The Story of a Family
1924-1926
by Helen Erwin Campbell
In 1924 Calvin Coolidge was elected President, J. Edgar Hoover was appointed director of the Bureau of Investigation (the name was later changed to the Federal Bureau of Investigation), the film The Ten Commandments was produced by Cecil B. DeMille, insecticides were first used, the Ford Motor Company produced its ten-millionth car, Will Rogers was becoming known as a comedian and philosopher, and two and a half million radios were in use in the United States. That year Thompson seedless raisins sold for twelve cents a pound, a #2 can of Van Camp beans could be purchased for twelve cents, a can of Tuxedo Smoking Tobacco, made by the American Tobacco Company, went for twelve cents, and a Chevrolet Superior Sedan was advertised for $795 f.o.b. Flint, Michigan.
This was also the year my little brother Buddy (Odes Harold Erwin) was born on October 23. He was the seventh child and third son of Odes and Hazel, and Dad was back farming again. When Buddy arrived on the scene the family was living on a farm about one mile north and a half-mile east of Madison, Kansas. That year Goldie was sixteen, Flossie fourteen, Clifford twelve, Bub (Raymond) nine, Mary six, and I was four.
I remember that house and garden. I used to go out early in the morning and pick blue morning glories with the dew still sparkling on them. I’d come back and lean against my mother at the breakfast table until she noticed and admired my flowers. I also remember a large red rooster that was tame enough to accept food from me and would follow me around.
Once Mom caught a mouse in a trap and later found her nest of babies. She let me keep the tiny, pink, hairless creatures in an empty kitchen match box lined with cotton, and showed me how to feed them with a toothpick dipped in milk. After a few days, however, Mom must have questioned the wisdom of her actions when the babies grew a little, because my orphan mice suddenly disappeared. I took the empty box to her.
“Where are my baby mice?” I asked Mama anxiously. “I think the chickens must have gotten them,” she said as she tried to console me.
I looked at Goldie, and she nodded her head to confirm the sad facts. Later I figured out that she’d probably gotten rid of them before they grew up to be pests, and themselves be caught in another mousetrap. Even so, I wondered if perhaps my four-year-old kind of mothering was not sufficient and the poor things starved to death.
When Buddy was born Goldie was asked to quit school and stay home to help. We think she didn’t really mind that much. By that time John Cummins was her steady beau, and school was not her primary interest. Flossie remembers that John often drove her home from school, and returned later to pick her up for a date. In contrast, Flossie insisted on attending school, even though school was not important to our parents, and they didn’t seem to care whether their children kept good attendance at school or whether they missed. On cold days Dad would often decide that everyone should just stay home, but Flossie would slip out and walk to school. She was always often quiet around the house, and even when Dad was home, he usually didn’t miss her.
Dad always liked an excuse to go to town, and when work didn’t interfere, he would often drive his school children into town with the team and wagon, even though he owned a car most of the time in those days. He was really from a different generation and seemed to prefer his team and wagon over the automobile. It was embarrassing, especially for Flossie, to arrive at school sitting on the farm wagon. Dad would stop the team with a “Whoa,” and Flossie would have to descend from the farm vehicle under the interested eyes of her friends and classmates.
Fads and fashions take longer to reach the Midwest, and bobbed hair was just becoming popular in the little town of Madison. Two of Flossie’s girlfriends had bobbed their hair, and the new style appealed to her. At the time she braided her hair and wrapped the braids around, forming little coils of braids over her ears. First, she had to brush her hair, part and braid it, then arrange the braids in a secure position. It took forever to get her hair done up before she left for school.
There was a lady in Madison who cut hair, and Flossie’s two friends, who already had short hair, persuaded Flossie to go see her. The lady agreed to bob her hair but said, “Now don’t you dare tell your folks I was the one who did this.” Flossie agreed. She liked her new haircut. She shook her head and rejoiced in the lightness and freedom of her short locks. Then she thought of home and the coming confrontation with Dad, and she got a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. But he had to be faced.
When Dad saw what Flossie had done, that well-known- temper of his boiled over again. “Who cut off your hair?” he demanded to know. Flossie wouldn’t tell him. He charged out to the barn and got his leather reins, strode back to the house and proceeded to whip his fourteen-year-old daughter.
I was only four, but I can still remember, from the safety of another room, and with a closed door between, hearing the snap of those reins and the sound of their contact. I flinched each time. Flossie didn’t cry out, at least not that I remember. I was holding on to Mom, and she was wincing too.
Dad finally wrung out of Flossie who actually cut her hair. He stormed off to town to challenge the woman, but Flossie doesn’t know what happened. It was a closed subject, and nothing more was ever said about it.
After Flossie had had her short hairdo for a time, Dad began to mellow down. Her hair was so easy to wash and to comb. Within a year Dad took Mom to a barber shop and paid for her to get her hair cut as well. Perhaps the main thing about the whole episode was simply that Dad couldn’t stand anyone going against him. Flossie, now some sixty-three years later (this was written in 1973 -Ed.), still feels resentment about that whipping.
It was 1925. One of the more popular songs was Show Me the Way to Go Home, female fashions had skirts above the knee, Adolph Hitler had just published Volume I of Mein Kampf, Calvin Coolidge was President, White King Washing Powder cost forty-two cents, a box of Certo was twenty-nine cents, Post Toasties ten cents, a Ford Fordor Sedan sold for $660 f.o.b. Detroit, and the economy was good. That was the year Flossie started to high school in Hamilton, and I started first grade.
Our family lived on a rented farm east of Madison, Kansas, near an oil station known as Burkett. From a five-year old girl’s view, and maybe from Dad’s too, that was a very good year. There was a large two-story house, ample space for seven children, and with its large rooms and covered porches, it was a pleasant place to play on a hot Kansas summer day.
An even better place to play was the creek (we pronounced it “crick”). The creek was shallow in spots, and by stepping on rocks a five-year-old could cross it and get only a little wet. There were also some pools deep enough for minnows. One favorite pastime was to catch the tiny fish in a Ball canning jar filched from Mom’s pantry. We didn’t keep the minnows; there was nothing to do with them, so we’d turn them loose and usually return the jar to its proper place.
Sometimes that spot at the creek was a place for just closing my eyes and listening. The leaves of the cottonwood trees seemed to whisper as the breeze moved them gently, and they harmonized perfectly with the sound of the water rippling over rocks and pebbles. Even now, remembering the place and time induces a feeling of peace.
Sometimes we’d catch grasshoppers and keep them prisoners for a time in one of the canning jars, or we would wander the pastures and look for wild flowers. My favorite was the buttercup, a large blossom aptly named for its color. At least the flowers were large when I was a little girl of five and six and seven. Many years later I went back to find them, but the species seemed to have shrunk to a very small flower…not spectacular at all.
At that time in Kansas, in the middle 1920’s, there were still many rock fences made by the early homesteaders. We were constantly warned to “stay away from those rock fences. There’s liable to be rattlesnakes under those rocks.” Since we were barefoot most of the summer, we could have been easy targets for some defensive snake. That was a warning we didn’t ignore.
I always loved dolls…dolls of all kinds. Becky, the doll that was my almost constant companion, went with me to the creek and on my treks through the pastures. She had a composition head and a cloth body, including cloth arms and legs. Since I always carried her by one of her arms, sometimes the arms came loose and she would lose one. I’d arrive back at the house with my doll, but, alas, she’d have only one arm. I’d go tearfully to Mom, and she’d make my beloved Becky a new arm from a scrap of white material and stuff it with rags. My last memory of that doll is with one very white clean arm and one very discolored arm as the result of my grubby five-year-old hands.
The summer I was five, Buddy was not quite one and was learning to crawl. He must have been the only baby ever to learn to crawl backwards. That worked fine for me. Since I wasn’t big enough to be much good at helping with cooking or dishwashing, I was given the task of “minding Buddy,” with the admonition that “there’s spiders in the house and he might grab one and put it in his mouth.”
At that time, I had a very large family of paper dolls, all carefully cut out from an outdated Sears Roebuck or “Monkey Ward” catalog before they were relegated to the little house out back. Since Buddy could only crawl backwards, I would place him a few feet from my fragile paper doll family, feeling safe in the knowledge that he couldn’t reach them.
One day I was deep in my imaginary play, not really watching him, when my ears caught a suspicious sound. I looked back at Buddy and let out an agonized scream. My mother and older sisters came running from the other room, expecting a terrible tragedy. Buddy had suddenly mastered the art of crawling forward and had some of my precious paper dolls in his fat little fists and in his mouth. My peaceful paper doll play was forever ruined.
One of the highlights of the summer, after the Fourth of July, was preparing the catalog order for school clothes. Mom would make our dresses and the boys would get new overalls, but the main thing we could count on was new shoes; the high-top kind. The shoes had to last the whole school year. There was no such thing as outgrowing them. They were ordered with lots of “room to grow.”
Later that summer our order finally came, and we were so excited when it was time to try them on. I was pleased with mine, but Mary’s were a disappointment to her. They were way too big; even Mom and Dad admitted that. It was a lot of trouble to exchange an order.
Clifford casually picked one up end tried it on. It fit him, and he still had some growing room. Dad and Mom looked at each other, and looked at the shoes. There really wasn’t much difference in the styles for boys and girls. They decided that Clifford would keep the shoes meant for Mary. Mom said, “Now don’t you tell anyone that they’re really girl’s shoes, and no one will know the difference.”
But one day at the noon recess, soon after school started, everyone was sitting around on the playground in various groups eating lunch. Someone mentioned new shoes. Another student showed off her new shoes and told where she’d gotten them. Mary listened to the others and suddenly blurted out the secret. “Clifford’s wearing girl’s shoes. They were supposed to be mine but they were too big.” Before the recess was over everyone knew that Clifford Erwin was wearing girl’s shoes. He took the ribbing and was angry with Mary. That night he complained to Mom and Dad. “Now why did you do that?” Mom asked her. Mary hung her head. She wasn’t sure why she had done it.
Flossie graduated from the eighth grade at the Burkett School that spring of 1925. Education was not a high priority with our parents, but it was of prime importance to Flossie. There were no school buses, and the parents of the farm kids had to furnish their own transportation if they were to continue their schooling. We, like others, lived beyond walking distance from the nearest high school. A rented room in town was the only answer, and Mom and Flossie went searching in the little town of Hamilton for one they could afford.
They found a room in the home of a widow for sixteen dollars a month. Flossie waited anxiously until Mom made the decision. Mom decided they could afford it. She had her weekly egg money, and from this she financed Flossie’s first year of high school. Flossie would come home each Friday after school and return on Sunday evening to her room for another week of instruction. She has many fond memories of that year in Hamilton, and has been forever grateful to Mom for making it possible.
I started to school that fall when I was five and a half, starting in the first grade since kindergarten had not been heard of then in Kansas. We had to walk two miles or so to school, and to shorten the distance we cut across the fields. Mom and Dad always warned my older brothers and sister to “…look out for Helen. She’s the baby.” We had to go through at least one barbed wire fence that I remember, and on one particular winter morning on the way to school, Bub had preceded me through the barbed wire fence and was holding the lower strand of wire down with his foot while I squeezed through. He suddenly let go and the wire bounced up, tripping me so that I fell on my face. One barb cut through my black stockings and into the front of my ankle, leaving a cut like a flattened out “V.” I cried of course, and accused Bub of letting go of the wire too soon. “You were too slow,” he defended himself.
The wound didn’t bleed very much and the cut in my stocking wasn’t very noticeable, so none of us told the teacher. I was unusually quiet, and the teacher even remarked about it, but I was too shy to tell her about the accident. By the close of the school day the cut was starting to hurt a little. We walked home by the same route across the fields, and I could hardly wait to get home to get Mama’s sympathy. She peeled off the black stocking and washed the wound. My leg did become infected, and I missed at least a week of school. I kept my foot elevated, and every time I’d put it down my whole leg would start to throb.
The great fear then was blood poisoning (antibiotics came several years later). My parents put all the blame for the infection on the black stockings, particularly because I had “sat in school all day” in them. It never seemed to occur to them that the rusty barbed wire had anything to do with the problem. It was when we were in that same house that I remember having my head washed with kerosene and then combed with a fine-toothed comb. We had caught head lice!
John Cummins was still courting Goldie when we lived on this farm. Although Dad had two sons, Clifford and Bub, now thirteen and ten, to help him in the fields, he sometimes pressed Goldie into service. She drove the team of horses that pulled the rake at haying time. When John came to see her, he would often have to go to the fields to talk with her as she reached a point at the edge of the field. She would make another round, and they would snatch another few moments, always on the lookout for Dad’s displeasure if she tarried too long.
It was in November of that year that they decided to get married. So, on the 16th they drove with John’s stepmother and his aunt to Emporia, some twenty miles north of Madison, only to discover they would need a consent form for Goldie, since she was not quite eighteen. They drove back home, had Mom sign the necessary consent form, and then drove on to Eureka, about twenty miles in the other direction. There they were finally married.
I remember being at some gathering soon after this when an adult friend of John’s family said to me,
“So, your sister Goldie got married, did she?”
I, five and a half at the time, answered, “Yes, but she’s not my sister anymore.”
“Oh, why not?”
“‘Cause, she’s married,” I answered, plausibly.
Everyone laughed, and I suffered from their amusement as all children of all times have suffered when being the subject of the laughter of adults.
This was the middle of the Roaring Twenties and the age of the flapper, and Flossie at fifteen was a flapper. She’d come home with the latest songs, and I’d pick them up. I remember parroting one in particular:
Show me the way to go home,
I’m tired and I want to go to bed.
I had a little drink about an hour ago
And it went right to my head.
Wherever I may roam, over land or sea or foam,
You can always hear me singin’ this song,
Show me the way to go, show me the way to go,
Show me the way to go home.
At age five I had no understanding of the words, but it had a catchy tune. Mom deplored hearing me sing it. She said it was “not nice.”
Dad and Mom must have had some extra money that Christmas, because they sent for a large order from the catalog. Among the items they bought was a generous portion of hard Christmas candy. It was put out in a dish and was accessible all the time. For the first time in my memory I had all the candy I wanted. But, like all pleasures when constantly available, it soon became very ordinary and unimpressive.
One day when Dad were both away from the house, we children were sitting around the table, looking with disinterest at the half-full dish of hard red and white sweets.
Someone remarked, “This doesn’t taste anywhere near as good as it did when we first got it.”
I reached out, broke off a small piece, and popped it in my mouth. “No, it doesn’t. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of candy.”
Bub spoke up, “Well I took some and hid it. Then, when this is all gone for a while, I’ll bring it out and we’ll be real-glad to have it.”
“You did?” We all thought about it. “I guess it will,” we all agreed.
But I, at five-going-on-six, was not too good at keeping secrets. That evening after supper when Dad and Mom were still at the table, I piped up:
“Guess what, Bub took some of the candy and hid it away.”
Dad looked up. “Go get it, boy, and put it back out here with the rest.”
Without a word Bub left the room. We could hear him going up the stairs and into the boys’ bedroom. He came back and dumped the candy into the dish, giving me a disgusted look.
Several weeks later we were sitting around again, talking in a desultory manner. I looked at the table where the Christmas sweets had sat.
“I wish I had some of that candy.”
The others all looked accusingly at me, and Bub said, “If you’d kept your mouth shut, we would have.”
I looked again where the candy dish had been. I sure wished I had kept my mouth shut.
We all attended Burkett School in those days. It was in a two-room building, with grades one through four in one room and five through eight in the other. I was in first grade, and Mrs. Beale was the teacher. She had a quick temper, and she often exploded at some of the students. Mary remembers being petrified of her, but she seemed to like me, possibly because I was only five and the youngest student in school. She’d sometimes walk by my desk and pause for a moment, resting her hand on the top. When she’d walk on there would be a couple of English walnut halves left for me. I’d grab them and slip them into my dress pocket.
English walnuts didn’t grow in Kansas, and to me they were a delicacy. Sometimes I’d surreptitiously nibble the walnut meats in class, and, looking up, my eyes would meet those of the teacher. But she didn’t scold, either by word or look. Mostly I’d save the treat until recess, find a quiet spot, and make it last as long as possible. I never verbally thanked her, but she probably didn’t need a spoken thank you. My reaction may have been enough.
We were supposed to go to the toilet at recess, but sometimes I’d forget. One day during class time I really had to go, but I was too shy to raise my hand and ask. I wet my pants, and of course the older boys snickered at my misfortune, but Mrs. Beale was kind. She assigned some work for me to do at the blackboard at the back of the room near the heat register, and I wrote my numbers on the board until my clothes were dry.
There was one little girl in Burkett School for a short time who aroused great envy in me. Her name was Elizabeth. She carried a “store bought” lunch pail. We carried our lunches in buckets that once held lard. Her sandwiches were a marvel to me; they were made with bakery bread, the slices being small, white and fluffy looking. Our bread was made by our mother, and it was larger, flatter and heavier, plus it wasn’t completely white.
Elizabeth wore patent leather Mary Jane shoes and white stockings. We wore high top shoes, purchased from the Sears or Wards catalogs, and black stockings. We also wore long underwear that made unsightly bumps above our ankles. Each day we tried to fold the legs of the underwear over in a pleat to go under those black cotton stockings, and each day they would stretch a little more, and would make larger lumps. By Friday our legs looked very lumpy.
Elizabeth didn’t wear long underwear at all. Of course, on cold windy days I was out playing at recess while Elizabeth huddled in the doorway. I heard Mrs. Beale sniff disdainfully and make some remark about the unsuitability of Elizabeth’s attire, but I would gladly have traded my black lumpy legs for her smooth white ones, even if I did get chilled.
Our drinking water at Burkett School came from a covered well near the building on the opposite side from the play area. When any student wanted a drink, he or she would pump fresh cool water into one of the communal tin cups kept there. One day the teachers called us all together to make a solemn announcement. One of the older boys, who had just been suspended, was reported to have urinated in the well. This, they solemnly decided, made the water in the cell unfit to drink. We were ordered to bring water each day with our lunches.
Mary, Bub and I went home with the story of the contaminated water and the news that we were to bring drinking water to school. Dad listened to the story and pronounced it silly.
“You’re not going to carry water.”
“But what will we drink?”
“Drink out of the well. It won’t hurt you.”
We didn’t want to be different. We begged, but Dad had spoken, and we couldn’t defy him. We just didn’t drink at morning recess, but by the time we’d eaten our lunch sandwiches we were pretty thirsty. The three of us gravitated together, and since everyone was busy playing, we quietly went around the schoolhouse to the well, hoping to get our drinks in secret. Bub was pumping water for Mary and me when suddenly a head appeared at the corner of the building.
“Hey, look at them, they’re drinking that dirty water.”
More kids appeared, and soon everyone knew. I was going to toss the water out, but Bub told me not to pay any attention to them. I was thirsty, so I drank it while they laughed at us. Each day at lunch time the three of us went together to get our drinks of water, and most days we were discovered and taunted.
About a week or ten days later the teachers had another announcement. Someone had lied about the boy whizzing in the well, and the water wasn’t contaminated after all. Everyone could now drink the well water. “Yah, see! We knew it all the time.” We felt somewhat vindicated.
The year was 1926. A. A. Milne’s book Winnie The Pooh was published, Duke Ellington’s first records appeared, Kodak produced the first 16mm films, popular songs were Desert Song and Bye Bye Blackbird, and the United States population reached 115 million. Also, that year a box of Post Toasties cost 10 cents, a pound of Oleo 27 cents, we moved again, and Clifford graduated eighth grade.
This time we moved to a farm om the north side of the school, being grateful that we could still go to Burkett School. We no longer walked through the pastures, but straight down the road. The one-story house sat up on a hill, the equivalent of about a city block from the road, and it had pretty trumpet vines which attracted birds and bees climbing on one side of it. Another plus was the large barn.
Always having someone to play with is one of the advantages of being a member of a large family. In the long summer evenings, we’d often play Run Sheep Run or Hide ‘n Seek. When it was too dark to see well, we’d often catch lightning bugs (fireflies) and imprison them for a time in a jar.
Our one indoor game was dominoes, and we’d spend many a winter evening around the kitchen table playing with our double-six domino set. Some of our friends played card games, we were told, but Dad would not allow a deck of cards in the house.
“But why not, Mama?”
We were told one of Dad’ s uncles was a gambler and had “came to no good end.” We never did have a deck of cards.
Clifford and Bub often made stilts for themselves, tall ones to show off their prowess. If we teased enough, and if sometimes Mom asked them al so, they were persuaded to make shorter ones for Mary and me. Mine raised me only a few inches, but I was pleased and happy with them.
Sometimes, on rainy days when we’d all be inside, Clifford, Bub, Mary, Buddy and me, Mom would stand our bickering just so long before she’d order the older four of us out to the haymow to play. There’d be some loose hay, but mostly bales. We’d each make our own special places, and a sibling could come there only by invitation. Clifford and Bub would have the best places since they were bigger and could move the bales around. We’d have to crawl through a tunnel made of bales to get to their places, much like going into an igloo. It would be pouring outside, and we’d be cozy and dry. It was a nice place to play.
When school was in session Flossie would be at home only on the weekends. I remember one particular early morning when I was up and whining about something, probably that I was hungry, all the while getting in Mom’s way. She was hustling around, trying to get breakfast on the table before Dad and the boys came in from the milking. Flossie, like teenagers down through the ages, liked to sleep in and was still snuggled in her bed. Mom, turning around quickly and almost falling over me, grumbled,
“If they’ re big enough to be of any help, they’re lazing’ in bed. But at this age, they’re up and under my feet!”
We had to walk about two and a half miles to and from school most of the time. That spring of 1926 I was in the first grade, Mary in the second, Bub in the sixth, and Clifford in the eighth. In fair weather it wasn’t unpleasant at all; I did a lot of daydreaming walking down that country road, my daydreams usually being punctuated with calls from the others, “Hurry up, or we I re going to go off and leave you!” I was the youngest, and they were cautioned to look out for me.
We were constantly warned, ”Never get in a car with a stranger.” I can’t remember anyone ever offering a ride, or stranger.
One of my favorite memories is turning up the driveway to our own house on Mom’s bread- baking days. She’d use some of the dough to make cinnamon rolls and would try to time her baking so that the rolls would be coming out of the oven as we arrived home. The aroma of the hot bread and cinnamon would quicken my lagging steps, and I’d rush in, fearful the bigger ones would get more than their share.
The only horse we ever had that was strictly for riding was a pony named Pet, and for a time we rode her back and forth to school. Bub rode in the saddle, with me in front of him and Mary behind the saddle. Pet was fat and sassy and liked to shy at any little thing along the road – a rock, a piece of paper, even a bird. She also had a trick of puffing up her abdomen when Bub put the saddle on her. When she was successful with that trick, he didn’t get the saddle tightly cinched and later it would slip.
One afternoon we were riding home, in our usual positions on Pet’s back, when she shied at a piece of paper that moved in the slight breeze. She jumped, and the saddle started slipping. Bub yelled at us to jump off. Mary did, but I was too frightened. I held tightly to the saddle horn, and all the time my brother was yelling in my ear to jump. The saddle kept slipping, and the horse kept dancing around, with Bub pulling on the reins. By the time the saddle had slipped into an almost sideways position, I let loose and fell into the ditch, unhurt but scared to death.
When Dad heard the whole story, he was disgusted with us, particularly Bub, since he was the oldest and in charge. Dad figured he could handle any horse alive, and he expected a better performance from his kids. He took Bub and Pet out and made Bub ride that horse, using the whip freely, until Pet was too tired to shy at anything. Dad believed in conquering his animals with fear, while kind-hearted Bub was often accused
by Dad of making pets of them. Dad may have traded Pet soon after that; at least we didn’t ride her to school much longer.
We always had animals on the farm: horses, cows, pigs, usually one dog, and a cat or two, plus often a litter of kittens. We didn’t have a house cat. On our farm cats were working animals too, and their purpose was to keep down the mouse population in the barn.
Living amongst all the animals should have provided a natural way for a little girl to learn the facts of life, but it didn’t. One particular sudden addition I remember was a little red calf with very wobbly legs. I’d seen the mother cow the day before, and she didn’t have the calf then. I asked Mom where it came from and was told the cow found the baby calf under a bush in the pasture. I want out and looked under all the bushes, but there weren’t any other calves left.
Not long after the calf arrived, we went to see Uncle Tom, one of Dad’s brothers. Aunt May, his wife, was propped up in bed and alongside her was a tiny baby girl. She was so little, and I was intrigued by her. My baby brother was a lot bigger than that by now. I wasn’t really listening to the conversation, but I heard Aunt May tell Mom that Georgie, her second son, had asked where the baby came from. She told him the doctor brought it in his black bag. Even now, when I see a black satchel-type bag, I can picture a baby inside it.
In the springtime we could hardly wait to go barefoot. After wearing shoes all winter, it would be a welcome change. As soon as the first warm days came, we’d start asking Dad when we could shed our shoes. Dad would say when the Grandaddy Bullfrog started croaking, he would know it was time, so every evening we’d listen for the frogs. I would hear a croak and call Dad’s attention.
“There, Dad. Hear it?”
“0h, no,” he’d say. “That wasn’t the Grandaddy. That was just one of the young ones. We have to wait for the Granddaddy Bullfrog to speak.”
I’d keep listening. There’d be another croaking sound, and I’d call his attention to it again. But it still wasn’t the Grandaddy. Finally, Dad would say,
“Yep, that’ s him. That’s the Grandaddy Bullfrog. He says you can start going barefooted.”
I would be excited and could hardly wait for the morning to try out my tender winter feet on the dirt and pebbles. I thought my Dad was very clever to tell the difference between the Grandaddy Bullfrog and the younger ones. They sounded pretty much alike to me, but I didn’t question his superior wisdom.
Dad had acquired a little bay team which became Clifford’s team. Clifford always worked them and took care of them, and Dad, always good at giving promises but sometimes not so good at keeping them, had given the team to him. One day Clifford arrived home to find Dad had traded the bay team. Clifford was hurt and angry. He thought about it for a time.
“If they were my team, then I should have the money you got for them.”
But Dad got out of that.
“I’m keeping the money for you.”
But it didn’t take Clifford long to figure out he’d never see any of the money. The next day Clifford quietly disappeared from home. The kids at school found out, and I remember them buzzing about it.
“When he gets back he’ll sure get a whipping,“ they were speculating.
During Clifford’s absence Dad and Mom were worried. Dad was out looking for his son and asking questions of his friends, but he seemingly didn’t find a clue as to Clifford Is whereabouts.
About a week later Clifford came home. He had spent the interim with a friend, and the two of them were “just hangin’ around” in Madison. He didn’t get a whipping as the other children had expected, or any other punishment. Dad’s guilt and relief were probably deterrents to any kind of chastisement. Mary and I thought Clifford was a bit of a hero for doing what he did, and for standing up to Dad as well.
Clifford remembers that Dad very seldom gave him or Bub any sort of physical punishment. They mostly got tongue lashings, and Dad was very good at giving those. He also remembers that Dad didn’t always find out who was guilty of the assumed offense. More than once Dad lashed out at Bub for something Clifford had done. Bub would silently take it and not say anything.
Clifford asked him once, “Why do you just sit there and take it? Why don’t you tell him you didn’t do it?”
Bub shrugged and answered, “Aw, it doesn’t make any difference.
It was in this year of 1926 also that Dad bought a brand-new Overland car for $600. It was exciting when he brought it home. The car was two-seated and had isinglass curtains for bad weather. I can remember the running boards still had the protective heavy paper covering on them. Dad didn’t take it off for quite some time – not until it became worn-looking.
Fifteen or so years later Bud found a car key amongst Mom’s things and asked her about it. She told him the story of her one and only attempt at driving:
Before Dad bought the car, he promised Mom he would teach her to drive. Possibly he did this to secure her approval of the unprecedented large purchase, although he didn’t usually seem to need her permission for anything he did. When he took delivery of the new Overland, he gave Mom her own key.
For the driving lesson Dad took Mom out to the pasture where there were relatively few obstructions. Then she got behind the wheel.
According to Mom the lesson did not go smoothly. She was probably nervous, inept apprehensive, and certainly Dad would have been quick to point out her mistakes. The final result was she ran into a tree. The fact that it was the only tree in the whole pasture merely added fire to Dad’s displeasure.
“Hell woman. Only one tree in the whole damn pasture and you manage to run into it!”
He got out of the car and stomped away, swearing as he went. Mom never again tried driving, but she kept the car key with her other small treasures.
My memory tells me we did not have the Overland very long. I’d always assumed Dad didn’t manage to complete the payments on it and let it go back. Flossie later told me what happened.
The Ford Model T cars Dad had been used to had narrow rubber tires. The new Overland was the first car to come out with balloon tires. At the end of one weekend Dad was driving Flossie back to Madison for school, and on the return trip he got stuck in the good old Kansas mud. He’d not had that kind of trouble with Model T’s. According to Flossie’s recollection, he got so mad he went into town and made a trade for an older Model T with the old kind of tires. Flossie believes, in his disgust with the Overland, he made an even trade, even though the newer car was worth more. That would have been like him.
Flossie had loved her first year of high school at Hamilton, but in the fall of 1926, she was persuaded to stay in Madison with Goldie and John and attend that high school. She did so reluctantly, because she didn’t want to leave her friends at Hamilton High School. But Goldie was having a baby and felt Flossie would be helpful to her, and undoubtedly not having to pay for her room was a deciding factor also where our parents were concerned.
Clifford also started high school in Madison that fall and went out for football. The coach was more than pleased to have him. Clifford was physically fit and had broad shoulders – the typical football player physique. But Dad, as he’d done before on other things, and for no readily apparent reason, decided his son would not play football. A clash between Dad and Clifford was like the meeting of two brick walls. Clifford, in his stubbornness, decided if he couldn’t play, he wouldn’t go to school at all. And he quit. It was a shame because he was a good academic student.
Often over the years Dad wondered how Grandma knew of some of the things that happened in his own immediate family; things only he and Mom would know, or perhaps their observant children. More than once Dad would say, “Now how did she know that?” when Grandma would come out with some tidbit of information.
Clifford remembers one time when he was around fifteen or so years old and happened to be outside Grandma’s kitchen window when she was talking to Uncle Tom’s two boys, Tommy and Georgie. He heard Grandma questioning them.
“And what did Mama say?”
“Then what did your Dad do?”
Grandma was pumping the six- and four-year old boys for information. Suddenly Clifford realized Grandma had pumped him over the years too, and he hadn’t even been aware of it. And she’d probably also used the same tactics on Goldie and Flossie. That was how Grandma got all her bits of private in formation. But Clifford didn’t tell Dad what he had discovered.
There was a party line telephone in our house on the hill when Dad rented the place. The phone was attached to the wall, and you got the operator by turning a crank. Each party had its own ring, like one long, two shorts, etc. I don’t remember Mom or Dad ever using the phone, but if it rang, we’d sometimes listen in on conversations. We listened in until Mom saw us, that is. She’d scold and make us hang up. When there was an electrical storm, we were told not to go near the phone. I recall seeing streaks of light in the air at the telephone as a bolt of lightning struck. That was enough to make me heed the warning.
Dad had a crystal radio set on which he listened to for news or music. It was very difficult to tune in; sometimes just walking across the floor would cause enough vibration to jar the radio off the station and back to static. One day Clifford was trying to tune in the set, without much success. Buddy, just two years old and a little mischievous, came a short way into the living room, and, seeing Clifford working with the radio, gave a hard stomp on the floor. Instead of bothering Clifford, as was Buddy’s intent, the vibration of his stomp knocked the set into perfect reception. Clifford. rewarded Buddy with a loud horse laugh.
Mom was usually pretty even-tempered, and I remember few spankings from her. I remember playing on the floor around her when she was sewing. She’d have her thimble on, and if we were too annoying, she’d rap us on the head with it. That hurt.
Mary and I fought a lot, as sisters do. Looking back, I was probably a pest, and Mary had a short-temper at times. One day she got so mad at something I did or said she threw Mom’s little sharp-pointed scissors at me. The point hit me on the left shoulder and made a small puncture wound that bled. I was very dramatic.
“Mama, she stabbed me! And close to my he art, too!”
It really was several inches from my heart, as the faint scar I still have will attest. I felt very let down because Mom didn’t take the whole incident seriously at all. The smug look Mary gave me didn’t help.
Dad used to park his Model T car not far from the house with the front facing down the hill towards the road. One day Mary and I had been quarreling and she climbed in the car just to sit and to get away from me. She was there for several minutes when she did something – either accidently or unknowingly – that released the brake. The car started rolling, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, right through the corn field. She left a path of flattened corn stalks behind her. I don’t know whether she was screaming or not, for I was screeching so loud I couldn’t have heard her. Mom came rushing out of the house, and we watched the car with its unwilling passenger plunging through the field. The car slowed down when it came to level ground and stopped gently just before it reached the fence which bordered the road.
Mom didn’t drive, so the car remained where it was until the end of the day. I was sure Mary would really get it when Dad got home. She probably thought so too and kept saying,
“I didn’t touch a thing; it just started rolling.”
When Dad arrived, he didn’t say much. He just drove the car back up the hill. He didn’t punish Mary either, much to her relief and my surprise.
We saw a lot of our Dad’s brother Bill that summer of 1926. Uncle Bill was wild, sometimes outrageous, a good-natured tease, and always fun to be around. He seemed to liven things up. He started calling not-quite-two-year-old Buddy “Bawl-Baby-Buddy,” and Buddy called him “Bawl-Baby-Bill” in return. Buddy would sometimes see Bill’s car turn in from the road down at the bottom of the hill.
“Here comes Bawl-Baby-Bill! Here comes ole’ Bawl- Baby-Bill,” and Buddy’s feet would fairly dance with excitement.
After the hay harvest Bill never came around much. Mom later told Flossie the reason Bill hung around that summer. He had wanted Dad to go in partners with him and start a still in the cave, or cellar, in back of our house. This was a generous-sized cellar and was where Mom kept her canned fruit and vegetables, and where she placed the milk until the cream rose.
This was during the days of Prohibition, and Mom said Dad was tempted. He could have used the money. But then he contemplated the possibility of getting caught and decided it would not be worth being shamed in front of his children. He turned Bill down, and Uncle Bill once again faded from our lives. Uncle Bill was never conservative and seldom held any conventional job.
One of the highlights of the week when we lived at Burkett was the trip to town on Saturday night. Dad and the boys would come in early from the fields and take turns washing up at the wash stand in the kitchen. We’d have supper and then pile into the car for the trip to Madison.
When we arrived Dad would find a parking place, and we’d all get out and go in different directions. Mom would go to the grocery store, we kids were turned loose, and Dad would head for his usual, meeting place with the other men who liked to swap stories. In this case it was the steps of the bank which was now, of course, closed. The business part of town was only two blocks, and the bank was on one corner of the main intersection. The door of the bank opened diagonally onto the corner with five or six rounded steps leading up to the door. It was where Dad and his cronies would spend the evening swapping stories.
Mary and I would walk around and around the town, sometimes accompanied by little brother Buddy and sometimes not. We’d go past the grocery store, around the corner down by the picture show, across the street and back past some other lighted stores, around the corner and down by Crawford’s Hardware, again across the street and past an ice cream f place, then past the bank where Dad hung out. He’d look at us and we’d look at him, but neither acknowledged the other except by the look.
One evening, as we passed the bank, I decided to ask Dad for money because I wanted some candy. Mary told me I shouldn’t, but I never heeded the warnings of my brothers and sister. I went up and stood directly before him.
“Dad, could I have some money for candy?”
All the other men stopped talking and watched. Dad hesitated, then reached into his pocket and brought out some coins. He examined the lot, picked out one, and gave it to me without a word. It was a quarter. I’d have been happy with a nickel.
“See,” I taunted Mary, after we’d walked away. “He did give me some.”
We had our candy; in fact, on a whole quarter. We really feasted.
Mom would finish her buying and we kids would get tired long before Dad would be ready to go home. We’d all wait in the car in the dark. Mom never complained, but we’d whine,
“Why doesn’t he come?” and she would try to soothe us. “He’ll be here directly.” He’d finally come.
That particular night I was half asleep when Dad arrived at the car, but I quickly became wide awake as he started bawling me out for asking for money and for spending it all.
“But you gave.it to me,” I argued. I couldn’t see why he was so angry.
Dad turned around and leaned over towards me in the back seat. I pushed as hard as I could away from him and into the cushion.
“What else could I do when you asked me in front of the other men. Don’t you ever do that again!”
And believe me, I never did.
We were not a church-going family when I was small, but Sunday, unless we were in the middle of a harvest, was a day of rest for the men, though not necessarily for the womenfolk. We ate on Sunday, as well as on every other day of the week, only on Sunday we ate more and better. Also, it was a day for family get-togethers. Sometimes we’d go to Grandma and Grandpa Erwin’s, but I remember many special dinners with just Goldie and John as company.
One special treat was homemade ice cream. We ways had milk cows, and Mom liked to have at least one Jersey cow because they produced the richest milk. She would let the milk sit until the cream rose to the top, and then skim it off. Often, the cream was so thick it could be cut with a knife. She’d make a custard of milk, eggs, and vanilla and then add lots of “pure cream.” We weren’t worried about high cholesterol in those days, and with our kind of physical activity we had no need to be.
Dad must have gone to the ice house near the Burkett railroad station for the necessary ice. Mom would fill the metal container with the custard, insert the paddle, and carefully put on the lid. The container was put into the outer wooden part of the freezer and alternate layers of ice and salt added. We little ones got to turn the handle first, but as the mixture started to freeze, the job became harder. The bigger boys would take over, and John would usually finish the job. I can’t remember Dad ever turning the handle of the freezer; it was not his kind of job. When the handle would no longer turn, it had to sit for a short while for the contents to freeze a little harder.
When it was time to open the freezer, we’d all gather around waiting for the delicious mixture to be dished out. John would always refuse a dish of ice cream, claiming he wanted to wait for the paddle. When the paddle was finally removed and placed on a large dinner-plate he’d spoon the ice dream off it and into his bowl. He always claimed that it was the best. That got to be a family tradition:
“Save the paddle for John.”
Another memorable treat was watermelons. Dad grew them, and he’d go out to the field and choose several. He could tell by the sound when he thumped one if it was ripe. He’d demonstrate.
“11Now this one is still a little green. He’d thump another. “This one has a deeper sound. It’s ripe.”
All the thumps sounded alike to me. I still can’t pick a watermelon by that method, but Dad almost never missed. If we cut one that was particularly sweet, we were told by Mom or Dad to, “Save the seeds. We’ll use those for planting next year.”
Since we always ate the watermelons out of doors, we kids usually just spit the seeds, sometimes at each other. We were warned by Mom not to swallow them. I was told by one of our cousins that if I swallowed the seeds a watermelon plant would grow out of me. I did swallow some, and I could picture the vine growing out of my ears or the top of my head. I’d check now and then to see if any were starting, but none ever did. I hadn’t really believed him anyway.
One of the foods we always had an excess of was eggs. Mom had a talent for raising chickens. Those chickens were not only a direct food supply, but an indirect one as well. Many of the young ones ended up on our table as fried chicken, the older hens in a chicken and dumpling dish, and of course the eggs we had fried or boiled. Mom almost always sold her surplus eggs to a local store or to individuals. This money bought other foods we did not grow, and many times also helped buy our clothing.
Because the eggs were plentiful and at hand, we ate a lot of them. I can still picture that large platter of fried eggs being passed around the table at breakfast time. But I was heartily sick of eggs. On one occasion I tried passing the plate on by. Mom solicitously asked,
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want any.”
My answer was a mistake. “I’ m tired of fried eggs.”
Dad looked up at me from the head of the table where he was busy eating. “Eat ‘em!”
I sighed inwardly, but I served myself the smallest one on the platter and dawdled over the eating.
Sometimes we’d have cereal for breakfast. Mom would cook oatmeal, or sometimes rice, which we always ate with cream and sugar, not as a vegetable. If we were lucky, we’d have Post Toasties. She bought that brand because it came in the biggest box.
Often at supper, just before bread-baking day when her bread supply was low, Mom would serve mush. She’d cook the cornmeal and place it in a pan to cool and become firm. She’d then cut it in slices and fry it to a crisp golden brown. I loved it. Sometimes when the bread for some reason was not baked by mealtime, Mom would cut off slices of the rising dough and fry it as well. Best of all was her bread, fresh out of the oven, with her own churned butter and her canned apple butter.
In season we’d have fresh sweet corn from Dad’s field. Mom would usually go pick the ears herself, but if it was one of the days when she was feeding harvest hands, Mary or I would be given that chore. The corn had to be fresh. She wouldn’t let us start to the corn field until she put the kettle of water on the stove to boil. She was afraid that if the corn was too long between the stalk and the stove, it would lose some of its good flavor.
Another of my mouth-watering memories is of Mom’s cherry pie. The cherries were those she had canned herself from the sour cherry trees on the farm. In my adult life I have tasted only one other cherry pie that rivaled my mother’s. It was also made from home-canned cherries.