I am delighted that you and your club like my little stories.
I began writing them because they seemed to me altogether too good to be lost. You must have a fine club. Our study club died a few years ago and was born again as a bridge club. Not nearly so interesting to me.
I am in very good company in your list of Kingsbury County’s artists although I am a very humble member of the group. Thanking you for your letter I am
Sincerely,
Laura Ingalls Wilder
P.S. Please excuse the tablet paper and matching envelop. I seem to be out of stamps for sending anything else. L.I.W.
THE BOYS OF ROCKY RIDGE
On a rainy September day in 1933, a fourteen-year-old orphan, John Turner, rapped on the door at Rocky Ridge. He asked for work. Rose was skeptical, but she was touched by the sight of the bedraggled boy. He weeded the garden, which earned him a meal and a bed for the night. The unhappy boy had lived with his older brother Al at an uncle’s home fifteen miles from Mansfield. The uncle, impoverished by the Depression, could not keep the boys properly attired for school attendance. John ran away.
Rose’s generous nature prevailed; she invited both boys to live with her and attend high school in Mansfield. For the first time, the farmhouse was filled with the youthful activities of high schoolers. Rose taught a French class for the Turners and their friends. She arranged dances, birthday celebrations, and costume parties. She rooted for the boys’ athletic teams and worried about their health, their grades, their grammar, and their girlfriends.
In 1935 “the Clubhouse” was built for John and Al. It became a gathering place for Mansfield teens, with a basketball court nearby. The brothers had workbenches there; both were fascinated by electronics. They had a newspaper route, stoked the furnace, milked the cow, did dishes, and assisted in the house and yard. “Mrs. Lane kept us busy,” said Al. While the boys were in school, Rose worked at her typewriter, writing to support her enlarged household. “Am I crazy,” Rose wondered, “thinking that youngsters are one of the most infinitely varied, amusing, unexpected, never monotonous, entertaining interests in the world?”
When Rose left Rocky Ridge for long intervals in 1935 and 1936, the Turners remained on the farm. They finished high school, and Rose encouraged them in their goal to attend college. Both Turners served in World War II; their connection with Rose was by then diminished. She wrote Al in 1942: “The first thing is to protect our country; that’s got to be done. And afterward I hope your generation will get the country back to its revolutionary principle of personal freedom and every individual’s right to live his own life in his own way”
Both Turner boys achieved successful careers in the postwar years, and they credited Rose for her motherly nurture during their youth. John wrote Rose: “You have been everything to me that my mother never had a chance to be.”
I don’t know what to do
Rose was ensconced in the Tiger Hotel in Columbia, Missouri (160 miles from Rocky Ridge), in 1936. She did intense research at the University of Missouri for a book project. In absentia Rose also assisted in the preparation of Laura’s On the Banks of Plum Creek. She left her Mansfield friends Corinne and Jack Murray in charge of the farmhouse and the Turner boys. The situation was far from ideal. The boys salvaged tires from an abandoned hulk of a car they found near Rocky Ridge, and eventually their prank was discovered. Without Rose to sort out the problem, Laura and Manly became embroiled. The following letter shows Laura’s dissatisfaction with the Murrays’ presence, but not that she hoped to return to her old home after seven years in the Rock House. Soon after the Murrays left, Laura and Manly returned to the old farmhouse.
JUNE 25, 1936
Rose Dearest,
Your letter just came and I am going to answer it plainly.
I have the title to the car from Secretary of State to Todd White. The description as to the make and name is correct. The numbers of course I do not know. The title is assigned by Todd White to Geo. Baker, city marshal here, the man I settled with. The title is legal, so the car could not have been stolen. Did you see yourself that the number had been removed from the engine? If you did not, I do not believe it. There is no way of checking on it, for the road workers have hauled the carcass away to some junk pile.
The title shows a mortgage on the car to National Brokerage Co. of Springfield for $27.50. But the transfer to Baker shows it was cleared.
Bruce Prock says the tires were in good shape when Al took them. [Bruce Prock and his wife rented the Wilders’ tenant house on the farm; Bruce served as a handyman and farm caretaker for the Wilders.] They were worn only a very little, and new would have cost $9 apiece. . . . Bruce says, and so does Al, that Al took only three of them.
Bruce does not know what became of the other tire, and Al says he does not know. . . . If the tires were worth that much, the price asked in settlement was reasonable and we got off darned lucky, which I don’t think Al appreciates.
Baker is the kind of officer who is sure you see his badge and the sight of it on him makes me want to knock his head off. I don’t know why.
But Jones is different. He is a rough specimen but seems to want to be fair. He owns five good farms, besides the part of the old McNaul farm where he lives and has been bailing fine clover hay for sale. He has a herd of good white-faced cows and altogether is not in a position where he needs or would spend time fooling with a small steal off a boy.
I think Baker is the kind who would, which was why I wrote you telling Al to be careful.
I hope you will not be a crazy nut and seem to take Al’s part too much. He will be all right if he goes carefully, which he should do for your sake if not for his own.
Jones told Bruce that Al phoned him that he wanted to buy the parts of the car. This was after you were here and told him to do so.
But Jones also said he asked Al to come in and see him so they could talk it over, and Al never did. Bruce thinks Jones knew then who the owner was and Al could have settled it then if he would have gone to see Jones.
I hope you don’t give Al the tires and let him get off without anything to make him remember. If he gets off too easy, he might think he got away with that all right and you would help him out again, and he could try something else. This I do think.
Bruce did think for Al’s sake he should pay for taking those tires in some way, slowly perhaps, but some way. Otherwise he would not realize what he had done.
Oh Damn! I don’t know what to do.
Bruce was here yesterday, to see Manly. He told me he hoped you would not be too hard on Al. That the boys hadn’t any chance after you went away. He said Corinne would have had them arrested. . . . Bruce said the boys actually went hungry because Corinne did not cook for them. He was at the house once when John was complaining that he was hungry and said they hadn’t had a meal for a month, nothing only what they could pick up. “And what,” said Bruce, “could you expect of boys left that way.”
Bruce said he thought the best thing you could do for Al would be to help put him through next year’s school at Ava, where his uncle could look after him. You could pay what of his expenses you wanted to, and his uncle could watch over him. Bruce said also that the uncle was in a hard place himself, with children of his own, his wife dead and losing nearly everything he had in the bank mess there, so perhaps he should be excused some if he did not do so well by Al as should have been done. But he thinks the uncle would do what he could.
Bruce also offered to go see the uncle if you wanted him to do so, and talk to him. Anything he could do to help you out, just let him know, he said.
Oh yes! Bruce said too that Al should have a chance for his last year in high school, for Bruce missed getting jobs because he hadn’t a high school education.
How can we show the boys that such doings do not pay and at the same time keep Corinne and Jack on the place when the boys know what they both done, and know that we know it?
Bruce told me yesterday that he had found ou
t why Corinne was always out of water when she made such a fuss about his not pumping any water for them, and all the fuss about the pump. He said his wife had told him at the time, but he wouldn’t believe it could be so. But now he has seen it himself while he has been working in the garden.
Jack is hauling water from there to the laundry in big cans in his truck.
There is no shortage of water in town, so it is not necessary. But he is using your electricity and wear and tear on your pump to save his water bill.
In other words, Jack is stealing water.
Now if we keep the Murrays on, Al will naturally think, “What is all this talk about stealing anyway? Just look.”
I am going to take back all I said about letting the Murrays stay on the place and say as I did before, let’s get rid of them. I asked Bruce what he thought of his being able to watch the place and keep the house from being broken into.
He said he thought it would be safe. That he could fix the place so it could be locked up and fastened securely. That he would get a good watch dog and shut him up there nights. He said he would do his best to keep everything safe. . . .
He said also, that if the Murrays were leaving someone should be there to see what they took away.
Bruce also said, if you stopped paying their bills and they were on the place, they would find no reason to stay. I am sure if we keep them on, they and Bruce will be fighting again and it seems like I can’t stand it.
If we take the boys away and leave them in possession, it will be just what they have been trying to get done. And that gets my goat. . . . I would like not to have any trouble or row with them. It might be reasonable that you want to close the place, cut out telephone, gas, electricity. I can take over the electric bills you know. . . .
They could rent a room in town. They saved their dishes and a rug and some chairs, etc. They could furnish one room. I would help if necessary. Tell them you want the place closed and locked so you will not have to think about it. On many sober second thoughts I again say, send Al away and close the house. I believe it would have a better effect on the boys than anything you could do or say about not stealing. I feel sure Bruce and we could keep your things safer than with the Murrays there.
Lots of love,
Mama Bess
But of course you know best
A week after Laura vented about the farm situation, she was engrossed with her writing. She wrote Rose in detail about Minnesota blizzards, grasshoppers, and cattle, all features of On the Banks of Plum Creek.
JULY 2, 1936
Rose Dearest,
Perhaps it would be all right to have Ma see the cloud and go to the stable before the blizzard struck. . . . And I thought the suddenness of the storm striking so unexpectedly was more dramatic.
However, if Laura must get to the stable there is no other way that I can see [the action]. . . . That Ma should see the cloud and remembering how quickly the storm came when she was in town, thought she would have the chores done before Pa got there. But she would not have milked at noon. Chores were always a little late winter mornings and there would have been no milk the cow would have given as soon as noon. Pa was expected for late noon dinner. . . .
It might be that Laura could follow Ma into the barn and doing the chores with her imagination, having seen Pa do the chores, she would know how they would be done and how the animals would act.
She would know how Ma would cling to the rope with one hand all the way and how she would shut the stable door carefully . . . for Pa had followed the line and done the chores in blizzards before.
Are you sure the transition as I have written it would not do? But of course you know best.
The blizzards came this way:
At first they were a black streak on the horizon around the northwest corner. As a child I always had the impression that they did actually circle a corner. The day was usually rather warm, always clear, no clouds in sight and the sun shining brightly.
As the cloud rose, the sky was overcast on that corner and when high in the sky the upper edge was lighter and the cloud seemed to roll. They always came swiftly but there was a difference in the speed and fury with which they struck, though they always came quickly enough to catch people unprepared.
No one measured the speed of the wind in those days, but it surely was as fast as hurricane speed. And the sun shone brightly in the one part of the sky until the whole black cloud reached and blotted it out. It in no sense changed to a cloudy day before the blizzard struck. It doesn’t threaten, you see, to give Ma the idea she has time to do the chores.
All the milk would blow out of the pail if it were not sheltered as much as possible. I don’t remember of its ever being frozen.
They would be tired and breathless and Laura’s legs would ache, but not sore as if beaten.
About how long it would take to go from the stable to the house, I suppose about five minutes. . . .
Whichever direction one goes [in a blizzard] he goes against the wind, a wind so strong that one leans into it, not walking upright. It buffets one on every side at the same time and sucks the breath away. One is sightless of course, for the eyes are full of the fine icy snow particles, and there is a feeling of confusion and helplessness.
[Here Laura switches to a discussion of the cattle runaway, told of in On the Banks of Plum Creek.]
I suppose you are right about the cattle. But children weren’t raised to be helpless cowards in those days.
The real truth is that Pa did send us and it would have been perfectly all right except for the fact that someone had set a dog on them and he had bitten off the end of one cow’s tail. The stump was bleeding and you know how cattle act when they smell blood. Pa didn’t know about the dog or he never in the world would have sent us. But if the cattle must all be in one day, have Laura say after the runaway that she didn’t like cattle. And Pa say that he’d had enough of them himself and was going to have some horses someday before long or know the reason why.
Handle the cattle as you think best, also the storm, only don’t weaken nor change the character of the storm.
[Next the letter shifts to a discussion of grasshoppers.]
Grasshoppers do not turn green from eating. The young, just hatched, grasshoppers were green, but only for a few days.
The idea of grasshoppers “burrowing into the ground” and disappearing . . . I think I wrote plainly how they did. I remember them sitting with their hind part in the ground laying their eggs. . . .
[Laura concludes this letter with local and personal news.]
Our paper says Roosevelt is losing the colored vote and the women’s vote. I will write you a letter soon, but now I must catch the mail with this.
Manly is in town at the Thursday [livestock] sale. Ben [the bulldog] and I are alone and very comfortable, thank you.
We had a wonderful rain night before last, nearly two inches. It was good and again the air is fit to breathe.
Paul and Dessie Cooley were here a few minutes yesterday. They had a week vacation and spent most of it in Springfield with Ethel Burney Morris. Mrs. Cooley [Paul’s mother] from here went up and stayed at Ethel’s with them. [Paul Cooley traveled with his family and the Wilders from South Dakota to Missouri in 1894. Dessie was his wife, Odessa.]
Dessie is sweet as she can be and Paul is natural as life, a Roosevelt man, but I am sure Dessie does not approve, so there may be hope.
They say to tell you they were so sorry you were not here and that they enjoyed so much having you drop in on them.
I must run.
Lots of love,
Mama Bess
Laura wrote again on the following day. She was not satisfied that Rose comprehended the setting of the Ingalls farm along Plum Creek.
JULY 3, 1936
Rose Dearest,
I hope the map will help you understand Plum Creek better. The swimming hole was actually . . . a deep hole with the creek coming in and going out. I suppose it was gouged out by high wat
er at some time, really a pond in the creek.
The creek was a prairie creek, running between grass grown banks, deeper where the banks narrowed and spreading out shallower where the banks set back. The creek water was low in the hot weather.
Because of the bend in the creek, the water was thrown against the bank under the dugout door and foamed and roared as it went around. The plank was across the creek when we came. I suppose it was there so the man before us could go quickly to the other part of the farm.
Pa always took the oxen and then the horses to water, down the slope of the high bank to where we played in the creek, never down by the plank across it.
I have an awful suspicion that we drank plain creek water, in the raw, without boiling or whatever. But that would make the reader think we were dirty, which we were not. So I said there was a spring . . . as it is located in my imagination, you may put it where it is most convenient.
The west bank might be higher, but we must be above it as we sat at the dugout door. The steep steps did go down from the earthen shelf in front of the dugout door, but Laura did go back up the steps, up the path past the dugout and along the top of the bank, just back of the dugout roof, then down the slope to the tableland until she came to the creek where Pa watered the oxen.
We never went just along the water’s edge from the plank to the place where the oxen were watered. I think it was a muddy, slippery bank at the very edge of the water. Anyway, it was only by the path from the stable along the grassy slope to the lower bank and the creek.
The creek was rather shallow where it came into the swimming hole. There it widened and deepened. Willows and plum trees grew thick on the western side, making a little grove. From the swimming hole the creek narrowed again and became shallow, making a place to wade and play on the edge of the little round meadow.
It ran narrower still, and deeper around the dugout and then away among plum trees and willows where I never followed it. I saw it at the other end of the plum thicket where I waded in the mud and got the bloodsuckers. When I waded into the dimness of that plum thicket I was going up creek toward the dugout. The banks were mud.
The Selected Letters of Laura Ingalls Wilder Page 9