The Story of a Family

1914-1917

by Helen Erwin Campbell

World War I erupted in 1914. The incident that sparked it was the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo on June 28. That same year E. R. Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes was published, Henry Bacon designed the Lincoln Memorial, the Panama Canal was opened, the U.S. Federal Trade Commission was established (I was to work there 36 years later), a fifty-pound sack of flour cost eleven dollars and twenty-five cents, one dozen Ball fruit jars sold for sixty-five cents, and my sister Goldie started school in first grade.

Goldie remembered that the Erwin family was living on a farm near Longton in Elk County, Kansas when she first attended school, and she recalled that she had to walk about a mile straight down the road to the schoolhouse. The farmhouse was in the middle of a pasture, and there were cattle around. They lived close enough to Aunt Ellen and Uncle Tom Stilwell for Mom to take her three children there to visit.

Mom was born near Longton, and her mother Melissa died when she was only nine. When her father went back to Oklahoma to homestead after the death of his wife, he left his middle child, my mother, with his sister Ellen Hayworth Stilwell, and took Alpha, his older daughter, and Charles Raymond, his son, with him. Her father had little impact on her life after that; she considered Uncle Tom and Aunt Ellen her parents. Mom especially appreciated Uncle Tom, since he often took her side when Aunt Ellen seemed to be partial to their son Fay, who was about a year her senior.

Aunt Ellen was domineering and demanding, but – as was the custom of the time – she made sure that Mom learned the various homemaking skills necessary for a wife of the era. She taught my mother how to cook and keep house, how to sew her own clothes and make quilts, and to garden and look after chickens. All of these skills were to be very valuable to her in the years ahead; the many years in her married life when she would have to “get by” and “make do.”

Mom, in turn, passed these homemaking skills on to her daughters. Goldie, particularly, was an apt pupil as well as a real help to her Mom. When she was five or six and Clifford an infant, Mom heard crying. She ran in from outside and found Goldie trying to change her little brother’s diaper, only she’d stuck him with the safety pin. When she was eight, Mom recalled later, Goldie could clean house and wash dishes as well as a girl sev­eral years older. One of Flossie’s early memories is of drying dishes as Goldie washed them, with the dishpans placed on chairs because she and her sister were not tall enough to reach the counter.

Flossie also recalled that there were often caves or storm cellars on the various farms where they lived. Many were outfitted permanently with beds, at least for the children. If a tornado threatened – or a cyclone as they were more often called then – Mom and Dad would grab up the children and run to the cellar. Flossie remembered, on more than one occasion, of waking intermittently and seeing Mom and Dad peeking out the door of the cellar to see if the storm clouds had passed.

Goldie had a vivid childhood memory of one threatening storm. It seems that Dad had gone to town with the team and wagon (this was before radio and weather forecasts) when a storm came up suddenly. The sky was black and menacing, and Mom hur­ried her children to the storm cellar. They knew they were safe, but the cloud was coming from the direction of town where Dad had gone, and they were terribly frightened. They didn’t know what had happened to him.

As they stood anxiously in the doorway of the cellar, they finally saw Dad coming at a frenzied pace, with the big black cloud behind him. The cloud seemed almost to be chas­ing Dad. He was wielding the whip, and his horses were run­ning as fast as they could. He drove the team and wagon into the yard, yelled at the horses to stop, and ran for the safety of the cellar. Goldie’s memory didn’t include any post-storm devastation, so evidently the cloud did not touch down in their vicinity, and the horses survived unscathed.

Dad always had quite a repertoire of stories, and one of those was about a cyclone. It seems that after the storm had passed one small house was completely missing, along with the man and his wife. Everyone was concerned, and a search was started. They were found a short time later. According to Dad the cyclone had picked up the shack, along with its occupants, and deposited it a mile or two away, smack-dab in the middle of the road. Supposedly, when they were discovered, the man was sitting on his front stoop smoking his pipe and his wife was inside cooking breakfast. Dad would laugh at his own story and repeat the punch line: “There he was sittin’ on the stoop smokin’ his pipe, and his old lady was inside cookin’ breakfast.” Then he’d slap his leg and laugh again. Sometimes Dad’s stories needed to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt.

Europe was still at war in 1915, the film Birth of a Nation was showing to American audiences, a popular song was Keep the Home Fires Burning, Henry Ford produced his one millionth automobile, the first transcontinental telephone call was made between New York and San Francisco, Margaret Sanger was jailed for writing a book on birth control, and Mom had another child.

Mom with Flossie, Clifford, and Goldie holding Bub (Raymond)

The family was still living in Elk County when Michael Raymond was born on September 4, 1915. He weighed in at a. hefty thirteen pounds, and Mom said years later that he was born under primitive conditions. Actually, all the time they followed the oilfields they lived under what we would now call primi­tive conditions, but this must have been worse than their usual circumstances. The new arrival was soon nicknamed “Bub” and was known by that name until he grew up. Although he went back to his given name of Raymond before he married, he is still remembered fondly by his brothers and sisters as Bub. While Bub was still very young the family moved to Drumright, Oklahoma. As Mom mentioned to me in a letter many years later, “‘We were in Drumright when Bub was a baby and from there we went to Augusta.”

During these early years Dad’s younger brother Bill was often around our family. Uncle Bill was a colorful, flamboy­ant figure, fun-loving, daring, and a practical joker. During the time when Grandad and his sons were following the oil­fields, he was around our family a lot. When I was a little girl, Uncle Bill was a frequent visitor.

Clifford remembers how Uncle Bill cured a dog of barking at the teams. It was a large shepherd, and when they drove by his owner’s house, the dog would rush out, barking and nipping at the heels of the horses. This would agitate them, making them more difficult to handle.

Bill had a big white bulldog named Bruce, and he brought Bruce along that day. Clifford, fairly small at the time, was also riding with Uncle Bill, and Uncle Bill told him, “You have to help me. You keep old Bruce covered up with this horse blanket until we get there.”

There were several teams and wagons, and Bill was in the lead with his team of big black mules. Sure enough, when they got to the designated place the shepherd dog came rushing out, barking as he came. Uncle Bill yanked back the blanket, yelling “Get him, Bruce!”  Bruce jumped off the wagon and raced towards the barking dog. Old Bruce almost killed that shepherd. Uncle Bill told Clifford later he was never again bothered by that dog’s barking because the dog wouldn’t even come out to the yard.

Clifford recalls another time when he was riding with Dad. There were four or five teams moving part of a drilling rig, and again Uncle Bill was in the lead. They got to one place on a dirt road and found an abandoned car stuck in a mudhole right in the middle of the road. There wasn’t enough room for the wagons to pass. Bill unhitched his team and pulled the car out of the mudhole and to the side. He then re-hitched his team, and all of the teams and wagons moved on passed past the abandoned car.

Suddenly Bill yelled, “Hey, wait a minute! I ain’t gonna’ pull that car out and leave it unstuck.” He then unhitched his team again and pulled the car back and left it stuck in the same mudhole. Once more he re-hitched his team, and the whole group proceeded to their destination with their respective loads.

Bill loved playing practical jokes, and Flossie remem­bered one of them. Our family lived around the corner from Grandpa and Grandma Erwin. Grandpa had hired drivers and provided a bunkhouse where they slept.

There was a mixture called “high life,” which consisted of turpentine and one or two other ingredients. If it got on the skin it caused a sharp burning sensation. Applied to adog or cat, it caused the animal to take off running.

One night, Bill showed up in town describing what he’d just done, all the while doubling over with laughter. Apparently, he had applied “high life” to the tail of a big old tomcat, thrown the cat into the bunkhouse with the sleeping mule skinners, and then shut and locked the door. He’d then immediately taken off for town, leaving the shouting of the men and yowling of the animal behind.

Flossie couldn’t recall what the victims did to Bill, but they probably retaliated. Grandma said later that Bill had riled everybody in that end of town at one time or other.

Dad is in center, with tall white hat. Grandpa is at right holding bridles of mules.

It was during this time – 1914-1915 – that Grandpa Erwin operated Erwin’s Feed Barn in Cushing, Oklahoma. He contracted teams and wagons he owned, and worked with his sons, but he also rented stalls to other people.

Grandpa and Grandma Erwin always seemed to arrive in a place first, and their married sons followed. Grandad usually had several teams and wagons and hired skinners to drive. The extra teams. Dad and one married brother had their own teams and equipment, but often worked together with Grandad on hauling jobs.

Flossie remembers what a stirring sight it was when the teams and wagons were all lined up ready to begin a trip. They would often travel into Oklahoma or other oilfields to bring back the pipe needed for new wells. Grandpa Mike and his sons took great pride in their teams. The horses were per­fectly groomed, and the harnesses wereadorned with long strings of celluloid rings and tassels. The men were neatly dressed in khaki pants and shirts, and Dad had a good felt het. I can remember several years later, when I was eight or ten, hearing Mom grumble that there was very little money for the family but that Dad had bought himself a new Stetson hat.

Besides hauling oilfield equipment, one of the jobs Grandpa and his sons did was to dig the sludge pond before the well came in. The standard price was $75, and it would take three men with three teams usually three days to complete it. Each man was paid $7 per day. Even if it took longer, Grandpa still made a profit. Later, when bulldozers were used, it would take a bulldozer about one hour to do what three men and three teams did in three days.

Grandpa Mike Erwin and his sons with their crews unloading oilfield timbers. Grandpa is the center figure with arm up, and Dad is on the wagon holding horses’ reins.

The war continued in Europe in 1916, Woodrow Wilson was reelected President by a very small majority, the United States purchased the Virgin Islands for twenty-five million dollars, the National Park Service was established, twenty-four states voted for prohibition, the first birth control clinic was established, and jazz swept the country.

When Flossie started to school in Augusta in 1916, the family was living in a three-room house at the edge of town. In her mind it was “the house on the dead-end street.” She recalled a wide, dusty street that was a good place for children to play, and a corn field at the end of the street. A field of tall corn makes a good place for childhood pastimes, and Flossie had many happy memories of that particular field.

As a child Goldie was spunky and aggressive, but Flossie was painfully shy. Mom often said that Goldie never met a stranger, but Flossie always held tightly to her dress and hid, if possible, behind her skirts. Dad frequently said Goldie was an Erwin, but Flossie was a Hayworth. He also labeled Clifford an Erwin, and Bub a Hayworth. I’m sure that he said it mostly to needle Mom about her family. Flossie doesn’t remember that he graded the rest of us when we came along. Perhaps by that time it didn’t matter.

Starting school for the shy Flossie was not easy, but older sister Goldie was there and was never hesitant about stepping in to fight her little sister’s battles. Flossie doesn’t have many happy early school-day memories. In addition to being shy, she remembers the frequent earaches she got as a result of the often-cold walks to school.

But there were pleasant playtimes after school, as well as household chores. Goldie was quite helpful at home, and even at six Flossie was given the job of cleaning the chimneys of the kerosene lamps, mostly because her hands were small.

Although some people had cars by this time, our only means of transportation was a team and wagon, the same one that Dad used in his work.

It was 1917. The United States and Cuba declared war on Germany, General Pershing went to Paris to lead the American forces, the Allies executed dancer Mata Hari as a spy, Woodrow Wilson began his second term as President, Charlie Chaplin’s annual salary reached one million dollars, and the American war song Over There was composed by George M. Cohan. That year three packages of cornflakes sold for twenty-five cents, a Ford Runabout for $345, and bobbed hair became the fashion in both Britain and the United States.

Flossie, then seven years old, remembered the excitement of the time. They lived a short distance from the railroad track, and often, with friends and neighbors, would go to watch the troop trains move through. They would cheer and return the waves of the laughing young soldiers. The trains would slowly move through the town, the youthful war­riors still happily ignorant of the cold, hard realities of battle. They were off to “make the world safe for democracy.”

Civilians had a part in the war too. Some foodstuffs were rationed, and patriotic women and girls were asked to limit their purchases of new clothes, and wear their old ones as long as possible. That wasn’t anything new for our family. They’d been doing that all their lives.

There were many events organized for the war effort. Flossie remembered a time when she and Goldie had walked uptown with Dad and Uncle Bill. They passed a building with an open front where a dance was in progress. Girls were stopping all males going by, urging them to come dance. Uncle Bill nudged Dad and said, “Come on, Odes. Let’s dance!” Dad hesitated for a moment. He was probably tempted, remembering his enjoyment of dancing during his teen years. But then he shook his head “no,” with a significant glance down at his daughters. Dad walked on home with Goldie and Flossie, and Uncle Bill stayed to do his bit “for our soldier boys.”

Clifford remembered that Mom and Dad’s house was about two blocks from Grandma and Grandpa’s place, and he often walked over there. He recalled a particular time when he was about five when he walked up to the kitchen door, quietly opened the screen and started in. Grandma was working at the counter cutting up some food. Upon hearing the screen door open, Grandma whirled around, butcher knife in hand, ready to defend herself from an intruder. She almost hurled the large knife at him before she recognized her small grandson. In the face of her threatened onslaught, Clifford started to back away, but Grandma stopped him. “All right, come on in. But don’t you ever do that again. You call out or knock first.”

There seemed to be unfriendly feelings at times be­tween Goldie and Joy, Grandma’s youngest child and only daughter, and both Flossie and Clifford remembered an incident when Goldie got an undeserved whipping due to one of Joy’s prevarications.

The children had walked home from school together, along with two other girls, Joy stopping off at her house, and Goldie, Flossie and Clifford coming on home. Later Dad stopped off briefly at Grandma’s house on his way from work and was told the tale as Joy had told it to Grandma. Goldie and Flossie were supposed to have thrown ink on another girl’s dress, and Grandma told the story to Dad with relish.

The first Goldie and Flossie knew of the alleged inci­dent was when Dad got home with a leather strap in hand. He came in the door, strode over to where Goldie was helping with supper, and, without a word, started whipping her with the strap. Mom asked for an explanation, but Dad ignored her. About the time Dad started on Flossie, Clifford figured he might be next, so he slipped away. The next day Mom went over to see the mother of the supposed victim and told her what had happened. The girl’s mother hadn’t heard anything about ink on her daughter’s dress. “Well, she didn’t wear that dress to school today. Let’s check it.” She fetched the dress in question, and they looked it over. There wasn’t a spot of ink on it. Joy’s story was pure fabrication.

Goldie was furious. She had suffered enough whippings in the past for things she might have been guilty of, but to get a whipping because of a spiteful story told by Joy was too much! She wanted revenge. Goldie sent little brother Clifford to deliver the message to Joy that Goldie would get even!

Clifford arrived just as Grandma sent Joy out to get some eggs she needed for her baking. Clifford followed her into the barn and delivered Goldie’s message in detail. The two of them stood there arguing for several minutes. Suddenly Grandma appeared in the doorway of the barn with a. stick in her hand. She was fuming at Joy; she’d been waiting in the kitchen for the eggs Joy was to bring. “What do you mean standing out here wasting time while I’m in there waiting for those eggs!” She swatted Joy all the way back to the house. Clifford went back to Goldie with the story of Joy’s chastisement. Goldie was overjoyed, and she thanked Clifford for helping her get even.

It was 1917, and the family was living in Augusta, Kansas when Dad got a job with the National Refining Company in Florence, some forty miles north. He was to be pain $200 a month for himself and a team and wagon. He and Mom now had four children: Goldie nine, Flossie seven, Clifford five, and Bub (Raymond) two. They had a little oilfield shack, just 12 x 24 feet. It was made of flat boards and covered with tarpaper. It was, perhaps, the forerunner of today’s house trailer.

Grandpa Erwin, also living in Augusta at the time said, “You take my two teams and get that shack up there where the work is.”  With Dad’s that made three. They used three wagons, two in front and one in the rear under the little shack. The wagons were fastened together at the corners with log chains, and oilfield timbers were secured crosswise on the wagons with chains and boomers. Timbers were also bolted lengthwise on each side of the shack, which were then attached to the cross-timbers. These side-timbers were only two feet off the ground.

Grandpa’s had a big white team he called Bob and Robert. He had purchased them separately, and since both were named Bob he renamed the second one Robert. Dad’s younger brother Jack handled this team. Grandpa’s other team was a bay and a sorrel named Duke and Prince, to be handled by Bill, another of his brothers. Dad’s team was a grey pair, Rock and Rowdy. Each of the animals weighed between 1700 and 1900 pounds. There were two teams abreast, each connected to a wagon tongue of the two front wagons, and the third out front connected by a chain. The combined vehicle took up almost the whole road.

The group was well into the trip when they started down a small hill. There were hand-held brakes on the wagons, with the mechanical levers at the right-front where the driver normally sat. When it was necessary to use the brakes, the driver would normally use his right foot to apply pressure on the brake leaver, leaving both hands free to manage the team or teams. At the start Uncle Jack and Dad and their teams were on the front two wagons, while Uncle Bill walked alongside the leading team. The brakes would help, but would not hold back a heavily loaded wagon, especially the combined load which included the Erwin house; it would be necessary for the teams themselves to be directed to lean back against the load.

Clifford

Suddenly the neckyoke on Dad’s team broke, and that left only Bob and Robert to hold back the three wagons. Dad was afraid that the load would run down all of the teams. He yelled “Whoa! Whoa! Clifford was only five, but he remembered how Bob and Robert, and especially old Robert, set their front feet in the ground and held the that load. The wagons inched closer to him, and Robert’s feet slid a little about a foot in the dirt, but he held.

Dad shouted, “Hazel! Bring that spare yoke! Hurry!”

Mom ran through the house to the back wagon and got the spare neckyoke, and Dad hurriedly jumped off and put it on his team. That made four horses holding the load instead of two. It was a real scare, and all of the horses got extra oats that evening.

Everything went smoothly until they came to a narrow one-way bridge – actually just a culvert – with a guard rail of pipe on each side. Dad called a halt. The culvert was wide enough for the load to pass, but the guard rail would interfere with the load, because the side timbers on the house were lower than the guard rails.

“We can’t cross, Odes,” Uncle Jack said anxiously, “What are we going to do?” Everyone looked at Dad. He studied the situation, looking from the low timbers on the shack to the obstructing rails. He decided on a solution. “Hell, I’ll fix those.”

He unhooked his big horse Rock and used a singletree and a chain to connect him to the offending rails. He flicked the reins and yelled “Pull!” Rock arched his back pulled. Slowly and steadily the pipe bent as Rock leaned into his harness and continued to pull. When the pipe was low enough for the load to pass, Dad unhooked the chain and took Rock around to the other side and repeated the procedure. He then re-hitched Rock to the wagon, and they continued on their journey. There were ten or fifteen of those narrow culverts in the next twenty miles or so, and each time Dad unhitched Rock and went through the same procedure for each.

A few miles further on they camped for the night. Mom was bustling about preparing the evening meal. Dad and his crew were relaxing after the hard day on the road when a man on horseback road up and approached them.

 “Did you come up that road?” And pointed back towards Augusta. Dad nodded in the affirmative.

“Do you know what happened to those guard rails?”

Dad, with a mystified look on his face, answered, “No, I didn’t see anything.”

Clifford was just a little boy, but he knew better than that, but he also knew better than to say anything.

The caravan got to Florence without further mishap. When they arrived at their designated site they jacked the shack up, pulled the wagons out from under, and set it on the ground. It was ready for occupancy again, and it was their home for almost a year.

Moving in the oilfields.
This was not our family, but the process would have been the same.