It is morning!

Click here for the music! 

I seem to function best back in the 1940's.  It was the tail end of the depression and we had nothing, but that is where I was happy.  Maybe not so happy, but secure.  I was safe.  I think that was what draws me back to that era.  We were together in a 2 bedroom house with a wood stove in the dining room, front room, and in the kitchen for cooking.  We carried water from a pump out back until we finally got a sink and pump in the kitchen.  

A coal oil hurricane lamp in the middle of the dining room table gave us light to do our home work.  My fondest memory is setting at that table with a red Chief tablet and a fat pencil  printing my ABC's.  I wrote about that years ago and a wonderful lady, Linda Kelp, who is Michael McQuire's cousin sent me  4 Big Chief tablets from her home up north.  I still have them!  I do not use them.  I wrote on one page of one tablet where they came from and that is all.

It is sad some of the things I do and the things I hoard!  My cupboards are full of cottage cheese containers because I can not bear to throw them away!  We did not have them back then.  I do not know when we became a nation of disposable everything.  I remember when the city dump was a designated area outside of town and that is where people took their tin cans.  Everything else was reused.  Today we call it recycle, but mostly it just goes in the trash and is hauled to the dump.  I understand it is then pressed into a big block and either buried or dumped into the ocean.  I do not see either one of those solutions as being permanent!  Burning it pollutes the air we breathe, so you tell me!

Well, once more I have gotten off track!  I started this wanting to tell you how safe and secure I was as a child even though we had very little in material possessions, and end up wanting to clean up the world and save it for our children.  This old age is not conducive to stringing and article together to a cohesive conclusion!

So, I guess I will make a pot of coffee and start my day with the local news followed by the national news, neither of which I can do anything about!  I am better off just listening to Merle Haggard sing me back home (click that).

Peace and love!

Momma

As I look back down the road that brought me here to where I have lived for the last 40 years, there is one person I see that quietly shaped me into the woman I am today.  My momma.  She was the glue that held our family together.  She was a very proud woman.  I only remember her holding me a few times, but those were times when I needed held or I would have surely shattered.  Once was when the baby calf died and the other was when I lost my brother, her only son.  I am sure that hug was what both of us needed at the time.

My first memories of my life centered around the Stroh place.  Those were the good days.  Those were the times when dad worked and took care of us.  Momma belonged to "club" and attended once a month.  She dressed in her "good dress" and wore a hat.  Josephine and Jake were old enough to stay home but I went with her.  I had to set on the floor beside her chair and be quiet because children were to be seen and not heard and I seemed to be the only kid there.  The women discussed recipes and sewing and stuff like that which any 4 year old kid would not understand.  Never anything personal.  God forbid!

I do not know what my dad did for a living, but I am pretty sure it was shady because I have snippets of memory of a big 3 story house across the river and my dad went inside and left me in the wagon.  I was terrified of that big horse and some times it looked at me and snorted, showing his big yellow teeth, which added to my fear.  Then some time after that we loaded all our "stuff" on a hay rack and moved down the road to the other side of town to the Ailmore place.  It was at that time that Dad quit whatever he was doing and mother started cleaning houses for the "ladies" in town.  By this time I was in first grade.  Then, whoosh!  we moved again.  

This time we were buying the house on the other side of town.  Dad was share cropping with a man named John Britain.  Momma took business classes at Salt City Business College and then started working as a secretary.  Dad started running the Domino/Pool Hall up on main street in Nickerson.  In my Junior year we moved to Hutchinson and it was downhill from there.

The point of this is that through my life, my mother has been the one constant in my life.  She was always there.  She was never the "touchy feally" mother in the story books, but she was always the backbone of the family.  She made sure the food was on the table.  She made sure we had clothes on our backs.  She was the one that inisisted we go to Sunday School and then sit quietly in church.  My first communion was at her knee.  My first poem was published in some kids magazine and she bought it and kept it for years.  

 When I married my first husband and went to her with my first black eye, she explained that "this is a man's right and you need to try harder."  That was the only time she tried to guide me through my "wifely duties."  My method of dealing with my children when a husband hit them was much different from my mother.  "Divorce the a##hole!"

But I digress. This is about my mother and the examples she set for me.  From her I learned a deep and abiding love for my saviour.  Jesus Christ is never far from my thoughts and I do not make a decision without first running it by him and then thinking "What would momma think about this?"  Now granted, I do not always do what I know either one of them would recommend and I usually regret my decision.  Good Lord made the mistake of giving us "free will".  That means he lets us make our own decisions.  In those instances, I usually end up regretting my actions which brings into play the next lesson, "live and learn."

So here I set in the sunset of my life, thinking about momma.  I wonder what my life would have been had I actually listened to her?  She was a wise woman.  Compassion for other people and for the citizens of the world was paramount in her life.  I knew my mother loved me as surely as I know the sun will come up tomorrow.  My mother was wise and kind and when I would tell her that she say that I was prejudiced.  When I told her she was the best mother in the world she said other kids thought that about their mothers.  

But I do know this, I did have the best mother in the world.  She may not have been the best mother for other kids, but she was best for me.  God put me right where he wanted me to be to learn the lessons I needed. Some day I will get it right and be right up there in heaven with my sweet Jesus and my momma!  I may see a lot of people I know, or I may not see any.  It will all be revealed when the time is right.  

But until that day, I shall watch and wait, and I shall remember my sweet momma.  While I mourn my brother and my sisters that have gone before me and yearn for my grandmas and the grandpas I never knew, I am filled with anticipation!  Some one asked me once if I believed in the hereafter and Jesus.  I told them this, "If I did not believe I could not continue to put one foot in front of the other here on this earth. "  

My goal is my crown and my hope is in my salvation and all of that is centered around my saviour and my mother.

Any more questions?

.  

I missed the "dirty thirties!"

 Momma, Dad Josephine and Jake were there for the "dirty thirties", but I was but a mere gleam in my Daddy's eye at the time.  I think they were called that because the wind blew and there was no vegetation to hold the soil.  I could be wrong, but I think that, "therefore it is!" And we do all live by what we believe to be true, don't we?

I do know that I used to have a bunch of ration stamps.  I think I sold them on ebay because every time I looked at them, it made me sad.  There is just something about poverty that seems to eat at my very soul.  I am not poor and I am not rich by any means, but I am "secure" and that is what I have clawed and scratched my whole life to attain.  I guess I may fall in the category of the "working poor."   

Poverty seems to have a hold that goes to the bottom of my soul.  I have my house, car, savings and am secure, but I still have little habits that irritate even me.  I have all kinds of things I do to make a few extra dollars.  I am a seamstress and the money I make from that goes into my third bank account which is known as "my third bank account."  That money is designed for things I need and want as opposed to my first bank account which is for my retirement check which supports the house and feeds me.  I also have a savings account with a minimal balance in case the other two dry up.  To say I live from hand to mouth would be a good way to describe it.  But be aware that I do this not because I am dirt poor, but because the memory of when I was dirt poor is ingrained into my very being to the bottom of my soul.  It is an empty part in me that can never be filled.  It is what guides every thing I do from the time I get up until I go to bed at night.

First, I am a hoarder.  My closet is filled with clothes I have never worn and will never wear, but still I keep every stitch.  I went yesterday to buy new panties and bras.  I came home with 3 bras and forgot the panties.  I went through my old bras and did not throw any away.  The new ones are in the back for a "special occasion" and I want to ask you just what in the hell that means?  I can not foresee every wearing them until all the straps and fastners fall off the old ones and can not be stitched back on!  When I put a pair of underwear on and they slide down before I can get my jeans on, out they go.

It does not stop there!  I eat alone most of the time.  I do cook and I try to cook for one, but that does not happen.  I was trained in "institutional cooking", which means every meal is built with an army in mind.  this means that if I cook a pot of beans, I will eat on that pot until it is gone or until it grows a soft, green mold across its top whilst setting in the refrigerator waiting to be "warmed up one more time".

I am looking at plastic tubs in the middle of my front room full of yarn.  I love yarn and am now in the process of crocheting "market bags" since I hear plastic bags are going to be discontinued at the end of the year.  Sadly, most of my yarn is polyester or some such synthetic that for some reason I can not bring myself to use on my "recycle bags."  You do notice that the beginning of this paragraph uses the word "tubs" with an "s"?

It does not stop there.  Every scrap of paper must be used on both sides.  Any container with a lid can be used for storage of something that should have, no doubt, been thrown out long ago.  I have probably 6,000 yards of fabric down stairs that I will use "some day".  When I do make a quilt I go buy "new fabric" just for that purpose.

I have 2 heavy duty mixers and one Kitchen Aid.  Also have an assortment of ladles, mixing spoons, measuring cups and spoons, cutting boards, knives of every size and shape for chopping or cutting anything that does or does not move.  I have five different sizes of roasters!  One for a very small piece of meat all the way up to a 20 pound turkey and beyond.

My mother is the one who pointed out to me that I was a hoarder and why.  Kenny's mother used to wrap up a tablespoon of leftovers and put it in the freezer for "later".  

We save containers.  We save boxes.  We save change.  Nothing is save from us and everything that crosses my path has more than one use.  It is sad, but you know what is sadder?  That our society is not geared to people like me.  Drink a pop, throw away the can.  Eat a half of a sandwich, throw the other half in the trash.  Thirsty?  Spend $1.50 on a bottle of water and drink half of it and throw the rest in the trash.  I wonder how many tons of trash are generated every day on this poor planet?

The longer I live the more thankful I am that this world is not my home, I'm only passing through! click here to play

People who forget the past tend to repeat it!  Just something to think about!

A black felt circular skirt with a pink poodle.

 

In case you have never seen a poodle skirt, this is it.  They were the rage back in the mid 50's.  I never had one, but that did not keep me from wanting one.  I think every girl in school wanted one, so I was not alone in that.  There were only a few of the more elite girls that could afford one and it sure wasn't in my momma's budget. Of course if I had gotten the black felt circular skirt with the pink poodle on the leash, I would have needed the black and white saddle oxfords to go with it.  And a nice sweater!  Sweater would have required a bra and boobs, but I did not have that or those either.

We wore brown or black shoes.  Mostly brown.  They were lace up and tie shoes and the skirt I wore was wool.  Wool was cheap and durable.  Wool had to be hand washed in cold water because if it wasn't it shrank.  Mother was always careful to not let that happen.  Now you should know, there was none of that changing of the clothes every day like goes on around here now.  I wore my brown wool skirt to school on Monday and every other day.  Sometimes I changed blouses in the middle of the week if there happened to be a clean one laying around some where.  When spring arrived we changed to our cotton clothes.  

A side note here on the shoes.  We each got a new pair in the fall and they were our "school shoes."  The fact that they were our only shoes was beside the point.  They were polished every Saturday night so we could look really good on Sunday, when we put on our "Sunday clothes."  We each got a new pair of shoes when school started in the fall and by the time spring came and the ground was no longer covered with snow, we had grown out of them or they had completely fallen apart, and we went barefooted until it was time to buy new shoes the next fall.  Barefeet were more common back when I was growing up.  Try going in some where now without your shoes.

Now it goes without saying here that Josephine was the oldest girl and I was next in line for the hand me downs.  After I was done with an item it was passed down to Donna, Mary and then Dorothy, in that order.  Any time some one showed up on our doorstep with clothes they were getting rid of was a good day.  I always prayed someone would grow out of their poodle skirt but that never seemed to happen.

I seem to recall sometime in my growing up years that stiff, lace petticoats that held the skirts out to make them full were also in style.  Seems like that was high school and I did not have one of those either.  My sister Donna did and I recall it scratching her legs  and making them red. Served her right for being so uppity!

You need to know that Saturday was the day we did "the washing."  That way we had clean clothes for church on Sunday.  We also polished our shoes every Saturday night.  Had to have them looking good for church on Sunday.  We all wore brown shoes and the shoe polish was in a bottle with a dauber that we smeared the brown liquid on the leather and let it dry.  Then we buffed them until they shined.  We were each responsible for the care of our shoes and making sure our clothes were laid out for the next day.  We wore the same clothes to school 5 days a week.  We did change into "play clothes" when we got home.

But, back to the poodle skirts.  In my mind, if I could just have a poodle skirt and a nice sweater and black and white oxfords  and bobby socks on my feet, I could have ruled the world.  There were probably only 3 girls in the whole school who actually wore those things and the fad did not last long.  Seems I was not the only girl in the world who did not have those items in my wardrobe and I did survive.

Now years later, after I have raised my kids the best I could, I know what my mother went through.  Poverty was a palpable part of our lives.  Hand me downs were a way of life.  Staring through the window of the Corrington Mercantile at the fabrics and dresses and dishes just made me sadder.  It made me want more.  My mother patched our clothes with a needle and thread.  Today we live in a disposable society.  

And who is the winner?  Believe it or not, I think it is me! I have money to buy whatever I want, but I still put little  pieces of fabric together, but now I call them a quilt!

Three legged pot and the best thing to come from corn.

 I was watching PBS yesterday and I forget the guys name, but he was back in Pennsylvania or some where in an Amish community about heritage or something.  (Try to remember that you are dealing with someone who checks the date 45 times a day to just be sure it is actually today!)  Any way, the center of the courtyard in this community was a 3 legged kettle.  I think I have written on that before, but just in case I will sum it up again.  

The 3 legged kettle is a big cast iron pot (for lack of a better word) that set in the back yard near the water source, which in our case was a hand pump.  Water for washing clothes was heated by building a fire around the bottom.  Course it took a while to heat, but back then the laundry was an all day job.  Wash the clothes, rinse the clothes, second rinse the clothes and then hang them on the clothes line to dry and hope the birds did not poop on them.  Our clothes line was in back of the house as was most peoples.  That led to the old adage, "Don't air your dirty laundry!"  The same kettle was used to "scald a hog " when it was butchering time.  

Dammit!  I digress!  This lesson was about making hominy.  Mother used to make hominy so I was familiar with the process, sort of anyway.  First the field corn had to be completely dry.  It was then "shucked" which in this instance is removing the dried kernels from the cob. Of course, the cobs were saved for use in the "outhouse" which is a whole 'nuther blog.  Just be aware that the cobs that were red were the softest in case you ever need to know!

The loose kernels were put in the pot of water with the fire burning underneath.  This was an all day job and as it cooked it needed to be stirred regularly.  A very long wooden paddle was used for this.  As it cooked it swelled.  Dry corn takes a long time to cook with a simmering fire outside.  As it simmered it released the hard core of the corn.  After due time mother added lye which raised the water temperature higher than any fire would raise it.  We continued to stir, but at this time we needed to skim off the hard stuff that was coming out of the corn.  The important thing to remember at this time was not to let any water touch our skin because it would burn us bad.  While the lye back then was made from the soft gray ash of hard wood, usually hickory, it was still caustic.  

Fresh water was added and we now used a sort of dipper with only tiny holes so when we scooped we got water along with debris.  When at long last the water was clear the corn, which was now soft and fat was dipped out and put in the center of a large piece of cheese cloth.  This was hung on the clothes line to hang in the sun until it was dry.  I am assuming that from there it went to the root cellar.  I do not remember.  I do think that a some point it was also dried and made into grits.  Grits are ground hominy.  I only like yellow grits.  (My friend Sherman only liked white grits, but that is another story.)

Looking back, it sure seemed like an awful lot of work for very little product, but that was the whole point of life back then.  We worked all summer to fill the root cellar with stuff to keep us alive through the winter.  Sweet potatoes were a staple because they kept better than white potatoes.  And Apples!  My God it seemed like everyone in the world blessed us with apples in the fall.  Apples kept well in the root cellar and we had them all winter!  Fresh apples, fried apples, baked apples, stuffed apples, apple pie, apple sauce! But the best apple of all was my mother!  She was the apple of my eye!  (Little humor there!)

So bid the farmstead fare thee well for now.  I think that is an old German saying.  Instead of saying goodbye, Grandma always said "fare thee well" which means " good wishes to you at parting." 

Peace and prosperity to you all and may you never have to cook your dried up corn again!

Box Car Willie

I love youtube and usually have it playing in my background.  The other day I lucked onto the life story of Box Car Willie.  I do not remember dates, but he was one of the old singers and very successful in that endeavor.  He grew up in a shack with his mom and dad just a few feet from the railroad track where his dad worked.  The man could make the train whistle sound and it was so authentic that it was like the train was right in front of you.  And guess where that man took me?  Right back to Nickerson.

The railroad ran right across Main Street from East to West.  It came from somewhere and went to Hutchinson.  Kind of ran parallel to Highway 50 as I recall.  I have found in later years that it runs to La Junta, Colorado and turns south there and goes some where.  I used to ride from Garden City, Kansas to Hutchinson with my kids when I lived in Western Kansas.  But back to Nickerson.

In grade school I had a friend named Eveline.  She had very black hair and eyes.  Mother always said she was an Indian.  I did not know.  She had one sister and her name was Georgia.  They lived in a boxcar that set where the water tank for the train was located.  In Kansas, and I suppose all the places the train ran, there was a water tank every 7 miles.  The first trains had to take on water as they were steam engines.  Water had to be kept ready for whatever time the train came through.  That is why all the towns are 7 miles apart.  Some of them survived; some did not. Nickerson was one that did.

A lot has changed.  I know many years ago there had to be a man who shoveled the coal and kept the engine running.  I am sure now that if there are coal fired engines they are fed through some sort of mechanical means.  Now how I got off on this tangent is more that I can figure out!  What I want to tell you is how I would lay in bed at night and sometimes here the train whistle far off in the distance.  It was always the loneliest sound in the world.  The whistle would also bring on the howls of the wolves.  Train whistles and wolves have been ingrained in my mind as long as I can remember.  There is not a train track near my house now, but sometimes on a clear summer night with my windows open I can hear a faint whistle and it takes me back.

I recall when I started high school that I had to cross the tracks to get back to the road that led to my house.  That road was actually a county road that ran North to Sterling.  I lived one block off the highway.  Sometimes the train would be lumbering through and I could stand and watch it pass.  There were times that I could see men through the open door of the box car.  One time there was a man setting in the open door and he waved at me.  He wore overalls and he looked very sad.  After that I talked to Jake Smith who lived on Strong Street and he told me about how the hobos and tramps "rode the rails."  He said sometimes the "bulls" would pull them off the train and beat them to death.  Not sure if that was true or not, but in my impressionable little mind, anything was possible.

Then my brother, Jake, took me around to show me some of the signs that hobos left on peoples fences or trash cans to either denote a friendly person, a mean dog, or a hot meal for the asking.  They would make a mark to communicate and the other hobos knew to ask or pass that house by.  I do not know  if there are still hobos or not and I do not know how to find out.  I do know in later years the railroad owners hired people to keep the hobo's off the trains.

Life is so sad, isn't it?  Who knows what stories these men (there may have been women too) could tell.  I wish I could go back in time and talk to one of them.  I am pretty sure had I tried my mother would have beat me to death, but what a rich history that time was, and I was not smart enough to know it!  But back to Box Car Willie.  He brought the railroad to life.  He brought poverty to our door and he took the history of the box car  to England.  He was a scruffy little man, but he could pack a house.  They do not make them like that any more.

That era is gone and soon there will not be anyone to remember.  Sometimes my heart is very sad that I do not have knowledge of what I was living at the time.  My grand kids will never know what the outhouse was or that water had to be pumped from a well in the ground, or that the homeless people of today are the ancestors of the men who rode the rails.

Peace! and prosperity to all.

What has this old world come to that this is news?

Can you believe this?  click here

I remember growing up when we had to carry lunch to school because mother could not afford to pay for hot meals for all of us.  I do not recall what we had for lunch, but it was in a paper bag and we were under strict orders to bring the bag and all of the contents home after school.  The next morning we carried the same bag to school.  Waxed paper and everything was reused.

Looking back I can see the discrimination that was alive and well even then.  The tables for lunch were set up in the hallway down the center of the first floor.  They ran all the way between the first grade class room and the second and third grade  classroom.  We were not allowed to eat at the end closest to the kitchen.  Our designated place was at the end of the table nearest the stairs that started at the door of the fourth grade class and ran up to the 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade classrooms.

Since the Bartholomew kids were the only ones that had to carry their lunches we ate alone.  The expanse of table that ran from where we were to where the "hot lunch" kids ran was an expanse that I never conquered.  Every night I prayed that we would be rich and could afford hot lunches, but it never happened.

Every morning the smells from the school kitchen rose through the whole school.  Mrs. Ritchie could make my mouth water and my stomach cramp with those aroma's that wafted through the halls.  As sad as this may seem to you, I can still feel the humiliation of those days.  There was no such thing as a "free lunch".  Mother explained that if she had the money to pay for lunch for 3 or 4 of us kids that she could buy groceries to cook food for the whole family.  I did not understand that back then and thought she was just mean, but now I do.  Mother always said "Hind sight is 20/20 looking back."

We would steal sideways glances at the "hot lunch eaters" and as long as I had a sister with me, I was alright.  It was just that when I was alone, it was like I was on an island in the middle of the poverty ocean.  I did not resent the kids that could afford hot lunches, but I resented the fact that I was not allowed to set near them.  It was kind of like I had a disease and might contaminate them.  I want you to know that I can put myself in Anya Howard's shoes the only difference being that I lived it 5 days a week when school was in session.

I have since grown into a woman and sometimes talk to people who can remember back when they carried a lunch to school.  One lady told me how her lunch usually consisted of a potato sandwich.  Another carried carrots.  A man told me "nothing".

Today, I can laugh about those days of poverty.  I have not missed a meal in years and it shows.  I love my mother fiercely and I am very proud of my heritage.  I am proud that I grew up in Nickerson, Kansas on the dead end street called North Strong Street.  It is that backbone that drove me to make sure my kids had hot lunches and never missed a meal.  It is that background that makes my heart ache when a little girl is embarrassed by a woman that could have and should have paid for her meal.
Where is our compassion?  Are our hearts so cold that we can not see the hunger in a little girls eyes? I have tried to convey to my children love thy neighbor, do good to them that spitefully use you, and pray for those who persecute you.  I think they get it.  And I will pray for the cafeteria lady and the rules that made her do what she did.

Every day is a new day and a chance to do better and help our fellow man.

Who's gonna prime my pump?

I recall in Nickerson that running water was more than just turning on the faucet.  709 North Strong Street had no faucets.  Out by the horse tank was a field pump.  When the tank started getting low someone, usually Jake, had to pump the water into the tank to fill it back up so the horses could drink.  At the bottom of the pump hung a can.  That can was filled with water from the horse tank and poured into the top of the pump while pumping in short, fast strokes.  With luck, the pump would "catch it's prime quickly" and water would pump out through the mouth of the pump.  If you understand the workings of a pump you know that there is a leather inside that when pumped up and down draws the water up from deep in the well. Occasionally the leather becomes worn and needs replaced.

The pump at the horse tank was a big iron pump.  The handle was long and we used to like to pump because if we could keep a rhythm going the pump handle would sometimes jerk us up off the ground by the sheer force of the water.  We were also allowed to get in the horse tank and play sometimes.  Can you imagine how dirty that water was in that tank?  That coupled with the fact that the horses might want a drink while we were in there scared hell out of me!  Have you ever looked at horse teeth?  They are big and very yellow and I lived in mortal terror that one of them would eat me.  Life was hard back then.

All the house water for cooking, cleaning, bathing or whatever was carried from the pump outside into the house in buckets.  The tea kettle that set on the wood cook stove was kept full at all times and a cup of tea was just seconds away in case one of the fancy ladies from town came.  (This did not happen very often, and to my recollection, never.  Mother did clean houses and sometimes a lady would come to discuss her availability, but they were usually in a car and stopped in front of the house and honked.)

Ah. but fate smiled kindly us. I do not remember who, why or when, but at some point in time someone decided that mother needed a sink and a pump inside the house in the kitchen.  It was then that we were blessed with what was known as a "pitcher pump."  Now this was the cat's meow in pumps.  It did not need primed!  When we wanted water, we just started pumping and very soon it would "catch it's prime."  Talk about uptown!  It set of the end of a big oblong enamel sink.  The drain pipe ran through a hole in the wall that extended about 8 feet into the back yard.  There the drain water ran out onto the ground where the Muscovy ducks played in it.  Boy, that was one stinking mess, but it was sure handy.

I have to go into detail here about the Muscovy Ducks.  Those are about the nastiest things I have ever seen.  When I had my 17 geese and 37 ducks here I had 4 Muscovy's.  Now to the best of my knowledge, Muscovy's are the only domesticated ducks that can actually fly.  The 4 of them used to fly up to the house, across the fence and roost on the air conditioner.  Nasty.  The hens were little and delicate, but the drakes were twice as big and their necks were as big as my upper forearm.  They did not quack; they sort of quibbled.  I did not like them and I think they actually broke the neck of one of my geese.  They even looked evil.  All this has nothing to do with pumping water, does it?

I attended my first 3 years of high school in Nickerson.  It was during those years that I made 2 discoveries; home brew and boys, in that order.  I had a friend named LaVeta (no last name) whose dad made and bottled home brew.  He liked to go to the big city and gamble on Saturday nights and we liked to stay home and sample his home brew.  Her mother helped us.  She would take all us kids to Sterling and there were boys there!  There were dances there.  Sadly, I could not drink and dance, so the dancing went by the wayside and I learned to worhip at the feet of the porcelain God.  I have not had a bottle of homebrew in 60 years, but I can still taste it.  Once more I digress.

In due time mother graduated from Salt City Business College and we moved to the big city of Hutchinson.  The rest is history.  Louella Bartholomew grew up and not longer exists, or so we think.
Some where deep in my soul, she lives.  Her memories are as vivid today as they were when she was living them.  Homebrew and boys are a thing of the past, but the wants and the needs of that skinny little girl are as alive today as they were in that stick and mortar house at 709 Strong Street.

Peace to all.

Well, pour more water in the radiator.

Back when I was knee high to a grasshopper and before I went to live with the grandma's, it was customary to go visit them in Plevna at least once a month.  This entailed Sunday dinner (noon meal) with Aunt Lola and Uncle Alvin.  At this point I need to explain about the family car.  The only time this car was used was when we went somewhere far away.  Plevna was 24 miles and that was considered far.  The other place it went was Hutchinson, where my half brother Earl and his family lived.

I do not know what kind of car it was, only that it was black.  I am going to say it was either a Chevrolet or a Chrysler and I have nothing concrete in my little head to make me say that, but I think that is right.  So we would load up in the family car early in the morning, because it was a 2 hour drive.  I know that sounds excessive, but you need to understand some things.  First there were 2 adults and 6 kids in this car.  Potty breaks were frequent because no 2 of us ever needed to pee at the same time.  So any time dad would see a clump of weeds he would pull over and somebody would jump out and use the cover to "Squat behind".  

If the potty breaks were not a bother, the need to add water to the radiator was also a necessity.  The need to add water to the radiator, and leave water from an extended bladder never occurred simultaneously.  I am not sure why the radiator did not hold water, but one thing is sure, it did not.  There was often talk of "getting that radiator fixed", but it never seemed to happen.  Seems it was cheaper to just pick up "another cheap car" then fix the one we had.  You know, to this day I can not read the "Grapes of Wrath" without picturing the Joad family as being the Bartholomew family.

Now that is another thing.  Back in those days, the spelling of last names was really not too important.  The census taker came to the door with a piece of paper and all of the members of our household were written out in long hand by the person doing that job.  Consequently, when I check the census to find info, Bartholomew is spelled Bartholomeu, and Rueben appears as Rubin, so I am not sure who my father was.

But back to the car business.  I had an uncle who was very rich and owned a car way back when I was on the Stroh place.  It had a crank in the front and that was the starter.  It took 2 people to start it.  As I recall, it had a "rumble seat" which really served very little purpose at all except that it only carried 2 people and the rumble seat was what passed later for a trunk, except that a person could set on it if need of it was required.  And, just so you know, back in those days, upholstery on the seats was actual cloth.  And you had your choice of colors, black and later they added white and army green.  We could set by the road and know what kind of car it was by the sound of the motor.  Now you can not even hear them!

I do not know how I learned to drive nor when, only that at some point I did.  I do know that an automatic transmission was pretty much a luxury and needed to be ordered if you wanted one.  Learning to shift a standard transmission using a clutch was pretty much the hardest part of learning to drive.  When you learned that it was just a matter of keeping it on your side of the road.  Oh, and the brakes were another matter.  You had to be aware at all times of the possibility of the brake fluid leaking out a pinhole in the cylinder and when you pushed on the pedal it just went to the floor and at that point you better be able to "gear down" and stop.  Damn!  I sure miss those days!

I still drive a "stick shift", but that is just because that is what this Honda had when I bought it. I take it in for an oil change when the wrench light comes on and that is about all the little thing needs.  I have no idea where I was going with this when I started out, but I hope I covered whatever it was that I wanted to share with you.

This old age is a real challenge sometimes!  I used to have a bumper sticker that covered it.  It said,

Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most! 

If I could turn back time....that's a song, you know.

That is a song and if I wasn't so lazy I would go to youtube and then paste the link here, but basically I am pretty lazy in that department.  Pretty lazy in most departments actually.  But I can let my mind drift back in time and I am thinking my life would have been so different if I had do overs.  Course I would have been screwed in the beginning because I picked the wrong family!  Sadly back in the picking days, I did not even know I had a choice, so I just got born into the one fate set me down into that day.  So for the first 15 or 16 years I was happy.  You know the old saying, "Bloom where you are planted."  I bloomed where I was planted and then I found out there were other gardens that actually got watered on a regular basis.  Even got a little fertilizer from time to time.  Those were the kids that turned into jocks, cheerleaders, musicians, brainiacs, and such.

Sadly I wandered through high school without ever actually participating.  I knew my future would be to wed some hardworking man and raise kids.  I flunked cooking and I flunked sewing, so the hard working men were out.  They wanted a woman who could actually do something.  You know, a helpmate of sorts.  I guess the saying "Poor people have poor ways" comes in to play here.  I am not sure my dad ever went to school at all so an education was not very important to him.  Mother had graduated at the top of her class, but it didn't help much on the farm so she married dad who was a farmhand for my grandmother.

My dad's occupation was listed on the census rolls as "farm worker" and mother was "house wife."  And that was a good thing, but sadly father liked to drink.  He also fought the mechanical advancement in the agricultural movement.  He was one of the last to give up is horses and only then because they died.  His productive years were pretty well over at that time.  We became just simple folk and mother cleaned houses for a living.  It was a good honest wage.

A side note here is that I do not ever remember a firearm in our home.  Jake hunted rabbits with a sling shot.  There just never was a gun, nor was there ever a discussion about a gun.  There was corn liquor of some sort in the fridge and dad made hot toddy's when he had a cold.  I think he had a cold for all of his life.  If he was in a good mood he would let us sip a taste of the hot toddy from a teaspoon . I have often thought I would like to have  a hot toddy again just to see if it was as good as I thought it was back then.  Seems like it was a shot of liquor, boiling water and I am sure some sugar.

I digressed there, didn't I?  So if I had it to do all over again, I would.  But this time I would study very hard.  I would not even look at boys and I sure as hell would not have drunk that home-brew LaVeta Bankey gave me in my sophomore year.  I would not have dated that guy named Gene who brought me a satin pillow case home from Germany.  I would not have dropped out of school and ran away to Louisiana with a couple friends in my senior year.  I would have been so good.  So very, very good.  And I would have went to church every Sunday and memorized all my bible verses.  I would have been a missionary like I wanted to be when I was 15.   Hell, I might have changed my name to Teresa and been a Catholic and fed the hungry in Calcutta slums.  But I didn't.

Instead I set here like butter wouldn't melt in my mouth and dispense my wisdom not telling anyone that experience is your best teacher.   As you sow, so shall you reap is a favorite passage of mine from somewhere in the Bible.  Nothing wakes you up like a good dose of "sowing the wind and reaping the whirlwind.."

Now back to the subject, if I could turn back time.  I can't.  Try getting that toothpaste back in the tube.  Water under the bridge.  Things like that come to mind.  I have had some very good talks with God and while he does not answer loud enough for me to hear, he does answer.  And he has me believing that I really am not such a bad person and I will have another chance.  What did not kill me has made me strong and I hope I can help someone else along the way at some point.  Guess we will see.

The dress code has definitely changed.

Thinking back to when I was a little kid back on Strong Street and I must admit, we definitely dressed a little different than the kids today.  Jake always wore overalls.  So did dad.  Church dress meant clean overalls.  As little girls, my sisters and myself always wore dresses.  As the poor family in town we were given a lot of "hand me downs" and that was good.  Josephine handed hers down to me and I handed mine down to Donna, Donna to Mary, and Mary to Dorothy.  By the time they got down to Dorothy they were pretty tattered.  But when one of the ladies from town showed up with a bag of clothes that her daughters had outgrown it was like a gift from heaven.  These were clothes that were brand new to our system.  Sometimes there were even shoes which was really great.

The way the shoe thing worked was we each got a new pair of shoes for the first day of school and we wore them until we could not get our feet in them any more and then handed them down to the next kid.  Some times we would finish out the last month or so of school barefooted.  I liked that best.  I hated shoes.  We had 2 choices for shoes; black or brown.  I think I was in 7th grade when I found out there was another choice.  That was "saddle oxfords" and they were for the very rich kids.  Those were white with either brown or black through the center part of the shoe  hence the name "saddle oxford".  If you owned a pair of those you had to put white polish on the white part and that was just a waste of money as far as we were concerned.

I know I have told you about how mother used to save feed sacks that were pretty fabric and make us dresses.  I told you how I thought my name was Gooch when I was a kid.  Now I want to tell you something off the cuff here.  I sell on ebay and several years back a lady gave me a big pile of those feed sacks to sell.  I think there were probably 40 or 50 one yard pieces.  They brought some very good bids.  One of them I sold to a lady in Korea for $48.00 plus shipping.  The lowest priced one brought $9.99.  That is for 1 square yard pieces of fabric.  Made some good money on that lot.

Jeans or slacks were NEVER worn.  Girls wore dresses.  That is what we wore.  Even in the summer there were no shorts.  Dresses.  That was it.  We played in the dirt and made mud pies in dresses.  We always kept the dress that was in the best shape for our "Sunday go to meeting dress."  No wearing the everyday dress to church.  That would have been sacrilegious.  We could shinny up the ladder to the hayloft and watch the cat giving birth in a pile of hay in our everyday dress.  We could pick corn and throw it on the wagon in our everyday dress.  But you know something?  I can not remember any dress I ever owned except one my Aunt Helen gave me when I was in 6th grade.  It was store bought and was a grayish green everglaze cotton fabric and it had a tie at the neck which had 2 white daisy's on it.  I wore that damn dress until it almost cut me in half.

When dresses got to the point that they were pretty much thread bare, the went to the rag bag.  Periodically  mother would empty the rag bag and take her scissors and cut out any good fabric.  This was then cut into strips and each strip had a slit cut in each end.  The strips were then laced together through the slits and rolled into a big ball.  When enough big balls were rolled up, they were taken to the weaver lady who would weave them into a rug.  The rug was probably 8-10 feet long and roughly 28-30 inches wide.  They were beautiful and I still like to make them today.  Back then the weaver lady charged $2.00- $3.00 to make and they were very sturdy and wore forever.

Back to the shoe thing.  I am sure we had socks.  I know for sure Josephine did because they came up to her knees and when she got out of sight of the house, she rolled them down so here legs were bare.  She always was a dicey female.  Oh, and we always had to wear a slip!  Our dresses were always cotton, so there was no danger of a boy seeing through and lusting after us, but we were always afraid that if we did not have our slip on that someone would know.  A bra was never anything that I ever needed because I just never had any boobs to speak of.

I must tell you, mother always wore a hat to church.  Well, any time she dressed up she wore a  hat.  Women were expected to cover their head in church.  She could have walked in stark naked and caused less of a stir then what would have happened had she not worn her hat.  Oh, and that damned hat pin was good for getting our attention should our shallow little minds wander!

Funny, looking back, that I remember so little about clothes when I was little.  I guess back then we were more worried about starving to death than about freezing to death.  I want you to know it could get cold back in those days.  But we could make snow ice cream with out fear of radiation fall out.  Course we knew not to eat the yellow snow.  We could snap an icicle off the eaves and suck on that and convince our selves that it was good and filled us up.  I would dry up and blow away now before I would eat an icicle.  God only knows what is in our atmosphere today and he ain't talking.

So, I don't know just what the point of this was when I started writing tonight, but I am pretty sure I am done.  Going to be a long day tomorrow.  Hope I have time to get my naps in before Jeopardy.  In the mean time, just be kind to each other.  You never know what kind of burden the other guy is carrying.

Peace out!

Catalpa Trees, Clothesline, and Muscovy Ducks

Now what do all three of these have in common?  Oh, I know!  There were all an integral part of life at 709 Strong Street.  They are also things we do not see much any more.  For instance, the clothesline.  Back in the day it was used at very least once a week.  The clothes were washed in a washing machine with an agitator.  Whites were first.  The hot soapy water was wrung out through a wringer and the clothes went into rinse water tub number 1.  The second rinse contained a drop or two of "bluing".  Now the bluing was a very important addition as it gave the whites a bare hint of blue which actually made them appear more white!  This was important in case anyone saw your clothes hanging on the line.  If the whites were not white you were going to be discussed around the supper table that night!

The wash water was always one degree below boiling when the wash was started.  After the whites came out, the light clothes were put in and that was followed by towels and such which was followed by darks.  The last load of clothes were dad's overalls.  If there was any water left at that point we could throw in blankets or rugs.

As each load came through and ended up in the basket, it was taken out to the clothesline and hung to dry.  There were more rules to the hanging of the clothes then even I can recall.  Underwear were to be hung by the waistband with the crotch facing any direction except the road as a pervert might see them and loose control!  If the said underwear had a hole, the item must be folded so the neighbors could not see it and know we were poor.  Shirts, blouses and overalls were hung by the bottom.  Dish towels were never hung by clothes.  Baby clothes were washed and hung very first as babies were delicate.

When the washing was all done, the drain hose was called into action and buckets of dirty water were then lugged to the back yard and dumped in an area that was designated as "the water dumping area."  This is when the Muscovy Ducks were in high heaven.  I do not know if you have ever seen a Muscovy Duck, but they are nasty.  They are usually white and black with a green sheen to the black.  The males are huge with a neck as big as my arm and the females are very small.  I seen them breeding one time which was enough for me.  That was nasty and I am not sure my perception of the Muscovy is not influenced by that experience.

Any way, they would get in the muddy water and root around with thier beaks, seeking God only knows what and that made them very dirty and seemed to make them very horny.  As I side note here, they are the only domesticated duck that (to my knowledge) can fly.  They also chatter to each other.  I hated wash day for that very reason.

Our kitchen had a "pitcher pump" and a sink for the washing of dishes and such.  The drain consisted of a pipe out the bottom that made a hard right angle and disappeared through the wall and drained into the back yard.  You guessed it!  Another hang out place for those damned Muscovy Ducks!

Ah, but my solice lay in the front yard.  In the front of the house by the road that ran by stood 2 tall Catalpa trees.  I have noticed in later years it is fashionable to top them short and they then have a ball on top.  Ours were "ala naturale".  They were both the same height and appeared to be twins, but they were vastly different.  The one on the left had lots and lots of little limbs and it was impossible to climb.

But the one on the right was my friend.  It had only smooth branches.  I would get a bucket and stand on it making it possible to reach the first branch.  I would grab it and hoist myself up, throw my right leg over the limb and survey my kingdom below.  From the bottom branch I would grab the next branch on the left side of the tree and work my way up the left side of the tree.  When I reached "my place" I would set on a branch (always the same branch) and be alone in my head.  At this point I was probably 25 - 30 feet off the ground.  I could see down Strong Street and up Strong Street and I could while away the hours dreaming of things and places I would someday see.  I lived a very happy life in my head.  Had I but known where my life would lead me I would have never come down from that tree.

Momma cleaned houses for the ladies in town and most of the time she walked to and from her jobs.  I always looked towards town and when I seen momma coming I would jump down and run to meet her. I do not know what we talked about or even if we did, but I loved my momma and for just a few minutes she was mine alone.  Of course when we reached the house I had to go get the little kids from Ory Ayers's house and momma was no longer mine alone, because those little brats were so needy!

I can close the door on that part of my life, but I can not make it stay shut.  I have heard it said that as we age we revert to our youth.  I do know people with Dementia and Alzheimer's lose short term memory first and I am thinking, maybe that is a good thing.  My childhood will always be my salvation.  It will always be the one place that I feel safe and when I die I hope I go back to Nickerson and Strong Street with my brother, sisters, and momma.

Yep.  That would be heaven!

It used to be a very long ways from her house to mine.

Back when I was in third or fourth grade, I had a best friend.  Her name was Barbara.  Her house was in the center of town very close to the school.  Mine was on the edge of town on the other side of the school.  Mother cleaned house for her mother so we were connected by that, I guess.  Arrangements would be made that I went home with Barbara on occasion.  Usually we just played and some times I would spend the night.  That was the best.  There were sheets on her bed and the bathroom was inside the house.  Now that was not a deal breaker, but it was really nice and I could always hope that some day I would live in a house so fine.

I don't remember what we played, but I am sure it entailed dolls and stuff like that.  Maybe we colored. I think we played hide and seek sometimes.  I liked hiding at her house because she had a garage and a car port.  I think,  I just don't remember. I do remember that her dad would sometimes make us an ice cream sundae and he always put a cherry on the top.  That was to die for and to this day when I see a squirt of whipped cream with a cherry on it, I revert back to my childhood and my friend Barbara.

I do remember that when it was time for me to go home I dreaded that long walk.  The streets in Nickerson were not paved.  Well, Main Street was.  It was paved from the school to the highway.  Then the highway ran off to Hutchinson or Sterling depending on which way you turned.

Sometimes Barbara would let me borrow her roller skates because it was so far to my house.  As I calculate it in my mind now it was probably about 1/2 - 3/4 of a mile.  The roller skates were really of little use because I only had 4 blocks of sidewalk then I had to take them off and carry them because anyone knows you can not skate on dirt.  I was careful to take very good care of the skates so I could use them again.  In all fairness, I spent a lot of time falling down and getting back up.  I could have been home a lot sooner had I just hoofed it.

Barbara never came to my house.  I always went to hers.  I guess that had something to do with her house being more modern that ours.  I sometimes wonder what became of her.  I saw her mother after I was married and learned a little about the years between.  Seems her mom and dad were divorced.  Barbara had moved to Kansas City and had a very good job and a very rich fiance.  I let it drop there, because I had no reason to pursue it.  Still I wonder.

I wonder about a lot of people back there in Nickerson, Kansas.  Sherry Stires who lived up by the high school in a big two story house.  She invited me to spend the night once, but she showed me a spider web on the outside of her house with a giant spider in it.  Scared the living pee wadding right out of me!  No way could I have stayed in her house.  I think I never went back there again.   Sometimes at night when I can't sleep I try to remember the names of my classmates.  Seems like there were about 23 or 24 of them.  I think I will try that now.  Let me know if any of these ring a bell.

Gay Withrow, Joan Moore, Barbara Hawk, Irene Reinke, Martha Knoblock, Nancy Cuthbertson, Sherry Stires, Beth McGonigle, Gary Battey, Loren McQueen, Larry Collee, Earl Kelley, Barbara Massey, Eleanor Kirkpatrick, Joyce Pedersen, Ronnie Beck, David Sjoberg,  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Stick horse, comic books and baseball cards.

I have been away from 709 Strong Street long enough that I am pretty sure most of my memories will go unnoticed and the people who helped create them are long since dead and buried.  As long as I do not name people, no one will know who I am talking about.  It is nice to know I have out lived a lot of people so I can tell the stories as I remember them and no one can say "Nope!  That is not how it happened."
One of the girls in our neighborhood liked to ride a stick horse.  So did her mother.  Sadly, this was also the woman who babysat for Mary and Dorothy when mom worked.  Her father was a farmer of sorts.  He raised peanuts and pumpkins mostly.  Also pigs and a goat or two.  Her mom had a bit of brain damage, but managed to still cook and clean.  They had a wood cook stove, but so did we.  Hers was fancier and had enamel on it.  There was also a water pump and a sink right in the corner, so they did not have to go outside for water.  I  was envious of that.
She would make a chocolate cake every day and the daughter always tried to get me to eat it, but I just could not bring myself to do that.  For some reason it had a greenish tint to it.  I think it was probably the cocoa she used, but I was never sure.  She was always frying something, or boiling something.  Seems like parsnips were cooked more than potatoes.  I just figured out the other day that parsnips are actually very good.  Lagree's had some on the mark down shelves and I bought them and brought them home.  I peeled them, boiled them and then sauteed them in butter.  Yep!  Parsnips are now on my eating list.  They have a sort of sweet, nutty taste and I really like the browned parts.
There were 5 in the family.  Mother, Father, son, son and daughter.  The oldest son was already grown and gone when I met the daughter.  The father just farmed.  He planted things and harvested things and fed his pigs and butchered his pigs.  I never knew him to ever have a friend.  I heard rumors that they had been in a car wreck right after they were married and the mother had brain damage and the father felt guilty.
The daughter only wore jeans and flannel shirts.  Her shirt pocket was always bulging with baseball cards she collected.  Same with the pockets on her jeans.  I never saw her in anything else.  When the mother needed to go to town, she and the daughter would mount their stick horses and ride the 6 or 7 blocks into the grocery store.  I never knew either of them to ever ride in the pickup the father used for hauling his produce to market.
The house was sturdy and very well built.  I expect it is probably still standing.  I forgot to look last time I was home.  It had no indoor plumbing and that was not unusual.  All the houses on Strong Street had the out house going on.  Theirs was the worst though.  It consisted of a shed in the corner where two rows of chicken houses met.  A big hole had been dug and a metal wash tub with a hole cut in the center had been turned upside down over said hole.  The proverbial Sear and Roebuck Catalog was at the ready.  Man, I have been in some scary places in my life, but that one was the scariest thing I had every seen.  There was no way in the world that I could ever bring myself to even go inside that let alone pull my britches down and crawl on that tub.  No way in hell!  Never had to pee that bad!
The grandma lived in town in a big house with a bathroom and running water and all that good stuff.  The  brother went to live with grandma leaving just the 3 of them on Strong Street.  When I was 17 we moved away and I never heard of them again.  Years later I heard that the daughter had married and had a couple kids.  The mother died and then the father.  The daughter died when she was 50.  I often wondered how their life went.  They were just such isolated folks back then, but looking back no ones life really touched anyone elses.
We all lived on Strong Street until we left.  I sometimes wonder if mine was the only life that is changed by that little dirt road.  I never heard my sisters ever talk about it.  Was it because they were too young, or in Josephines case, too old?  Did that life shape me for who I am today, or did I escape?  Who knows.  I do know I take solace in the girl I was back then and I think she is buried some where beneath my callous exterior.  When I drive down that street now, I can not recognize the places, but when I close my eyes at night I can see the stars, hear the cougar down on the river, and I can feel the hot, humid air on my bare arms.

I am home!

Whittlin' Joe and Smokin' Johnny Carson

We lived down on Strong Street and they lived up on Highway 96.  They lived the second house in from the corner in a brown tar paper shack.  I call it tar paper but it had a coating on it with flecks of brown, red and black.  You know what I mean, kind of like the asphalt shingles on roofs today.  Their yard was small but it was big enough for a chicken coop and an out house.  It had one tree and that is where Whittlin' Joe could be found every afternoon after school.  He sat on a wooden chair and leaned it back against the tree trunk and whittled his little things he whittled whatever they were.  I suspect he was there all day and not just after school, but that is when I saw him.  The chickens ran free in the yard and some times one could be seen coming out of the house.  They had a small trailer and it was said by my brother (who knew these things) that the trailer was full of things they had whittled and in the summer they went on the road and sold stuff.  I could not argue, because I did not know.  I just know I walked on the other side of the street because they scared me.
I had heard rumors that sometimes Hank Windiate would stop and pass the time of day with them.  Hank lived at the end of our street and was crippled.  I do not know why, just that one arm and one leg were pretty small.  He had a buckboard and an old brown horse which he harnessed and hooked up to it on a daily basis and "went into town."  I have no idea why he went into town every day, but he did.  There were rumors that he had been married at one time and his wife had died.  Hank was another one who let the chickens run in and out of the house.  Hank took sick and died and the town people came and built a fire in his yard and burned everything that was inside.  I never understood that.  And I do not know what happened to the goats, chickens and horse either.  This is just how I remember it.
Between us and Hank were two houses.  First was Rudolph Reinke and his girls, Irene, Delores, Florence and Venita.  He had several more girls who had grown and gone, but Irene was my age and Delores a year or so older.  The mother had died when Irene was a wee tot and Rudolph was left to raise the kids.  He did handyman work and left early and came home late.  He also raised pigs and he could be heard doing his chores and singing hymns in German while he went about his business.  The girls made doughnuts every Saturday morning.  They also had a cow so they made real butter.  They used to trade us butter for the white stuff with a yellow dot that passed for margarine in the old time.  I liked that.  They had a dog on a chain that barked all the time and I do not think anyone ever petted it.
Between Reinke's and Hank was Jake Smith and his wife who I never knew because she looked really mean and stood very straight when she walked.  She walked into town and was a cleaning lady for someone.  Jake was a retired peace officer and he liked to show us his gun and tell us what would happen to us if we ever did anything wrong.  He would arrest us because he still had his badge and he could do that.  He had a chair in the yard and used to tip it back against the tree and nap.  Pretty sure Jake was the instigator of the "sneaking up on Jake Smith while he was asleep and tying him to the tree."  Boy, was he mad!  Of course he was not tied very tight, but it was just the idea of catching him asleep that the boys could not resist.
Walt King lived over on the highway on the other side of our block.  He raised beautiful flowers and a garden to die for, which he did one afternoon.  We saw him sleeping face down in his garden all afternoon and so when mother came home we told her and she and Rudolph went to investigate, but we had to stay home.
The Feins and their son Howard lived between us and Whittlin' Joe on the highway.  Howard was probably 25 years old and still lived at home.  He worked in his garden a lot.  He raised mostly flowers.  I stopped to see him sometimes, but once he made his false teeth jump out at me and scared the living shit right out of me.  I did not even know there were such things as false teeth.  When I told mother she just laughed and said to stay away from there because I was probably aggravating him.  I pretty much avoided him after that.
Right catty cornered from our house was a lot that was a square block with an empty house on one side.  I mean a deserted falling down house with no roof.  Joe Hedrick held his rodeo's there.  I always liked to watch them ride the broncs.  Joe or Jerry.  One was an old man and one was my age.  Today they have an exotic animal farm on the other side of town.  I think it is a bed and breakfast, or it was.  I have not been back in years so I do not know.
Behind our house about half a mile was the cemetary.  I used to love to go there because it was quiet and sometimes there were pretty flowers.  I just looked at them.
So, these are my thoughts this morning.  I sure wonder where they come from?

Sure been hot here lately.

To be real honest, it has been hotter then hell!  My central air keeps the house just the right temperature, which started me to wondering what we did back in the days before air conditioning was an everyday necessity.  I do not remember us even having the luxury of a fan.  When we went to church there were little card board fans in the music racks.  Remember them?  Usually they had some sort of advertising printed on them.  Most often it was from the local mortuary. School started in September usually right after the Kansas State Fair left Hutchinson, Kansas headed for Oklahoma.  By then the summer had lost its grip and fall was near.  School let out in May when it was just starting to get hot, so we did not suffer much in school.

But what about at home?  There were windows on all sides of the house and they were open as far as the could open to get a cross ventilation.  It must have worked because I do no remember being overly hot, ever.  We played under the trees and we could always  sneak off and find a creek some where and dangle our feet in the water and hope an old snapping turtle did not come along.

I can remember momma having a scarf tied around her head to keep the sweat out of her eyes.  What I am neglecting to tell you is that back then we cooked on a wood stove in the kitchen, so we had the added heat of a fire in the stove when it was already hot enough to choke us.  Course I do not remember a lot of cooking going on except on Sundays.  I am not sure what we ate through the week, but we must have eaten something and I am sure mother cooked something.  You can not feed 8 people and not cook.  I do remember mother used to give us a "sugar teet" when we had sugar.  That was our idea of a real treat.  She took a small piece of fabric and put a spoonful of sugar in the center and then pulled up the edges and tied a cord around it.  We chewed on that and thought we really had something. It is amazing that back then I did not even know we were poor, but I look back now in sheer horror.  How did we survive?  Why did we even want to?  My mother had to be the strongest woman in the world to eke an existence for her family out of absolutely nothing.

What amazes me more than anything is that I set here in my air conditioned house with the television playing in the background and my car outside waiting to take me some where.  I have 2 freezers downstairs full of food, money in the bank, clothes in the closet and I think back to Nickerson, Kansas, as the good old days and thank God for giving me those memories.  I only remember being happy.  I do not remember being hot, or cold, or hungry, or lonely.  I have a very happy memory of a coat my mother made out of something she took apart.  It was a bedspread or something and it was a light aqua color.  Dolly Partin had her coat of many colors, but I had my coat of corduroy.  I do not remember much about any other clothes I had, but I am sure I had them.  We wore little dresses back then.  Even when we worked in the fields, we wore dresses.

Yep.  I do not care what anyone thinks, those were my good old days. They were the days when I did not have to worry about anything of anyone.   I have always deluded myself into thinking that it did not matter that we were poor, because everyone was poor, but  that is not true.  People were poor, yes, but we were dirt poor. Facing the reality of that has just taken place in the last few years.  Some times it makes me sad.  I wish I had told my mother what a wonderful job she did when she was here to tell, but I did not.  If I had been just half the woman my mother was I could have changed the world.

Life would be best lived in reverse.

Yep, I am one of Gooch's best!

These are the two that started it all!  This was their wedding picture.  Mom and Dad.  Christine and Reuben Bartholomew, January 19, 1935.  Or thereabouts.  The family record may be a bit screwed up.  The point is not that, the point is this is the woman who gave birth to me and the man who caused that to happen.  

My dad was pretty much a share cropper and did day labor for farmers in the area.  He had been in World War 1 in the Calvary.  I know this because he had a scar on his upper arm close to his shoulder where he had been bitten by a horse.  I am very careful around horses because I do not want one to bite me.  They must have been happy because they had a baby every two years right up until Dorothy was born and then they stopped that nonsense. 

Back in those days, the best anyone could hope to do was eke out a living and that is what they did.  There were 6 little mouths to be fed and 6 little bodies to be clothed.  Mom cleaned houses for the ladies around town and us kids kind of just existed.  There were two times during the year we knew we would get something new.  It goes without saying that one of those was Christmas.  Santa Claus could always be counted on to deliver to our house.  I think that might have been helped by our dear Aunt Helen and Uncle Skinny.  They sometimes came by about that time of year. But maybe not because my mother was very resourceful and hard working.  She raised chickens and rabbits and I learned  very early  how to gut a rabbit and I could then and still can now, wring the neck on a chicken and scald it and pick it faster then anyone else.  I digress.

The other time something new could be had was when school started.  We knew we would get a new pair of shoes and a new dress.  This is how the shoe thing worked; we got a new pair of shoes from the Sears and Roebuck catalog.  Our feet were carefully measured and they would be brown.  They would be lace ups and they would be leather.  And they would fit.  And they would last.  My shoes would be handed down to Donna when I outgrew them.  Donna's would go to Mary and Mary's to Dorothy.  There the cycle ended.  The shoes then left our house and went to God only knows where, but there must have been someone poorer than us!

Ah, but the new dresses were planned for the whole year preceding.  Mom went to the feed store in town for the chicken feed and rabbit pellets.  Gooch feed packaged their wares in a cotton bag with Gooch clearly marked on the bag.  Flour and sugar also came in those bags. Yeah,and corn meal.  About everything because the world had not yet become a disposeable entity.  Mother would buy matching bags so she had enough for one dress.  Then she would choose another color and pattern for the next go round.  She very carefully cut out one dress and sewed it for each of us.  That was our new dress for school.  Of course they were handed down.  

Of course there were also times when the Gooch trademark was placed not quite where it should have been and the "ch" or  "Go" might appear on the hem of the skirt, but Momma always tried to keep that in the back so we did not see it.   Now I gotta go on record here as saying that Gooch always had the best and that was their  logo "Gooch's Best."  That also went for the bags.  I sell on ebay and several years back I sold a big pile of the bags.  The bags were 36" x 36" and the least I got for one was $8.99 + shipping and I sold one to a lady in Korea for $49.00 + shipping.  I would love to luck into a bunch more of those.

Anyway, until I was grown and gone I was known as "One of the Gooch girls."  Until I was 8 I thought my name was Louella Gooch.  I did not give a rat's ass. My mother worked hard making clothes for us kids.  When I hear Dolly Partin sing her "Coat of Many Colors"  I remember my mother bringing home some leftover slip cover material from some place and making me a brand new coat.  It was corduroy and it was light teal.  I loved that coat and when I could no longer fit in it my heart was broken.

I also remember my mother and her "box of rags."  When our clothes reached the point where they could no longer be repaired they went to the rag box.  Mother would then carefully cut out the "good parts"  which were like the skirt and parts of the sleeves that had no wear.  These were used for quilts.  I have curtains hanging in my kitchen that I can point to and know that my mother had a blouse with that fabric in her later life.  Old habits die hard.  

The parts that were still kind of good were torn into strips.  A slit was cut in each end and they were linked together and rolled into a ball.  This was then taken to the "weaver lady down by the doctor's office, "  where they were woven into a rug of whatever length we had scraps to make.  We could come home with a nice rug for a couple dollars.  

When mother got something wool she was in hog heaven.  Wool was cut into strips about 3/4" wide and sewn together.  She then took her crochet hook and cotton twine and somehow crocheted the strips into a thick rug.  Wish I could remember how she did that.  

Sometimes she was Momma, sometimes she was Mother.  She was also Mom.  And later grandma.  She was the driving force behind the woman I am today.  Not because she made me who I am, but she emolated who I should become.  I wonder if someday one of my kids will sit at a computer and remember me with the same all consuming love that I still have for her?  We will see.

Let me be clear on this poverty thing.

Maybe we are getting lost in semantics here if indeed semantics is the word I want.  I very much appreciate the comments I am receiving when I write about my childhood.  "Oh, grandma, so sorry."  "I just never knew how hard you had it."  "This is so very sad,"  The thing is here, I did not have it bad.  Granted we were poor, but back in the times I grew up in, most people were.  We may have been poorer then most, but there were families living in box cars and chicken coops and eating less than we did.  While I never knew these people, I knew of them.  That was enough.

My mother was there and my father was there.  My sisters and brother were there.  My family.  What I remember most about growing up was not what we ate or did not eat, only that we survived.  We survived and moved on to better times, but we survived.  We grew up playing "Kick the Can". "Blind Man's Bluff, " and "Red Rover, Red Rover."  We could always drag enough kids together to play something and when darkness fell and the streetlight came on over on the other corner, we better get for home.

Clod fights were common place and we needed to use our good common sense when choosing a clod out of a plowed field to lob at someone.  If it was too soft, it fell apart in the air.  If it was too hard it could do some real damage.  Of course, it it was too big and too hard it could kill some one.  As you see we all survived to adulthood and in that day and age, that in itself was a miracle.

I remember setting on the side of a dirt road in my little cotton dress and my bare feet trying to build an ant hill for an ant I had found that I thought was an orphan.  I remember pulling dead wood off of a Cottonwood Tree and lighting it on fire and then blowing on it to keep it burning because I thought it would pass as punk for a fire cracker in case I ever found one of those.

I remember wading in the Arkansas River and the water was so clear I could watch minnows swimming.  I could cup my hands and drink it.  And I could lay in the cool water and then jump up and run home in the warm sun and be dry when I got there.  I was brown as a berry .  Of course I was barefooted!  We got new shoes in the fall when school started and when we grew out of them we passed them down.  I have a closet full of shoes now, but I still long for the days when shoes were an option.

I remember setting on the front yard with my brother and listening to the Grand Ole Opry from WSM in Nashville, Tennessee!  I remember Minnie Pearl and Roy Acuff and a host of others.  I remember stars so bright they were diamonds in a black sky and a moon that lit up the yard like a spotlight.

I remember so much that I have no words for most of it and that is what I am trying to get across here; not the poverty, but it has to be told because it was what it was.  So when I tell you about something, try to see past that to the lesson that is there.

Making soap was how we got soap,  Times are different.  Now if you want soap, you go buy it, but it was not always that way.  We rendered out fat because we needed lard.   We played our little games because that is what we passed time on our way to adulthood.  We had a checker board instead of an XBox.  We played Dominoes instead of turning on a television or booting up the computer.

I grew up in the best of times and I am going to continue to tell you about them.  There was a time that poverty was an inconvenience, but never a time it caused me to lose my zest for life.  It was a time to be gotten through and a time to be thankful when it was over, but there is not a childhood memory in this head of mine that is dominated by poverty.  Poverty was for the people we saw pictures of that were guant and sad looking with a look of silent pleading in thier eyes, not for those Bartholomew kids at 709 Strong Street in Nicherson< Kansas!

PEACE!!

Chicken feet? Of course. Right up there with Carp!

I was talking to a friend the other day and explaining to him the facts of survival back in the "good old days." I am pretty sure he thought I was making it up about the carp and all.  He told me that Carp was a trash fish and no one really ate them.  Hmm.  Seems like I recall wading in the river with a big seine and filling tubs with them   Mother had a way to can them so the bones got soft and they were almost like Salmon.  I said "almost".  They looked like Salmon, but they sure did not taste like Salmon.  We liked the Carp best drenched in corn meal and fried in lard.  And we always had bread when we had fish because one of the little kids would always swallow a bone and the only way to get it on down was to eat a piece of bread.  I am amazed today that none of us ever had a perforated intestine, but we didn't.

So few people are around today that actually lived through the times back then in the small town of Nickerson when it was catch as catch can and anything that didn't move real fast was going to be eaten.
Try to imagine 8 of us living in a 2 bedroom house and no income.  The house payment was $10 a month and it came first.  Mother always planted a big garden that consisted mostly of sweet potatoes, onions, beans  turnips, and corn.  The corn was not the sweet corn like we enjoy around here in the summer, but was dried and then ground into corn meal.  The root vegetables were pulled up and stored in the root cellar.  Apples were abundant and several bushels of those ended up in the root cellar.  We ate apple sauce, fried apples, baked apples, and boiled apples.

Mother always seemed to have chickens around and chickens meant eggs, except when "brooding" season was upon us.  That was when the old hens sat and hatched out babies.  Not all of them sat and we still gathered eggs, but I always kept a damn close eye on those beady eyed hens.  They were just as apt as not to fly off that nest and peck me if I got to close.  They never actually did that, but I lived in mortal terror that one day one might.

Usually the hens kept us with plenty eggs, so there were cakes when we had sugar.  If one of the neighbors butchered a hog and dad helped we had pork and we got the fat which was cooked in a cast iron pot and this gave us "cracklings" and lard.  I think out here they are called chiccarones.

Meat was never very plentiful at our house through the week, but come Sunday, we always had meat of some kind .  My favorite was fried chicken because then there would be potatoes and the good country gravy.  Now to the feet part.  Mother had to make a chicken stretch to feed 7 of us, so every bit of the chicken as going into that skillet.  Not the head though.  The feet were immersed in boiling water and skinned.  They went right into the skillet and while there was no meat on the feet they were good for chewing on and the little kids never knew they were not really getting anything to eat.

Sometimes mom would come up with a roast beef.  That was something to die for.  I especially liked the gristle.  I could chew that for the longest time and actually thought it was good.  Amazing how that worked!  Today I only eat chicken breast.  If I cook a roast it better not have any gristle in it.

So to this day I do not eat apples in any cooked form.  I do not like to smell them cooking and so I do not cook them.  I eat them raw and only when they are nice and crisp.  Needless to say, I have given up the Carp for Alaskan wild caught Salmon and the only fowl on the farm here is the geese and they are not going to be eaten.  I steal their eggs and make them into noodles.  That is my idea of birth control!  Chicken breasts is the only part of the chicken I buy or cook.  No feet for me!

I look back on the hardest times and I can not help but realize that my mother had to be the strongest woman in the world.  She took nothing and raised us kids to be functioning members of society.  She took in laundry and cleaned houses to put food on the table and clothes on our backs.  She made me a teal corduroy coat when I was in fourth grade and Lord only knows where she came up with the fabric.  I wore that coat longer than I should have because the kids finally began to tease me, but it was mine and I loved it.  When I hear Dolly Parton sing "Coat of Many Colors"  I always think of my mother.  As I get older I realize everything makes me think of my mother.  The missing her is as bad all these years later as it was the day she passed.  I do not think one ever "gets over" the death of our loved ones, we just learn to live without them and I am now acutely aware that my kids are probably walking in my shoes.

It is called life.

Home, Home on North Strong Street where my memories actually begin to be sort of accurate.

I have noticed that fuzzy little memories of life on the Stroh place and then the Ailmore place change according to my mood of the moment.  Most of the time I remember those days as carefree and happy.  Well there were a few exceptions.  Seems like I was always getting my ass beat for something that I was sure I had not done, but someone gave me the credit for being the instigator of one foul deed after another.  But when we moved North of town life took on meaning.
Miss Donough was my first grade teacher.  She was so pretty and so sweet.  The school was two stories tall and we were not allowed to ever go up the stairs.  I longed to walk those stairs all the way to the top and see what mysteries lingered there, but alas I was 4 years away from that trip.  Little did I know how quickly those years would fly by and then I would be going up the stairs every day and would hate that too.
The first grade classroom was very big.  The alphabet danced around the top of the room and the numbers followed.  At one end of the classroom was the "cloak room."  That meant coat room.  It was also the place where we took off our goulashes and there was a shelf for our lunch buckets.  Now you should know that when I say lunch bucket, I mean lunch bucket.  Some of the rich kids had lunch boxes with designs on the side of them.  Some were black.  Some kids brought paper sacks and those kids could just throw them away when they were done.  While I envied them that luxury I still thought it was wasteful.  We carried a bucket that had once held lard.  It was called a lard bucket when it had lard and lunch bucket when it had lunch.
At the far end of the classroom was the "sick room."  It held a small cot and it was for whoever was sick to lay on until they either felt better or a parent came and took them home.  I longed to be sick and lay on those clean white sheets, but it never happened.  Being blessed with an immune system that never allowed a disease or virus to enter your body is a curse to a kid wanting to see what it felt like to lay on a sheet.  Our beds at home were shared with at least 2 other kids and sometimes more.  Sheets were unheard of at our house.  Mother cut up old wool clothes and made them into quilts which were used both as a sheet and a cover.  Course with that many kids there was a lot of body heat shared.  To this day I can not even "rough it" when I go camping.  I need a sheet over me and under me and a pillow with a crisp pillow case under my head. I love fresh sheets and if I weren't so damn lazy I would wash my sheets every day.  I digress.
At the end of my first year of school, Miss Donough married a man named Mr. Breece.  Miss Donough ceased to exist and Mrs. Breece came into being.  I sadly left the first grade and moved across the hall to the second grade and Mrs. Wait.
This was where I would learn "manuscript" which is known today as "cursive", but is no longer taught in school as a required subject.  Not sure that anyone writes anymore what with the tablets, laptops, and such. It was here I also learned to add and subtract.  The second grade class was also responsible for raising and lowering the flag on the flagpole in the sand box.  Not the girls though.  No, no.  Girls were in training from day one to be good little girls and learn how to be good wives and mothers and raising and lowering the flag was not woman's work.  Strange, but all my life I have been on the wrong end of the stick as far as boy/girl things went.  Second grade passed in a blur.  We were kids.  There were no class distinctions.  We had not yet learned that there were the "haves and the have nots".  We had not yet learned that clothes were for anything except covering our bodies.
We ate what was in our lunch buckets and were damn glad to have it.  Potato sandwich's, wrinkled apples, or a cold piece of carp were just fare for the day.  Just something to keep us fed so we could make it through the day and home to our tar paper shack we called home.  A place to lay our bodies down, a place to rest our head and dream of places we were learning about where there was electric lights, a gas stove and  water that came out of a pipe in the kitchen, all warm so you could wash the dishes or take a bath.   .A fairy tale place that existed just outside our reach.  Soon I would learn that Strong Street was the wrong side of the tracks, but for now I was happy and secure,  and when I was 8 years old the present was all that mattered.