My Garden of Memories

A book, by Flossie Erwin Austin

Preface

Recently, during a particularly low period of my life, a daughter said to me, “Mother, I think it is time you got started on that book you were always going to write.”

Becoming widowed, after more than fifty years of marriage, had left me vulnerable and in need of a new purpose or interest in life; or so my children felt.

“But what could I write about that anyone could think worth printing,” I asked. And daughter was quick with the answer, “Write of your life – after all, more than seventy years of living should provide plenty of material. As to the printing, I’ve always wanted to publish a book, (I think she really meant, since she had married and her husband was in that field) so you just write the book and leave the rest to us.”

And so the seed was sown and as the weeks and months went by, it began to take root; my mind became more and more absorbed with flights into the past – not a healthy sign ’tis said, but in this case I called it ‘research’ – I was in search of material about the ‘good old days’.

As time passed and the phone calls began to change from “Are you O.K. Mom?” or “How are you doing, Mother?” to “Say, how is the book coming along?”, I felt they were really saying, “Our therapy for Mother is working.”

The seed continued to grow, nurtured by the continued interest of family and friends; and so, one dream, I think, has a chance of becoming a reality.

The one rule I’ve tried to go by is not to mention the name of a living person in the stories I’ve related here. Many will see themselves, I am sure, as all are a part of my life; hopefully, no feelings will be hurt. The few times I departed from this rule, I felt was for the good of the story.

All the different stories added together have truly become:

Dedicated-

To my children and grandchildren, without whose encouragement this probably would never have been written.

I would wish for all of you, only happy memories, but knowing this is unrealistic, I would wish you the courage to handle the difficult times so that in looking back, you will have no regrets.

Don’t be afraid to dream, but keep a clear under­standing of what is ‘fact and what is fantasy.’

Chapter 1

In the Beginning

Since all stories must have a ‘beginning,’ and as this is to be ‘my story,’ it seems only fitting and proper that it should begin with the date of my birth.

According to my birth certificate, this event took place January 16, 1910, it states: ‘a second child was born to Odes Erwin and Hazel (Hayworth) Erwin and was given the name – Flossie Minnie – the place, near Fargo, Oklahoma.’

These are ‘facts’ of the story as taken from a legal document; other stories or events related here will probably be a combination of ‘fact and fantasy.’

Family histories or legends that owe their exis­tence and continued life to word-of-mouth telling, tend to lose or gain through the years, depending on the fluency and\or imagination of the different storytellers.

Memories, I think, can be about as unreliable; at least mine seem to be hard to catch as I try to pen them down on paper. They seem to want to take wing and fly away.

My father and mother, so I was told, met when they were children. When my father was about nine, he moved with his family from near Eureka Springs, Arkansas, where my father was born, to a farm near Longton, Kansas.

It seems they arrived in Longton with 99 head of cattle and two covered wagons. They settled on a farm just across the road from a farm owned by my mother’s aunt and uncle, who gave her a home after she lost her own mother when she was about nine.

Because of this proximity, I suppose it was only natural my father and mother should become friends and later marry, which they did when my mother was seventeen and my father nineteen.

The first two or three years of their married life were spent in or near Longton, Kansas where my father farmed and also ran a dray; delivering freight from the depot to local merchants to help with family expenses.

But this quiet life was soon to change. While my sister, who was the oldest in the family of eight, was born in Longton, I, only two years younger, was born near Fargo, Oklahoma at the home of my maternal grandfather, Charles Hayworth.

So, had begun the gypsy-like existence that was to be our way of life for the next few years. The reason – oil was discovered in Oklahoma and the high-paying jobs, together with my father’s natural wanderlust, caused him to pull up stakes and follow the crowd.

The term ‘Black Gold’ was coined to describe the reactions of people to the news that a ‘gusher’ had come in. The resulting hysteria was similar to the gold rushes in the west. Dwellings, consisting mostly of flat-roofed, tar paper covered ‘oil field shacks’, sprang up overnight.

Besides the high-paying jobs for drillers and tool dressers, etc., teams and wagons were needed to haul the heavy pipe or casing from well to well. This was where my father came in.

My grandfather was already established near Cushing and Drumright, Oklahoma with his own liv­ery barn, when my father decided to join him.

How long we lived in this area I am not sure, but since I was born near Fargo, Oklahoma and my brother, only two years younger, was born near the Oklahoma-­Kansas border, where my father worked for a short time on the railroad, we couldn’t have lived in any one place very long.

My father had his own team and heavy wagon, called an ‘oil field’ wagon to differentiate it from the higher-wheeled, lighter-built farm wagons. When traveling from job to job, the wagon became our home, and carried all our possessions. It was then known as a ‘covered wagon.’

Memories of one such trip seem to be pretty clear, although I couldn’t have been very old. I think there were only my folks, older sister and younger brother, besides myself, of course.

It seems we were traveling through Indian Terri­tory and as night approached, I can remember both my mother and father becoming uneasy and disliking the thought of stopping to camp.

Although the Indians were not considered hostile, they would slip up on sleeping travelers and steal their horses. My father always said this particular team could smell the Indians. I can remember the horses were very restless this night and my father spending the night outside the wagon to guard them.

Next morning, needless to say, we were on our way at daylight. We hadn’t gone far when we came to an Indian encampment. I think my parents were greatly relieved when we had passed without trouble.

Life in the oil towns was rough; it was especially hard on the women and children. The promise of quick money always seemed to draw the tougher element. There were always saloons filled with gam­blers and dance hall girls to collect all the loose money floating around.

Much of this was explained to me years later by my grandmother as she reminisced about the hard life they lived as they traveled from one ‘boom town’ to another.

Chapter 2

Life on the Dead-End Street

We had reached Augusta, Kansas by the time I was old enough to begin school. I can remember a small, three-room house at the edge of town, that was to be home for a year or two; although small, it still seemed large after so much time spent in a covered wagon.

Looking back now, it seems my memories of life spent on this dead-end street were the first to really take on substance, in comparison with the fleeting ‘bits and pieces’ I am able to remember, heretofore.

I recall the wide, dusty street that was a perfect place to play with the numerous other kids that lived there for the same reason we did – it was a cheap place to live. At one end was a railroad track that one must cross to reach town and school, but at the other end of the street was a farm field. In the summer when tall corn grew here, it became a magic place for the neighborhood kids to play.

I hope the farmer wasn’t too annoyed when he saw the many tunnels at that end of the field when it came harvest time, because the memories, of at least one summer of playing hide-and-seek, follow the leader and other such games, with friends in that tall corn, have endured for more than sixty-five years.

As few who lived on this street at this time, had cars, everyone usually walked to town or to school, as we did. Our only other means of getting there was my father’s team and wagon, which was also his means of making a living for his family.

As usual, my grandparents had already arrived and settled not far from our street; my grandfather was still engaged in hauling for the oil fields. I can remember there were two or three small buildings at the back of their yard, called ‘bunk houses’, to house the single ‘skinners’ that my grandfather hired to drive the teams and wagons.

My father, as well as a married uncle, had their own teams and equipment, and joined with my grand­father on hauling jobs. I remember what a sight it was when all the teams were lined out ready to start on a long trip; at least, it seemed like a long trip, at the speed the teams and wagons could travel, many times into Oklahoma or other oil fields, to bring back the pipe needed for the new wells.

My father, as well as my grandfather and uncles, took great pride in the appearance of their teams and outfits; the horses were kept groomed to perfection, and the harness was adorned with long strings of celluloid rings and bright tassels.

The men, themselves, were always well dressed; that is, in keeping with their jobs. Khaki pants and shirts, with heavy, high-top brown shoes and a good felt hat, was what my father wore most of the time.

This was my life when it became time for me to begin school. Thankful was I for my older sister, who was already experienced in the mysteries of school, after having already gone two years. Even though she had attended a small country school near Longton, Kansas, she was still prepared to tackle any problems that might arise in the larger city school, as well as being buffer for a much less confident younger sister.

I can’t remember any happy memories con­nected with school that first year or two. I do, however, remem­ber being cold many times in the wintertime after what seemed like a long walk to school. I was subject to earache, and an understanding teacher would have me stand with my ear near the hot air pipes that were used for heating, until the pain stopped and the tears were wiped away.

Happier were the memories of play, after reach­ing the security of home, when school was out. But life wasn’t all play, even then. I was pretty young when it became my job to clean the kerosene lamp chimneys. The reason, my hand was small enough to reach into the chimney with the polishing cloth. My sister’s hand had become too large. Anyway, there were other, more grown-up jobs for my her to do. Another job I fell heir to about this time, was that of washing fruit jars at canning time; not because I wanted the job, but, again, because my hand would fit inside the jar.

In these early days of my life, my father’s family seemed to be always close by, or at least, pretty much involved in our life. My earliest recollections of my grandmother, Minnie Erwin, were of a very thin, wiry lady with a very caustic tongue. She was well known for her quick, ungovernable temper. Although small in size, I remember that she could throw a lot of weight around when things didn’t go her way, and at these times, the family would make themselves scarce until the storm, as some of them laughingly called it, blew over.

I was always a little in awe of my grandmother Erwin, because, like an active volcano, one never knew when she might erupt. In comparison, Grandpa Mike Erwin was more even tempered and fun to be with. I recall that if one was lucky enough to be around in the evening when he was at rest, how nice it was to crawl up on his lap and rock with him in his favorite rocking chair. I can remember him calling me ‘Flotty,’ which must have been his own pet name for me, as I never remembered anyone else calling me that. On the other hand, I was called ‘Toots’ by my uncles, which stuck with me for quite a few years.

As I grew older, and became more understanding, I was able to appreciate Grandma Erwin for a lot of things. My most outstanding memory was of her table laden with good things to eat when we went to visit. She was a very good cook, but in her house, children always waited for second table. The men folks always came first. I wonder if that has had anything to do with ‘children always going first at my table’?

Chapter 3

Early Dreams and Ambitions

Ah, those impossible dreams, but the world of fantasy is as necessary and normal for children as the hard reality is later when they become adults.

As I was always rather quiet and bashful, perhaps I was more inclined to indulge in daydreams than my sister; she was two years older and much more ag­gressive and adventuresome.

I remember my mother telling us that when she took the two of us out in public, she would have trouble keeping up with my sister, but she would always know where I was because I held fast to her skirt-tail. Skirts, in those days were the long full variety and offered security to a timid little girl because they were a perfect screen to hide behind. But, as the years went by, and the two of us increased to eight, I was forced to find other “security blankets” to cling to – in place of my mother’s skirts.

Rather early in life, at least in my early school life, a pencil and tablet became a necessary part of my lifestyle. All those exciting things that never seemed to happen to me in real life, I could create on paper for my dream characters.

I had a favorite ‘hideaway’ at one place where we lived for a few years; it was on a farm near Madison, Kansas. There was a cellar under the house where canned foods and root vegetables were stored.

It was always a little damp and musty smelling, as such places always are, but also cool in the hot summertime. Near one wall was a small window that let in enough light to read by and to write down my stories.

Needless to say, my dream to become an author, and some day write a ‘best seller’ developed about this time. But, alas, like so many dreams, it remained only that – a dream.

An ambition, or hope, that persisted, at least all through my high school years, was of being able to go to college and become a teacher.

Graduating in the Spring of ’29, at the start of the ‘Great Depression’, didn’t help this ambition. My folks were never very well off; they weren’t inclined to put down roots in any one place.

My Dad, who was definitely the head of our fam­ily, always believed things would be better just over the hill. Consequently, we moved around a lot, and as the rolling stone doesn’t gather moss, so our way of life didn’t gather worldly goods.

Teacher’s college, my first choice of further educa­tion, seemed out of the question at this time. My Dad decided that business college was the place for me to go; at least he decided this with the encouragement of a representative from the Wichita Business College.

As it would take only a few months to complete the course, as against two years of teacher’s college, naturally there would be less money involved. So an agreement was signed for me to enroll in business college in the Fall; my Dad paid the representative $10, which was the fee required.

I have often wondered if the college used my $10 wisely; before the Fall came around, I was married and never did get to attend the school.

I remember boasting that when I finished school, I was going to marry a College Professor. This was a statement that I regretted many times. It became a joke with my family and I became pretty tired of hearing about ‘Flossie and her Professor’.

The moral of this story could be – don’t brag unless you are prepared to back it up.

What my family didn’t know, and I was careful not to mention, was that the boy I went with for a while (I think he was a senior when I was in one of the lower classes) went on, in fact, to become a professor in college.

The love of dancing and pleasure of walking are responsible for many pleasant memories. These two favorite pastimes I think I may have inherited from my father.

My mother once told me when she was reminisc­ing, that my father was quite fond of dancing, much more than my mother; he would insist on attending all the country dances. They continued going through their early married life until with two or three babies to drag along (no babysitting in those days) it began to lose its appeal.

Walking was always a favorite form of relaxation for my father. It was a common sight to see him striding across a field or meadow, both hands in his back pockets, and chewing tobacco as fast as he walked.

As I think back, I feel he must have settled a lot of problems on those solitary walks.

I, too, enjoyed my walks over the years both as a child and through my later life. A walk was always my favorite way of dealing with tensions and frustrations, as well as just a pleasant way of passing the time.

An old record player, the type you cranked up, and a few records provided many happy hours of pleasure. There was never a talent scout around to observe my attempts at interpretive dancing, but in my daydreams, I received great applause as I danced on stage.

No, none of these dreams became a reality, but first there must be the dream.

As I review the lives of my children and grandchil­dren, I don’t believe my dreams were in vain; it just takes a generation or two for a dream to develop into a reality.

Already the teaching profession and business world are well represented, the talent for writing is developing, three granddaughters show a lot of po­tential for dancing and others enjoy walking and jogging. Who knows, maybe one of them will even marry a college professor.

Maybe this is what life is all about.

Chapter 4

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

With never quite enough money to buy what one considered ‘the Necessities’ in those early years, to say nothing of the things one fancied, ‘making do’ became a way of life. Looking back, I think a great deal of ingenuity was displayed in those so-called ‘good old days’ in just the process of day-to-day living.

Although ‘recycle,’ as used today, is a compara­tively new word, the practice of it, in one form or another, was certainly going on in those years. So many things come to mind as I review my life. Take, for instance, the bright-colored flour sacks. Homemade bread was a very important part of my family’s diet, so flour was purchased in large quantities; usually in forty-eight lb. sacks as I recall.

During the years that flour came in bright print sacks, the trading of sacks between households was widespread, for one needed several matching sacks to make dresses, curtains, bedding, etc.

As flour came in cloth sacks, so other things came in wooden boxes. Orange crates and apple boxes became dressing tables, book cases and any number of storage units. With a little paint, scraps of wallpaper and a pretty flour sack, they became works of art. But it seems to me, the greatest ingenuity was shown by the children.  Wished-for toys and other articles were created from any number of discarded items.

I recall, as a child, how pleased I was when the new “Monkey Ward” mail order catalog arrived and I was awarded the old one. With a pair of scissors, a card­board box or two and the discarded catalog, I would be happy for hours. Many paper doll families were cre­ated, and various pieces of cardboard made beds, chairs, tables and other furniture. They were lovingly put away after each play time, and if a younger brother or sister didn’t find them, would probably last until a new catalog came.

Of course, the remains of the catalog usually found its way to the little house at the end of the back walk, where the final recycling was done.

While I could create my own paper dolls, other popular items of entertainment were a different mat­ter. I remember that at one time a hoop and stick was a popular item of play with the neighborhood kids. An iron hoop, about twelve to eighteen inches in diame­ter – previously a part of a small barrel – together with a section of barrel stave nailed to the end of a narrow stick completed this treasured item. With practice, we became quite skilled in rolling our hoops; challenging each other in seeing who could keep their hoop rolling the longest.

Another item that was popular with the older, more active boys and girls, was a pair of stilts. As these were homemade from the different pieces of scrap lumber and leather pieces such as scraps of harness, belts, and so forth that one was lucky enough to find, each pair was usually different. These were made by the boys old enough to use saws, knives, hammers, etc. An older brother or a friend could sometimes be talked into making extra pairs for those willing to run errands or do the scav­enging for needed material.

Kids too young to manage this type of stilts were left to be happy with a pair made from two tin cans and lengths of baling wire. The wire was run through holes in opposite edges of the can and then fastened for hand holds long enough to accommodate the child, and the wire was wrapped to protect the hands.

Since horses played such a large part in our early life, I am not surprised that my brothers would turn to stick horses for play. On one occasion I was quite fascinated as I watched a younger brother cre­ate a several-horse team from discarded broomsticks, slats or other such sticks, with binding twine for lines and harness. He seemed to have them all named and talked to each in turn as he commanded them to gee and haw.

Another, never to be forgotten, object of my early school days, was the tin syrup or molasses pail. When the pail was empty, it was washed and became some­one’s lunch pail. It was the usual thing to see a row of syrup pails lined up at the back of the one room country school­house where I attended school for a while.

Every once in a while, however, there was an exception. I recall one instance, in particular: a red­haired, freckled-faced little girl carried her lunch in a store-bought lunch pail, even with a thermos bottle. One mind’s-eye picture is very clear, that of the little girl in a blue velvet dress, all smiles, as she displayed the mysteries of that wonderful lunch pail. I wonder how many of the others grouped around her became dissatisfied with their syrup pail. I knew of one who was certainly green with envy.

I can remember one other case where envy of a school friend was so strong that the memory has persisted over these many, many years. In this in­stance, it was the little girl’s shoes I envied; they were shiny black patent leather around the soles, with bright red tops. My heavy, high-topped black shoes with the metal toe guard, certainly lost in comparison. But as I remember the dainty shoes, I also remember the little girl’s one crippled foot, or leg, that was shorter than her other, and caused her to walk off balance. That, I didn’t envy.

With the wisdom of age, as I review my life and count my blessings, I feel that life has its own way of balancing its books. What was once envy, is now only compassion.

Chapter 5

Fads and Fashions

Every generation seems to have its own pet fads and different fashions or style of dress; in fact, some styles change so often, only the very style conscious can keep up with them. Nothing seems to be more subject to change than ladies’ skirt lengths or the location of the waist line.

I was going through my teenage years in what was called the ‘Flapper Era.’ Pictures taken in my junior and senior years of high school remind me of when we were teetering around on high-heeled shoes, dresses at knee-length, and belts at our hips. Our hair was cut short, and small cloche hats were the style.

Although we were showing a lot of leg, never, never must they be bare. I can remember being in despair half of the time, trying to keep a pair of rayon hose ready to wear. It helped a lot a few years later when longer dress lengths came into style and mended hose were easier to hide.

I recollect when I was younger how my mother would suffer in the heat of summer, wearing the long cotton hose as was the custom then. Fre­quently she would be daring, and go without while working in the house, but we children would be told to be sure and let her know if unexpected company approached, in plenty of time to put on her stockings.

For a short while, when I was in grade school, bright colored bloomers were the style for the rope jumping, jack playing group. Black sateen bloomers were the standard undergarment to wear with the knee-length dresses, as were the long, black cotton stockings. But for a time, bright green or bright purple sateen bloomers brightened up the scene at recess time, and happy was the little girl allowed to have a pair.

More often than not, I was one of those to be disappointed, but in this particular fad I was lucky, and became the proud owner of a bright green pair. I remember becoming quite adept at flipping my dress tail as I ran under the jump rope so that a bit of bright green bloomer would show.

I’m glad the custom of wearing long underwear in the wintertime – regardless of the weather – has become outmoded. We would don them about the same time each fall, no matter what the temperature, and along with the long black stockings and high button top shoes, would suffer through until the spring. I recollect the happy feeling, sometime in May, when school was dismissed for the summer, and the long underwear and shoes were shed at the same time. Then it was vacation and barefoot time – the happiest time of the year.

As I watch a young granddaughter dress for school I think, ‘what a contrast are the easy, simple styles of today, as compared to those of my day.’ What could be easier than slipping into a pair of blue jeans, a bright knit top, a pair of elastic-­topped knee-length socks, and finally, a pair of beloved ‘tenney-runners’ or joggers? Of course, her electric curling iron has been plugged in during this time, and with a few quick twists of her wrist, she is secure in her ability to charm the ‘current boyfriend’ with her curls. I bid her good-by, as she runs to catch the school bus – then check to see she has unplugged the curling iron – as I reminisce of the long ago when I was that age.

They are now called the ‘good old days,’ but I have a feeling of sympathy for that little girl, as she got ready for school so many years ago. The long underwear that had to have a pleat around the ankle to enable one to pull on the heavy black stockings – oh for the stretch materials of the present day. Next must go on that hated harness that held the stockings up. One had a choice; it could be tight and have sore shoulders, or loose and have droopy socks. Of course, there was another alternative; the tight, elastic garters.

Next, the high button shoes, and the dress that invariably buttoned up the back, usually bringing tears to a sleepy little girl as she struggled with the button hook on shoes – and waited for help with dress buttons. Finally, there was the long hair to be braided and tied. When it was fixed in one braid down the back, it seemed to be always caught on dress buttons.

Little girls always wore dresses, of course, so there was no problem telling them from the little boys, and to protect their modesty, there were always the black, voluminous bloomers.

“How could you ever get changed for gym?” I can hear my granddaughter ask. The answer, of course, is – we didn’t. Modesty would forbid such exposure away from the privacy of one’s own home. Besides, one would be sure to get pneumonia, if not that dread disease, consumption. What, I wonder, protects the girls today from these disasters.

Boys’ styles have changed over the years also. Little boys wore short pants – ending just below the knee – until they were considered old enough to join their fathers and older brothers in the mature ‘long pants.’

In other words, the length of their pants was one way of ‘telling the men from the boys.’

Chapter6

First World War

We lived in Augusta, Kansas when the First World War began having an influence on our lives. One of the first memories I have is of a young uncle, my father’s younger brother, coming to bid us good-by as he left to answer the draft. The family felt especially unhappy about seeing him go, as he had been married only about a month to a young-lady they all highly approved of.

The unfortunate part of it was, although he went through a tour of active duty overseas, and came home with no apparent wounds, his homecoming was a sad one. He wasn’t to see his young wife again. While he was away, she had died of the flu that killed so many during the war years, both at home and in the army camps.

Another uncle, my mother’s only brother, also was a victim of the flu epidemic. He had enlisted, but while still in a train­ing camp in the U.S. he died of the flu and is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

The flu epidemic, I think, held more fear for most people than the war itself. I must have been about seven- or eight-years-old; old enough to remember much of what happened during the war years, but not old enough to fully understand all that I saw or heard.

One of my most poignant memories of that time, is of the little bag of asafetida we wore around our necks to ward off the flu bug. This was a drug with a very strong offensive odor, it was very un­pleasant to live with day and night. I never knew whether it actually had any medicinal effect.

We lived only a block or two from the railroad tracks. I vividly remember going to watch the troop trains go through.  The excitement level was high, and the crowds cheered; laughing and waving to the young soldiers as the trains moved slowly through town. They were already heroes in their own eyes, as well as that of the crowd cheering them on. They were off to join the struggle to make the ‘world safe for democracy.’

The song Over There, written by George M. Cohen in 1917, when he heard that America had declared war on Germany, became the most famous song of World War One. K-K-Katy was another popular song that was heard wherever crowds gathered.

As in every war, or crisis, the citizens were called on to make sacrifices of one kind or another; and often times the result wasn’t quite what was intended. One such case comes to mind, as I try to remem­ber back to those war years. Women and girls were called on to help by not buying new clothes, but to wear overalls or similar rough clothing, thereby – theoretically – making more clothing products available for the war effort.

I am not sure whether this idea came from the government, or some local civic group, but I’m sure it was miss-interpreted by many and, in particular, by a certain family on our street. I specifically remem­ber the mother and a teenage daughter. Both very style conscious and with a liking for publicity. Instead of wearing out their old clothes before buying new, as was intended, they saw it as a chance to be first in starting a new style.

I can still see them as they swaggered up and down the street in brand new overalls; smugly doing their part for ‘democracy.’ I admit I was a little envious, as the idea of wearing overalls appealed to me. Up until then they were considered boys’ clothing and taboo for girls. It wasn’t until years later that I was able to indulge my whim for a pair of overalls; more about that later.

During the war era, we, as did most of the others on our street, continued to wear our old clothes, not so much for patriotism’s sake, but because we couldn’t afford new.

The war changed lives in other ways too. There was a definite relaxation of moral values. I gained this impression from listening to my mother and other neighbor women, as they gossiped about the deplor­able state of affairs. Hasty marriages occurred that shouldn’t have happened – according to them. Of course, a child my age was too young to understand these things, and I am sure I didn’t, but still the talk gave me a lot of food for thought, and I did a lot of pondering over it, when I was, supposedly, interested only in my own play.

Events were organized to raise money for the war effort; both for the soldier’s entertainment (‘nothing too good for our boys’ was the slogan on the home front) and for needed equipment. I remember one time, when my sister and I had walked to town with my father and a younger uncle – no doubt my mother was at home with younger brothers and sisters – and on the way home, we passed a dance in progress.

It was in a building with an open front, and girls were stopping all males going by, urging them to come dance – all for the war effort of course. My uncle nudged my father with an excited “Come on Odes, let’s dance.” My father hesitated for a minute before he shook his head, as he glanced significantly down at us girls. My father walked on home with us, while my uncle stayed behind to do his bit for ‘the war effort’.

I recall one event we all attended was an amateur program held in the local theatre. It was made up of local talent – with a lot of doubt as to the talent. Anyone who wanted to perform on the stage was welcome. A fourteen-year-old girl we all knew won first prize. She came running out on stage and sang at the top of her voice: “I went to Heaven, but I came right back, because the Angels in Heaven couldn’t Ball the Jack,” as she kicked her heels in the air, in true dance hall style.

I asked my mother later what ‘ball the jack’ meant and she replied, “It’s something not very nice, forget it.” But in the way of a child, I kept on wondering and I find, here in my mature years, I still don’t know the meaning.

I often hear my teenage grandsons ask, “How about a lesson on the facts of life, Grandma?” To which I’ll reply, “Don’t bother. I am a great believer in that phrase, ‘If ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise,’ so just let this seventy-year-plus grandma remain ‘bliss­fully ignorant'”.

Chapter 7

A Salute to the Model T

Memories of our first car, a Model T, occurred about the same time of my life as did those of the First World War.

It seems we lived on the same dead-end street in Augusta, Kansas when I remember my father taking us all for a ride in that first Model T. As my father drove slowly along the street, he kept very close to the curb. I later realized that he was really just learning to drive, and wasn’t too sure of his ability.

Driving a car in those days was quite different than it is today. If one had the two or three hundred dollars a Model T was selling for along about that time, and felt brave enough to try to drive it – that was all it took. There was no such thing as a driver’s license; at least not in Kansas.

Being used to horses all his life, I’m sure it was a little hard for my father not to yell ‘whoa’ when he wanted to stop, but I don’t really remember any wrecks happening. Of course, the speed cars traveled then were much, much slower in comparison to that of today’s cars.

There was a saying that all one needed to repair those first Model T’s was a length of baling wire and a pair of pliers. I think it was meant as a joke, but there was a lot of truth in it. I do remember there was always a bit of baling wire in the tool box on the running board.

Starting the car, by turning the crank fast enough to turn over the motor, was responsible for many a sore arm or sprained wrist. This operation was said to often ‘kick like a mule.’ In fact, one soon learned to keep one’s thumb on the same side of the crank-handle as the palm of one’s hand to avoid a broken thumb if the engine did ‘kick’ back. In fact, as I remember back, I seem to feel a tingle in my arm, in sympathy I suppose, for those times in my early teen years when going or staying home depended on starting that temperamental Model T.

Although we usually had a car of some kind after that first Model T, I think for several years my father felt more secure driving a team and wagon. I know I must have been in about the second or third grade when we moved to a farm between Flor­ence and Burns, Kansas. I don’t think we lived there for more than a year or two; the grass always seemed to look greener somewhere else for my dad. But I do have memories of attending school events, such as school programs and soup suppers, etc. and then being bundled up afterwards in the bottom of a wagon, as my father drove the mile or two home.

I also remember the parts of our Model T being strung around under the shade of a tree; I think this was my father’s way of spending his spare time – overhauling the car. Or perhaps he just getting to know it, since he was very mechanically endowed.

My mother never learned to drive the Model T or any other car we had in later years. She did, however, have her own means of transportation, at least while we lived on the farm. We had a horse and buggy which she used to go shopping or drive to see friends. I remember my sister and I and younger brother drove the same horse and buggy the two miles to school part of the time; other times we walked.

I can’t remember my father ever driving this horse and buggy, except once when the horse was balky after school. No amount of coaxing, pushing, or even leading with the buggy attached, had any effect. Finally, my sister, being the oldest and official driver, decided to unhitch and lead the horse home.

Of course, we were late and were met by a very anxious mother, as well as a very exasperated father when he heard our explanations. But the horse had met his match in my father. With switch in hand, my father jumped on the horse and with balkiness forgotten, they were off on a dead run to the schoolhouse, and minutes later they were back, buggy and all, with my father applying the buggy whip freely: “Now,” my father remarked to his rather shame­faced offspring, “I’ve just demonstrated to you what that buggy whip is for, and I don’t want to have to repeat the lesson.”

Looking at the tired and sweating horse, it was obvi­ous that it had learned the lesson as well. As I recall, a shake of the whip was all it took after that to get on home after school.

As the years went by the Model T began to play a greater part in our lives. At first it was a touring car, which had a roll of side curtains one carried along to snap in place when it started to rain. However, I remember one usually became soaked through before getting them untangled and in place. My father was one of those suspicious of the enclosed sedan – believing it was top-heavy and easily turned over when going around corners. But, as time passed this was disproved, and we later enjoyed the comforts of a sedan.

With the advent of the Model A in the late twenties, it became a matter of pride to own one of these new models, or at least have a boyfriend that owned one. With a little research, I have found that a new Model A could be bought at the time for under $600 – unbeliev­able now, but still a lot of money in those days.

But my happiest memories seem to be involved with the Model T. During my high school years, there always seemed to be several boys in my group who had one available for use when a party or picnic was planned, and in each there always seemed room for one more.

We lived on a farm west of Madison, Kansas, when a younger brother and I first learned to drive; and in a Model T of course. As I remember, neither of us was very sure of our ability, when one morning we were told it was up to us to deliver the milk to the several customers we were selling to at that time. As I recall, it was during haying time; a very busy time for us. I guess I must have learned to drive well enough, as I remember it became my job during the haying time to deliver the milk as well as to drive my mother, along with the hot lunch she prepared, to the hay field and so save time for the haying crew.

It was years later, fifty more or less, when my husband and I, retired now and enjoying a long-­planned-for vacation trip, chanced to stop at an an­tique car and machinery museum. We viewed, with interest, the section where Model T Fords were dis­played; they were so much a part of our early life. As my husband moved on to the early farm machinery, I lingered a bit longer to engage in a little nostalgia for that long-ago time.

I felt that I had a lot in common with that Model T; we began life about the same time. Me in 1910, and the Model T, perhaps a year or two earlier. We shared an unpretentious life; more at home with the common class as we traveled the country roads.

It was a good life, with so many memories; the very happy ones as well as the years when we struggled, so why then do I feel that old Model T is just a little bit of a traitor, as it sits up there in all that bright paint and polish? Perhaps it is that is not the way I remember it looking.

I wonder, would I increase my status, if I got out the powder and paint, indulged in some new clothes, especially some high-heeled shoes, visited a beauty shop for a new hairdo and joined a social club as have some of my contemporaries. But, on second thought, it just wouldn’t be me. Better to buy a new pair of tennis shoes (my enjoyment of which was almost spoiled by that person who recently coined the phrase ‘little old ladies in tennis shoes’) and see if I can still walk around the lake – or even part way – or am I only kidding myself?

Chapter 8

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Although my father was the dominant one of our family, it was my mother who had the most influence on my life, or at least I always seemed closer to her. I know that I had more in common with her, personality-­wise, and I think I resembled her more in looks as well.

One of the few encounters I can remember having with my Grandfather Hayworth was when he told my mother that if she wanted to know what she looked like when she was my age, all she need do was look at me.

Memories of my early life seemed to revolve around my mother. I remember her helping us make homemade valentines – all the while she related stories of how it was when she was a girl. At Christmas time we strung popcorn chains and hung up our stockings. I can’t remember my father being at home in the evenings much in those early years; he liked to visit with other men in the pool halls, or wherever men gathered to spin tales. I do remember him com­ing in late on Christmas Eve a time or two, when we children were supposedly asleep, with Christmas treats and a few toys – his way of helping Santa Claus.

My mother seemed to take it for granted that my father needed the trips to town in the evenings to visit with friends. He enjoyed spinning yarns, as did most of the other members of his family, and so enjoyed company.

In comparison, my mother was a homebody, content with her family, her needlework and her garden. She always had flowers and plants for which she seemed to have a special knack, sometimes referred to as ‘a green thumb.’ She had an affinity with the young of most species, whether it was her children, grandchildren, or the farm animals and pets that were always a part of our life.

Many of these characteristics I seem to have inherited from her, especially my love of animals and the young.

Since my sister was older, she became the housekeeper and I my mother’s helper in many of the outside chores which were ‘women’s work,’ like caring for chickens, gardening, etc.

Unlike my sister, who was a natural housekeeper, I would much rather be outside and thus skip as many household tasks as possible, especially the dishwashing. Yet my sister – because she was older – did get called on to help with some of the outside farm work when needed, such as at haying time, etc.

To think of my mother as she was in my early life is to remember the chickens she always had when we lived on the farm. Every farm in those days had its own flock of chickens, as well as a few milk cows and pigs. The chickens were always my mother’s responsi­bility; the care of which always came first in the day’s work. In this task I became her understudy, willingly most of the time, since when I was doing this I was missing out on the dishwashing and other such things.

Raising chickens in those days meant carefully sorting the eggs at each gathering time, to save the best for hatching. This was done each Spring. A cer­tain number of eggs, usually fifteen to eighteen, de­pending on the size of the mother-to-be, was placed under the hens as they indicated their natural urge to raise a family by remaining on the nests after the usual laying period.

As with all the female of the species, some hens made better mothers than others, so the broody hens were carefully culled and the ones not needed were placed in a pen to be ‘broken up’ or convinced their urges to become mothers were all a mistake, after which they would soon be back producing eggs again.

After an incubation period of about three weeks, the chicks began to hatch, and so began a busy time for my mother as she always watched the hens care­fully during this time – ready to lend assistance when needed. I can remember becoming pretty involved when the chicks were finally put with the mother hen and allowed to roam free in the day time, but carefully watched to see that each family returned to their own individual chicken coop in the evening; then doors had to be carefully closed to protect them from their natural enemies.

My most poignant memory at this time was frustration at not being able to run fast enough to prevent a chicken hawk from making off with the little chicks. My dislike for a chicken hawk became pretty strong and even now, so many years later, when I see a hawk, I instinctively look to see if it has a fluffy little chick in its beak.

Sudden thunderstorms, especially with strong wind, were a hazard during this time in the chicken’s life as well. I can remember one instance very clearly.  A storm came up suddenly and my mother called me to come quickly and help her get the chickens in. As I ran to help, I recall seeing my father and the team of horses he had hastily unhitched from some farm machinery, coming up the lane at a dead run, with heavy black clouds rolling in behind him.

But my thoughts were with my mother and the task of getting the chickens to shelter. We were able to get most in, but the wind was against us, and one bunch I can remember were almost to the chicken house door, when they were blown from our hands. About this time, we became conscious of my father yelling at us to “let those d—- chickens go and get in the house.”

As we looked up, it was easy to understand his concern. We had been so involved in leaning over and shooing chickens we had failed to notice how really severe the storm had become. Worried, my mother grabbed my hand and we made a run for the house, successfully dodging broken tree limbs and other debris flying about. Of course, as soon as the storm had let up a little, we were out searching the bushes and hedgerows for half-drowned chickens, carrying them to the house to be warmed and revived, if possible.

My mother wouldn’t have considered herself dressed without a full apron tied around her waist. This part of her clothing was useful for so many things. With the corners gathered up and held in one hand, it became a basket to hold chickens, eggs, chips to start a fire, vegetables from the garden or fruit from the orchard; any number of things that she hadn’t thought to take along a container for.

Although in my own mature years I don’t wear the large apron, I would feel lost without the pant top with the large pockets; which are so handy to carry things. What an odd assortment is found there after a nature walk with a grandchild.

My mother only attended school through the fourth grade, but even so, she was able to write more interesting letters than many with a much higher education; the words weren’t always spelled correctly but the meaning was plain. Although my mother and her only sister were separated early in life because of the death of their mother before she was thirty, with consumption, they kept in close touch through letter writing and occa­sional visits.

The family lived in Longton, Kansas when their mother died. My mother went to live with an aunt and uncle there, while an older sister and a younger brother moved with their father and another aunt to a claim in Oklahoma. As the two little girls grew up and married, they promised each other to get together at least every three years. This, I think they did; taking turns making the trip.

I remember making numerous trips to Oklahoma to visit cousins during my growing up years, as well as many trips to Longton, Kansas to visit my mother’s aunt and uncle; the aunt and uncle with whom she had made her home from the time she was a small girl. I have a few clear memories of these visits – such as watching my great aunt as she would lift that small trap door in the kitchen floor that was directly over the cistern.  That was where she kept her butter in a covered pail, suspended on a strap. I remember always being fearful, after being allowed a small peek into the dark hole, that someone would fall in.

And before the butter, there was the endless up and down movement of the dasher in the churn which tended to wear out several small arms before the butter finally came.

As I grew older, I found my mother enjoyed hear­ing of my experiences at school, so on weekends I shared many happenings with her; she laughed with me over the letters I received through my magazine correspondence, and she wrote many letters herself to family and friends.

During the last few years of her life – in a nursing home now – we shared many letters, and finally, when unable to write anymore herself, she turned over addresses of friends and relatives with the request that I keep writing to them in her place.

Chapter 9

Brief Moments of Glory

I sincerely believe that ‘in every life, some rain must fall’ and I think I have had my share of those cloudy days, but to balance the book of life, I am equally sure it was meant for each of us to have some sunshine – or as I like to think of it, our own ‘mo­ments of glory.’

One such moment, as I recall, happened in my early grade school. I may have been in the third or fourth grade when we went to a one-room country school. We had a male teacher that year, and I remember one of our lessons was to write a description of one of the holidays. My bright moment occurred when the teacher picked my story to read before the class and compliment me on an apt description.

I was rather puffed up with my own importance for a while, but as ‘pride goeth before a fall,’ I remem­ber coming back to earth a few days later, when the teacher asked me, as a special assignment, to write a story about all the holidays – in sequence. I remem­ber really laboring over that, and proudly handing in a story I felt would win more compliments, but in this, I was to be disappointed. I had failed to follow the instructions about the sequence part, and instead of compliments, there was disapproval with my mixed-up story.

Putting my thoughts down on paper was one way I had of passing the time. I was still in grade school, and we lived on a farm north of Madison, Kansas. I remem­ber attending Sunday School in town, and always reading the Sunday School paper I received. There was one section of the paper that invited contribu­tions from the readers. I contributed an article on the subject of ‘Smiles,’ and it was my first effort to be published. The fact that I had sent it. and that it was published, was my own little secret – that is until a neighbor who attended the same church saw it and brought it to the attention of my parents. She asked them for permission to submit it to the local newspaper. The paper published it under the heading: Written by local girl, Flossie Erwin, and first published by (name of Sunday School Paper). For a day or two, I enjoyed a few ‘brief moments of glory,’ as I received the congratulations of teachers and fellow students who had seen the newspaper.

A few years later, when I was in the eighth grade, we lived on a farm west of Madison. My mother had made me a new white dress for graduation.  On the evening of the great event my father drove us all to the school in our current Model T. Since there were only three students graduating that year it was not a great honor to be head of the class, but I still experienced some bright moments when the County Superintendent of Schools gave me my diploma and congratulated me on my good grades.

Unfortunately, by the time we got home I was feeling quite let-down; the lights on the car went out before we reached home and there was still a lane to the house and a creek to ford. Since I wore a white dress which would show up in the dark, it was suggested I walk ahead of the car to lead my father in. After all, it was for me that we were out anyway. The creek was about ankle deep, so to save my slippers II waded across barefoot. This was the only time I can remember when I didn’t enjoy wading in the creek.

Another experience comes to mind that hap­pened while I was attending high school, again in Madison, Kansas. It was the practice of the country schools to have at least one money-making event during the year to raise money for different school projects. Box suppers were popular, and usually could usually be depended on to attract a good crowd.

Most of the country schoolteachers at that time were young girls, either fresh out of high school, or with only two years of normal school training. I don’t think married women were allowed to hold such jobs then. These small, one-room schools were where the young teachers were expected to get their experi­ence.

My current boyfriend and I, along with several friends, planned to attend one such event because we were acquainted with the teacher and wanted to help her event succeed. As was the custom, we girls had our boxes decorated and packed with the usual supper. Naturally, the identity of each box was kept a secret. The boys, of course, were expected to guess the correct box and have enough money along to buy it.

There was first a program presented by the teacher and students and then the boxes and pies were auctioned off. The highlight of the evening was, usually, the contests such as the most popular girl and ugliest man, etc., the winners determined by the freest spenders.

This particular evening the two candidates for most popular girl was the teacher and myself. It was usually a foregone conclusion that the teacher would win this contest – after all, she was the star of this particular show and loyalty of the district should insure her winning.

However, in a spirit of fun, my boyfriend, who nominated me as candidate, and others in our party decided otherwise. I remember there was some lively bidding and a few scowls from the opposition, but I was finally handed the box of chocolates as winner. I recall that my boyfriend soon took possession of the box of candy, and passed it around among our friends. I’m not sure whether I ever did get a sample of the chocolates, but I do remember having an empty box as evidence, and that for a short while, I was the most popular girl of the evening.

A hobby of mine that was responsible for many pleasant memories through my school years was the correspondence I carried on with persons whose names I found in Sunday School papers or other places. The year I studied German, my teacher contacted a class of German students who were studying En­glish, and, as a result, our class wrote letters in German and received letters back written in English. This made our class much more interesting that year.

The year I was a senior, a girlfriend and I became interested in a magazine called Ranch Romances. Besides containing interesting stories, it also had a section for letters from the readers seeking corres­pondents or ‘pen pals.’

One evening, for want of something better to do, we decided to write a letter to the magazine and sign both our names. This we did, and as time passed and nothing happened, we almost forgot about it; almost but not quite. All at once we began getting letters. In fact, the result of us mailing just one letter was pretty overwhelming.

Taking stock one day, we found we each had received letters from over one hundred different people – mostly from the opposite sex. Of course, we had to let our friends in on our secret; the result being that a number of our friends gained pen pals as well. But, even with two cent stamps, that was a little too much correspondence for the two of us to keep up with.

As it turned out, we were due to receive quite a bit more publicity than either of us could have imag­ined over that one innocent letter. We had been hearing the rumor for some time about the possibility of the Madison Post Office drop­ping to a lower class because of the continuing de­crease in the volume of mail. The news had little interest for me until our very loquacious postmaster began greeting us with what seemed to be very gleeful smiles as he handed us our many letters. For some reason, the increased volume of mail high was enough to allow the post office to remain in the same class. The postmaster insisted that two high school girls who like to write letters should receive full credit for this; I never knew for sure whether he actually be­lieved this, or was just his way of having fun.

As I indulge in a reverie of the past, I find myself remembering many happy moments, and not only in my younger years. The many cards, gifts and letters at holiday and anniversary time that denote a caring family provide many happy memories.

But of all the bright moments, I’m sure the one to have the greatest impact on my life was in the Fall of 1969. My husband and I received custody of four orphaned grandchildren. This pronouncement, by the Judge, only took a moment, but what a change in the lifestyle it made for two retired grandparents.

Suddenly, we had a second family.

Chapter 10

Love and Marriage

One of the most memorable years of my life was the year 1929. In May of that year I graduated from high school, which was to be the end of my school life, and the beginning of a very different life.

After the next few years of trials and hardships, I remembered the four years of my high school days with nostalgia. In comparison, they seemed four carefree years, full of fun and experiences with friends; some of whom I had hoped to continue on into college with. But it was not to be. Even before graduation, the ‘great depression’ had begun. Banks were closing, many businesses were going broke, and in general everyone was affected to some degree.

It was the custom at the end of the school term for each class, with their respective sponsors, to plan a day’s trip or outing. The park in Emporia was a favorite. Roller skating was available, as well as other park facilities to make for an enjoyable day.

However, my senior class, when all expenses were paid, was broke. Just why this was so, I don’t now recall, but I do remember that of all the picnics and parties we had during my four years of high school, this last one was responsible for my happiest memories.

Although our treasury was empty, we decided, with the encouragement of our sponsor, that we could still have a picnic. So, instead of taking the customary out-of-town trip, we decided to take a picnic lunch to a shady area near Madison.  There we spent the day reviewing our school days and taking turns telling of our plans for the future, taking pictures, playing ball, pitching horse shoes, etc.

It helped that I had recently indulged a whim which origi­nated many years before during the first World War. I had become the proud owner of a pair of black and white striped overalls, and wearing them on this special day seemed to make it even more enjoyable.

That summer of 1929 was the beginning of a change in the lifestyle for many people, but I seem to remember the first two months after graduation as a time of fun; visits with friends and making plans for the future. Two close friends were to attend college in the Fall, and I remember experiencing some twinges of envy. Besides my friends in Madison, I had kept in close touch with several friends I had made during my freshman year at Hamilton.

A young man I had been going steady with for several months was a senior at Hamilton when I was a freshman; he lived with his parents on a farm in the same community as we did. As I recall, we did a lot of double dating that summer; money was scarce and by pooling resources we were able to afford more Sunday afternoon car rides, trips to the country or local parks. Just getting together was the main thing.

I remember one afternoon, in particular. A carload of us had been putting in a Sunday afternoon in just such a way, when, after fixing a flat tire and walking awhile to stretch our legs, we seemed to have changed our seating arrangements when we decided it was time to return home.

My current boyfriend had brought a friend who was a few years older, but not a stranger as I had known him since I was a freshman in high school. At that time, he worked as a clerk in Hamilton’s general store. He was popular with the high school group even if he was several years older; always friendly and ready to joke with us as we stopped to buy grocery items, candy bars or anything as an excuse to flirt with the good-looking clerk. At this time in my life, I was only one of several who found the older, farm boy-grocery clerk attrac­tive – never dreaming of the part he was to play in my future.

It was to be several years later when he again entered my life on that fateful Sunday afternoon car ride in the Spring of 1929; a car ride which was the beginning of a courtship lasting only a bare two months. We were married the 8th of August, 1929. Our wedding took place in the evening at the Eureka County Courthouse, with only my older sister and brother-in-law as witnesses; about four years before, they had been married at the same location.

Although only two years older than I, my sister had married when she was seventeen. She was now the mother of two little ones; a small boy and a baby girl. I felt very close to these two little ones, since I had put in a lot of time babysitting them for room and board when I attended high school in Madison.

As usual, my folks did a lot of moving around during that period. My dad did custom hay baling in addition to his farming. My parents never owned their own farm, so we usually moved quite frequently. It seemed that conditions and opportunities always looked better elsewhere. Consequently, I was fortu­nate to have a home with my sister and family during the week – usually going home on weekends.

At the time of our marriage my new husband was living in a small two-room house in Hamilton. He worked as a mechanic in a garage there during the time he wasn’t engaged in his farming operations. He had rented a farm close to town, and he also had money invested in cattle he was full-feeding, expecting to make a good profit. So, our future seemed to look bright.

We planned to ‘make do’ with the little two-room house, and the little building at the end of the back walk, until the cattle were sold, and then we would look for a larger house and buy furniture. After all, it was a well-known fact that two could live as cheaply as one and whoever heard of newlyweds needing a lot of space.

Chapter 11

And We Lived Happily Ever After, or Did We?

I think it is customary for all good fairy tales to end with ‘and so they were married and lived happily ever after,’ but as this isn’t meant to be a fairy tale, but a true story, or at least as true as memory can be relied upon to make it, it would be unrealistic not to expect some unhappy times, as well as some hard­ships and uncertainties during the more than fifty years our marriage was to last.

After a short wedding trip to Wichita and Win­field, where my husband had a married brother and sister, we were back home to the little two-room house in Hamilton, Kansas to begin our married life.

Not much time or money for a honeymoon. We were treated to a shivaree by a few close friends one evening shortly after returning home – friends who were out of town the evening we were married, and so missed the shivaree we were subjected to by family and friends from both Madison and Hamilton. A shiva­ree is a custom I am rather glad has lost favor, for sometimes it had a way of getting out of hand. But this evening with friends dating back to my first year in high school, was fun and tended to add spice to a too-short honeymoon.

It was harvest time – a busy time for those engaged in farming. I remember feeling a let-down as my husband became busy with farm work; not all that much to do in that little two-room house. Some days I would go to the field with him, especially when corn was to be shocked. We would take a picnic lunch to be eaten in the field and so broke the monotony for both of us. Even though that rather doubtful saying ‘two can live as cheaply as one,’ might be true – but three? And it was soon apparent there would be three before that first year was up.

The pleasant Fall days passed – friends came to visit now and then – some were getting married, others were looking for jobs, while a few were going on to school, but it wasn’t long before we were aware the bright future we had planned wasn’t going to be so bright after all. Before the time came to sell the cattle, the market had dropped, so instead of the nice profit my husband was expecting, he found he was rather heavily in debt to the bank.

We did manage to rent a larger house at the edge of Hamilton and my husband worked where he could, mostly at garages and farm work, so we got by as well as the majority of folks were doing.

In the Spring our baby girl was born. I had been accustomed to relying on my older sister as we were growing up, a custom I found that was still in effect, I found that when I needed help during my confinement (babies were born at home in those days) my sister insisted I come to her home in Madi­son for the birth of my baby, so she could take care of me, as well as keep her own home going. Our mother was there to help when she could, although she still had young children at home. In fact, she had three grandchildren when my youngest brother was born.

The following Spring, we moved to a rented farm and became full-time farmers. Times were hard, and money for pleasure or anything other than the bare necessities was practically nonexistent. But, we man­aged to get by. We raised a good garden, and with chickens, milk-cows and pigs, we had enough to eat, plus eggs and cream to sell for what we could not grow or raise.

We lived on that farm for two years and then went into partnership with my husband’s folks on a farm near Eureka, Kansas. For the next two or three years, we lived in a small two-room house in the shady backyard of my in-law’s home. We increased our stock and farming equip­ment, always with the hope of owning our own farm sometime in the future.

When our little girl was about four years old, we decided to make another move. At that time, my folks lived near Virgil, Kansas. A small acreage was for sale nearby, and we decided to buy enough land on which to build a home as we were able, and to make a living working in the hay fields and with rented farm land.

As I look back on the time spent here – two or three years I think – very few pleasant memories come to mind. We did have the independence we wanted, but times were so uncertain, and money so scarce. Trying to build a home on ground without a water supply, and very little shade, made our future look very bleak indeed most of the time.

There we were, living in the mid-thirties, during the worst of the dust-bowl days. One of the most poignant memories I seem to have of this time was one I have catalogued in my mind as the day the dust came. For days the wind had been blowing and as it was very dry. The air was full of dust, a condition which made it almost impossible to keep the house or one­self clean. Plus, the shortage of water aggravated this situation.

But on this particular day, I remember we were outside working at something when all at once a change in the atmosphere became so noticeable as to be almost eerie. The wind became quite still, while a brown haze seemed to hide the sun. As we watched in wonder and, I a certain amount of apprehension, a thick blanket of dust seemed to set­tle to the ground, covering everything and making it very hard to breathe. How many days it took the air to clear, I am not sure, but I remember hearing of cases of pneumonia and even deaths, caused by so much dust in the lungs.

A few months after this experience, our second daughter was born. It was during a period when we were having the hardest time making the two ends meet. She was born at night in our own home; a small, two-room house with very primitive accommodations.

My mother and a family friend, who was an expe­rienced mid-wife, were with me to assist the doctor. It was a breech birth, and the doctor decided he would need another doctor’s assistance, and by the time one could be summoned from Madison, I was very sure the so-called joys of motherhood were highly over­rated. But a healthy baby girl was born and for the next few months with two little girls to keep me busy, while their father was away most days trying to make enough money to support his increased family, I was reasonably happy and contented.

But this contentment changed suddenly when we were faced with the first tragedy of our married life; our oldest little girl was rushed to the hospital one night with a ruptured appendix. She passed away about three weeks later.

In Memoriam

In loving memory of our little daughter

Barbara Jean, who passed away January 7, 1936

There’s an empty place around our family fireside.

In our hearts only sadness and sorrow abide.

We hear no more the little footsteps pattering

across the floor,

Nor the childish voice which begs, “Mama tell me

a story, please one more.”

For our darling has gone to join the angels and we

miss her o’er and o’er.

She has gone where pain and sorrow is never

known, they say

Where there is only sunshine and gladness the

livelong day

But for us there is only darkness since she went

away

Perhaps if we are patient, bless the short time we

knew her love,

We will someday be united with our darling up

above.

There was a growing dissatisfaction with condi­tions. Many families were pulling up stakes and moving to California where it was rumored there was work to be had at good wages. My two oldest brothers, now married, decided to try their luck with the ever-increasing numbers head­ing west. When my parents also decided to follow my brothers, I began to feel a little forlorn and tried to persuade my husband that we, too, should follow this exodus to the ‘promised land.’

My husband did give it a lot of thought, but couldn’t quite make up his mind the move would be to our advantage. But we were ready for a change and ended up selling our little place near Virgil, and moved to a rented farm between Madison and Hamilton, Kanas. We lived there for the next five or six years. Our third daughter was born – this time in a nursing home – in Eureka. Her doctor was the same one who had operated on our oldest daughter.

When I remember my stay at this nursing home, I remember – with amusement – the practical nurse who ran it.  Nellie St. Clair had never been married and this was her way of making her living, caring for confinement cases in her own home. She entertained us with her dry wit, but especially I remember hear­ing her tell her young niece who frequently helped her, to be proud of the way they spelled their name; St. Clair instead of Sinclair. In other words, they were the ‘Saints’ instead of the ‘Sinners.’

But a more poignant memory of this time had to do with the reason I was in the nursing home; the doctor expected a difficult birth and wanted me near the hospital. And difficult it turned out to be. By the time our third daughter was born, both Mother and daughter were too exhausted to take interest in the hurried conference going on between doctor and nurse.

It was decided that both of us needed a stimulant, and in those days of prohibition what better use could that confiscated liquor down at the jail house be put. So, I had my first taste of brandy, which was also the first food for my baby daughter.

I am not sure how the same situation might be handled today, but it worked pretty well on that cold winter night many years ago. As my thoughts go back to that night, I have a feeling of gratitude for that person or persons who gave up their brandy, however unwillingly, so it was there when my baby and I needed it.

Chapter 12

Second World War Brings Changes

Times continued to be hard the next few years, but there were pleasant times. Our oldest daughter started to school, which created a different life for all of us. For the first time, we had a personal interest in school events. Since there was a little over three years difference in our two little girls’ ages, little sister enjoyed going to school programs as well.

For a while we belonged to a bridge club. We took turns meeting in each other’s homes, but we soon decided it wasn’t all that much fun when we had two children to take with us. Most days were filled with the work necessary for just day-to-day living, and there was little energy left over for social affairs.

When the aircraft plants in Wichita began calling for help to meet the demands of the Second World War, we decided to have a sale and seek employment at one of the plants. With no previous experience, it was necessary for my husband to begin in the maintenance depart­ment. He was glad to take any job to get started. He was confident that his ability as a machinist would soon result in his being promoted to a different department – and he was.  During the next few years he worked in both the Boeing and Cessna plants as a machinist.

Choosing to live in the suburbs and commute back and forth to Wichita, we eventually bought our own home in the town of Sedgwick, feeling it would be a good investment. Life in the small town of Sedgwick was pleasant. With a daughter in school, as well as a preschooler, I found time for a certain amount of social life. The girls and I attended Sunday school and church, and were involved in school and church pro­grams. And the whole family enjoyed the fun and fellowship of a closely-knit neighborhood.

My husband worked evening shifts a great deal of the time, but did join the local Odd Fellow lodge; he had belonged in Hamilton before we were married, but had failed to keep up his membership when we moved from Hamilton. I joined the ladies auxiliary, called Rebeccas, which was a new experience for me.

When our youngest daughter was about four years old, our first son was born at the Axtell Hospital in Newton, Kansas. A proud father got a great kick out of handing out cigars. I think he had given up hope of ever having a son after three daughters.

Life went on in a pretty settled routine for a year or two. Our small two-bedroom house was adequate while our family was small, but when our son was about two, and we knew another baby was soon to join the family, we felt it was time to expand our home. We were able to do that by finishing the attic into one big room.  

Our fourth daughter was born in the Newton Hospital as well. I remember, with amusement, of packing a suitcase with the necessary essentials for my ex­pected trip to the hospital; my six-year-old daughter became pretty upset when the days went by and I didn’t make a move to go after the impatiently awaited brother or sister. “But Mommy,” she said, “you’re just going to fool around until the babies are all gone, then we’ll be left out.” But it didn’t happen that way; when I finally did get around to making that trip, a healthy baby girl was waiting for me.

I called these last two my war babies; both having been born during the second World War with its gas rationing and numerous other restrictions. By the time our baby girl was a year old, the war was over, gas rationing was discontinued, and other wartime restrictions were beginning to ease. As the plants were beginning to lay off workers, the problem of unemployment began to be felt. My husband decided to quit his job in Wichita and seek private employment.

My husband was offered a job as a mechanic in a local garage, but before starting the new job we decided to take time off to make a trip to California to visit my parents and other family we had there. With four young children – only two in school and a one- and three-year-old – we found the trip very tiring. Our car was a rather old model; the only type available during the war years. But my husband, secure in his mechanical ability and with a tool box and two spare tires, felt he was equal to the trip.

And we did make the trip successfully, but not without numerous overhauls and repairs. I think this trip was responsible for my husband’s coining his own pet phrase. When deciding on yet another used car he wished to trade for, he would grin and say, “Oh, I wouldn’t be afraid to start to California in that.”

One of the more pleasant memories I have of that trip was during the first evening, after a long, hard day’s drive. We were lucky to find a motel about dark, and while I was busy getting our four little ones settled for the night, my husband found time, after seeing to the car, to relax a little and share experiences with a few fellow travelers.

Later, before retiring ourselves, my husband shared the meeting he had had with a family from Oklahoma, also on their way to visit family in Califor­nia. The family consisted of a young man just out of the service, a teenage brother and their mother and father. They were on their way to see a married daughter and family living in Bakersfield.

During the course of conversation – and after finding them compatible – it was decided for secu­rity’s sake to travel together the rest of the trip. The wisdom of this decision was apparent a num­ber of times before we reached California. As we were both traveling on a pretty tight budget, we depended on picnic type lunches during the day, with a hot supper, if possible, in the evening. The young, ex-­service man had made the trip several times while in the military, so we were glad to let him lead the way. With our children in mind, they were kind enough to watch out for interesting places to stop, both at lunch time and when a break was needed.

I think it was the second or third day when we were forced to stop because of some problem with our car. We were relieved to see our new friends had soon missed us and had returned to help. My hus­band was fortunate enough to catch the trouble in time to stop at a shady park at the edge of a small town. And so, a problem that might have been tedious, turned out to be a rather pleasant interlude. With the proper tools for this minor overhaul, and spare parts that my husband had brought along for just such an emergency, the two me­chanics completed the job quickly.

When we were almost to California, there was an opportu­nity for us to lend a helping hand for our friends. We found them parked by the side of the road with a flat tire and no spare. We were able to lend them a tire until we reached the next filling station. By the it was time to bid these fellow travelers good-by, as they headed towards Bakersfield while we turned in the direction of Los Angeles to visit my husband’s brother and sister. Later, we headed north Madera and Fresno where my parents and younger brothers and sisters lived. While the visit with our families relieved that feeling of homesickness we had been laboring under for some time, we were still glad to get home again and back to a settled routine.

For the next year or so, we were fairly contented with our life in Sedgwick, but then we began longing for farm life and a little more room to move around in. I longed to be able to call my own children in to a meal without several extra showing up. Some became so familiar, I used to have a confused feeling that maybe I had miscounted somewhere along the line, and I really had eight instead of four. But when the doctor confirmed my suspicion that yet another trip from the stork was imminent, we both agreed we should start looking for some wide open spaces to spread out in.

Chapter 13

We Old Folks Know More About Being Young, than Young Folks Know About Being Old

Recently, when offering a bit of advice to three teenage grandsons on what not to do on a planned ‘night on the town,’ I received this reply from one, along with his impish grin – “now, would we do that, Grandma?” I replied, “Yes, I think you probably would.

Although some of my faculties may have dimmed with the years, my memory is still pretty good. I remember one time when I let myself be per­suaded by friends to attend an out-of-town game, or some school event. Since it wasn’t planned ahead, of course, my parents didn’t know. We lived on a farm without a telephone, so I had a perfect excuse for not asking their permission. But, as we should be back before school was out, there was really no problem.

Our transportation was one of the boy’s far-from-new Model T Fords. I believe there was a flat tire and maybe other problems. Anyway, to make a long story short, as my friends delivered me at my home several hours later than expected, we were met by my father with fire in his eye and a sample of his very colorful vocabulary when his temper was aroused.

Since I was more or less expecting such a reception, and to save as much embarrassment as possible, I told the others to, please, just let me out and to go quickly. Teenagers being teenagers, whatever the generation, they were more than glad to do so. Similar occurrences were to happen over the years, but I did manage to enjoy a pretty normal, carefree life as a teenager.

Many times, I repeated the phrase, ‘but I’m old enough to look after myself,’ and like an echo, it has come back to me many times from children and grandchildren. I know that sometimes the best intentions aren’t always enough to get one home on time from a date. I’ve heard quite a few excuses over the years, such as: “we got stuck in a snow drift,” “my watch stopped,” “the party was late,” “had a flat tire,” “the car wouldn’t start,” etc., etc.

But the story my mother told once about a date she had with my father intrigued me the most. Apparently the two of them had been to a dance somewhere near Longton, Kansas. My father was driving a horse and buggy which was the regular means of transpor­tation in those times (the early 1900’s).

As the story goes, the horse was quite tame and reliable, so, as my father was in the habit of doing, after he had delivered my mother to her home, he tied the reins to the front of the buggy and lay down to sleep while the horse took him to his own home, several miles away. This procedure had worked fine numerous times before, but this particular time, my father woke in the early morning hours to find his horse tied to a fence post along the country road a mile or two from home. I don’t think anyone ever owned up to this prank, but I it was some time before my father was able to live down, ‘the time when old Dobbin didn’t make it home until daylight.’

Some of my happiest memories are those of my life during my first year of high school. At this time, we were living on a farm a few miles from Hamilton, Kansas. It was too far to walk, and since there were no buses in those days there was a problem for many of the kids who lived in the country. My parents had only one car, so my driving to and from school was out. The solution for me – like many country kids at that time – was a rented room in town. So, a few days before school was to start, my mother and I went room hunting in her horse and buggy.

To qualify it had to be cheap- never mind how primitive or unhandy the accommo­dations. The room we finally decided on was in a rather old, two-story house which was located in an ‘across the tracks’ type of neighborhood. The house be­longed to a widow lady who occupied the front two rooms, and provided for herself by renting out the other part of the house. The upstairs in this house had three rooms. Two rather small rooms faced each other across the hall, and a third, larger room, across the back. I was to have one of the small rooms for six dollars a month rent.

My small room, reached by climbing a steep flight of stairs, was very poorly furnished by today’s standards. I recall it contained an iron bedstead, a small table and one chair, and a two-burner kerosene stove that set on one end of the table. I believe a water bucket and wash basin occupied the other end. The house had no indoor plumbing, so we all had to carry our water upstairs from the outside source. Likewise, the waste water had to be carried out.

The other two rooms were to be occupied by a brother and sister and two sisters. The one boy was a freshman and had the other small room, while the three girls, one freshman and two sophomores, were to share the large room. My fellow renters were neighbors and friends, and although they were strangers to me at the start of school, it didn’t take long to become ac­quainted and good friends.

About the only money my mother could depend on during those growing-up years was the money she made from her flock of chickens. Once a week, the eggs, and usually a can of cream, would be taken to town; the money to be used for the family food and other necessities. As I knew she would, my mother always managed to save a few dollars each week to see my rent was paid and so I could have a little spending money each week.

As I remember, part of the downstairs was rented to a young couple with a baby girl. They had two rooms, one of which was rather large. This room became a second home to all of us students. I like to think that these young people enjoyed our company almost as much as we enjoyed theirs. It was a popular place to spend the evening, both to study or just talk.

It always seemed hard to make the food supply we brought from home last a week. I really learned to appreciate the value of nickels and dimes – even pennies – that year. I was responsible for buying the kerosene for my little stove, as well as coal for the miniature pot­bellied stove that was my only source of heat in the wintertime. I remember taking a small bucket to the nearby lumber yard to be filled with coal. I found that if I used it sparingly enough, it just might last a week.

I also learned to be wary of the dangers of ‘coal gas.’ I remember being brought in to my room late one Sunday evening. It was cold, so I decided to go right to bed instead of building a fire. The others weren’t to come in until the next morning. Sometime during the night, I awoke with a splitting headache. I seemed to realize I must have fresh air, but what an effort it was just to make it up and open the window. Somehow the room, closed over the weekend, had become filled with gas from the stove. I never told my folks about this; feeling that what they didn’t know they couldn’t worry about.

Chapter 14

You Can Take the Boy Out of the Country, But You Can Never

Take the Country Out of the Boy

There is a lot of truth, I think, in that saying, and it applies to girls as well as boys. Both my husband and I began to have that ‘fenced in’ feeling. When the owner of the Chevrolet dealership where my husband worked as a mechanic offered us a chance to go into partnership with him on a farm which he owned near Furley, Kansas, we were quick to accept this opportunity of getting back into farming.

We soon had three children in school. Our oldest son had started in the first grade and our oldest daughter was transported to Valley Center high school. Life became a little more involved with school affairs. Our oldest two girls joined the local 4-H club and so were soon busy in the summer with projects.

So, we sold our home in Sedgwick and moved to the farm in August 1947; about a month before our second son and sixth child was born in in Newton, Kansas. The farm was completely equipped and we were to share with the owner in both crops and increase in livestock.

The school bus took our two oldest daughters to the grade school in Furley. With three preschoolers at home, life was busy for me, and there was little time for social affairs, although we did attend PTA meetings. With two children in school, there were many school programs and social activities relating to the school and the students.

There were many happy memories, as well as a few sad ones, connected with our four or more years spent on that farm. Our two oldest girls made friends at school, and several came to visit now and then, and whose homes they were invited to visit in return.

There were also both a happy and sad memory concerned an orphan pig which we named Petunia. After a flash flood, we discovered that only one small piglet had survived from a new litter. The older children remember, with a lot of nostal­gia, the fun they had with their pet pig. We fed it with a bottle until it was old enough to eat from a pan, and it reacted much like a puppy – chasing the children and nipping at their heels.

Now, when occasionally we discuss the past and happy childhood memories, Petunia is often mentioned, and I always notice, for the children, there are only happy memories. But I feel a lot of regret when I remember that pet pig, grown to market size, and with only one possible fate in store. Up until only a few days before she was to be loaded in a truck with other hogs, Petunia had associated only with humans, had been petted and made over. Because of her size she was becoming a problem, but when put into the pen with others of her kind, her squeals of fright were pitiful as she ran up and down the pen, trying to get back to the only family she knew. I wonder if one is ever justified in making pets of domestic animals, certainly never wild animals.

When my husband was called back to the air­plane plant in Wichita, he decided the money would help. We were close enough to the plant to commute, and by working an evening shift he would be able to keep up with farming operations.

When our youngest two were three and five, we were shocked to hear that the illness we had thought was only a cold, was really infantile paralysis. In those days, before polio vaccine was available, this was the most dreaded diagnosis for parents to hear. For two weeks our two youngest were quaran­tined at the hospital in Newton, while the three oldest were quarantined at home. At the end of the two weeks, our five-year-old daughter, showing no signs of paralysis, was released and went to stay with her grandparents – my husband’s folks – who at that time were retired from farming and lived in Halstead, Kansas.

But our three-year-old son wasn’t so lucky. One shoulder was affected so it was decided he should remain for another two weeks to undergo therapy. Since I would need to continue the therapy when he was dismissed from the hospital, I had to observe the process each day to learn the proper technique. It was a relief when that month was up and we were all at home again. It had been a trying time for the ones at home; although I was at home at night, I was gone most of the day. The last week or so, when my son was feeling better, the nurses spoiled him outrageously and he loved it. Often, when I got to the hospital in the morning, I would find one of them carrying him around in the hall.

The therapy consisted of exercises in a warm water bath. The process looked fairly simple when it was performed in a hospital bathtub with hot water available by merely turning a tap, but I found that it was somewhat of an ordeal, what with the primitive conditions on the farm at that time. Our bathtub was an oval galvanized tub, and the wa­ter, which must be heated on the stove, was quick to cool.

Toys were bought that would encourage the use of the affected shoulder. I think the favorite was a small clothesline and small bright-colored clothespins; the line placed high enough to ensure that the shoulder muscle would be used.

There was worry, at first, that there might be some permanent paralysis, but as this fear disap­peared with a complete recovery, we were able to relax and enjoy life again.

Of course, life had been going on with the rest of the family, and it wasn’t until the worry of my youngest was eased that I became aware of some strain for my three school-age children. After two weeks of quarantine there was homework to catch up on, and I suspect that there might have been some hurt feelings when a few schoolmates tended to reject them – feeling they might still be carriers, I suppose. There had been another case in the school before ours, and finding that another family was sharing this feeling of temporary isolation, somehow made it easier to accept.

As the time passed, there seemed to be more and more friction between my husband and our landlord. They had different ideas of how things should be done. So, we began to think seriously about owning our own farm.