conveyor,  and  the  oats  came  out  a  spout  into  a  wagon  on 


the  opposite  side.  The  straw  blew  out  onto  the  ground  and, 
when  deep  enough,  my  dad  and  Lloyd  Rankin  started  shaping 
it  into  a  kidney  shaped  stack.  The  chaff  fell  to  the  ground 
beneath  the  separator. 

As  one  rack  emptied,  another  was  ready  to  pull  in  and 
unload.  When  a  wagon  was  full  of  oats,  another  was  pulled 
under  the  spout,  and  the  full  load  was  puiled  by  a  team  of  horses 
to  the  barn.  There,  two  men  scooped  the  oats  into  the  oats  bin 
through  a  small  door  on  the  side  of  the  barn. 

A  lot  of  hard  work  was  being  done,  and  it  was  getting  hot 
and  sultry,  so  perspiration  was  flowing  freely.  My  job  was 
"water  boy."  I  hitched  our  pony  to  the  pony  cart  and  filled  gallon 
jugs  (which  had  been  made  at  the  Monmouth  pottery)  with  cold 
well  water  and  headed  for  the  field.  I  went  from  rack  to  rack  to 
the  men  at  the  threshing  machine,  giving  them  a  drink.  They 
all  drank  from  the  same  jug,  tipping  it  up  and  drinking.  By  the 
time  I  had  made  the  rounds  it  was  time  to  refill  and  go  again. 

At  last,  dinner  time  came.  The  steam  engine  shut  down, 
while  the  teams  were  driven  in  under  shade  trees,  watered,  and 
left  to  rest  while  the  crew  went  to  the  house  to  eat.  Under  the 
big  elm  tree  in  our  yard  mother  had  placed  four  washpans,  bars 
of  soap,  and  combs,  and  had  hung  a  mirror  and  towels  on  nails 
in  the  tree.  A  big  tub  of  water  was  setting  in  the  sun  where  it 
had  warmed  for  them  to  wash  with.  The  men  took  off  their  straw 
hats  and  dropped  on  the  lawn  to  rest  and  visit  while  waiting 
their  turn  to  wash  up  for  dinner. 

Mother  and  my  sisters  had  been  working  all  morning 
preparing  dinner.  They  were  cooking  on  the  hot  cookstove 
because  there  was  no  electricity.  All  we  had  was  an  icebox, 
which  was  rather  small,  so  a  box  tied  on  rope  was  lowered  into 
the  well  with  food  in  it  to  keep  it  cool.  We  also  went  to  Media  to 
the  ice  house  and  got  one  hundred  pounds  of  ice,  placed  it  in  a 
tub,  and  covered  it  with  carpets  (rag  rugs)  to  keep  it  from 
melting.  A  big  chunk  was  chopped  off  and  placed  in  a  five-gallon 
stone  jar  which  held  our  iced  tea.  Mother  had  a  huge  beef  roast, 


mashed  potatoes,  gravy,  lima  beans,  spaghetti  and  cheese, 
radishes,  onions,  pickles,  cabbage  slaw,  homemade  bread  and 
butter,  three  kinds  of  pie,  iced  tea,  and  coffee. 

The  men  sat  down  at  the  table  which  was  stretched 
across  the  dining  room.  They  ate  heartily,  laughing  and  joking. 
When  they  were  finished,  they  got  up  and  thanked  my  mother 
for  the  good  dinner,  and  went  back  under  the  shade  tree  for  a  few 
minutes  to  rest.  Then  they  grabbed  their  hats  and  headed  for 
the  field. 

Now  it  was  my  turn  to  eat.  My  mother,  my  sisters,  and 
I  sat  down  and  ate  our  dinner.  When  we  were  finished,  we 
started  clearing  off  the  table,  piling  up  stacks  of  dirty  dishes  and 
pans.  We  had  no  running  water,  and  no  water  heater,  so  the 
water  was  heated  on  top  of  the  cookstove.  Having  no  double 
sink,  people  washed  and  rinsed  dishes  in  big  dish  pans.  I  knew 
what  was  best  for  me,  and  took  out  of  the  house  to  avoid  helping 
with  those  dishes. 

The  steam  engine  was  fired  up,  and  the  racks  were  back 
in  the  field.  The  afternoon  task  was  underway.  About5:00p.m. 
as  each  rack  came  in  and  unloaded,  they  unhitched  their  team, 
watered  them,  and  led  them  into  stalls  in  our  barn  where  they 
would  stay  for  the  night  to  be  ready  for  another  day  of  work 
tomorrow.  I  had  put  straw  in  the  stalls  for  bedding,  filled  the 
mangers  with  clover  hay,  and  put  com  covered  with  oats  in  the 
feed  boxes. 

The  neighbors  went  to  their  homes  to  finish  up  the  day 
by  doing  their  chores  and  getting  ready  to  come  back  to  finish 
our  oats  the  next  day.  Dad  fed  the  hogs,  milked  the  cows,  and 
went  to  the  house  to  eat  supper.  After  supper,  we  lit  the  Aladdin 
lamp,  and  listened  to  the  battery-run  radio.  Dad  read  the 
Galesburg  Register  Mail  andthe  Chicago  Drovers'  Journal .  We 
had  to  read  to  find  out  the  news;  we  hadn't  heard  of  television. 

After  the  horses  were  checked  and  the  chickens  shut  up, 
we  went  to  bed.  It  must  have  only  been  8:30  or  9:00  p.m.,  yet  it 
seemed  like  only  a  short  time  when  the  roosters  started  crowing 


and  I  heard  Dad  going  out  the  door  to  do  the  morning  chores. 
Another  day  was  underway. 

We  finished  threshing  about  3:00  p.m.  on  the  second  day. 
The  steam  engine  and  separator  pulled  out  and  went  to  the  next 
neighbors  to  set  up.  The  crew  would  all  be  there  tomorrow. 

I  know  it  was  hard  work,  but  I  believe  the  people  all 
looked  forward  to  working  together,  exchanging  labor  for  labor, 
visiting  and  caring  for  one  another,  and  probably  most  of  all- 
sharing. 

I  often  think  today  as  I  drive  in  the  country  and  see  farm 
homes  far  apart,  and  large  machinery  operated  by  one  man, 
what  these  folks  are  missing-those  things  which  I  hold  so  dear 
as  memories  of  the  past. 


HOG  HAULING 

Elizabeth  Harris 

The  rattling,  bumping  sound  of  wagon  wheels  on  hard 
frozen  ruts  of  the  country  road  jars  me  wide  awake.  I  throw 
aside  the  woolen  blankets  and  rise  up  from  my  soft  feather  bed. 
The  room  is  black;  the  air  is  frosty;  my  nose  feels  cold. 

I  hear  sounds  of  activity  downstairs;  Mama  and  Papa 
are  up.  The  fires  are  started,  radiating  cozy  warmth  from  the 
kitchen  range  and  the  wood-burning  heating  stove.  Outdoors, 
the  wagon  noises  increase  as  neighbors  approach  from  all 
directions  to  convene  in  our  barn  lot. 

Then  I  jxfnember.  This  is  hog  hauling  day! 

Playful  white  piglets,  born  last  spring,  had  frolicked  in 
the  meadows  in  the  summer.  Maturing,  they  grew  fat  on  com 
during  the  fall  and  early  winter.  They  are  now  hogs,  ready  to 
be  sold.  The  brood  sows  will  be  retained  in  the  sheds,  and,  as  the 
seasons  pass,  the  yearly  cycle  of  the  hog  farmer  will  be  repeated. 


122 


In  1908,  among  the  farmers  in  lower  Rock  Island  County, 
Illinois,  this  hauling  of  the  hogs  is  a  community  effort-one 
phase  in  the  prevailing  habit  of  exchanging  work  with  close 
neighbors  for  the  group-oriented  tasks  of  haying,  sawing  wood, 
butchering,  com  shelling,  and  castrating  the  pigs. 

The  closest  railroad  terminal  for  shipping  livestock  is  in 
the  little  town  of  Joy,  Illinois,  in  Mercer  County,  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles  south  of  our  farm  (which  is  located  south  of  Illinois 
City,  in  Buffalo  Prairie  Township). 

By  telephone.  Papa  has  talked  to  a  Mr.  Shingledecker, 
an  agent  in  Joy,  and  has  arranged  to  have  our  hogs  delivered  at 
the  railroad  yards  by  11  a.m.  on  this  frigid  February  morning. 
There  they  will  be  loaded  on  the  cars  and  shipped  to  the  Chicago 
Stockyards,  and  from  thence  to  various  slaughterhouses  and 
packing  plants  throughout  the  Midwest. 

The  fact  that  these  activities  are  necessary  to  the  liveli- 
hood of  our  family  is  not  even  thought  of  by  me.  Sissy,  seven 
years  old,  or  by  my  six -year-old  sister  and  bedfellow,  Irene.  Our 
older  brothers  work  with  Papa  outdoors;  our  older  sisters  help 
Mama  in  the  kitchen.  We,  too,  have  daily  chores,  but  in  such 
events  as  hog-hauling  we  are  mere  spectators. 

Irene  and  I  leap  from  our  bed  in  the  darkness,  shivering 
with  excitement  and  cold.  We  pull  off  our  flannel  nightgowns 
and  blindly  don  our  outer  clothing,  laid  out  the  night  before. 
With  long  black  stockings  and  high  button  shoes  in  our  hands, 
we  feel  our  way  through  the  dark  hallway  to  the  stairway  and 
descend  to  light  and  warmth  below.  We  plop  down  on  the  warm 
floor  behind  the  heating  stove  and  painstakingly  try  to  pull  our 
long  stockings  neatly  over  the  legs  of  our  ankle-length  long 
underwear.  I  reach  for  the  button-hook  on  the  window  sill  to 
speed  up  fastening  my  shoes,  remembering  to  put  it  back  where 
it  belongs  for  the  next  user. 

Papa  has  eaten  his  breakfast,  and  with  his  kerosene 
lantern  has  gone  to  the  hog  lot,  followed  by  "Old  Max,"  our 
faithful  reddish-brown  shepherd  dog. 


We  are  too  engrossed  in  what  is  going  on  outside  to  think 
of  eating  the  bowls  of  warm  oatmeal  that  Mama  has  prepared. 
Faces  pressed  against  the  windowpane,  we  see  shadowy  figures 
in  the  dim  lantern-light,  moving  about  the  crated  wagons 
backed  up  to  the  chute  that  leads  from  hog  lot  to  wagon  bed.  We 
hear  the  muffled  shouts  of  the  men;  the  barking  of  the  dog;  the 
protesting  squeals  of  the  pigs  as  they  are  prodded  up  the  chute. 

Light  streaks  of  early  dawn  are  showing  in  the  eastern 
sky  by  the  time  the  six  or  seven  wagons  are  loaded,  lined  up,  and 
ready  to  start.  Papa  hurries  to  the  house  to  don  his  heavy 
horsehide  coat  before  climbing  to  the  seat  on  the  rack  above  the 
wagon  bed. 

The  other  drivers  are  similarly  dressed-some  wear 
sheepskin-lined  coats  and  all  have  the  ear-lugs  of  their  heavy 
caps  pulled  down  and  fastened  under  their  chins.  As  we  watch 
the  caravan  move  down  the  driveway  toward  the  road,  the 
figures  huddled  on  the  wagon  seats  remind  us  of  huge  bears, 
driving  away  with  our  pigs. 

Well-shod  and  sure-footed,  the  horses  pick  their  way 
over  the  sharp,  icy  clods  of  the  rutted  dirt  road.  The  thermom- 
eter outside  out  kitchen  window  hovers  near  zero.  Papa  has  told 
us  that  sometimes  the  men  walk  beside  the  wagons  part  of  the 
way,  flailing  their  arms  and  hugging  themselves  in  order  to 
keep  warm. 

Starting  out  before  7:00  a.m.,  they  will  reach  the  rail- 
road yard  at  Joy  before  the  appointed  hour  of  11.  After 
unloading  the  hogs,  my  father  and  his  neighbors  will  perhaps 
have  their  noon  meal  together  in  the  village  cafe  and  spend  a 
sociable  hour  at  the  local  pool  hall  before  starting  back  in  time 
to  arrive  home  for  late-afternoon  chores. 

If  times  are  hard  and  farm  life  is  primitive  in  1908,  we 
children  are  not  aware  of  it.  We  feel  safe  and  secure  in  the  love 
and  care  of  our  family.  We  have  friends  and  neighbors  who 
share  the  burdens  of  work  when  help  is  needed.  We  have  warm 
clothing  and  plenty  of  good  food.    Radio  and  television  are 


unheard  of;  electric  lights  are  found  only  in  cities.  Our  news 
comes  by  way  of  letters,  telephone,  telegraph,  newspapers,  and 
monthly  magazines. 

Occasionally,  in  good  weather,  an  automobile  is  seen  on 
the  country  roads.  We  cannot  even  foresee  that  within  three 
years  our  papa  will  purchase  our  own  auto-a  forerunner  of 
miraculous  changes  yet  to  come-and  that  someday  in  the 
future,  huge  automotive  trucks  will  move  our  livestock  to 
market  in  one  easy  load. 


RAISING  CHICKENS  ON  THE  FARM 

Ralph  Eaton 

The  era  that  I  want  to  wTite  about  on  the  subject  of 
raising  chickens  is  the  first  half  of  the  twentieth  century-from 
1900  to  1950.  That  period  brought  about  many,  many  changes 
throughout  America,  and  those  changes  touched  the  lives  of 
everyone,  whether  they  lived  in  cities,  towns,  or  on  the  farms. 

It  probably  seems  unbelievable  to  modem  day  readers 
who  did  not  live  during  that  period,  but  early  in  the  twentieth 
century  there  were  more  people  living  on  farms  throughout  the 
country  than  there  were  in  the  cities  and  towns.  Most  rural 
people  were  busily  engaged  in  producing  their  own  shelter,  food, 
and  clothing.  If  they  were  fortunate,  they  might  manage  to 
produce  a  little  extra  of  something,  which  they  could  take  to 
town  to  sell. 

When  a  farmer's  children  grew  up,  married,  and  started 
farming  on  their  owm,  it  was  customary  for  the  parents  to  help 
the  new  couple  get  "started."  Perhaps  one  or  two  horses  could 
be  made  available,  one  milk  cow,  and  one  hen  and  a  "setting"  of 
eggs. 

My  parents  married  in  1912  and  settled  in  their  farm 


home  southeast  of  Augusta,  Illinois.  As  was  customary,  my 
mother's  parents  provided  a  hen  and  a  "setting"  of  eggs.  The  hen 
was  expected  literally  to  sit  on  all  the  eggs  that  her  body  would 
cover,  which  ranged  between  fifteen  and  twenty.  Of  course,  this 
is  the  way  that  our  wild  birds  still  propogate  today.  The  hen  was 
usually  happy  to  oblige  because  of  her  "mother  instinct,"  so  in 
three  weeks  the  eggs  turned  into  a  flock  of  fluffy  baby  chicks. 
During  those  three  weeks ,  the  hen  had  left  her  nest  only  to  drink 
and  to  eat  a  few  bites  of  food.  She  carefully  rolled  each  egg  over 
with  her  beak  twice  each  day  in  order  to  assure  uniform 
temperature  to  them.  Once  the  chicks  were  hatched,  the 
mother  hen  led  them  from  the  nest  and  they  were  taught  to 
forage  for  food.  Each  evening,  she  returned  them  to  the  nest  and 
sat  on  them  to  keep  them  warm  and  safe. 

They  grew  rapidly,  and  in  about  four  or  five  weeks  they 
became  capable  of  taking  care  of  themselves.  Approximately 
half  of  the  brood  would  be  little  male  "cockerels,"  and  the  other 
half  would  develop  into  little  "pullet"  hens.  At  about  five  or  six 
weeks,  the  little  cockerels  would  begin  to  provide  the  farm 
family  with  "chicken  dinners,"  which  were  a  delicious  treat 
eagerly  anticipated  by  the  family.  One  or  two  cockerels  would 
be  allowed  to  grow  to  adulthood,  as  would  all  of  the  pullets,  to 
expand  the  flock.  The  cockerels  were  necessary  to  fertilize  the 
eggs,  to  make  them  hatchable.  In  this  manner,  a  young  married 
couple  could  expand  their  chicken  flock  so  that,  in  three  or  four 
years,  they  could  have  as  large  a  flock  as  they  could  manage. 
This  depended,  of  course,  on  the  available  housing  space, 
available  feed,  and  available  time.  To  care  for  a  large  flock  was 
a  lot  of  work.  Also,  one  had  to  be  on  constant  guard  against 
predators.  Foxes,  skunks,  weasels,  possums,  and  coons  would 
all  kill  chickens  whenever  they  got  an  opportunity.  A  large  dog 
was  about  the  best  preventative  of  this,  as  well  as  having  a 
varmint  proof  chicken  house  to  lock  them  up  in  at  night.  As 
automobiles  increased,  they  also  killed  their  share  of  chickens, 
for  if  the  chickens  were  near  the  road  when  a  car  came  by,  the 


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chicken  would  almost  invariably  dart  in  front  of  the  car.  But,  as 
a  flock  increased  in  size,  it  provided  a  source  of  income,  since 
eggs,  as  well  as  the  young  chickens,  could  be  sold  in  town. 

But  technology  began  to  change  this  system  about  the 
time  of  World  War  I.  An  apparatus  known  as  an  "incubator"  was 
invented.  This  took  the  place  of  the  "setting  hens"  and  would 
allow  the  hens  to  continue  to  lay  eggs  for  those  three  weeks 
required  for  the  hatching  processes.  Depending  upon  the  size 
of  the  incubator,  it  would  replace  several  setting  hens  at  a  time. 
Also,  the  chicks  all  hatched  simultaneously  and  were  thus  more 
uniform  in  size.  A  couple  days  after  they  hatched,  they  would 
be  placed  in  a  "brooder  house"  where  they  would  be  housed,  fed, 
and  watered  until  they  were  grown.  Of  course,  the  mother 
instinct  still  prevailed  in  the  laying  hens,  so  they  would  occa- 
sionally ti-y  to  sit  on  one  or  two  eggs,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  her 
other  eggs  had  been  "stolen"  from  her.  So,  whenever  this 
happened,  the  hen  would  have  to  be  "jailed"  (confined  to  a  coop 
of  some  kind)  for  a  couple  of  days.  This  usually  made  her  give 
up  the  idea,  and  she  would  return  to  productive  egg  laying  once 
again. 

My  folks  got  their  first  incubator  perhaps  before  I  was 
bom.  One  of  my  earliest  memories  was  that  incubator  every 
spring  in  our  kitchen,  yielding  a  bunch  of  fuzzy  little  chicks.  We 
could  peek  through  the  window  of  the  front  door  of  the  incubator 
and  watch  for  the  "pip"  on  the  egg  about  a  day  before  it  hatched. 
Then,  we  could  watch  for  them  to  crack  the  shell  and  squirm 
their  way  out.  That  incubator  would  hold  200  eggs,  and  it  was 
mother's  responsibility.  She  was  the  "chicken  manager"  at  our 
house,  while  Dad  was  responsible  for  all  the  other  livestock. 
That  was  a  very  common  arrangement  among  farm  families 
during  those  times.  This  incubator  was  covered  with  tin,  was 
approximately  thirty  inches  square,  and  twelve  to  fourteen 
inches  deep  with  four  legs  which  made  it  about  table  height.  It 
burned  coal  oil  (kerosene)  to  maintain  the  even  heat  needed  for 
three  weeks  to  replace  the  body  heat  normally  provided  by  the 


sitting  hen.  A  thermometer  was  kept  inside  the  incubator  and 
had  to  be  watched  vigilantly  to  keep  the  temperature  constant 
at  all  times  or  a  poor  "hatch"  would  result.  Also,  the  eggs  had 
to  be  turned  twice  each  day  as  the  mother  hen  had  done.  The 
eggs  rested  on  two  trays  in  the  incubator,  and  the  trays  were  slid 
out  one  at  a  time  while  the  eggs  were  turned  by  hand.  Even  with 
all  this  good  care,  a  seventy-five  to  eighty  percent  hatch  was 
considered  pretty  good-but  a  poorer  percentage  than  most 
setting  hens  would  provide. 

As  technology  evolved,  incubators  were  improved.  My 
folks  bought  their  second  incubator  on  March  19,  1927.  It  was 
ordered  through  Sears  Roebuck  &  Company,  but  was  called  an 
Ideal,  manufactured  by  J.  W.  Miller  Company,  Rockford,  Illi- 
nois. It  cost  them  a  total  of  $19. 56.  It  was  of  wood  construction 
and  was  rated  for  300  eggs,  but  mother  usually  didn't  put  over 
250  eggs  in  it  at  a  time.  This  incubator  had  a  thermostat  to 
maintain  an  even  temperature.  It  still  burned  coal  oil,  but 
heated  water  which  circulated  in  pipes  inside  the  incubator.  It 
burned  approximately  eleven  gallons  of  coal  oil  in  three  weeks 
and  coal  oil  cost  approximately  12(2  per  gallon.  I  still  have  the 
incubator  and  am  currently  restoring  it  to  present  to  the 
Schuyler  County  Jail  Museum  at  Rushville,  Illinois. 

By  the  second  World  War,  technology  was  changing  the 
pattern  once  more.  Larger,  commercial  hatcheries  developed  in 
farm  towns.  These  could  operate  more  efficiently.  Mother 
began  selling  hatching  eggs  to  the  commercial  hatchery  in 
Augusta  and  buying  back  what  chicks  she  wanted  that  were 
hatched  from  her  own  eggs.  This  ended  the  use  of  home 
incubators. 

After  World  War  II,  specialization  began  in  both  the 
broUer  and  egg  businesses,  making  it  increasingly  difficult  for 
farm  flocks  to  show  a  profit.  So,  one  by  one,  farmers  ceased  their 
chicken  operations.  By  1950,  less  than  half  of  the  farm  opera- 
tions had  chickens,  whereas  probably  ninety  percent  had  flocks 
just  twenty  years  earlier.  By  1960,  farm  flocks  were  practically 


nonexistent.  My  mother  was  one  exception,  although  she  did 
change  from  Plymouth  Rocks  to  Leghorns  for  they  were  slightly 
better  egg  producers.  She  enjoyed  her  chickens  so  much  that 
she  kept  a  few  as  late  as  1982,  when  she  was  97  years  of  age. 
Chickens  did  provide  many  farmers  with  some  very 
badly  needed  dollars  during  the  Depression  years.  My  father 
milked  cows  (by  hand)  and  sold  cream.  Money  from  cream  and 
eggs  saw  our  family  through  those  difficult  years.  My  mother 
kept  our  farm  records  and  I  have  those  books  from  1924  through 
1964.  She  faithfully  recorded  the  number  of  eggs  collected  daily 
during  those  forty  years.  She  also  recorded  the  eggs  sold  and  the 
prices  received  for  each  sale.  They  were  a  very  important  item 
for  farm  folks  during  that  era. 


SAVING  THE  CHICKENS 

Ivan  E.  Prall 

By  the  summer  of  1932  the  Depression  had  deepened  to 
the  extent  that  many  people,  especially  in  the  cities,  were  going 
hungry.  On  the  farm  there  was  no  money  to  pay  bills,  but  if  a 
farmer  raised  chickens,  there  were  eggs  to  eat  and  occasionally 
a  chicken  or  hog  for  meat.  The  result  of  this  situation  was  that 
desperate  city  people  started  "visiting"  the  rural  population  in 
the  wee  small  hours  of  the  night  and  would  carry  off  chickens  or 
small  live  stock. 

Since  the  average  farmer  of  that  time  had  no  telephone 
or  electricity,  he  could  not  summon  help  or  turn  on  a  yard  light. 
The  first  line  of  defense  was  usually  a  good  watch  dog  and  a 
shotgun.  A  second  defense  line  sought  by  many  was  the  guinea. 
This  peculiar  looking  fowl  was  raised  along  with  the  chickens. 
A  guinea  would  feed  with  the  chickens  during  the  day,  but  at 
night  would  fly  into  the  tree  limbs  above  the  farm  yard  to  roost. 


At  the  slightest  unusual  nocturnal  activity  below,  it  would 
immediately  start  up  a  loud  chant  ofpoderacklpoderack!"  until 
their  sleep  was  no  longer  being  disturbed. 

The  farm  magazine  Prairie  Farmer,  under  their  Protec- 
tive Union  Organization,  established  a  third  line  of  defense.  For 
a  negligible  fee  they  supplied  you  with  a  small  can  of  indelible 
ink  that  looked  like  black  axle  grease,  a  wicked  looking  tool  to 
use  with  this,  and  signs  to  post  along  the  road  front  indicating 
that  your  chickens  were  marked.  A  purchasing  farmer  was 
assigned  a  registration  number.  The  numerals  of  this  number 
were  outlined  with  needles  on  the  tool.  Marking  the  chicken 
was  a  two  person  job.  First,  the  chickens  had  to  be  corralled  and 
brought  forth  one  by  one.  My  job  was  to  hold  the  fowl  on  its  back 
on  the  bottom  of  an  overturned  wooden  box.  One  wing  was 
spread  out  exposing  the  tin  web  with  a  little  cover  inside  the 
bottom  of  the  wing.  Here  my  father,  after  pressing  sharp  pins 
of  the  metal  stamper  into  the  indelible  ink  paste,  forced  it  down 
on  the  wing  web,  and  the  chicken  was  branded  with  our  family 
registration  number. 

The  theory  here  was  that  a  chicken  thief  peddling  his  ill- 
gotten  fowls  to  a  dealer  would  be  exposed  and  caught  when  the 
dealer  checked  under  the  chicken's  wing  for  a  branded  number. 
Personally,  due  to  our  proximity  to  Chicago  and  other  large 
cities,  I  doubt  if  many  chicken  buyers  checked  beneath  the 
wings  of  profered  fowls. 

As  summer  passed  in  the  farm  community  where  we 
lived,  north  of  Sycamore,  our  neighbors  all  around  lost  chickens. 
Lottie  Larson,  a  widow,  lost  eight-all  that  she  had.  Certainly 
this  left  her  desperate.  The  Nelsons  lost  two  hundred,  Andersons 
one  hundred  and  forty,  and  so  on. 

What  had  preserved  us  so  far  was  that  our  farm  sat  back 
at  the  end  of  a  long  lane,  while  the  neighbors  all  were  situated 
immediately  beside  the  gravel  road. 

Our  fenced  chicken  yard  with  roosting  houses  was  lo- 
cated just  beyond  our  brief  lawn  in  line  with  the  upstairs 


126 


bedroom  window.  A  few  yards  beyond  the  chicken  yard  ran  a 
cow  lane  fenced  with  barb  wire.  This  lane  led  the  cows  from  the 
meadow  to  the  bam.  The  grazing  meadow  lay  between  the 
house  and  the  road. 

After  our  neighbors'  losses,  we  began  to  feel  secure 
because  of  our  distance  from  the  road.  Then  one  night  we  were 
awakened  around  1:00  a.m.  by  the  "poderacking"  of  our  guineas 
and  muffled  squeaks  of  chickens.  My  father  stumbled  out  of  the 
bedroom  to  grope  his  way  in  the  dark  downstairs  and  get  his 
shotgun.  My  mother,  realizing  the  time  required  for  this  and 
the  darkness  of  the  night  presenting  poor  targets,  rushed  to  the 
screened  window  overlooking  the  chicken  yard  and  emitted  the 
loudest,  shrillest  "Get  out  of  there!"  that  I  had  ever  heard.  At 
least  it  was  the  loudest  noise  I  was  ever  to  hear  from  my  mother. 
There  followed  a  twanging  noise  from  below,  somewhat  like  the 
plucking  of  a  banjo  string,  then  silence  except  the  "poderacking!" 
of  the  guineas  and  fussing  of  the  disturbed  chickens. 

My  father  writh  his  shotgun  prowled  in  the  dark  but 
could  find  no  one.  Morning  light  disclosed  the  source  of  the 
twanging  noise.  The  thief,  or  thieves,  making  their  abrupt 
departure  upon  my  mother's  scream,  had  run  into  the  barb  wire 
fence  along  the  cow  lane.  Pieces  of  burlap  bags  and  chicken 
feathers  surrounded  the  spot,  and  blood  was  on  the  fence.  A 
rough  count  indicated  we  might  have  lost  four  to  eight  chickens. 

We  were  not  bothered  again  during  our  years  on  the 
farm,  but  my  mother  injured  her  throat  that  night  with  her 
mighty  yell  and  for  several  weeks  could  only  whisper. 


SHIPPING  DAY  AT  NORRIS  FARM 

Donald  R.  Norris 

At  the  turn  of  the  century  all  my  father's  fat  cattle  were 
shipped  by  rail  to  the  Union  Livestock  Yards  in  Chicago.  As  a 
youngster,  I  found  accompanying  them  to  market  was  an 
experience  to  be  remembered. 

My  father  most  often  chose  a  Monday  as  market  day  for 
his  cattle.  Selectingthe  steers  was  the  first  step.  Swinging  open 
the  feed  lot  gate  about  two  in  the  afternoon  on  Sunday,  I 
remember  the  steers  hesitated  before  venturing  outside  the  lot. 
Apparently  fearful  of  leaving  their  familiar  surroundings,  they 
sniffed  the  ground  beyond  the  gateway.  After  the  leaders  had 
made  the  plunge,  those  following  came  with  a  rush,  jumping  in 
surprise  at  their  unexpected  opportunity  for  freedom. 

Several  neighbors  joined  us,  everyone  on  horseback,  in 
preparation  for  the  two-mile  drive  to  the  railroad  loading  pens 
in  LaMoille.  My  father  trusted  me  to  take  the  lead  to  hold  the 
pace  to  a  walk. 

The  fat  cattle  ran  too  hard;  they  were  exhausted  and  lost 
weight.  One  or  two  riders  would  take  positions  on  each  side  of 
the  herd  to  keep  a  nervous  steer  from  leaving  the  roadway.  On 
his  favorite  bay  mare,  my  father  brought  up  the  rear,  enjoying 
his  view  of  the  broad  backs  of  his  fattened  charges. 

If  all  went  well,  we  would  have  our  steers  at  the  village 
limits  of  LaMoille  in  about  an  hour.  Halfway  there,  we  crossed 
Pike  Creek.  Spanning  the  creek  was  a  bridge  supported  by  its 
iron  framework,  and  it  had  a  floor  of  planks.  When  the  steers 
in  the  lead  approached  the  edge  of  the  bridge,  they  came  to  an 
abrupt  halt,  refusing  to  put  a  foot  on  the  plank  floor.  I  rode  my 
pony  across,  hoping  some  steers  would  follow.  They  didn't.  The 
men  shouted  and  cracked  their  whips.  The  steers  pushed 
forward,  forcing  the  leaders  to  follow  me.  Once  started,  the  herd 
charged  across.  I  remember  how  the  bridge  shook  and  the 
frightened  steers  crowded  against  each  other  from  fear  of  falling 


off  the  shaking  structure. 

Invariably,  our  troubles  started  at  LaMoUle,  Illinois. 
Village  dogs  barking  to  protect  their  domain  from  this  sudden 
new  challenge  would  panic  some  of  our  herd,  sending  steers  in 
several  directions  across  lawns  and  backyard  gardens.  Often  as 
not,  a  surprised  and  angry  housewife,  anxious  to  be  rid  of  the 
intruders,  would  suddenly  appear  waving  her  apron  with  both 
hands,  hoping  to  chase  away  our  confused  and  frightened 
animals.  I  remember  steers  plunging  through  a  grape  arbor 
and  trampling  gardens  that  brought  threats  of  a  lawsuit.  It  was 
always  a  feeling  of  great  relief  to  me  when  we  could  close  the 
gate  behind  our  charges  at  the  raOroad  loading  pens. 

Often  our  steers  would  be  loaded,  the  wide  rolling  stock 
car  doors  slammed  shut,  just  as  the  "way  freight"  came  puffing 
into  LaMoille  from  the  west  on  a  branch  line  of  the  Chicago 
Burlington  and  Quincy  Railroad.  Coming  from  Denrock,  near 
the  Mississippi  River  some  seventy-five  miles  west  of  LaMoille, 
it  was  serving  as  a  "work  train"  hauling  loaded  cars  to  the  main 
line  of  the  "Q."  After  it  screeched  to  a  stop,  the  brakeman  would 
disengage  the  engine.  By  stepping  on  the  "cow  catcher"  up  front, 
he  could  ride  on  the  engine  to  the  spur  track  to  couple  on  our 
cars.  With  bumps  and  lurches  they  would  be  moved  to  join  the 
line  of  cars  awaiting  them.  The  brakeman  would  then  give  the 
engineer  the  sign  to  start  the  train.  With  the  "bill  of  lading" 
from  our  station  agent  identifying  our  cars  by  number,  and 
letters  on  their  exterior  sides  and  a  head  count  of  our  animals, 
my  father  and  I  would  hurry  to  board  the  caboose  at  the  rear  of 
the  long  train. 

Upon  arriving  at  CB&Q's  main  line  at  Mendota  and 
after  an  hour  of  switching  cars  that  only  a  railroad  brakeman 
could  justify,  our  train  continued  toward  Chicago,  jerking 
along,  stopping  to  add  cars  of  stock  at  loading  points  en  route. 
Owners  often  accompanied  their  shipments.  A  shipper  was 
allowed  a  free  ride  in  the  caboose  with  a  free  pass  to  return  on 
a  passenger  train. 


At  each  stop,  the  door  of  the  caboose  would  be  opened  and 
slammed  shut  many  times.  The  talking  and  shouting  made  any 
sleep  impossible.  In  winter  I  remember  that  the  blasts  of  cold 
air  chilled  everyone  except  those  close  to  the  potbellied  stove. 
After  what  seemed  endless  hours  of  travel,  starting,  stopping, 
and  waiting  in  the  darkness,  our  train  of  cars  jerked  to  a  halt  at 
a  long  row  of  unloading  docks  within  the  Chicago  Yards.  Each 
car  of  stock  would  be  unloaded  and  the  animals  secured  in  one 
of  the  maze  of  pens  under  roof  near  the  docks.  From  there  they 
would  be  driven  to  the  sale  pens  before  market  time. 

From  the  caboose  at  the  rear  of  the  train  to  the  train 
depot  itself  was  a  long  walk  in  the  early  morning  darkness,  as 
we  stumbled  over  rails  and  dodged  switch  engines,  hissing 
steam,  their  bells  clanging.  Arriving  at  the  depot,  I  remember 
a  hearty  breakfast  of  pancakes  and  syrup,  eggs  and  sausage. 
The  market  wouldn't  open  until  8  a.m.  and  no  sales  were 
allowed  before  that  hour.  In  the  meantime,  there  was  much  for 
a  farm  boy  to  see. 

Unbelievably,  the  Stock  Yards  area  encompassed  a 
square  mile,  six  hundred  and  forty  acres  of  livestock  pens, 
alleyways,  scale  houses,  packing  plants  and  factories,  all  re- 
lated in  some  way  to  the  sale  and  slaughter  of  livestock  and  the 
preparation  of  those  products.  With  many  railroad  lines  enter- 
ing and  leaving  the  city  of  Chicago  bringing  cattle,  hogs,  sheep, 
and  lambs  to  market,  Chicago  became  known  in  particular  as 
the  "hog-killing  capitol  of  the  world."  Efficiency  was  such  that 
packers  boasted  of  using  "everything  but  the  squeal." 

The  sale  of  our  stock  was  handled  by  an  established  firm 
of  livestock  salesmen  on  a  commission  basis.  A  sale  was  made 
directly  between  our  commission  agent  and  the  packer  or  order 
buyer,  man  to  man,  eyeball  to  eyeball-a  contest  of  wits  and 
personalities.  Often  there  was  haggling  over  a  quarter  cent  per 
pound  of  the  live  weight  of  the  shipment.  A  dull  market  took 
longer,  each  side  vying  for  the  price  advantage.  My  father's 
loyalty  was  such  that  in  his  lifetime  he  consigned  all  his  cattle 


and  hogs  to  the  Bowles  Livestock  Commission  Company  and  he 
encouraged  others  to  do  so  too.  He  considered  Bowles  the  best 
salesman  at  the  Chicago  Yards. 

In  a  complex  as  large  as  the  Chicago  Yards,  most  cattle 
buyers  and  many  salesmen  rode  horseback  to  get  about  the  area 
and  to  sort  offanimals  from  large  shipments.  Commission  firms 
were  not  allowed  to  buy  meals  or  lunches  or  cut  rates  to  gain 
customers.  Recognized  firms  were  bonded  for  the  security  of 
their  clients.  A  shipper  received  his  commission  firm's  check  for 
his  stock  minus  the  commission  earned  and  the  cost  of  the  hay 
or  grain  fed  to  his  animals. 

An  additional  interest  at  the  yards  for  a  youngster  was 
a  trip  through  a  meat  packing  plant.  The  two  plants  I  recall 
were  Swift  and  Armour.  Visitors  were  directed  to  an  overhead 
walkway.  A  sign  said,  "Those  unable  to  endure  the  sight  of  blood 
take  detour."  I  remember  I  didn't.  Beef  animals  were  stunned 
before  having  their  throats  cut.  Hogs  and  sheep  didn't  receive 
that  mercy.  The  animals  were  swung  off  the  floor,  heads  down, 
onto  a  rail,  their  blood  gushing  against  the  rubber  aprons  of 
those  doing  the  killing.  With  a  steer's  hide  removed,  the  carcass 
was  split  down  the  backbone  and  reduced  to  quarters.  Once 
started,  the  disecting  never  stopped-eventually  to  bite  size 


pieces  in  some  instances.  Men  of  every  ethnic  group  stood  side 
by  side  with  razor  sharp  knives  and  cleavers  to  reduce  car- 
casses, still  warm,  to  manageable  portions  for  human  consump- 
tion. The  sight  and  smell  of  blood,  the  odor  of  steam  from 
cooking  vats,  and  the  hum  of  machinery  mixed  with  men's 
voices  created  an  atmosphere  I  had  never  before  experienced. 
Refrigeration  and  packaging  occupied  the  attention  of  both  men 
and  women  in  another  area  of  the  plant.  At  the  end  of  our  tour 
a  pretty  lady  with  a  smile  offered  various  bite  size  product 
samples,  labeled  for  distribution.  She  invited  us  to  return. 

By  now  it  was  4:00  p.m.  I  joined  my  father  to  catch  a 
Halsted  street  car  for  the  ride  toward  the  Union  Passenger 
Depot  to  board  the  CB&Q  to  Mendota.  From  there  we  would 
take  the  evening  train  west  to  Denrock  through  LaMoille. 

It  had  been  a  long  day.  As  I  settled  back  in  my  green 
plush  seat  in  our  passenger  car,  I  was  content  to  be  leaving  the 
city  with  its  crowds  and  noise.  As  our  train  moved  into  the 
country,  the  open  fields  were  serene  and  peaceful.  My  day  in  the 
city  had  given  me  much  to  think  about.  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  being  a  packing  plant  employee.  One  thing  I  was 
sure  of;    I  wanted  to  be  a  farmer  and  a  livestock  man. 


VIl  My  ^irst  Job 


131 


MY  FIRST  JOB 

The  Puritan  work  ethic,  which  is  a  cornerstone  for 
America  and  its  noble  dream,  is  one  of  the  primary  reasons  for 
the  nation's  character  and  preeminence.  This  ethic  is,  of  course, 
a  societal  necessity  in  all  civilized  social  orders.  The  lack  of  it 
is  a  grave  sign  of  crisis.  And  those  who  study  human  behavior 
report  that  there  is  the  need  for  work  satisfaction,  the  pleasure 
of  a  job  well  done.  The  Jewish  faith,  Christianity,  and  other 
faiths  speak  firmly  of  the  necessity  for  honorable  work. 

This  important  concept,  however,  has  for  some  time 
been  the  target  of  criticism.  During  the  late  1960s  and  early 
1970s  in  the  United  States,  the  work  ethic  was  attacked  by 
many  as  being  an  outdated  and  corrupt  tool  of  the  elite  to 
maintain  its  own  wealth.  Instead,  many  of  the  youth  subscribed 
to  the  pleasure  principle,  the  child  of  affluence  and  humanistic 
philosophy  as  well  as  psychology.  Others  turned  inward, 
focusing  on  a  frantic  search  for  their  identities,  the  massaging 
of  their  egos.  Indeed,  many  college  and  university  professors 
accepted  and  taught  one  or  both  of  these  beliefs.  Still  others, 
politically  opposed  to  capitalism,  perceived  that  they  could 
attack  an  important  prop  of  the  American  republic  by  endeav- 
oring to  undermine  the  work  ethic. 

In  those  days,  jobs  were  plentiful,  dollars  easy  to  come 
by.  The  youth  could  afford  to  look  inward,  to  contemplate  their 
navels,  to  consider  work  as  a  minor  goal.  But  Japan  and 
Germany  knew  better.  They  planned  and  built,  the  ethic  of 
work  central  to  both  their  thinking  and  procedure.  Of  all  the 
grave  errors  of  the  '60s  and  '70s,  none  was  more  serious  than  the 
erosion  of  the  work  ethic  in  America. 

All  that  comes  from  economic  recession  or  depression  is 
not  to  be  deplored.  With  bad  times,  with  economic  dysfunction, 
comes  the  work  ethic,  the  understanding  of  the  crucial  nature 
of  tenacious  endeavor,  the  necessity  for  it,  and  the  satisfaction 
of  a  job  well  done.    This  is  no  little  development,  and  it  is 


positive.  The  memoirs  in  this  chapter  demonstrate  the  validity 
of  these  claims.  In  this  discussion  of  first  jobs,  the  ideal  of  the 
work  ethic  is  considered  in  depth,  and  there  is  very  great 
wisdom  offered. 

Many  of  the  memoirs  explain  the  sense  of  accomplish- 
ment and  pride  involved  in  their  first  jobs.  Hazel  Fink  speaks 
of  the  pride  she  gained  through  nursing  and  of  the  profound 
sense  of  achievement  she  realized  through  the  endeavor.  Vir- 
ginia Schneider  shares  the  difficulty  of  getting  a  job  in  the  days 
of  the  Great  Depression  and  the  joy  and  sense  of  accomplish- 
ment when  a  full-time  position  was  achieved. 

James  B.  Jackson  learned  the  value  of  work  in  his  first 
job  of  building  hard  roads.  He  learned  that  he  was  the  equal  of 
the  men  with  whom  he  worked,  and  experienced  peace  and 
inner  joy.  Perhaps  the  most  important  lesson  was  that  he  must 
finish  his  education  to  get  a  better  job. 

Lydia  Jo  Boston  shares  the  back  breaking  fruit-picking 
work  of  her  first  job.  Though  more  than  demanding,  the  job 
taught  her  much,  not  the  least  of  which  was  "the  responsibility 
of  finishing  a  job  in  spite  of  any  discomfort  I  might  feel."  She  also 
speaks  of  "a  sense  of  pride  and  satisfaction  in  working." 

Elma  Strunk's  first  job  was  teaching.  Her  ambition  was 
fueled  by  a  desire  to  succeed  and  a  need  to  eat.  In  spite  of  poor 
working  conditions,  poor  pay,  and  manifold  hardships  she 
achieved  the  "burning  desire  to  be  the  very  best  teacher  I  could 
be." 

Self-respect  is  another  attribute  mentioned  by  the  writ- 
ers. In  1917MaryStormer's  grandfather,  with  whom  she  lived, 
told  her  it  was  time  to  accomplish  odd  jobs  around  the  house- 
for  which  she  was  to  be  paid  a  penny.  She  felt  well  about  herself 
for  meeting  her  grandfather's  wishes.  It  also  taught  her  the 
value  of  money  and  how  to  manage  it. 

Work  also  prepares  one  to  succeed  in  life.  Many  of  the 
writers  made  this  point.  Anna  Becchelli,  having  arrived  in 
America  just  ten  days  before  her  first  job,  spoke  no  English,  a 


fact  makingher  first  job  as  a  waitress  stressful.  Still,  it  helped 
prepare  her  for  success  in  her  new  home.  Phyllis  Fenton 
appreciated  the  fact  that  her  job  as  a  waitress  prepared  her  to 
succeed  later  and  to  enjoy  the  success.  Ivan  Prall  recalls  with 
pride  and  satisfaction  the  job  that  helped  him  feel  a  sense  of 
success. 

Work,  though  not  always  pleasant  at  the  time,  had  a 
positive  effect  on  the  lives  of  these  vmters.     The  toil  they 


exhibited  in  their  lives  was  part  and  parcel  of  a  mind  set,  an 
ethic,  an  attitude,  an  action  that  distinguished  them  and  that, 
multiplied  by  an  ethos  shared  by  countless  Americans,  helped 
build  a  very  great  nation. 

Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


133 


UNDER  A  >rURSE'S  CAP 

Hazel  Denum  Frank 

While  visiting  with  friends  recently,  I  began  reminiscing 
about  my  days  in  Nurses  Training,  starting  in  1927.  Everyone 
in  the  group  seemed  especially  interested  in  my  description  of 
the  uniform  we  wore  as  student  nurses,  but  one  young  woman's 
reaction  was,  "How  gross!"  This  puzzled  me  because  that 
uniform  set  those  of  us  who  wore  it  apart  from  all  others.  It  was 
never  seen  on  the  street,  only  in  the  hospital  or  in  the  nurses' 
home.  All  others  were  dressed  in  the  traditional  white  starched 
attire,  but  the  student  nurses'  uniforms  were  ours  alone. 

After  paying  the  $75  registration  fee  at  the  Hospital 
School  of  Nursing,  we  were  issued  our  uniforms:  a  dress  of  blue 
and  white  striped  chambray  with  elbow-length  sleeves  and  a 
modest  neckline.  It  featured  a  detachable,  stiffly  starched 
white  collar  and  cuffs.  The  front  of  the  dress  was  held  closed 
with  removable  shank  buttons,  and  the  full,  gathered  skirt  was 
below  calf-length  and  had  a  set-in  belt.  There  was  also  a  white 
apron  gathered  to  a  waistband,  and  this  apron  overlapped  in 
back  and  completely  covered  the  skirt.  Black  laced  oxfords  and 
black  hose  completed  the  uniform.  It's  interesting  to  note  that 
the  housemother  adjusted  the  length  of  the  skirts  so  no  matter 
how  short  or  tall  the  person,  each  skirt  was  exactly  the  same 
distance  from  the  floor.  This  is  how  we  dressed  for  the  first  four 
months,  which  was  a  probationary  period. 

Our  training  began  with  us  working  on  the  floor  at  the 
hospital's  7  to  7  day  shift,  with  two  hours  off,  four  on  Sunday.  It 
was  here  that  we  learned  about  cleanliness,  obedience,  prompt- 
ness, and  seniority.  There  was  not  only  seniority  in  the  three 
class  levels,  but  seniority  vdthin  each  class  itself.  This  even 
extended  to  the  dining  room  where  each  class  had  its  own  table, 
with  the  senior  of  the  class  seated  at  the  head.  Around  that 
table,  her  classmates  were  seated  clockwise,  according  to  se- 
niority.  Our  place  at  the  table  was  marked  by  a  napkin  ring 


which  we  each  furnished.  My  sister  Roberta  and  I  went  to  the 
jewelry  store  and  bought  silver  napkin  rings.  Too  late  we 
discovered  that  any  kind  of  ring  was  acceptable,  even  an  old 
bracelet! 

We  also  attended  classes  in  practical  nursing,  nursing 
procedures,  and  ethics,  as  taught  by  the  Supervisor  of  Nurses. 
We  soon  learned  promptness  at  class  was  a  must  whether  it  was 
scheduled  while  we  were  on  duty  or  on  our  short  time  off.  One 
of  our  first  accomplishments  was  carrying  the  big  trays  on  our 
hand  at  shoulder  level  without  spilling.  We  learned  to  respect 
all  student  nurses,  our  seniors  and  supervisors,  and  especially 
doctors.  We  always  stood  in  the  presence  of  nurses  as  well  as 
doctors.  A  doctor  never  went  into  a  patient's  room  without  a 
nurse  accompanying  him,  opening  the  door  for  him,  and  then 
always  walking  at  least  one  step  behind  him.  During  this 
probationary  period,  we  learned  to  manage  our  time,  always 
finish  the  assigned  work,  study  and  keep  our  grades  up,  and 
keep  our  rooms  satisfactorily  neat.  Our  day  ended  with  "Lights 
Out"  at  the  9:45  curfew. 

At  the  end  of  the  probationary  period,  if  we  had  adjusted 
to  routine,  had  satisfactory  grades,  and  showed  promise  of 
becoming  a  good  nurse,  we  were  promoted  to  freshmen.  Many 
dropped  out  at  this  time.  Those  of  us  remaining  were  issued 
white,  stiffly-starched  bibs.  The  bib  was  to  be  tucked  into  our 
apron,  the  wide  straps  crossed  in  the  back,  and  then  buttoned 
to  the  apron  band.  More  importantly,  we  were  also  issued  a 
CAP!  Each  school  had  its  own  style  of  cap;  therefore,  there  were 
several  different  caps  worn  by  the  supervisors.  Some  were  quite 
ornate.  Our  camps  were  flat  when  they  came  from  the  laundry. 
We  then  turned  back  a  "cuff,"  brought  the  comers  to  the  center- 
back,  and  secured  them  with  the  usual  shank  buttons.  They 
were  worn  on  the  back  of  the  head,  secured  in  front  with  a  white- 
headed  pin,  and  at  the  sides  with  bobby  pins,  preferably  white. 
We  first  feared  they  would  fall  off,  but  soon  became  quite  secure 
with  them.  The  rule  was  never  be  seen  in  uniform  without  your 


134 


cap!  In  fact,  the  cap  was  so  much  a  part  of  the  nurse,  it  was  often 
the  last  item  of  the  uniform  to  be  removed.  I  recall  the  first  day 
I  went  into  the  nurses'  home  I  saw  a  senior  nurse  at  the 
telephone.  She  had  very  little  on,  but  her  cap  was  in  place!  I 
soon  learned  that  was  not  uncommon. 

During  our  freshman  and  junior  (2nd)  year,  the  uniform 
remained  the  same.  It  was  always  worn  while  on  duty,  unless 
during  special  training  such  as  surgery,  laboratory,  or  diet 
kitchen.  In  these  situations,  plain  white  "scrub  robes"  were 
worn.  The  cap  was  worn  except  during  surgery  when  special 
caps  were  donned  to  cover  the  hair.  As  soon  as  possible, 
however,  the  nurses'  cap  was  back  on  our  heads  because  it  was 
a  source  of  great  pride  to  us.  At  this  time,  since  all  the  care  of 
the  patients  was  done  by  students,  we  received  a  monthly 
allowance.  During  the  freshman  year,  it  was  $8  per  month; 
increasing  to  $9  during  the  junior  year.  We  were  supervised  by 
an  R.N.  on  each  floor  and  department  during  days  and  by  one 
supervisor  at  night. 

When  we  entered  our  third  year  and  became  seniors,  we 
received  a  black  velvet  ribbon  to  be  worn  as  a  band  on  our  cap. 
With  this  came  more  responsibility,  along  with  an  allowance  of 
$10  per  month.  Among  our  studies  were  classes  in  anatomy, 
material  medica,  chemistry,  nursing  history,  obstetrics,  and 
others  taught  by  the  doctors.  Dietetics  was  taught  by  the 
dietician,  and  we  also  learned  about  serving  special  diets,  which 
was  a  very  important  part  of  the  training. 

At  the  end  of  three  years  working  in  all  areas  of  the 
hospital,  and  having  satisfactorily  met  the  grade  requirements, 
we  were  ready  for  graduation.  For  this  occasion,  we  received  our 
regular  white,  long-sleeved  starched  uniforms,  still  secured 
with  the  white  shank  buttons,  plus  white  shoes  and  hose,  and 
a  cap.  Graduation  did  not  mean  we  were  full-fledged  nurses, 
however.  We  put  back  on  our  striped  uniforms  and  finished  our 
required  number  of  days,  according  to  the  sick  days  we  had  to 
make  up.  I  finished  on  August  21,  1930,  at  1:00  p.m.  and  had 


free  time  from  then  until  State  Board  Exams.  The  testing  lasted 
three  days;  then  it  was  back  home  to  Stronghurst  to  wait  for  the 
report.  Then,  and  only  then,  could  I  call  myself  an  R.N.  and 
begin  to  practice  my  profession  and  start  earning  money. 

It  was  three  years  of  hard  work  and  new  experiences,  but 
it  was  worth  every  bit  of  it  to  have  the  privilege  of  wearing  that 
uniform,  and  especially  the  cap.  It  bothers  me  a  great  deal  that 
today's  nurses  seem  to  have  lost  some  respect  for  the  uniform 
and  cap.  The  have  learned  so  much  more  than  we  did,  have 
skills  that  weren't  even  thought  of  at  our  time  of  training,  and 
are  good  nurses.  Yet  I  wish  they  could  recapture  the  respect  we 
had  for  the  nurse's  uniform  and  the  cap,  in  particular.  The  cap 
wasn'tjust  something  to  wear.  It  was  a  part  of  the  nurse.  And 
it  represented  the  opportunity  for  young  women  to  fulfill  their 
dreams  for  a  life  of  respect  and  service. 


I  LOOK  FOR  THAT  FIRST  JOB 

Virginia  Schneider 

Trjring  to  find  that  first  steady  job  during  the  Great 
Depression  of  the  1930s  was  like  finding  a  needle  in  a  haystack! 
Although  I  could  type  and  take  short-hand,  I  joined  everyone 
else  in  willingness  to  settle  for  any  kind  of  paying  job.  Very  few 
of  us  were  concerned  about  vacations,  fringe  benefits,  or  coffee 
breaks. 

When  Goldblatt  Brothers  were  opening  a  new  depart- 
ment store  in  a  southeast  Chicago  neighborhood,  I  decided  to 
apply  for  work  there,  with  my  fingers  crossed.  However,  I  had 
to  take  a  long  ride  on  a  lumbering,  noisy  street-car  with 
screeching  wheels  to  their  employment  office,  which  was  lo- 
cated in  what  was  then  the  Stockyards  area  around  47th  and 
Halsted. 


The  day  was  hot,  muggy,  and  very  uncomfortable.  What 
made  it  even  more  uncomfortable  was  this  sickening  odor 
wafting  from  the  slaughterhouses  in  the  stockyards  through 
the  open  streetcar  windows.  At  that  time,  Chicago  had  the 
largest  livestock  market  in  the  world  and  was  considered  the 
greatest  meat  packing  city. 

What  with  the  butterflies  that  I  felt  in  my  stomach 
because  of  anxiety  about  getting  hired  and  having  a  tendency  to 
become  nauseated  whenever  I  rode  a  streetcar,  this  offensive 
smell  made  me  feel  even  more  queasy.  It  was  a  good  thing  that 
I  had  a  brown  bag  with  me  for  it  certainly  came  in  handy. 

It  took  great  determination  to  keep  going  and  not  turn 
back.  I  wondered  how  the  residents  in  that  area  were  able  to 
tolerate  this  overpowering  stench  in  the  summertime  when 
windows  had  to  be  open  since  air-conditioning  was  not  available 
at  that  time.  Carl  Sandburgonce  said  that  Chicago  was  the  "hog 
butcher  of  the  world."  Without  a  doubt,  it  smelled  like  it  in  that 
part  of  town! 

When  I  finally  made  it  to  the  Goldblatt's  Employment 
Office,  the  line  of  us  unemployed  was  so  long,  I  never  thought 
I'd  get  interviewed  before  dark.  Yet,  I  was  fortunate  to  be  one 
of  the  few  selected  to  work  in  their  millinery  section  on  opening 
day  only.  We  sold  loads  of  ladies'  hats  for  $1.00,  and  we  were 
kept  very  busy.  During  this  rush,  one  of  the  girls  gave  a 
customer  the  wrong  change  from  a  ten-dollar  bill.  She  was  fired 
immediately. 

Later,  while  hopefully  waiting  for  Goldblatt's  to  call  me 
after  that  single  work-day,  a  friend  and  I  decided  to  try  our  luck 
in  downtown  Chicago.  My  friend  told  me  that  they  needed 
chorus  girls  at  the  Minsk/s  Rialto  Theatre  on  State  Street. 
WhUe  I  was  anxious  to  get  work,  I  wasn't  too  eager  to  apply 
there,  for  I  didn't  think  I'd  feel  comfortable  wearing  those 
skimpy  costumes.  Of  course,  this  was  before  the  bikini  was 
accepted  as  standard  beach  and  backyard  garb. 

Was  I  relieved  when  we  were  told  that  the  manager  was 


out  to  lunch!  Besides,  we  were  told  that  they  already  had  all  the 
chorus  girls  they  needed.  Today,  I  wonder  what  would  my 
thirteen  grandchildren  think  of  their  grandma  as  a  chorus  girl? 

Since  it  was  close  to  Christmas,  we  decided  to  walk  over 
to  the  Mandel  Brothers  Department  Store  on  State  and  Madi- 
son streets,  the  busiest  corner  in  the  world  at  that  time.  On  the 
way  over,  a  very  strong  wind  made  it  difficult  to  keep  our  skirts 
where  they  belonged  while  hanging  onto  our  hats  at  the  same 
time.  No  ladies  wore  slacks  then  and  one  simply  did  not  go 
downtown  without  a  hat  and  white  gloves. 

While  my  friend  Rose  and  I  struggled  against  the  wind 
to  look  respectable,  the  men  enjoyed  our  predicament!  Rosie 
told  me  something  I  never  knew.  I  always  thought  Chicago  was 
called  the  Windy  City  because  of  this  strong  wind.  "Not  so,"  she 
informed  me.  "Along  about  1890,  Chicagoans  were  bragging  so 
much  about  their  city  that  a  New  York  newspaper  editor  nick- 
named it  "windy  city." 

At  Mandel  Brothers,  the  personnel  manager  looked  so 
stem,  I  was  afraid  to  apply  for  this  job.  Rose,  who  was  bolder 
than  I,  encouraged  me. 

"Oh  c'mon,  I'll  go  first  and  you'll  see  how  easy  it  is." 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  any  experience,  and  even  though 
she  told  him  she  had,  she  wasn't  hired.  That  almost  made  me 
want  to  get  out  of  this  long  line  of  prospective  employees.  Too, 
I  worried  whether  I  should  tell  him  that  I  was  experienced  since 
I  only  worked  that  one  day  as  a  sales  girl  at  Goldblatt's 

With  a  good  deal  of  trepidation  and  a  little  push  from 
Rosie,  I  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  said,  "Yes  sir,  I've  had 
experience."  He  seemed  to  be  able  to  look  through  me  and  know 
that  I  wasn't  too  sure  of  myself.  However,  he  informed  me 
curtly,  "I'll  give  you  this  opportunity.  See  what  you  can  do  with 
it."  I  couldn't  believe  that  I  was  hearing  right!  Yet,  I  got  to  work 
on  the  main  floor  during  the  Christmas  rush  selling  beautifully 
initialed  men's  handkerchiefs  for  only  a  dollar  a  box!  It  was  also 
a  good  spot  to  be  working  for  it  was  near  the  entrance  and 


136 


attracted  many  shoppers.  Among  them  was  the  actor  who 
played  "De  Lawd"  in  Green  Pastures,  a  play  written  by  Marc 
Connelly. 

I  felt  sorry  for  Rosie  who  practically  had  to  push  me  into 
applying  for  this  job,  yet  she  was  turned  down .  After  Christmas, 
hov/ever,  all  of  us  extras  got  the  pink  slip.  I  wondered  if  I  would 
ever  land  a  steady  job-yet,  I  could  at  least  now  be  able  to  say  I 
was  experienced  without  flinching. 

Another  Christmas  rolled  around  before  I  was  able  to  get 
work  again.  I  applied  at  the  Wieboldt's  Department  Store  on 
63rd  Street,  near  Halsted  Street,  a  very  busy  shopping  area.  On 
the  63rd  Street  streetcar,  I  met  my  former  shorthand  and 
typing  teacher,  who  was  disappointed  that  I  hadn't  found  use 
for  these  skills. 

At  Wieboldt's  I  was  hired.  No,  I  wasn't  hired  as  a  sales- 
clerk  this  time.  Because  I  was  then  a  petite  young  lady,  I  was 
asked  to  hand  each  child  a  present  as  he/she  came  to  visit  Santa. 
I  dressed  in  a  fairy  costume  and  wore  a  tinsel  trimmed  dress,  a 
shiny  tiara  in  my  hair,  and  pretty  white  slippers. 

A  Chicago  Herald-Examiner  newspaper  reporter  came 
and  took  a  picture  of  me  handing  a  little  girl  a  present  while 
Santa  smiled  on.  This  picture  appeared  in  this  now-extinct 
newspaper. 

After  Christmas,  I  had  to  start  looking  for  a  job  again! 
The  Wieboldt  personnel  manager  assured  me,  however,  that  if 
anything  turned  up,  he  would  call  me. 

In  the  meantime,  a  brother-in-law,  who  managed  a  cigar 
store  next  to  the  Loyala  Law  School  in  downtown  Chicago, 
called  me  and  said  that  his  assistant  had  the  flu.  He  asked  if  I 
could  help  out. 

I  agreed  somewhat  reluctantly  since  I  wasn't  too  greatly 
experienced  using  a  cash  register.  I  did  make  some  mistakes. 
However,  the  fellows  from  the  law  school  and  telephone  com- 
pany nearby  told  me  about  it  in  a  nice  way  and  for  that  I  was 
grateful.  At  Mandel  Brothers,  I  didn't  get  to  use  a  cash  register. 


We  wrote  up  the  sale  and  enclosed  it  along  with  the  money  in  a 
metal  tube  that  was  attached  to  a  wire  pulley  and  conveyed  to 
a  cashier. 

Again,  all  too  soon,  this  job  also  came  to  an  end,  for  Ed's 
assistant  recuperated  and  returned  in  no  time.  No  one  lingered 
at  home  with  an  illness  for  fear  of  being  replaced. 

Next,  I  tried  baby-sitting,  except  that  in  those  days  you 
didn't  just  sit.  You  were  also  expected  to  help  with  housework 
and  do  dishes  besides  caring  for  a  child.  I  was  paid  a  grand  total 
of  six  dollars  a  week  plus  carfare.  I  had  to  work  from  8:30  a.m. 
to  7:00  p.m.  with  Thursday  afternoons  off.  I  also  stayed 
overnight  on  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays  so  that  my  employer 
and  her  husband  could  go  out  on  the  town  while  I  stayed  with 
their  young  son. 

You'd  think  I  won  a  million  dollars  in  the  lottery!  I  was 
that  elated  when  I  came  home  from  my  baby-sitting  job  one  day! 
My  mom  told  me  that  Wieboldt's  called  and  wanted  me  to  come 
and  work  in  their  men's  department  as  a  regular  on  week-ends 
from  Thursday  through  Saturday. 

I  sold  what  seemed  like  a  thousand  neckties  that  first 
day.  They  cost  29(!  a  tie  and  went  like  hot  cakes.  Men  wore  ties 
more  often  in  the  1930s  than  they  do  today.  A  tie  would  look 
weird  with  a  running  suit. 

Eventually,  I  got  to  work  steady  from  Monday  to  Satur- 
day, and  how  I  rejoiced  to  be  able  to  count  a  regular  weekly 
paycheck.  Even  though,  according  to  today's  standards,  it 
wasn't  very  much,  that  $14  a  week  looked  good  to  me.  After  I 
got  my  first  paycheck,  I  picked  up  a  porterhouse  steak  at  29(Z  a 
lb.  to  celebrate  my  good  fortune! 

If  I  sold  a  typewriter,  I  got  a  commission  plus  a  day  off. 
This  job  was  certainly  a  lot  better  than  my  baby-sitting  job  at  $6 
per  week.  It  was  also  nice  to  get  a  discount  when  purchasing 
items  in  the  store.  In  fact,  I  still  use  the  bedroom  set  I  bought 
there  in  1936.  Furniture  was  made  to  last  in  those  days! 

From  all  those  attempts  at  finding  my  first  steady  job 


137 


during  the  Great  Depression,  when  I  finally  did  get  that  perma- 
nent job,  I  gave  it  my  all  because  I  was  so  pleased  to  get  it.  Also, 
I  benefitted  from  that  variety  of  part-time  jobs  because  all  those 
experiences  have  provided  me  with  "grist  for  the  mill"  in  my 
efforts  as  a  free-lance  writer. 

And,  oh  yes,  Mrs.  Olson,  wherever  you  are  ...  I  do  get  to 
use  my  typing  skills-shorthand,  too-to  good  advantage  after 
all! 


THE  HARD  ROAD  GANG 

James  B.  Jackson 

School  closed  in  May,  1926,  and  I  graduated  from  the 
little  two-year  high  school  in  Tennessee,  Illinois.  For  the  first 
time  I  faced  a  summer  with  nothing  to  keep  me  at  home.  I  was 
big  and  strong  and  had  just  turned  eighteen.  I  needed  money 
for  school  in  the  fall  and  I  wanted  to  break  away  and  be  a  man 
on  my  own.  Len  Small  was  Governor  and  he  was  trying  to  pull 
Illinois  out  of  the  mud  by  building  "Hard  Roads,"  as  we  called 
them,  in  contrast  to  "Dirt  Roads."  Dad  was  working  on  a  State 
Highway  construction  crew  in  Calhoun  County,  and  he  said  he 
could  get  me  on  too  for  the  summer.  It  was  too  good  to  turn 
down. 

Plans  were  made  so  that  I  would  arrive  in  Hardin  on  a 
Saturday  and  be  ready  for  work  on  Monday  morning.  I  packed 
my  clothes:  three  pairs  of  bib  overalls,  three  or  four  pairs  of 
rockford  sox,  a  few  chambray  shirts,  a  pair  of  work  shoes,  my 
straight  edge  razor,  my  toothbrush,  and  a  Brownie  camera.  I'm 
sure  I  had  a  hat  of  some  sort  and  a  bag  or  box  to  carry  it  all  in. 
I  wore  the  one  suit  I  owned  and  the  shirt,  tie,  and  shoes  that 
went  with  it.  I  had  my  pocket  knife,  a  few  hundred  dollars,  and 
a  one  way  ticket  to  Elsbury,  Missouri. 


I  caught  the  2:00  p.m.  Burlington  passenger  train  on 
Friday  and  felt  like  a  man  of  the  world,  a  man  with  a  mission. 
I  knew  all  the  towns  between  Macomb  and  Quincy  and  I  kept  a 
look  out  for  familiar  landmarks.  As  the  train  passed  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  from  our  house,  I  could  see  Mother  and  the  girls 
waving  me  goodbye.  At  Quincy  we  crossed  the  Mississippi  into 
Missouri,  and  I  was  in  foreign  territory,  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land.  In  less  than  an  hour,  we  were  in  Elsbury,  Missouri.  I 
checked  in  at  the  one  and  only  hotel,  my  first  experience  of  the 
kind,  and  it  must  have  been  obvious  to  the  kindly  old  desk  clerk. 
I  ate  supper  in  the  dining  room. 

Early  next  morning,  Saturday,  I  caught  the  Star  Route 
mail  carrier  for  the  last  leg  of  my  journey.  It  cost  me  50c  to  ride 
the  twenty  miles  to  Hardin,  Illinois.  That  included  my  baggage! 
We  crossed  the  Mississippi  River  on  a  cable  ferry  and  drove  up 
to  the  orchard  country  and  on  down  to  Hardin,  county  seat  of 
Calhoun  County.  Such  a  tiny  town! 

I  asked  at  the  post  office  for  directions  and  thus  started 
a  brand  new  life  for  me.  I  met  Dad  at  the  rooming  house,  and 
we  had  a  good  visit.  Room,  board,  and  washing  was  $3.50  a 
week. 

We  were  finished  with  breakfast  and  waiting  for  the 
truck  to  leave  at  6:30  Monday  morning.  Our  lunches  were 
packed,  big,  hearty  sandwiches,  and  a  dessert  (usually  pie).  The 
men  had  coffee,  which  I  didn't  drink  at  that  time  in  my  life. 
Until  I  had  a  paycheck  and  bought  a  dinner  bucket,  I  carried  my 
food  in  a  paper  bag.  There  was  a  water  barrel  on  the  job.  The 
water  was  cooled  by  wet  sacks  that  were  wrapped  around  it  as 
it  sat  in  the  shade.  Ice  water  was  supposed  to  be  bad  for  hot, 
sweaty  men  to  drink.  Maybe  it  was;  I'll  never  know! 

I  went  to  work  as  assistant  form  setter.  The  head  form 
setter,  Roy,  explaining  how  to  read  the  surveyor's  stakes, 
handed  me  a  pick,  a  shovel,  and  a  sixteen-pound  sledge  ham- 
mer. The  forms  were  made  of  heavy  sheet  steel,  ten  feet  long 
and  nine  inches  high.  They  were  flat  on  the  bottom  and  slanted 


at  the  back.  There  was  a  hole  at  each  end  and  one  in  the  middle 
through  which  a  steel  stake  was  driven  to  keep  it  in  place.  Each 
form  fitted  into  the  one  behind  it.  Since  the  big  concrete  mixer 
rolled  along  the  forms,  they  had  to  be  set  firmly.  They  were  left 
in  place  until  the  mix  set. 

Each  morning  we  pulled  the  forms  off  the  previous  day's 
work  and  dragged  them  by  hand  to  the  next  area.  In  itself,  this 
was  a  hard,  mean  job.  To  make  it  worse,  the  old  forms  were  half 
full  of  concrete,  and  most  of  them  weighed  a  hundred  pounds  or 
more.  We  would  set  forty  or  fifty  pairs  of  forms  a  day.  I  worked 
without  gloves  and  by  the  end  of  the  summer  had  thick  calluses. 

Roy  set  his  form  first  and  then  I  would  measure  across 
to  my  form.  I  think  it  was  sixteen  feet.  The  form  had  to  be 
exactly  parallel  to  Roy's  and  on  the  same  level  which  I  got  from 
the  grade  stakes.  Most  of  the  time  it  was  just  a  matter  of  moving 
some  dirt  or  adding  some.  In  some  places,  the  grading  crew  had 
not  cut  deep  enough  when  they  hit  solid  rock.  This  meant  I  had 
to  use  a  sledge  hammer  and  a  pick  to  remove  an  inch  or  two  of 
hard  limestone.  The  outcrop  might  be  forty  or  fifty  feet  long.  On 
more  than  one  occasion  I  raised  the  grade  stake  a  bit-an  inch  or 
so.  Of  course,  this  made  a  slight  hump,  a  permanent  hump. 
Forty  years  later  as  I  drove  along  the  same  road,  I  could  see  and 
feel  them.  For  some  reason,  I  never  felt  a  single  twinge  of  guilt! 

All  of  our  materials  came  up  from  St.  Louis  by  barges 
pushed  by  the  old  side  wheeler,  the  Golden  Eagle.  Sand,  gravel, 
and  cement  in  cloth  sacks  were  unloaded  on  the  riverbank  some 
fifty  yards  off  the  roadway.  Sand  and  gravel  were  shoveled  by 
hand  into  a  long-legged  hopper,  and  the  correct  number  of  bags 
of  cement  was  poured  in  on  top,  again  by  hand.  The  cement  men 
greased  their  faces  in  the  morning,  and  by  night  they  had  at 
least  an  eighth-inch  of  cement  plastered  tightly  all  over.  (I 
wonder  now  how  much  they  sucked  into  their  lungs.)  The 
hopper  held  one  truck  load.  The  trucks  were  T-Model  Fords 
vrith  gear  shifts  added.  They  had  no  cab,  just  a  box  for  a  seat. 
The  driver  knelt  on  the  box  and  drove  wide  open  in  reverse  as 


much  as  five  miles  to  the  mixer  which  was  mounted  on  the  steel 
forms  and  which  rolled  slowly  forward  as  the  "slab"  was  poured. 
When  two  drivers  met  where  Roy  and  I  were  working,  we  gave 
them  plenty  of  room  as  they  had  only  a  foot  of  clearance  on  any 
side.  But  I  never  saw  a  collision. 

We  worked  ten  to  twelve  hours  a  day  unless  it  rained. 
We  drew  no  pay  for  off  time  and  we  were  not  paid  portal-to- 
portal,  just  for  time  on  the  job.  A  couple  of  times  we  ran  out  of 
materials  and  had  to  wait  until  the  Golden  Eagle  arrived  with 
a  fresh  supply.  The  first  time  we  lost  half  a  week's  pay.  Then 
one  morning  just  at  dawn  we  heard  that  deep  throated  whistle 
we'd  all  been  waiting  for:  "Steam  boat  a  comin'."  The  whole 
town  was  happy.  Every  man  in  the  gang  was  up  and  ready  to 
go  with  a  full  lunch  bucket  when  the  trucks  came  at  6:30.  Dad 
and  I  worked  near  enough  together  that  we  could  eat  lunch 
together.  We'd  find  a  shady  spot  and  sprawl  on  the  ground  and 
talk  and  rest.  One  day  the  little  red  ants  found  our  buckets  in 
the  tree  where  we  had  hung  them.  I  was  all  for  throwing 
everything  away  but  Dad  said:  "Just  knock  off"  what  you  can  and 
eat  the  rest.  They  won't  hurt  you,  and  they  have  a  nice  sour 
taste."  He  was  right  on  both  counts. 

Sundays  and  days  off  I  went  walking  up  on  the  high  land 
above  the  bluff  and  looked  at  the  rows  and  rows  of  well-pruned 
apple  trees.  Or  I'd  sit  on  the  old  barge  and  fish  for  gar.  Once  in 
a  while  I'd  go  to  a  ten  cent  movie,  mostly  westerns.  There  was 
a  nice  girl  who  worked  in  her  father's  drug  store  where  I  bought 
film,  toothpaste,  and  candy  bars.  I  asked  her  once  to  go  to  a 
movie  with  me.  She  said  she'd  love  to,  but  her  parents  would  not 
let  her  go  out  with  any  of  the  "hard  road  gang."  They  didn't  know 
it  but  she  would  have  been  in  less  danger  with  me  than  wdth  a 
local  swain  parked  in  an  apple  orchard.  All  I  had  in  mind  was 
seeing  a  movie,  eating  an  ice  cream  cone,  and  walking  her  home. 
I  learned  quickly  what  it  feels  like  to  be  an  outsider,  distrusted 
and  socially  unacceptable,  and  it  hurt. 

But  I  learned  a  great  many  other  things,  too.  I  could  hold 


139 


my  own  with  any  man  on  the  crew.  I  was  as  strong  and  as  tough 
as  any  of  them.  I  learned  the  true  value  of  solitude  and  the  peace 
and  inner  joy  it  brought  after  a  week  of  hard  work  never  out  of 
sight  of  other  men.  By  mid-August,  when  it  was  time  to  catch 
the  Star  Route  carrier  back  to  Elsbury,  there  was  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  for  me  construction  work  would  never  be  any  more 
than  a  means  to  an  end.  And  the  first  end  in  mind  was  to  finish 
high  school  and  college.  Eight  years  and  many  construction  jobs 
later,  I  received  my  first  degree  from  Western  Illinois  State 
Teachers  College.  But  I  shall  always  believe  that  my  real 
education  began  with  the  "Hard  Road  Gang." 


LEARNING  TO  WORK  IN  NAUVOO: 
A  FRUITFUL  EXPERIENCE 

Lydia  Jo  Boston 

Nauvoo  was  a  community  of  fruit  growers.  Many  with 
a  small  acreage  had  strawberry  and  raspberry  patches;  vine- 
yards were  a  common  part  of  the  landscape.  There  were  apple 
and  pear  orchards;  peach,  cherry,  plum,  and  apricot  trees 
provided  fruit  for  family  use  with  the  surplus  finding  a  ready 
market.  You  could  usually  find  a  job  picking  fruit  if  you  really 
wanted  to. 

I  was  introduced  to  the  backbreaking  job  of  picking  those 
luscious,  red  strawberries  when  my  mother  took  me  with  her  to 
Aunt  Mayme  and  Uncle  Charlie's  large  patch.  Customarily  a 
child  was  assigned  to  pick  with  an  adult  until  they  learned  how 
to  search  out  the  berries,  picking  all  the  ripe  ones,  not  leaving 
any  on  the  vines  to  spoil.  When  my  younger  sister  and  brother 
came  along  to  pick,  they,  of  course,  picked  with  mother,  but  I  got 
to  pick  vrith  my  cousin,  Margaret! 

Each  picker  was  given  a  tray  containing  four  quart  berry 


boxes;  trays  with  six  boxes  were  for  speedy  adult  pickers.  The 
full  boxes  were  taken  to  the  strawberry  shed  where  the  overripe 
and  too  green  berries  were  sorted  out  by  Grandma  Huntley  and 
Aunt  Mayme.  Depending  on  the  wage  for  that  particular  year, 
you  were  paid  either  five  or  six  cents  for  the  four  quarts.  We 
carried  small  bags  with  a  drawstring  to  hold  the  precious  coins 
we  earned.  Sometimes  we  used  a  large  safety  pin  to  secure  the 
bag  and  its  treasure  inside  a  pocket.  We  kids  thought  it  a  good 
day  if  we  made  50c!  Adults  made  more! 

Though  we  liked  to  earn  money,  we  kids  soon  became 
tired;  as  the  day  wore  on  and  the  sun  became  hotter,  we  grew 
slower  at  our  task.  As  we  dawdled,  we  daydreamed  of  better 
times  when  we  would  no  longer  have  to  pick  berries-maybe  we'd 
be  rich  and  spend  our  time  ordering  things  we  wanted  from  the 
current  wishbook!  Margaret  and  I  used  to  dream  that  someday 
wealth  could  be  ours  if  we  could  just  devise  a  method  for  raising 
strawberries  that  would  make  them  easier  to  pick.  It  was 
beyond  our  understanding  why  strawberries  couldn't  be  grown 
in  wooden  boxes  standing  on  legs,  so  we  could  stand  up  to  pick 
and  thus  be  relieved  of  backs  that  ached  from  several  hours  of 
stooping.  Our  fantasy  for  a  future  without  backaches  or  sore 
knees  included  some  arrangement  that  would  allow  us  to  ride 
between  the  rows  and  just  lean  over  to  pick.  Unfortunately  our 
dreams  remained  just  dreams  and  strawberry  picking  still 
requires  strong  backs. 

Raspberries  were  usually  picked  in  pint  boxes.  No 
matter  how  hot  the  day,  you  usually  wore  long  sleeves  to  protect 
yourself  from  the  thorny  bushes.  Some  pickers  would  protect 
their  hands  by  taking  an  old  pair  of  dress  gloves  and  cutting  off 
the  ends  of  the  fingers,  thus  providing  some  measure  of  protec- 
tion for  their  hands  while  allowdng  the  fingers  to  work  freely. 

One  of  our  neighbors  was  among  the  first  in  the  commu- 
nity to  grow  boysenberries.  The  berries  were  large  and  the 
boxes  filled  quickly,  but  the  bushes  were  very  thorny.  The 
pickers  were  given  a  stick  about  twelve  to  fifteen  inches  long 


with  a  nail  protruding  about  an  inch  or  two  from  the  end  which 
allowed  a  picker  to  lift  the  thorny  branches  for  easier  picking. 

Grape  cutting  required  a  good  knife  to  cut  the  bunches 
of  grapes  from  the  vine.  Grape  baskets  sat  on  waist  high  stands 
to  be  filled  and  we  tried  to  make  the  tops  of  the  baskets  even  and 
neat. 

Even  though  it  was  discouraged,  we  girls  sometimes 
wrote  our  names  and  addresses  in  the  bottom  of  the  grape 
baskets  hoping  to  get  ourselves  a  pen  pal  from  up  north  where 
the  grapes  were  shipped.  We  not  only  put  in  ours,  but  were 
known  at  times  to  include  our  friends  and  just  for  fun  our 
mothers!  We  were  somewhat  concerned  though  that  the  state 
fruit  inspector  might  find  our  names  and  our  frivolity  would  be 
an  embarrassment  to  Uncle  Clarence,  who  was  President  and 
Manager  of  the  Fruit  Growers  and  Shippers  Union! 

My  mother  once  got  a  letter  from  some  farmer's  wife  in 
the  Red  River  Valley.  Interestingly,  her  husband's  name  was 
Russell,  as  was  my  father's.  They  also  had  three  children  in  the 
family  as  we  did;  they,  too,  had  a  Russell  Jr.  My  cousin, 
Margaret,  received  a  letter  from  a  Norwegian  farmer  in  North 
Dakota  who  had  bought  a  basket  of  Nauvoo  grapes.  They 
corresponded  and  some  years  later  they  were  married. 

The  sun  would  be  hanging  low  in  the  west  and  we  could 
hear  the  six  o'clock  bells  from  the  Convent  as  we  walked  home 
from  Aunt  Ruth  and  Uncle  Clarence's  vineyard.  The  tempting 
aroma  of  potatoes  frying  seemed  to  greet  us  from  every  house  we 
passed  on  our  way  home  tired  and  hungry  after  our  day's  work. 

There  were  some  who  raised  tomatoes  for  the  canning 
factory  in  Lomax,  so  there  was  another  summer  job  between 
berry  picking  and  grape  harvest.  My  sister  Lois  became  aware 
of  discrimination  at  an  early  age  when  she  discovered  she  was 
picking  more  tomatoes  for  150  an  hour  than  one  of  the  boys  for 
20(2  an  hour.  Her  employer  explained  that  men  and  boys  always 
earn  more  than  girls!  The  incident  was  no  barrier  for  cupid; 
they  married  while  still  in  their  teens! 


A  merchant  from  Ft.  Madison  opened  a  dime  store  in 
Nauvoo.  Two  of  my  girlfriends  decided  they  would  apply  for  a 
job  there.  I  wasn't  particularly  interested  in  a  clerking  job  in  a 
store;  however,  I  allowed  them  to  persuade  me  to  accompany 
them.  When  we  arrived  there,  they  both  suddenly  had  an  attack 
of  shyness  and  urged  me  to  tell  the  owner  why  they  had  come. 
I  finally  summoned  up  enough  courage  to  approach  him  and 
asked  for  jobs  for  my  friends. 

"I  only  need  one  more  clerk,"  he  said,"  and  you  can  have 
the  job  if  you  want  it." 

"Oh,  but  it's  these  girls  that  want  the  job,"  I  protested. 

"But  you  asked  and  they  didn't,  so  if  you  want  the  job,  it 
is  yours." 

From  then  on  I  got  up  earlier  on  Saturday  mornings  to 
walk  the  mile  out  to  Grandma  Ruffs  to  help  her  with  the  weekly 
cleaning  and  be  back  in  time  for  my  one  o'clock  job  at  the  dime 
store. 

I  really  didn't  mind  the  clerking  job  once  I  got  used  to  it. 
One  day  an  elderly  lady  asked  for  the  "elastics."  I  guided  her  to 
the  sewing  notions  to  show  her  the  elastic  we  had. 

"No!  that  is  not  what  I  want.  I  want  the  elastics  you  wear 
over  your  shoes  to  keep  them  from  getting  wet!" 

I  decided  she  must  mean  what  we  called  rubbers  or 
overshoes,  so  I  sent  her  on  to  another  store. 

It  was  on  my  eighteenth  birthday  that  I  got  the  phone 
call  offering  me  my  first  REAL  job!  A  five-days-a-week  job  for 
35c  an  hour!  I  didn't  have  transportation,  but  some  generous 
folk  allowed  me  to  be  a  part  of  their  car  pool  so  I  was  able  to  get 
to  Fort  Madison,  Iowa,  for  my  job  at  the  Sheaffer  Pen  Company. 

As  the  nation's  factories  geared  up  for  the  war  effort, 
there  were  transfers  to  different  departments;  working  sched- 
ules changed  with  overtime  and  longer  hours  so  at  times  finding 
a  ride  to  and  from  work  became  a  problem.  There  was  no  bus 
service,  but  morning  and  evening  the  mail  was  picked  up  at  a  Ft. 
Madison  depot,  and  as  long  as  there  was  room  the  carrier  would 


take  passengers.  I  recall  one  time  when  I  rode  "the  mail"  home. 
There  were  eight  of  us  in  the  car  with  one  passenger  holding  a 
decorated  cake  for  delivery  in  Nauvoo.  The  bags  of  mail  that 
wouldn't  fit  in  the  car  trunk  were  deposited  all  round  us  until 
there  was  hardly  breathing  room! 

My  fiance,  Raymond,  was  discharged  from  the  Navy  in 
May  of  1946  and  we  were  married  in  June.  I  continued  to  work 
until  we  moved  to  a  farm  in  the  Colusa  area  in  1947. 

Looking  back,  I  view  those  hot  summer  days  in  the  berry 
patches  as  a  fruitful  experience!  There  I  learned  the  responsi- 
bility of  finishing  a  job  in  spite  of  any  discomfort  I  might  feel. 
The  earnings,  meager  by  today's  standards,  nevertheless  bought 
needed  clothes  and  helped  pay  my  way  to  church  camp  ever 
summer.  The  fruit  growers  around  town  gave  many  a  young 
person  a  summer  job  and  were  instrumental  in  instilling  in 
them  a  sense  of  pride  and  satisfaction  in  working.  They 
performed  a  needed  service  for  the  fruit  grower  and  learned 
some  important  lessons  about  life  and  what  it  means  to  work. 
From  this  early  experience  young  people  learned  how  to  relate 
to  an  employer-something  they  can  use  all  their  working  lives. 


MY  FIRST  PENNY 

Mary  C.  Stormer 

"A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  earned."  I'm  sure  everyone 
has  heard  this  phrase.  I  want  to  tell  about  the  "first  penny"  that 
I  ever  earned. 

This  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  was  four  years  old  and  had 
gone  to  live  with  my  grandparents  who  lived  on  a  farm  west  of 
the  town  of  Eureka,  Illinois,  in  Woodford  County,  the  home  of 
Eureka  College,  President  Ronald  Reagan's  alma  mater. 

The  year  was  1917.  One  day  my  grandfather  mentioned 


the  fact  that  I  should  be  doing  odd  jobs  to  earn  a  little  money.  I 
agreed.  The  first  job  was  to  clean  Grandpa's  spitoon  which  was 
a  small  round  blue  granite  pan,  filled  with  clean  wood  ashes. 
The  ashes  came  from  the  wood  burning  stove  out  in  the  old 
summer  kitchen.  The  ashes  were  also  used  to  "scour"  the  tin, 
black-handled  knives  and  forks-another  job  for  me. 

I  received  one  penny  a  week  in  payment  for  my  services. 
I  will  never  forget  my  great  joy  the  day  Grandpa  gave  me  my 
first  earned  penny.  I  saved  my  first  penny  which  was  a  shiny 
new  one  with  the  year  1917  date.  I  still  have  this  penny  in  my 
collection,  labeled  "the  first  penny  that  I  earned." 

Throughout  the  years,  I  managed  to  earn  quite  a  few 
pennies  by  doing  errands  for  the  nearby  neighbors.  I  stored  my 
pennies  in  a  large  white  milkglass  jar  which  I  kept  in  Grandma's 
wardrobe  on  the  top  shelf.  When  I  had  100  pennies  saved  up. 
Grandpa  gave  me  a  crisp  $1  bill  which  he  called  a  "green  back." 
Oh!  I  thought,  how  wonderful  to  be  able  to  save  and  have  "green 
backs." 

Grandpa  always  enjoyed  telling  me  how  he  had  earned 
his  "first  penny."  He  would  carry  water  to  the  thirsty  hay 
makers  in  the  field  during  the  boiling  hot  July  days.  The  water 
had  to  be  pumped  by  hand  from  a  deep  well  on  the  farm.  Gallon 
jugs  were  filled  with  clean,  sparkling  clear,  refreshingly  thirst- 
quenching  water. 

The  coin  that  Grandpa  showed  me  was  (Oh,  yes,  he  had 
saved  that  penny)  larger  than  the  usual  penny.  It  was  copper 
and  bore  the  date  1850.  Grandpa  was  six  years  old  at  that  time. 
He  was  born  October  7,  1844,  in  a  log  house  on  the  farm  two 
miles  west  of  Metamora,  Illinois.  I  have  this  penny  in  my 
collection  as  it  is  a  pleasant  memory.  Grandpa  gave  it  to  me 
shortly  before  he  passed  away  on  February  18,  1932. 

Throughout  the  years,  my  daughter  enjoyed  hearing 
about  the  "penny  story."  So,  we  decided  that  she  could  earn  a 
penny  a  week  by  doing  little  errands  about  the  home.  She  still 
has  the  first  penny  she  earned  when  she  was  four  years  old  in 


142 


1940.  She  stored  this  penny  in  a  little  white  bag  which  hung  on 
a  nail  in  back  of  the  old  dresser  in  the  upstairs  bedroom.  It  is 
still  hanging  there  in  the  same  place. 

Then,  let  history  repeat  itself.  My  granddaughter,  Julie, 
also  has  the  first  penny  that  she  earned  by  doing  chores  for  her 
parents.  That  coin  is  in  her  glass  piggy  bank. 

In  today's  world,  a  penny  doesn't  mean  anything  to  a 
child.  What  can  they  buy  with  a  penny?  Not  much.  It  takes 
several  pennies  to  pay  the  sales  tax  on  all  purchases.  I  saw  a 
lady  break  a  $5  bill  in  order  to  have  change  (extra  pennies 
needed)  to  pay  the  sales  tax. 

Living  in  today's  uncertain  times,  I  really  do  appreciate 
having  learned  from  a  very  early  age  the  value  of  money  and 
working  in  order  to  earn  that  penny.  It  is  a  valuable  source  to 
know  where  money  comes  from.  I've  learned  to  manage  money 
and  that  saving  it  is  made  possible  by  careful  spending.  Man- 
aging money  well  requires  effort.  The  rewards,  however,  are 
great.  It  will  accumulate,  eliminate  financial  worries,  and 
strengthen  the  sense  of  self-respect  that  accompanies  financial 
independence.  All  this  in  turn  will  strengthen  character  and 
improve  one's  personality. 

It  was  great  living  in  the  days  when  life  was  quiet  and 
simple,  where  we  counted  our  "blessings  and  our  pennies."  I 
shall  forever  cherish  the  memories  of  this  shared  childhood  joy. 


MY  FIRST  DOLLAR 

Ivan  E.  Prall 

My  first  dollar  did  not  end  up  hanging  on  the  wall  under 
framed  glass  like  so  many  first  earned  dollars.  The  reason  was 
simple.  It  was  Depression  time  and  that  dollar  had  a  thousand 
dreams  waiting  its  arrival.  Also,  the  Depression  explains  why 


there  hadn't  been  a  first  dime  or  nickel  or  even  a  penny.  There 
just  hadn't  been  any  previous  income. 

Of  course,  I  was  only  ten,  so  it  was  excusable  not  to  have 
piled  up  much  income  by  then,  and  my  folks  had  no  money  to 
give  me  for  odd  chores  or  allowance.  In  fact,  in  those  days  you 
were  expected  to  do  the  chores,  and  I'm  not  sure  the  word 
"allowance"  was  in  the  vocabulary. 

We  lived  on  a  small  farm  in  the  center  of  a  Swedish 
community  about  five  miles  from  the  nearest  town.  The  Swed- 
ish farmers  around  us  were  all  elderly,  having  come  to  this 
country  in  the  late  1800s.  I  was  the  only  child  my  age  for  some 
distance  around  and  each  day  I  faced  a  trudge  of  a  mile  plus  to 
a  little  red  brick  school  house  on  the  highway. 

Some  pigs,  eggs,  and  cream  were  our  sources  of  income, 
together  with  the  sale  of  an  occasional  calf.  Farming  was  done 
with  horses. 

When  school  let  out  in  June,  I  faced  a  rather  dull  and 
lonely  summer  of  hoeing  thistles,  cutting  wood,  milking  cows, 
etc.  The  chief  monotony  reliever  was  threshing  time.  A  steam 
engine  pulling  the  threshing  machine  would  huff  its  way  from 
farm  to  farm,  and  all  the  neighbors  would  arrive  with  their 
teams  and  hayracks  to  haul  in  the  bundles.  The  neighbors' 
wives  arrived  to  help  put  on  a  meal  that  stayed  in  your  memory 
to  the  following  year. 

Now  to  my  first  earned  income.  One  of  our  neighbors 
was  an  elderly  Swedish  bachelor  whose  farm  buildings  were 
situated  at  a  bend  in  the  nearby  Kishwaukee  River.  In  fact. 
Combs  Mill,  which  served  most  of  our  county,  had  stood  at  that 
location  for  most  of  the  1800s.  Now,  he,  whose  real  name  was 
Carl  Olson,  was  known  far  and  wide  as  "Cully  pa  dammit."  That 
is  as  near  as  I  can  come  to  the  Swedish  pronunciation,  which 
translated  to  "Cully  by  the  dam  site." 

Most  of  Carl's  acreage  lay  beyond  the  river  which  in 
summer  ran  very  shallow.  A  gravel  road  allowed  him  to  move 
his  farm  machinery  back  and  forth  from  the  buildings  to  the 


fields,  and  his  livestock  grazed  beyond  the  river. 

Occasionally  a  recalcitrant  bovine  was  tardy  in  coming 
home  for  milking.  So,  in  order  to  meet  such  urgencies,  Carl  had 
installed  a  catwalk  of  planks  across  the  river.  Old  ten  gallon 
milk  cans  filled  with  rocks  rested  upright  on  the  river  bottom, 
and  2"  X 16'  planks  ran  between  them  and  were  fastened  to  them 
with  wire. 

However,  when  the  snow  melt  of  spring  brought  the 
river  over  his  catwalk,  a  second  route,  a  last  resort,  existed. 
Stretched  between  trees  on  opposite  banks  were  a  series  of 
cables.  Suspended  from  these  was  the  seat  of  an  old  spring 
wagon.  Positioning  himself  in  this,  he  would  pull  himself  across 
the  raging  torrent  and  drive  his  reluctant  cows  into  the  flood, 
forcing  them  home  for  milking. 

Since  the  thresher  crews  hauling  bundles  from  the  field 
could  not  be  expected  to  dismount  their  wagons  and  open  and 
close  gates,  fording  the  river,  Carl  approached  my  father  and 
asked  if  he  could  hire  me  for  one  dollar  to  watch  the  gates  and 
keep  the  cows  from  straying  across  the  river  and  uJtimately  out 
on  the  road.  This  seemed  something  within  the  capabilities  of 
a  ten-year-old  farm  boy,  and  hence  my  first  dollar  was  earned. 

The  crowning  reward  came,  however,  with  the  noonday 
meal.  Since  Carl  had  no  wife  to  prepare  meals,  he  fed  the  crew 
at  a  restaurant  in  town.  My  father,  who  was  one  of  the  bundle 
haulers,  myself,  and  the  other  threshers  piled  into  cars  and 
drove  five  miles  to  town  for  the  noonday  meal.  It  was  my  first 
restaurant  meal,  and  the  last  for  some  years. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  hours  spent  on  that  first  job. 
Also,  I  shall  always  remember  with  satisfaction  and  pride  of  my 
entry  into  the  world  of  work. 


MY  FIRST  JOB  IN  AMERICA 

Anna  Becchelli 

My  first  job  lasted  two  weeks.  The  year  was  1927  and  I 
was  eighteen  years  old.  I  had  just  arrived  in  America  ten  days 
earlier.  I  couldn't  speak  or  understand  English  yet.  I  had  never 
worked  in  a  restaurant,  but  when  a  friend  told  my  brother  about 
a  job  for  me  with  an  Italian  restaurant  I  was  willing  to  try  it.  I 
got  the  job  and  was  paid  $12  a  week  and  I  thought  it  was  a  lot 
of  money.  I  had  never  seen  that  much  money  at  one  time  in 
Italy.  My  job  in  the  restaurant  was  to  clear  tables  when  people 
finished  eating,  clean  counters  and  tables,  and  dry  dishes. 
Sometimes  people  would  ask  me  for  a  glass  of  water.  At  first  I 
couldn't  understand  what  they  said,  but  I  soon  caught  on  to  that 
phrase. 

I  remember  a  couple  of  funny  things  that  happened  to 
me  while  I  worked  those  two  weeks.  I  didn't  think  they  were  so 
funny  then,  but  now  I  laugh  when  I  remember. 

One  day  while  I  was  cleaning  some  plates  and  glasses  off 
from  a  table  where  a  couple  was  sitting,  all  dressed  up,  I  spilled 
some  liquid  down  the  silk  stockinged  legs  of  the  lady.  I  was  so 
mortified  that  I  tried  to  tell  them  that  if  she  would  just  take  her 
stockings  off  I  would  wash  them  clean  in  the  kitchen.  Of  course, 
they  just  looked  at  me.  They  couldn't  understand  a  word  I  was 
saying,  since  I  was  speaking  Italian.  Somehow  I  managed  to 
understand  that  they  were  telling  me  back,  to  forget  about  what 
happened. 

The  second  incident  was  really  comic.  In  those  days 
streetcars  took  you  around  the  city  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  I  had 
to  ride  the  streetcar  six  blocks  to  get  to  the  restaurant.  One 
morning  my  father  came  part  way  with  me  as  he  was  going 
uptown  for  some  business.  When  he  got  off  the  streetcar  before 
my  stop,  he  said,  "I  will  pay  for  you  no  w,  so  you  won't  have  to  pay 
when  it's  time  for  your  stop."  I  said  to  my  dad,  "OK."  Well,  when 
it  came  time  for  my  stop  I  got  up  and  went  to  the  door  and  the 


conductor  didn't  open  the  door.  I  stood  there  and  he  said 
something  to  me.  I  couldn't  understand  him  and  he  said 
something  again.  Now  I  figured  out  that  he  was  telling  me  to 
pay  before  he  could  let  me  off,  so  I  said,  "Papa  pay."  I  didn't  know 
any  more  English.  The  conductor  got  angry  and  said  some  more. 
My  face  turned  beet  red  because  passengers  were  behind  me 
waiting  to  get  off  and  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  streetcar 
started  laughing.  Then  the  conductor  started  to  shout.  I  knew 
he  was  cussing  although  I  couldn't  understand  the  words,  but 
I  wasn't  about  to  pay  again  since  I  knew  my  dad  had  paid  for  me 
already,  so  with  a  beet  red  face  I  kept  repeating,  "Papa  pay, 
Papa  pay."  Then  he  had  to  let  me  off  because  he  was  holding  up 
the  rest  of  the  passengers.  When  I  got  home  from  work  I  was 
furious  at  my  dad  for  putting  me  through  that  experience  and 
told  him,  "THANK  YOU,  DAD,  for  putting  me  through  that 
embarrassment,  and  don't  you  ever  do  that  to  me  again!!" 

Once  a  week  at  the  restaurant  they  sold  spaghetti  to 
construction  workers  who  came  into  the  kitchen  through  the 
back  door.  For  25(2  the  workers  bought  a  big  cardboard  bucket 
full  of  good  spaghetti.  The  cook  would  ask  me  each  day  what  I 
wanted  to  eat  for  lunch.  I  couldn't  understand  what  he  was 
sajdng  in  English  so  everything  he  said  to  me  I  would  answer, 
"Ok."  He  would  say,  "Stew?"  I  would  answer,  "Ok."  "Roast?"  he 
would  ask.  "Ok,"  I  would  answer.  Then  he  would  give  me  a 
sample  of  everything  he  cooked  up  that  day.  Everything  he 
made  was  good.  Once  in  a  while  he  got  drunk  and  didn't  show 
up  for  the  evening  and  the  owner  would  panic,  but  he  always 
had  already  made  the  evening  meals,  and  the  owner  just  had  to 
heat  them  up. 

This  first  job  was  not  easy  for  a  new  American  lass,  but 
it  was  a  good  experience,  preparing  me  to  succeed  in  the  new 
land  of  promise. 


WORKING  AS  A  WAITRESS 

Phyllis  T.  Fenton 

In  the  summer  of  1935, 1  got  my  first  job.  Since  I  could 
type,  my  father  urged  that  I  get  office  experience,  perhaps  in  a 
typing  pool,  but  no  one,  not  even  the  family  friend  who  ran  a 
small  office,  would  take  a  chance  on  a  high  school  girl  in  times 
of  economic  depression. 

I  pursued  other  leads  through  the  Tribune  want  ads  and 
answered  one  for  "Waitress  Wanted."  After  an  interview  with 
the  personnel  manager  of  the  DeMets  restaurant  chain,  whose 
headquarters  were  on  Madison  Street  just  west  of  the  Chicago 
Loop,  I  was  given  a  one  day  training  session,  then  assigned  to 
the  tea  room  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  Located  one  floor  below 
street  level,  the  tea  room  served  lunch  to  the  secretaries  and 
office  workers  in  the  massive  building  at  141  West  Jackson 
Boulevard,  the  same  building  which  today,  as  then,  throws  its 
long  shadow  down  LaSalle  Street. 

The  job  covered  the  noon  shift-four  hours  a  day  for  five 
days.  My  pay  was  $4.50  a  week.  When  I  complained  about  this 
skimpy  pay,  my  father  said  that  on  his  first  job  in  1905  he 
earned  but  four  dollars  a  week  for  a  ten-hour  day.  I  was  moving 
on  up! 

Wages  were  paid  Friday  afternoon  by  cash,  in  a  small 
brown  envelope,  and  25c  were  deducted  for  starching  the  white 
apron  and  collar.  The  black  uniform,  bought  at  time  of  employ- 
ment, cost  $1  and  was  laundered  at  home.  Waitresses  then,  as 
now,  were  expected  to  plump  out  their  base  pay  with  tips,  but 
tea  room  patrons  in  1935  seldom  tipped,  and  if  they  did  it  was 
a  generous  nickel  or  dime.  They,  too,  were  working  girls. 

The  tea  room  was  large  and  squarish,  its  decor  soft  blue 
and  gray.  Along  three  walls  were  "deuces"  or  two-seater  booths 
each  lit  with  a  lamp.  Arranged  over  the  floor  were  tables-for- 
four.  Scattered  throughout  were  the  bus  stands  for  napkins, 
silverware  and  water  pitchers. 


145 


Daily  routines  began  with  inspection,  that  we  were  neat 
and  clean  and  all  hair  wisps  tucked  under  the  net  required  by 
state  law.  Then  we  set  up  doilies  and  silverware  at  our  stations 
and  stood  sentry,  tray  under  the  arm,  until  one  of  the  two 
middle-aged  hostesses  in  black  dress  and  white  lace  collar 
escorted  a  customer  to  a  table  and  laid  down  a  menu,  an  act 
which  ended  the  veneer  of  tea  room  gentility.  From  then  on, 
under  the  buzz  of  patron  conversation,  the  pace  quickened  for 
the  waitress. 

First,  she  filled  the  water  glass;  then  she  took  the  order. 
Most  customers  ordered  from  the  menu  daily  specials  ranging 
from  the  spaghetti  or  meat  loaf  at  35c ,  upward  to  the  55(Z  lamb 
chops.  Each  special  included  a  hard  crust  roll,  butter,  dessert, 
and  drink.  The  maverick  customer  who  ordered  a  la  carte, 
however,  challenged  the  greenhorn  waitress  to  learn  quickly 
that  a  club  sandwich  had  three  layers  of  bread  and  a  la  carte  pies 
were  cut  larger  than  those  on  the  special.  A  gracious  spirit 
characterized  most  patrons;  a  few  were  picky,  rude  and  squeezed 
out  every  inch  of  service.  Indeed,  the  tenderfoot  waitress  had  to 
balance  people  as  well  as  trays. 

Trays  were  filled  in  a  clattering  kitchen  by  the  waitress. 
From  a  long  counter,  she  picked  up  the  salads  and  sandwiches 
for  the  daily  specials  which  were  being  made  by  women  and  girls 
on  the  other  side  of  the  counter.  From  large  metal  vats,  other 
kitchen  workers  ladled  up  the  special  DeMets  spaghetti  and 
sauce.  At  the  entrance  to  the  dining  room,  a  cashier  rang  up  the 
bill  and  checked  each  tray  for  extras  such  as  rolls,  butter,  and 
lemon  wedges.  This  kitchen  administration  was  under  the 
scanning  eye  of  the  head  chef,  a  stocky,  grufTman  named  Tony. 

After  the  customers  were  gone,  tables  cleared  and 
washed,  and  salt  and  pepper  shakers  filled,  we  ate  a  free  lunch 
at  the  back  tables  near  the  kitchen,  usually  the  35c  special.  A 
surplus  of  lamb  chops,  however,  would  be  distributed  by  the 
chef,  Tony. 

Between  Jackson  Boulevard  and  my  home  at  66th  Street, 


it  was  a  half  hour  ride  on  the  Clark-Wentworth  streetcar,  for 
which  14c  a  day  was  budgeted,  leaving  me  $3.55  for  worldly 
pleasure.  Sometimes  I  stayed  downtown  with  friends  for  a  soda 
and  a  cup  of  tea  at  Walgreen's  where  a  fortune  teller  read  the 
leaves,  or  I'd  splurge  35c  on  a  first-run  movie  with  vaudeville  at 
the  Chicago  Theater.  Other  days  I  might  meet  a  girlfriend  in 
Field's  third  floor  waiting  room  and  browse  through  the  store. 

Occasionally,  before  work,  I  watched  the  action  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  from  the  visitor's  gallery.  Here,  the  traders 
shouted  their  buy  and  sell  orders  from  the  wheat  and  corn  pits. 

Four  years  later,  after  two  years  of  college,  I  got  a  job  on 
LaSalle  Street  near  the  Board  of  Trade  in  the  offices  of  the 
Carnegie-Illinois  Steel  Company.  There  I  earned  $65  a  month, 
and  instead  of  riding  the  street  car  I  took  the  speedier  but  more 
expensive  Rock  Island  suburban.  In  this  job,  hat  and  gloves,  not 
hair  nets,  were  mandatory. 

A  few  times  I  spent  lunch  hour  in  the  blue  and  gray  tea 
room  where  a  gray  haired  lady  in  black  dress  and  white  lace 
collar  escorted  me  to  a  wall  table  lit  by  a  lamp,  then  handed  me 
a  menu.  When  a  breathless  child  waitress  whipped  out  a  pencil, 
I  ordered  the  35c  spaghetti  special,  and  when  I  left,  now  that  I 
was  a  LaSalle  Street  office  worker,  I  slid  my  nickel  gratuity 
under  the  tea  cup. 


TEACHING  AT  ROUND  PRAIRIE  SCHOOL 

Elma  Strunk 

Whoever  said  going  out  on  your  own  for  your  first  job  was 
easy  never  experienced  that  formidable  task  in  the  mid-Twen- 
ties, when  times  were  hard  and  jobs  scarce,  especially  if  that  job 
was  teaching  a  rural  school  in  the  far  comer  of  Jersey  County, 
a  long  way  from  home  and  on  dirt  roads-almost  impassible  in 


146 


winter. 

Anyway,  about  sixty  years  ago  I  was  faced  with  the  need 
to  make  my  own  way  doing  something  besides  housekeeping  if 
I  wanted  to  succeed  in  life,  and  also  if  I  wanted  to  eat. 

I  had  always  wanted  to  teach  school.  I  had  a  wonderful 
high  school  English  teacher  who  inspired  and  encouraged  me. 
She  helped  me  to  know  how  to  write  applications  and  how  to  go 
about  applying  in  person.  This,  of  course,  stood  me  in  good  stead 
when  applying  for  the  "job"  in  the  rural  school  of  Jersey  County. 
For  a  very  timid  person  from  the  country,  this  was  very  hard. 

However,  I  got  names  of  schools  from  the  county  super- 
intendent of  schools  that  would  need  teachers  the  next  season. 
In  order  to  teach,  I  needed  a  Teacher's  Certificate.  I  needed  to 
take  an  examination  to  get  one.  I  took  the  examination  without 
any  "qualms"  of  passing.  After  all,  I  had  gone  to  a  country  school 
for  eight  years,  and  was  a  high  school  graduate.  Was  I  ever 
surprised  when  I  got  my  grades:  I  had  failed.  The  county 
superintendent  issued  me  an  Emergency  Certificate  good  for 
one  year  so  I  could  keep  my  job. 

I  was  fortunate  to  have  already  been  hired  at  a  school, 
Round  Prairie,  in  the  very  southern  part  of  the  county.  I  guess 
because  of  the  good  heart  of  one  of  the  directors  who  was  Dad's 
cousin,  I  got  a  salary  of  $60  per  month  for  seven  months. 

I  had  to  board  in  the  district.  I  was  able  to  find  a  place 
about  a  mile  from  the  school  at  $3  per  week  from  Sunday 
evening  until  Friday  morning.  Here  again  this  was  a  relative. 
Mom's  second  or  third  cousin.  They  were  an  elderly  couple. 
There  was  no  indoor  plumbing.  I  wasn't  too  used  to  that 
anyway.  There  was  no  heat  in  my  room  upstairs.  She  had 
cleaned  the  former  storage  room  so  I  could  stay  there.  It  got  cold 
up  there  in  the  winter!  The  water  would  freeze  in  the  washbowl 
so  baths  were  a  minimum  and  when  it  got  too  cold.  Aunt  Ella 
fixed  me  a  place  in  the  kitchen  pantry  where  I  could  wash  my 
face  and  hands  and  dress  behind  the  big  heating  stove  in  the 
living  room  if  I  got  up  and  at  it  while  Uncle  John  was  doing  his 


milking.  You  can  be  sure  I  got  there  on  time. 

I  would  dress,  eat  breakfast,  and  be  on  my  way  to  school 
by  shortly  after  seven.  I  needed  to  be  at  school  by  8:00  a.m.  and 
school  started  at  9:00  a.m.  Kids  began  to  arrive  anjrtime  after 
8:30  a.m.  I  walked  in  rain,  shine,  snow,  or  whatever.  There  were 
no  snow  days. 

When  I  got  to  school,  I  had  to  carry  in  whatever,  and  go 
inspect  the  outdoor  toilets,  as  you  never  knew  what  might 
happen  to  them  the  night  before.  They  had  to  be  cleaned  before 
the  children  arrived.  In  the  fall  and  winter  you  had  to  build  fires 
because  they  seldom  held  overnight. 

My  schoolhouse  was  like  others  in  rural  areas.  It  was  a 
one-room  building,  set  out  in  the  country.  There  were  no  close 
neighbors.  It  had  a  very  high  ceiling,  about  twelve  to  fourteen 
feet  high.  I'm  sure  they  knew  nothing  about  insulation  in  those 
days.  There  were  three  tall  windows  on  each  side,  two  in  the 
back,  and  a  door  in  the  front.  Fire  exits  didn't  exist  in  those 
days.  There  were  wood  floors  that  were  not  well  finished. 
Blackboards  were  all  around  the  room  except  a  place  in  the  back 
which  had  pegs  for  children  to  hang  their  coats  and  shelves  for 
the  lunch  buckets.  Some  of  the  blackboards  in  the  front  were 
slate,  but  toward  the  rear  of  the  room  they  were  boards  painted 
black.  The  walls  and  ceiling  were  painted  an  ugly  grey  and 
really  needed  another  coat.  It  wasn't  the  most  cheerful  setting. 
The  room  was  sparsely  furnished:  a  big  monstrous  furnace,  a 
teacher's  desk  and  chair,  a  bench  for  the  water  bucket,  a 
recitation  bench  in  the  front  of  the  room,  and  a  big  old  baby 
grand  piano  that  wouldn't  play.  There  were  also  the  traditional 
row  of  seats  all  fastened  to  the  floor  and  graduated  in  size  from 
those  for  eighth  graders  to  those  for  beginners.  That  recitation 
bench  was  not  fastened  to  the  floor  and  was  supposed  to  sit  right 
in  front  of  the  teacher's  desk,  where  each  class  came  to  recite. 

My  first  day  I  arrived  early  as  I  hadn't  seen  the  inside  of 
the  building.  I  had  no  key,  as  there  wasn't  one.  You  didn't  "lock 
up."  It  was  scary.  The  directors  or  someone  had  cleaned  and 


prepared  for  opening  day.  The  children  came  early  to  see  the 
new  teacher  and  also  to  try  to  get  the  seat  they  wanted, 
especially  the  back  ones.  When  they  all  arrived,  there  were 
twenty-one  of  them,  all  sizes  from  first  grade  through  eighth 
grade  and  from  age  five  to  an  eighth  grader  fifteen  years  old. 
The  fifteen-year-old  was  a  very  large  boy  who  came  to  school 
when  Dad  didn't  need  him  to  work  at  home.  He  was  trying  to 
get  through  eighth  grade.  Some  of  them  talked  to  me,  but  most 
of  them  just  looked  and  whispered.  I  was  embarrassed  and 
scared,  but  at  9:00  I  rang  the  bell,  a  little  old  hand  bell  that  had 
belonged  to  someone's  grandmother.  Everyone  took  a  seat,  and 
my  job  began.  We  tried  to  sing  an  opening  song  (I  couldn't  carry 
a  tune).  One  of  the  younger  boys  knew  "everything,"  so  he  led 
us.  Our  flag  was  a  sorry  specimen,  but  we  said  the  Pledge  of 
Allegiance.  Our  day  was  spent  in  getting  our  names,  ages,  and 
grades  straightened  out  and  doing  assignments  for  the  next 
day. 

I  found  some  of  the  children  didn't  have  school  books  and 
no  money  to  buy  them.  Each  pupil  was  supposed  to  supply  his 
own  books  in  those  days.  They  all  tried  to  get  secondhand  books. 
I  found  there  was  a  family  of  five  who  needed  many  things,  so 
when  I  went  home  the  county  superintendent  helped  me  get 
some  books.  I  also  found  this  family  had  their  lunch  all  in  one 
bucket  and  not  very  much  at  that,  but  they  shared  willingly  and 
were  always  happy. 

Recess  and  noontime  were  spent  in  playing  games  I'd 
never  heard  of  and  was  expected  to  play  with  them.  The  biggest 
problem  at  recess  was  it  was  supposed  to  be  "go  to  the  toilet 
time,"  and  most  of  them  would  forget  until  the  bell  rang,  or  a 
couple  of  older  ones  would  stay  so  long  the  little  ones  didn't  get 
to  go.  On  the  first  day,  and  sometimes  in  the  first  week,  you  had 
little  ones  who  wet  themselves  and  there  was  no  way  to  take 
care  of  them  except  to  love  them. 

At  4:00  p.m.  I  told  them  all  good-bye,  drew  a  sigh  of  relief, 
shed  a  few  (quite  a  lot  in  my  case)  tears,  swept  the  floor,  dusted. 


straightened  everything  for  the  next  day,  gathered  an  armload 
of  homework,  and  started  the  long  walk  back  to  Aunt  Ella's, 
thinking  I  had  surely  chosen  the  wrong  job.  As  time  went  on  I 
got  settled  and  loved  it  for  the  fifteen  years  I  was  there. 

Getting  to  the  job  from  home  was  something  else.  The 
folks  would  see  that  I  got  to  the  bus  in  Jerseyville  (about  fifteen 
miles  away).  I  would  ride  the  bus  to  East  Newborn,  just  a  place 
with  a  country  store  and  four  or  five  houses.  I  would  get  off  at 
the  store.  It  was  closed  on  Sunday  evening.  I  would  walk  the 
four  miles  to  Aunt  Ella's  right  past  the  schoolhouse.  It  was 
usually  dark,  especially  in  the  winter,  by  the  time  I  got  to  her 
house.  I  was  tired  and  sometimes  wet  and  muddy  or  snow 
covered.  It  was  a  hard  and  lonely  trip,  but  I  had  a  job.  Worrying 
about  my  trips  in  the  winter.  Mom  insisted  she  buy  me  long 
underwear  and  extra  heavy  sox  and  gloves.  I  had  vowed  when 
I  quit  wearing  long  underwear  after  eighth  grade  graduation 
that  I  would  never  wear  such  underclothes  again,  but  I  did  and 
was  glad.  Four  miles  is  a  long  walk  in  the  cold.  I  didn't  have 
warm  clothes  as  I  had  spent  my  high  school  years  in  Jerseyville 
where  it  was  warm.  I  was  to  get  to  Aunt  Essie's,  who  lived  at 
McClusky  on  the  way  and  stayed  all  night  there.  They  met  me 
at  the  bus,  kept  me  Saturday  night,  and  put  me  back  on  the  bus 
to  get  to  East  Newborn.  Of  course,  the  bus  was  late  because  of 
the  snow.  I  didn't  get  to  the  store  until  almost  dark.  Mrs. 
Tompkins  was  waiting  for  me  and  wanted  me  to  stay  all  night 
with  them,  but  I  knew  I  had  to  get  to  Aunt  Ella's  as  she  would 
worry  about  me.  There  was  no  snow  plow,  so  I  walked  the  wagon 
tracks,  and  sometimes  there  weren't  any  so  I  just  made  my  own 
path.  I  got  to  Aunt  Ella's  about  9:00  p.m.  and  it  was  dark.  I  was 
so  cold.  I  had  to  carry  my  suitcase  all  that  way  besides  some 
homework  I  had  taken  home.  Aunt  Ella  was  waitingfor  me  with 
hot  food  and  lots  of  hot  chocolate.  She  was  so  good  to  me.  Often 
times  in  the  winter  I  only  went  as  far  as  Aunt  Essie's  for  the 
weekend. 

About  a  month  before  school  was  out.  Uncle  John 


became  very  ill,  and  I  had  to  change  boarding  places.  The  new 
place  was  closer  to  school.  The  lady  was  so  nice  to  me.  She  did 
my  laundry  so  I  wouldn't  have  to  take  it  home.  She  helped  me 
prepare  extra  food  for  the  school  picnic  held  at  the  school  the  day 
school  was  out. 

I  think  school  went  along  very  well.    Anyway  this  is 
a  story  not  about  the  school  but  my  first  job,  the  working 


conditions,  the  pay,  the  hardships,  the  perseverance  it  took,  and 
the  valuable  experiences  I  had.  When  I  finished  the  year,  I  had 
a  paycheck  of  $60  left  for  me  to  live  on  through  the  next  several 
months  and  a  burning  desire  to  be  the  very  best  teacher  I  could. 
I  went  to  school  and  taught  young  people  for  many  years. 


L    y\. 


V\\\  ^Ke  Qnt'V^oom  5c/iool 


THE  ONE-ROOM  SCHOOL 

Just  a  few  remain.  Most  of  them  have  been  revised  by 
time  and  change,  but  on  occasion  one  may  observe  rural  one- 
room  schools.  Sometimes  they  are  miniature  ghost  houses  in 
ruin.  Like  ancient  untended  bams,  they  sag  mournfully  amid 
the  overgrown  grass,  weeds,  and  thickets.  Now  and  again,  an 
ancient  foundation,  the  remnant  of  an  old  schoolhouse,  is  to  be 
found.  But  there  are  also  remodeled  and  venerable  old  one- 
room  schools  that  have  become  homes.  Perhaps  a  room  has  been 
added;  however,  they  are  unmistakenly  the  old  schools  reborn. 
How  very  fitting  this  is.  Once  again,  they  ring  with  laughter, 
excitement,  squeals  of  joy,  tears,  and  hope.  For  yet  another 
time,  the  happiness,  dreams,  plans,  and  the  superb  consensus 
value  system  that  both  built  and  accompanied  the  world's 
greatest  people  and  nation  are  at  home  in  the  little  school- 
houses.  Hope  glimmers. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  all  movements  are  not  better 
than  those  they  displaced.  It  is  likewise  correct  that  sometimes 
looking  back  is  wisdom;  the  contemporaneous  can  be  much 
worse  than  what  transpired  years  earlier.  So  it  may  be  in  regard 
to  schooling.  Indeed,  the  outmoded,  ancient,  one-  room  schools 
speak  with  a  profound  and  remarkable  voice.  They  were  very, 
very  special. 

They  speak  of  local  people,  rather  than  the  federal 
government,  controlling  the  schools;  and  families  were  respon- 
sible in  caring  for  their  own.  There  was  the  consensus,  high- 
level  value  system  that  Myrdal  referred  to  as  the  hope  of 
mankind.  The  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  was  taught  everywhere 
in  the  schools.  Discipline  and  hard  work  were  cardinal  purposes 
of  the  enterprise.  Students  were  made  to  feel  well  about 
themselves  when  they  performed  admirably  and  badly  when 
they  behaved  badly.  They  were  taught  the  value  of  hard  work 
and  respect  for  their  parents  and  elders.  Moreover,  there  was 
no  more  important  objective  than  building  moral  people  who 


were  successfully  acculturated  and  socialized  to  succeed  in  the 
majority  culture.  Of  such  goals  and  objectives,  a  great  people 
was  built,  and  an  exalted  nation  resulted. 

But  the  schools  were  also  a  model  of  pedagogical  excel- 
lence and  experimentation.  So  many  curricular  developments 
central  to  the  curricula  of  the  rural  school  have  been  rediscov- 
ered in  the  current  era-and  are  viewed  by  many  as  revolution- 
ary. Most  of  these  remarkable  new  breakthroughs,  though,  are 
as  old  as  the  one-room  rural  schools. 

The  Massachusetts  Law  of  1642  resulted  in  universal 
and  compulsory  schooling  for  American  youth.  Then  the  North- 
west Ordinances  of  1785  and  1787  mandated  that  in  the 
Northwestern  Territory  one  square-mile  section  from  each 
township  of  thirty-six  square  miles  be  used  for  township  schools. 
This,  of  course,  was  the  beginning  of  the  one-room  school.  Thus, 
the  community-in  this  case  the  township-controlled  schooling 
for  its  youth,  and  the  superb  sense  (and  truth)  of  community 
consensus  provided  an  effective  model  for  the  acculturation  and 
socialization  of  the  students. 

It  was  these  most  excellent  rural  schools  of  which  the 
essayists  wrote.  Indeed,  the  selections  provide  a  compelling 
and  effective  glimpse  backward  in  time.  The  doors  of  the  schools 
are  opened  again,  and  the  reader  may  judge  the  quite  remark- 
able nature  of  elementary  schooling  in  the  one-room  schools. 

Some  of  the  memoirs  share  unforgettable  experiences. 
Eva  Hapner  records  her  very  great  joy  and  excitement  atten- 
dant to  a  Christmas  celebration  and  explains  her  love  for  a  very 
special  teacher.  Marie  Freesmeyer  shares  the  terror  accompa- 
nying a  tornado.  Focusing  on  the  practical  of  the  program, 
Virginia  Rhodes  explains  her  admiration  for  a  practicing  school 
bank. 

Explaining  the  laws  and  logistics  affecting  the  schools. 
Fern  Hancock  describes  the  varied  community  uses  of  the 
school  building,  and  explains  school  procedure. 

She  is  also  joined  by  Louise  Van  Etten  in  analyzing  the 


152 


life  of  a  teacher.  Louise  graphically  explains  the  trials  and 
perils  she  faced  as  a  neophyte  instructor.  Mary  DeWitt  adds  to 
the  portrait  of  the  life  of  a  new  teacher. 

Katherine  Cravens  reveals  the  logistics  of  the  school 
room  and  the  makeup  of  the  curricula.  Expanding  this  informa- 
tion, Ida  Simmons,  Helen  Harless,  Blondelle  Lashbrook,  and 
Anna  Rittenhouse  reveal  information  about  the  curriculum  and 
the  nature  of  the  schooling. 


From  the  other  side  of  the  desk,  Robert  Tefertillar 
expounds  on  the  trials  and  tribulations  of  being  a  student. 

Emerging  from  these  essays  is  a  comprehensive  view  of 
the  schooling  of  another  age.  It  is  a  charming  portrait  that  so 
well  demonstrates  that  something  very  special  occurred  in  the 
fabled  one-room  schools  that  represented  a  fine  and  proud  era, 
the  best  of  which  remains  as  a  model  for  better  schooling  in  the 
present  era. 


Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


CHRISTMAS  AT  THE  COUNTRY  SCHOOL 

Eva  Hapner 

Waking  up,  I  rubbed  my  yet  sleepy  eyes,  pulled  the  yarn- 
knotted,  black  and  red  block  comforter  over  my  head,  and 
nestled  back  into  the  warm  inviting  arms  of  the  feather  bed.  I 
could  hear  my  mother  bustling  around  in  the  kitchen,  shaking 
the  grates  of  the  old  cook  stove,  rekindling  the  few  remaining 
coals  with  corn  cobs.  An  aroma,  a  mixture  of  brewing  coffee  and 
bacon  sizzling  in  the  cast  iron  skillet,  wafted  through  my  door 
and  gave  me  that  wonderful  feeling  of  security  that  all  was  well. 

There  was  something  exciting  about  this  morning,  a 
feeling  I  couldn't  explain.  Why  was  it  different  from  all  the 
other  three  hundred  and  sixty  four  days  of  the  year?  Sleep  had 
erased  it  from  my  memory,  but  suddenly  it  came  back  to  me  in 
a  new  surge  of  joy.  Today  was  the  Christmas  program  at  the 
little  country  school  I  attended. 

With  happiness  in  my  heart,  I  skipped  to  the  window, 
pressing  my  nose  against  the  frost  laden  pane,  leaving  an 
imprint  of  my  nose  and  mouth  on  the  window. 

I  gazed  on  a  world  suddenly  turned  into  a  fairyland. 
Several  inches  of  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night,  making  the 
barnyard  an  unfamiliar  magical  kingdom.  The  old  rusty  pump 
had  been  adorned  with  a  coat  of  ermine  and  the  fence  posts  stood 
like  a  group  of  ghosts  who  had  suddenly  decided  to  take  a  walk 
on  the  dazzling  carpet  of  diamonds. 

I  grabbed  my  clothes  and  made  a  dash  for  the  old  warm 
morning  heater.  Its  rosey  belly  greeted  me  and  cast  out  a  warm 
glow  across  the  hand-woven  rug. 

The  silence  of  the  morning  was  broken  by  the  sound  of 
sleigh  bells  jingling  in  the  distance.  Pulling  up  in  front  of  our 
house  was  our  neighbor's  bobsled  drawn  by  two  beautiful  and 
spirited  dapple  gray  mares,  respondent  in  red  and  green  har- 
ness in  observance  of  the  festive  season. 

At  the  helm  of  the  sled  was  our  neighbor,  who  with  his 


little  round  belly  and  red  stocking  cap  reminded  me  of  jolly  St. 
Nick  himself.  Smoke  curled  from  his  corn  cob  pipe,  circled  over 
his  head,  and  cut  a  path  through  the  frosty  air.  Mr.  Vancil  gave 
the  signal  and  my  three  brothers  and  I  climbed  over  the  bed  of 
the  shiny  red  sled.  He  tapped  the  horses  and  away  we  flew  over 
the  shimmering  snow.  The  two-and-one-half  mile  ride  to  the 
school  seemed  all  too  short  as  we  nibbled  on  homemade  molas- 
ses cookies  and  sang  "Jingle  Bells." 

Entering  the  school,  we  were  greeted  by  Miss  Alice,  who 
had  a  smile  for  each  of  us.  She  was  our  angel  in  disguise.  Words 
cannot  describe  the  beauty  of  that  little  school  room.  Paper 
chains  crisscrossed  diagonally  across  the  room.  In  the  corner 
stood  the  proud  little  pine  tree.  It  was  decorated  with  popcorn 
and  cranberry  strands.  No  electric  light  illuminated  it,  but  each 
little  candle  winked  and  blinked  its  sparkling  light.  The  scent 
of  the  pine  boughs  permeated  the  air. 

Hanging  on  the  tree  was  a  bright  red  ball,  and  reaching 
out  her  arms  to  some  lucky  little  girl  was  a  beautiful  doll  my 
mother  had  dressed  for  that  special  one  whose  name  my  brother 
had  drawn. 

The  day  went  by  quickly.  After  a  short  program,  gifts 
were  exchanged,  teacher  passed  out  treats,  and  we  were  on  our 
way  home  because  already  dusk  had  begun  to  appear. 


A  ONE-ROOM  SCHOOL  IN  MACOUPIN  COUNTY 

Katherine  Nola  Thornton  Cravens 

There  was  a  shortage  of  teachers  during  the  years  of 
World  War  II.  The  condition  was  created  by  the  drafting  of  men 
for  the  military  service  and  the  need  for  women  to  fill  essential 
positions.  By  1943,  a  high  school  diploma  and  the  desire  to 
teach  were  all  the  qualifications  needed  to  instruct  in  the 


154 


elementary  grades.  Each  of  us  who  chose  to  teach  was  provided 
with  a  War  of  Emergency  Certificate.  Ordinarily,  a  teaching 
certificate  required  two  years  of  college. 

To  teach  school,  especially  in  a  little  country  school,  had 
been  my  deep  ambition  since  the  years  I  attended  Miles  Station 
school,  District  #172,  near  Brighton,  Illinois.  However,  in  1943, 
I  had  a  good  job  with  Owens-Illinois  Glass  Company  in  Alton. 
The  shortage  of  gasoline  discouraged  traveling,  and  shift  work 
allowed  little  time  to  investigate  the  teaching  positions  avail- 
able. As  a  result,  I  worked  in  Alton  for  another  year. 

In  1944,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  I  applied  for  a  teaching 
position  through  the  office  of  Mr.  I.  K.  Jurgensmeyer,  County 
Superintendent  of  Schools  in  Macoupin  County.  From  his 
office,  I  received  a  list  of  schools  needing  teachers  for  the  coming 
term.  About  halfway  down  the  list  was  Ness,  District  #161,  a 
little  school  located  two  miles  east  of  Bunker  Hill,  Illinois.  I 
knew  I  had  to  teach  at  Ness  School!  The  reason  was  personal 
and  entirely  without  logic.  I  was  influenced  by  my  attraction  for 
a  Naval  petty  officer  having  the  same  name. 

I  applied  for  the  position  at  Ness  School  one  evening  in 
July.  So  desperate  was  the  need,  I  was  hired  on  the  spot.  I  gave 
the  exterior  of  the  building  a  quick  appraisal  that  evening.  As 
there  was  no  electricity,  I  did  not  enter  the  dark  interior.  I 
returned  to  Alton  to  work  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer. 

I  saw  the  class  room  of  Ness  School  for  the  first  time  on 
the  fifth  day  of  September.  I  arrived  early  so  I  could  get 
organized  before  the  students  arrived. 

The  first  week  of  school,  which  was  only  four  days  in 
length  because  of  the  Labor  Day  holiday,  seemed  to  last  forever. 
I  not  only  felt  out  of  my  element,  I  was  doubtful  of  my  ability.  By 
Friday,  I  wasn't  at  all  certain  I  wanted  to  return  for  another 
week. 

I  suspected  I  was  being  too  lenient  with  the  children  who 
didn't  seem  to  notice  I  was  a  novice.  I  had  to  become  familiar 
with  a  large  quantity  of  books,  workbooks,  and  records.    My 


carefully  prepared  daily  schedule  had  been  difficult  to  follow. 
Apparently,  I  had  not  allowed  myself  time  to  get  adjusted  as  my 
assignment  seemed  more  difficult  than  I  had  anticipated. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week,  however,  I  was  feeling 
totally  confident.  From  that  day  forward,  I  knew  I  was  in 
control  of  my  position.  I  was  becoming  completely  absorbed  in 
every  aspect  of  my  work.  The  children  treated  me  with  respect, 
and  I  was  accepted  by  the  friendly  community. 

Driving  along  the  country  roads  near  Bunker  Hill  in  the 
fall  was  absolute  pleasure.  The  summerlike  days  of  autumn, 
with  their  blazing  colors,  balmy  breezes,  wild  flowers  growing 
in  profusion  along  the  roadside,  and  the  buzzing  of  insects,  gave 
me  the  pleasant  awareness  I  had  experienced  as  a  child.  The 
delightful  sound  of  ringing  school  bells  reverbeating  across 
fields  and  woodland  was  as  delightful  as  I  had  remembered. 

A  one-room  school  was  a  school  where  all  eight  grades 
were  taught  in  one  room.  The  classroom  had  the  usual  two 
cloakrooms,  one  for  the  boys  and  one  for  the  girls.  It  had  the 
standard  entrance  hall,  a  library,  and  a  kitchenette.  There  was 
the  usual  coal  room  and  another  addition  used  for  storage  and 
kindling  (material,  such  as  dry  wood,  used  for  starting  the  fire 
in  the  furnace). 

The  average  monthly  attendance  in  District  #161  was 
twelve  children.  Several  students  moved  away  and  others 
moved  into  the  district  during  the  school  term.  There  were  no 
sixth  or  eighth  grade  students  at  Ness  School  during  the  1944- 
45  school  year.  A  system  had  been  devised  to  incorporate  many 
classes  allowing  more  time  for  discussion.  This  plan  united  the 
fifth  grade  with  the  sixth  grade,  and  the  seventh  grade  with  the 
eighth  grade,  in  all  classes  with  the  exception  of  grammar  and 
arithmetic. 

School  children  in  the  Midwest  had  a  special  war  project 
in  the  fall  of  1944.  On  their  field  trips,  they  gathered  the 
milkweed  pods  which  grew  in  abundance  along  the  fence  rows 
and  country  lanes.   The  silk  from  these  pods  was  used  in  the 


making  of  parachutes  for  the  armed  forces.  All  pods  collected 
were  taken  to  the  fall  teacher's  meeting  in  Carlinville  and  given 
to  the  official  in  charge  of  the  operation. 

This  was  a  fun  project  for  the  students  as  they  not  only 
collected  milkweed  pods,  but  also  persimmons,  nuts,  colorful 
leaves,  flowers,  grasshoppers,  and  all  the  things  that  interest 
normal,  inquisitive  children. 

Regretfully,  the  milkweed  pod  project  in  Macoupin 
County  met  with  a  disaster.  The  pods  were  not  stored  in  a  well- 
ventilated  place  where  they  could  dry  sufficiently.  As  a  result, 
hundreds  of  pounds  of  raw  silk  were  ruined.  Because  the  person 
in  charge  of  the  project  had  a  German  name,  the  children  were 
convinced  the  project  had  been  sabotaged. 

The  teacher  of  a  country  school  not  only  taught  lessons, 
she  was  a  janitor,  a  mother  to  the  younger  children,  and  a 
mediator  in  all  things.  She  made  decisions  on  the  playground, 
settled  personal  differences  peacefully,  and  determined  the 
extent  of  minor  illnesses.  She  cleaned  wounds,  applied 
Mercurochrome,  and  pressed  on  bandaids.  She  spent  her  lunch 
hours  listening  to  youthful  conversations  which  covered  a 
multitude  of  subjects.  She  pumped  water  from  the  well  and,  like 
the  students,  she  used  the  outdoor  toilet. 

Maintaining  the  furnace  took  extra  effort,  and  occasion- 
ally it  interfered  with  classroom  routine.  One  of  the  older  boys 
helped  me  with  the  janitorial  duties  during  the  severe  weather, 
for  which  I  paid  him  five  dollars  a  month. 

From  my  home  in  Gillespie,  I  drove  to  and  from  Bunker 
Hill  until  the  winter  snows  started.  Then  I  roomed  in  the  little 
town  until  spring.  Besides  inclement  weather,  I  had  difficulty 
making  my  gasoline  ration  coupons  go  far  enough. 

In  our  study  of  history,  we  often  discussed  current 
events.  My  seventh  grade  students,  ranging  in  age  from  twelve 
to  fourteen,  displayed  interest  and  expressed  intelligent  ideas 
on  world  affairs.  One  of  the  subjects  of  discussion  was  the 
Rhineland  battle  which  was  in  progress  that  winter.  The  class 


stated  their  personal  views  as  there  were  few  available  facts. 
Military  secrets  kept  civilian  knowledge  at  a  minimum.  Grade 
school  children  spent  little  time  listening  to  radio  broadcasts 
and  very  little  time  at  reading  the  newspaper.  Considering  all 
things,  the  boys  and  girls  were  equally  knowledgeable  and 
imaginative.  However,  the  boys'  ideas  were  endowed  with  more 
gory  detail  than  those  of  the  girls. 

By  late  February,  I  was  regretting  the  decision  I  had 
made  to  take  a  lonely  teaching  post  for  which  I  had  given  up 
many  things:  my  friends,  adult  companionship,  and  more  than 
half  my  wages.  After  a  short  trip  to  Texas,  though,  and  the 
arrival  of  bright  spring  weather  and  outdoor  activities,  my 
spirit  was  restored. 

On  the  last  Friday  in  April,  the  children  and  I  went  to  a 
nearby  wooded  area  for  a  picnic.  We  deposited  our  food  in  a  safe 
place,  and  put  our  bottles  of  soda  pop  in  the  cold  water  of  the 
stream  to  cool.  Then  the  children  took  me  to  a  place  where 
pansies  grew.  Thinking  the  children  had  confused  pansies  with 
violets,  I  was  surprised  to  see  an  uncultivated  hillside  covered 
with  giant  purple  pansies.  I  was  thrmed. 

Upon  returning  to  our  picnic  sit:  ,  we  ate  roasted  wieners, 
toasted  marshmallows,  and  drank  our  cold  pop  before  returning 
to  the  school  building  to  say  our  last  goodbyes. 

The  school  year  ended  on  an  upward  note.  I  had 
completed  all  the  work  I  had  planned  to  accomplish  during  the 
school  year,  and  the  board  of  directors  had  asked  me  to  return 
for  the  fall  term.  I  had  grown  attached  to  the  children  and  was 
reluctant  to  leave,  but  I  declined  the  offer. 

I  had  given  up  my  $50  a  week  job  at  the  Glass  Company 
to  begin  a  teaching  career  for  $115  per  month.  I  have  not 
regretted  my  choice.  Time  spent  at  the  Glass  Company  was  only 
incidental.  Teaching  a  country  school  fulfilled  a  dream.  It  was 
an  adventure  with  a  lasting  advantage.  In  addition  to  gaining 
a  valuable  experience,  I  was  living  future  memories. 


156 


CERES  SCHOOL:  MEMORIES  OF  A 
RURAL  CLASSROOM 

Ida  Harper  Simmons 

The  road  sign  with  one  word,  Ceres,  might  easily  be 
overlooked  by  the  average  traveler  on  Route  67.  But  for  me,  the 
crossroads  formed  by  the  highway  and  a  country  road  located  a 
mile  south  of  the  Morgan-Green  County  line  mark  the  begin- 
ning point  to  wherever  the  intervening  years  have  taken  me.  In 
my  mind's  eye,  I  see  the  remodeled  building  on  the  east  side  of 
the  highway  as  the  country  school  which  my  sister  and  I 
attended  in  the  Twenties.  The  high  concrete  steps  leading  to  the 
west  door  of  the  neatly  painted  school  house  were  our  entrance 
to  the  world  beyond  our  farm  home. 

In  the  main  room  beyond  the  cloak  room,  rows  of  desks 
ranged  from  those  for  older  students  on  the  south  to  the  little 
ones  on  the  north.  The  teacher's  desk  was  placed  precisely  front 
center.  To  its  left  was  a  slippery  recitation  bench.  The 
blackboard  across  the  east  wall  had  pulldown  maps  above  it. 
My  sister  says  her  sense  of  direction  was  marked  for  life  because 
the  left  and  right  of  the  maps  were  oriented  north  and  south,  not 
east  and  west. 

My  education  began  at  an  early  age  because  I  constantly 
begged  to  go  with  my  older  sister  to  visit  school.  I  soon  had  the 
primer  memorized,  and  my  parents  succumbed  to  my  pleas  to 
start  school  just  four  months  after  my  fifth  birthday.  I  wonder 
if  our  teachers  realized  how  easily  they  provided  for  individual 
differences.  By  listening  to  other  classes  recite,  each  of  us  could 
be  learning  something  at  all  times. 

Our  first  day  of  school  found  us  wearing  new  gingham 
dresses.  We  were  armed  with  wooden  pencil  boxes  with  sliding 
covers  and  a  new  writing  tablet.  Sometimes  these  had  a  pretty 
picture  on  the  cover,  but  more  often  they  were  "Big  ChieP 
tablets  with  an  Indian  in  full  head  dress  on  the  front.  My  sister 
kept  hers  looking  neat,  but  mine  usually  had  its  cover  torn. 


Erasers,  crayons,  and  a  ruler  completed  our  supplies.  All 
textbooks  were  furnished  by  the  district. 

Pictures  of  poets  hung  on  the  painted  classroom  walls, 
with  the  New  England  poets  grouped  in  a  single  frame.  We 
probably  learned  more  literature  in  our  eight  years  at  Ceres 
School  than  today's  high  school  students.  Poems  were  memo- 
rized, and  I  can  still  recall  portions  or  sometimes  all  of  my 
favorites,  including  "The  Swing,"  "The  Village  Blacksmith," 
"The  Highwayman,"  "Snowbound,"  "Evangeline,"  and  "The 
Courtship  of  Miles  Standish."  I  also  recall  reciting  Henry 
VanDyke's  "America  for  Me"  at  a  school  program. 

We  had  a  library,  too.  This  played  an  important  part  in 
our  education  because  there  were  no  public  libraries  near  us. 
New  books  were  exciting  and  I  can  still  visualize  Dr.  Doolittle's 
cover  and  the  delightful  drawing.  It  was  years  later  when  I 
learned  that  "Canary  Islands"  was  pronounced  the  same  as  the 
bird.  I  had  silently  read  it  as  "Can'ery  Islands!"  This  was  true 
of  many  words.  As  a  college  freshman,  my  English  professor 
was  perplexed  over  the  disparity  between  my  speaking  vocabu- 
lary and  my  considerably  larger  written  one. 

We  also  learned  to  spell  by  using  word  lists  and  by  the 
motivation  of  spelling  bees  and  other  incentives.  We  received  a 
spelling  certificate  for  one  hundred  perfect  lessons.  When  we 
had  collected  five  certificates,  we  were  awarded  a  perfect 
spelling  pin  ornamented  by  the  initials  PS. 

Penmanship  was  taught,  but  not  the  ornate  script  of 
preceding  generations.  We  performed  the  oval  and  push-pull 
exercises,  dippingour  metal-tipped  pens  into  the  lidded  inkwells 
located  in  the  upper  corner  of  our  desks.  The  ink  had  a  peculiar 
odor,  and  it  was  sometimes  frozen  on  winter  mornings. 

Arithmetic  does  not  hold  an  important  place  in  my 
memory,  probably  because  it  was  difficult  for  me.  My  sister 
Delia  recalls  the  two  hundred  thought  problems  in  the  eighth 
grade  text  which  included  the  practical  aspects  of  computing 
the  number  of  bushels  in  a  corn  crib,  the  amount  of  shingles  for 


a  roof,  or  the  quantity  of  paint  or  wall  paper  for  a  given  area. 
Students  were  required  to  work  these  problems  independently 
and  check  their  accuracy  by  referring  to  the  answers  printed  in 
the  back  of  the  book.  Delia  became  so  proficient  in  these 
problems  that  neighboring  farmers  asked  her  to  figure  the 
amount  of  grain  in  their  bins  and  cribs. 

We  learned  geography  from  large  brown  texts.  Colored 
maps  and  black  and  white  illustrations  did  little  to  help  me 
comprehend  the  world  beyond  our  immediate  experience.  His- 
tory was  also  a  part  of  the  curricula.  I  remember  studying 
physiology,  and  in  the  upper  grades  we  had  a  health  book  which 
we  studied.  Grammar  was  a  separate  subject. 

Orthography  was  taught  to  seventh  and  eighth  graders. 
I  regret  that  this  subject  has  become  obsolete  because  it  con- 
sisted of  the  study  of  the  history  and  derivation  of  words.  Many 
students  found  it  extremely  interesting,  a  fact  that  should 
dispel  the  misconception  that  rural  schools  taught  only  by  rote 
learning.  Years  later,  Delia  and  I  used  our  old  orthography 
texts  to  teach  our  own  students. 

Final  examinations  were  the  climax  of  elementary  edu- 
cation. My  sister  took  them  at  the  end  of  both  seventh  and 
eighth  grades,  but  the  requirement  changed.  I  took  them  only 
in  the  eighth  grade.  Students  from  each  township  in  Green 
County  went  to  a  central  location  to  write  the  exams.  Our 
teachers  did  little  to  prepare  us  for  the  ordeal  and  did  not  go 
with  us  to  take  them.  Delia  took  finals  in  May,  two  months  after 
the  close  of  the  seven-month  school  term.  During  those  months 
she  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  sitting  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
memorizing  facts  and  gazing  out  the  window  wishing  she  could 
be  outdoors.  No  doubt,  our  mother  coached  her  because  our 
parents  took  a  great  interest  in  our  education. 

My  memory  of  the  final  examination  is  on  a  lighter  note. 
My  sister  had  already  faced  the  unknown,  and  I,  having  shared 
her  experience,  was  less  fearful.  I  recall  my  father  taking  me  to 
Athensville  on  examination  day.    To  keep  my  mind  off  the 


impending  trial,  he  told  me  that  we  were  going  through 
Yellowstone  Park  and  the  jersey  cows  on  the  hillside  were 
actually  yellow  stones.  We  received  impressive  eighth  grade 
diplomas  after  passing  our  finals. 

Our  teachers  all  left  some  impressions,  but  it  is  impos- 
sible clearly  to  picture  them.  Miss  James,  who  taught  at  Ceres 
for  several  years,  had  auburn  hair  and  wore  horn-rimmed 
glasses.  She  often  came  home  with  us  and  stayed  overnight. 
This  was  a  great  treat  and  my  parents  were  generous  in  their 
hospitality. 

Delia  had  a  male  teacher  when  she  was  in  first  grade. 
Since  she  was  the  only  child  who  walked  west  from  school,  he 
would  often  walk  part  way  with  her  or  carry  her  on  his  shoul- 
ders. He  was  our  distant  cousin  and  probably  felt  a  responsibil- 
ity for  her  safety.  Many  years  later,  we  read  his  obituary  in  the 
newspaper,  and  calculated  that  he  was  eighteen  years  old  when 
he  taught  at  Ceres. 

Mr.  Frazier  was  my  sixth  and  seventh  grade  teacher. 
His  sister  was  my  best  friend,  and  his  two  little  brothers  were 
also  his  pupils.  He  was  always  kind,  and  his  special  treat  for  us 
was  divinity  fudge  made  by  his  mother. 

One  teacher,  a  young  woman,  was  evidently  unsatisfac- 
tory. I  recall  the  school  directors,  Mr.  Kennedy,  Mr.  Marsh,  and 
my  father,  having  some  kind  of  conference  with  her.  My  eighth 
grade  teacher  was  a  very  young  woman.  She  endeared  herself 
by  telling  me  that  my  new  pink  checked  dress  made  me  look 
pretty.  This  was  a  great  compliment  because  I  perceived  myself 
as  an  ugly  duckling. 

We  gained  a  different  kind  of  knowledge  as  we  played 
games  at  recess  or  sat  together  eating  the  lunches  that  we 
brought  in  tin  buckets.  Recess  was  a  time  for  establishing 
lifelong  friendships,  an  important  aspect  for  Delia  and  me 
because  our  farm  was  too  isolated  for  nearby  playmates. 

There  were  also  happy  times  at  school  when  our  families 
gathered  for  programs  and  basket  dinners.   Here  we  had  the 


158 


opportunity  to  recite  poems  or  participate  in  plays. 

Ceres  School  students  were  usually  happy  and  well- 
behaved.  We  learned  to  make  the  most  of  things,  just  as  our 
parents  coped  with  the  uncertainties  of  bountiful  harvests  or 
crop  failures. 

A  school  picture  taken  in  1924  reminds  me  that  the 
paths  from  Ceres  have  led  in  diverse  directions.  Of  the  twenty- 
seven  students  pictured,  five  have  earned  college  degrees  and 
entered  the  teaching  profession.  Three  others  became  minis- 
ters, and  two  are  minister  s  wives.  Some  are  farmers  still  living 
in  the  Ceres  school  district.  Three  died  young,  and  one  lost  his 
life  in  World  War  II.  Some  are  unaccounted  for,  but  to  my 
knowledge  none  took  the  road  to  crime  or  prison. 

The  years  at  Ceres  School  have  not  only  left  me  a  legacy 
of  pleasant  memories,  but  also  a  wealth  of  experiences  which 
have  enriched  both  my  professional  and  personal  life. 


THE  ONE-ROOM  SCHOOLHOUSE 

Robert  L.  Tefertillar 

The  one-room  schoolhouse  of  a  half  century  ago  was 
bitterly  cold  in  winter,  stifling  hot  in  late  spring,  and  recalls 
pleasurable  and  painful  memories. 

The  absolute  authority  over  this  approximate  30  x  40 
foot  domain  was  the  teacher.  My  schoolmaster  was  always  a 
male  being  hired  for  brawn  as  well  as  brain  ...  for  practical 
reasons. 

He  was  a  janitor,  principal,  custodian,  coach,  and  disci- 
plinarian— a  prime  example  of  a  "big  frog  in  a  little  puddle."  He 
taught  Readin',  'Riting,  and  'Rithmetic  to  the  tune  of  a  hickory 
stick,  literally]  If  students  flunked  a  grade,  they  took  it  over 
until  they  finally  made  it,  or  got  big  enough  to  lick  the  teacher. 


Some  brawny  sixteen  and  seventeen-year-old  farm  boys 
were  kept  in  the  same  grade  a  couple  of  years  *"'>*'ore  being 
promoted.  This  is  no  reflection  on  their  intelligence.  In  the 
Depression  years,  farm  youngsters  missed  many  weeks  of 
school,  especially  during  spring  planting  and  fall  harvest. 
Money  was  hard  to  come  by,  and  the  value  of  education  was 
considered  important  but  not  as  vital  as  eating.  School  was,  of 
necessity,  secondary. 

Many  a  strapping  eighth  grade  lad  graduated  via  his 
final  victorious  confrontation  with  Mr.  Cooper — in  the  sporting 
arena,  the  alley  behind  the  coal  shed. 

The  schoolmaster's  rule  extended  from  the  school  house, 
over  the  playground,  to  the  willows  by  the  creek.  On  the  far  side 
of  the  creek,  we  could  thumb  our  noses  at  the  academician  with 
exuberant  impunity.  We  did  so  on  the  last  day  of  school  before 
summer  vacation. 

It  was  traditional  to  cross  the  creek  and  scream  at  the 
teacher,  "School's  out,  school's  out,  teacher  let  the  monkeys 
out."  We  also  added  insult  to  injury  by  calling  him  a  monkey- 
faced  baboon  of  a  bully. 

We  never  worried  about  his  remembrance  of  the  inci- 
dent. At  the  time,  it  seemed  that  summer  vacation  would  last 
forever,  and  fall  seemed  light  years  in  the  future.  Naturally, 
revenge  burned  in  his  disciplinarian  heart  all  summer,  and  he 
was  waiting  in  the  autumn  with  a  new,  and  even  bigger,  hickory 
stick.  This  was  expected  and  faced  with  the  stoicism  of  con- 
demned prisoners  without  chance  of  parole  for  the  next  nine 
months. 

The  playground  boasted  a  broken  teeter-totter,  two 
unsafe  swdngs,  a  makeshift  ball  diamond,  a  bedraggled,  netless 
basketball  hoop  on  the  coal  shed,  and  a  small  mound  to  play 
king-of-the-hill.  We  were  spared  adult  spectators  and  supervi- 
sion of  our  pick-up  baseball,  football,  and  basketball  games.  We 
played  for  fun  without  parent  pressure. 

Marbles,  mumbley-peg,  kick-the-can,  hop-scotch,  jacks, 


159 


baseball,  and  pum-pum-pull-away  were  popular  recess  activi- 
ties. Snotty,  sophisticated  seventh  and  eighth  graders  some- 
times sneaked  behind  the  coal  shed  to  pay  that  stupid  "post 
ofTice"  kissing  game.  I  thought  that  was  stupid  until  about  the 
seventh  grade  when  I  became  an  enthusiastic  player. 

Located  on  the  fringe  of  the  playground  were  the  out- 
houses and  the  coal  shed.  The  boys'  outhouse  had  a  paint- 
peeling,  white,  high  board  fence  which  enclosed  a  long,  narrow, 
wooden  trough  to  be  used  (but  rarely  was)  as  a  urinal.  The 
bathroom  facilities  for  the  girls  were  even  more  spartan,  having 
no  fence.  Its  only  ornamentation  was  the  familiar  quarter  moon 
carved  above  the  door.  The  only  other  building  on  the  grounds 
was  the  coal  shed. 

The  traditional  signal  to  be  excused  from  the  school 
room  to  answer  a  "call  of  nature"  was  raising  your  hand.  The 
length  of  time  you  expected  to  be  gone  and  the  urgency  of  the 
jaunt  was  designated  by  holding  up  one  or  two  fingers.  A  two 
fingered  signal  would  usually  get  you  out  of  the  classroom  for  as 
long  as  ten  minutes.  Naturally  kids  took  advantage  of  this 
method  to  escape.  This  was  especially  prevalent  in  the  fall  or 
spring.  During  bad  winter  weather,  the  outhouse  trips  de- 
creased by  fifty  percent. 

Holding  up  four  fingers  indicated  you  wished  to  visit  the 
library  located  in  the  back  of  the  room.  The  library  consisted  of 
one  ancient,  glass-fronted  book  case.  With  the  exception  of  a  few 
fiction  books  by  Burroughs,  Twain,  London,  Grey,  and  Harte, 
the  most  exciting  reading  were  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey. 

The  schoolhouse,  in  addition  to  the  American  flag,  had 
a  picture  of  George  Washington  and  Abraham  Lincoln  staring 
down  at  the  pupils.  Most  kids  liked  Abe,  but  George  looked  a 
little  too  stern  for  their  taste. 

While  writing  on  the  blackboard  with  his  back  turned  to 
the  class,  the  teacher  was  invariably  struck  by  a  well-aimed 
spitball. 

Mr.  Cooper  had  a  wonderful  retaliatory  weapon  to  counter 


these  sneak  attacks.  He  would  spin  around,  grab  an  eraser,  and 
let  fly  in  the  general  direction  he  thought  the  spitball  origi- 
nated. If  his  missile  struck  an  innocent  victim,  that  was  okay 
because  he  figured  (quite  correctly)  the  kid  he  hit  was  just 
getting  what  he  deserved  from  an  overlooked  past  prank.  The 
erasers  seldom  hit  anyone  as  we  became  expert  at  "dodging  and 
ducking." 

In  those  days  you  never  told  parents  you  were  punished 
at  school  for  very  good  reasons.  Parents  always  took  the 
teacher's  side.  In  fact,  if  you  got  a  paddling  at  school  and  your 
folks  found  out  about  it  you  got  another  one,  much  harder  with 
a  razor  strap,  at  home. 

It  seems  miraculous  that  students  could  concentrate  on 
their  books.  All  classes  were  held  in  one  room.  It  was  the 
recitation  room,  lecture  room,  theatre,  and  study  hall.  The 
grade  that  was  due  to  recite  came  to  the  desks  in  front  of  the 
room  and  loudly  read  their  assignments.  The  rest  of  the 
scholars  were  supposed  to  be  deaf  to  this  distraction. 

The  confiscated  and  illegal  items  Mr.  Cooper  pillaged 
from  us  were  kept  in  the  deep,  locked  drawers  of  his  desk.  There 
were  dandy  sling  shots,  knives,  rubber  guns,  whistles,  tops, 
baseball  cards,  pulp  magazines,  big  and  little  books,  comic 
books,  and  marbles.  The  academician  had  a  Quaker  Oat  box  full 
of  beautiful  cat's  eyes,  crystals,  steelies,  pee-wees  and  agates 
that  he  had  taken  from  us  when  he  caught  us  playing  marbles 
for  "keeps." 

A  student  picked  his  or  her  desk  at  the  beginning  of  the 
school  year.  This  was  a  first-come,  first-served  basis.  It  was 
always  a  most  difficult  decision  as  whether  to  take  one  near  the 
windows  for  the  comfort  of  a  breeze  on  a  hot  day  or  choose  one 
close  to  the  coal  stove  in  the  middle  of  the  room  to  fight  off  the 
frigid  drafts  in  winter. 

If  the  word  picture  painted  of  the  one-room  schoolhouse 
seems  grim,  that  is  not  the  case.  The  pleasurable  memories  far 
surpass  the  unpleasant  ones. 


We  boys  were  straw-hatted,  overall  clad,  plaid  shirted, 
pubescent  Vikings  who  left  sacked  and  ravaged  theatres  behind 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  raided  the  old  general  store,  and 
divided  our  spoils  behind  the  school  coal  shed.  On  Halloween  we 
soaped  windows,  "chatted"  porches,  and  turned  over  outhouses, 
often  with  angry,  screaming  victims  still  inside.  We  could  all 
throw  a  knife,  toss  a  lasso,  climb  a  tree,  swim,  fish,  hunt,  and 
run  like  the  wind.  We  made  our  toys  from  inner  tubes,  tin  cans, 
discarded  rubber  tires,  and  assorted  junk. 

The  girls  were  smudged-faced  tomboys  who  could  hold 
their  own  in  any  pick-up  football  or  basketball  game.  They 
climbed  trees  and  scuffled  with  the  best  of  the  guys  and  were 
just  kind  of  considered  one  of  the  gang  until  they  reached  the 
seventh  grade.  Then  they  magically  changed  into  dainty  ladies 
who  played  that  "stupid"  post  office  game  behind  the  coal  shed. 

We  all  had  our  very  own  private  fishing,  swimming  hole, 
and  ice  skating  rink  on  the  same  small  creek. 

Some  hurts  seemed  tragic  and  terrible.  At  twelve,  and 
now  being  one  of  those  snotty,  sophisticated  eighth  graders,  I 
caught  my  best  girlfriend  (unfaithful  Treva)  kissing  my  best 
friend  (that  creep  Charlie)  right  on  the  lips  behind  the  school 
yard  coal  shed.  The  heartbreak  lasted  for  the  eternity  of  a  week. 

The  educational  facilities,  equipment,  and  qualified 
instructors  are  far  better  now  than  then.  The  application  and 
accessibility  of  electronic  display  tjrpe  writers,  calculators,  com- 
puters, and  TV  have  made  students  more  aware  and  sophisti- 
cated at  twelve  than  we  were  at  twenty. 

The  old  Montgomery-Ward  Hawthorne  bike  has  been 
replaced  (by  teenagers),  like  old  "Dobbin,"  with  a  horse  of 
another  color,  be  it  called  Mustang  or  Bronco. 

The  radio  serials  and  Saturday  matinee  westerns  have 
given  over  to  the  sophisticated  entertainment  of  video  games 
and  VCRs. 

The  outdoor  playground,  as  we  knew  it,  is  as  outdated  as 
the  outhouse  and  kerosene  lamps.    Nowadays  kids  play  on 


modern  well-lit  playing  fields  and  gyms.  Supervised,  orga- 
nized, well-equipped,  coached,  and  uniformed  teams  are  now 
the  rule  rather  than  the  exception  even  for  tiny  tot  little 
leaguers. 

Albeit  every  once  in  a  while  it  does  this  antiquarian's 
heart  good  to  see  youngsters  forsake  the  "fast  lane"  of  organized 
school  play  and  activity  and  return  to  plodding  down  the  one 
lane  road  of  yesteryear.  I  see  it  in  a  game  of  pick-up  ball  in  a 
vacant  lot,  a  chalk-marked  hop-scotched  game  on  the  sidewalk, 
little  girls  skipping  rope  and  playingjacks,  a  kid  reading  a  book 
instead  of  watching  TV  .  .  .  and  I  tip  my  hat  to  'em. 


AS  I  REMEMBER  IT 

Blondelle  Lashbrook 

I  was  delighted  to  learn  in  the  Fall  of  '27  that  after 
making  three  attempts  at  passing  the  teacher  exams,  I  had 
succeeded.  I  left  word  at  the  county  office  that  if  a  vacancy 
occurred  I  would  like  to  fill  it.  Shortly  after  Christmas,  I 
received  a  call  from  the  office  informing  me  that  there  was  need 
of  a  teacher  in  a  rural  school  just  outside  of  Knoxville,  a  short 
distance  from  where  I  lived.  I  was  on  my  way  at  last  to  my  first 
teaching  job.  How  happy  that  made  me  feel! 

The  teacher  had  failed  to  leave  any  message  or  to  return 
after  the  Christmas  vacation.  I  was  able  to  board  wath  the 
clerk's  family  in  a  very  pleasant  home.  He  had  two  children  in 
the  school,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  school  was  wathin  walking 
distance. 

For  one  who  had  never  been  inside  a  rural  school,  I  was 
in  for  many  surprises  and  inconveniences.  There  were  no  desk 
copies  of  any  of  the  books  the  children  used,  no  library  books, 
maps,  no  playground  equipment,  and  little  lighting  on  dark 


161 


days-so  lacking!  And  then  I  had  to  be  my  own  janitor,  too! 
Thank  goodness,  I  didn't  have  to  hunt  up  firewood  to  start  the 
fires  as  I  did  in  one  school.  There  were  cobs.  But  I  was  teaching 
and  I  loved  that! 

Then  came  the  first  of  March  and  moving  time  on  the 
farm.  My  family  was  moving  onto  a  farm  four  miles  away.  What 
was  I  to  do?  No  one  would  board  me.  I  could  stay  at  the 
schoolhouse.  Imagine  a  nineteen-year-old  young  woman  doing 
that!  There  just  was  no  choice  but  to  board  with  my  original 
family  in  their  new  home.  They  were  kind  enough  to  provide  me 
with  a  work  horse— a  kind  and  gentle  big  animal  that  I  did  learn 
to  ride.  My  biggest  difficulty  was  mounting  and  getting  off  the 
animal. 

One  afternoon  in  going  home  from  school,  it  rained, 
sleeted,  and  snowed  before  I  got  back  to  my  boarding  place.  The 
elements  were  turned  loose  that  afternoon. 

Because  there  was  poor  lighting  at  this  school,  the 
children  pulled  their  desks  to  the  windows  on  dark  days  for  light 
and  huddled  together  close  to  the  stove  when  the  room  was  cold 
on  Monday  morning.  Floors  were  very  cold. 

I  swept  the  floor  each  night  and  kept  it  clean  with  a 
sweeping  compound.  And  water  was  drawn  and  brought  in  for 
daily  use  from  an  outside  well.  All  students  drank  from  a 
common  bucket  and  used  a  common  dipper. 

There  was  no  playground  equipment,  but  the  children 
did  have  a  ball  and  bat  to  play  with  and  many  common  games 
were  played.  Baseball  was  enjoyed  at  the  recess  time  and  noon 
hour. 

One  morning,  I  was  utterly  surprised  to  find  a  dead 
mouse  in  my  desk  drawer.  It  really  startled  me.  I  was  glad  it 
was  dead.  My  fifth  grade  boy  who  liked  to  call  me  by  my  first 
name  confessed  he  was  the  guilty  one.  Now,  many  years  later, 
I  saw  his  name  in  the  paper.  It  called  to  mind  the  incident  of  so 
many  years  ago.  His  young  son  was  receiving  a  Boy  Scout 
Award.  I  thought  it  would  have  been  fun  to  look  him  up  and  ask 


him  if  he  remembered  that  time  he  had  played  the  "dead  mouse" 
prank  on  me. 

About  the  time  school  was  out  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
the  sky  became  overcast  and  the  snow  began  to  fall  fast,  the 
wind  blowing  so  hard  that  to  have  ridden  my  old  work  horse  to 
my  boarding  place  four  miles  distant  was  out  of  the  question. 
One  of  the  families  that  had  several  children  in  the  school 
invited  me  to  stay  overnight  with  them.  That  proved  to  be  a  very 
interesting  experience  to  say  the  least.  To  see  such  a  big  family 
gathered  about  a  supper  table  and  so  congenial  was  thrilling.  I 
felt  drawn  into  that  family  circle  too-such  a  warm  friendly 
feeling.  I  forgot  about  the  elements  raging  outside.  That  night 
we  all  slept  in  one  big  room  under  the  eaves.  By  morning  the 
wind  had  died  down.  School  resumed  as  usual  and  everything 
was  back  to  normal. 

My  first  teaching  job  paid  only  $60  a  month,  but  what 
fun  I  had  earning  it! 


FALL  FLORA  AND  "FUIST'A 

Elizajane  Bate  Suttles 

I  must  have  been  in  the  third  grade  in  our  one-room 
school.  I  didn't  have  this  teacher  when  I  was  in  the  first  grade, 
and  I  don't  remember  too  much  happening  in  the  second  grade, 
but  the  THIRD  GRADE!  My  brother  started  to  school  that 
September  and  all  at  once  I  was  "big"  sister.  I  had  always  been 
large  for  my  age  and  tried  to  show  everybody  I  was  just  as  tough 
and  daring  as  any  boy  in  my  class.  Of  all  my  fond  memories,  the 
nature  hikes  are  foremost. 

We  took  one  of  these  hikes  in  the  spring,  just  when  the 
violets  and  spring  beauties  were  a  solid  carpet  on  the  hillside 
and  the  boys  could  whittle  "whistles"  out  of  the  soft  willows  by 


162 


the  creek.  We  made  a  second  trip  in  the  fall  when  we  gathered 
buckeyes,  red  and  yellow  sumac  branches,  and  bittersweet 
vines. 

We  had  a  "giant"  oak  tree  growing  out  by  the  water- 
pump,  where  we  girls  played  "house"  in  the  shade  under  its 
branches  and  half-sheltered  among  the  exposed  roots.  We  used 
acorn  tops  for  dishes  and  "pretend"  tea-cakes,  till  the  boys  got 
tired  of  their  game  and  came  thundering  across  our  "make- 
believe"  table,  crushing  acorns,  and  spinning  everything  in  all 
directions. 

Our  school  was  on  top  of  a  long,  steep  hill  with  a  creek 
and  a  bridge  at  the  bottom.  It  was  perfect  for  sledding  on  snow, 
but  on  this  special  fall  day  we  all  grabbed  our  paper  lunch  sacks 
and  started  down  the  hill,  leaving  all  our  cares  behind.  We 
walked  on  the  left  side  of  the  road  to  meet  cars  (we  hardly  ever 
saw  any)  and  chattered  excitedly.  We  started  about  11:30  a.m. 
Some  of  the  bigger  boys  ran  ahead  and  stood  on  the  bridge, 
throwing  rocks  into  the  creek,  causing  big  ripples  on  the  water 
till  the  rest  of  us  got  there. 

Just  before  we  got  to  the  bridge,  we  could  either  go  to  the 
left  and  follow  the  creek  to  the  willows  and  wildflowers,  our 
favorite  hike  in  the  spring,  or  we  could  climb  the  big  wooden 
gate  and  take  off  to  the  right  where  the  buckeyes  were  found. 
That  is  the  way  we  went  on  this  day.  We  also  followed  the  creek, 
but  the  trees  were  so  thick  and  the  hill  so  high,  the  ground  was 
always  "damp  and  marshy,"  even  when  we  hadn't  had  any  rain. 
There  were  also  "wash-aways,"  cutting  into  the  path  and  you 
had  to  jump  over  them.  Unfortunately  I  came  down  a  little  early 
in  one  of  the  crevices,  spattering  mud  and  water  all  over  one 
stocking  and  shoe.  We  all  hurried  along-only  too  happy  to  come 
out  the  other  side,  into  the  warm  mid-day  sunshine.  The  field 
was  so  beautiful.  The  green  grass  was  kept  short  by  grazing 
livestock  and  here  and  there  golden  rod  was  blooming.  Finding 
some  large  rocks,  we  immediately  took  possession  of  them  and 
ate  our  dinner.   There  were  cows  off  in  the  distance  and  they 


looked  over  at  all  of  us.  Deciding  we  were  not  in  any  danger, 
they  went  on  eating  and  so  did  we. 

Finishing  our  lunch,  we  walked  on  across  the  pasture. 
To  the  east,  a  group  of  CCC  (Civilian  Conservation  Corps)  boys 
were  building  the  farmer  a  pond.  We  all  waved  and  shouted,  but 
we  kept  on  walking.  Finally,  we  came  to  the  chestnut  grove.  It 
was  fenced  and  set-aside  by  the  farmer  as  a  wild-life  sanctuary. 
He  had  graciously  given  our  teacher  permission  for  us  to  gather 
buckeyes  to  decorate  the  school  for  fall.  We  all  took  out  our 
paper  lunch  sacks  and  collected  as  many  buckeyes  as  our  sacks 
would  hold.  Some  of  the  nuts  were  still  in  the  shell  so  we  shelled 
them.  The  nuts  came  out  a  light-blond  color  but  when  exposed 
to  the  air,  they  started  to  dry  and  turn  dark.  Some  of  the  larger 
boys  got  out  their  pocket  knives  and  cut  long  vines  of  bittersweet 
berries.  They  also  climbed  along  the  bank  "shelf  and  cut  red, 
yellow,  and  green  sumac  branches.  As  I  stood  and  watched,  I 
decided  right  there  that  I  wanted  a  pocket  knife  for  Christmas. 
After  all,  I  couldn't  let  the  boys  get  ahead  of  me. 

It  was  much  slower  and  harder  to  talk  and  carry  our 
"treasures"  back  to  school.  In  fact,  climbing  the  fence  with 
barbed-wire  strung  along  the  top  was  almost  impossible  for  us 
girls  with  our  cotton  ribbed  hose  and  full-skirted  dresses,  but  we 
made  it  without  too  many  tears  and  snags. 

Once  we  got  back  to  school,  we  laid  out  the  buckeyes  to 
dry  on  the  floor  in  the  basement.  Later,  the  boys  hammered  a 
nail  hole  through  each  buckeye  and  we  girls  strung  heavy  twine 
through  the  holes  and  hung  them  "looped"  at  the  tall  windows 
above  the  blackboards,  where  they  still  hung  when  I  graduated 
five  years  later.  We  hung  the  bittersweet  wherever  we  needed 
color,  especially  over  the  frame  of  the  blackboards.  The  heat 
from  the  room  made  the  berries  "pop"  open.  Some  of  the  boys 
brought  back  walking-sticks  and  branches,  and  the  teacher 
showed  them  how  to  cut  them  into  lengths  and  make  "twig" 
baskets  and  flower  holders.  Some  of  the  mothers  sent  flower 
cuttings  of  "Wandering  Jew,"  a  vine  with  beautiful  leaves  that, 


163 


when  exposed  to  the  sun,  turned  a  brilliant  red.  Soon  we  had 
"Wandering  Jew"  rooting  in  the  glass  jars  of  water  and  growing 
in  our  "twig"  vases  everywhere,  along  with  the  sumac  bouquets 
and  buckeye  strings,  and  I  thought  we  had  the  "prettiest"  school 
room  in  all  the  world. 


A  DAY  TO  REMEMBER 

Marie  Freesmeyer 

The  morning  of  April  19, 1927,  donned  sunny  and  warm. 
As  I  walked  the  distance  from  my  boarding  house  to  the  one- 
room  school  at  Gilead,  Illinois,  where  I  was  teaching,  I  antici- 
pated a  delightful  spring  day.  Little  did  I  dream  of  what  the  day 
actually  held  in  store  for  the  community  and  for  me. 

Nine  o'clock  came  all  too  soon  for  both  teacher  and 
pupils.  By  recess  time,  clouds  had  begun  to  gather,  causing  the 
children  to  become  apprehensive  about  the  ball  game  they  were 
planning  for  the  noon  intermission. 

After  recess,  everyone  worked  on  arithmetic  assign- 
ments until  it  became  so  dark  that  they  could  no  longer  con- 
tinue. I  tried  to  keep  their  minds  off  the  approaching  storm  by 
telling  them  a  story.  One  curious  little  first-grader  insisted  that 
he  must  leave  the  room.  Afterward,  I  realized  the  danger  of 
allowing  him  to  go  by  himself.  When  he  opened  the  door  to 
return,  the  strong,  west  wind  caught  the  door  and  slammed 
them  both  back  against  the  side  of  the  building.  If  I  had  looked 
to  the  northeast,  when  I  stepped  out  to  rescue  him,  I  would  have 
been  more  frightened  than  the  children.  If  we  had  had  windows 
on  the  west  side  of  our  building,  we  probably  would  have  been 
under  our  desks. 

When  the  wind  abated,  it  began  to  hail  and  continued  all 
during  the  time  we  were  eating  our  lunch.    When  it  finally 


stopped,  the  children  ran  out  on  the  playground,  but,  instead  of 
playing  ball,  they  spent  the  rest  of  the  intermission  scooping  up 
handfuls  of  hailstones.  The  tall  grass,  the  road,  and  all  the 
paths  were  completely  covered  by  a  thick  layer  of  hail,  making 
an  unusual  sight. 

We  had  just  begun  our  afternoon  session  with  singing, 
when  one  of  the  school  directors  stepped  in  the  door.  He 
informed  us  that  a  cyclone  (the  common  term  for  tornado  at  that 
time)  had  swept  across  the  county  at  the  noon  hour.  He  told  us 
that  it  had  done  a  lot  of  damage  just  a  little  way  north,  especially 
in  Kintown  Hollow.  He  assured  the  children  that  none  of  their 
homes  had  been  in  its  path,  for  he  could  see  the  terror  in  their 
faces.  Then  he  told  them  to  take  their  belongings  and  go  with 
their  teacher  to  see  and  learn  what  a  destructive  thing  a  cyclone 
could  be.  They  were  dismissed  for  the  day  since  they  would 
probably  meet  their  parents  somewhere. 

The  students  and  I  had  gone  less  than  a  mile  up  the  bluff 
road  when  we  began  to  observe  the  terrible  disaster  of  the 
storm.  As  we  approached  the  two-story  Dixon  home,  we  could 
see  that  the  south  side  was  completely  gone.  The  wind  had 
sliced  that  house  vertically,  leaving  the  north  part  intact.  The 
contents  of  the  remaining  portion  were  plainly  visible,  even  the 
dining  table  where  they  had  been  eating  their  noon  meal  when 
they  heard  the  ominous  noise  which  sent  them  scurrying  to 
their  cyclone  cellar.  The  hillside  across  the  road  was  strewn 
with  various  types  of  debris:  boards,  tin  roofing,  pieces  of  cloth, 
and  tree  branches.  Most  of  this  litter  had  blown  from  areas 
across  the  river. 

A  path  of  complete  obliteration  extended  through  the 
wooded  area  on  both  sides  of  the  hill .  It  looked  as  if  someone  had 
cleared  a  road  through  the  timber.  Many  other  trees  were 
damaged  and  limbs  were  scattered  far  and  wide. 

When  we  reached  the  site  of  the  first  homes  in  Kintown 
Hollow,  there  were  many  curious  spectators  everywhere.  Noth- 
ing remained  of  the  smaller  home  on  the  north  side  of  the  road 


except  the  floor  which  was  still  intact  on  its  foundation.  Small 
portions  of  it  were  scattered  as  far  as  we  could  see,  but  most  of 
the  frame  structure  had  blown  completely  away.  From  some  of 
the  spectators  we  learned  that  its  owner,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  had 
been  killed,  and  three  other  occupants  had  been  seriously 
injured.  These  three,  along  with  others  in  a  state  of  shock,  were 
now  being  cared  for  at  Mr.  Watson's  home  across  the  road. 

Although  the  Watson  home  had  been  spared,  it  had  been 
badly  damaged  and  his  barn  was  lying  flat  on  the  ground.  It 
looked  as  if  a  giant  foot  had  smashed  it  with  all  its  contents, 
including  his  son's  car. 

Soon,  all  my  students  had  located  their  parents  among 
those  who  had  congregated  there  to  observe  the  catastrophe  and 
to  lend  any  assistance  they  could.  Most  people  had  obligations 
at  home  and  could  not  stay  to  help.  Since  I  was  free  of  my 
responsibilities,  I  entered  the  Watson  home  and  asked  if  I  could 
be  of  any  assistance. 

The  sight  and  sounds  that  I  encountered  are  indelibly 
etched  in  my  memory.  People  were  lying  on  improvised  beds, 
several  badly  injured  with  less  than  adequate  emergency  treat- 
ment. There  was  a  mixture  of  moaning  and  groaning,  and 
several  more  in  a  complete  state  of  shock,  not  knowing  what  to 
do. 

My  first  question,  directed  at  a  man  who  was  standing 
helplessly  by,  was,  "Has  the  doctor  been  summoned?"  There 
was  only  one  doctor  for  the  entire  county,  but  he  resided  in 
Hardin,  which  was  only  a  few  miles  away.  I  was  quite  perplexed 
that  he  wasn't  there. 

"Dr.  Piesker  is  detained  by  those  who  were  injured  when 
the  cyclone  hit  the  Al  Bracksieck  home  on  the  Ridge  and  several 
more  in  Poorfarm  Hollow,"  the  gentleman  informed  me.  It  was 
then  that  I  realized  that  this  terrible  storm  had  cut  a  swath 
across  the  entire  county,  taking  its  toll  along  the  way. 

My  offer  was  readily  accepted  here  in  this  improvised 
hospital,  when  I  asked  if  I  might  assist  in  some  way.  I  was  told 


by  Mrs.  Watson,  who  was  by  now  quite  recovered  from  her 
terrible  shock  and  was  beginning  to  get  organized,  that  I  might 
go  upstairs  and  see  what  condition  the  rooms  were  in. 

There  I  found  glass  and  water  all  over  the  floor  and  even 
on  the  beds.  The  dormer  windows  had  been  shattered;  rain  and 
hail  had  blown  in.  With  some  help  from  others,  these  rooms 
were  cleaned  of  the  debris  and  the  beds  made  ready  for  occu- 
pancy. But  much  remained  to  be  done:  a  meal  to  be  prepared 
for  countless  numbers;  lamps  to  be  made  ready;  and  most  of  all, 
the  needs  of  several  patients  to  be  met. 

The  overworked  doctor  arrived  late  afternoon.  Immedi- 
ately, he  began  administering  to  the  needs  of  the  several 
patients,  and  kept  two  or  three  of  us  busy  as  his  assistants.  Mrs. 
Wilkinson  had  a  badly  lacerated  scalp,  which,  she  said,  was 
caused  by  a  flying,  sharp  object  hitting  her  while  she  was  still 
wrapped  around  a  tree  where  the  wind  had  blown  her.  This 
wound  required  many  sutures.  This  tedious  task  had  to  be 
performed  there  on  a  table  by  the  light  of  a  kerosene  lamp.  The 
burly  county  sheriff,  Asa  Foiles,  was  pressured  into  the  chore  of 
holding  the  lamp  high  so  as  to  direct  the  light  exactly  right  for 
the  doctor  to  perform  the  operation.  To  do  this,  he  had  to  keep 
his  eyes  steadily  on  the  gruesome  wound.  I  happened  to  be  near 
when  he  turned  and  asked  for  someone  to  take  his  place  as  he 
was  getting  sick.  I  took  the  lamp  and  held  it  until  the  doctor 
finished.  It  was  not  a  desirable  task. 

This  was,  indeed,  a  long  and  eventful  day.  It  is  one  that 
I  shall  always  remember,  and  I  shall  continue  to  be  very 
thankful  that  my  little  school  at  Gilead  was  not  in  the  path  of 
that  terrible  tornado  of  1927. 


165 


THOSE  FOLKS  AT  JOHN  DEAN  SCHOOL 

Helen  C.  Harless 

A  few  months  ago,  I  proceeded  to  show  my  four-year-old 
grandson  some  of  the  places  in  Canton  that  were  special  to  me. 
Our  first  stop  was  the  former  location  of  the  John  Dean  School. 
Much  to  my  dismay,  it  had  been  torn  down  and  replaced  with  a 
playground.  I  have  been  gone  from  Canton  forty-five  years,  but 
I  return  each  June  for  a  family  reunion.  How  terribly  disap- 
pointed I  was  that  the  school  was  gone.  I  had  wanted  to  show 
my  grandson  the  school  and  explain  to  him  how  special  it  had 
been  to  me. 

As  the  old  saying  goes,  "You  can  take  the  girl  from  the 
town,  but  you  can't  take  away  her  memories."  Of  course,  this  is 
a  paraphrase  on  "You  can  take  the  girl  off  the  farm,  but  you  can't 
take  the  farm  out  of  the  girl."  I  was  a  farm  girl.  I  lived  on  Route 
Nine  about  three  miles  west  of  Canton.  When  it  came  time  for 
me  to  go  to  school,  Mom  and  Dad  took  me  to  the  John  Dean 
School  every  day.  Of  course,  school  busses  were  unheard  of 
then. 

I  looked  forward  to  going  to  school  because  of  Mrs. 
Thixtun,  my  first  grade  teacher,  and  Mr.  Cook,  the  custodian. 
Mrs.  Thixtun  was  a  plump,  happy  person  who  made  me  want  to 
leam-a  great  motivator,  we  would  say  today. 

Her  room  was  on  the  south  side  of  the  school  on  the  first 
floor.  On  the  east  end  of  the  room  was  the  little  semicircle  of  red 
wooden  chairs  where  we  went  to  recite.  Here,  also,  hung  from 
easels,  were  the  phonics  and  reading  charts.  Just  west  of  the 
chairs  were  little  desks  arranged  in  rows.  They  were  fastened 
to  the  floor  and  were  adjustable.  At  the  beginning  of  the  year, 
Mr.  Cook  came  to  the  room  and  "fitted"  the  desk  to  us.  He  would 
raise  or  lower  the  seat  so  that  we  could  sit  comfortably  with  our 
feet  flat  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  Thixtun's  desk  sat  at  the  front  of  the 
room  and  the  old  pump  organ  was  nearby.  Our  cloak  room  was 
on  the  north  side  of  the  classroom.    The  students  kept  caps. 


coats,  mittens,  boots,  and  scarves  on  hooks  in  this  cloakroom.  I 
can  never  remember  anyone  losing  anything.  How  did  we  ever 
survive  without  lockers? 

Our  class  was  divided  into  the  Bluebirds,  the  Red  Birds, 
and  the  Blackbirds.  The  Bluebirds  were  the  top  students  and 
the  Blackbirds  were  the  slow  students.  Naturally,  the  Red 
Birds  fell  in  between.  I  was  lucky  to  be  a  Bluebird  until  one  day 
I  did  not  measure  up  in  reading  class.  I  was  demoted  to  the  Red 
Bird  group.  I  was  humiliated,  crushed,  and  worried  about  how 
I  was  going  to  tell  my  parents  I  had  "slipped"  academically.  The 
truth  is,  I  did  not  tell  them.  I  "dug  in"  and  worked  hard  and  in 
a  few  days  redeemed  my  status  as  a  Bluebird  and  Mom  and  Dad 
never  knew. 

Mrs.  Thixtun  worked  hard  to  make  her  students  well- 
rounded.  Music  was  a  part  of  our  program  every  day.  She  had 
a  beautiful  soprano  voice  and  was  generous  with  her  musical 
talent.  Our  only  accompaniment  was  the  pump  organ.  For 
some  reason,  Mrs.  Thixtun  never  sat  down  to  play  the  organ.  I 
suppose  it  was  because  she  could  not  see  us  if  she  sat  down  or 
we  her,  so  she  would  stand  up,  play  the  organ,  and  pump  with 
her  right  foot  as  we  sang  along  with  her. 

She  also  included  art  and  drama  in  our  curriculum.  I 
well  remember  one  art  project  we  did.  String  hammocks  were 
made  of  pastel-colored  string.  These  hammocks  were  about  six 
by  eleven  inches  and  were  woven  on  small  looms.  After  we  tied 
off  and  secured  each  end  in  a  gold  metal  circlet,  Mrs.  Thixtun 
hung  them  end  to  end  around  the  windows  of  the  room  on  a  wire. 
These  were  on  display  so  our  parents  could  see  them  at  the  next 
PTA  meeting. 

As  a  part  of  our  drama,  I  can  recall  being  cast  as  Martha 
Washington  with  a  beautiful  full-skirted  long  dress  and  a  white 
wig.  Another  time  I  was  one  of  twelve  clowns.  Our  perfor- 
mances were  put  on  for  PTA  audiences  or  became  special 
programs  open  to  the  community. 

Holidays  were  always  observed  regularly  in  Mrs. 


Thixtun's  room.  A  few  days  before  Valentine's  Day,  Mrs. 
Thixtun  placed  a  beautifully  decorated  box  on  a  stool  just  inside 
the  door  of  our  room.  We  brought  our  valentines  and  deposited 
them  in  the  box,  and  then  on  Valentine's  Day  we  had  our  party 
and  opened  our  Valentines.  Among  my  first  grade  friends  was 
Robert  Possum,  a  cute,  chubby,  blonde  boy.  About  two  weeks 
before  Valentine's  Day,  Robert  brought  a  big  heart  shaped  box 
of  candy ,  whispered  something  to  Mrs.  Thixtun ,  and  she  put  the 
box  of  candy  in  the  bottom  drawer  of  her  desk.  Every  girl  in  the 
room  knew  that  Valentine  was  for  her,  but  come  the  day,  I  was 
the  lucky  one. 

The  PTA  played  an  important  part  in  the  life  of  our 
school.  Meetings  were  usually  held  once  a  month  on  Friday 
afternoon.  The  teachers  set  up  folding  chairs  around  the 
perimeter  of  the  room,  and  the  parents  would  listen  to  us  recite, 
or  we  would  put  on  the  program.  The  business  meeting 
followed. 

I  distinctly  remember  one  issue  that  my  mother  took 
before  the  PTA.  There  were  not  hot  lunches  provided.  The  town 
students  went  home  for  lunch,  as  did  the  teachers.  The  country 
students  carried  sack  lunches.  During  the  cold  or  rainy  months, 
the  only  place  we  were  allowed  to  eat  was  in  the  basement  in  the 
toilet  room.  Only  a  partial  partition  divided  our  lunch  room  and 
the  toilets.  Believe  me,  this  was  not  a  pleasant  surrounding  for 
a  lunch  room.  Finally,  my  mother  took  the  issue  to  the  PTA  and 
was  told  that  the  reason  for  making  us  eat  in  the  toilet  room  was 
that  the  teachers  did  not  like  the  smell  of  oranges  and  the 
crumbs  of  food  in  their  classrooms.  Mother  stood  her  ground 
and  finally  won.  We  were  allowed  to  eat  in  the  hall  between  the 
first  and  second  grade  rooms.  We  had  to  stand  up  to  eat  at  a  big 
table,  but  even  that  was  a  big  plus  to  the  toilet  room.  On  nice, 
warm  days,  we  sat  on  a  bench  on  the  playground  and  ate  picnic 
style. 

Eleanor  Coleman  sat  in  the  seat  just  ahead  of  me,  and 
periodically-  often,  that  is-she  had  a  severe  nose-bleed.    We 


would  be  working  in  our  seats,  and  all  of  a  sudden  Eleanor, 
having  a  nosebleed,  would  lean  out  over  the  side  as  a  pool  of 
blood  accumulated  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  Thixtun,  who  was  always 
understanding,  took  time  to  stuff  cotton  in  Eleanor's  nose,  clean 
up  the  blood,  and  assure  everyone  that  all  was  well. 

Mrs.  Thixtun  not  only  taught  us  our  academics  well,  she 
also  gave  us  culture,  showed  compassion  and  patience,  yes,  and 
even  taught  us  how  to  be  compassionate  and  patient.  I  loved  her 
very  much. 

And  then  there  was  Mr.  Cook,  our  custodian,  who  was  a 
very  dear  person,  too.  He  seemed  to  like  me  and  helped  me  in 
many  ways.  He  was  always  at  school  over  the  noon  hour,  so  he 
and  I  really  became  pals.  If  he  had  chores  to  do  over  the  noon 
hour,  I  would  tag  along  and  "help"  him,  but  usually  we  just  had 
good  things  to  talk  about.  Each  spring,  and  this  meant  all  five 
springs  I  was  in  school,  Mr.  Cook  made  me  a  kite.  The  size  of  the 
kite  was  determined  by  how  tall  I  was.  As  I  grew,  so  did  my 
kites.  When  he  got  my  kite  built,  we  would  test  it  out  together 
on  the  playground  over  the  noon  hour.  Our  kites  were  a 
harbinger  of  spring  for  the  neighborhood  around  John  Dean 
School. 

One  morning,  Mr.  Cook  was  sitting  on  the  iron  railing 
that  bordered  the  sidewalk  that  led  to  the  school.  I  always 
stopped  to  chat  with  him  before  I  went  in.  This  particular 
morning,  Mr.  Cook  asked  me,  "Did  you  ever  eat  groundhog?" 
Naturally,  all  I  could  think  of  was  a  wild  little  woodchuck.  So 
my  answer  to  Mr.  Cook  was,  "No,  of  course  not."  He  looked  me 
straight  in  the  eye  and  asked,  "Haven't  you  ever  eaten  sausage? 
That's  ground  hog."  All  the  kids  around  thought  this  was  a  neat 
joke,  and  we  all  had  a  good  laugh.  What  a  fun  way  to  start  a 
school  day.  This  was  typical  of  Mr.  Cook  who  was  always  full  of 
fun. 

Mom  and  Dad  never  forgot  either  Mrs.  Thixtun  or  Mr. 
Cook  come  butchering  day.  I  always  took  them  a  nice  big 
package  of  fresh  sausage,  which  they  always  appreciated. 


167 


Although  the  John  Dean  School  is  no  more,  my  little 
grandson  enjoyed  my  shared  stories  centered  around  beautiful 
memories  of  this  school  and  those  two  most  unforgettable 
people-Mrs.  Thixtun  and  Mr.  Cook. 


FROM  MY  TEACHER'S  PLANNING  SCHEDULE, 
1929-1930 

Anna  Rittenhouse 

Upon  graduation  from  high  school  in  1928  I  borrowed 
$100  to  attend  Southern  Illinois  Normal  University  for  one 
year.  Food  was  carried  from  home  and  I  did  my  own  cooking  in 
the  rooming  house  where  I  stayed.  How  proud  1  was  in  the 
Spring  of  1929  to  receive  a  certificate  giving  me  permission  to 
teach! 

My  first  teaching  position,  Bower  School  in  Kinkaid 
Township,  Jackson  County,  paid  $85  per  month  for  an  eight- 
month  term.  To  receive  my  paycheck  each  month,  I  was  to  fill 
out  the  attendance  record  sheet  and  take  it  to  the  clerk's  home 
a  mile  from  school  on  a  dirt  road.  Then  I  walked  another  mile 
to  the  place  I  stayed,  paying  $20  monthly  for  room  and  board. 

Before  the  first  day  of  school,  two  of  the  three  directors 
visited  to  make  sure  it  was  clean  and  in  perfect  order.  School 
opened  at  9:00  a.m.  on  September  2,  1929,  with  an  attendance 
of  thirteen  more  or  less  interested  students  ra  nging  from  grades 
one  through  eight.  Textbooks  and  lessons  were  assigned  and  a 
few  general  instructions  given. 

On  the  second  day,  the  schedule  was  posted  where  all 
could  see.  All  reading  and  penmanship  came  before  recess. 
Classes  varied  in  time  from  five  minutes  for  reading  to  fifteen 
minutes  for  penmanship,  yet  every  child  learned  to  read  and 
vmte.    From  recess  until  noon  arithmetic  and  spelling  was 


taught,  varying  in  time  from  five  to  ten  minutes.  One  hour  was 
taken  at  noon  for  a  cold  lunch  brought  from  home  and  outdoor 
exercises  and  play.  At  1:00  p.m.  school  began  with  language  and 
physiology  classes  varying  from  five  to  fifteen  minutes.  At  2:30 
p.m.  we  had  another  fifteen  minute  recess,  after  which  geogra- 
phy and  history  classes  were  held.  Our  timekeeper  was  a  seven 
day  wind-up  clock  on  the  wall  for  all  to  see.  School  dismissed  at 
4:00  p.m. 

On  the  third  day  of  school,  two  students  were  given 
permission  to  walk  to  the  clerk's  home  to  get  the  victrola, 
basketball,  and  curtains.  The  big  curtains  were  hung  at  the 
front  of  the  schoolroom  to  make  a  "stage"  from  which  a  program 
would  be  given  at  the  box  supper.  The  date  for  this  important 
social  event  and  fundraiser  was  selected  carefully.  It  had  to  be 
held  before  bad  weather  set  in  and  on  a  night  not  taken  by 
schools  nearby.  Practice  for  the  program  began  in  September; 
proceeds  were  used  to  buy  balls,  bats,  indoor  games,  etc.,  as 
needed.  Visitors  were  welcome  to  drop  in  anytime  and  were 
especially  enjoyed  at  intermission  in  play. 

The  first  fire  was  made  in  the  big  heating  stove  on 
September  19,  adding  to  the  responsibilities  of  the  teacher  who 
was  also  the  janitor  who  tended  the  fire  and  kept  floors  clean. 

During  the  year,  neatness  awards  were  given  weekly. 
Students  were  divided  into  two  teams.  Lions  and  Tigers;  de- 
partment prizes  were  given.  Language  work  was  graded  by 
points:  one  off  for  each  misspelled  word,  incorrect  punctuation 
mark,  and  inappropriate  use  of  grammar;  two  off  for  each 
incorrect  capital  letter;  five  off  for  each  mistake  in  paragraph 
structure;  and  ten  off  if  work  wasn't  neat.  All  grades  were 
recorded  numerically.  What  a  task  it  was  to  add  all  numbers 
with  no  calculator  or  adding  machine!  On  September  30,  exams 
were  held  and  grade  cards  given  out  a  day  or  two  later. 

A  race  started  for  the  tooth-brushing  contest,  students 
being  divided  into  two  teams.  Blue  Birds  and  Red  Birds.  The  big 
tooth-brushing  party  was  October  31.  At  this  time  there  were 


more  new  rules:  Stay  in  one  minute  for  each  time  pupil  leaves 
room;  failure  to  make  100  in  Spelling  requires  staying  after 
school  until  missed  words  are  learned;  the  signal  of  one  finger 
meant  asking  to  be  excused,  and  two  fingers  indicated  anything 
important  other  than  solving  problems. 

Plans  for  nature  study  for  grades  seven  and  eight  were 
recorded,  including  the  study  of  birds,  weeds,  how  wheat  be- 
comes bread,  etc.  Required  book  reports  given  were  written  and 
included  ( 1)  author  and  name  of  book;  (2)  part  of  story  liked  best 
and  why;  (3)  name  of  principal  character  liked  best  and  why; 
and  (4)  did  you  like  this  story  and  why. 

Book  salesmen  visited  country  schools  during  school 
hours.  Since  our  school  had  no  encyclopedias,  I  bought  a  set, 
paying  $10  monthly.  On  October  8,  County  Superintendent 
"Pop"  Etherton  and  a  photographer  visited  our  school  and  took 
our  picture.  How  thrilled  we  were!  For  October,  the  average 
daily  attendance  was  98.4%  Grade  cards  were  handed  out 
November  4,  following  the  regular  monthly  exams. 

A  Thanksgiving  program  was  given  November  22,  which 
included  readings,  tableaux,  and  songs.  Games  were  played. 
On  November  30,  the  temperature  dropped  to  zero;  on  Decem- 
ber 2,  several  inches  of  snow  fell.  On  December  3,  exams  were 
held  and  grade  cards  given  out  several  days  later. 

On  December  19,  only  six  students  were  present,  and 
lessons  were  all  finished  before  noon.  The  Christmas  Program 
was  given  on  December  23,  with  ten  visitors  present.  Santa  also 
appeared  and  gave  bags  of  candy,  oranges,  and  nuts,  which  I 
purchased,  to  the  children.  The  only  Christmas  vacation  was 
December  25.  All  pupils  were  back  in  school  the  next  day  with 
a  perfect  attendance  record.  Exams  were  held  December  31, 
with  grade  cards  out  soon  after. 

On  January  10,  ice  was  a  half  inch  thick  everywhere; 
three  weeks  later  we  had  our  third  snowfall.  Exams  were  held 
January  29,  and  the  next  day  one  girl  troublemaker  became 
sixteen  and  dropped  out  of  school.  On  February  27  exams  were 


held,  with  grade  cards  soon  following.  March  31  was  another 
exam  day.  May  1,  1930,  was  the  school  year's  end. 

My  first  year  at  teaching  was  very  special  to  me.  Indeed, 
I  found  so  much  pleasure  and  satisfaction  that  I  remained  in 
one-room  schools  until  consolidation  finally  closed  them. 


PERILS  OF  A  COUNTRY  SCHOOL  TEACHER 

Louise  Barclay  Van  Etten 

A  B.  Ed.  degree  was  bestowed  upon  me  by  Western 
Illinois  State  Teachers'  College  in  June,  1935,  and  my  first  job 
as  teacher  of  the  little  country  school  of  Oak  Grove  began  that 
fall. 

I  was  employed  at  the  munificent  salary  of  $50  a  month, 
and  since  I  wished  to  commute  from  my  home  in  Macomb  rather 
than  obtain  room  and  board  in  the  neighborhood,  it  necessitated 
buying  a  secondhand  "Chevy."  It  had  been  owned  by  a  local 
auctioneer  who  had  driven  it  hard  and  unhampered  for  60,000 
country  miles,  leaving  it  weary  and  stubborn.  I  had  nine  nice 
kids,  and  since  I  was  extremely  athletic,  they  loved  the  extra- 
curricular sessions  in  the  school  yard.  We  even  had  a  few 
lessons  outside  on  especially  nice  days.  Other  than  that,  the  fall 
was  relatively  uneventful. 

That  was  fall,  but  in  November  winter  appeared.  Almost 
immediately  came  cold,  snow,  and  icy  roads,  and  I  was  rudely 
introduced  to  putting  on  snow  chains  and  listening  to  their 
clickety-clanking.  Arising  from  bed  in  the  dark  left  something 
to  be  desired.  Then  the  trouble  began.  Across  the  road  in  front 
of  the  streaming  headlights  was  the  continual  and  ominous 
sweep  of  drifting  snow.  One  below-zero  morning  I  arrived  at  the 
crossroads  to  find  the  east  two-mile  trek  drifted  shut,  so  I 
parked  the  car  in  the  barn  lot  of  the  farmer  who  lived  at  the 


intersection  and  took  off  on  shanks  ponies.  I  didn't  realize  it 
then,  but  this  was  to  be  the  pattern  for  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

When  I  got  to  the  school,  the  fire  had  gone  out  in  the  big, 
old  stove,  which  was  my  job  to  stoke.  I  hurriedly  started  one 
with  cobs  and  kindling,  and  it  was  just  beginning  to  throw  offa 
little  warmth  when  one  of  the  directors  arrived  on  horseback. 
Joe  Lynn,  a  former  Sunday  school  mate  of  mine  at  Camp  Creek 
Church,  informed  me  that  there  would  be  no  school  due  to  the 
bad  weather  but  that  I  could  ride  behind  him  as  far  as  his  corner, 
which  was  one  mile  west  and  so  half  way  to  my  car. 

I  banked  the  fire,  locked  up,  and  then  got  on  the  horse 
behind  Mr.  Lynn.  Off  we  galloped-into  the  frigid  wind  of  twenty 
some  below.  After  a  half  a  mile  without  breathing,  I  told  Joe  I 
couldn't  stand  the  ride,  so  I  slipped  off  the  horse  and  waved 
goodbye.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  I  discovered,  was 
no  more  condusive  to  breathing  than  horseback  had  been.  The 
gale  and  below-zero  temperature  were  freezing  the  air  in  my 
lungs,  and  snatching  the  breath  right  out  of  me.  My  lifetime 
passed  in  front  of  me. 

Not  being  ready  to  die  and  remembering  my  three-year- 
old  little  girl  at  home,  I  made  a  supreme  effort  and  got  turned 
around  with  the  wind  at  my  back.  The  Wes  Hayden  family  lived 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  west  of  the  school,  so,  saying  a  little  prayer, 
I  started  plowing  through  the  heaped  snow  drifts  toward  their 
house.  I  have  no  idea  how  long  it  took,  but  when  I  reached  the 
front  porch,  I  collapsed,  fell  down,  and  hit  the  front  door.  Mr. 
Hayden  heard  the  noise  and,  began  opening  the  door.  Finding 
me  half  frozen,  he  took  me  inside  and  got  me  into  warm  blankets 
and  gave  me  some  hot  soup. 

The  day  was  spent  listening  to  the  radio  reports  of  the 
weather  across  the  country  and  watching  the  wind  carve  snow 
sculptures  outside  the  windows.  By  late  afternoon,  the  wind 
had  died  down  and  the  sun  had  come  out.  Mr.  Hayden  loaned 
me  a  horse  to  ride  across  to  the  highway.  It  was  unbelievably 
beautiful  with  sparks  flying  off  every  snow  drift  and  all  the  trees 


swathed  in  ghostly  garments.  I  left  the  horse  in  the  farmer's 
barn,  but  when  I  tried  to  start  the  car  it  didn't  even  growl. 

The  road  north  to  Macomb  hadn't  been  cleared  so  I  called 
a  garage  in  Industry,  which  was  south,  and  a  truck  came  and 
towed  me  in  to  the  shop.  I  had  friends  with  whom  I  spent  the 
night,  in  return  for  which  I  threw  a  few  scoops  of  coal  on  the  fire 
from  time  to  time. 

During  the  night  we  heard  the  fire  siren  and  the  next 
morning  learned  that  Ricey  Walker,  who  lived  across  the  road 
from  the  school,  had  an  over-heated  furnace,  and  his  house  had 
burned  to  the  ground.  The  little  Industry  fire  truck  had 
valiantly  bucked  snow  drifts  for  the  two  miles  from  the  highway 
east  to  the  fire,  but  the  wind  had  risen  to  gale  velocity  again, 
thirty-five  below  zero-it  was  hopeless.  The  Walker  family  spent 
the  remaining  night  with  neighbors,  but  I'm  sure  no  one  was 
able  to  sleep  after  such  an  experience. 

After  a  night  in  the  warm  garage,  my  grateful  car 
started  right  off,  and  since  the  roads  had  been  cleared  I  didn't 
waste  any  time  making  my  getaway. 

The  extreme  cold  and  snow  continued,  and  we  were  out 
of  school  for  a  week.  The  following  Monday  was  crisp  and  clear 
and  seemed  to  have  moderated,  so  I  drove  to  school,  whistling 
a  tune  and  glorying  in  the  sparkling  diamond  day.  Ernest  Moon 
lived  just  south  of  the  one  mile  corner,  and  I  stopped  in  to 
inquire  the  temperature  and  couldn't  believe  my  ears  when  he 
said  twenty  below  zero.  When  I  arrived  at  school  my  nose  was 
frozen! 

The  weather  didn't  improve  much  all  winter,  and  all  the 
snow  that  fell  stayed  until  one  sunny  day  about  February  20  the 
temperature  suddenly  soared  to  seventy  degrees  and  all  the 
snow  melted  in  one  day.  I  realized  what  that  was  going  to  do  to 
the  streams,  and,  as  there  was  a  small  creek  to  cross  west  of  the 
school,  I  dismissed  school  an  hour  early  and  hastily  left. 

When  I  got  to  the  bridge,  water  was  running  over  it,  and 
I  knew  it  was  then  or  never.    I  started  across,  and  killed  my 


170 


engine  about  midway.  In  those  days  the  car  starter  was  on  the 
floor,  and,  stamping  on  it  with  a  heavy  foot,  I  pulled  the  car  on 
across  and  was  on  my  way,  thanking  God  for  my  resourceful- 
ness and  my  jalopy  for  its  cooperation.  I  later  learned  that  about 
two  hours  after  I  had  crossed,  a  family's  vehicle  was  swept  off 
into  the  swollen  stream.  Fortunately,  they  managed  to  get  out, 
frightened  but  safe. 

Thus  ended  winter,  and  an  early  spring  helped  us  to 
forget  the  bad  weather.  There  were  woods  back  of  the  school  and 
spring  flowers  beckoned,  so  the  children  and  I  spent  many  noon 
hours  exploring. 

Then  came  the  big  fun  day-the  last  day  of  school. 
Everyone  brought  special  dishes,  and  we  had  a  lovely  picnic 
lunch  outside.  The  mothers  were  guests.  I  brought  my  little  girl 
as  well  as  a  special  friend.  We  played  games,  did  many  fun 
things,  and  laughed  a  lot.  I  hope  those  "children,"  now  grand- 
parents, remember  that  day  with  fond  memories. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  A  RURAL  TEACHER 

Mary  K.  DeWitt 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Thirties,  my  family  had  barely, 
but  painfully,  survived  the  Depression  of  1929  and  1930.  I  had 
completed  a  year  of  elementary  training  at  Western  Illinois 
Teachers  College  and  was  in  dire  need  of  a  teaching  position.  At 
that  time,  a  teacher's  limited  certificate  could  be  completed  with 
just  one  year  of  college  training  and  by  successfully  passing  a 
written  test  at  the  superintendent's  office. 

With  many  misgivings,  I  attempted  to  locate  a  teaching 
position,  only  to  learn  that  there  was  only  one  school  available- 
in  the  northeast  part  of  Schuyler  County-and  the  only  way  to 
reach  it  was  either  by  walking,  by  horseback,  or  by  driving  on 


a  very  bad  dirt  road  for  a  much  longer  distance.  Nonetheless, 
I  decided  to  take  the  position. 

I  had  to  drive  my  car  the  first  seven  miles  out  of 
Rushville  to  a  farm  home  where  a  very  kind  gentleman,  Mr.  Asa 
Bartless,  rented  a  gentle  white  mare  for  me  to  ride  the  rest  of  the 
way-a  distance  of  about  one  mile  through  some  beautiful 
woods-also  I  crossed  a  stream. 

The  new  job  was  quite  a  challenge.  I  was  young  and  had 
learned  that  1  was  a  descendant  of  the  explorer  and  famous 
historical  pathfinder,  Daniel  Boone.  As  I  rode  on  my  horse,  I 
imagined  1  was  on  the  Wilderness  Road  in  Kentucky  and 
watched  for  the  many  things  which  nature  had  to  offer.  Espe- 
cially were  the  spring  and  winter  beautiful  times.  Also,  the  trip 
gave  me  time  to  be  alone  and  to  plan  my  lessons  for  the  next  day. 

There  were  many  very  difficult  times,  also.  Two  snow- 
storms that  winter  gave  me  a  hard  time.  During  one  of  the 
storms,  1  was  returning  home  in  the  evening  and  the  snow  was 
so  deep  in  the  road  that  my  horse  could  go  no  farther.  My  feet 
were  even  touching  the  drifts  while  in  the  saddle  stirrups.  The 
horse  stopped!  I  rolled  off  before  she  began  plunging  in  the 
snow.  Thankfully,  a  neighbor  who  saw  me  came  to  my  rescue. 

During  another  snowstorm,  I  had  tried  to  go  without  any 
chains  on  my  car.  But  1  got  stuck  on  a  hill  before  I  got  to  the  place 
where  my  horse  was  kept.  I  finally  succeeded  in  putting  on  the 
chains  and  continued  on  to  school.  My  students  were  waiting  for 
me  to  let  them  in  out  of  the  weather.  That  was  one  of  the  reasons 
I  always  felt  it  necessary  to  be  at  the  schoolhouse  on  time. 

Still  later  in  the  spring,  my  horse  Goldie  refused  to  go  on 
the  riding  path,  stopping  very  quickly  and  snorting  in  terror.  I 
finally  spotted  a  large  black  snake  crawling  ahead  across  the 
path.  When  it  disappeared,  she  calmed,  and  we  continued  on 
our  way. 

The  only  outside  activity  we  could  have  at  school  was  a 
meeting  of  the  mothers  during  the  daytime,  honoring  them 
especially  for  Mothers  Day.  Our  Christmas  was  a  very  simple 


171 


observance  when  we  exchanged  gifts  and  enjoyed  the  beautiful 
Christmas  tree  which  we  had  obtained  from  the  woods  nearby. 
We  had  no  electricity,  so  everything  was  very  common  and  had 
to  be  held  during  the  daylight  time.  VVe  had  very  good  atten- 
dance during  the  year.  There  was  a  very  close  relationship 
among  the  five  families  represented,  and  we  all  learned  to  be 
very  concerned  about  each  family. 

In  the  spring  when  Mr.  Bartlett  needed  his  mare  for  field 
work,  I  used  a  little  Western  riding  mare  Dolly  which  my  uncle 
from  Kansas  had  shipped  to  Illinois  for  pasture.  As  she  was 
used  to  the  cowboys  and  could  do  tricks,  I  enjoyed  her  little 
antics  and  finished  my  year  in  Western  style.  She  entertained 
my  students  with  her  little  tricks  and  became  a  spoiled  pet  to 
them  all. 

It  took  lots  of  faith,  courage,  determination,  and  many 
frustrations  to  complete  my  year's  teaching.  But  I  often  remem- 
bered my  ancestor's  hardships,  too,  and  it  helped  my  year  to 
pass  very  quickly  and  pleasantly.  If  there  had  been  accidents 
or  sicknesses  in  such  a  very  remote  place,  it  would  have  been  a 
disaster.  As  it  happened,  though,  we  were  very  fortunate  and 
these  were  some  of  my  favorite  experiences  in  preparing  for  a 
long  career  of  teaching,  which  finally  ended  after  thirty-eight 
years. 


THE  OLD  ONE-ROOM  COUNTRY  SCHOOL 

Fern  Moate  Hancock 

Still  sits  the  school  house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar,  sunning. 

Its  door's  worn  sill  betraying 

The  feet  which,  creeping  came  to  school. 

Went  storming  out  for  playing. 


The  Ordinance  of  1787  had,  as  one  of  its  most  important 
provisions,  one  that  stated,  "Education  shall  be  forever  encour- 
aged" in  the  states  that  would  be  formed  from  the  "Northwest 
Territory." 

One  of  the  methods  used  to  implement  this  provision 
was  to  establish  schools  at  regular  intervals  that  could  be 
reached  by  walking.  Consequently,  as  the  land  was  surveyed 
and  parallels  and  meridians  were  mapped,  parcels  of  land  could 
be  described.  Our  township  was  twenty-six  degrees  north  and 
three  degrees  east  of  the  Third  Principal  Meridan.  As  roads 
were  constructed,  a  grid,  like  a  waffle  iron,  emerged.  Little 
wooden  one-room  schools  were  built  two  miles  from  each  other 
north  and  south  and  east  and  west.  No  child  was  ever  more  than 
two  miles  from  a  school.  Standards  for  teaching  were  very  low. 
People  with  only  an  eighth  grade  education  might  be  hired.  But 
in  my  time,  I  took  an  examination  for  a  second  grade  certificate 
after  graduating  from  high  school.  I  was  eighteen  years  old. 

Until  I  entered  my  first  rural  school,  my  knowledge  of  a 
rural  school  was  slight.  Schools  often  served  as  churches.  So 
the  first  time  I  was  in  a  rural  school  was  to  attend  the  confirma- 
tion of  the  daughter  of  one  of  my  fa  the  's  patients.  Othertimes 
were  the  school  picnics  on  the  first  day  of  school,  possibly  the 
Saturday  following  for  I  would  have  been  in  school  otherwise. 
The  term  for  a  country  school  was  eight  months.  Our  school  was 
in  a  small  town,  but  it  was  at  the  intersection  where  a  country 
school  should  have  been,  so  we  had  pupils  from  the  farms,  with 
their  rosy  cheeks  and  chapped  hands,  in  our  classes.  Some  had 
walked  the  railroad  tracks  to  school.  At  this  same  time,  a 
teacher  who  taught  two  miles  east  of  Gridley  walked  the  track 
to  her  school.  Prairie  Valley  was  its  name.  Our  term  was  nine 
months  long.  When  my  father  taught,  school  was  discontinued 
at  corn  husking  or  corn  planting  times  so  the  children  could 
help. 

I  passed  the  examination,  had  six  weeks  of  summer 
school,  and  was  qualified  to  teach.  The  subjects  I  studied  were 


172 


Country  School  Teaching  and  Primary  Methods.  I  passed 
Professor  Gavin's  (he  wrote  an  orthography  text)  spelling  test. 

I  had  applied  for  a  position  at  Maple  Grove,  northeast  of 
Garlock.  I  was  granted  an  interview  with  the  three  members  of 
the  school  board.  A  $90  salary  per  month  to  conduct  an  eight- 
month  term  was  agreed  upon.  We  shook  hands  on  the  agree- 
ment. I  was  asked  to  attend  church  at  least  two  Sundays  each 
month,  to  which  I  readily  agreed.  (My  son-in-law,  who  is  a 
professor  at  Western  Illinois  University  with  a  doctorate,  al- 
ways says  when  I  tell  that,  "Your  civil  rights  were  infringed.") 
I  didn't  feel  that  way  then,  and  I  don't  now.  I  felt  the  board  was 
interested  in  a  good  Christian  example  for  its  children. 

I  secured  a  room  with  a  family-this  included  the  room, 
board  (food),  and  laundry. 

Then  I  entered  my  first  rural  school.  A  porch  preceded 
an  anteroom  where  coats  and  over  shoes  could  be  left.  Shelves 
for  the  lunch  pails  were  also  there.  My  school  had  a  basement, 
a  coal  and  cob  bin,  and  a  furnace.  In  winter,  I  built  up  the  fire 
and  banked  it  at  night. 

There  were  two  doors  in  this  hall  by  which  to  enter  the 
schoolroom.  Long  windows  were  on  either  side  of  the  room.  A 
slightly  raised  platform  in  the  front  of  the  room  held  the 
teacher's  desk  and  chair,  and  book  shelves  for  textbooks  and 
such  library  books  as  we  had.  Encyclopedias  and  a  big  dictio- 
nary completed  the  equipment.  On  the  wall  behind  the  desk 
was  the  blackboard.  A  metal  cupboard  filled  one  corner  and 
held  consumable  supplies,  theme  paper,  manila  paper,  colored 
paper  for  art  work,  chalk,  scissors,  and  erasers. 

There  was  no  water  on  our  grounds  so  one  of  the  student 
chores  was  to  go  across  a  meadow  and  up  a  slight  rise  to  a 
farmer's  well.  In  my  mind's  eye,  I  can  see  those  little  legs 
scampering  up  that  hill.  A  common  dipper  served  us  very  well, 
although  collapsible  metal  cups  were  coming  into  use.  On  the 
wall  opposite  the  teacher's  desk  was  a  two  burner  kerosene 
stove  which  I  found  was  to  be  used  for  a  hot  lunch  program  in 


winter.  We  also  had  a  piano  and  an  assortment  of  song  books. 
A  picture  of  George  Washington  was  prominently  displayed  and 
an  American  flag. 

I  assembled  the  textbooks  I  would  use  for  the  ensuing 
year,  prepared  a  schedule  of  classes,  and,  in  fear  and  trembling, 
awaited  the  first  day  of  school.  Mothers,  possibly  some  fathers, 
too,  had  given  the  school  a  good  cleaning.  1  had  a  bouquet  of 
goldenrods  on  the  desk. 

We  were  quite  modern  then  and  taught  alternate  grades- 
one  year  1-3-5-7,  the  next  year  2-4-6-8.  But  it  was  not  a 
perfect  arrangement  by  any  means,  for  if  you  had  a  person  just 
starting  school,  how  could  you  possibly  put  him  in  the  second 
grade? 

We  began  the  day  by  saying  the  Pledge  of  Allegiance  first 
and  had  ten  minutes  of  singing.  I  chose  the  songs  the  first  day. 
Later,  we  had  little  committees  put  the  numbers  on  the  board. 

The  first  day  I  had  to  have  each  child  write  his  name, 
age,  parents'  names,  his  grade,  etc.,  to  enter  in  my  register. 
They  had  chosen  their  seats,  and  this  first  day  I  saw  no  reason 
to  change  them.  So  we  got  organized  and  went  through  the 
schedule  so  lessons  could  be  assigned.  Time  sped  past  and  here 
was  recess. 

A  school  bell  brought  them  back,  and  school  continued 
until  noon.  We  enjoyed  our  lunch  together  outdoors.  Then  we 
played  a  game  of  baseball.  I  was  umpire,  but  I  didn't  stand 
behind  the  catcher.  I  stood  next  to  the  pitcher  because  I  felt  it 
was  safer. 

After  the  noon  break,  when  drinks  had  been  taken  and 
hot  faces  and  dirty  hands  washed,  I  had  decided  to  read  fifteen 
minutes  for  rest  and  relaxation;  I  read  on  through  the  day.  We 
had  an  afternoon  recess  and  after  a  while  school  was  out.  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  always  to  say  goodnight  to  each  one  and  good 
morning,  too. 

One  of  the  customs  of  those  days  was  to  have  the  teacher 
home  to  stay  all  night.  So  I  walked  home  with  the  children,  had 


a  delicious  supper,  was  treated  royally,  slept  in  the  "spare" 
bedroom,  and  had  a  hearty  breakfast.  The  mother  packed  my 
lunch  pail,  and  the  children  and  I  walked  back  to  school.  I  made 
some  lasting  friendships  through  that  by-gone  custom. 

The  school  term  went  swiftly.  We  chose  monitors  for  the 
following  week  to  do  various  duties,  such  as  choose  the  daily 
songs,  keep  the  black  boards  erased,  be  the  water  carrier,  etc. 
On  Friday  afternoons,  in  the  winter,  the  last  item  was  to  choose 
the  menu  for  the  next  week's  hot  lunch.  Imagine  me,  who  had 
only  helped  cook  for  four,  deciding  how  much  milk,  cocoa,  and 
sugar  to  use  for  hot  cocoa  or  for  the  creamed  dried  beef  they  liked 
or  how  much  hot  rice  and  sugar,  cinnamon,  and  milk  should  be 
used.  Various  families  would  offer  to  bring  these  foods.  After 
recess,  imagine  me  teaching  a  class  with  my  book  in  one  hand 
and  stirring  the  rice  with  another.  Sometimes  each  pupil 
brought  ajar  of  vegetable  soup  or  chili  which  would  be  stirred 
together  in  a  big  kettle,  then  rationed  out  at  noon.  We  sat  at  our 
seats  to  eat,  told  riddles,  had  Morris  sing  for  us,  or,  if  time 
permitted,  played  an  indoor  game.  The  children  took  their 
bowls  or  cups  home  to  wash,  but  we  had  chosen  a  dishwashing 
monitor  so  everybody  had  his  her  turn  at  washing  the  pots  and 
pans.  Water  had  been  put  on  to  heat  before  we  ate. 

The  last  day  of  the  school  program  was  the  picnic.  The 
children  came  in  the  morning  and  played  ball,  ran  races,  and 
played  other  games.  The  parents  came  at  noon  with  well-filled 


baskets.  After  the  visiting,  while  the  women  packed  food  and 
dirty  dishes  away,  the  older  men  played  ball  against  the 
younger  ones. 

About  two  o'clock  they  gathered  in  a  circle  and  our  little 
program  began.  One  of  my  little  girls  had  come  up  to  me  and 
said  her  father  had  some  things  he  wanted  to  say.  At  the  proper 
time,  he  rose  with  a  paper  in  his  hands  and  started  to  read  a 
poem  about  school  days.  Pretty  soon  I  pricked  up  my  ears.  I 
realized  his  poem  was  about  our  little  Maple  Grove  School. 
Then  came  the  last  lines  which  recalled  my  wading  through  a 
stream  in  September. 

It  closed  with  this  couplet: 

"If  the  directors  were  kind 

They'd  buy  a  boat 

For  their  teacher.  Miss  Fern  Moate." 

The  pupils  and  their  parents  were  hilarious.  I  don't 
know  to  this  day  how  I  felt.  I  do  know  this:  I  had  made  the  grade. 
I  was  one  of  them.  They  were  pleased  with  me. 

I  can't  praise  the  one-room  rural  school  too  highly.  The 
children  learned,  often  from  one  another's  recitations.  We  had 
no  problems  with  drugs,  cigarettes,  or  "dirty"  books.  The  years 
I  taught  in  the  one-room  school  were  some  of  the  most  reward- 
ing of  my  thirty-four  years  of  teaching. 


IX 

l^etters  of 
L^ong  cAgo 


LETTERS  OF  LONG  AGO 

Those  involved  in  the  areas  of  history,  Hterature,  sociol- 
ogy, anthropology,  and  philosophy  affirm  the  significance  of 
letters.  Indeed,  they  are  crucial  to  a  culture  and  a  society. 
Unfortunately,  the  telephone,  the  rapid  pace  of  life  today,  the 
time-consuming  glitter  of  the  mass  media-particularly  televi- 
sion-and  the  myriad  of  spectator  events  that  capture  the  minds 
of  so  many  have  conspired  to  relegate  letter  writing  to  a  minor 
position  in  our  society.  And  this  is  a  shame. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay  told  her  generation  to  "search 
the  fading  letters,  finding  steadfast  in  the  broken  binding  all 
that  once  was  I." 

And  it  was  Goethe  who  insisted,  "We  lay  aside  letters 
never  to  read  them  again,  and  at  last  we  destroy  them  .  .  .  and 
so  disappears  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  immediate  breath  of 
life,  irrecoverably  for  ourselves  and  others." 

The  marvelous  memoirs  included  in  this  chapter  lend 
authenticity  to  the  poetic  claims.  The  charm,  information, 
knowledge,  love,  and  sweet  morality  are  really  quite  special  and 
demonstrate  aptly  the  enormous  worth  and  relevance  of  letter 
writing. 

Important,  enlightening  historic  information  is  offered 
in  three  of  the  memoirs.  Jean  Lynn's  moving  selection  tells  of 
her  great  aunt's  1865  letter  in  which  she  graphically  describes 
her  experience  in  seeing  the  train  bringing  the  slain  President 
Abraham  Lincoln's  body  from  Washington,  DC  to  Springfield, 
and  she  speaks  in  defense  of  General  Sherman.  Esmarelda 
Thompson,  speaking  about  the  Civil  War,  includes  a  letter  from 
her  Uncle  John.  Another  of  America's  important  historic 
periods  is  featured  in  Owen  Hannant's  letter  written  by  his 
great  grandfather  who  was  a  part  of  the  Gold  Rush  of  1849.  The 
abject  difficulty  attendant  to  the  trek  and  the  hopes,  dreams, 
and  disappointments  of  the  gold  seekers  are  explicated. 

Stella  Hutchins  includes  a  letter  in  which  she  speaks  of 


love  for  mother  and  father  and  of  her  desire  to  teach  school. 
Even  more  interesting  is  the  step-by-step  process  of  making 
maple  syrup,  a  project  initiated  to  secure  monies  to  finance 
schooling.  Helen  Keithly's  1908  letter  to  her  grandmother 
focuses  on  a  child's  adoration  for  the  woman  and  on  the  lass's 
view  of  life  and  school  over  eighty  years  ago.  In  an  1839  letter 
from  David  Prince  to  his  sister,  submitted  by  Helen  Shelton,  the 
writer  lectures  his  sister  about  her  tastes  and  demeanor. 
Though  there  was  affection  in  the  communication,  it  aptly 
displays  the  elitism  of  university  education  in  the  era — if, 
indeed,  young  Mr.  Prince,  not  a  humble  man,  reflects  his 
schooling. 

The  other  memoirs  speak,  in  one  way  or  another,  about 
love.  Signa  Lorimer  includes  a  splendid  letter  to  her  grand- 
daughter filled  with  deep  affection  and  wonderful  advice.  Louise 
Efnor  shares  a  touching  letter  concerning  a  young  husband's 
loving  Christian  view  of  the  untimely  death  of  his  wife  and  of  his 
deep  affection  for  his  children.  Love  letters  were  included  in  the 
memoirs  of  Max  Rowe,  discussing  communications  received  by 
his  mother,  and  Katherine  Cravens  submits  an  affectionate 
letter  received  from  a  serviceman  during  World  War  II. 

It  was  Donald  Mitchell  who  asserted,  "Blessed  be  let- 
ters-they  are  our  monitors,  they  are  our  comforters,  and  they 
are  our  heart-talkers." 

If  the  memoirs  in  this  chapter  are  an  indication  of  the 
accuracy  of  his  statement,  he  is  most  surely  correct.  From  a 
bygone  time,  these  letters  instruct,  charm,  and  please. 

Alfred  J.  Lindsey 


ABE  LINCOLN'S  BODY  COMES  HOME 

Jean  Geddes  Lynn 

Laura  Geddes,  my  great  aunt,  was  born  March  23, 1844, 
near  Fountain  Green,  Illinois-the  daughter  of  Colonel  Thomas 
and  Susan  Rebecca  Geddes,  early  settlers  in  Hancock  County. 
She  married  George  Brandon,  raised  a  family,  and  lived  most  of 
her  life  in  the  Fountain  Green  area.  Laura  was  a  student  at 
Illinois  State  Normal  University  at  the  time  she  wrote  this 
letter  describing  the  passage  of  Lincoln's  funeral  train  through 
Normal  on  its  way  to  Springfield.  The  letter  was  addressed  to 
her  mother  (my  great  grandmother).  Thanks  to  the  foresight  of 
my  father,  Allen  Geddes,  the  letter  was  saved.  Our  family  is 
happy  to  be  able  to  share  this  treasure  with  others  who  may  be 
interested. 

My  dear  Mother, 

I  wrote  to  Julia  the  latter  part  of  last  week  and  I  thought 
I  would  answer  yours  during  this  week,  but  I  have  had  so  much 
writing  "to  Mr.  Edwards"  (as  the  girls  call  the  essays  on  Theory 
and  Art  of  Teaching)  to  do  lately,  I  put  if  off. 

This  has  been  a  week  long  to  be  remembered  at  Normal . 
On  Wednesday  morning  the  funeral  train  bearing  the  remains 
of  our  lamented  President  passed  through  our  little  village  on 
the  way  to  its  final  resting  place.  The  station  house  was  draped 
in  mourning  and  there  were  several  appropriate  mottoes.  They 
raised  an  arch  over  the  track.  It  was  all  wreathed  with  cedar 
and  white  plumb  blossoms  and  across  it  was  the  motto  "Go  to 
thy  rest."  The  lady  students  got  up  a  wreath  of  the  most 
beautiful  flowers  I  ever  saw  to  be  placed  on  the  coffin.  On  a  card 
was  written  "Here  is  a  man  whose  like  we  shall  never  see  again" 
on  one  side;  on  the  other  "We  bring  flowers  because  we  loved 
him,  Normal  Students."  This  card  was  fastened  on  with  the 
richest  bow  of  white  ribbon  and  crape.  Wednesday  morning  the 
teachers  had  engaged  several  boys  to  go  round  with  a  bell  to 


wake  the  students  at  three  o'clock.  They  took  a  vote  the  night 
before  to  see  how  many  could  get  up  without  having  to  be  called 
and  as  there  were  only  three  or  four,  they  said  we  must  not  set 
up  all  night  for  fear  of  sleeping  too  late  in  the  morning  and  they 
would  see  we  were  wakened  in  time. 

The  train  was  to  come  at  four  and  by  that  time  all 
Normal  and  the  neighborhood  round  were  there  waiting.  It  was 
nearly  five  when  the  Engine  came;  it  is  always  ten  minutes 
ahead.  It  had  a  life  size  picture  of  the  President  in  front  and  was 
draped  in  mourning.  Then  the  train  soon  hove  in  sight.  It 
stopped  at  where  the  roads  cross  and  the  wreath  was  put  on.  It 
passed  the  station  very  slowly  but  did  not  stop.  There  was  eight 
or  ten  cars  all  covered  with  black  and  white,  little  flags  on  each 
car  with  black  and  white  streamers,  a  large  picture  of  the 
President  on  the  engine  in  front  like  the  first  engine.  The  car  the 
coffin  was  on  was  almost  black  and  covered  with  black  and 
white.  Mr.  Edwards  said  it  was  built  in  Virginia  and  presented 
to  the  President  only  a  few  days  before  he  died  for  to  come  to  the 
fair  in  Chicago  in.  It  was  all  iron.  There  was  soldiers  standing 
guard  at  each  car  door  both  before  aiiu  behind.  The  front  cars 
was  filled  with  distinguished  men,  nrt  a  woman  on  the  train. 
His  son  did  not  pass  till  evening.  The  head  of  each  man  was 
uncovered  till  the  last  car  passed  under  the  arch.  All  stood 
silently  watching  till  the  cars  wound  slowly  round  the  hill  out 
of  sight.  "Go  to  thy  rest." 

Mother,  have  you  read  Henry  Ward  Beecher's  funeral 
sermon  on  the  death  of  the  President.  It  is  splendid,  all  of  it,  but 
the  last  part  is  in  the  most  beautiful  language  I  ever  read.  I 
would  copy  the  last  few  sentences  here  by  Libbie  has  lent  the 
paper  and  I  do  not  remember  the  connection.  Libbie's  brother 
Will  keeps  us  provided  with  all  the  reading  matter  we  have  time 
to  do  justice,  The  New  York  Herald,  Dailies,  Harper's  Weekly, 
Adantic  Monthly,  and  Our  Young  Folks. 

I  hear  a  great  many  rumors  calculated  to  tarnish  the 
fame  of  one  of  our  best  Generals.  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it. 


I  often  wish  I  could  get  the  Chicago  Journal  and  see  what  it  says 
of  General  Sherman.  I  have  not  received  a  letter  from  either 
Rob  or  Cy  this  week.  I  can  hardly  wait  till  I  get  Cy's  letter,  he 
is  going  to  send  his  photo.  Kate  and  I  were  going  up  yesterday 
to  get  ours.  It  rained  all  forenoon  and  we  did  not  have  time  in 
the  afternoon.  I  am  afraid  you  will  get  out  of  patience  reading 
my  excuses,  so  I  am  not  going  to  say  "photo"  again  till  I  send  it. 

O!  Mother  I  have  read  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  since  I  wrote 
you  last.  I  liked  it  so  much.  If  I  had  read  it  before  the  war  broke 
out  I  don't  know  but  I  might  have  turned  out  like  John  Brown. 

I  have  been  up  to  S.  School  and  Church.  The  minister 
gave  us  a  red  hot  abolition  sermon.  Just  gave  the  greatest 
cursing  I  ever  heard  to  old  Bucky,  the  rebellion,  and  sympathiz- 
ers. I  would  like  to  hear  Mr.  Walker  preach  again.  We  have  a 
minister  here  every  day  and  some  of  them  are  rather  right.  Love 
to  all.  I  hope  you  will  write  soon. 

L.A.Geddes 


A  LEGACY  FROM  UNCLE  JOHN 

Esmarelda  T.  Thomson 

My  first  exposure  to  American  history  outside  my 
mother's  family  group  was  with  a  fourth  grade  class  in  a 
Galesburg  elementary  school.  Our  pretty  young  teacher  asked 
us  if  we  knew  anything  about  the  Civil  War.  I  felt  proud  to  put 
up  my  hand,  and  when  Miss  McCabe  gave  me  the  nod,  I 
reported,  "My  grandfather  was  in  this  war."  The  teacher  asked, 
"Which  side  was  he  on?"  And  I  replied,  "My  mother's  side."  And 
so  a  family  joke  was  bom  and  I  later  discovered  my  father's 
family  supplied  me  with  two  great-grandfathers  who  served  in 
the  same  conflict. 

My  Uncle  John  gave  me  the  key  to  his  personal  desk  one 


afternoon  as  we  visited  together.  The  year  was  1943.  I  felt  a 
sense  of  urgency  in  his  words  when  he  asked  me  "to  look  after 
it."  I  agreed  and  we  spoke  of  other  things.  Three  evenings  later, 
he  died  in  his  chair  with  his  books  near  at  hand  and  his  glasses 
in  place.  It  was  a  bleak  and  sad  time  but  perhaps  a  fitting  way 
to  leave  for  this  man  who  had  filled  his  mind  with  a  world  of 
books  and  family  devotion.  I  kept  the  key  and  "looked  after"  the 
desk  during  the  unsettled  years  of  World  War  II.  I  felt  the 
solemnity  of  my  uncle's  request  but  never  more  deeply  as  when 
a  packet  from  the  desk  was  opened  several  years  later  to  reveal 
a  very  special  letter,  written  by  my  "mother's  side"  grandfather, 
John  H.  Hunter,  1st  Lt.,  31st  Regiment,  Illinois  Vol.  Infantry. 
World  War  II  was  over  by  this  date  and  my  husband,  our  little 
Tom,  and  I  were  settlinginto  our  first  post-war  home.  Thoughts 
of  my  uncle  and  his  long  protection  of  this  letter,  together  with 
his  tremendous  admiration  and  respect  for  his  Civil  War  father, 
flooded  my  mind.  I  became  the  protector  of  a  legacy  from  my 
Uncle  John.  The  letter  has  been  displayed  at  several  historical 
celebrations.  On  my  sister's  sixty-fifth  birthday,  I  had  it  copied 
for  her.  Together,  we  placed  a  copy  of  it  in  our  brother's 
seventieth  Birthday  Celebration  Book.  With  this  memoir,  I  give 
parts  of  it  to  my  readers  and  believe  my  uncle  would  be  glad. 
Surely  my  Civil  War  grandfather  would  want  to  add  the  truth 
of  his  writing  to  some  historical  record! 

The  yellowed  pages  are  fragile  as  I  look  at  them  now,  but 
the  black  ink  holds  strong  even  though  the  old  letter  is  124  years 
old.  The  writing  style  is  Spencerian  with  decorative,  right 
slanted,  rounded  letters;  it  must  have  been  made  with  a  broad 
nibbled  pen  and  good,  black  ink.  Flourishes  are  in  continuous 
evidence,  particularly  in  the  crossing  of  t's  and  in  the  beautiful 
signature.  I  can  only  marvel  at  the  pages  and  the  conditions 
under  which  the  letter  was  penned-perhaps  in  daylight  or  in  a 
lantern  lit  tent?  My  grandfather  was  an  adjutant  and  assisted 
with  orders  and  records. 

The  letter  is  dated  January  16,  1865,  with  the  location 


181 


of  Poctaligo,  South  Carolina.  On  a  current  atlas  map  it  is 
southwest  of  Charleston  close  to  a  river.  It  is  important  to 
remember  that  the  fall  of  Atlanta  opened  the  way  for  "Sherman's 
March  to  the  Sea,"  which  my  grandfather  had  experienced  with 
the  Union  army  according  to  his  writing. 

He  addressed  the  letter  to  "Mess.  Mershon,  Dilworth 
and  Co."  with  the  simple  salutation  of  "Gents."  These  men  were 
business  associates  of  my  grandfather  in  Vermont,  Illinois, 
where  he  lived  before  going  to  war  as  a  substitute  for  Lemuel 
Lindsay  of  Ipava.  Let  us  give  attention  to  some  of  his  words: 
"On  the  evening  of  the  13th  we  broke  camp  near  Beaufort  and 
took  the  road  for  Charlestown.  On  the  next  morning,  we  crossed 
the  Poctaligo  River  and  began  to  find  plenty  of  the  Johney's  in 
front  of  us,  our  regiment  was  in  front  of  the  entire  army.  The 
31st  went  ahead  to  feel  of  them.  ...  By  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  we  had  them  on  the  skedadle.  (I  say  we,  well,  I  was 
not  in  the  mix  for  the  day  before  we  left  Beaufort,  the  regiment 
received  via  New  York  one  hundred  and  ten  drafted  men  and 
substitutes  and  the  Colonel  placed  them  under  the  command 
and  supervision  of  the  undersigned. )  Of  course,  I  regretted  very 
much  that  I  could  have  no  part  in  the  glory  of  making  the 
chivalry  take  the  double  quick. . . .  Early  yesterday  morning  we 
came  in  and  took  possession  (I  say  we  now  for  Hunter  and  his 
brave  hundred  and  ten  came  in  with  their  regiment  with  a  loss 
of  only  two  men,  and  they  came  in  this  morning  safe,  they  had 
been  looking  after  chickens,  honey,  etc.)  of  Pocotaligo  Station. 
It  is  not  much  of  a  town,  only  a  station  on  the  Charlestown  and 
Savanah  R.R —  From  the  looks  of  the  camps  and  camp  grounds 
around  here,  there  must  have  been  a  big  lot  of  Johnies  here.  The 
17th  A.C.  is  here  now,  the  15th  will  be  soon  and  the  14th  will 
come  up  from  Savanah  and  then  the  Grand  Armee  will  move  on 
and  take  the  last  ditch.  Please  examine  a  map  and  you  can  tell 
better  where  we  are  than  I  can,  for  I  have  no  map.  I  wash  you 
would  tell  H.S.  Thomas  that  I  would  feel  much  obliged  if  he 
would  send  me  one  of  those  maps  that  he  has  in  the  Post  Office." 


Some  of  the  words  used  in  this  letter  intrigue  me  and 
make  me  wish  I  could  have  known  my  grandfather,  who  died 
when  my  mother  was  a  child  of  nine.  I  like  his  word  "skedadle" 
and  think  of  it  as  a  mild  term  for  a  retreating  army!  He  makes 
reference  to  "The  Rebs"  in  the  early  part  of  the  letter  but  most 
often  speaks  of  the  "Johneys."  The  reader  might  like  to  know 
that  John  H.  Hunter  was  born  in  Bowling  Green,  Kentucky,  a 
border  state.  His  father  came  from  Richmond,  Virginia,  and 
immigrated  to  Illinois,  a  free  state,  when  my  grandfather  was 
about  ten  years  old.  His  mother  was  Lucinda  Nash  from 
Tennessee. 

When  I  read  his  wish  for  a  map  and  the  message  for  his 
Postmaster  to  send  one,  I  marvel  at  his  ability  to  sort  out  the 
location  of  his  regiment's  encampment  and  the  lucid  picture  he 
creates  as  to  the  gathering  of  the  Union  forces  for  the  push  on 
"to  take  the  last  ditch"  at  Charleston,  spelled  "Charlestown"  in 
the  letter. 

In  the  closing  page  of  the  writing.  Grandfather  re- 
quested his  friends  to  show  the  letter  to  his  family  and  "tell  them 
that  I  stood  the  late  fight  first  rate."  He  also  wrote,  "Provisions 
are  again  short  but  hope  to  have  plenty  soon. .  . .  Several  large 
plantations  inside  our  pickett  lines.  They  were  all  cleaned  out 
yesterday  besides  some  others  that  were  outside  the  pickett 
lines.  Today,  there  are  orders  against  letting  any  of  the  boys 
outside  the  lines  and  so  they  will  be  safe  until  we  move  or  the 
lines  are  moved  farther  out."  In  this  portion  of  the  letter,  we  are 
brought  into  the  warfare  of  Sherman's  "March  to  the  Sea," 
which  included  an  army  traveling  light  and  "living  on  the 
country,"  according  to  Stephen  B.  Oates  in  Portrait  of  America. 
Foraging  was  a  reality  and  I  ponder  over  the  terrors  of  it. 

He  also  urged  his  friends  to  write  to  him  with  the 
sentence,  "What  in  the  world  is  the  reason  you  do  not  write  to 
me.  Calladay  gets  letters  but  there  is  none  for  me."  Word  from 
home  is  strength  for  the  soldier  and  he  made  the  universal  plea, 
"write  to  me." 


182 


The  letter  holds  two  postscripts,  one  concerning  the 
weather  which  says,  The  weather  is  pleasant  during  the  day 
but  quite  cool  at  night.  We  hope  to  take  Charlestown  by 
February  1st  and  then,  think  we  will  come  home.  Get  ready  for 
us  for,  if  alive,  we  are  sure  to  come."  This  last  statement  holds 
such  poignancy;  it  clutches  my  heart.  The  penmanship  is 
smaller  and  with  no  flourishes.  However,  the  final  sentence 
brings  some  relief  vwth  a  humorous  comment  on  Jefferson 
Davis.  It  reads,  "Notice  what  this  paper,  the  Charlestown 
Mercury,  says  of  Jeff  Davis.  They  do  say  that  although  a  very 
devout  man  that  he  uses  a  great  many  whiskey  stews." 

The  first  "P.S."  said,  "I  understand  that  William  Mellor 
got  home.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  took  New  Year's  dinner  with 
his  regiment  in  Savannah.  Give  him  my  best  wishes."  This 
identifies  his  presence  in  the  Savannah  campaign  where  Union 
communications  were  opened  up  by  sea.  Sherman  wintered  for 
a  month  there  before  making  the  drive  northward  through  the 
Carolinas  to  which  the  main  quotes  of  this  letter  refer. 

This  is  a  letter  with  glimpses  of  a  Union  infantryman  in 
the  Civil  War.  He  began  as  Sergeant  Hunter  and  gained  a  field 
promotion  to  First  Lieutenant  within  his  first  eight  months  of 
duty.  With  his  officer  rank  he  served  another  year.  His  Civil 
War  sword  stood  by  the  mantle  in  the  parlor  of  the  Hunter  home 
in  Table  Grove  in  company  with  the  more  ornate  one  of  his 
Knights  Templars  of  the  Masonic  Lodge.  These  items  made  life 
more  enjoyable  as  I  was  growing  up  in  my  Grandmother's  home. 
Each  was  a  point  of  reference  with  my  dead  Grandfather. 
Grandmother  always  called  him  "Papa."  Uncle  John  called  him 
"Pa." 

How  my  uncle  gained  this  letter  I  can  only  conjecture. 
Perhaps  the  friends  from  Vermont  saved  it  for  my  Grandfather's 
return,  or,  as  I  believe,  sent  it  to  my  uncle  after  his  father's  death 
in  1907.  The  letter  was  treasured  by  my  Uncle  John,  a  self- read 
student  of  history.  His  signature  was  similar  to  his  father's, 
though  without  the  bold  flourishes.  The  generational  stream 
holds  me  in  awe;  and  I  feel  blessed  by  family  and  country. 


LETTER  OF  A  FORTY-NINER 

Owen  Hannant 

This  letter  was  written  by  my  great  grandfather,  James 
M.  Daigh,  upon  arriving  in  California  after  making  the  long 
overland  trip  from  the  States  in  the  gold  rush  of  1849.  Born  in 
Virginia  in  1800,  he  moved  to  Illinois  while  a  young  man. 
Caught  up  in  the  gold  fever,  he  made  the  trip  when  he  was  forty- 
nine  years  old.  He  panned  for  a  time,  hauled  supplies  to  the 
miners  for  a  while,  and  then  set  up  a  store  where  he  did  quite 
well  for  a  few  years  until  he  was  murdered  in  1855.  He  is  buried 
at  Shasta  City. 

Dear  Friend  Whitaker, 

We  arrived  at  the  first  gold  diggings  today.  As  you  know 
I  took  the  river  boat  "Connecticut"  from  Naples  to  St.  Louis. 
Next  day  at  St.  Louis  I  boarded  the  "Embassy"  for  St.  Joseph. 
Our  first  death  occurred  on  this  boat.  A  young  man  named 
Thomas  Washington  died  of  cholera  on  April  12th.  His  com- 
rades buried  him  on  top  of  a  high  bluff  about  five  miles  below 
Jefferson  City.  This  death  cast  a  solemn  gloom  over  every  man 
on  board  and  bibles  blossomed  out  in  great  profusion.  But  as  no 
new  cases  developed  the  men  soon  returned  to  their  gambling, 
fighting,  and  drinking. 

Our  teams  arrived  at  St.  Joseph  and  we  began  our 
overland  trek.  The  trip  proved  hard  and  tiresome.  Many  died 
along  the  way.  At  times  the  road  seemed  endless.  It  seems  that 
Providence  has,  on  these  vast  plains,  provided  the  Indian  with 
a  retreat  where  he  may  remain,  unmolested,  for  many  years  to 
come. 

Sometimes  there  were  as  many  as  300  wagons  in  sight 
at  one  time.  The  teams  ahead  often  ate  the  grass  down  so  close 
that  there  was  little  left  for  those  that  followed.  I  have  seen 
hundreds  of  oxen  dead  along  the  trail.  The  superiority  of  the 
older  animals  was  fairly  tested  and  proven.  Most  of  the  animals 
that  died  were  young.  While  crossing  the  desert  several  of  our 


young  animals  failed  so  as  to  be  of  little  service,  one  died.  We 
had  to  leave  one  wagon  here  before  coming  to  the  Humboldt  or 
Marts  River  and  Carson  River  about  200  miles  from  the  nearest 
gold  diggings.  Many  of  the  emigrants  are  disheartened  and 
many  are  sick. 

While  I  did  not  expect  as  much  as  perhaps  some  others 
but  I  did  expect  to  make  from  three  to  ten  thousand  dollars.  I 
expect  it  yet,  Friend  Whitaker.  I  never  could  believe  I  was 
doomed  to  kneel  down  to  the  wealth  or  dictation  of  any  man.  I 
am  fully  convinced  of  that  yet.  If  I  keep  my  health  I  will  soon 
make  a  handsome  sum  of  money.  I  always  detested  the  idea  of 
making  money  by  low,  pitiful,  sneaking  advantages.  I  still 
detest  it  but  all  I  can  make  by  honest  labor  I  will  make  and  I 
believe  I  am  now  where  a  steady  lick  will  win.  Therefore  my 
motto  is  "Death  or  Victory."  If  the  latter  be  my  fortune  I  expect 
to  return  to  Pike  County  where  I  shall  spend  the  balance  of  my 
days  in  peace  and  quietness  with  my  family  and  friends  which 
seems  to  be  the  most  desirable  thing  to  me  in  this  world.  If  the 
former  then  my  bones  and  flesh  will  mingle  with  the  dust  of 
California. 

We  have  all  been  sick  more  or  less.  James  and  Arthur 
Chenoweth  were  sick  when  I  left  them  but  both  were  considered 
on  the  mend.  William  Chenoweth  died  July  26th  and  was 
buried  30  miles  this  side  of  Fort  Hall.  Roland  Griswold  died 
August  18  and  was  buried  on  Carson  River  about  200  miles  from 
the  Gold  mines.  John  Aiken  died  September  8  at  three  o'clock 
about  10  miles  from  our  camp  and  forty  miles  from  this  city.  Old 
David  Porter  died  on  the  route  somewhere  on  the  Platte  is  all 
that  have  died  from  Pike.  I  know  that  all  of  the  Chambersburg 
boys  are  well. 

I  wish  you  to  furnish  my  family  and  don't  let  them  suffer 
till  I  can  make  a  remittance  which  will  not  be  long.  I  will  write 
soon  again.  Write  me  as  soon  as  you  get  this  and  direct  it  to 
Sacremento  City,  California. 

Yours  Truly-James  Daigh 


A  LETTER  ON  MAKING  MAPLE  SYRUP 

Stella  Howard  Hatchings 

This  is  a  letter  I  sent  to  my  sister  concerning  the  making 
of  maple  syrup. 

Dear  Sister  Gladys, 

Thank  you  for  getting  me  an  invitation  to  visit  with  you 
in  the  Stickleman  home  there  in  Blue  Mound,  as  you  work  for 
your  room  and  board  while  getting  your  last  year  of  high  school. 

Luckily  for  us,  you  are  in  Macon,  and  adjoining  Chris- 
tian County.  A  job  teaching  a  country  school  in  either  county 
will  be  fine.  Are  you  keeping  your  ears  open  for  schools  where 
a  change  of  teachers  is  likely? 

I  don't  regret  that  I  resigned  my  school  and  came  home 
for  this  past  winter,  but  now  that  Mother  is  so  much  better,  I'm 
eager  to  get  back  to  teaching,  and  preferably  near  Blue  Mound. 

I  have  some  good  news.  As  I  wrote  a  month  ago,  my  bank 
account  is  depleted.  I've  worried  about  money  for  my  train  fare, 
and  the  cost  of  getting  around  to  apply  for  a  teaching  job.  I 
needed  to  earn  some  money  before  going  to  seek  a  position-but 
how? 

I  remembered  that  when  we  were  small  children  and 
lived  in  the  wooded  part  of  the  Jim  Lovelace  farm  half-way 
between  Patterson  and  Glasgow,  Dad  tapped  some  maple  trees 
and  made  syrup.  That  memory  is  dim  but  a  few  years  later  a 
neighbor.  Fairy  Martin,  and  her  friend  had  a  "sugar  camp"  near 
our  house.  They  worked  there  every  day  and  made  syrup  and 
candy.  We  don't  live  there  now,  but  there  are  maple  trees 
growing  on  Dad's  place  here  on  the  line  between  Scott  and 
Greene  counties. 

Then  I  remembered  that  Dad  used  to  tell  us  about  how 
he  had  helped  his  grandfather  Wells  make  maple  syrup. 

When  I  told  about  my  plan.  Dad  said  he  remembered 
how  it  was  done,  but  it  involved  too  much  work  and  he  didn't 


have  time  to  help  me.  I  couldn't  forget  the  idea.  After  more 
talking,  Dad  called  it  "pestering,"  he  agreed  to  tell  me  how  to  go 
about  it. 

First,  I  should  make  spiles  to  fit  into  holes  drilled  in  the 
tree  trunk.  Sumac  saplings  were  good  for  these.  Many  were 
growing  along  the  road.  In  one  afternoon  I  had  a  pile  of  Sumac 
sticks  about  one  foot  long.  The  diameter  was  about  1 1/2  inches. 
I  sawed  halfway  through  each  stick  about  three  inches  from  one 
end.  With  a  pocket  knife  I  whittled  away  the  bark  from  the  short 
end.  It  wasn't  difficult  to  pry  off  the  top  part  of  the  long  end. 

The  next  step  was  to  burn  away  the  soft  pith  that  was  in 
the  center.  I  did  that  at  the  house  with  a  tool  made  by  forcing 
a  corn  cob  on  the  end  of  a  steel  rod  with  a  very  small  diameter. 
You  remember  the  heating  stove  in  our  living  room  has  a  big 
door  with  a  little  iron  platform  out  in  front.  With  the  iron  poker 
I  raked  a  heap  of  live  coals  near  the  door,  then  opened  the  door 
a  crack  and  rushed  the  rod  into  the  coals.  It  was  soon  red-hot. 
So  was  my  hand,  even  though  I  had  on  a  double  glove.  It  was 
easy  to  push  that  hot  tool  through  the  pith.  While  the  tool  was 
heating  again,  I  scraped  out  the  pith  and  there  was  a  little 
trough. 

Dad  said  the  spiles  were  alright,  and  he  offered  to  haul 
the  big  iron  kettle  down  to  the  maple  grove.  We  loaded 
everything  into  the  wagon.  We  took  an  axe,  spade,  shovel,  the 
brace  and  bit,  all  the  gallon  buckets,  and  crocks  that  Mother 
could  spare,  and  my  spiles.  Mother  gave  me  some  strips  of  old 
sheets  to  wrap  around  the  round  end  of  the  spiles  to  fit  them 
tightly  into  the  tree. 

Dad  dug  a  pit  which  he  called  a  furnace.  On  either  side 
of  it  he  set  a  heavy  post  with  a  vee  shaped  top.  The  big  kettle 
was  swung  on  a  pole  over  the  pit.  The  ends  of  the  pole  rested 
firmly  in  the  vee  notches.  At  the  back  of  the  kettle  was  a  long 
length  of  stove  pipe  which  was  wired  securely. 

From  the  branch  we  carried  fiat  rocks  and  banked  them 
against  the  furnace  and  up  around  the  kettle.  Dad  had  done  all 


the  hard  work.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  alone. 

"Now,"  Dad  said,  "I'll  tap  one  tree.  This  is  a  big  tree  and 
I'll  drill  two  holes.  Smaller  trees  will  only  need  one." 

I  watched  as  Dad  fitted  the  inch  bit  into  the  brace  and 
soon  had  a  hole  about  two  inches  deep.  When  he  pulled  out  the 
bit  and  scraped  out  the  wet  shavings  sap  ran  out  and  down  the 
tree  trunk.  I  wrapped  a  strip  of  white  cloth  around  the  bare 
wood  end  of  a  spile  and  handed  it  to  Dad.  Gently  he  tapped  it 
into  the  hole.  You  should  have  seen  how  the  sap  raced  down  the 
little  trough  into  the  bucket  I  placed  under  the  end  of  it. 

"The  camp's  set  up  in  the  maple  grove.  The  place  is  full 
of  dead  trees  and  fallen  limbs  for  fuel,  and  you're  on  your  own," 
Dad  said  as  we  started  home. 

I  worked  all  the  next  day  tapping  trees.  I  even  tapped 
one  from  which  no  sap  came.  Icouldn'tthinkwhy.  Ilookedmore 
closely  at  the  bark  and  the  tree's  shape.  It  wasn't  a  maple.  If 
only  I  could  have  closed  up  that  hole!  Of  course,  our  brothers, 
Buell  and  Earl,  saw  it  and  reported  it  at  home.  I  tried  to  save 
face  by  saying,  "The  way  to  find  out  if  hickory  trees  ran  as  much 
sap  as  maples  was  to  tap  one." 

In  two  more  days  Mother's  pans,  buckets,  and  jars  were 
all  catching  dripping  sap.  I  was  on  the  go  from  early  morning 
till  dark  carrying  sap  from  trees  to  kettle  and  poking  tree  limbs 
or  logs  that  I  could  drag  into  that  furnace.  Then  I  could  hardly 
drag  myself  to  the  house.  A  few  times  Dad  volunteered  to  go 
after  supper  and  keep  the  fire  going  for  awhile.  If  Buell  and  Earl 
went  too,  I  always  found  a  big  pile  of  wood  beside  the  kettle 
when  morning  came.  It  had  become  a  family  project. 

Dad  had  said  between  forty  to  fifty  gallons  of  sap  must 
be  evaporated  to  make  one  gallon  of  syrup.  I  kept  a  rough  count 
of  the  sap  I  had  poured  into  the  kettle.  As  it  became  thicker  and 
darker,  I  had  to  reduce  the  fire  or  it  would  burn  on  the  sides  of 
the  kettle.  When  the  kettle  was  more  than  half  empty,  I  went 
to  the  house  for  Mother's  advice.  She  said  to  draw  the  fire  from 
under  the  kettle.  Then  when  it  had  cooled  enough,  dip  it  into  the 


big  milk  bucket  and  pour  fresh  sap  into  the  empty  kettle.  Then 
she'd  help  me  carry  it  to  the  house  to  finish  on  the  cook  stove. 

What  a  relief  it  was  to  get  the  bucket  of  sticky  stuff  safely 
into  the  kitchen! 

Mother  told  me  how  to  cleanse  the  syrup.  We  dipped  it 
into  our  dishpan  on  the  kitchen  stove.  As  it  heated  we  spread 
a  clean  white  cloth  in  the  colander  and  set  it  over  a  big  canning 
kettle. 

Mother  beat  nearly  a  dozen  eggs,  then  stirred  them  into 
the  boiling  syrup.  What  an  unappetizing  mess  it  was!  Like 
dirty  scrambled  eggs.  We  dipped  this  mess  into  the  colander. 
The  syrup  dripped  through  into  the  kettle.  The  dirty  eggs 
stayed  in  the  colander.  When  we  lifted  it  off,  the  kettle  was  half 
full  of  clear  golden  syrup. 

Mother  said  she'd  seal  up  the  syrup  while  I  returned  to 
empty  the  sap  buckets  and  start  the  fire  under  the  kettle  for 
another  batch. 

We  had  maple  syrup  on  pancakes  for  supper.  Dad  said, 
Tou've  worked  hard  for  days  and  we've  eaten  it  all  for  one  meal. 
Was  it  worth  it?" 

"But  no,"  I  told  him,  "we  have  seven  pints  sealed  up." 
Dad  couldn't  believe  it. 

"On  Saturday  I'll  take  it  to  Roodhouse  and  sell  it  for  you," 
he  said. 

When  Dad  came  home  from  Roodhouse  and  handed  me 
$28 1  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  "I  could  have  sold  that  much 
more,"  he  said. 

I'll  let  you  know  definitely  when  I'll  arrive  in  Blue 
Mound.  I'll  travel  from  Drake  by  the  C  and  A  railroad,  then  by 
interurban  to  Decatur,  and  by  Wabash  train  to  Blue  Mound.  I'll 
stay  a  week.  Hopefully  we'll  both  be  sure  of  jobs  by  then  and  can 
make  our  plans  to  go  to  Normal  for  a  term  of  summer  school. 

Love,  Stella 


P.S.  Did  you  and  the  Stickelmans  enjoy  the  maple  candy  we 
sent?  Mother  says  if  you  dissolve  two  or  three  squares  of  it  in 
a  pan  of  sugar  syrup  it  will  taste  like  the  syrup  we're  eating. 


DEAR  GRANDMOTHER 

Hazel  Keithley 

This  is  a  letter  that  I  wrote  to  my  grandmother  many  years  ago. 
It  brings  back  memories  of  my  activities  as  a  girl. 

Dear  Grandmother, 

Hi,  how  are  you  doing.  I'm  doing  fine.  School  is  going 
fine.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  have  learned  to  read  and  write, 
so  I  wanted  to  write  you  a  letter. 

I  go  to  Sunnyside  School  in  Hire  township.  We  walk  one 
mile  to  school,  after  we  eat  our  good  breakfast  Mama  fixes  for 
us. 

There  are  twenty-five  other  kids  in  our  school.  My 
teacher.  Miss  Blanche  Hardy,  has  her  hands  full;  she  teaches 
eight  grades  in  one  room.  My  teacher  rides  a  horse  to  school 
everyday.  The  boys  in  school  take  care  of  her  horse  during  the 
day. 

Miss  Hardy  teaches  us  history,  geography,  math,  spell- 
ing, physiology,  reading,  and  writing.  One  thing  very  important 
that  she  teaches  us  is  about  manners.  We  sit  in  double  seats  and 
are  taught  not  to  push  and  shove.  Ilikemy  seatmate.  Her  name 
is  Helen  Simpson.  Sometimes  I  tease  her  and  she  teases  me 
back. 

Clifi"  Zimmerman  always  keeps  the  coal  and  water 
buckets  filled  for  the  teacher. 

Miss  Hardy  always  rings  a  brass  bell  every  time  we  have 
to  be  seated.  Grandma,  I  was  real  good  today  and  yesterday,  so 


186 


Miss  Hardy  let  me  ring  the  brass  bell. 

Oh,  Grandmother,  I  wish  you  could  be  here  next  Friday. 
We  are  going  to  have  a  potluck  dinner.  Our  parents  get  to  come, 
and  the  pupils  will  present  a  program.  We  are  going  to  sing. 
Leslie  Kreps  and  Helen  Simpson  are  in  a  play.  The  rest  of  us  are 
going  to  speak  a  piece,  and  mine  will  be  "Old  Iron  Side." 

Papa  played  the  violin  last  night.  We  got  to  have 
popcorn,  and  we  played  checkers,  dominoes,  and  flinch.  Mama 
sewed  a  dress  for  me.  It's  gray  flannel  with  a  red  velvet  blouse. 
I  hope  I  get  to  wear  it  to  school. 

Papa  is  very  busy  taking  care  of  our  cows.  We  now  have 
six  new  calves,  a  lot  more  work  for  Papa.  He  gets  a  lot  of  milk 
from  our  cows.  Mama  uses  the  cream  to  make  butter  and  the 
milk  to  make  cottage  cheese.  I  think  we  have  the  best  butter- 
milk around.  The  butter  Mama  makes  is  sure  good  on  our 
popcorn  and  our  bread  that  I  eat  when  I  get  home  from  school. 

Mama  is  planning  on  raising  150  baby  chicks  again  this 
year,  if  all  goes  well.  Sometimes  Mama  lets  me  carry  the  feed 
and  water  buckets.  Everyday  I  get  to  go  and  help  gather  the 
eggs.  Mama  tells  me  I  have  to  be  very  careful  gathering  the 
eggs,  so  I  don't  crack  them. 

Grandma,  you  know  Mama,  she  does  everything  very 
nice  and  teaches  all  of  us  to  do  the  very  best  we  can  do. 

Remember  our  dog.  Frisky?  Well,  he  died.  Papa  got  us 
a  new  dog,  and  we  named  him  Rex.  Rex  is  six  months  old,  and 
he  is  black  with  white  spots  on  his  face.  Mama  doesn't  care  for 
Rex  because  he  drags  everything  up  to  the  back  door.  I'm  sure 
Enid  and  I  will  have  fun  playing  with  Rex.  Papa  always  wants 
a  dog  around  the  farm. 

Maybe  Mama  and  I  can  come  and  see  you  this  summer. 
I  sure  would  like  to  see  you. 

Love,  Your  granddaughter, 
Hazel 


A  LETTER  TO  A  SISTER 

Helen  Shepherd  Shelton 

The  following  is  the  copy  of  an  old  letter  I  treasure.  It  is 
written  by  a  brother  to  one  of  his  sisters,  dated  from  Cincinnati, 
Ohio,  on  February  23, 1839.  The  sister,  Mary,  became  my  great- 
grandmother,  and  she  evidently  loved  to  read,  as  I  do.  Perhaps 
she  was  slightly  miffed  by  her  older  brother's  patronizing, 
lecture-type  letter.   It  reads, 

Dear  Sister, 

After  so  long  procrastinating,  I  have  at  length  come  to 
the  point  in  earnest  of  writing  a  few  lines  to  you.  When  I 
received  yours,  I  little  supposed  it  would  be  so  long  before  I 
answered  it,  but  procrastination  you  know,  is  my  besetting  sin 
and  it  is  only  from  the  influence  of  that  vile  inclination  to  put  off 
without  any  good  reason  for  it,  that  you  have  been  thus  long 
deprived  of  an  answer  to  your  kind  epistle-. 

As  usual  my  health  is  good,  and  hope  yours  is  so,  too- Am 
spending  my  time  pretty  much  as  when  you  heard  from  me  last. 
You  seem  to  be  afraid  I  shall  become  so  absorbed  in  my  studies 
as  to  forget  to  think  of  home  and  those  who  are  dear  to  me  there. 
But  you  need  have  no  fears  on  that  account.  There  is  no  doubt 
but  that  my  mind  will  dwell  sufficiently  on  the  scene  of  Payson 
and  those  it  contains  and  especially  those  who  reside  in  the 
white  home  west  of  the  village.  (This  home  is  still  standing-a 
beautiful  residence).  You  seem  to  think  I  must  study  a  great 
deal  but  you  are  probably  mistaken  for  it  is  not  much  easier  for 
me  to  study  now  than  it  used  to  be.  I  attempt  something  in  the 
way  of  study,  it  is  true,  but  it  does  not  amount  to  much. 

You  are  greatly  in  love  with  the  "Lady  of  the  Manor"  it 
seems-have  never  read  it  but  for  some  it  is  a  pretty  good  sort  of 
a  novel  well  calculated  to  afford  amusement-but  not  quite  so 
profitable  as  some  reading  which  would  add  to  your  store  of 
useful  knowledge.    Fictitious  reading  affords  great  pleasure 


during  the  perusal,  but  less  probably  on  after  reflections.  Such 
reading  as  is  calculated  to  add  to  the  stock  of  substantial  and 
useful  knowledge  affords  less  pleasure  at  the  time  of  reading  for 
to  understand  it  and  treasure  it  up  in  the  memory  required. 
Work,  and  hard  work  too,  and  that  you  are  aware,  is  not  very 
pleasant.  But  the  pleasure  is  to  come  afterwards  when  we 
compare  and  reflect  upon  the  knowledge  we  have  acquired. 
Fictitious  reading  then  affords  enjoyment  for  the  time-but  that 
which  is  of  a  more  substantial  character  affords  us  the  means 
of  enjoyment  afterwards  and  an  enjoyment  which  will  increase 
the  more  we  indulge  in  it-and  it  not  only  affords  us  the  means 
of  enjoyment  to  ourselves,  but  the  means  of  being  useful  to 
others  and  thus  contributing  to  their  happiness  also.  Fictitious 
reading  is  an  intellectual  luxury  which  it  may  not  be  best  to 
abstain  from  entirely,  still,  if  carried  to  excess  it  cannot  fail  to 
be  vitiating  in  its  influence  on  the  mind,  unfitting  it  for  the  stern 
realities  of  life  and  for  more  useful  reading-and  indeed,  when 
I  think  of  the  comparative  value  of  fictitious  and  sound  reading, 
I  am  disposed  to  give  the  former  but  a  very  small  place  in  my 
estimation.  But  we  are  governed  by  our  appetites  and  passions 
perhaps  quite  as  much  as  our  reason  and  for  that  reason 
principally  I  read  novels  sometimes  myself  but  not  very  often, 
though.  There  are  some  fictitious  writings  which  would  not 
probably  injure  any  person,  but  they  are  exceptions  to  the 
general  rule  and  we  should  be  very  cautious  in  our  selection.  We 
may  conclude,  then,  that  solid  reading  which  will  afford  us 
knowledge  is  of  inestimable  importance-that  the  reading  of 
well  selected  fiction  is  in  itself  a  rather  innocent  amusement 
and  much  better  than  not  to  read  at  ail-but  that  reading  of 
every  novel  which  may  fall  in  one's  way  is  better  than  not  to  read 
anything,  I  very  much  doubt. 

Am  glad  to  hear  that  something  is  doing  towards  build- 
ing a  meeting  house  for  one  is  certainly  very  much  needed.  The 
little  schoolhouse  I  think  must  be  full  to  overflowing,  especially 
as  the  population  of  the  Great  City — Payson)  has  increased 


some  within  the  last  few  months.  The  weather  for  sometime 
past  has  been  so  warm  that  we  have  scarcely  needed  a  fire,  and 
it  has  not  only  been  warm  but  the  sun  has  beneficently  contrib- 
uted his  vivifying  rays  to  enlighten  and  beautify  all  nature.  Our 
weather  for  the  last  weeks  would  do  very  well  for  the  month  of 
April  [Here  a  small  piece  of  the  letter  was  stuck  to  the  wax  which 
sealed  it,  but  was  stuck  to  fold,  and  I  was  able  to  gently  remove 
it  to  fill  in  the  above  "last  weeks,"  and  in  the  next  line,  "April"], 
but  it  has  now  commenced  to  rain  and  I  fear  it  will  not  be  so 
pleasant  very  soon  again. 

Lectures  close  this  week  and  I  have  no  very  strong  wish 
to  remain  here  many  weeks  longer.  I  can  give  you  no  promise 
when  I  shall  show  my  face.  That  will  depend  very  much  upon 
circumstances  so  you  need  not  set  any  time  when  you  may  look 
for  me. 

Excuse  the  carelessness  of  this  but  accept  much  love 
from  your  affectionate  Brother 

Mary  A.  Prince  David  Prince,  Jr. 

And  on  the  back  of  the  very  fragile,  yellowed  hand- 
written folded  letter  is  this  P.S.  "Give  my  respects  to  all  my 
friends,  the  names  are  too  numerous  to  mention.  Sophia's 
(another  sister)  kind  letter  was  received  day  before  yesterday 
and  shall  be  answered  very  soon.  The  $5.00  enclosed  was  very 
acceptable.  Do  answer  this  immediately  and  tell  me  all  the 
news. 

D.  Prince 


A  LETTER  TO  JULIE 

Signa  Lorimer 

This  letter  to  Julie,  my  granddaughter,  is  part  of  a  series 
of  letters  that  I  began  writing  to  her  on  her  first  birthday.  At  the 
time  this  letter  was  written  Julie  lived  in  LaGrange,  Illinois. 
Julie  is  now  28  years  old  and  lives  with  her  husband  in 
Rochester,  Minnesota.  On  January  18,  1989,  they  became  the 
happy  parents  of  a  baby  boy,  Eric. 

This  letter  I  am  enclosing  was  written  to  Julie  when  she 
was  nine  years  of  age. 

Dear  Julie: 

Today  is  your  ninth  birthday.  A  little  girl  once  said  to  me 
on  her  ninth  birthday,  "This  is  my  best  birthday.  Do  you  know 
why?"  I  really  didn't.  "I'll  tell  you  why,"  she  confided.  "When 
you're  ten  you  are  old,  and  when  you're  eight  you  are  young.  But 
nine  is  in  between." 

You  may  wonder  who  gave  me  this  bit  of  insight.  Can 
you  guess?  It  was  your  mother  when  she  was  nine  years  old. 
Now  you  are  nine.  Dear  Julie,  I  hope  you  will  always  remember 
this  special  year.  The  babyhood  years  are  over.  You  are  at  the 
noontide  of  childhood.  Every  day  is  a  fresh  adventure.  The 
future  is  mysteriously  far  off.  One  day  at  a  time  to  be  enjoyed 
and  savored.  Happy  birthday,  Julie,  with  nine  times  my  heart! 

You  are  still  young  enough  to  enjoy  a  story.  This  story 
is  about  a  tiny  stone  that  I  found  one  day  on  the  beach.  You 
know  how  much  fun  it  is  to  look  for  pretty  stones  that  have  been 
washed  up  by  the  tide?  One  day  I  was  looking  for  agates.  Do  you 
know  what  agates  are?  Perhaps  Craig  has  some  marbles  made 
of  agates.  When  they  are  polished  they  are  very  beautiful. 
Sometimes  you  have  to  look  for  a  long  time  until  you  can  find 
one.  After  a  long  fruitless  search  I  was  about  ready  to  give  up 
looking  when  suddenly  my  eyes  happened  upon  a  shiny  green 
stone.  It  was  small.  But  there  was  no  doubt  in  my  mind.  My 


long  search  was  rewarded.  I  had  found  what  I  was  looking  for. 
A  smooth,  translucent  stone.  The  color  of  turquoise.  I  held  it 
towards  the  light.  A  perfect  gem.  I  felt  its  smoothness  against 
the  palm  of  my  hand.  Every  bit  of  roughness  had  been  churned 
away  by  the  constant  grinding  of  the  waves.  I  was  happy. 

With  my  treasure  clutched  in  my  hand  I  headed  for  the 
agate  store  near  the  beach.  In  the  window  were  many  varieties 
ofagates,  polished  and  for  sale.  My  stone  was  not  for  sale.  Itwas 
my  own  and  I  would  always  treasure  it.  I  had  looked  a  long  time 
for  it.  And  now  it  was  mine. 

Carefully  placing  my  stone  on  the  counter  I  eagerly 
questioned  the  clerk,  "How  much  is  it  worth?"  Not  that  I 
intended  to  sell  it.  But  I  needed  someone  to  appreciate  my  find. 
Someone  to  tell  me,  "You've  got  a  real  stone  there,  little  girl.  A 
real  pretty  stone." 

The  clerk  gave  my  stone  a  swift  and  practiced  look.  Then 
he  laughed.  "Just  a  piece  of  glass,"  he  said.  "A  chip  broken  off 
a  fisherman's  float.  Not  worth  a  thing." 

I  was  stunned.  And  suddenly  ashamed.  Stumbling  out 
of  the  store  I  threw  the  stone  into  my  pocket.  Then  I  flung  it 
away.  Just  a  piece  of  green  glass! 

That  evening  I  sat  beside  the  lake  watching  the  white 
foam  churning  against  the  boulders.  The  waves  crashed  against 
the  rocks,  but  a  few  yards  from  the  wild  foam  were  gouged  out 
rocks  into  which  the  turbulent  waters  had  been  splashed.  In 
these  recesses  were  quiet,  still  pools  of  water.  Looking  into 
these  tranquil  waters  I  was  reminded  of  my  green  stone.  I 
remembered  that  it  too  had  been  lovely  and  smooth  just  as  these 
quiet  waters  were.  Then  it  was  that  I  felt  a  real  sadness.  How 
I  wished  that  I  had  saved  that  stone.  It  had  been  beautiful  to 
me  when  I  believed  it  was  an  agate.  Nothing  had  really  changed 
except  the  label.  I  had  learned  too  late  that  "beauty  is  in  the  eye 
of  the  beholder."  I  had  held  beauty  in  my  hand  and  had  thrown 
it  away. 

Why  am  I  telling  you  about  a  little  piece  of  green  glass 


that  I  found  one  day  on  the  beach?  So  that  as  you  grow  olderyou 
won't  be  misled  by  labels.  So  that  when  you  find  beauty  you  will 
hang  on  to  it.  There  is  much  about  us  that  is  sordid  and  ugly. 
There  is  much  that  is  wonderful  too.  You  are  the  judge  of  what 
is  important  and  grand  in  your  own  life.  No  one  can  take  that 
judgment  away  from  you  unless  you  deliberately  or  carelessly 
throw  it  away.  When  you  are  tempted  to  substitute  another 
person's  valuations  for  your  own,  perhaps  you  will  remember 
the  story  about  my  stone  and  how  I  once  held  beauty  in  my  hand 
and  let  it  go. 

Remember  when  you  and  I  saw  "You're  a  Good  Man, 
Charlie  Brown"  and  how  we  laughed  when  Charlie  Brown  put 
a  paper  sack  over  his  head  when  he  saw  the  beautiful  little  red 
headed  girl?  I  think  we  all  have  a  little  of  the  Charlie  Brown 
complex  in  us.  We  are  too  shy  or  too  embarrassed  or  too  unsure 
of  ourselves  to  grasp  an  opportunity  when  it  comes.  On  the 
other  hand  we  wouldn't  want  to  be  like  Lucy  who  knows  all  the 
answers!  Still  we  need  the  courage  to  stay  by  our  convictions 
and  our  sense  of  values  regardless  of  what  others  may  say  or 
think.  It's  easy  to  be  wishy-washy.  It's  easy  to  go  along  with  the 
crowd.  It's  hard  to  stay  by  your  own  values  when  others  are 
trying  to  pull  you  their  way.  It's  hard  to  choose  the  beautiful 
when  the  shoddy  seems  more  attractive. 

I  know  that  you  like  to  get  away  by  yourself  occasionally 
to  work  on  projects  that  you  have  set  up  for  yourself  to  do.  Some 
might  call  this  solitude.  Orbetteryet,  creative  solitude.  What- 
ever the  label,  hang  on  to  these  creative  moments.  The  loss  of 
quiet  in  your  life  would  be  a  great  tragedy.  Sometimes  we  need 
time  to  do  nothing  at  all.  And  at  other  times  we  need  to  be  quiet 
so  that  we  can  listen  to  God.  A  Russian  novelist  named 
Dostoevski  once  said,  "The  one  essential  condition  of  human 
existence  is  that  man  should  be  able  to  bow  down  before 
sometime  infinitely  great."  You  see  reverence  is  a  precious 
thing.  Our  universe  is  so  ordered  that  if  we  are  blind  to  its  real 
values  and  to  the  deep  traditions  of  our  culture  we  harm 


ourselves  as  well  as  others.  God  does  not  die  if  we  deny  Him,  but 
something  in  ourselves  dies  when  we  no  longer  listen  to  His 
voice. 

Would  you  like  to  hear  what  happened  one  day  when  you 
were  a  very  little  girl  just  three  years  old?  Something  beautiful 
happened  to  me  and  this  time  I  held  onto  it.  One  morning  you 
and  I  were  sitting  by  ourselves  at  the  kitchen  table  ready  to  eat 
our  breakfast.  You  told  me  that  you  had  learned  to  say  grace. 
So  we  folded  our  hands  while  you  solemnly  prayed,  "Come,  Lord 
Jesus,  be  thou  our  Guest,  and  let  these  gifts  to  us  be  blessed." 
Scarcely  had  you  ended  your  prayer  when  with  shining  eyes  you 
hastened  to  explain  to  me,  "Mommie  says  when  I  say  grace  the 
Lord  Jesus  comes  and  sits  right  here  beside  me."  "He's  right 
here,"  you  added  happily,  placing  your  hand  on  the  bench 
between  us. 

Suddenly  there  came  over  me  the  consciousness  of 
something  great  and  real.  Something  I  had  lost  and  rediscov- 
ered. I  had  known  the  wonder  of  the  Presence  in  my  mind.  But 
now  in  a  flood  of  awareness  I  felt  the  wonder  in  my  heart.  You 
gave  me  that  day  a  fresh  outlook,  a  new  understanding.  Only 
the  childlike  can  walk  with  the  Eternal.  That  day  I  held  beauty 
in  my  hand. 

Dear  Julie,  here  is  my  birthday  wish  as  you  enter  the 
mystical,  magical  land  of  nine,  going  on  ten.  I  hope  you  vwll 
hang  on  tightly  to  the  convictions  you  now  possess,  the  values 
that  have  no  price  tags.  I  hope  you  will  appreciate  what  is  true 
and  lovely  regardless  of  the  labels  of  others.  These  values  are 
yours  and  no  one  can  take  them  away  from  you  so  long  as  you 
hold  onto  them  and  never  let  them  go.  I  know  this  is  true.  For 
I  once  held  a  beautiful  stone  in  my  hand. 

Love,  Grandmother 


190 


A  LETTER  EDGED  IN  BLACK 

Louise  E.  Efnor 

Grandma's  "keepsake"  box  held  a  great  fascination  for 
me  as  a  child.  Her  son  had  hewn  the  box  out  of  native  walnut 
lumber  and  attached  a  heavy  metal  clasp  to  it  so  Grandma  could 
lock  her  treasures  away  from  such  an  eager  little  curiosity- 
seeker-me!  As  a  child  I  would  wait  patiently  (sometimes  not  so 
patiently,  fidgeting  first  on  one  foot  and  then  the  other)  for 
Grandma  to  unlock  her  precious  box  and  sort  through  her 
"treasures,"  hoping  there  would  be  a  story  forthtelling. 

Time  has  taken  its  toll;  the  years  have  sped  by  and 
Grandma  has  long  since  entered  her  home  in  glory.  But  even 
today  her  "Iceepsake"  box  of  treasures  holds  the  same  fascina- 
tion as  of  yesteryear. 

Way  in  the  bottom  of  the  box  are  some  very  old  coins, 
among  them  some  Indianhead  pennies,  a  buffalo  nickel  or  two, 
a  victory  dime,  and  some  Canadian  coins,  too.  Here's  Grandma's 
pension  certificate  from  the  government,  and  some  old  deeds  to 
property  sold  long  ago  and  forgotten. 

One  of  my  favorites  from  the  box  is  a  letter  edged  in 
black!  The  envelope  and  notepaper  have  a  black  border  around 
them  and  were  sent  to  relatives  and  dear  friends  living  at  a 
distance  to  tell  of  a  death  in  the  family.  This  one  is  addressed 
to  my  Grandma,  Cynthia  Green,  Blandinsville,  Illinois,  and  is 
from  her  nephew  James  Mackey  in  Fort  Smith,  Arkansas. 
Dear  Aunt, 

I  come  to  you  this  morning  in  the  sweet  hour  of  prayer  in 
the  deepest  sorrow  and  gloom  that  has  past  over  myself  in  a 
good  many  years.  Dear  Aunt,  pray  with  me  while  I  take  you  to 
the  bedside  of  my  dying  little  angel  wife  and  mother.  Dear  Aunt, 
the  sweet  little  doll  past  away  from  this  world  of  toil  and  trouble, 
pain  and  sorrow,  to  that  happy  home  so  bright  and  fair,  where 
sunshine  shall  ever  be,  where  no  darkness  nor  gloom  ever  come, 
where  all  immortals  sleep  in  peace,  on  last  Thursday  afternoon 


at  2  o'clock  at  the  Mount  Carmel  Hospital  in  Pittsburg,  Kansas, 
July  5. 

Dear  Aunt,  my  dear  wife  and  mother  went  from  this 
world  of  sorrow  to  that  sweet  land  of  flowers  and  met  her  Savior 
with  right  hand  of  fellowship.  But  the  brokenhearted  husband 
and  father  was  left  behind  with  two  children  which  are  more 
than  sweet  life  to  me.  They  are  my  guide,  my  comfort,  and  my 
pleasure  in  this  hour  of  sad  bereavement.  But,  my  dear  Aunt, 
we  certainly  shall  meet  on  that  happy  shore  where  parting 
words  shall  be  no  more.  Dear  Aunt,  bow  your  feeble  head  in 
prayer  when  you  read  this  letter  and  pray  for  me  and  my  little 
boys.  May  God  help  you  is  my  prayer.  My  little  ones  are  Eugene, 
2  1/2  years,  and  Laury  Larime,  19  months — they  are  so  sweet. 
They  are  all  I  have  to  live  for  now  and  so  much  pleasure  to  me, 
and  Vernie  loved  them  so  well. 

Hoping  all  are  well.  Trusting  I  may  hear  from  you  soon, 
I  remain  your  loving  nephew  and  children, 

James  W.  Mackey 

Did  you  note  the  love  and  compassion  in  the  letter  as 
James  addresses  his  "Dear  Aunt"  and  he  mentions  his  angel 
wife  and  his  two  little  boys?  Certainly,  close  family  ties  must 
have  existed  in  this  generation  and  I  wonder  if  they  are  so  today. 
This  letter  leaves  me  wondering  what  happened  to  James  and 
his  two  little  boys-Did  he  remarry  and  did  the  boys  grow  to 
manhood?  I  heard  nothing  of  this  family  as  a  child;  perhaps  I 
shall  have  to  travel  to  Forth  Smith,  Arkansas  now  in  these 
golden  years  of  mine  and  search  out  these  cousins  mentioned  in 
"A  Letter  Edged  in  Black." 


ROMANTIC  LETTERS 

Max  L.  Rome 

Nellie  C.  Moyes  was  born  in  1 889  in  Pontoosuc,  Hancock 
County,  Illinois.  In  those  days  of  dirt  roads  and  horse-and- 
buggy  and  steamboat  travel  on  the  Mississippi  River  from 
Pontoosuc,  Nellie,  until  she  reached  her  "twenties,"  never  got 
farther  from  home  than  Burlington,  Iowa-fifteen  miles  upriver- 
and  Fort  Madison,  Iowa-five  miles  downriver.  This  was  true, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  main  line  of  the  Santa  Fe  Railroad 
between  Chicago  and  Kansas  City  stopped  some  trains  in 
Pontoosuc. 

By  the  time  Nellie  enrolled  in  Elliott's  Business  College, 
Burlington,  Iowa,  in  1908,  she  was  an  attractive  nineteen-year- 
old  wdth  beautiful  blonde  hair,  to  whom  a  number  of  young  men 
from  Pontoosuc  and  nearby  Dallas  City  "paid  court." 

By  1909  her  "steady"  was  a  handsome  young  man  from 
Dallas  City,  Leaf  Knight.  In  the  fall  of  1909,  Leaf  enrolled  in 
Medical  School  in  Chicago,  and  their  romance  continued  by 
correspondence.  I  have  the  letters  and  cards  that  Leaf  wrote  to 
Nell  from  Chicago,  including  a  letter  in  which  he  sends  her  a 
diamond  engagement  ring  and  later  letters  from  both  Leaf  and 
ayoung  man,  Guy  Rowe,  who  came  to  Dallas  City  from  Oskaloosa, 
Iowa,  via  Gem  City  Business  College,  Quincy,  Illinois  in  1912  to 
become  Assistant  Cashier  of  Farmer's  State  Bank  of  Dallas 
City. 

Leaf  wrote  to  Nell  from  Chicago  on  June  12,  1910. 

Dear  Nell, 

Gee,  but  I  wish  you  were  here.  I  have  two  tickets  to  "My 
Cinderella  Girl"  at  the  Whitney  for  tonight  and  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  go  alone.  There  are  two  girls  rooming  next  to  us  and  I 
may  ask  one  of  them  to  go,  although  they  are  not  my  style.  I  have 
to  have  somebody.  I  don't  know  whether  she  will  go,  but  I  think 
she  wall  as  she  is  only  a  young  girl-about  sixteen. 


They  are  a  silly  pair-the  kind  that  wear  big  hats,  high- 
heeled  shoes  and  paint  a  little.  You  know  the  brand.  I've  got  to 
have  somebody. 

Why  can't  you  come  up  here  and  get  a  position  as  soon  as 
you  get  out  of  school?  There  are  hundreds  of  them  and  a  girl  that 
attends  to  business,  as  I  know  you  would,  could  certainly  make 
good. 

When  I  got  in  the  other  night  the  train  that  brought  me 
back  from  you  was  about  three  hours  late  so  I  went  right  to  bed, 
but  I  was  not  destined  to  stay  there  long.  Horrors,  the  bed  was 
full  of  bed  bugs-I  had  not  slept  in  that  bed  before.  When  I 
turned  on  the  light  I  saw  the  bed  was  literally  alive  with  them. 
I  slept  on  the  couch  the  remainder  of  the  night! 

The  next  day  I  raised  the  roof  with  the  landlady.  She  did 
something  to  get  rid  of  them  by  that  evening. 

Well,  I'll  cut  this  short  as  I  don't  expect  bed  bug  stories 
are  very  interesting  to  a  college  girl.  Write  soon. 

Leaf 

Leaf  wrote  Nell  again  two  weeks  later,  on  June  23, 1910. 

Dear  Nell, 

I  thought  I'd  be  able  to  go  down  home  for  a  few  days  this 
week,  but  my  exams  are  lasting  longer  than  expected.  I  study 
most  of  the  time  in  the  day  and  go  out  someplace  every  evening. 
I  have  gone  to  all  of  Chicago's  parks  and  a  good  many  shows. 

As  soon  as  my  last  exam  is  finished,  I'm  coming  right 
down  to  see  you.  It  makes  no  difference  whether  you're  in 
Burlington  or  Pontoosuc.  What  will  I  do  if  you  decide  to  take 
that  job  in  Denver? 

Looks  as  if  you  could  come  up  and  pay  me  a  visit 
sometime  this  summer.  Don't  you  know  someone  up  here  you 
could  visit?  If  not,  fake  an  acquaintance  with  someone  up  here, 
and  I'll  see  that  you  have  good  care  while  here. 

Leaf 


His  next  correspondence  to  Nell  is  dated  June  16,  1911. 

Dear  Nell, 

Nell,  here  is  that  long  promised  diamond.  I'm  ashamed 
for  having  you  waiting  so  long.  It  was  the  most  promising 
looking  stone  for  the  money  so  I  bought  it.  Write  and  tell  me  as 
soon  as  you  get  this  whether  it  is  all  right  or  not  and  if  you  should 
return  it  at  once  so  that  I  can  have  it  changed.  Hoping  to  hear 
from  you  that  it  is  all  right  and  that  you  are  well  again  and 
gaining  in  flesh  and  strength.  I  remain 

Yours  lovingly,  Leaf 

P.S.  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  put  this  on  your  finger,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  won't  get  to  see  you  very  soon  though  I  would  like  to 
better  than  anything  I  know  of 

The  letters  from  Leaf  all  carried  2(Z  postage  and  the 
postcard  1(2.  As  I  recall  those  were  the  postal  rates  into  the 
1930s.  As  I  noted  earlier,  Guy  Rowe  arrived  in  Dallas  City  in 
1912  and  soon  became  part  of  the  young  single  group  which 
included  Nell.  They  were  drawn  together  while  Leaf  continued 
his  medical  studies  in  Chicago,  seldom  getting  back  to  the 
Dallas  City  area.  In  December,  1912,  Nell  gave  Guy  some 
handkerchiefs  on  which  she  had  beautifully  sewn  his  initials  as 
a  Christmas  present  and  for  his  January  2  birthday.  This  was 
his  thank  you  note: 

Dear  Nelle, 

I  confess  I  couldn't  wait  so  I  opened  the  package  at  noon 
today. 

Nelle,  they  are  fine  and  the  initial  is  so  nicely  done.  I  like 
the  colored  letter  too,  for  I  never  saw  any  but  white,  and  this 
lends  individuality.  I  shall  only  use  them  on  very  special 
occasions.  I  appreciate  them  the  more  becauseyou  made  them. 


Please  accept  my  sincere  thanks. 

Wish  we  could  dance  tonight,  don't  you?  Wishing  you  a 
Merry  Xmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year. 

Fondly,  Guy 

As  time  went  on  the  close  relationship  of  Nelle  and  Guy 
escalated,  and  her  relationship  with  Leaf  deteriorated  to  the 
point  that  the  engagement  was  broken .  She  liked  Guy's  warmth 
and  zest  for  life.  Guy  was  thoughtful  and  kind  to  Nelle,  and 
never  a  day  went  by  without  his  genuinely  praising  her  for  some 
facet  of  her  personality  or  for  something  she  had  done  or  cooked 
for  him. 

By  the  spring  and  summer  of  1916,  Nelle  and  Guy  were 
deeply  in  love,  and  he  would  often  send  a  note  to  her,  quoting 
poetry.  Here  are  two  examples: 

Nelle,  John  Keats  had  you  in  mind  when  he  wrote 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever; 
It's  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness. 

Love,  Guy 
My  friend  Lord  Byron  and  I  were  talking  about  you  and 
got  so  inspired  that  we  wrote 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climbs  and  starry  skies; 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  Heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

I  LOVE  YOU 
Guy 


Nelle  and  Guy  were  married  in  October,  1916.  In 
August,  1921,  their  first  child  was  born-ME.  In  May,  1924,  my 
brother  Edward  was  born.  Nelle  and  Guy  stayed  in  love  through 
good  times  and  bad,  until  he  died  in  1963.  Her  death  followed 
in  1967. 


A  WORLD  WAR  II  LOVE  LETTER 

Katherine  Nola  Thornton  Cravens 

The  years  of  World  War  II  may  have  produced  more  love 
letters  than  any  other  era  in  the  history  of  the  world.  The  war 
and  its  effects  reached  to  the  far  corners  of  the  earth.  Fighting 
men,  married  and  single,  were  sometimes  gone  for  years  with- 
out a  leave  of  absence.  Letters  written  and  received  helped  to 
relieve  the  pressure  of  the  seriousness  of  their  position. 

The  soldier  sometimes  poured  out  his  feelings  with 
words  he  may  never  have  written  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances. The  love  for  a  girl  back  home  often  gave  a  man  the 
incentive  he  needed  to  carry  on  in  the  face  of  great  adversity.  A 
sweetheart  represented  the  possibility  of  marriage,  children, 
and  the  continuity  of  his  life. 

On  March  25, 1945, 1  met  Private  Joe  Seresin  in  Temple, 
Texas.  Joe,  a  young  man  from  New  York,  was  taking  his  basic 
training  at  Camp  Hood,  near  Killeen,  Texas. 

Over  a  period  of  fourteen  months.  Private  First  Class, 
Joseph  Seresin  wrote  me  at  least  one-hundred  love  letters,  all 
classics.  I,  like  many  young  girls  of  the  time,  received  love 
letters  from  several  service  men  during  the  war  years.  And 
many  service  men  were  the  recipient  of  love  letters  from  more 
than  one  girl. 

I  remember  Joe  as  a  great  guy.  I  often  wonder  if  he  ever 
thinks  of  me.  I  hope  he,  like  myself,  has  had  a  happy  life. 


Following  is  one  of  Joe's  letters  to  me. 

Dearest  Darling  Kay, 

I  love  you.  I've  finally  finished  the  house  I  was  building 
for  the  lieutenant  and  it  is  by  far  the  best  house  around  here  and 
possibly  on  the  island,  or  at  least  I  like  to  think  it  is,  for  I've  not 
seen  anything  to  equal  it,  in  all  the  time  I've  been  here.  The 
lieutenant  likes  it  very  much.  For  this  past  week,  he  couldn't 
stay  away  and  could  hardly  wait  for  me  to  finish.  I  had  to  smile 
at  him  at  times.  Anything  I  wanted,  I  just  had  to  say  the  word 
and  off  he  went  to  get  it.  The  past  two  days  he's  even  been 
working  himself  on  the  painting.  He  worked  pretty  late  last 
night  to  paint  the  ceiling  white.  He  had  a  large  fiorescent  light 
in  the  room  that  gives  off  a  brilliant  white  light.  The  interior  is 
all  plywood  in  ceiling,  walls,  and  floor  and  the  closet  is  too.  To 
finish  the  plywood,  we  used  a  blow  torch  to  burn  the  wood  and 
bringout  the  pretty  grain  in  the  wood,  then  we  varnished  it.  The 
result  was  very  pretty.  We  even  had  two  Jap  PWs  painting.  I 
finished  the  shower  in  stainless  steel.  It'd  be  a  lovely  little 
house— even  in  the  States.  I  figure  it'd  cost  $2,000  to  build  the 
same  house  in  Gillespie.  For  its  size  it  compares  in  beauty  with 
the  homes  I  used  to  build.  The  house  has  a  large  closet  and  I 
built  five  shelves,  twelve  inches  wide  and  equally  spaced  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  That's  one  thing  a  house  really  needs  is  plenty 
of  closet  space.  I  even  made  built-in  bookcases  for  the  lieuten- 
ant. What  my  next  job  is  I  don't  know  but  there's  plenty  of  work. 

Outside  there  is  a  full  moon  and  it's  clear  and  bright.  It 
reflects  its  silver  rays  off  the  swift  moving  cumulus  clouds.  The 
stars  are  like  pin-point  diamonds  in  a  blue  sky.  The  night  is  cool 
and  refreshing.  We  have  no  signs  of  autumn  as  there  are  in 
Gillespie.  Everything  is  green  and  luxuriant  in  growth.  Possi- 
bly the  only  sign  of  the  lateness  of  the  year  is  the  shortness  of 
the  day-it's  getting  dark  around  6:00  p.m.  But  tonight  is  lovely 
and  would  be  fine,  to  have  someone  to  love.  I'd  love  to  be  with 
you,  in  your  car,  parked  in  a  quiet  and  pretty  spot-the  lake 


194 


would  be  fine  with  the  Autumn  moon  reflecting  a  silver  stream 
across  the  lake,  to  bring  out  the  glow  of  love  in  your  eyes  and  the 
softness  of  your  lips.  We  would  act  with  our  feelings-thinking 
perhaps-or  loving  each  other,  with  the  radio  in  a  sentimental 
mood.  Time  seems  negligible  in  moments  like  this-for  our 
wildly  beating  hearts  would  never  let  us  sleep  until  our  love  had 
been  given  and  returned,  for  love  is  the  essence  that  would  bring 


a  wonderful  sleep.  I'd  love  to  have  you  cuddle  up  in  my  arms  and 
go  to  sleep,  while  I  smoothed  your  hair  or  felt  for  the  beat  of  your 
heart.  I'd  hold  you  to  me  tenderly  and  think  of  how  fortunate  we 
were  to  have  found  our  loved  one  and  to  be  able  to  love  so  deeply 
and  pleasantly.  Until  later,  Darling,  I  give  you  my  love  and 
would  that  I  could  hold  you  in  my  arms  tonight. 

Your  one  and  only-Joe  Seresin 


X  ^he  Unforgettahle  l^ast 


THE  UNFORGETTABLE  PAST 


Memory  is  not  as  simple  as  it  seems.  It  is  not  merely  a 
recorder  of  experience,  like  a  filing  cabinet,  into  which  every- 
thing goes  that  is  part  of  someone's  past.  It  is  a  subtle  process 
of  interpretation.  It  keeps  only  what  is  important  to  the 
present-day  self. 

Failures,  frustrations,  and  anxieties  may  be  horribly 
oppressive  when  they  occur,  but  usually  they  are  not  of  lasting 
importance  to  us.  We  can't  build  a  satisfying  self-image  on 
them,  so  most  of  them  fade  from  our  retrospective  view. 

Positive  matters,  like  stable  relationships,  new  experi- 
ences, personal  achievements,  and  meaningful  work  are  handled 
much  differently.  They  are  slowly  edited  into  brief  symbolic 
expressions  of  our  self-worth,  our  uniqueness.  And  they  remain 
with  us.  They  become  part  of  the  foundation  of  our  security  and 
our  confidence. 

Milton  A.  Powell's  "He  Started  Me  Fishing"  is  a  good 
example.  He  tells  of  an  old  fisherman  who  took  an  interest  in 
him,  encouraged  him  to  pursue  commercial  fishing,  and  then, 
faced  with  death,  pointed  his  life  toward  preaching.  That 
episode  may  not  have  been  important  at  the  time,  but  after 
years  had  passed,  and  Powell  had  finally  become  a  preacher,  it 
emerged  as  a  key  aspect  of  his  sense  of  identity.  That  memory 
is  full  of  meaning  for  him. 

Marie  Freesmeyer's  "Here  Comes  the  Showboat"  is  based 
on  an  experience  that  was  obviously  remembered  because  it 
was  an  exciting  adventure,  a  first-time  encounter  with  the 
magic  world  of  theater  on  a  riverboat.  But  the  careful  reader 
will  also  note  that  it  was  part  of  the  author's  sense  of  growing 
up.  As  she  says,  "I  was  fourteen,  old  enough  to  be  allowed  to  go 
to  such  a  questionable  place  as  a  showboat."  The  experience 
was  meaningful  because  it  symbolized  her  passage  into  another 
level  of  maturity. 


Robert  L.  Brownlee's  harrowing  experiences  taking  heavy 
steam  engines  across  Warren  County  bridges  were  also  not  just 
exciting.  They  were  personally  meaningful.  They  testified  to 
his  ability  to  keep  a  cool  head  in  dangerous  circumstances,  even 
as  a  youngster.  No  wonder  he  remembered  those  episodes. 

Experiences  that  are  stressful  but  come  out  well  in  the 
long  run  are  apparently  very  apt  to  become  preserved  in 
memory.  "Fleeing  Beardstown  without  Brakes"  by  Helen  Shep- 
herd Shelton  is  a  good  example.  Another  one  is  Margaret  Kelley 
Reynolds' "Hot  Lunch  at  Brewster  School:  The  Old  Hen."  The 
children  may  not  have  had  chicken  and  noodles  that  day,  but  the 
young  cook  finally  conquered  the  old  hen-and  in  the  process, 
created  a  memory  that  was  shared  by  everyone  at  school. 

As  her  vivid  memoir  so  clearly  demonstrates,  when  we 
remember,  our  feelings  are  resurrected  too.  We  relive  what  we 
have  lived  before,  and  we  derive  meaning  from  that  preserved 
experience.  Our  recollections  may  seem  like  the  discarded 
remnants  of  a  shattered  globe,  a  heap  of  fragments;  but  they  are 
really  condensations  of  our  emotional  lives-symbolic  episodes 
that  tell  us  who  we  are. 

As  columnist  George  F.  Will  said  several  years  ago,  "Our 
continuity  is  more  in  our  memories  than  in  our  physiologies. 
Without  memory  we  could  not  have  a  self  in  any  season.  The 
more  memories  you  have,  the  more  'you'  you  have." 

Memory  is,  then  a  kind  of  compensation  for  growing 
older.  It  is  an  expansion  of  the  self  And  the  act  of  remembering 
not  only  preserves  us,  for  a  time,  but  provides  continuity  with 
our  past-our  earlier  selves.  Ultimately,  memory  interprets  us 
to  ourselves.  So,  the  memoirs  in  this  miscellaneous  section  of 
Tales  from  Two  Rivers  V,  like  those  throughout  the  book,  are  not 
just  things  preserved,  they  are  selves  more  deeply  understood. 
And  if  we  read  them  carefully,  we  can  not  only  learn  what 
happened,  but  what  those  experiences  mean  to  the  people  who 
cherish  them. 

John  E.  Hallwas 


199 


HE  STARTED  ME  FISHING 

Milton  A.  Powell 

In  the  spring  of  1928  Jurd  Flemming  began  to  teach  me 
how  to  fish  in  the  IlHnois  River  near  Browning,  in  southeast 
Schuyler  County,  Illinois.  Sixty  years  later  I'm  still  fishing. 

My  family  had  moved  from  the  Center  Ridge  area  in  the 
northwest  part  of  the  county  two  months  earlier.  I  met  Mr. 
Flemming  the  first  Sunday  we  attended  the  Browning  Method- 
ist Church.  He  was  not  the  kind  of  man  I  expected  when  I 
learned  he  was  a  commercial  fisherman.  I  had  always  heard 
that  men  who  worked  on  the  river  were  rough  men,  lazy,  and 
prone  to  vulgarity.  Mr.  Flemming  was  the  opposite.  He  was  one 
of  the  hardest  working  men  I  ever  met.  Not  only  was  he  a 
commercial  fisherman,  he  was  president  of  the  local  bank.  As 
Jesus  said  of  Nathaniel,  it  could  be  said  of  Mr.  Flemming, 
"There  is  a  man  in  whom  is  no  guile."  He  was  a  Christian  not 
only  in  name,  but  also  in  deed. 

He  was  close  to  seventy  years  old;  I  was  fifteen.  He  took 
an  interest  in  me,  as  he  had  in  many  other  boys.  I  had  been  to 
the  grocery  store  for  my  mother  and  was  headed  to  the  post 
office  to  pick  up  the  mail  when  I  met  Mr.  Flemming  on  the 
street.  He  said,  "Milton,  come  on  down  to  the  shop  with  me.  I've 
got  a  couple  of  things  I  want  to  show  you." 

When  I  got  there  he  showed  me  fishing  nets  that  had 
been  tied  but  not  tared.  They  were  about  ten-foot  long  net  sacks, 
three  feet  in  diameter,  supported  by  steel  hoops.  Funnel  shaped 
net  inserts  with  progressively  smaller  holes  trapped  the  fish  in 
the  end  of  the  net.  He  also  pointed  out  baskets  made  of  red  elm 
slats.  He  said,  "We  bait  these  baskets  with  cheese  and  tie  them 
to  trees  or  stakes  set  in  the  river.  We  catch  some  nice  catfish 
with  them." 

He  showed  me  a  new  boat  ready  to  paint.  "The  steel- 
covered  runners  on  the  bottom  help  guide  the  boat  in  the  water 
and  also  enable  it  to  be  used  on  ice.  We  use  the  oars  when  the 


boat  is  in  the  water  and  the  poles  with  hooks  on  the  ice."  The 
next  January  I  found  how  well  the  boat  worked  on  the  ice  when 
two  brothers  took  me  for  a  ride.  It  felt  like  we  were  going  fifty 
or  sixty  miles  an  hour,  but  it  was  probably  only  thirty  miles  an 
hour.  Mr.  Flemming  had  taught  them. 

As  I  left,  Mr.  Fleming  said,  "If  you'd  be  interested  in 
learning  more,  come  back  tomorrow  morning."  I  thought,  "I'd 
like  to  be  a  fisherman."  But  that  was  impossible.  My  family 
didn't  have  the  money  it  would  take  to  buy  a  boat,  nets,  baskets, 
and  other  needed  equipment.  My  only  hope  would  have  been  to 
find  a  job  working  for  another  fisherman. 

I  got  to  his  shop  the  next  morning  about  10:00.  He  had 
already  been  to  the  river,  raised  his  nets,  and  sold  the  fish  at 
Vern  Bryant's  Fish  Market,  which  weekly  shipped  three  rail- 
road cars  filled  with  fish  packed  in  ice  to  Chicago,  New  York, 
and  other  distant  cities. 

My  first  lesson  was  how  to  carve  a  shuttle  needle  from 
"privy  brush"  which  grew  in  swampy  areas  of  the  river  bottoms. 
It  was  used  to  knit  the  nets.  He  showed  me  how  to  make  a  gauge 
block  to  size  the  loops  in  the  net.  That  was  quite  a  bit  for  the  first 
day. 

The  next  day,  he  started  me  on  fish  baskets.  Red  elm 
slats  were  soaked  in  water  for  several  days  in  a  horse  tank.  On 
the  day  we  made  baskets,  we  heated  the  water  for  an  hour  to  let 
the  slats  get  hot.  This  made  them  pliable  enough  to  bend 
around  an  iron  pipe  about  twelve  inches  in  diameter.  We  nailed 
the  ends  of  the  slats  together.  Slats  tapered  to  thin  fingers 
formed  funnel  shaped  entrances  for  fish,  but  prevented  their 
escape. 

As  we  worked  together,  he  told  me  how  he  had  set  up 
other  young  men  in  the  fishing  business.  He  taught  them  to 
build  all  the  equipment  needed  and  fished  with  them  for  the 
first  season.  It  was  truly  on-the-job  training.  He  shared 
proceeds  from  the  sale  offish  with  the  young  man  on  a  fifty-fifty 
basis.  At  the  end  of  the  first  year,  the  young  man  could  buy  the 


200 


equipment  for  one-half  the  cost  of  the  materials.  And  Mr. 
Fleming  personally  financed  that. 

I  was  going  to  be  a  fisherman!  I  was  going  to  have  my 
own  business!  And  I  was  only  fifteen  years  old. 

In  the  middle  of  the  third  week  when  I  went  to  the  shop, 
he  wasn't  there.  His  wife  said  he  was  in  bed  sick.  A  few  days 
later  he  sent  for  me.  He  said,  "I  won't  be  able  to  teach  you  any 
longer.  The  doctor  said  I  have  only  a  few  days  to  live."  My 
sorrow  at  hearing  this  news  and  my  disappointment  about  not 
being  able  to  learn  to  have  my  own  fishing  business  almost 
caused  me  not  to  hear  the  rest  of  what  he  said.  "God  has  led  me 
to  believe  that  He  has  a  higher  calling  for  you.  God  wants  you 
to  be  a  preacher." 

That  set  me  to  thinking  that  perhaps  God  was  calling  me 
to  be  a  preacher.  However,  I  didn't  fully  accept  the  call  until 
twenty-one  years  later.  I've  been  preaching  almost  forty  years 
now  and  have  been  pastoring  my  present  church,  New  Hope 
Baptist  Church,  southwest  of  Waverly,  Illinois,  for  eighteen 
years.  In  the  long  run,  I  did  become  a  fisherman-a  fisher  of  men. 


WHEN  SHERIFF  COOK  CONFRONTED  AL  CAPONE 

LaVern  E.  Cook 

B.  E.  "Pop"  Cook  was  the  former  Chief  of  Police  of 
Canton,  Illinois,  1934-1942.  He  never  bragged  about  the  old 
days,  although  he  well  could  have.  Sheriff  Cook  worked  hard, 
week  nights  and  weekends  too,  to  keep  a  "clean"  county.  He  was 
not  afraid  to  go  after  a  man  who  had  a  gun  and  was  drunk  or 
desperate,  even  though  his  own  life  would  be  at  risk  if  the 
desperado  began  shooting. 

B.  E.  Cook  was  a  big,  broadfaced  man  with  a  hefty 
handshake.  He  had  flint  blue  eyes  which  he  could  fix  in  a  steely 


stare  that  was  most  effective  in  dealing  with  youthful  offenders. 
Several  times  when  he  picked  up  teenagers  for  mischievous  or 
malicious  misdeeds,  he  would  take  them  in  and  have  the  deputy 
watch  them  in  a  small  room  while  just  outside  the  open  door  he 
loudly  discussed  putting  the  boys  in  the  "back  cell,  the  one  with 
the  stinking,  stopped  up  toilet  that  was  crawling  with  big,  black 
waterbugs."  That  is  when  the  clerk  would  wink  back  and  say  in 
false  horror,  "You  can't  put  those  poor  boys  back  there  with 
those  big,  old  rats!  Why  they  chewed  the  toes  off  that  murderer 
last  week!" 

No  way  would  Pop  put  boys  in  any  cell.  Usually  by  the 
time  their  parents  arrived,  the  youths  were  shaking  in  their 
shoes.  After  a  stern  lecture  by  the  sheriff  about  not  ever 
wanting  to  pick  them  up  again,  they  were  released  to  angry 
fathers  who  were  ready  to  take  off  their  belts  and  head  for  the 
woodshed. 

Many  young  men  were  stopped  short  of  worse  crimes  by 
Sheriff  Cook  and  his  own  kind  of  psychology.  Today  he  would 
probably  be  sued  by  some  disgruntled  parents  for  upsetting 
their  kid,  but  Cook's  way  kept  paperwork  to  a  minimum  and 
prevented  petty  crimes  from  clogging  the  court  system. 

Sometimes,  B.  E.  knew  enough  about  what  was  going  on 
in  his  county  not  to  get  involved,  like  the  time  a  country 
preacher  called  and  was  all  upset  because  someone  had  thrown 
a  live  skunk  in  the  midst  of  an  evening  prayer  meeting,  causing 
a  big  stink.  Rather  than  going  after  the  offender,  B.  E.  quietly 
suggested  that  the  preacher  no  longer  "counsel"  other  men's 
wives  alone  after  choir  practice. 

Not  much  got  by  B.  E.  When  he  heard  that  Al  Capone 
was  motor  boating  down  the  Illinois  River  to  Havana  to  set  up 
a  gangster-controlled  gambling  and  prostitution  operation  in 
an  old  mansion,  B.  E.  went  to  help  the  Mason  County  Sheriff 
round  up  some  of  his  heaviest,  tallest  deputies  and  armed  each 
with  a  sawed-off  shotgun.  He  kept  in  touch  with  other  police 
and  was  always  glad  to  help  them. 


A  sliver  of  a  moon  gave  little  light  as  B.  E.  waited  in  the 
dark  for  the  motorboat  to  dock.  Finally,  it  came  in,  and  black- 
shirted,  mean-looking  men  helped  Capone  up  onto  the  planking 
as  the  wake  washed  in  and  rocked  the  floating  dock.  Then  one 
of  Capone's  men  shined  a  flashlight  on  B.  E.'s  grim  face  and  his 
huge  form. 

B.  E.  boldly  stepped  forward,  grabbed  the  gangster's 
right  hand  in  a  powerful,  hard  handshake,  and  then  told 
Capone  he  was  welcome  to  put  ashore  for  food,  drink,  or  fuel,  but 
if  he  had  any  other  business  in  mind,  he'd  just  have  to  change 
his  plans. 

"Well,  what  ifl  stay  anyway!"  Capone  challenged  Cook. 

In  a  deep,  low  voice  akin  to  a  growl,  B.  E.  said  "Boys," 
whereupon  the  heavily  armed  deputies  stepped  out  from  the 
shadows  with  their  weapons  pointed  right  at  Al  Capone.  The 
gangster  merely  nodded,  stepped  back  down  into  the  boat  with 
his  thugs,  and  returned  to  Chicago. 

It  took  awhile  for  one  deputy  to  let  go  of  his  shotgun. 
When  B.  E.  asked  him  what  was  wrong,  the  man  stuttered, 
"There  was  another  man  on  that  boat  and  he  had  a  tommy  gun 
aimed  right  at  us."  "Yeah,"  replied  B.  E.  "I  saw  him  but  he  didn't 
use  it,  did  he." 

After  B.  E.  Cook  retired  from  public  service,  he  bought 
the  Churchill  Hotel  on  South  Main  Street.  Later,  in  the  1950s, 
Pop  and  I  operated  the  Pfisters,  a  lunch  counter/pool  hall/candy 
and  cigar  store  on  the  northwest  side  of  Canton's  Square.  He 
died  in  1967. 

Pop  was  not  perfect  by  any  means.  He  had  a  difficult 
time  providing  for  his  family  during  the  Depression  years,  and 
like  any  man,  he  had  his  share  of  faults  and  weaknesses.  But 
he  was  a  fine,  courageous  lawman  who  is  well  remembered  in 
Fulton  County. 


HERE  COMES  THE  SHOWBOAT 

Marie  Freesmeyer 

My  brother  and  I  were  busily  hoeing  sweetcorn  in  the 
truckpatch  when  we  heard  the  familiar  sound.  Although  our 
farm  lay  a  couple  miles  from  the  Mississippi  River,  the  showboat's 
calliope  could  clearly  be  heard.  When  we  heard  the  first  note, 
we  immediately  stopped  our  toil.  One  or  probably  both  of  us 
exclaimed,  "Here  comes  the  showboat!" 

It  wasn't  a  surprise  as  we  had  seen  the  advance  posters 
in  town  telling  of  the  future  arrival  of  The  Cotton  Blossom 
Showboat  on  this  date.  In  fact,  we  had  already  asked  our 
parents'  permission  to  go.  I  had  never  been  allowed  to  accom- 
pany my  brothers  when  they  had  patronized  these  "palaces  of 
worldly  pleasure,"  as  my  parents  called  all  showboats.  By 
consistent  coaxing,  I  had  secured  their  reluctant  consent  to 
accompany  my  younger  brother  this  time.  (My  older  brothers 
already  had  dates  and  were  looking  forward  to  an  evening  of 
genuine  pleasure.) 

One  condition  of  their  consent  was  that  I  practice  my 
piano  lessons  and  do  all  my  chores  without  being  told.  Needless 
to  say,  I  had  been  a  paragon  of  endeavor  all  week  and  needed  no 
reminding  about  any  of  those  arduous  chores  which  came  with 
regularity. 

"Do  you  think  we  can  get  there  in  time  to  see  them  play 
the  calliope?"  I  asked.  "That  depends  on  how  contrary  the  cows 
are  tonight,"  my  brother  replied.  "You  know  how  they  are  when 
we  are  in  a  hurry  to  go  some  place-farther  away  and  more 
stubborn  than  usual,"  he  added. 

We  hoed  vigorously  for  a  time  in  order  to  get  the  job  done. 
Really,  it  was  futile  for  us  to  hurry  as  there  would  always  be 
another  job  waiting  to  be  done.  Hoeing  was  to  be  preferred  over 
many  other  tasks  as  it  left  our  mind  free  to  dream  of  the  sinful 
pleasures  we  anticipated. 

Supper  was  difficult  to  swallow.  The  excitement  took  my 


appetite  for  the  usual  hearty  meal  spread  on  our  long,  oil-cloth- 
covered  dining  table.  It  was  often  told  us  that  if  we  couldn't  eat 
we  must  be  too  sick  to  go  any  place.  So  I  managed  to  eat,  though 
I  had  to  force  each  bite  down  with  a  drink  of  milk. 

As  soon  as  supper  was  finished  to  the  point  where  I 
might  be  excused,  I  hurried  out  to  shut  up  the  chicken  coops-my 
last  chore.  Then  I  could  get  ready.  "Sho-o,  you  old  biddy!  Get 
your  chicks  inside  or  I'll  leave  the  door  open  and  let  the  varmints 
get  them."  Of  course,  there  would  be  one  old  hen  that  wanted 
to  do  a  little  more  scratching  before  retiring  within  the  dark 
coop.  Usually  I  would  go  much  later  to  prop  the  board  across  the 
door  of  each  chicken  coop;  but  this  night  was  different  and  I 
hoped  they  would  cooperate.  With  a  little  more  persuasion  the 
last  family  was  safe  inside  and  I  was  free  to  get  on  with  more 
important  matters. 

My  hair  was  the  next  big  problem.  I  was  fourteen,  old 
enough  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  such  a  questionable  place  as  a 
showboat,  so  surely  I  should  put  my  hair  up  in  some  sophisti- 
cated way.  My  cousin  and  I  had  experimented  with  different 
hairdos  in  front  of  the  mirror.  Now  I  must  definitely  put  it  up 
in  some  soil  of  bun.  My  long  tresses  were  quite  difficult  to 
manage  with  inexperienced  hands  and  my  arms  damp  with 
perspiration.  Choosing  a  dress  was  simple  since  there  were 
such  a  few  from  which  to  make  my  selection.  All  finished,  I 
surveyed  my  girlish  figure  in  the  mirror  and  decided  it  would  do 
quite  well  for  my  evening  out. 

My  next  problem  was  my  brother.  He  never  hurried. 
This  evening  he  seemed  to  be  unusually  slow  getting  ready.  I 
knew,  however,  that  once  we  got  on  the  way  he  would  make  up 
for  lost  time. 

He  did!  We  fairly  flew!  That  Ford  touring  car  was  hard 
on  my  hairdo  and  I  wished  that  I  had  found  a  few  more  hairpins. 
But  the  wrind  was  cooling  on  my  hot  face,  so  I  didn't  complain. 
Besides  I  was  anxious  to  get  there. 

When  we  crossed  the  big  iron  bridge  at  the  edge  of 


Hamburg,  we  could  see  that  many  cars  and  carriages  had 
already  arrived.  He  found  a  parking  place  some  distance  away 
and  we  walked  sedately  up  the  street  to  join  the  crowd  awaiting 
the  captain's  signal  to  come  aboard.  The  very  sight  of  this 
majestic  boat  sent  a  thrill  over  me.  Soon  the  calliope  began 
playing  and  we  edged  down  on  the  wharf  where  we  had  a  good 
view  of  the  musician.  He  was  sitting  at  this  large  keyboard  on 
the  top  deck  where  he  could  view  the  crowd  below  and  they  could 
watch  him.  He  was,  indeed,  a  spectacular  sight  with  his  black 
half-sleeves,  bow  tie,  and  derby  hat.  It  was  a  thrill  to  watch  him 
manipulate  the  keyboard  which  sent  the  loud  music  from  the 
steam  pipes.   It  seemed  to  rock  the  ground  where  we  stood. 

Then  it  happened!  The  captain  unsnapped  the  heavy 
silk  cord  allowing  the  eager  crowd  to  proceed  up  the  gangplank. 
We  hurried  to  get  into  the  line  headed  for  the  ticket  window.  I 
thought  the  line  moved  much  too  slowly,  but  we  finally  reached 
the  auditorium.  Now,  I  would  probably  consider  it  quite  small 
and  gaudy;  but  then,  it  was  the  grandest  place  that  I  had  ever 
seen.  I  gazed  in  awe  at  all  the  elegant  draperies  and  majestic 
lighting.  With  all  its  finery,  it  was  the  ideal  setting  for  the 
elaborately  costumed  characters  who  were  to  entertain  us. 

The  rows  of  plush  seats  and  the  box  seats  on  each  side 
were  soon  filled  with  an  exuberant  crowd.  However,  once  the 
curtains  parted  and  the  lights  dimmed,  a  hush  of  anticipation 
fell  over  the  entire  auditorium. 

During  the  evening  we  were  entertained  with  a  three- 
act  melodrama  with  several  vaudeville  numbers  between  each 
act.  The  play  kept  us  in  suspense  from  the  beginning  to  the  very 
end.  There  was  considerable  excitement  trying  to  catch  the 
villain.  Part  of  the  vaudeville  consisted  of  jokes  about  well- 
known  local  people,  most  of  whom  were  occupying  the  box  seats 
in  plain  view.  This  created  a  lot  of  laughter  for  the  audience  but 
some  embarrassment  for  the  individuals  named.  Time  passed 
all  too  quickly.  The  lights  came  on  and  it  was  time  to  leave  this 
magical  world. 


Many  times  after  this  eventful  evening,  I  heard  the 
calliope  of  both  the  Cotton  Blossom  and  the  Goldenrod  show- 
boats, but  never  with  quite  the  same  thrill.  But  it  always 
elicited  the  same  response,  "Here  comes  the  showboat!"  My 
brothers  and  I  always  stood  transfixed  until  the  sound  of  the 
last  note  was  carried  away  on  the  breeze. 


FLEEING  BEARDSTOWN  WITHOUT  BRAKES 

Helen  Shepherd  Shelton 

One  of  the  first  stories  my  husband  told  me  on  an  early 
visit  to  Beardstown  was  of  the  great  flood  of  that  small  city  in 
1927.  He  pointed  out  many  still  visible  water  lines  on  utility 
poles,  homes,  and  other  buildings,  describing  how  the  flooding 
river  had  covered  acres  of  farmland  and  city  streets.  The  water 
at  that  time  was  of  such  depth  that  barges,  driven  by 
paddlewheels,  and  flat  boats  owned  by  river-loving  citizens, 
carried  cargo  and  people  over  the  inundated  city  streets.  With 
the  exception  of  childhood  years  spent  in  the  small  town  of  Hull, 
Illinois,  only  a  few  miles  from  the  great  Mississippi,  I  had 
always  lived  in  high  areas,  unconcerned  by  any  river  overflow- 
ing its  banks.  Even  in  Hull,  although  there  were  times  when  a 
levee  might  break,  or  develop  a  softness,  the  town  had  never 
been  the  victim  of  a  deluge  from  the  muddy  Mississippi  River. 
Now,  we  were  married,  the  year  was  1943,  and  we  were  living 
in  Beardstown  with  our  two  small  babies,  Carole  and  David,  Jr. 
And  the  Illinois  River  was  rising  steadily. 

The  river  stage  on  May  13,  1943,  was  given  at  eighteen 
feet,  and  it  was  projected  to  reach  twenty-six  feet  by  May  19. 
Men  were  volunteering  for  sandbagging  and  watch  duty  on  the 
sea  wall,  which  had  been  constructed  in  the  late  1930s  in  a  man- 
made  effort  to  control  the  unpredictable  Illinois  River.  On  May 


20,  the  stage  was  noted  at  26.5  feet.  Tension  was  rising,  with 
the  swirling  river  water.  Excitement  and  dread  filled  the  town 
and  people  began  moving  furniture  and  belongings  to  second 
story  levels,  if  their  homes  had  them.  In  single  story  homes, 
blocks  were  placed  under  appliances  and  furniture  in  an  at 
tempt  to  protect  them  should  the  water  invade  the  homes 
Filling  stations  were  attempting  to  depreciate  their  gasoline 
supplies  by  giving  gasoline  away.  Grocery  stores  were  busy 
with  families  stocking  supplies  of  food  for  the  flood  that  was 
sure  to  come. 

All  over  the  state-even  the  nation-Beardstown  was  in 
the  public  eye.  The  new  Governor,  Dwaght  Green,  was  keeping 
open  communication  with  the  distressed  town,  and  five  hun- 
dred Negro  troops  from  Camp  Ellis  at  Lewistown  were  sent  to 
help  the  city  fight  the  battle.  On  May  22,  following  orders  from 
the  Governor,  Mayor  Fred  I.  Cline,  speaking  for  the  city  council, 
issued  an  emergency  proclamation  about  the  imminent  peril  of 
a  flood.  An  evacuation  order  from  the  Governor  ordered  all 
women,  children,  and  infirm  persons  (elderly)  to  leave  the  city. 
The  river  on  that  morning  at  7:00  a.m.  had  touched  28.6  feet. 

Forty-two  hundred  people  were  evacuated  from 
Beardstown,  leaving  only  men  and  troops  to  guard  the  city 
against  possible  looting  and  the  sandbagged  seawall.  By 
Monday,  May  24,  at  2:00  p.m.,  the  angry  river  had  reached 
29.45  feet.  Still,  the  seawall  with  several  feet  of  sandbags  atop 
it,  held  back  the  turbulent  force  pounding  relentlessly  against 
it. 

With  the  Governor's  order  to  evacuate  on  the  22nd  of 
May,  Dave  and  I  packed  our  little  '31  Plymouth  coupe  with  baby 
needs,  and  clothing  for  me,  because  Dave  was  returning  to 
Beardstown  to  help  in  the  fight  against  the  river.  We  crammed 
the  potty-chair  behind  my  head  on  the  ledge  of  the  seat,  and  set 
out  for  Pittsfield,  my  hometown.  Others  went  to  Chandlerville, 
Virginia,  Jacksonville,  Springfield-wherever  they  had  rela- 
tives or  friends  who  opened  their  homes  to  them.  The  brakes 


204 


were  non-existent  on  the  Plymouth.  We  hadn't  had  it  very  long, 
and  Dave  had  been  planning  to  work  on  it,  but  hadn't  got  to  that 
job  as  yet.  We  had  paid  $25  for  the  little  car-an  unbelievable 
price  in  today's  used  car  market.  Perhaps  for  $30  we  could  have 
gotten  brakes,  too. 

There  was  no  way  we  could  go  through  Bluffs  or  Meredosia 
because  much  of  the  land  in  those  low-lying  towns  was  water 
covered.  The  only  way  we  could  leave  Beardstown  on  our 
journey  to  Pittsfield  was  through  Virginia,  and  then  go  on  to 
Jacksonville.  By  driving  slowly  and  carefully,  we  were  able  to 
reach  Jacksonville  uneventfully.  Approaching  a  railroad  cross- 
ing, my  attention  was  turned  to  the  two  little  ones  (Carole  was 
fourteen  months  old,  and  little  David  was  six  weeks  old). 
Suddenly  I  felt  the  car  jerked  to  the  right,  and  the  wheels 
bumped  fiercely  over  the  ties.  At  the  same  moment,  a  fast 
moving  freight  train  went  by — and  I  realized  that  we  were 
traveling  down  the  side  of  the  tracks,  along  with  the  freight 
train,  two  wheels  on  the  ties,  and  two  on  the  roadbed.  And  I 
knew,  with  a  sickening  feeling  in  my  stomach,  that  we  had  come 
so  close  to  being  killed  by  that  freight  train  in  a  few  seconds' 
time.  My  head  had  been  aching  from  the  potty  chair,  loose  from 
its  moorings,  hitting  me  with  a  steady  tattoo.  That  pain  was 
minor  and  forgotten  when  I  discovered  in  the  worst  way  that 
other  bodily  functions  can  happen,  too,  when  a  person  receives 
a  tremendous,  traumatic  encounter. 

The  rest  of  the  trip  to  Pittsfield  should  have  been 
uneventful-with  the  condition  our  nerves  and  other  things 
were  in,  but  there  were  even  more  harrowing  experiences  in 
store  for  us  before  we  reached  Pittsfield.  We  knew  we  would 
have  to  cross  the  swollen  river  at  Florence,  and  that  was 
another  dreaded  encounter  coming  up.  On  the  road  between 
Jacksonville  and  Florence,  sections  of  the  highway  (Route  36) 
were  out,  and  barricades  had  been  placed  across  the  gaping 
holes  where  concrete  was  missing.  When  we  came  to  those 
places,  and  there  was  no  approaching  traffic,  we  were  able  to 


swing  over  into  the  other  lane  and  pass  safely.  Nothing  to  that. 
But  when  there  was  oncoming  traffic  at  the  same  rate  of  speed, 
another  barricade  was  barring  our  way,  and  our  courage 
wavered  considerably.  If  we  could  have  just  stopped  and 
waited,  all  would  have  been  well.  And  sometimes  we  were  able 
to,  but  remember,  that  $25  Plymouth  was  minus  brakes,  and 
Dave  did  the  only  thing  he  could  think  of  in  those  instances.  He 
drove  around  the  barricades,  up  the  embankments,  tilting 
sometimes  at  a  frightening  45  degree  angle,  or  more.  The  flood 
had  driven  us  out  of  our  home,  and  was  even  now  threatening 
inside  the  car.  I  held  the  babies  and  prayed  for  all  I  was  worth. 

I  can't  remember  Dave  saying  a  word  all  the  way  home- 
especially  when  we  were  dodging  the  freight  train  and  slipping 
around  the  barricades.  Sometimes  words  aren't  necessary.  The 
Pittsfield  city  limit  sign  never  looked  so  good  as  it  did  that  day. 

Soon  we  were  driving  into  the  backyard  at  home,  and 
Mother  came  running  from  the  house,  waving  her  arms  in 
gladness  to  see  us  safe-and  nearly  dry.  Her  smile  turned  to 
perplexion  when  Dave  leaned  out  of  the  car  window  and  yelled, 
"Getoutofthe  way,Mom!  Get  out  of  the  way!"  And  by  the  grace 
of  the  Almighty,  and  a  very  tired  Plymouth,  we  finally  rolled  to 
a  quiet  stop-a  few  feet  from  Mother  and  home. 

Dave  worked  on  the  brakes  the  next  day,  and  he  re- 
turned to  Beardstown  to  share  in  the  watching  and  waiting. 
The  slow  fall  of  the  river  began  on  the  26th  day  of  May,  and  it 
was  believed  the  crisis  was  over.  The  Governor  was  to  order  the 
re-entry  by  the  evacuated  citizens  to  the  town  and  their  homes. 
On  May  28,  with  the  still-lowering  river  stage,  Governor  Green 
issued  a  proclamation  praising  the  high  courage  and  grim 
determination  shown  by  the  Beardstown  people  in  protecting 
and  saving  their  city.  If  the  sea  wall  had  not  been  built,  a 
twenty-six  foot  water  stage  would  have  put  the  city  neck-deep 
in  flood  water.  Governor  Green  issued  the  return  home  notice 
on  June  3,  and  by  6:00  a.m.  June  4,  four  hundred  cars  were  in 
line  to  wait  for  the  firing  of  the  gun  at  9:00  a.m.  to  re-admit  the 


homesteaders.  Although  the  transportation  was  different  from 
the  land-grabbing  stampedes  of  early  settlers,  there  was  the 
same  element  of  gladness  and  eagerness  to  return  to  their 
homes  after  twelve  days  in  exile. 


THE  RUSHVILLE  TORNADO 

William  P.  Bart  low 

March  30th,  1938,  was  a  fateful  date  for  Rushville  and 
Schuyler  County.  Spring  was  early  that  year  with  warm 
summer-like  temperatures  all  through  March.  Fruit  trees  were 
blooming  and  spring  flowers  that  normally  did  not  bloom  until 
late  April  were  in  full  color.  As  a  senior  in  Rushville  High 
School,  the  whirl  of  school  life  and  graduation  in  May  tended  to 
be  the  focal  point  of  all  my  energies.  Looking  back,  it  was  a  time 
of  carefree  living  with  no  major  problems  except  those  revolving 
around  school.  Life  was  more  leisurely  in  those  days,  or  so  it 
seemed,  but  maybe  that  was  because  I  was  a  teenager.  I  was 
living  at  home  with  my  parents,  along  with  my  brother  Ted,  my 
sister  Nancy,  and  my  maternal  grandfather,  C.  W.  Eifert.  Our 
home  on  South  Liberty  Street  was  a  conventional  bungalow  of 
wooden  construction  with  a  full  basement. 

March  30th  dawned  warm  and  hazy  with  summertime 
temperatures.  The  sky  had  a  peculiar  haze  that  day  and  the 
atmosphere  was  laden  with  high  humidity  and  a  warm  sun 
trying  to  cut  through  the  haze  and  moisture.  That  noon,  going 
home  for  lunch,  I  shed  my  winter  clothes  and  donned  summer 
clothes  that  were  more  comfortable  to  wear  the  afternoon 
session  of  school.  As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  the  skies  became 
more  heavily  laden  and  storm  clouds  began  to  gather  in  the 
western  sky.  Lightning  zigzagged  across  the  heavens,  with 
great  claps  of  thunder  sounding  as  though  the  heavens  were  at 


war  firing  heavy  artillery.  Outside,  the  winds  were  calm  with 
only  the  crashing  of  thunder  bolts  to  break  the  ominous  silence. 
Classes  were  held  as  usual  with  no  one  paying  too  much 
attention  to  the  gathering  storm  clouds  on  the  horizon.  Weather 
forecasters  giving  storm  warnings  were  not  likely  today,  for 
while  we  had  radio,  it  was  only  AM  frequency,  and  the  lightning 
made  so  much  static  you  couldn't  hear  anything.  Hence,  there 
were  no  warnings  of  the  impending  storm .  As  the  clouds  became 
heavier  and  the  skies  darkened,  all  the  lights  in  the  classrooms 
and  corridors  were  turned  on. 

During  the  last  class  hour  of  the  day,  I  was  in  the  600- 
seat  auditorium  with  its  large  plate  glass  windows  facing  west. 
Margie  Dean  (later  to  be  my  wife)  was  standing  with  me  in  front 
of  those  windows  watching  the  storm  gather  momentum.  At 
3:40  p.m.  we  observed  a  large  green  boiling  cloud  come  raging 
out  of  the  southwest  charging  toward  us  like  a  fast  express 
freight  train.  With  it  came  a  roaring  wind  and  rain  carrying 
sticks,  boards,  and  trash,  which  plummeted  against  the  big 
glass  windows.  It  beat  so  hard  against  those  windows  that  we 
stepped  back  away,  fearful  they  would  break.  At  that  moment, 
the  electricity  went  off,  leaving  the  building  in  darkness.  We 
knew  it  was  a  bad  storm,  but  in  those  days  during  a  thunder- 
storm we  often  experienced  power  interruptions  so  an  electrical 
failure  did  not  excite  anyone.  Although  several  people  later 
reported  seeing  tornado  clouds,  as  we  watched  the  impending 
storm  we  saw  no  funnel  clouds. 

Within  five  minutes,  school  was  dismissed  and  we  all 
proceeded  to  the  east  door  where  small  groups  of  students 
gathered  to  discuss  the  storm.  Reports  were  getting  bigger  as 
someone  would  arrive  telling  of  damage  about  town.  Someone 
reported  the  cornice  on  the  Rushville  State  Bank  had  blown  off. 
Another  reported  the  old  three-story  wooden  broom  factory 
building  on  South  Congress  had  blown  over  and  was  lying  in  the 
middle  of  Congress  Street.  By  then  the  storm  had  passed  and 
the  skies  were  beginning  to  clear.  I  started  to  walk  home  when 


206 


Carter  Stephens  stopped  to  tell  me  that  our  house  had  been 
blown  away  but  no  one  was  injured.  It  was  too  incredible  to 
believe! 

Someone  offered  to  drive  me  home,  which  I  gratefully 
accepted.  As  we  started  down  South  Liberty  we  could  see  the 
street  was  blocked  with  downed  trees  and  power  lines  from 
Madison  Street  on  south.  I  jumped  from  the  car  and  ran  as  fast 
as  I  could  go  toward  home.  The  200  block  on  both  sides  of  South 
Liberty  between  Madison  and  Clinton  was  hard  hit.  Houses 
with  roofs  blown  off.  One  large  two-story  brick  house  had  every 
Vfcdndow  blown  out,  wath  the  window  curtains  sticking  straight 
out  like  arms.  Massive  big  trees  were  blown  over  blocking  the 
streets,  and  piles  of  debris  were  everywhere.  Beginning  at  the 
intersection  of  Clinton  and  Liberty  and  going  down  to  Logan 
Street  there  was  less  damage.  But  starting  south  from  Logan 
Street  there  was  heavy  damage.  The  first  house  north  of  ours 
belonged  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred  Eales,  and  although  it  was 
standing,  the  roof  was  gone  as  were  all  the  windows,  and  the 
house  had  been  shifted  on  its  foundation. 

As  I  ran  toward  our  house,  I  could  see  ahead  that  it  was 
totally  demolished.  My  mother  later  related  what  had  hap- 
pened. My  sister  Nancy,  two  years  old,  had  been  laid  down  in 
a  back  bedroom  for  her  afternoon  nap.  The  thunder  and 
lightning  became  so  vivid  and  loud  that  she  became  frightened 
so  Mother  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  into  the  adjoining 
bathroom.  My  grandfather  was  in  the  front  part  of  the  house. 
As  the  storm  intensified,  my  mother  became  concerned  and 
carried  Nancy  into  an  adjoining  front  bedroom.  At  that  instant, 
a  blast  of  wind  broke  a  large  window  in  the  adjoining  dining 
room  and  Mother,  aware  of  things  blowing  about  the  room, 
started  to  lay  Nancy  down  and  go  see  what  she  could  do,  but  that 
was  the  last  she  remembered.  The  next  thing  she  knew  she  was 
lying  in  the  only  grassy  spot  around  with  Nancy  still  in  her  arms 
and  it  was  raining  heavily.  She  pulled  a  mattress  nearby  over 
them  and  waited. 

In  the  meantime,  my  grandfather  had  been  watching 


the  storm  and  later  said  that  it  came  in  three  blasts.  The  first 
broke  the  windows,  the  second  took  off  the  roof,  and  with  the 
third,  the  house  just  flew  apart,  all  within  a  matter  oi  seconds. 
He  was  thrown  against  a  large  upright  piano  and  suffered  a 
broken  thumb  but  otherwise  was  uninjured,  as  were  Mother 
and  Nancy,  although  Mother  had  been  hit  a  hard  blow  on  her 
right  eye. 

Most  of  the  furnishings  in  our  house  were  lost.  There 
were  a  few  items  that  made  it  through  the  tornado,  including 
the  clock  that  sat  in  the  dining  room  and  a  few  pieces  of  Mother's 
Haviland  China,  but  most  things  were  smashed.  The  clothes  I 
had  taken  off  at  noon  were  never  found. 

Many  other  homes  were  severely  damaged.  Also,  imme- 
diately to  the  east  and  south  of  our  house  about  one  hundred 
yards  was  the  Bartlow  Packing  Plant,  which  suffered  major 
damage.  Two  75-foot  steel  smoke  stacks  were  lifted  from  their 
base  on  the  tops  of  two  high  pressure  steam  boilers  and  set  down 
in  front  of  the  fire  doors,  but  they  still  remained  erect  with  guy 
wires  intact.  The  meat  coolers  were  unscathed,  and  with  the 
exception  of  no  electricity,  there  were  no  problems  in  that  area, 
but  some  masonry  walls  in  several  of  the  rooms  in  the  rear  had 
collapsed  and  there  was  heavy  damage  to  the  livestock  barns 
and  pens. 

Within  a  few  hours,  the  power  company  crews  had 
electricity  restored  to  most  of  the  city  with  the  exception  of  the 
storm  damaged  areas.  By  the  next  day  power  was  restored  to 
the  packing  plant,  and  arrangements  were  being  made  to  re- 
erect  the  smoke  stacks.  By  the  following  Monday,  business  was 
carried  on  as  usual. 

More  than  half  a  century  has  passed  since  that  fateful 
day  with  no  recurrence  of  such  a  fierce  storm  in  Rushville,  but 
those  who  were  around  to  experience  those  days  will  recall  the 
help  of  neighbors  and  friends  during  the  reconstruction  that 
followed.  Despite  the  savage  wind,  Rushville  became  a  bigger 
and  better  community. 


STEAM  ENGINES  AND  BRIDGES 

Robert  L.  Brownlee 

"Never  cross  a  bridge  before  you  come  to  it"  is  good 
advice,  but  even  better  is  "Don't  try  to  cross  every  bridge  you 
come  to."  I  speak  from  experience.  There  is  a  cold  tingle  of  raw 
fear  that  runs  up  my  spine  when  I  remember  some  of  the  close 
calls  I've  had  moving  big  steam  engines  across  old  bridges  in 
Warren  County,  Illinois,  in  the  early  1900s. 

It  was  not  uncommon  for  a  steam  engine  to  break 
through  a  bridge,  but  it  was  uncommon  for  the  engineer  to  be  a 
lad  of  twelve  or  fifteen  years.  That  was  when  I  started  handling 
steam  engines  for  my  older  brothers,  who  had  all  kinds  of  heavy 
machinery.  They'd  get  a  job  set  up  and  then  I'd  run  the  engine. 
All  I  had  to  do  was  watch  the  gauges  and  keep  up  a  head  of 
steam.  As  I  got  older,  I  did  more  and  more  until  I  became  a  fair 
mechanic.  We  had  to  move  from  place  to  place  as  we  thrashed, 
and  that  meant  crossing  all  sorts  of  bridges  on  the  back  country 
roads. 

One  day  my  brother  and  I  were  moving  a  big  Gar-Scott 
engine  to  a  sawmill  site.  He  was  steering  and  I  was  at  the 
throttle.  We  were  crossing  Henderson  Crick  on  a  long  bridge 
with  steel  girders  and  somehow  he  got  off  course  just  enough 
that  the  drive  wheels  were  straddling  one  stringer.  We  were 
both  sitting  on  the  tool  boxes,  one  on  either  side,  when  there  was 
a  loud  crash  and  we  stopped  dead  still.  The  rear  of  the  engine 
fell  a  couple  of  feet  and  came  to  rest  on  the  steel  girder.  The 
drivers  were  chewing  away  at  the  planks  but  couldn't  move 
ahead.  When  the  engine  dropped,  it  threw  us  both  off  and, 
luckily,  out  of  danger.  We  were  shook  up  and  scared  but  unhurt. 
1  jumped  up  and  shut  off  the  power.  Then  we  sat  down  and  tried 
to  figure  out  what  to  do  to  get  us  back  on  our  way.  We  had  a  long, 
heavy  steel  bar  that  we  laid  in  front  of  the  drivers.  Then  we  put 
planks  lengthwise  across  the  bridge  as  we  should  have  done  in 
the  first  place.  When  I  put  just  a  touch  of  power  to  the  wheels 


they  caught  the  pry  bar  and  climbed  right  up  on  top  of  the  new 
planking  and  away  we  went.  By  that  time  we  had  quit  shaking 
and  we  got  a  couple  of  men  to  help  us  fix  the  bridge  floor.  We  got 
the  rig  to  the  sawmill  before  dark  and  I  wondered  how  we  could 
have  been  lucky  enough  to  get  out  of  that  deal  so  easily. 

The  year  I  was  fifteen  I  ran  that  same  big  engine  on  a 
thrashing  run  for  fourteen  days.  I  got  $5.00  per  day  and  that 
money  had  to  last  me  until  corn  shucking  time  in  the  fall.  So  I 
was  glad  when  my  cousin,  Elsy  Kuncaid,  came  by  with  an  offer. 
He  wanted  me  and  my  brother  Roy  to  thrash  this  big  run,  but 
Roy  was  too  busy  to  do  it.  Elsy  and  Roy  had  made  a  deal:  so 
much  a  bushel-me  to  run  the  engine,  Elsy  to  run  the  separator, 
and  get  a  man  to  haul  water  and  coal .  This  was  on  Thursday  and 
we  wanted  to  start  on  Monday.  It  takes  a  good  while  to  cover 
fifteen  miles  with  a  steam  engine.  I  asked  Elsy  if  there  were  any 
cricks  to  cross  and  he  said,  "Yeah,  and  one  of 'em  is  pretty  good 
sized."  We  decided  we'd  better  take  a  look  at  it.  It  was  about 
twenty-four  feet  long  and  not  in  very  good  shape.  "That's  a 
darned  weak  bridge,"  I  said.  "I'm  not  sure  I  want  to  try  crossing 
it."  "Well,  there's  another  one  about  five  miles  on  down  the 
road."  It  looked  fine.  It  was  only  twenty-four  feet  long  and  had 
steel  beams  that  rested  on  concrete  abutments,  so  that  was  the 
one  we  picked. 

Friday  morning  we  started  out  pulling  a  separator  and 
a  water  tank.  When  we  got  to  the  bridge,  I  asked  Elsy  if  he 
wanted  to  ride  or  to  wade  across.  He  decided  to  ride  so  we  sat 
on  the  tool  boxes,  one  on  either  side  of  the  platform.  Everything 
seemed  all  right  as  we  pulled  on.  There  were  some  rough  planks 
for  the  front  wheels  to  go  over  and  the  engine  had  to  work  harder 
to  push  across.  Almost  at  once,  the  drivers  began  to  spin  and 
that  piled  loose  planks  up  behind  them  until  they  jammed. 
Then  when  the  drivers  did  take  hold,  they  pushed  the  whole 
bridge  ahead  just  far  enough  that  the  end  slid  off  the  abutment 
and  fell  down  on  the  crick  bank.  The  tool  boxes  we  were  sitting 
on  folded  up  against  the  engine.  It  threw  me  clean  across  the 


208 


creek  and  I  landed  on  the  shore.  Elsy  flew  over  the  railing  and 
landed  in  three  or  four  feet  of  water.  And  there  sat  the  engine 
with  the  drivers  grinding  away  and  still  pushing  at  the  bridge. 

It  all  happened  so  quick  we  didn't  know  what  had  hit  us. 
And  there  we  sat,  half  dazed,  not  knowing  what  might  happen 
next.  I  could  see  that  the  end  of  the  bridge  was  down  on  the 
creek  bank  just  in  front  of  the  abutment  and  the  front  end  was 
hiked  up  but  still  on  the  bridge  floor.  I  jumped  in  the  water  and 
waded  across  and  shut  off  the  power.  Elsy  climbed  out  and  we 
looked  it  over  and  found  that  the  stringers  had  never  been 
attached  to  the  concrete  abutments  so  when  the  pressure  was 
put  on,  the  whole  structure  slid  forward  a  couple  of  feet  and 
down  she  went. 

Now  we  were  in  a  hell  of  a  fix;  but  by  piling  some  old 
planks  in  front  of  the  drivers  and  running  the  engine  real  slow, 
we  got  it  raised  up  enough  that  the  engine  climbed  up  the 
approach  to  the  bridge  and  I  took  her  on  across.  It  was  a  tricky 
stunt,  but  it  worked.  Some  of  the  local  farmers  helped  repair  the 
bridge.  In  an  hour  or  two  we  were  on  our  way  again  and.  By 
George,  Monday  morning  we  were  thrashing. 

The  last  time  I  had  trouble  on  a  bridge  I  was  bringing  an 
engine  up  to  Dad's  place  from  Old  Man  Winbiggers  so  we  could 
finish  thrashing.  It  was  an  old  twenty-five-horse  double  Gar- 
Scott  and  it  weighed  over  twenty  tons.  There  were  two  bridges 
to  cross.  I  made  the  first  one  without  any  trouble.  The  second 
one  was  on  the  Henderson  Creek  and  was  about  seventy  feet 
long.  It  was  all  steel  and  looked  o.k.  I  was  maybe  thirty  feet  out 
when  she  began  to  sway  sidewise,  sort  of  slow  and  deadly.  It  was 
eerie;  scared  the  Hell  out  of  me.  It  shuddered  to  a  stop  and 
swung  back.  I  thought,  "Whatll  I  do?  Jump  thirty  feet  into  the 
creek  or  ride  her  out?"  Pretty  soon  it  swung  back  to  the  other 
side  and  stopped.  I  stopped.  The  old  bridge  was  shaking  and 
quivering  worse  than  I  was.  I  found  that  the  tie  rods  along  the 
sides  that  stabilize  the  bridge  were  loose,  one  more  so  than  the 
other.  When  the  bridge  swung  one  way  the  rod  on  the  opposite 


side  would  tighten  up  and  pull  the  whole  thing  back  in  that 
direction.  Each  time  the  vibration  got  stronger.  I  knew  it  could 
finally  collapse  the  bridge.  Now  I  was  really  scared.  The  bridge 
might  go  at  any  minute,  or  so  I  thought.  Both  of  us  quit  shaking 
a  little  bit  and  I  got  back  on  and  drove  very  slow  and  steady  all 
the  way  over.  You  can  be  sure  I  didn't  take  the  rig  back  to 
Winbigger! 

I  must  have  been  close  to  twenty  at  the  time,  so  this  was 
no  small  boy's  fright.  I  didn't  panic  or  "freeze  to  the  throttle." 
My  mind  was  perfectly  clear  all  the  time.  That  was  the  most 
frightening  experience  of  my  life  and  I've  been  in  some  mighty 
tight  spots. 


HOT  LUNCH  AT  BREWSTER  SCHOOL: 
THE  OLD  HEN 

Margaret  Kelley  Reynolds 

It  was  the  fall  of  1938.  I  was  a  W.P.A.  Worker  (Works 
Progress  Administration)  and  was  assigned  to  cook  at  a  hot 
lunch  program  at  a  school  that  was  then  known  as  Brewster 
School.  There  were  fifteen  pupils  and  the  teacher  to  cook  for. 
The  school  was  about  two  miles  from  my  home  in  a  small  town 
and  I  walked  both  ways,  unless  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  catch 
a  ride.  The  teacher  at  this  school  was  one  I  had  gone  to  in  the 
seventh  grade,  so  it  wasn't  as  difficult  as  it  might  have  been, 
although  she  told  me  I  was  on  my  own  as  far  as  planning  the 
cooking-SHE  hated  to  cook.  With  a  noon  meal  sufficient  to  feed 
sixteen  people,  I  was  always  grateful  for  donations-or  nearly 
always! 

The  kitchen  was  set  up  in  one  end  of  a  long  hall,  and  was 
known  as  the  clothes  hall  because  the  pupils  used  the  other  end 
for  their  jackets,  coats,  galoshes,  etc.    I'm  sure  the  smell  of 


209 


cooking  must  have  clung  to  all  of  their  clothes.  The  kitchen 
consisted  of  a  three-burner  pressure  gas  stove  with  an  oven,  a 
cupboard,  and  a  table  with  a  water-bucket  and  dipper.  The 
water  was  carried  by  bucket  from  a  pump  outside  and  was 
generally  carried  by  volunteer  pupils.  I  had  a  lot  of  volunteers 
the  first  week  I  was  there.  They  were  the  most  helpful  and 
thirsty  bunch  of  kids  I'd  ever  seen.  They  were  allowed  to  get  a 
drink  whenever  they  felt  thirsty  and  they  felt  thirsty  a  lot  that 
first  week.  That  old  granite  dipper  clanged  and  banged  as  it  hit 
the  sides  of  the  old  galvanized  water  bucket.  Our  menu 
consisted  of  meat  if  possible,  chicken  or  beans,  fruit  and  milk, 
and  either  cupcakes  or  bran  muffins.  The  pupils  were  allowed 
to  make  suggestions  for  the  meal,  and  I  must  admit  it  was 
interesting  to  find  out  that  you  could  cook  a  ground-hog!  I 
didn't!  The  kids  were  very  good  about  trying  to  bring  something 
from  home  and  it  was  up  to  me  to  figure  out  how  to  use  it,  hide 
it,  or  bury  it-as  I  did  a  skinned  and  pretty  rank  coon  carcass. 

One  day  a  nine-year-old  boy,  who  was  an  only  child  from 
a  well-to-do  family,  offered  to  bring  an  old  hen  to  cook  so  that  we 
could  have  chicken  and  noodles  the  next  day.  He  loved  noodles. 
In  fact,  he  loved  to  eat  and  ate  anything  and  everything  that  was 
left  each  day.  Sometimes  I  used  to  think  he  would  eat  anything 
that  didn't  eat  him  first.  Both  the  teacher  and  I  were  surprised 
when  he  offered  to  bring  a  chicken  because,  after  sending  a  note 
home  with  him  for  seven  weeks,  we'd  sort  of  given  up.  But  we 
told  him  to  bring  the  chicken,  and  after  lunch  that  day,  the 
teacher  gave  him  permission  to  watch  me  make  the  noodles  to 
be  ready  for  the  next  day's  lunch.  The  next  day  the  teacher  met 
me  at  the  door-stoop  of  the  school  house  and  said,  "We've  got  a 
problem."  When  I  looked  at  the  dirty  old  gunny  sack  tied  with 
a  binder  twine  string,  lying  on  the  ground  and  giving  a  squaking 
sound  every  time  one  of  the  kids  punched  the  sack  with  a  stick, 
I  knew  I  was  in  trouble.  We  had  a  live  hen! 

I  had  never  killed  a  chicken.  My  husband  had  always 
killed  them  by  cutting  their  heads  off  with  a  hatchet.  We  didn't 


have  a  hatchet.  The  teacher  was  no  help;  she'd  never  even 
dressed  a  chicken.  She  just  rang  the  bell  for  school  to  take  up 
and  told  me  I  was  on  my  own.  You  might  say,  she  chickened  out! 
It  took  quite  awhile  to  carry  enough  water  to  fill  a  five  gallon 
lard  can  to  heat  to  scald  the  old  hen  and  get  her  ready  to  pick. 
But  first,  I  had  to  kill  her.  I'd  seen  my  mother  grab  a  chicken  by 
the  neck  and  wring  around  and  around  until  the  head  popped 
off  It  looked  easy  when  she  did  it.  I  was  sure  I  could  do  that. 
Well,  I  grabbed  that  old  hen  by  the  neck  and  started  swinging 
around,  and  around,  and  around,  but  that  old  hen's  neck  just  got 
longer  and  longer,  and  her  head  never  did  pop  off.  About  the 
time  I  was  ready  to  give  up,  school  recess  started.  I  then  had  an 
audience  of  fifteen  jumping,  screaming  kids  all  yelling  advice. 
"Pull  harder!"  "Yank  it!"  "Get  a  knife!"  Finally,  one  boy  said, 
"My  mother  always  steps  on  their  head  and  pulls  it  off."  By  that 
time  my  nerves  were  so  shot,  I  would  have  tried  anything.  So, 
with  my  audience  yelling  encouragement,  I  stepped  on  the  head 
of  that  poor  old  hen,  shut  my  eyes,  and  pulled.  The  head  flew  off 
and  blood  flew  all  over  me  and  some  of  the  kids.  I  know  that 
tough  old  hen  flopped  around  for  at  least  ten  minutes.  To  this 
day,  I  get  sick  just  thinking  about  it,  and  I  haven't  killed  a 
chicken  since. 

It  was  too  late  for  our  chicken  and  noodles  that  day,  so 
the  teacher  asked  the  kids  to  volunteer  to  help  make  potato  soup 
for  lunch.  They  all  volunteered,  but  she  would  only  let  five  help 
me.  We  really  would  have  had  better  soup  if  we  had  used  the 
peelings,  because  out  of  a  bushel  of  potatoes,  we  had  very  few 
left.  There  was  more  on  the  peeling  than  in  the  pot.  But,  the 
kids  were  real  proud  of  the  soup  they  helped  make  and  as  they 
always  said,  "Just  think,  if  we  hadn't  got  that  old  hen,  we  never 
would  have  had  so  much  fun."  The  kids  that  were  at  school  that 
day  are  now  grandparents,  but  they  still  talk  about  the  day  I 
battled  the  old  hen,  and  they  had  to  make  potato  soup  for  lunch. 


210 


RURAL  ELECTRIFICATION  IN  MORGAN  COUNTY 

Mary  I.  Brown 

Rural  electrification  is  accepted  by  those  fifty  years  old 
and  under  as  a  taken-for-granted  fact  of  life.  Those  of  us  who 
remember  what  life  was  like  before  its  time  give  it  a  higher 
rating.  Sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  the  only  outdoor  light  was 
daylight.  The  kerosene  lantern,  after  darkness  fell,  lighted  our 
way  sufficiently  if  it  became  necessary  to  leave  our  homes. 

Few  rural  homes  had  their  own  set-up  to  power  "electric" 
lights.  The  prevailing  method  used  was  kerosene  lights  in  my 
growing-up  years.  That  did  not  change  for  many  years  after  my 
marriage.  My  husband  remembers  when  (as  a  child)  he  visited 
his  grandmother,  who  lived  in  the  nearby  village  of  Manchester, 
before  electricity  came.  At  nightfall  the  village  watchman  came 
and  manually  lighted  the  street  lamp  at  the  end  of  the  board- 
walk. 

The  person  who  devised  the  kerosene  lamp  was  no 
dummy.  No  doubt  it  was  someone  weary  of  candles.  It  took 
ingenuity  to  perceive  something  that  would  light  up  a  room 
from  a  woven  cotton  wick  suspended  in  kerosene.  The  glove 
enclosing  it  was  of  no  less  importance.  The  lantern  for  night- 
time outdoor  emergencies  was  built  on  the  same  principle. 

Lamps  were  continuously  improved.  I  remember  our 
great  "Rayo"  lamp  given  us  by  a  relative.  It  had  a  gleaming 
metal  base  with  a  milk-glass  shade  which  sat  on  a  tripod  over 
the  burner  assembly  and  chimney.  We  were  able  to  read  at 
night  by  it.  The  children  were  able  to  do  their  homework  from 
school.  Care  of  the  lamp  was  tedious.  Daily  the  kerosene  had 
to  be  replenished  and  the  globe  washed  and  polished  for  best 
results.  Turning  the  wick  too  high  caused  smoking  and  smudg- 
ing of  the  chimney. 

We  lived  in  the  southwestern  part  of  Morgan  County. 
One  day  two  gentlemen  came  to  our  door  asking  us  to  put  our 
names  on  a  list  of  petitioners  to  get  electricity  along  our  road.  I 


believe  one  man's  name  was  Rawlins.  I  do  not  recall  the  other 
name.  We  signed  that  petition  and  later  became  charter 
members  of  Illinois  Rural  Electric,  our  cooperative.  That  was  in 
mid-1930.  Money  was  at  a  premium  most  everywhere,  espe- 
cially in  rural  areas.  Those  forward-looking  men,  however, 
spent  their  time  and  energies  to  work  for  a  dream.  I  well 
remember  how  big  the  $68  bill  for  wiring  our  five-room  house 
looked  at  that  time. 

My  husband  was  told  he  could  get  work  when  actual 
construction  began.  He  applied  and  was  assigned  to  the  hole- 
digging  crew.  No,  they  did  not  dig  them  with  a  tractor  and 
auger.  They  used  good  old  elbow  grease,  a  long-handled  shovel, 
and  a  crumber.  They  were  two  very  unique  hand-operated 
tools.  The  shovel  was  broad  and  necessarily  long-handled.  It 
was  fashioned  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  a  spade  being  shaped 
"dished  out"  and  of  metal  which  kept  a  sharp  edge.  My  husband 
said  this  made  digging  the  six-feet-deep  holes  (seven  feet  for  a 
yard  light)  easier  than  it  sounds.  The  other  tool  was  to  "crumb" 
the  loose  dirt  from  the  hole.  It  had  a  very  long  handle  with  a 
rounded  devise  to  do  the  "crumbling."  The  two  tools  were  heavy 
and  difficult  to  carry  the  long  distance  between  the  holes. 
Sometimes  the  foreman  would  assist  the  men  in  going  from  the 
hole  just  dug  to  the  next  one  by  picking  them  up  in  a  pick-up 
truck  and  transporting  man  and  tools.  There  was  no  required 
number  of  holes,  but  digging  six  in  an  eight-hour  day  was 
considered  a  good  average.  The  pay  was  four  dollars  per  day. 

My  husband  dug  his  first  REA  hole  on  highway  67  at  the 
top  of  "Big  Sandy"  hill.  To  this  day  when  we  drive  along  there 
we  are  very  apt  to  comment  sometime  concerning  it.  It  is  always 
remembered  with  a  sense  of  pride. 

The  poles  were  strung  by  a  follow-up  crew.  The  trucks 
that  hauled  the  poles  on  trailers  and  the  wench  that  maneu- 
vered them  into  place  were  smaller  than  ones  I  see  now. 
Somehow  they  accomplished  the  same  end.  In  places  where 
road  banks  were  narrow,  poles  were  put  up  on  an  acquired  field 


211 


right-of-way. 

The  day  seemed  a  long  time  coming.  Eventually,  the 
wire  crew  came  and  strung  the  wire.  The  electricians  followed 
up.  The  year  was  1937  when  our  lines  were  completed  and 
energized.  That  was  a  memorable  event.  At  supper  when  we 
turned  the  light  on  over  the  table,  there  was  a  deafening  silence. 
It  was  broken  by  my  husband  saying,  "Well,  I  feel  like  I'm  up  on 
a  stage  somewhere." 

In  this  year,  1988,  as  I  look  out  my  west  window  at 
nightfall  and  see  the  lights  dotting  the  countryside,  I  think 
about  how  much  "warmth"  electricity  has  given  us. 


MOUTH-WATERING  HOMEMADE  BREADS 

Helen  E.  Rilling 

It  has  been  three-quarters  of  a  century  since  I  ate  those 
mouth-watering  hot  breads  mother  used  to  made.  The  smell  of 
fresh-baked  bread  still  brings  back  memories  of  those  lofty 
brown  rolls  peeping  over  the  sides  of  a  three-inch  black  baking 
pan  and  crowding  for  space  with  the  other  twenty  or  thirty  rolls. 

We  lived  on  a  livestock  and  grain  farm  in  eastern 
Morgan  County  near  the  town  of  Alexander.  Several  hired 
hands  lived  as  part  of  the  family  most  of  the  year.  Along  with 
ourfamily  of  six,  we  filled  a  big  table  in  the  dining  room.  Three 
meals  a  day  the  year  around  consumed  a  lot  of  food  which 
included  lots  of  hot  breads  beside  the  huge  loaves  of  "light" 
bread  mother  baked  twice  a  week. 

Among  the  hot  or  quick  breads  that  we  liked  best  were 
pancakes,  cornbread,  hoecakes,  and  light  as  a  cloud  biscuits. 
Mother's  pancakes  were  prepared  in  a  gallon  crock.  She'd  break 
a  half-dozen  eggs  into  the  crock  and  beat  wdth  her  hand-held 
beater  until  light  and  fluffy.    Into  this  she  sifted  flour,  salt. 


baking  powder,  and  a  spoon  or  two  of  sugar.  Melted  butter  was 
added  with  milk  until  the  batter  was  just  right  for  pouring. 
Mother  seldom  measured  ingredients  but  just  seemed  to  know 
a  pinch  or  handful  of  something  was  all  that  was  needed  to  bring 
a  recipe  to  perfection.  Three  or  four  frying  pans  would  be 
heating  on  top  of  the  Home  Comfort  range  with  the  hot  lard 
beginning  to  spit.  Mother's  pancakes  were  plate  size.  She'd  flip 
them  over  when  the  tops  were  full  of  bubbles.  Heated  plates 
waited  in  the  warming  oven,  and  as  she  worked  the  piles  of 
pancakes  grew  high.  When  the  men  arrived  from  chores  and 
milking,  mother  took  the  plates,  hot  pancakes,  a  pitcher  of 
maple  syrup,  sorghum  molasses,  and  a  bowl  of  freshly  churned 
butter  to  the  table.  Mugs  ofsteamingcoffee  were  poured.  There 
would  be  little  conversation  at  times  like  this  around  the 
breakfast  table.  Sometimes  there  was  a  surplus  of  batter.  Since 
nothing  was  ever  wasted  in  those  days,  mother  would  add  a  bit 
more  sugar,  flavoring,  and  flour  and  bake  a  nice  light  egg  cake 
for  our  school  lunches. 

Biscuits  were  the  usual  fare  for  breakfast  on  a  farm. 
Mother  used  a  large  wooden  bowl  haii-full  of  flour  to  mix  them 
in.  She'd  add  baking  powder  and  salt.  Pure  white  lard  would 
be  mixed  in,  then  milk  poured  into  the  bowl  and  mixed  until  the 
mixture  could  be  turned  out  onto  the  bread  board  and  kneaded 
a  time  or  two.  Rolled  out  about  one  and  a  half  inches  thick  and 
cut  with  a  shaip  round  cutter,  they  were  transferred  to  a  well 
greased  pan  and  flipped  over  once  so  the  melted  fat  glistened  on 
the  tops.  Popped  into  a  hot  oven-one  that  mother  checked  the 
heat  by  sticking  her  hand  into  the  oven  for  a  second-they  rose 
to  a  height  of  two  and  one-half  inches  and  turned  a  golden 
brown.  Sometimes  if  mother  was  in  a  hurry,  she  flattened  the 
dough  right  in  the  baking  pan  and  crisscrossed  it  with  a  sharp 
knife.  We  kids  loved  these  diamond-shaped  biscuits.  Plates  of 
mother's  biscuits  piled  eight  to  ten  inches  high  would  disappear 
in  minutes. 

Once  in  awhile  when  the  men  had  been  busy  harvesting 


crops  or  the  weather  was  bad  and  the  roads  were  deep  in  mud, 
no  one  went  to  town  for  supplies.  Then  mother  had  to  make  soda 
biscuits.  We  didn't  Hke  them  very  much  and  would  beg  Father 
to  make  the  trip  to  Kaiser's  General  Store  in  Alexander  that 
very  day. 

Cornbread  was  usually  served  at  the  noon  meal.  It  was 
delicious  with  wild  greens  in  the  spring  or  green  beans  when 
gardens  were  producing.  Cornbread  was  a  must  when  dried 
beans  and  a  piece  of  cured  ham  were  cooked  together.  Mother's 
southern  cornbread  was  deep  and  rich,  and  delicious  with  fresh 
butter  and  sorghum  molasses  swirled  until  it  looked  like  marble. 
The  big  pans  of  cornbread  were  cut  into  three-inch  squares  and 
the  tops  and  bottoms  were  crusty  brown.  There  was  a  delightful 
smell  all  through  the  house  when  cornbread  was  baking. 

Mother  raised  turkeys.  When  she  had  small  poults  to 
feed,  she'd  bake  large  pans  of  cornbread  with  the  egg  shells 
crushed  right  into  the  batter.  She  added  bits  of  meat  or 
cracklins  if  they  were  available.  We'd  snitch  pieces  of  the 
cornbread  to  eat  while  it  was  cooling.  The  shells  were  no 
problem  for  us;  we  just  spit  them  out  and  enjoyed  the  stolen 
treat. 

Hoecakes  were  the  speciality  of  our  father.  He'd  make 
them  for  supper  when  mother  was  ill.  He  stirred  one  cup 
commeal  into  one  and  one-half  cups  boiling  water  to  which  a 
teaspoon  each  of  salt  and  sugar  had  been  added.  Into  the 
spitting  hot  frying  pans  he  poured  circles  about  four  inches  in 
diameter  and  quickly  flipped  them  over  to  brown  both  sides  to 
a  crusty  and  lacy  perfection.  Sometimes  he  flipped  them  high 
in  the  air  to  make  us  laugh  and  often  they  missed  the  pan  when 
they  came  down.  There  was  a  terrible  smell  from  the  burning 
batter.  We  always  loved  hoecake  suppers.  It  was  a  warm  and 
loving  time  filled  with  much  laughter  in  the  golden  yellow  light 
from  old  fashioned  kerosene  wall  lamps  in  the  cozy  kitchen. 

Mother  baked  the  best  rolls  and  loaves  of  bread  that  I 
have  ever  tasted.   She  would  use  several  barrels  of  flour  in  a 


year.  Father  brought  it  home  in  a  box  wagon  and  stored  it  in  a 
large  wooden  box  in  the  hall  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

Mother  was  very  careful  to  have  clean  utensils  for  her 
breadmaking.  Her  breadboard  was  scrubbed  until  it  was 
almost  white.  She  boiled  potatoes  the  night  before  bread- 
baking  day.  No  salt  was  ever  added  to  those  potatoes  as  they 
cooked,  and  we  were  warned  to  never  touch  the  potato  water  she 
saved  to  use  in  her  bread  starter  she  set  the  night  before  with 
cakes  of  dry  yeast  and  some  flour. 

Mother  was  fortunate  to  have  a  large  bread  mixer.  It 
was  aluminum  and  had  a  mixing  hook  that  worked  down  the 
dough  after  it  had  raised  the  first  time.  This  saved  mother  all 
the  hard  work  of  hand-kneading  the  dough.  The  dough  was 
formed  into  three  or  four  loaves  to  each  large  pan.  These  pans 
were  set  in  a  warm  place  until  the  dough  was  double  in  size. 
Mother  baked  three  or  four  large  pans  twice  weekly.  The  loaves 
were  turned  out  onto  racks  and  the  tops  were  buttered  until 
shiny  and  the  rich  butter  trickled  down  between  the  loaves  and 
rolls. 

The  loaves  of  bread  were  cooled  and  stored  in  stone  jars 
covered  with  a  clean  dish  towel  and  a  tight  wooden  lid.  If  the 
bread  became  dry  before  the  next  baking  day,  mother  sliced  the 
bread,  sprinkled  it  with  water,  and  heated  it  in  a  hot  oven. 
Leftover  bread  was  used  in  a  pudding  rich  with  eggs,  raisins, 
and  flavored  with  cinnamon  or  nutmeg.  This  was  served  with 
thick  cream  and  was  a  popular  dessert  when  I  was  a  child. 

For  threshing-day  dinners  and  big  family  gatherings, 
store-bought  bread  was  brought  home  from  town.  We  loved 
those  soft  thin  slices.  But  it  was  sort  of  tasteless  after  mother's 
hot  brown  rolls  and  crusty  loaves.  We  gladly  returned  to  our 
little  world  of  delicious  home-made  breads  hot  from  the  Home 
Comfort  and  spread  with  dandelion-yellow  butter,  honey,  apple 
butter,  and  other  good  things. 


213 


LOST  TRAIL  BARBAREE 

Ruhy  H.  Bridgman 

During  the  1930s  Roodhouse,  Illinois,  at  one  time  a 
flourishing  railroad  town  with  three  large  hotels,  was  strug- 
gling to  maintain  its  equilibrium  as  its  past  grandeur  was 
slowly  fading.  Many  people  saw  their  once  flourishing  finances 
also  diminishing.  But  this  didn't  seem  to  be  much  of  a  problem 
to  a  group  of  young  energetic  "kids,"  full  of  fun  and  enthusiasm 
because  they  were  busy  enjoying  special  activities  of  the  town. 
One  of  these  activities  was  a  lively  game  called  "Lost  Trail 
Barbaree." 

"Lost  Trail  Barbaree"  was  a  group  game.  A  large  troop 
of  kids  would  gather  under  a  big  light  at  the  town  square  and 
divide  into  two  groups.  The  first  group  ran  off  to  get  a  "head 
start,"  and  the  second  group  was  supposed  to  follow  and  "track 
them  down."  But  the  way  in  which  we  played  the  game,  the 
second  group  would  usually  run  in  an  opposite  direction.  Each 
and  every  one  of  us  whenever  he  felt  the  urge  would  yell, 
"Looooooooost  Traaaaaai]  Barrrrbareeee!"  We  all  felt  the  urge 
quite  frequently,  and  it  was  a  great,  glorious  cry!  It  fulfilled  a 
primeval  need  to  be  glad  to  be  alive  and  to  feel  free!  I  think  the 
Gk)od  Lord  looked  down  and  smiled,  "turned  up"  the  light  of  the 
moon,  and  added  a  little  more  silver  shine  to  the  earth  as  we  ran 
whooping  all  over  town. 

In  about  an  hour,  we  would  meet  back  at  the  square, 
divide  into  other  groups,  and  go  howling  once  more  into  the 
night.  At  the  end  of  the  evening,  we  would  gather  once  more  at 
the  square,  thoroughly  refreshed  after  all  the  running  and 
"hollering,"  bid  each  other  good-night,  and  troop  happily  home. 

Even  now,  when  the  moon  is  full  and  there  is  a  silver 
shine  over  all  the  land,  I  yearn  to  burst  forth  from  my  home  in 
Jacksonville  and  go  racing  down  the  street  crying,  "Looooooooost 
Traaaaaail  Barrrrbareeee!"  Since  there  are  three  other  former 
Roodhousians  on  my  street,  I  know  their  ears  would  twitch  and 
out  of  their  doors  they  would  come. 


MY  QUEST  TO  KNOW  ABOUT  MY 
GREAT-GRANDPARENTS 

Marjorie  J.  Scaife 

"Where  did  Elizabeth  Anderson  and  Willis  Fulp  come 
from?" 

The  answer  to  this  seemingly  simple  question  about  my 
great-grandparents  presented  no  problem  to  me-a  budding 
genealogist.  All  I  had  to  do,  I  thought,  was  ask  my  mother.  How 
naive  I  was.  So  began  a  chase  that  lasted  eight  years  and 
unearthed  more  than  I  was  looking  for. 

During  that  search  I  learned  much  about  how  my  ances- 
tors lived.  I  also  learned  how  they  moved  around  and  made  it 
very  difficult  for  descendants  to  find  them.  Despite  the  lack  of 
cars,  good  roads,  and  airplanes,  they  seemed  to  jump  from  state 
to  state  like  fleas.  But  a  most  important  side  benefit  of  all  this 
was  getting  acquainted  with  my  mother  in  a  different  way. 

When  I  asked  my  mother  for  any  family  records,  she 
gave  me  the  marriage  record  of  her  own  mother,  Lydia  Fulp, 
who  was  the  daughter  of  Elizabeth  Anderson  Fulp.  This 
valuable  document  stated  that  Elizabeth's  husband,  Willis,  was 
born  in  North  Carolina.  In  North  Carolina's  1850  census,  I 
found  Willis  and  his  parents  while  he  was  still  in  school.  That 
was  the  last  I  could  find  about  Willis  Fulp  for  several  years.  So 
I  switched  to  researching  Lydia. 

As  to  Lydia,  in  this  marriage  record  I  found  that  she  was 
born  in  Clay  County,  Illinois.  While  I  never  found  a  certificate 
of  her  birth,  the  1860  Illinois  Census  turned  up  Willis  Fulp  and 
Elizabeth  Anderson  in  Clay  County  with  a  daughter,  Lydia.  So 
much  for  Lydia  until  later. 

When  I  complained  to  my  mother  that  I  couldn't  find 
anymore  records  for  the  Willis  Fulps,  she  casually  said,  "Why 
don't  you  look  under  Armstrong?" 

"Armstrong?"  I  was  puzzled. 

"Well,  Elizabeth  did  remarry  after  Willis  died." 


"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  she  remarried?" 

"You  didn't  ask,"  was  my  mother's  answer. 

At  this  point  I  began  to  study  my  mother  more  closely 
and  pay  more  attention  to  her  answers,  to  listen  with  "the  third 
ear."  I  was  beginning  to  suspect  that  she  didn't  volunteer  to  tell 
everything  she  knew. 

Since  I  wasn't  getting  anywhere  with  the  beginning  of 
the  mystery,  I  decided  to  try  to  find  the  end.  I  could  never  find 
any  official  record  of  the  death  of  Willis  Fulp.  The  1917  death 
certificate  of  Elizabeth  Armstrong  was  found  in  Morgan  County, 
but  there  was  not  one  word  that  would  help  find  her  family. 
There  was  the  death  record  but  no  gravestone.  I  turned  again 
to  my  mother. 

"You  said  Elizabeth  lived  with  your  family  for  years- 
made  hot  biscuits  for  breakfast  everyday.  If  she  lived  there  so 
long,"  I  asked,  "didn't  she  ever  visit  other  relatives?  Where  did 
they  live?" 

"Of  course  she  visited  her  relatives.  She  packed  her 
trunk,  got  on  the  train,  and  went  to  Indiana  for  weeks  at  a  time," 
she  said. 

"Where  did  she  go  in  Indiana?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  She  came  from  a  very  large  family  and  she 
visited  from  one  house  to  another." 

Do  you  know  how  many  railroad  lines  there  were  in 
Indiana  after  the  Civil  War? 

By  that  time  I  had  learned  a  little  more  about  searching, 
so  I  started,  county  by  county,  along  the  major  railroads  that 
went  into  Central  Illinois.  And  one  day,  in  a  letter  about  some 
other  records  to  a  county  nowhere  near  a  railroad,  on  a  whim  I 
added  a  P.S.:  "Do  you  have  a  marriage  record  of  Willis  Fulp?" 

I  will  never  forget  the  day  I  got  the  answer  to  my  letter. 
It  was  on  a  single  sheet  of  paper.  I  was  almost  too  discouraged 
to  look  at  it.  But  with  that  single  sheet  of  paper,  I  had  found  the 
long  lost  marriage  record  in  Madison  County,  Indiana.  And 
that  wonderful  clerk  had  pencilled  on  it  the  name  and  address 


of  a  local  researcher.  This  researcher  turned  up  Elizabeth's 
large  family  ( parents,  five  brothers,  and  five  sisters  >  p  aming  all 
the  members  and  giving  their  story  back  to  North  Carolina.  The 
ultimate  reward  was  that  a  record  was  found  of  the  purchase  of 
land  in  Clay  County,  Illinois,  by  Willis  and  Elizabeth  Fulp.  At 
last  I  was  getting  somewhere.  So  back  to  my  mother. 

"If  they  owned  land  in  Illinois,  why  did  Elizabeth  live 
with  your  family  so  many  years?"  I  asked.  "I  realize  that  her 
daughter,  Lydia,  was  ill  for  a  long  time  and  needed  help  (Mother 
would  not  say  tuberculosis),  but  didn't  Elizabeth's  husband 
object  to  this  long  stay?" 

Imagine  my  shock  at  the  age  of  fifty  to  learn  for  the  first 
time  that,  after  Elizabeth  married  Armstrong,  they  had  a 
violent  argument  over  the  farm  she  had  inherited  from  Willis. 
Armstrong  wanted  to  sell  and  she  didn't.  So,  he  shot  her. 

Fortunately,  Elizabeth  was  hit  only  in  the  shoulder  and 
she  recovered.  So,  in  1883,  she  went  to  live  with  her  daughter, 
Lydia.  Divorce  was  unacceptable  and  Elizabeth  and  Armstrong 
lived  separately  for  thirty-four  years  until  her  death  in  1917. 
He  was  still  living  then. 

Realizing  that  I  would  get  no  more  information  from 
Mother,  I  wrote  for  the  court  records  of  the  case.  Sure  enough, 
"He  did  pick  up  a  revolver  and  with  malicious  intent  to  murder 
did  shoot  her."  Off  to  the  penitentiary  for  Armstrong. 

Since  Elizabeth  remarried  in  1875,  this  put  Willis's 
death  between  1860  and  1874.  Efforts  now  turned  to  finding 
that  farm  in  Clay  County. 

Finally  getting  disgusted  with  my  moaning  and  groan- 
ing about  my  problem.  Mother  said,  "I'll  make  a  suggestion.  If 
you'll  drive  me  down  to  Clay  County  I'll  write  all  my  cousins  and 
suggest  a  reunion  of  those  of  us  that  used  to  have  such  fun  at 
week-long  houseparties  in  the  early  1900s.  Maybe  some  of  them 
will  know  something." 

I'd  heard  about  these  cousins  all  my  life,  so  I  agreed.  I 
also  knew  that  my  mother  dearly  loved  to  go  in  the  car  for 


215 


several  days  and  stay  in  nice  motels.  The  reunion  was  planned 
and  finally  held  in  1973  near  Clay  County. 

Those  elderly  cousins  had  a  wonderful  time.  I  was 
allowed  to  drive  the  car  for  them,  to  cook,  and  do  dishes.  And 
listen.  At  last  one  cousin  told  me  she  knew  a  court  clerk  who 
might  be  able  to  translate  the  Indiana  land  description.  We 
started  out  with  vague  directions  that  would  "put  you  in  the 
general  area-and  there's  an  old  man  out  there  who  might  help 
you." 

Some  miles  out  in  the  country  we  found  the  old  man. 
What  good  luck!  He  turned  out  to  be  a  genealogical  researcher. 
He  recognized  the  property  and  offered  to  go  with  us  to  find  it. 
Sort  of  incidentally  along  the  way,  he  suggested  we  stop  at  a 
little  roadside  cemetery.  We  found  only  a  few  graves  in  about 
an  acre  and  a  half  of  land.  But-more  luck-among  them  were  the 
graves  of  Willis  Fulp  and  two  of  his  daughters! 

Old  stones  had  been  turned  over  and  were  covered  with 
dirt,  but  they  gave  names,  birth,  and  death  dates.  We  cleaned 
the  stones  and  leaned  them  against  the  fence  and  took  pictures 
for  a  permanent  record.  And  there  at  last  I  learned  the  date  of 
Willis  Fulp's  death.  I  had  found  the  end  I'd  been  looking  for. 
There  was  no  death  record,  but  there  was  a  gravestone. 

Worth  more  than  the  facts  unearthed,  though,  were  the 
real  benefits  of  this  search-finding  how  interesting  my  ances- 
tors were.  And  I  learned  that  visiting  with  older  people  and 
letting  them  talk  casually  would  tell  me  more  than  I  ever 
learned  by  direct  questioning.  My  mother  really  didn't  give  me 
a  lot  of  facts,  but  she  did  give  me  many  valuable  clues. 

Genealogically,  the  Fulp  line  turned  out  to  be  my  entry 
to  membership  in  the  DAR.  And  one  of  the  important  proofs 
accepted  in  my  DAR  application  was  the  picture  of  WUlis  Fulp's 
gravestone. 


MY  THOUGHTS  ON  MEMORIAL  DAY 

Phyllis  Wells  Pincombe 

It's  Memorial  Day,  and  here  I  am  at  the  cemetery.  It 
seems  funny  not  having  Mom  here.  Well,  in  a  way  she  is  here. 
Mom  died  last  fall. 

As  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  Mom  and  I  have  always 
decorated  the  family  graves  on  Memorial  Day.  Six  generations 
ofour  family  lie  buried  here,  in  this  quiet  little  cemetery  outside 
of  a  quiet  little  town,  Ridott,  Illinois. 

I  once  said  I  could  remember  going  to  my  great- 
grandfather's funeral  because  I  could  remember  the  flag  on  the 
casket,  but  Mom  said,  "That  was  your  other  great-grandpa.  He 
was  a  Civil  War  veteran,  but  he  isn't  buried  here."  She  was 
right,  too,  because  the  headstone  here  says  that  Benjamin 
Boyer  died  in  1906,  and  that  was  eleven  years  before  I  was  born. 

Let's  see  now.  The  pink  geranium  goes  on  Grandma's 
grave.  Mom  always  bought  a  pink  geranium  for  Grandma's 
grave.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  wonder  why  she  always  called  it 
"Grandma's  grave."  Grandpa  is  right  there  beside  her.  "Wil- 
liam and  Dena  Boyer,"  the  gravestone  says.  Perhaps  Grandma 
loved  pink  geraniums. 

Now  I  must  go  down  to  the  other  end  of  the  cemetery  to 
my  parents'  lot.  My  father,  Harry  Wells,  died  of  a  heart  attack 
at  the  age  of  forty -four.  Somehow  I  always  felt  that  it  was  really 
the  Depression  that  killed  him.  He  was  the  sort  of  person  who 
loved  to  give  gifts  and  pick  up  tabs,  and  when  his  business  caved 
in,  he  just  sort  of  caved  in  with  it. 

My  mother,  Susan  Boyer  Wells,  was  a  widow  for  forty- 
three  years.  She  always  said  that  there  just  wasn't  anyone  quite 
like  my  father.  She  never  considered  remarrying. 

This  stone  says  "Baby."  Actually  there  are  two  babies  on 
our  lot.  The  first.  Baby  Jack,  is  the  brother  I  never  knew.  He 
died  two  years  before  I  was  bom.  I  used  to  wonder  why  my 
mother  made  such  a  fuss  over  a  nine-month  old  baby.  He  had 


not  been  old  enough  to  talk  or  exchange  ideas.  Mom  and  I  went 
to  the  cemetery  every  year  and  always  visited  Baby  Jack's 
grave,  but  I  couldn't  understand  what  he  meant  to  her. 

The  other  baby  is  my  tiny  granddaughter,  Richelle 
Rosetta.  She  had  black  curly  hair  and  a  husky  looking  little 
body,  but  looks  were  deceiving.  In  her  third  day,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  she  suddenly  stopped  breathing  and  died.  Now,  like 
Mom,  I  understand. 

My  daughter  was  unable  to  attend  her  baby's  funeral  as 
she  herself  was  in  the  hospital  for  breathing  difficulties.  When 
I  reported  the  funeral  proceedings  to  her,  her  only  words  were, 
"Mama,  I  never  even  got  to  hold  her." 

Two  days  later  the  doctor  told  her  that  she  only  had  a 
short  time  to  live.  The  cancer  that  had  attacked  her  arm  a  year 
and  a  half  before  had  broken  out  again  in  her  liver.  She  lived 
just  four  more  weeks.  Now  she's  here. 

Altogether  six  generations  of  my  family  lie  here  in  the 
Ridott  Cemetery.  Most  of  them  live  in  my  memory.  One  day  I 
shall  join  them,  but  then,  who  will  remember? 


MY  VISIT  TO  FORD'S  THEATRE 

William  E.  Thomson 

Many  years  ago  as  a  very  young  boy  I  attended  the 
dedication  of  "The  Lincoln  Memorial"  in  Oak  Ridge  Cemetery  in 
Springfield,  Illinois,  with  my  family  and  grandfather.  Sitting 
next  to  him  as  I  usually  was,  I  remember  him  telling  me  that 
some  months  before  an  attempt  had  been  made  to  steal  the  body 
of  Lincoln.  And  later,  when  the  casket  was  moved  from  the 
hillside  crypt  to  the  permanent  interment  in  the  base  of  the 
monument,  the  casket  had  been  opened  to  make  sure  the  body 
was  still  there.   He  mentioned,  too,  that  a  man  he  knew  from 


Galesburg  had  viewed  the  body,  and  that  after  all  these  years 
there  was  only  a  little  spot  of  mold  on  the  collar  of  his  suit- 
otherwise  the  body  itself  was  perfectly  preserved. 

The  dedication  ceremonies,  vvdth  the  somber  addresses 
made  that  day  by  Governor  Emerson  and  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  Herbert  Hoover,  and  others,  reflecting  the  past 
and  eulogizing  this  great  man,  made  an  impression  on  me  that 
I  wouldn't  soon  forget.  It  was  about  this  time  that  I  became 
intrigued  not  so  much  with  the  many  aspects  leading  to  the 
assassination,  but  the  place  where  it  happened. 

It  was  several  years  later,  after  a  successful  run  on 
Broadway  in  the  hit  comedy,  "Janie,"  that  I  was  in  Washington 
for  the  first  time  appearing  in  the  touring  company.  It  was 
through  stage  hands,  I  recall,  that  I  learned  Ford's  Theatre  still 
existed  in  its  original  state:  It  was  the  place  of  the  assassina- 
tion, and  for  all  these  years  it  had  been  closed  to  the  public. 

After  participating  in  an  early  morning  radio  talk  show, 
I  hailed  a  cab  and  set  out  on  what  turned  out  be  quite  an 
adventure.  After  depositing  me  at  the  curb  across  the  street 
from  Ford's  Theatre,  I  remember  watching  the  cab  as  it  rounded 
a  corner  and  disappeared  from  sight.  It  was  then  that  I  noticed 
how  quiet  it  was  in  this  what  seemed  a  very  remote  part  of  town. 
I  realized  at  this  early  hour  the  town  hadn't  really  come  alive 
yet.  It  wouldn't  have  surprised  me  at  all  if  a  horse  and  buggy 
had  galloped  down  that  deserted  street.  At  about  that  moment, 
I  caught  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  what  appeared  to  be 
movement  of  some  kind  behind  the  soiled  glass  of  the  double 
doors  at  the  entrance  of  the  theatre.  This  is  impossible,  I 
thought-what's  going  on  over  there-I  must  be  seeing  things. 
There  it  was  again-as  though  a  shadow  passed  over  the  door 
pane .  After  a  minute  or  two  I  finally  crossed  the  street  and,  with 
my  kerchief,  wiped  some  of  the  grime  from  one  of  the  panes  of 
glass  in  the  door  in  order  to  look  inside.  As  I  did  so,  peering  at 
me  from  the  inside  was  the  face  of  a  white-haired  old  man  about 
to  open  the  door.  Laughingly,  he  said,  "No,  I'm  not  a  ghost."  He 


said  he  had  been  watching  me  for  some  time  and  wondered  what 
I  was  doing  in  this  part  of  town  at  this  early  hour.  I  explained 
to  him  who  I  was,  what  I  was  doing  in  the  city,  and  being  a  "farm 
boy"  from  Illinois,  it  seemed  only  natural  that  I  should  be 
interested  in  "Lincoln  History."  It  was  then  that  he  mellowed, 
saying  he  too  had  been  a  farm  boy  from  around  the  Kewanee 
area,  and  he  had  for  many  years  been  overseer  of  Ford's 
Theatre.  I  remember  him  saying  that  he  hadn't  been  at  the 
theatre  for  some  time  and  that  it  was  pure  happenstance  that 
he  was  there  at  all,  especially  at  this  time  in  the  morning.  He 
went  on  to  say,  "On  the  second  thought,  guess  I  must  have  come 
down  just  to  let  you  in."  He  added  that  I  was  free  to  look  around. 
Which  I  did. 

This  was  an  opportunity  of  a  lifetime.  To  step  back  in 
time  some  seventy-five  years  to  a  place  undisturbed  only  by 
time.  A  chance  to  see  it  just  as  Lincoln  might  have  seen  it.  To 
stand  there  before  the  stage  as  Lincoln  must  have  done  upon 
entering  the  theatre,  greeting  friends  and  dignitaries  before  the 
performance.  To  retrace  his  steps  as  he  retired  to  the  President's 
Box.  It  was  the  intimacy  of  this  small  theatre  that  impressed 
me,  and  how  in  this  environment  a  tragedy  such  as  this  could 
ever  have  happened,  puzzled  me.  Of  course,  this  is  a  mystery 
that  to  this  day  isn't  fully  understood. 

Moving  over  to  the  stair-well  leading  to  the  President's 
Box,  I  could  see  that  the  door  at  the  top  was  slightly  ajar,  thus 
giving  me  light  to  see  the  stairs.  Brushing  away  the  cobwebs, 
I  climbed  to  the  top.  In  the  semi-darkness,  not  knowing  what 
to  expect,  an  eerie  feeling  came  over  me  as  I  pushed  open  the 
door  and  stepped  inside.  To  my  amazement,  the  setting  was 
pretty  much  as  I  expected.  The  rocking  chair  where  the 
president  sat  when  assassinated-still  there,  its  back  to  the 
door.  A  straight  chair  offto  the  side.  As  I  stood  there  collecting 
my  thoughts,  I  found  it  not  at  all  difficult  in  this  doom  and  gloom 
atmosphere  to  envision  the  incredible  senseless  act  that  took 
place  here  in  the  confines  of  this  small  place.    With  a  little 


stretch  of  one's  imagination,  one  could  almost  hear  the  shot  that 
killed  the  President  and  smell  the  stench  of  gun  powder  as 
Booth  set  about  to  play  his  final  roll  as  he  leaped  out  of  the 
shadows  past  the  President  slumped  in  his  chair-brushing 
aside  the  hysterical  Mrs.  Lincoln  as  he  vaulted  over  the  box 
rail-catching  a  spur  in  the  flag-thus  throwing  himself  off 
balance  and  breaking  his  leg  as  he  hit  the  stage  floor  below. 

As  I  was  about  to  leave  the  theatre,  the  overseer  called 
to  me  from  inside  the  ticket  office,  saying  he  had  something  to 
show  me  before  I  left.  Standing  in  the  doorway,  I  could  see  that 
he  had  removed  a  small  box  from  the  safe  located  in  the  corner 
of  this  small  room.  Lifting  the  lid,  he  folded  back  a  piece  of  cloth, 
soiled  with  age.  As  he  did  so,  he  handed  the  box  to  me.  Taking 
the  box  and  looking  inside  I  could  see  it  contained  two  articles. 
One  was  a  small  Daringer-type  pistol,  but  it  was  the  other  piece 
that  caught  my  attention.  A  sliver  of  bone.  As  I  turned  the  piece 
over,  withered  skin  and  a  few  strands  of  dark  hair  were  clearly 
visible.  As  I  recall,  it  seemed  that  I  was  immediately  aware  of 
what  it  was.  For  just  an  instant  there  it  seemed  I  could  see  the 
whole  man.  "The  rail  splitter,"  "The  circuit  rider,"  "The  Presi- 
dent," "Four  score  and  seven  years  ago"-all  flashed  through  my 
mind.  I  was  speechless  and  probably  visibly  shaken.  During 
this  time,  I  could  faintly  hear-very  distantly-the  old  man 
rambling  on:  "Yes,  it's  the  weapon  that  killed  the  President  and 
probably  the  most  untalked  about  fragment  of  American  his- 
tory in  existence.  A  piece  of  bone  from  Lincoln's  skull  was  left 
behind-later  found  beside  the  rocking  chair  where  he  sat  when 
shot.  You'll  be  able  to  tell  your  grandkids  you've  held  a  piece  of 
Lincoln  in  your  hand.  Nobody  will  believe  you,  but  it'll  be  true. 
Still,  to  this  day,  most  people  who  know  about  it  won't  accept  the 
fact  that  it  exists.  Won't  admit  what's  in  that  box.  Don't  want 
to  know.  I  keep  it  hidden.  No  denying  it-it's  all  right  there  in 
the  box.  A  lot  of  history.  What's  the  matter  boy-you  all  right? 
Maybe  a  little  fresh  air  would  do  you  good." 


L^ist  ofcAuthors 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS 

Tales  from  Two  Rivers  V  is  comprised  of  manuscripts  selected  from  Tales  from  Two  Rivers  writing  contests  VIII,  IX,  and  X. 
The  following  is  a  listing  of  all  authors  who  submitted  stories  to  these  writing  contests.  Their  manuscripts  are  part  of  the  Tales 
from  Two  Rivers  collection  at  the  Western  Illinois  University  Library. 


Adams 

Bloom,  Kathryn 
Dodson,  Madge  Bates 
Ehrhardt,  Florence 
Greenleaf,  Violet 
Jones,  Jr.,  John  A. 
Klarner,  Elizabeth 
Gitker,  Lillian 
Reinebach,  Ruth 
Reynolds,  Margaret  Kelley 
Ruddell,  Sara  J. 
Seger,  Mildred  M. 
Shelton,  Helen  Shepherd 
Stowell,  Arthur  Francis 
Turner,  Helen 
Waite,  Truman 

Brown 

Miller,  Wilma 
Roe,  Nellie 

Bureau 

Bennett,  Jane 
Norris,  Donald 
Philpott,  Glenn 

Calhoun 

Carpenter,  George  W. 
Navarre,  Olive 


Cass 

Bley,  Arline 
Kirchner,  Janette 
Leverton,  Beulah 
Smith,  Helen  Sherrill 
Smith,  Thelma 

Christian 

Becchelli,  Anna 
Trapp,  Alice 

Clinton 

Goodwin,  Catherine 

Cook 

Harper,  Milton 
Rockett,  Ferna 

Dekalb 

Prall,  Ivan  E. 

Edgar 

Strew,  Rosemary 

Effingham 

Shadwell,  Nelle  E. 

Fayette 

Hinshaw,  Virgil 


Fulton 

Beaird,  F.  D. 
Bowman,  Mabel 
Cattron,  Augusta  Kuehn 
Cook,  LaVern  E. 
Efnor,  Louise  E. 
Freeman,  Donald 
Hansberger,  L.  E. 
Helle,  Joseph  A. 
Henry,  Vera 
Hickerson,  Margaret 
Lafferty,  Mahal  a 
Livers,  Hazel 
Myers,  Helen 
Reihm,  Joan 
Thomson,  Esmarelda  T. 
Thomson,  William  E. 
Workman,  Garnet 
Yurkovich,  Eleaner 

Greene 

Chapman,  Floy  K. 
Chapman,  Mrs.  Floy 
Hardwick,  Betty  L. 
Kassing,  Shirley  A. 
Stout,  Viola 


222 


Hancock 

Boston,  Lydia  Jo 
Braun,  Florence 
Deener,  Ellen 
Emery,  Mattie 
Grigsby,  C.  O. 
Howard,  Dorothy  M. 
Junk,  Lucille 
McClintock,  Elden  L. 
McCutchan,  Ruth 
Muschalek,  Sister  Clare 
Schafer,  Grace  B. 
Smith,  Lois  H. 
Tinch,  Irene  B. 
Wait,  Myron 
Wells,  Dorris  E. 
Whitehead,  Imogene 

Henderson 

Brown,  Dorothy  L. 
Dixon,  Willis 
Gibb,  Irene 
Kane,  Mrs.  John 
Milligan,  Louise  Gibb 
Perry,  Faye 

Henry 

DeDecker,  Margaret  M. 
Hapner,  Eve  Hodgson 
Magerkirth,  Charlotte  E. 
Nash,  Marilyn  Hade 
Nelson,  Helen  Olson 
Rasmussen,  Marvis 
Richards,  Sr.,  Robert  C. 


Jackson 

Kupel,  Claudia  W. 

Jersey 

Bohannon,  Audrey 

Chappell,  Lorraine 

Cravens,  Katherine  Nola  Thorntor 

Fester,  Maurita 

Freesmeyer,  Marie 

Strunk,  Elma 

Van  Meter,  Dorothy 

Kendall 

Ketcham,  Charlene 

Knox 

Beaty,  Eileen  Cadwalader 
Callopy,  Mary  Moore 
Hawkinson,  Maxine 
Mangieri,  Joe 
Nash,  Glenrose 
Owrey,  Delores 
Simms,  Louise  Parker 
Stuckey,  Katherine 

Lake 

Mogg,  Ruth  Drummond 

Lasalle 

Burns,  Robert  Taylor 
Thompson,  Marguerite 

Lee 

Peterson,  Lillian 
Weitzel,  Wilbert 


Linn 

Taylor,  Ruth  Gash 

Logan 

Poppleton,  Roy 

Macoupin 

Ballinger,  Lucille 

Madison 

Koelling,  Dorothy  Boll 

Maricopa 

Brasel,  Kenneth  R. 

Marion 

Currie,  F.  Mary 

Marshall 

Bussell,  Eleanor  H. 
Kuhn,  Grayce 

Mason 

Powers,  HoUis  Sheldon 
Sauer,  Twyla 
Walker,  Lucille  J. 

Massac 

Green,  Beulah 

McDonough 

Applegate,  Francis 
Bricker,  Harriet 
Campbell,  Effie  L. 
Cheek,  Doris 


223 


Combites,  Lillian  Nelson 
Cordell,  Harriet  Wetzel 
Dark,  Nina  Sullivan 
Foster,  Pearl  Jackson 
Graham,  Burdette 
Graham,  Martha  K. 
Green,  Eleanor 
Halliburton,  Basil 
Harper,  Veta  M. 
Keithley,  Alvin  L. 
Keithley,  Hazel 
Keithley,  Teckla 
Krauser,  Alice 
Little,  Robert 
Meriwether,  Fern 
Morley,  Juanita 
Rogers,  Ruth 
Stevens,  Mary  Cecile 
Walraven,  Ruby 
Welch,  Marie 
Willey,  Esther 
Wilson,  Pearl 

McLean 

Baltz,  Wilson  M. 
Hancock,  Fern  Moate 
Miller,  Ailene 
Miller,  Leo 
Paddock,  Joseph 
Scaife,  Marjorie  J. 

Mercer 

Brown,  Dorothy  G. 
Kiddoo,  Elizabeth 
Speer,  Veta  Bloomer 


Monroe 

Hartman,  Al 
Hartman,  Emil 
Spytek,  Sue 

Morgan 

Bridgman,  Ruby  H. 
Brown,  Mary  L 
Fenton,  Phyllis  T. 
Fitch,  Grace 
Powell,  Milton  A. 
Sievers,  Mrs.  Glenn 
Simmons,  Ida  Harper 
Suttles,  Elizajane  Bates 

Moultrie 

Kirkwood,  Bill 

Muscatine 

Brei,  Irene 
Harris,  Elizabeth 

Nolan 

Hedgcock,  Everett 

Ogle 

Van  Briesen,  Armour  F. 

Peoria 

Adams,  Joseph  B.  Jr. 
Athen,  Joan  F. 
Burroughs,  Chuck 
Childers,  Guillard  O. 
Conlan,  Mary  J. 
Herron,  Carmen  Razo 


Kohrs,  Walter  E. 
Lamb,  Glenna 
Lynn, Jean  Geddes 
Norton,  Mildred 
Placher,  Louise 
Pope,  June 
Russell,  B.  M. 
Sperling,  Edwardine 

Piatt 

Walker,  Mrs.  Guyneth 

Pike 

Brim,  Genevieve  Dorsey 
Chandler,  Etta 
Cockrum,  Margaret  L. 
Dunmire,  Joy 
Hannant,  Owen 
Hanson,  Helen 
Swartz,  Merl 

Pope 

Watson,  Eva  Baker 

Randolph 

Rittenhouse,  Anna 

Rock  Island 

Barber,  Betty 
Chatterton,  June  Speer 
Chatterton,  Keith 
Chilberg,  Doris  L. 
Fetes,  Genevieve 
Findlay,  Junetta 


224 


Huber,  Jean  Courtney 
Johnson,  Lina  Fink 
Jordan,  Robert  D. 
Lashbrook,  Mrs.  Blondelle 
Nash,  Dorris  Taylor 
Nesseler,  Bernard 
Pearson,  Ruth  E. 
Pierce,  Anne  C. 
Rowe,  Eleanor  R. 
Sabath,  Rose  Fox 
Seward,  Sidney  Jeanne 
Singleton,  John 
Vennet,  Irene  Vander 
Witter,  Evelyn 

Sangamon 

Busch,  Ora 
Cawley,  Opal  Cora 
Hammond,  Jo 
Hart,  George  S. 
Kish,  Ruby  Davenport 
Kotner,  Vivian  Barton 
Mathis,  Irma 
Oblinger,  Josephine  K. 
Rilling,  Helen  E. 
Rowe,  Max  L. 
Schneider,  Virginia 
Stanfield,  Wilmogene 
Taylor,  Gloria  L. 
Tefertillar,  Robert  L. 
Thorn,  Richard 
Welhelm,  Telma 
Workman,  Vivian 


Schuyler 

Baker,  Larry 
Bartlow,  William  P. 
DeWitt,  Mary  K. 
Peters,  Iva 
Prather,  Virginia 
Terry,  Lillian 
Turner,  Nell  Dace 

Scott 

Duncan,  Mrs.  Orin 
Hutchings,  Stella  Howard 
Vortman,  Nina  Krusa 

St.  Clair 

Greco,  Eileen 
Hall,  Clarence  G. 
Heller,  Dorothy  A. 
Miller,  Lillian  D. 
Niemann,  Vera 
Rhodes,  Virginia  Roy 
Schmidt,  Elsa  E. 
Welch,  Grace  R. 

Shelby 

Harless,  Helen  C. 
Knecht,  Beulah 

Tazewell 

Eaton,  Ralph 
Huebach,  Mary  Rogers 
Marek,  Eulalia 
Smith,  Laston 
Stormer,  Mary  C. 
Valentine,  Lucius 


Warren 

Bertelsen,  Mary 
Breeding,  Grace  Runkel 
Costello,  Carmen 
Fitch,  Mary 
Frank,  Hazel  Denum 
Hill,  Marguerite  C. 
Inman,  Lyman 
Miller,  Anna 
White,  Mrs.  Omega 

Whiteside 

Florence,  Jennie 
Harris,  Clarice  Stafford 

Williamson 

Ashley-Runkle,  Audrey 

Winnebago 

Lorimer,  Signa 
Pincombe,  Phyllis  Wells 

Out  of  State 

Brownlee,  Robert  L.  (Florida) 
Colegrove,  L.  L.  (California) 
Danielson,  Ernest  (Iowa) 
Heino,  Doris  (Wyoming) 
Jackson,  James  B.  (Florida) 
Selters,  Beula  M.  (Texas) 
Van  Etten,  Louise  Barclay  (Ohio) 


"The  Roaring  Twenties  for  me  was  a  great  time.  There  were 
new  freedoms,  great  music,  exciting  dances,  and  happy  times  with 
friends.  I  still  enjoy  the  music  and  dancing.  Everyone  was 
optimistic  about  the  future.  We  thought  our  country  was  the 
greatest  and  was  going  on  to  bigger  and  better  things.  The 
stockmarket  crash  of  1929  put  an  end  to  those  dreams  for  some 
time.   The  Roaring  Twenties  were  over. " 

My  Recollection  of  the  Roaring  Twenties 
Madge  Bates  Dodson 


"Caught  up  in  the  gold  fever,  he  made  the  trip  when  he  was 
forty-nine  years  old.  He  panned  gold  for  a  time,  hauled  supplies 
to  the  miners  for  a  while,  and  then  set  up  a  store  where  he  did  quite 
well  for  a  few  years  until  he  was  murdered  in  1855. " 

Letter  of  a  Forty- Niner 
Owen  Hannant 

"This  has  been  a  week  long  to  be  remembered  at  Normal.  On 
Wednesday  morning  the  funeral  train  bearing  the  remains  of  our 
lamented  President  passed  through  our  little  village  on  the  way 
to  its  final  resting  place.  The  station  house  was  draped  in 
mourning  and  there  were  several  appropriate  mottoes.  They 
raised  an  arch  over  the  track.  It  was  all  wreathed  with  cedar  and 
white  plumb  blossoms  and  across  it  was  the  motto  Go  to  thy  rest.  " 
Abe  Lincoln's  Body  Comes  Home 
Jean  Geddes  Lynn 

"I  had  applied  for  a  position  at  Maple  Grove,  northeast  of 
Carlock.  I  was  granted  an  interview  with  the  three  members  of  the 
school  board.  A  ninety  dollar  salary  per  month  to  conduct  an 
eight-month  term  was  agreed  upon.  We  shook  hands  on  the 
agreement.  I  was  asked  to  attend  church  at  least  two  Sundays 
each  month,  to  which  I  readily  agreed. " 

The  Old  One-Room  Country  School 
Fern  Moate  Hancock 


"There  was  an  announcing  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the 
celebrated  band  marched  onto  the  stage  and  took  their  places  in 
fine  military  order.  In  navy  blue  dress  uniforms,  their  band 
instruments  shining,  they  were  a  sight  to  behold.  Then  up  the 
steps  to  the  platform  came  the  world-famous  bandmaster,  the 
March  King.   The  cheers  were  deafening. " 

The  March  King  Comes  to  Monmouth 
Martha  K  Graham 

"Asliverofa  moon  gave  little  light  as  B.  E.  waitedin  thedark 
for  the  motorboat  to  dock.  Finally,  it  came  in  and  black-shirted, 
mean-looking  men  helped  Capone  up  onto  the  planking  as  the 
wave  washed  in  and  rocked  the  floating  dock.  Then  one  of 
Capone's  men  shined  a  flashlight  on  B.  E.'s  grim  face  and  his 
huge  form. " 

When  Sheriff  Cook  Confronted  Al  Capone 
LaVern  E.  Cook 

"More  than  half  a  century  has  passed  since  that  fateful  day 
with  no  recurrence  of  such  a  fierce  storm  in  Rushville,  but  those 
who  were  around  to  experience  those  days  will  recall  the  help  of 
neighbors  and  friends  during  the  reconstruction  that  followed. 
Despite  the  savage  wind,  Rushville  became  a  bigger  and  better 
community." 

The  Rushville  Tornado 
William  P.  Bartlow 

"Moving  over  to  the  stair-well  leading  to  the  President's  Box, 
I  could  see  that  the  door  at  the  top  was  slightly  ajar,  thus  giving 
me  light  to  see  the  stairs.  Brushing  away  the  cobwebs,  I  climbed 
to  the  top.  In  the  semi-darkness,  not  knowing  what  to  expect,  an 
eene  feeling  came  over  me  as  I  pushed  open  the  door  and  stepped 
inside.  To  my  amazement,  the  setting  was  pretty  much  as  I 
expected.  The  rocking  chair  where  the  president  sat  when 
assassinated-still  there,  its  back  to  the  door. " 

My  Visit  to  Ford's  Theatre 
William  E.  Thomson