Debbie, the wee tyke, called me after my blog of a week or so ago. She thinks the cure for my writer's block may be in my past, since I write about it most often. I think she may be on to something. I sure enjoyed life back then when mother was the one who had to worry about putting food on the table and clothes on my back. Not much fun when the burden is on my shoulders!
So I shall start way back as far as I can remember. That would be before I started school. We lived on the Stroh place on the edge of town. That is where mother used to go to "Club". I thought "Club" was a complete waste of time since it was a bunch of old ladies (They were probably 30 years old, which sure does not seem old now!) sat around and visited and exchanged recipes and patterns. Us kids had to be clean when we went and I never knew why because we just sat on the floor and listened and tried to stay awake in case someone actually said something. To my recollection, that never happened. Then we would go home and we could get dirty again.
Oh, I do have to interject here what "getting clean" entailed. Now try to visualize those days back then. We had no running water; hence no water heater; hence no warm water. Water was pumped on the back porch or kitchen, whatever that was. Water was heated in a boiler on the stove for our baths. Hair was a different matter. That had to be washed about once every two weeks. The way this happened was mother would catch us one at a time. Our hair was wet in a basin of warm water and then suds up to get all the whatever was in our hair out. That felt good! Rinsing, however, was a whole new ball game. Mother then tucked us under her arm and put our head under the pump where the water came out onto our head. This took the cooperation of one of the bigger kids who liked to pump fast in hopes they would get done soon.
Now I do not know how many of you know just how cold water is when it is being pumped up from depths of the earth, but I am here to tell you, it is damn cold! We were rinsed until mother could make our hair "squeak" when rubbed against itself. That meant the soap was all out of it. Then we were plopped unceremoniously onto the floor and told to go outside and dry in the sun. Haircuts were given by a lady who lived nearby and she came to the house with her "hair cutting bowl." This was placed on our head and she pulled her scissors out of her bag and trimmed anything sticking out from under the bowl. Of course we all looked pretty much alike when the lady left. Since our clothes were made out of flowered sacks that came full of flour or grain and had the "Gooch's Best" label imprinted on it, the little Bartholomew kids were pretty easy to pick out in a crowd.
Other memories of the Stroh place are coming to mind like there were a couple older half brothers that wandered in occasionally. Apparently my father had been married previously and had 5 children. Two of those children, a boy and a girl, had died of sand pneumonia. Eventually the wife then died and the 3 boys were placed in an orphanage. Richard was adopted. Earl was adopted. Gene was not adopted, but did go to a family named Banks where he stayed until adulthood. Gene and Richard served in World War II. Earl apparently did not.
Earl married and had 2 boys and 1 girl. Gene was married briefly to a woman named Louella and had a son. His name was Billy (probably William Eugene Bartholomew.) I would love to find that boy. Gene turned to a life of crime by forging someone else name on checks and seemed to fit well into prison society. I know he was in prison at least three times. He used to write me long letters and tell me how this time he had seen the error of his ways and when he got out this time, he would stay out. The last time anyone seen him was when he was let out of a prison in Kansas and disappeard into thin air. That was probably 50 + years ago.
Richard suffered from "shell shock" after he came home from the Army. When he would come for a visit, we would take him to the Arkansas River and drop him. He would disappear into the underbrush and that would be the last we heard from him until we picked him up in exactly one week at exactly the same place. Guess that was his way of coping with life. Richard and Gene have both been dead for many years.
Anyway, these brothers used to pop in occasionally, but they were 20 years older than me so I was never close to them. Brother Jake was a different story!
Well life is calling me to do something about my own life, so I will try to return tomorrow and tell you more about the Stroh place.
So I shall start way back as far as I can remember. That would be before I started school. We lived on the Stroh place on the edge of town. That is where mother used to go to "Club". I thought "Club" was a complete waste of time since it was a bunch of old ladies (They were probably 30 years old, which sure does not seem old now!) sat around and visited and exchanged recipes and patterns. Us kids had to be clean when we went and I never knew why because we just sat on the floor and listened and tried to stay awake in case someone actually said something. To my recollection, that never happened. Then we would go home and we could get dirty again.
Oh, I do have to interject here what "getting clean" entailed. Now try to visualize those days back then. We had no running water; hence no water heater; hence no warm water. Water was pumped on the back porch or kitchen, whatever that was. Water was heated in a boiler on the stove for our baths. Hair was a different matter. That had to be washed about once every two weeks. The way this happened was mother would catch us one at a time. Our hair was wet in a basin of warm water and then suds up to get all the whatever was in our hair out. That felt good! Rinsing, however, was a whole new ball game. Mother then tucked us under her arm and put our head under the pump where the water came out onto our head. This took the cooperation of one of the bigger kids who liked to pump fast in hopes they would get done soon.
Now I do not know how many of you know just how cold water is when it is being pumped up from depths of the earth, but I am here to tell you, it is damn cold! We were rinsed until mother could make our hair "squeak" when rubbed against itself. That meant the soap was all out of it. Then we were plopped unceremoniously onto the floor and told to go outside and dry in the sun. Haircuts were given by a lady who lived nearby and she came to the house with her "hair cutting bowl." This was placed on our head and she pulled her scissors out of her bag and trimmed anything sticking out from under the bowl. Of course we all looked pretty much alike when the lady left. Since our clothes were made out of flowered sacks that came full of flour or grain and had the "Gooch's Best" label imprinted on it, the little Bartholomew kids were pretty easy to pick out in a crowd.
Other memories of the Stroh place are coming to mind like there were a couple older half brothers that wandered in occasionally. Apparently my father had been married previously and had 5 children. Two of those children, a boy and a girl, had died of sand pneumonia. Eventually the wife then died and the 3 boys were placed in an orphanage. Richard was adopted. Earl was adopted. Gene was not adopted, but did go to a family named Banks where he stayed until adulthood. Gene and Richard served in World War II. Earl apparently did not.
Earl married and had 2 boys and 1 girl. Gene was married briefly to a woman named Louella and had a son. His name was Billy (probably William Eugene Bartholomew.) I would love to find that boy. Gene turned to a life of crime by forging someone else name on checks and seemed to fit well into prison society. I know he was in prison at least three times. He used to write me long letters and tell me how this time he had seen the error of his ways and when he got out this time, he would stay out. The last time anyone seen him was when he was let out of a prison in Kansas and disappeard into thin air. That was probably 50 + years ago.
Richard suffered from "shell shock" after he came home from the Army. When he would come for a visit, we would take him to the Arkansas River and drop him. He would disappear into the underbrush and that would be the last we heard from him until we picked him up in exactly one week at exactly the same place. Guess that was his way of coping with life. Richard and Gene have both been dead for many years.
Anyway, these brothers used to pop in occasionally, but they were 20 years older than me so I was never close to them. Brother Jake was a different story!
Well life is calling me to do something about my own life, so I will try to return tomorrow and tell you more about the Stroh place.
