At the beginning of October, Papa said, “Well, black-eyed Susan, come the first of November, Doc says you can go to school.” School started the day after all farmers’ fields were finished, usually around the middle of October. That allowed kids to help out with the threshing. I wouldn’t be missing much schooling.
Johnny and I usually rode Old Bess four miles down the dirt road to the Chesley Schoolhouse. In winter, we’d snowshoe a shortcut across fields of snow higher than the fence posts.
Johnny soaked his hair every morning so he could comb it straight back. One day in January of 1917, Mama told him, “Johnny, you can’t do that when it’s fifteen degrees below zero.” He paid her no mind. The ice-crusted snow was slick under our snowshoes. Bitter cold cut my breath short, numbed my cheeks and nose, and by the time we got to school, I couldn’t feel my toes.
While we were hanging our coats, Johnny’s friend Clyde greeted him, “Hey, Johnny, how come the white hair? You turn old overnight?” He jokingly slapped my brother’s frozen hair. With a strange crunching sound, it broke, falling to the floor like shards of glass. We all laughed—except Johnny. His thawed hair stuck out in all directions. Mama knitted a stocking cap, which he wore until June, even in the house.
One year, Papa made short, wooden skis and we traveled the two miles of pure white world with great speed. This year was different. I wasn’t strong enough for snowshoes or skis. Papa hitched up the sleigh, and ol’ Bess pulled us with warm rocks under our feet and lap robes covering our legs. What luxury!
It was my third class year. I knew how to read, write, add, subtract, multiply, and was working on division. I loved spelling. Many schoolmates were my cousins, but I had a special friend named Avis. We were two peas in a pod.
“It’s time,” I whispered. “Let’s go,” would be the response. We climbed into the rafters of the coatroom and made ourselves comfortable.
“We need to study for the geography test for tomorrow,” Avis stated.
“You first,” I began. “What’s the name of the tallest mountain in the world? Where is the biggest desert found? What continent is surrounded by water?” We quizzed each other until we were sure we both knew the answers.
The teacher was busy with other kids in our one-room school. Each day we drilled each other on spelling words, math facts, history, or English. No, we didn’t always stick to the subject. Sometimes, girl giggles took over, and we’d almost fall off our rafters.
The one outside door of Chesley school opened into the coatroom, which also held stacks of wood the older boys cut before going home each day. A small arch led into class. In winter, a thick quilt hung across it to keep out the cold. Teacher’s desk sat at the front of the room, and students’ desks were grouped according to age in the corners of the room. Our teacher moved from group to group, giving lessons, but sat at her desk to teach us individually. We had anywhere from twenty-five to thirty kids depending on who had moved to the Reubens school for ninth grade. My teacher was married to my uncle Willie. Her name was Aunt Bertha, but I had to call her Mrs. Kole.
In the center of the room sat a black, potbellied stove. A big pot of “something” was always simmering our lunch. Avis and I played a game of “guess by the smell what’s for lunch” as we took off our coats. “It’s stew,” I would announce. “No, it’s not,” she’d counter, “it’s ham and beans.” Whatever it was, it was always delicious, hot, and filling. Food was provided by students’ families, but the teacher decided what to make with it. She got there early to start the fire and put the pot on. We took turns doing the dishes and cleaning up.
I loved learning. I soaked up whatever I heard or read. That was good. I didn’t realize my school days would be limited to eight years. I wasn’t allowed to go to secondary school in Reubens because I didn’t have proper shoes. No shoes and only one name? Johnny and Edna attended high school. Both dropped out before graduating. It hardly seemed fair, but then hadn’t I learned from the very beginning that life isn’t fair?
Knowing how hungry I was to learn, Aunt Bertha gave me a book each year for my birthday. She even lent me books from her collection. I memorized every page. On the year I turned thirteen, she gave me a Bible. I was excited. “This is great,” I exclaimed. “Now I can read for myself what Grandma and Grandpa Kole used to learn to speak English.” They both were raised in a community in Holland, Michigan, where only Dutch had been spoken and written. When they married, they decided they must learn the American language of English. Grandma held a Dutch Bible and Grandpa an English Bible. Verse by verse, they learned to read and speak the words in English. I loved talking with them about things in the Bible—always in English. Once they learned English, they never spoke Dutch again. “When in America, we must always speak the American language,” Grandpa would say when I would ask him a word in Dutch.
Aunt Bertha died from cancer in August after I turned sixteen. My heart broke. She believed in me and had been my champion, giving me through books a picture of life beyond the farm. The most precious book she’d bequeathed to me was my Bible. It held hope for the future. All would turn out right because “through Christ I can do all things.” Yes, I believed that.
Chapter 8
The Telephone
A marvelous invention arrived called the telephone. Lines were strung through the farmlands of the Camas Prairie when I was nine.
Papa said, “Of course, we want a telephone. It’ll be handy to talk to the folks. Save lots of time.” Papa was always keen on new inventions. Mama not. She feared the new. Maybe because she had been uprooted by her father at the age of eight to come West in a wagon train, or maybe because she was eight years older than Papa.
Papa and Johnny set eight, twelve-foot poles along the quarter mile from the road to our house. Workmen attached the line and hooked up the phone on the kitchen wall. The brown wooden box had an attached megaphone to speak into and a receiver hooked to a cord for listening. How exciting to hear my grandparents’ voices on the other end of that line. Johnny and I weren’t allowed to call, but we could talk if an adult was visiting with someone. It crackled and sputtered, sometimes cutting the conversation short. It was a miracle to be connected by a wire to someone three miles away. Yes, a real miracle.
One mid-September day, Mama, Papa, and Johnny hitched up the wagon and headed for the field to gather the last crop of hay. It was a short growing season at our elevation, and every bit of food for both animals and people was cherished. Dark clouds began gathering out west. They were moving with the speed of—oh no, lightning! They didn’t make it to the barn before the storm attacked. Lightning struck the fast-moving wagon, hitting the metal brads that held together the horses’ harnesses, sending sparks flying into the air. It made hair stand out in every direction and bounced off the metal axles of the wagon. “Why it didn’t kill us or those horses, I’ll never know,” Papa later recalled. “Sparks were shooting everywhere.”
Meanwhile, I’d seen the storm coming and hurried little fourteen-month-old Edna into the house, shutting up windows as a fierce wind began to blow. As I came downstairs to the kitchen, Edna was sitting on the floor, playing with her sock teddy bear. We were safe from the storm. I worried about the rest. Were they still out in the field? Had they seen the storm in time to get in?
Cr-a-a-c-k! Without warning, a blaze of fire shot from the telephone streaking to the wood cook stove on the other side of the kitchen—right over Edna’s head. Ka-boom! The house shook like a dancing skeleton. “Help!” I screamed, grabbing Edna and running out the door. “No place is safe! No place is safe!” I yelled. “The barn, the barn …” The barn had a lightning rod on top. It was supposed to keep the barn from getting struck. If we could just get to the barn. With Edna tight in my arms, I hurled myself across the grass and barnyard to the door that was only open wide enough to squeeze through. I threw myself and shrieking Edna onto the fresh hay. A big familiar hand gently shook my shoulder, “Are you two all right?”
Chapter 9
Mable
It became my job to take Edna off Mama’s hands when I got home from school. I taught her new words, played with her, helped her learn to walk, sang to her, and told her stories; whenever I could get a book, I read to her. It wasn’t a chore to take care of my little sister. I loved her so much. She loved me back. I wanted at least six kids when I grew up.
I never received a Christmas gift, except the usual orange, candy, and nuts sent by Uncle Martin who lived in California. Some years there might be a pair of homemade slippers or much-needed work boots for going to the chicken pen or sometimes a new pair of mittens or scarf.
When I was nine years of age, my stocking on Christmas morning held the most beautiful china doll I’d ever seen. She had black hair like mine, brown eyes, and a beautiful, white porcelain face with rosy, pink cheeks. I named her Mable. I hugged her tight and cried, “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You take good care of Edna,” Papa said. “We thought you were old enough to take care of a doll. You have to be very careful with her. She’ll break easy.”
“I will, I will,” I promised. Mable stayed in my room most of the time, keeping me company as I fell asleep and watching me all through the night. She was my greatest treasure.
Two years passed. In the summer, Mama worked in the field with the crew or cooked the noon meal. Edna, now three, was a busy little girl. I took care of her from the time she got up until bedtime. I hoped it was a big help to Mama, but she never made any comment or even said “thank you.”
Johnny hated every minute he had to work in the fields. He’d rather be whittling, writing stories, or learning to play his banjo, a twelfth birthday gift. So when there was a crew working our farm, he’d sneak off and work his way back to the house.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded on one of his escape days. “You’re in the field today.”
“You’re not going to tell me what to do.”
“I’ll tell Papa you snuck away.”
“You just keep your mouth shut or I’ll. . .”
“You’ll what?”
“You’ll be sorry you were ever born.”
“It isn’t right you don’t do your share of the work. Papa works hard so you get stuff like your old banjo. You get everything you want, but you won’t work for it!” By this time I was losing my temper.
“It’s none of your business what I do or what I get!”
He ran up to my room, grabbed Mable and yelled as he ran out the door, “I’m taking her. You’ll never get her back.”
I tore after him screaming, “No, no, not Mable. Please, not Mable. Please give her back.”
He climbed to the top of the chicken coop with his hostage, ignoring my pleas and shouted, “Don’t ever boss me around again!” He threw her to the ground, shattering her head, hands and feet into many pieces. His devious act broke through to my very soul. I lay on the ground moaning over the loss of my most prized possession.
“Now, I bet you’re so mad that you’d just like to go stuff yourself with bananas,” he yelled as he stomped into the house.
I never told and no one ever asked what happened to Mable.
Chapter 10
Automobiles and Airplanes
Living in the country had advantages. I loved the outdoors, working in the dirt, watching things grow, picking wild flowers, swimming in the pond, ice skating, and skiing in the winter. The quiet. Ah, the quiet. Time to think, time to imagine, time to plan.
The summer I turned twelve, my quiet time in the garden thinning radishes was suddenly interrupted by a strange sound; nothing like anything I’d ever heard. I stood, shaded my eyes, and stared all around. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the road.
“What’s that sound, Johnny?”
“Gosh if I know,” he answered, dropping the horse’s feed bucket. We ran toward the road full speed as the noise got louder and louder. It was coming from a huge dust ball rolling down the road.
“It’s an automobile!” yelled Johnny. “I heard the Rosenkranzes got one of those horseless things.” He started running again.
Mama came out of the house screaming, “Johnny, Susan, get in this house! Get in this house! Now!”
Johnny stopped, looked at me, and shook his head. “Mama’s scared of it. She heard one got away and ran into a house.” We both looked back the quarter mile down our little road, torn between obeying our Mama and seeing this automobile for ourselves. It sputtered and popped its way past the end of our road; we turned and walked back to our Mama who was still standing on the porch screaming.
“When I say get in the house, you get in the house. You hear? You’ll get run over by that new fang-dangled contraption. Don’t ever go near one. You hear?”
“Yes, Mama,” we replied, knowing we’d jump at the chance to see one.
That next chance came at the Fourth of July picnic at Winchester Lake. There it sat. An amazing, open air machine painted black with real leather seats. Four people could fit inside. Mr.
Rosenkranz was giving rides. What a thrill! How could Mama say no when everybody, large and small, was taking him up on it. We putted around the lake trail no faster than we could walk, but we didn’t have to do a thing. I was fascinated by the levers and buttons, but most of all how the wheel inside made the wheels outside go the direction he wanted.
Johnny was more than fascinated; he was obsessed. He hounded Papa from that day on until finally, when he turned sixteen, Papa bought a Model T. It held only two passengers and had a box on the back so things could be hauled in it. That made it farm practical as well as an extravagance. People could always ride in the back if need be.
The next year, another unfamiliar sound shattered our calm countryside. Those Rosenkranzes! Don’t know where he got money for all these new gadgets, but there he was flying an airplane right over our house. Mama came tearing out of the house screaming and yelling, but we couldn’t hear. We stood looking up with our mouths open. Unbelievable. A machine that could fly through the air and hold people, too. We’d heard about such a thing on the radio. Once I remember looking at pictures in a newspaper someone brought from Lewiston. Those pictures now became reality.
Mama was frantic. Where could she hide her family from such danger? Even if she corralled us all in the house or barn, the plane could hit the buildings. How could she keep us safe? I saw sheer terror on her face. I ran from the tree where I’d been picking apples and threw my arms around her as she collapsed on the ground sobbing. My mama was crying. I loved my mama. She wanted to keep me safe. That must mean she loved me too. But I received no return hug.
Chapter 11
If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie
There were two seasons on the farm—the working season from April through October and the preparing season November through March. Preparing season was when kids went to school, grain sacks were mended, clothes were sewn and patched, plows and harrows were cleaned and sharpened, and repairs were done to buildings. Most importantly, we took out time to have some fun.
Literaries—now those were some good times! There isn’t any such thing today. It was drama, performance, sing-a-longs, and comedians all rolled into one. The whole farm community would gather at the Chesley Schoolhouse on the first Saturday of the month, bringing a covered dish and something to perform after the feast. I’ll never forget one literary when my cousin Boyd was about eight years old; he got up to do a speaking piece. He cleared his throat, “Ahump,” and loudly recited. “Cream of Wheat is really neat. It makes you big and fat. If I eat my Cream of Wheat, will I be as big as that?” and he pointed right at Mrs. Zhalber, who was a very large lady. He finished, bowed, and there was utter silence. No one knew what to do. Suddenly there was this gurgling sound coming from Mrs. Zhalber in the front row. When we realized she was laughing, we all joined her and it brought down the house. After tha
t, Boyd’s mom always checked his material beforehand.
Sometimes, the food would be in the form of a box social. All the women and older girls would bring a box filled with their best cooking. They’d go to great lengths to make the box attractive to the men who would be bidding. Each cook was extremely secretive in getting her box to the schoolhouse so bidders had no idea who made it. Not even husbands knew what their wife’s box looked like. At the last “sold” announcement, each bidder claimed his box and the men formed a big circle around the room and the women faced them. The women walked around the inside circle clapping hands to music. The music stopped and the women scrambled around the room to claim their box and their eating partner. Kids always ate with their mother and the person who bought her box. All money from the box social went to the schoolhouse to help buy books and supplies and pay the teacher’s salary.
Schoolhouse dances were held on the other Saturdays. This entertainment was common in small rural communities. In fact, Mama and Papa met at the dance in Tekoa, Washington, when she was fifteen and he was seven. Papa took a liking to that beautiful, auburn-haired young woman. It was probably infatuation. After all, Minnie was eight years older. She was, however, willing to become a little girl long enough to dance with a handsome seven-year-old boy. Papa claimed it was true love.
Any local musician was welcomed to play at these schoolhouse jam sessions. They got together on Friday nights to practice and learn new tunes they heard on the radio. That invention changed not only the tunes but the style of music and the new steps. It seemed there was always someone who had been in Lewiston and picked up the latest.
Music seemed to follow my family’s life. During my teen years, my brother, Johnny, began courting a girl named Frankie. They seemed a great fit. The folks liked her. Six months into their courting, a new song hit the radio. The first line went: “Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts …” Of course, they heard that song from everyone, everywhere they went. At first it was fun, eventually it became irritating, and finally wore them out along with their interest in each other. But that’s another story.
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