It was so grand having almost everyone here for Thanksgiving (WE MISSED YOU, ALI AND ERIC). The Loa Community Center worked out very well. There was certainly plenty of room and those of you who know how to set up the TV to view pictures and movies did a great job. There was even a piano. We could have sung Thanksgiving songs and Christmas carols if we had wanted to do a good old fashioned type thing to amuse ourselves. The food was so-o-o extraordinarily good and there was plenty of it.
You all know Thanksgiving is my favorite Holiday. I love having my kids and grandkids here. You are all so dear to me. The more, the merrier. Having family and friends around is what makes Thanksgiving so special. Of course, having a lot of good food isn’t bad either, but it’s having all of you here that fills my heart with joy.
I know I told you that my next chapter would be about my Dad, but I’ve learned a lot in writing my memories of him. I can’t do it all in one installment. It may take three or four. There is so much to tell. So, I’m working on that and will make it available as soon as I’m satisfied with it. In the meantime, after such a fantastic Thanksgiving, with so much love and fun, I was reminded of Thanksgiving and Christmas when I was a child and I thought you may like to hear about that. When I used to tell my kids stories of my growing up years, they liked to call my reminiscing “Poor deprived mother stories.” I really don’t think I felt deprived, it was more a feeling that Thanksgiving and Christmas could have been more. And, I don’t mean more gifts or more food. I’ll explain that more, later. And, Juli suggested it would be appropriate at this time. Thanks, Juli.
My folks always had chickens, so what did we have for Thanksgiving dinner? Chicken, of course. I think I remember my mother roasting a chicken once but not on Thanksgiving. What I remember on Thanksgiving was chicken and noodle soup. We had potatoes, occasionally mashed, but usually boiled. When we got them on our plate we mashed them and put the chicken and noodle soup over it. It was not thin chicken noodle soup like you get in a can of Campbell chicken noodle soup. It was somewhat thicker. I was telling Juli about my mom’s chicken noodle soup and we came to the conclusion that it was thicker, more like thin gravy than broth. My mom made her own noodles. It was quite a process. She made the dough with flour, eggs and butter. I’m not sure what else. I may have her recipe somewhere. I’ll have to do some digging to find it. When it was the right consistency to roll out she would flour her board and rolling pin and roll the dough almost paper thin (maybe to the thickness of four or five sheets of 20 lb. paper). She’d take a sharp knife and cut the thin dough into strips about two inches wide (they were the length of the rolled out dough); she’d dust the dough with a little more flour, pick one two-inch wide strip and lay it on top of the next strip. She’d continue doing that until she had about six strips piled on top of each other. It was the most amazing thing. She never measured the width of the strips and yet, when she had them piled up, each strip was almost exactly the same width as the rest of the strips in the pile. Then, she’d make another pile of about six strips and so on until all the dough was in neat piles. After that, she’d cut the piles of strips crosswise into narrow strips that were, maybe, about a sixteenth of an inch wide by two inches long. She didn’t make wide egg noodles. The reason her Chicken noodle soup was thicker than Campbell’s was because of the extra flour she dusted the dough with to keep the noodles from sticking to each other.
Mom usually made the noodles two or three days ahead of when she planned to use them so they could dry. Thanksgiving morning, Daddy would choose a chicken, chop its head off and pull off as many feathers as he could, then present the chicken to my mother and she’d take it from there. There were normally a few feathers (small, hair-like feathers that couldn’t be pulled out) on the bird so Mom would roll up a sheet or two of newspaper from corner to corner so it would be long; she’d light the end of the rolled up paper in the stove and use the burning paper to burn off the remaining feathers. After that she’d work on the pin feathers that were still in the skin. When that was completed, she’d cut the chicken open and get the guts out, being careful to save the heart, liver and gizzard. Of course, the gizzard is what digests the food the chicken eats so she’d have to cut it open and dispose of the contents of the gizzard. Oh, before I forget. For those of you who don’t know: Chickens eat small pieces of gravel (grit). Chickens have no teeth and depend entirely on a different method of reducing roughage into digestible particles. The grit goes into the gizzard and helps grind up the food that comes to the gizzard so the food can be absorbed by the chicken (to keep him or her crowing, clucking or laying eggs). Obviously, for those of you who enjoy gizzards, you can be happy that someone opens the gizzard and removes the material contained within. Otherwise, you’d be seeing your Dentist frequently. Personally, I’ve never liked the texture of the gizzard or heart. I notice, however, that several of you who were here for Thanksgiving do like those parts. And, yes, I do love deep fried chicken livers.
After Mom cleaned and washed the chicken, she’d cut it into pieces: Drumsticks, wings, thighs, two back pieces, the wishbone and two breast pieces and into the pot it would go, skin and all. I don’t know about you but I do not care for boiled chicken skin. After it boils it becomes rubbery and slick. I shudder when I think of getting a piece of boiled chicken skin in my mouth. The texture was most displeasing to me. My Dad loved it. And, by the way, my parents were totally “old school” when it came to food. You were expected to eat what was on your plate: “Clean your plate!” “Waste not, want not!” and so on. Hey, I loved the noodles and I loved the chicken meat but oh my, the chicken skin was a different story. If we had had a dog and if he had been allowed in the house, I could have fed it to him under the table. Mom didn’t like dogs much so we didn’t have dogs (my brother, Durant, had a dog for a short time but that’s another story for another day). And, if we had had a dog, it would most certainly, never been allowed in the house. When I was young and my mother or dad dished up my food I had to take what came but as I became old enough to serve myself, the chicken and noodles were much more enjoyable.
So, we had chicken noodle soup over potatoes, which I really love, but I remember wishing we could have a turkey like the families in the story books at school and like the Pilgrims at the first Thanksgiving. (I understand there are several theories as to whether the Pilgrims really did have turkey.) If turkeys were available, and they must have been, because other people in Blanding had turkey, but my parents would never have been able to afford one.
Okay, so what else did we eat. We most assuredly had baked or stewed squash, or carrots, good homemade whole wheat bread with good homemade butter, probably some green beans or peas because Mom had bottled vegetables. We usually had pie. Not apple pie, though we certainly had plenty of apples. We had squash pie. I mentioned in my Halloween story about squash pie---it was sweetened and Mom may have added egg and milk to it before it was baked, but there were no spices in it so it tasted pretty bland. But the whipped cream on top was delicious. You may ask why there were no spices. That question deserves an answer so I will tell you briefly why. My Dad had been diagnosed with ulcers some years before (and he was actually in the hospital for treatment—I don’t know how long he was there); the doctors told him not to eat spices, so he never ate spices again; not pepper, either. There is more to the story but that will come at a later time. Also, occasionally we had a lemon meringue pie. Sometimes, instead of lemon pie, Mom would make her Eggless Cake two or three days ahead of time so we’d have some of that for dessert. I really liked the Eggless Cake. The Cake didn’t require as much lard as a pie crust. Mom’s pies were never that great. The crusts were a little tough. Here’s the reason for that. Mom had to make her own lard, which she rendered out of the fat from the pig we slaughtered each fall. I don’t know whether it was possible to buy something like Crisco. If it was, we didn’t because we couldn’t afford it. I remember when I was in my teens, we did occasionally buy a can of Crisco; if it was available before that I really can’t say. Anyway, back to the lard. It was time consuming work to render the grease out of the fat. We had several metal buckets she poured it into when it was done but, remember, however much lard she got had to last us a year---until the next pig was slaughtered. That’s why Mom ‘s pie crusts were a little less flaky than they might have been---she didn’t add enough to the pie crust to make it tender and flaky. I can understand her reluctance.
The food we ate was good food but not the feast we all make for our family Thanksgivings now. However, that is not what I meant when I said that I always wanted something more. When all my children and grandchildren get together for Thanksgiving now, it is a big celebration in and of itself. The food is grand and good and tasty and wonderful but it is the fun we all have when we get together. It’s the hugs and kisses and laughter and horse-play. It’s the catching up on things of the past year. It’s the “being together”. I love that and look forward to it from year to year. When I was a child, even when an older brother or sister came home for Thanksgiving, there wasn’t the fun and good times that ALL OF YOU bring to our gatherings. Oh, I loved my brothers and sisters and I was always excited to see them, but somehow there was a certain reserve. Of course, I was extremely shy so I didn’t add anything to the party. We had tons of relatives in Blanding but our family never got together with another family to celebrate. I think that may have helped. Perhaps if there had been more people there we’d have had more fun or something.
Fortunately, all of that changed when I was 14. My Aunt Jenny, who lived across the street north of us came to our house and asked my Mom if we’d like to get together for Thanksgiving that year. Mom agreed and thus, a short-lived tradition began. I really don’t remember what we furnished for the meal but we went over to Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ben’s house (it was larger than ours). Aunt Jenny had roasted two chickens and made dressing to go with them. And Aunt Jenny and her daughter, Delsa, made pies. I don’t remember what kind but I remember two kinds. We may have taken mashed potatoes and a vegetable---I wish I could remember more of the details of the food but I do remember how much fun it was. Finally, Thanksgiving seemed what I thought it should be. Aunt Jenny was funny and talkative. Uncle Ben liked me a lot and joked with all of us. Actually, Uncle Ben was on his best behavior, as I recall. Sometimes he could be ornery. He was never ornery to me and he and Daddy got along well. (They were brothers, after all.) But frequently, he was ornery to Aunt Jenny (that’s another story which I will tell you at another time). It was a fun Thanksgiving.
When I was 14, our neighbor across the street to the east (Vivian Redd) asked me to work for her: Cleaning house, ironing, tending children, etc. Generally, I was a mother’s helper. I was at her house to help on Tuesday before Thanksgiving and she mentioned planning to cook a turkey for their dinner. I said, “I’ve never tasted turkey. Does it taste like chicken?” She seemed quite amazed that I had never tasted turkey and said, “Okay, you come over on Friday. I’ll save a piece just for you.” I was really excited. I went to her house on Friday, and sure enough, she had saved a piece for me. It was delicious. So, Thanksgiving Day of 1947, I had my first taste of turkey.
The next three years we had Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Jenny’s house. It was very fun and memorable for me. I don’t know whether they continued the tradition after I graduated and left home. All I know is: I finally felt “complete”. Thanksgiving was, at least a little bit, like it was supposed to be. I think it was at that time I realized Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. It still is.
Grandpa and I got married in November of 1951 and headed straight for the El Toro Marine Base by Santa Ana, California. That’s where we would live for the next six weeks. We lived ½ block from the beach at Newport Beach, California. Talk about a new experience for a naive little country girl who had rarely been anywhere. We had some friends there and we all decided to get together for Thanksgiving Dinner. We had it at our apartment and I did most of the cooking. I knew absolutely nothing about cooking a turkey and very little about making stuffing. Certainly, I was not a pie maker at that time, although I do believe we had apple pie. I did know how to make rolls so we had hot rolls. Frankly, I can’t remember the menu we had. I just know that the turkey turned out okay, as did the rest of the meal. Two of the guests were unmarried. Perhaps they brought the pies. One other couple was there: Dave and Loral Erickson. She was only 16 and knew even less than I. I believe we had yams of some kind (not the wonderful yams and pineapple we have at OUR Thanksgiving dinner). I may have asked one of the ladies in the Ward at Santa Ana how to make them. Maybe that’s how I was able to cook the turkey, as well.
I do remember it was fun and I was very proud that I had been able to cook most of the food and that it was actually edible.
The next year, Grandpa and I lived in Albany, Georgia. There was a wonderful lady in our little branch who was a fantastic cook. Her name was Sister Williams. She invited us and the Elders to Thanksgiving dinner. Again, it was how Thanksgiving should be: family, friends and food. In 1953 we were invited to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my sister, Grace and her family. I believe my sister Ora and her family were there, it was a big, noisy, fun crowd. In 1954, Grandpa and I were in Seattle, Washington. Grandpa transferred to the University of Washington to continue his study of Architecture. We were alone in 1954 and I cooked dinner, again, but we were invited to friend’s homes in 1955 and 1956.
We came back to Utah in March of 1957. I got pregnant with Bret that month and the following Thanksgiving we had Thanksgiving dinner with Grandpa’s family. That’s when I first tasted SNOW PUDDING. The rest is history. Bret was born December 21, 1957 and we have seen many wonderful Thanksgivings since then---not the least of which was the one we just celebrated November 22, 2007. Thank you all for coming to Loa and making an old lady so very happy.
I will tell you about my growing up Christmases in a later installment.
Now: Happy December Birthdays: Jack, December 11; Bret, December 21; Jackie, December 22; Nathan, December 25; Kadi, December 31. Hope you have a great day.
I love you all. I’ll be back later with more.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
WATER, SATURDAY NIGHT BATHS, ELECTRICITY
Before I begin this chapter I must apologize to James. He is my first-born grandchild. I know, very well, that his birthday is September 15th. Yet, somehow, when I was saying "Happy Birthday" to those who have September and October birthdays, I missed his date and did not include it with the rest. James, I will never forget to include your birthday on September 15th again. Sorry, James. I love you.
Also, my apologies to Zac. I put his birthday on October 10th and it is actually on October 13th. I will never again forget to list your birthday on October 13th. I love you, too Zac. AND, I have made the corrections at the bottom of that blog chapter so they are there permanently, for everyone to see.
Alas, I have forgotten the year in which some of my grandchildren were born. I would really appreciate an e-mail from the father or mother of all of my grandchildren (and great-grandchild) listing the year of birth of each. Then, I will have a permanent record which I will keep in a very safe place where I will always be able to refer to it. Thank you very much. (My apologies that I did not record the year of each birth as they occurred.) Now, on with the saga.
Apparently, my parents did not have running water in their house until after I was born. That's how Grace remembers it. I'm sure it is accurate because she was almost 10 when I was born. They did have a tap somewhere outside. Probably not too far from the house, but if it was not in the house, it was TOO FAR away. I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like to have babies and diapers (no disposable diapers in those days) without running hot and cold water at your fingertips, not to mention sheets, overalls, towels and everything else that needed to be laundered. Fortunately, after my dad built the "lean-to" on the two original rooms, he brought running water into the house (COLD water only). My parents didn't have a water heater until the early 1960's. That was when my dad built yet another addition onto their house. He built a nice big living room, a big kitchen and a bathroom. Yeah!!! Hot, running water AND a toilet in the house. There was a big bathtub in the bathroom, as well. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Yes, after I was born we had cold running water---but no sink. We had wash basins, one large and one smaller. So, how did we brush our teeth? Just like all of you do when you go camping: We filled a cup with water, took our toothbrush and went out on the back porch or into the backyard to brush teeth---every day, winter and summer. Sometimes we had toothpaste and sometimes we just had to use soap---yuck! Fortunately, we never had to use Mom's homemade LYE soap. But even the toothpaste we did have didn't taste as pleasant as what you guys all use. It was very chalky tasting. Anyway, as you can understand, we had to be very careful about letting the water run inasmuch as there was no drain in the house. When we washed hands we generally put some water into one of the basins and washed our hands. We didn't just let the water run. I remember washing my hands in water someone else had already used. After the water had been used two or three times, we picked up the wash basin, carried it out on the back porch and threw the water as far as we could so it didn't land on the path where we walked by the side of the house. No one wanted a muddy path in the summer or an icy path in the winter. Mom was always a stickler about hand washing. I was taught to wash my hands after returning from the outhouse, playing outside, taking care of animals, or touching almost anything and everything. I always washed my hands carefully and frequently and I stilll do. We may not have always had the most sanitary conditions, but we tried. Sometimes I wonder if I have a "hand washing fetish." If I do, I learned it from my mom.
I should add one more thing about hand washing. When I was young, water was extremely scarce in Blanding (I will be telling you more about that at a later time), so during the summer, most of the time we carried the wash basin outside and watered something with it---flowers, trees, the garden, etc. (Finally, sometime in the 1940's my dad installed a kitchen sink. It made everything so much easier. However, in the summer, we still used a wash basin and carried the water out to water something.)
Same thing with bath water. In the summer we generally carried the tub out and dumped the water on something that needed water. You remember that we had no "bathroom" nor did we have a traditional bath tub. So, where did we take our baths? I'm going to tell you. Keep in mind: Whatever we did that required hot water, we had to heat the water on the stove---for baths, laundry, house cleaning, etc., etc.
While we had our big stove with the "witch roasting" size oven, we did have the seven gallon reservoir that was always hot when there was a fire in the stove. We always had to remember that when we took water out of the reservoir we had to refill it so it would be hot for the next person. In addition, we heated a lot of water on top of the stove---in pots, pans and large teakettles, plus tubs, dish pans and so on. Do any of you out there know what a #3 galvanized wash tub is? I do! I do! That was our bath tub. While I was a child, the #3 tub was great. There was plenty of room for a little kid to get a bath. Oh, by the way---sometimes we had to share bath water---don't you love that idea? I was lucky. Because I was the youngest and littlest, I usually got first shot at the tub, then my brother, George, got to have his bath. I don't remember more than two people using the same bath water. If that sounds "gross," I can tell you: If that's all you know and have had no experiences with which to compare it, you don't worry about it. That's just how things were.
Now, consider this: We all grew up and still had to use the #3 tub as adults (it was the biggest tub we had). Some people had oblong shaped tubs but ours were round. After we were through with our bath, we washed out the tub (with the water in which you had bathed), carried the tub outside and watered something with it, then hung the tub on a hook on the outside of the house. I should mention---generally, we got dressed before we took the tub outside.
If you're wondering how adults could get a bath in such a small tub, I'll tell you. We usually put the tub on the floor in the kitchen (only once in a while did we put it in the living room). We had to time our baths just right not to interfere with meals, cooking, doing dishes and whatever else took place in the kitchen. One good thing: Saturday night was generally set aside for baths. When we got a bath, everyone else had to go somewhere else for the duration of the bath. We kids usually took fairly short baths so it didn't tie up the kitchen very long, and Daddy didn't take very long, either. Mom always tied up the kitchen for a couple of hours. No, she couldn't lie back and enjoy a bubble bath or anything wonderful like that but she had problems that were almost beyond imagination. I won't go into that now, but don't let me forget to tell you. It took me a lot of years to appreciate what she had to go through almost her entire married life.
But, back to the story. My mom couldn't walk much and we had no vehicle. It was almost impossible for her to go to Sunday School AND Sacrament Meeting (that was back in the days when Priesthood Meeting was at 9:00 to 10:00 a.m., Sunday School was at 10:30 to 12:00 a.m. and Sacrament Meeting lasted two hours and was later in the afternoon or evening, depending on the time of year) so mom got her bath while the rest of us were at Sunday School. Sometimes she wasn't through by the time we came home from Sunday School.
Hey, I got sidetracked! Now I'll describe how adults get baths in a #3 tub. First, I washed my hair be leaning over the tub. We always had a pan of warm water to pour over our hair for the final rinse. Oh, I'm going to side track again for a minute. When I was small, I had really white, blond hair. Grace wanted mom to rinse my hair with lemon juice to keep it blond (yes, lemon juice is a bleach) but we couldn't afford the lemons so my hair became light brown, then darker until it was a dark, medium brown. Now it's white again (I don't use lemon juice). It just goes to show you that many things come full circle. We didn't have conditioners, but we always had vinegar---which, as it turns out, is a pretty good rinse for hair. My hair was always shiny, soft, healthy and beautiful---so what if I did smell like a salad? Now, back to the story. After my hair was clean, I sat down in the tub with my legs hanging over the outside of the tub. I soaped and rinsed, then I stood up and stepped into the tub and washed my feet and legs---and I was done. Of course, we only took one bath a week, whether we needed it or not.
However, by the time I was 13 or so, I realized that I wasn't entirely happy with only one bath a week but Mom wouldn't give up the kitchen for a full-blown bath more than once a week, so I took a wash basin with warm water, a wash cloth, soap and a towel into my bedroom (remember, my bedroom had no heat in winter) and I would take a "spit" or "sponge" bath---whatever you want to call it. You CAN manage to be clean and "nice to be near" even with the restrictions I had. In my mother's defense, she did let me have two real baths a week when I was 15 (Saturday AND Wednesday night). I continued to supplement with my little sponge baths. I did only wash my hair once a week. Saturday night, everyone in the family got a bath, except Mom.
There will be more stories about water later but now I want to tell you about electricity. Hey, I have to mention electricity because it's in the title of this chapter.
For years I have been thinking that I remember when my folks got electricity to their home, but as I analyze everything in my mind, I guess they had basic electricity before I was born or soon after. I'm sure the reason I thought I remembered when they obtained electric power was because it was so limited.
The Power Plant was uptown next to the Post Office. The name of the man who took care of the Power Plant was Lynn Lyman. (For those of you who know Janae, Lynn Lyman was Janae's husband's grandfather.) Lynn lived half a block from the Power Plant. That's important because he had to spend a lot of time rushing over there to get things going every time the power went down. (If you think you have a lot of power glitches where you live, I'm sure it's "nothing" compared to our situation in Blanding in the 1930's.) Anyway, we had a light hanging from a cord in the middle of the living room ceiling. We had a green shade over the bulb. There was another one in the middle of the ceiling in my Mom and Dad's bedroom. Daddy was able to get a "double plug," (for want of a better description) one side had a socket for the light bulb and the other one was an outlet to plug in an electric cord. We screwed in the bulb tighter to turn the light on and loosened the bulb to turn the light off. We plugged an electric cord into the outlet side of it and strung the cord through the door into the kitchen and hung the end of the cord on a hook and screwed a bulb into that socket so we'd have a light in the kitchen. We also had to twist the globe in the kitchen tighter to turn it on and loosen it to turn it off. So, we had electricity---but not really. Here's the deal! Lynn Lyman turned the power plant on at 6:00 p.m. in the evening and it ran until 10:30 p.m. At 10:15 p.m. Lynn would blink the lights so we knew we had 15 minutes to finish whatever we were doing. At 10:30 p.m. the power was off until 6:00 p.m. the next evening. There was one exception. The power was turned on Monday mornings until noon so the ladies could do their laundry. (There were very primitive electric washing machines available and somehow, my folks got one---Thank Heaven!). We had to get started early so we'd be sure to be finished by noon. (You know the old saying: Monday, wash; Tuesday, iron, etc., etc.)
You may be wondering how we could get the ironing done on Tuesday if there was no electricity. We had irons we heated on the stove. We had three of them. Two big ones and one smaller one. We had a handle that fit all three sizes. When the irons were hot we put the handle on one of them and ironed until the iron was too cool to use; we put it back on the stove to reheat, took another one and ironed until it was too cool, put it back on the stove and ironed with the third one. By the time the third one was too cool, the first one was hot again. So---how about that? We didn't need electricity. The down side was: The stove had to be hot and in the summer it meant sweltering in the heat to do the ironing. EVERYTHING had to be ironed in those days. Wash and wear hadn't been invented and knits were not an option.
You may wonder what we did for light when the electricity was off. We had a coal-oil lamp. My mother had a Saturday night ritual. She would take the glass chimney off the lamp and polish it (the chimney had a tendency to get smoky); she'd bring in the can of coal-oil, set the lamp on the step between the living room and kitchen; she'd kneel down on the kitchen floor (it was lower than the living room); she'd take the lamp apart, trim the wick and fill the lamp bowl with coal-oil; put the lamp back together again and we were ready for another week of lamp light in lieu of electric light.
Eventually, we got electricity full time---sort of. We had lots of outages but things were improving. It was many years before Mom put the coal-oil lamp away for good. Later, we even got an electric iron. It had no controls on it, so we plugged it in until it got hot. When it was too hot we unplugged it and ironed until it got too cool, then we plugged it in again. It was quite primitive but we thought it was real progress.
I'm trying to find some pictures of some of the things we used, or perhaps someone can do some sketches for me so you can get an idea of the things I'm trying to describe. It will be really cool if I can do that. We'll see.
One more thing: Danielle, happy "Sweet Sixteenth Birthday" on November 13th. I believe you are the only November grandchild. Keep doing what you're doing.
That's it for now. There's lots more to come. Next time I think I will try to introduce you to my Dad. I know none of my grandchildren knew him (I include Kylie when I say grandchildren) and I don't think my kids REALLY knew him. Russ has expressed an interest in learning about him. I will be happy to tell you. When I'm through, I know you'll love him as I do.
I love you all.
Also, my apologies to Zac. I put his birthday on October 10th and it is actually on October 13th. I will never again forget to list your birthday on October 13th. I love you, too Zac. AND, I have made the corrections at the bottom of that blog chapter so they are there permanently, for everyone to see.
Alas, I have forgotten the year in which some of my grandchildren were born. I would really appreciate an e-mail from the father or mother of all of my grandchildren (and great-grandchild) listing the year of birth of each. Then, I will have a permanent record which I will keep in a very safe place where I will always be able to refer to it. Thank you very much. (My apologies that I did not record the year of each birth as they occurred.) Now, on with the saga.
Apparently, my parents did not have running water in their house until after I was born. That's how Grace remembers it. I'm sure it is accurate because she was almost 10 when I was born. They did have a tap somewhere outside. Probably not too far from the house, but if it was not in the house, it was TOO FAR away. I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like to have babies and diapers (no disposable diapers in those days) without running hot and cold water at your fingertips, not to mention sheets, overalls, towels and everything else that needed to be laundered. Fortunately, after my dad built the "lean-to" on the two original rooms, he brought running water into the house (COLD water only). My parents didn't have a water heater until the early 1960's. That was when my dad built yet another addition onto their house. He built a nice big living room, a big kitchen and a bathroom. Yeah!!! Hot, running water AND a toilet in the house. There was a big bathtub in the bathroom, as well. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Yes, after I was born we had cold running water---but no sink. We had wash basins, one large and one smaller. So, how did we brush our teeth? Just like all of you do when you go camping: We filled a cup with water, took our toothbrush and went out on the back porch or into the backyard to brush teeth---every day, winter and summer. Sometimes we had toothpaste and sometimes we just had to use soap---yuck! Fortunately, we never had to use Mom's homemade LYE soap. But even the toothpaste we did have didn't taste as pleasant as what you guys all use. It was very chalky tasting. Anyway, as you can understand, we had to be very careful about letting the water run inasmuch as there was no drain in the house. When we washed hands we generally put some water into one of the basins and washed our hands. We didn't just let the water run. I remember washing my hands in water someone else had already used. After the water had been used two or three times, we picked up the wash basin, carried it out on the back porch and threw the water as far as we could so it didn't land on the path where we walked by the side of the house. No one wanted a muddy path in the summer or an icy path in the winter. Mom was always a stickler about hand washing. I was taught to wash my hands after returning from the outhouse, playing outside, taking care of animals, or touching almost anything and everything. I always washed my hands carefully and frequently and I stilll do. We may not have always had the most sanitary conditions, but we tried. Sometimes I wonder if I have a "hand washing fetish." If I do, I learned it from my mom.
I should add one more thing about hand washing. When I was young, water was extremely scarce in Blanding (I will be telling you more about that at a later time), so during the summer, most of the time we carried the wash basin outside and watered something with it---flowers, trees, the garden, etc. (Finally, sometime in the 1940's my dad installed a kitchen sink. It made everything so much easier. However, in the summer, we still used a wash basin and carried the water out to water something.)
Same thing with bath water. In the summer we generally carried the tub out and dumped the water on something that needed water. You remember that we had no "bathroom" nor did we have a traditional bath tub. So, where did we take our baths? I'm going to tell you. Keep in mind: Whatever we did that required hot water, we had to heat the water on the stove---for baths, laundry, house cleaning, etc., etc.
While we had our big stove with the "witch roasting" size oven, we did have the seven gallon reservoir that was always hot when there was a fire in the stove. We always had to remember that when we took water out of the reservoir we had to refill it so it would be hot for the next person. In addition, we heated a lot of water on top of the stove---in pots, pans and large teakettles, plus tubs, dish pans and so on. Do any of you out there know what a #3 galvanized wash tub is? I do! I do! That was our bath tub. While I was a child, the #3 tub was great. There was plenty of room for a little kid to get a bath. Oh, by the way---sometimes we had to share bath water---don't you love that idea? I was lucky. Because I was the youngest and littlest, I usually got first shot at the tub, then my brother, George, got to have his bath. I don't remember more than two people using the same bath water. If that sounds "gross," I can tell you: If that's all you know and have had no experiences with which to compare it, you don't worry about it. That's just how things were.
Now, consider this: We all grew up and still had to use the #3 tub as adults (it was the biggest tub we had). Some people had oblong shaped tubs but ours were round. After we were through with our bath, we washed out the tub (with the water in which you had bathed), carried the tub outside and watered something with it, then hung the tub on a hook on the outside of the house. I should mention---generally, we got dressed before we took the tub outside.
If you're wondering how adults could get a bath in such a small tub, I'll tell you. We usually put the tub on the floor in the kitchen (only once in a while did we put it in the living room). We had to time our baths just right not to interfere with meals, cooking, doing dishes and whatever else took place in the kitchen. One good thing: Saturday night was generally set aside for baths. When we got a bath, everyone else had to go somewhere else for the duration of the bath. We kids usually took fairly short baths so it didn't tie up the kitchen very long, and Daddy didn't take very long, either. Mom always tied up the kitchen for a couple of hours. No, she couldn't lie back and enjoy a bubble bath or anything wonderful like that but she had problems that were almost beyond imagination. I won't go into that now, but don't let me forget to tell you. It took me a lot of years to appreciate what she had to go through almost her entire married life.
But, back to the story. My mom couldn't walk much and we had no vehicle. It was almost impossible for her to go to Sunday School AND Sacrament Meeting (that was back in the days when Priesthood Meeting was at 9:00 to 10:00 a.m., Sunday School was at 10:30 to 12:00 a.m. and Sacrament Meeting lasted two hours and was later in the afternoon or evening, depending on the time of year) so mom got her bath while the rest of us were at Sunday School. Sometimes she wasn't through by the time we came home from Sunday School.
Hey, I got sidetracked! Now I'll describe how adults get baths in a #3 tub. First, I washed my hair be leaning over the tub. We always had a pan of warm water to pour over our hair for the final rinse. Oh, I'm going to side track again for a minute. When I was small, I had really white, blond hair. Grace wanted mom to rinse my hair with lemon juice to keep it blond (yes, lemon juice is a bleach) but we couldn't afford the lemons so my hair became light brown, then darker until it was a dark, medium brown. Now it's white again (I don't use lemon juice). It just goes to show you that many things come full circle. We didn't have conditioners, but we always had vinegar---which, as it turns out, is a pretty good rinse for hair. My hair was always shiny, soft, healthy and beautiful---so what if I did smell like a salad? Now, back to the story. After my hair was clean, I sat down in the tub with my legs hanging over the outside of the tub. I soaped and rinsed, then I stood up and stepped into the tub and washed my feet and legs---and I was done. Of course, we only took one bath a week, whether we needed it or not.
However, by the time I was 13 or so, I realized that I wasn't entirely happy with only one bath a week but Mom wouldn't give up the kitchen for a full-blown bath more than once a week, so I took a wash basin with warm water, a wash cloth, soap and a towel into my bedroom (remember, my bedroom had no heat in winter) and I would take a "spit" or "sponge" bath---whatever you want to call it. You CAN manage to be clean and "nice to be near" even with the restrictions I had. In my mother's defense, she did let me have two real baths a week when I was 15 (Saturday AND Wednesday night). I continued to supplement with my little sponge baths. I did only wash my hair once a week. Saturday night, everyone in the family got a bath, except Mom.
There will be more stories about water later but now I want to tell you about electricity. Hey, I have to mention electricity because it's in the title of this chapter.
For years I have been thinking that I remember when my folks got electricity to their home, but as I analyze everything in my mind, I guess they had basic electricity before I was born or soon after. I'm sure the reason I thought I remembered when they obtained electric power was because it was so limited.
The Power Plant was uptown next to the Post Office. The name of the man who took care of the Power Plant was Lynn Lyman. (For those of you who know Janae, Lynn Lyman was Janae's husband's grandfather.) Lynn lived half a block from the Power Plant. That's important because he had to spend a lot of time rushing over there to get things going every time the power went down. (If you think you have a lot of power glitches where you live, I'm sure it's "nothing" compared to our situation in Blanding in the 1930's.) Anyway, we had a light hanging from a cord in the middle of the living room ceiling. We had a green shade over the bulb. There was another one in the middle of the ceiling in my Mom and Dad's bedroom. Daddy was able to get a "double plug," (for want of a better description) one side had a socket for the light bulb and the other one was an outlet to plug in an electric cord. We screwed in the bulb tighter to turn the light on and loosened the bulb to turn the light off. We plugged an electric cord into the outlet side of it and strung the cord through the door into the kitchen and hung the end of the cord on a hook and screwed a bulb into that socket so we'd have a light in the kitchen. We also had to twist the globe in the kitchen tighter to turn it on and loosen it to turn it off. So, we had electricity---but not really. Here's the deal! Lynn Lyman turned the power plant on at 6:00 p.m. in the evening and it ran until 10:30 p.m. At 10:15 p.m. Lynn would blink the lights so we knew we had 15 minutes to finish whatever we were doing. At 10:30 p.m. the power was off until 6:00 p.m. the next evening. There was one exception. The power was turned on Monday mornings until noon so the ladies could do their laundry. (There were very primitive electric washing machines available and somehow, my folks got one---Thank Heaven!). We had to get started early so we'd be sure to be finished by noon. (You know the old saying: Monday, wash; Tuesday, iron, etc., etc.)
You may be wondering how we could get the ironing done on Tuesday if there was no electricity. We had irons we heated on the stove. We had three of them. Two big ones and one smaller one. We had a handle that fit all three sizes. When the irons were hot we put the handle on one of them and ironed until the iron was too cool to use; we put it back on the stove to reheat, took another one and ironed until it was too cool, put it back on the stove and ironed with the third one. By the time the third one was too cool, the first one was hot again. So---how about that? We didn't need electricity. The down side was: The stove had to be hot and in the summer it meant sweltering in the heat to do the ironing. EVERYTHING had to be ironed in those days. Wash and wear hadn't been invented and knits were not an option.
You may wonder what we did for light when the electricity was off. We had a coal-oil lamp. My mother had a Saturday night ritual. She would take the glass chimney off the lamp and polish it (the chimney had a tendency to get smoky); she'd bring in the can of coal-oil, set the lamp on the step between the living room and kitchen; she'd kneel down on the kitchen floor (it was lower than the living room); she'd take the lamp apart, trim the wick and fill the lamp bowl with coal-oil; put the lamp back together again and we were ready for another week of lamp light in lieu of electric light.
Eventually, we got electricity full time---sort of. We had lots of outages but things were improving. It was many years before Mom put the coal-oil lamp away for good. Later, we even got an electric iron. It had no controls on it, so we plugged it in until it got hot. When it was too hot we unplugged it and ironed until it got too cool, then we plugged it in again. It was quite primitive but we thought it was real progress.
I'm trying to find some pictures of some of the things we used, or perhaps someone can do some sketches for me so you can get an idea of the things I'm trying to describe. It will be really cool if I can do that. We'll see.
One more thing: Danielle, happy "Sweet Sixteenth Birthday" on November 13th. I believe you are the only November grandchild. Keep doing what you're doing.
That's it for now. There's lots more to come. Next time I think I will try to introduce you to my Dad. I know none of my grandchildren knew him (I include Kylie when I say grandchildren) and I don't think my kids REALLY knew him. Russ has expressed an interest in learning about him. I will be happy to tell you. When I'm through, I know you'll love him as I do.
I love you all.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
HALLOWEEN AND STUFF
I don't remember Halloween being a big deal when I was young. I read in books that people made Jack-O-Lanterns and dressed-up for parties but I don't remember anyone ever doing that for school. I do remember some of the kids talking about going out and doing some pranks--mostly harmless. I don't remember anyone mentioning dressing up. I didn't hear about "trick or treat" until I was 11 or 12. Someone mentioned it and said, "Let's go trick or treating." No one was in a costume but there were five or six of us, so we decided to try it. We didn't have made-up faces or anything. We just went to the door, knocked and shouted, "Trick or Treat." I remember going to my Uncle Ben and Aunt Jenny's house. Aunt Jenny came to the door and laughed when she saw us. She wanted to know what kind of trick we were going to play if she didn't give us a treat. We told her we didn't know what kind of tricks to play but we'd like a treat, so, as I recall, she gave each of us an apple. I don't remember going anywhere else. It wasn't all that much fun. We preferred to go to someone's house and make candy so we did. That's the only time I went trick or treating. (I will be telling you more about Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ben at a later time. I had two favorite aunts. One was Aunt Jenny and the other was Aunt Ellen. I'll tell you more about Aunt Ellen, also.)
I always thought it would be cool to have a pumpkin and make a Jack-O-Lantern but I don't remember ever seeing pumpkins for sale anywhere. I probably didn't have the money for one, anyway. I don't remember ever seeing anyone grow pumpkins. They probably did, because people made pumpkin pies and I don't think canned pumpkin was an option then. My dad didn't grow pumpkins. He grew squash. Squash could be stored in the "pit" to eat during the winter. We had lots of squash. My mother made squash pie but she never put spices in it so it was not all that tasty. I really liked the whipped cream on top, though. I'm not sure what I'd have done with a Jack-O-Lantern if I had one, but it was fun to think about having one.
Now, don't let my boring Halloweens lull you into thinking that no one else in Blanding did things on Halloween. Generally, it was the older boys in town (who should have known better) who did the pranks and some of them were not necessarily nice pranks. It was the same thing every year. A group of boys would go out and do their thing, then they'd grow up and go away and another group would take over.
I told you about our outhouse. We weren't the only family in town to have an outhouse. When I was young, probably half the houses in town had outhouses. Yeh, I know you know what I'm about to tell you. Some of the boys would go out to see how many outhouses they could tip over without getting caught. Our three-holer was tipped over at least once because I saw it. I heard stories that occasionally someone would accidentally fall in the hole. I know the stories were true--it was a hazard of the prank. Pretty GROSS, huh? We just figured it was "instant justice." I often wondered if a person felt entirely clean ever again after having fallen in a toilet hole filled with "crap." Whenever an outhouse was tipped over it was always pushed from behind and it would fall on the front side where the door was. There were a couple of times when someone was actually inside the outhouse when it was pushed over and that person was unable to get out until someone else found the outhouse on the ground and gave aid to the entrapped person inside. You may ask how that could happen. It was like this: The guys who did the tipping were sneaky and quiet. They didn't want to make any noise for fear of getting caught. Apparently, on occasion, they were able to sneak up on someone inside--it just happened. I remember waking up the day after Halloween and seeing our outhouse on the ground. Now that's pretty bad. You can't "go" until the building is upright. Getting it back in the exact spot was tricky. Daddy needed help to get it upright so he would have needed a couple of people. We laugh about it now, but at the time, it was no laughing matter. Frankly, I have never approved of kids going out and creating havoc merely because it's Halloween. It's rude and often destructive.
After our outhouse was tipped over, my Dad decided he had to see to it that our outhouse would never, ever, be tipped over again, so the following summer he dug a new hole. The hole had to be at least six feet deep and it was probably four feet square. I don't remember whether or not he shored up the sides. I would think he'd have had to in order to insure that it would never cave in. Anyway, after the hole was dug, he made some concrete for the floor. I suppose he had to make a mold for the hole in the middle of the concrete. He somehow worried the concrete floor across the big hole and then built the seat, lid, walls and roof. There was a pipe(maybe five inches in diameter) that went up through the roof for ventilation. And then, he fixed that outhouse so it would never be tipped over. He dug a post hole about three feet deep on both the east and west side of the outhouse (the door faced north). He put the posts into the post holes and then poured concrete around the posts in the bottom of the holes. When the concrete was set, he filled the holes to the top with dirt and tamped it solidly. Next, he drilled two holes in both the east and west walls of the outhouse; he took heavy fence wire and wound it around the post and through the two holes (in a figure 8). He must have wound that wire around the post and through the holes at least six or eight times and then twisted the ends with pliers so it would be almost impossible to undo them. No one was going to try to undo the wires so they could tip over the outhouse because it would take too much time. The deal with tipping over an outhouse is getting in and out quickly. We never had any more problems. I thought he was pretty smart. He couldn't control all the boys in town but he could control whether or not our outhouse would be on its face on November 1st.
When I was a senior in High School, one of the boys in my class who had a pick-up truck got some friends to go with him and they found an old, mostly abandoned outhouse. They loaded up the outhouse on the back of the pick-up truck, took it over to the High School, carried it up the front steps and deposited that outhouse in front of the doors and left it there. I guess they thought they had really pulled off a great prank. It just so happened that the High School Principal lived across the street from the High School and he just happened to be outside his house while this was happening. Hey, Blanding was a small town and everyone knew everyone else's vehicle. Mr. Alexander recognized the pick-up truck. He didn't make a sound. He let those guys carry the toilet up the stairs and he let them leave. The next morning we all had to enter the school through another door. Mr. Alexander called an impromptu assembly as soon as the bell had rung. We all went to the Gym. Mr. Alexander called the driver of the pick-up truck to the front of the Gym and told him to go load up the outhouse from the front steps and take it back where he found it. He told him if he wanted help to move it he'd have to tell the names of his accomplices. Of course, the driver of the pick-up truck quickly "ratted out" his friends. We were all excused to go outside and watch while the outhouse was carried down the stairs, loaded on the pick-up truck and hauled back where they found it. I've always thought Mr. Alexander was extremely wise to handle it the way he did. He totally embarrassed the guys and gave the rest of us a good laugh. By the way, Mr. Alexander was one of my favorite teachers and I will be telling you more about him later.
Well, that's pretty much how I remember Halloween in Blanding. In the meantime, Halloween has turned into a major celebration for a lot of people. Personally, I did not much care for Halloween when my kids were small because I am not a clever, creative person. Halloween became more fun when Jackie was about eight or nine years old. She was extremely clever and creative. When she started thinking up and creating costumes, Halloween was kinda' fun. I remember one year Bret dressed up in one of my old muu muus, put pillows underneath and went to school as a "fat lady." As I recall, he won first prize in his class. Jackie, Patti and Shanna were all creative and clever. One year Jackie made herself a black cat costume that was adorable. She also made a matching black cat costume for Tal. She took Tal with her when she went trick or treating. In later years, Patti dressed up as a devil and Shanna dressed up as a Martian. They looked spectacular. I believe they all won prizes of some kind. There were many other costumes for all of the kids but I don't remember all of them. Before I move on to other things I should tell you that there were many Jack-O-Lanterns, INCREDIBLE JACK-O-LANTERNS. I loved them all. Jackie made a witch jack-o-lantern out of a BIG zucchini squash. She made a hat, skirt and everything. We always left a squash on the vine to grow big so Jackie could make a new witch every year. We saved the costume from year to year. It was so scary and cute.
Then, all my kids got married and left home. They and their husbands/wives were well equipped to handle the Halloween costume thing and I was left to my own devices as far as costumes were concerned--which was to do nothing but hand out Halloween candy to trick or treaters.
We lived in Big Water from July 1987 until May 26, 2006 and during that time we had a total of 10 trick or treaters. We were always prepared for more but the houses were so far apart in Big Water that it was too much work for the kids so their parents took them into Page, Arizona where the houses were closer together. They got a lot more treats for the time spent in Page than they'd have gotten in the whole town of Big Water.
Now, we are in Loa. Last year we had maybe a couple dozen kids come. It was fun. Oh, my gosh--did I say Halloween was fun? I must be getting old.
I love you all.
P.S. I will be adding another chapter within the next three or four days so be looking for it.
I always thought it would be cool to have a pumpkin and make a Jack-O-Lantern but I don't remember ever seeing pumpkins for sale anywhere. I probably didn't have the money for one, anyway. I don't remember ever seeing anyone grow pumpkins. They probably did, because people made pumpkin pies and I don't think canned pumpkin was an option then. My dad didn't grow pumpkins. He grew squash. Squash could be stored in the "pit" to eat during the winter. We had lots of squash. My mother made squash pie but she never put spices in it so it was not all that tasty. I really liked the whipped cream on top, though. I'm not sure what I'd have done with a Jack-O-Lantern if I had one, but it was fun to think about having one.
Now, don't let my boring Halloweens lull you into thinking that no one else in Blanding did things on Halloween. Generally, it was the older boys in town (who should have known better) who did the pranks and some of them were not necessarily nice pranks. It was the same thing every year. A group of boys would go out and do their thing, then they'd grow up and go away and another group would take over.
I told you about our outhouse. We weren't the only family in town to have an outhouse. When I was young, probably half the houses in town had outhouses. Yeh, I know you know what I'm about to tell you. Some of the boys would go out to see how many outhouses they could tip over without getting caught. Our three-holer was tipped over at least once because I saw it. I heard stories that occasionally someone would accidentally fall in the hole. I know the stories were true--it was a hazard of the prank. Pretty GROSS, huh? We just figured it was "instant justice." I often wondered if a person felt entirely clean ever again after having fallen in a toilet hole filled with "crap." Whenever an outhouse was tipped over it was always pushed from behind and it would fall on the front side where the door was. There were a couple of times when someone was actually inside the outhouse when it was pushed over and that person was unable to get out until someone else found the outhouse on the ground and gave aid to the entrapped person inside. You may ask how that could happen. It was like this: The guys who did the tipping were sneaky and quiet. They didn't want to make any noise for fear of getting caught. Apparently, on occasion, they were able to sneak up on someone inside--it just happened. I remember waking up the day after Halloween and seeing our outhouse on the ground. Now that's pretty bad. You can't "go" until the building is upright. Getting it back in the exact spot was tricky. Daddy needed help to get it upright so he would have needed a couple of people. We laugh about it now, but at the time, it was no laughing matter. Frankly, I have never approved of kids going out and creating havoc merely because it's Halloween. It's rude and often destructive.
After our outhouse was tipped over, my Dad decided he had to see to it that our outhouse would never, ever, be tipped over again, so the following summer he dug a new hole. The hole had to be at least six feet deep and it was probably four feet square. I don't remember whether or not he shored up the sides. I would think he'd have had to in order to insure that it would never cave in. Anyway, after the hole was dug, he made some concrete for the floor. I suppose he had to make a mold for the hole in the middle of the concrete. He somehow worried the concrete floor across the big hole and then built the seat, lid, walls and roof. There was a pipe(maybe five inches in diameter) that went up through the roof for ventilation. And then, he fixed that outhouse so it would never be tipped over. He dug a post hole about three feet deep on both the east and west side of the outhouse (the door faced north). He put the posts into the post holes and then poured concrete around the posts in the bottom of the holes. When the concrete was set, he filled the holes to the top with dirt and tamped it solidly. Next, he drilled two holes in both the east and west walls of the outhouse; he took heavy fence wire and wound it around the post and through the two holes (in a figure 8). He must have wound that wire around the post and through the holes at least six or eight times and then twisted the ends with pliers so it would be almost impossible to undo them. No one was going to try to undo the wires so they could tip over the outhouse because it would take too much time. The deal with tipping over an outhouse is getting in and out quickly. We never had any more problems. I thought he was pretty smart. He couldn't control all the boys in town but he could control whether or not our outhouse would be on its face on November 1st.
When I was a senior in High School, one of the boys in my class who had a pick-up truck got some friends to go with him and they found an old, mostly abandoned outhouse. They loaded up the outhouse on the back of the pick-up truck, took it over to the High School, carried it up the front steps and deposited that outhouse in front of the doors and left it there. I guess they thought they had really pulled off a great prank. It just so happened that the High School Principal lived across the street from the High School and he just happened to be outside his house while this was happening. Hey, Blanding was a small town and everyone knew everyone else's vehicle. Mr. Alexander recognized the pick-up truck. He didn't make a sound. He let those guys carry the toilet up the stairs and he let them leave. The next morning we all had to enter the school through another door. Mr. Alexander called an impromptu assembly as soon as the bell had rung. We all went to the Gym. Mr. Alexander called the driver of the pick-up truck to the front of the Gym and told him to go load up the outhouse from the front steps and take it back where he found it. He told him if he wanted help to move it he'd have to tell the names of his accomplices. Of course, the driver of the pick-up truck quickly "ratted out" his friends. We were all excused to go outside and watch while the outhouse was carried down the stairs, loaded on the pick-up truck and hauled back where they found it. I've always thought Mr. Alexander was extremely wise to handle it the way he did. He totally embarrassed the guys and gave the rest of us a good laugh. By the way, Mr. Alexander was one of my favorite teachers and I will be telling you more about him later.
Well, that's pretty much how I remember Halloween in Blanding. In the meantime, Halloween has turned into a major celebration for a lot of people. Personally, I did not much care for Halloween when my kids were small because I am not a clever, creative person. Halloween became more fun when Jackie was about eight or nine years old. She was extremely clever and creative. When she started thinking up and creating costumes, Halloween was kinda' fun. I remember one year Bret dressed up in one of my old muu muus, put pillows underneath and went to school as a "fat lady." As I recall, he won first prize in his class. Jackie, Patti and Shanna were all creative and clever. One year Jackie made herself a black cat costume that was adorable. She also made a matching black cat costume for Tal. She took Tal with her when she went trick or treating. In later years, Patti dressed up as a devil and Shanna dressed up as a Martian. They looked spectacular. I believe they all won prizes of some kind. There were many other costumes for all of the kids but I don't remember all of them. Before I move on to other things I should tell you that there were many Jack-O-Lanterns, INCREDIBLE JACK-O-LANTERNS. I loved them all. Jackie made a witch jack-o-lantern out of a BIG zucchini squash. She made a hat, skirt and everything. We always left a squash on the vine to grow big so Jackie could make a new witch every year. We saved the costume from year to year. It was so scary and cute.
Then, all my kids got married and left home. They and their husbands/wives were well equipped to handle the Halloween costume thing and I was left to my own devices as far as costumes were concerned--which was to do nothing but hand out Halloween candy to trick or treaters.
We lived in Big Water from July 1987 until May 26, 2006 and during that time we had a total of 10 trick or treaters. We were always prepared for more but the houses were so far apart in Big Water that it was too much work for the kids so their parents took them into Page, Arizona where the houses were closer together. They got a lot more treats for the time spent in Page than they'd have gotten in the whole town of Big Water.
Now, we are in Loa. Last year we had maybe a couple dozen kids come. It was fun. Oh, my gosh--did I say Halloween was fun? I must be getting old.
I love you all.
P.S. I will be adding another chapter within the next three or four days so be looking for it.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Sunday Sweetheart + More Pioneer Beginnings
I must tell you a cute story. It is a current story but I must share it with you all. There is a lady in our ward who is probably in her late 80's. She has black hair (with help from her hair dresser, I'm sure), she gets around very well and still lives in her own home. I don't know how long her husband has been dead--actually, I don't know that he is dead. He never comes to Church so I'm assuming he is no longer with us. I have to find out what her name is. This is ridiculous. Anyway, she dresses very stylishly. When I say stylishly, I mean stylish for an older lady. None of this business of trying to look like she's 30. She wears nice suits in beautiful colors. Last Sunday she was wearing a purple suit and it was gorgeous. The color was terrific on her. She is very slender and just a darling lady.
Now the reason I'm telling you about her is this: When this lovely lady leaves Sacrament meeting to go to Sunday School she walks past where Grandpa and I always sit (unless I'm playing the organ for Church, or the piano for Choir or to accompany someone). She always stops, grabs Grandpa's hand, and reaches over to give him a kiss on his forehead. Then she turns to me, if I'm by him, and says, "He is my Sunday Sweetheart." If I'm not there, she tells him: "You are my Sunday Sweetheart." She squeezes his hand a little and then she is off to Sunday School class. Is that the cutest or what?
Now, back to the Pioneer era of my life.
Since I wrote last, I've been thinking more about the size of the two-room house where I was born. I'm thinking it was possibly a little larger than I told you. The rooms could possibly have been 15' x 15' each, so the overall total could have been 15' x 30'----that's 450 square feet and I was the seventh child. Porter had died but there were eight of us living there. No wonder Daddy felt compelled to add on some extra rooms, small though they were. Let's say the addition was 10' wide and the over-all length was 30'---that is an additional 300 square feet for a total of 750 square feet for eight people. I don't know how the older kids felt about the small space, but it was all I knew and that's just the way it was. I never remember wishing it were bigger. Good grief, the Navajos on the nearby reservation lived in hogans that were much smaller than our house and some of them had pretty good sized families. Often they had grandparents living in their hogan with them. And we have all read and heard horror stories about people in the third-world countries who have two or three families living in spaces much smaller than then home where I was raised. I was always grateful to have a roof over my head, food in my stomach and clothes on my back. And the house was always warm, during the day, in the winter.
Of course, when the fire went out, the house got cold. The bedrooms were never heated so the beds were COLD. We had a solution for that. We put bricks or smooth rocks (about the size of the bricks) in the oven to get hot, then we wrapped them in towels or old denim, or some such material, then we'd put them in our beds about 20 to 30 minutes before we expected to be getting into bed and lo! our beds were nice and warm. However, when I was small I was very skinny (yes, I really was) and before morning the bricks or rocks would cool off and my skinny little legs were too small to keep the bed warm so I'd have to sleep the last half of the night in the fetal position to stay warm.
In the mornings, I'd get out of bed and run out to the living room or kitchen where there was a stove with fire in it and dress by the stove. My dad was usually the fire builder. He'd always get up about 5:00 a.m. to make the fires. In the winter it didn't get light enough to go out to do the chores for a couple of hours after he had the fires built, so he would pull a chair up close to the stove (it took a while for the heat to spread around the room) and read the Scriptures, mostly. Sometimes he read his farm magazines but he really liked to read the Scriptures. As soon as it began to get light, he'd head out the door to do chores. What were his chores? Well, let's see. We always had at least one cow that had to be milked. And of course, the cows needed to be fed. Then he'd chop wood so the woodbox would be full for the day. He'd bring in coal (when we had coal) so mom wouldn't have to go carry it in. Also, all the kids had chores as we got old enough to do them. My mom and dad always believed in starting their kids when they were young. I remember when I was very young, going to the wood pile to pick up the chips that daddy created when he chopped the wood. We used them to start the fires in the mornings so we picked up chips every day. We also fed the chickens at a very young age, although daddy carefully oversaw things to be sure they were done correctly. We almost always had a pig and the pig liked to eat, as well.
I need to amend things just a little. Daddy didn't always read. Sometimes he fixed breakfast for the family. No, he didn't get the cornflakes out. We ate big breakfasts when I lived in my parent's home. We ate fairly good lunches and light suppers. (More about that later.) Oh my goodness, I loved it when my dad cooked breakfast. If he had recently killed a beef, or a pig, or a lamb, he liked to cut off some steaks and bring them in to cook. He'd make baking powder biscuits that were light and airy and wonderfully delicious. Of course, we always had homemade butter to spread on them or how about some milk gravy made from the meat drippings? We'd eat steak, pork chops or lamb chops with biscuits and gravy. While daddy was cooking up this really good breakfast, mom would come into the kitchen and make the "mush."
For those of you who do not know what mush is--we call it cereal now. She always insisted that we have hot cereal for breakfast. Sometimes she'd cook oatmeal (regular, not quick cooking)
or cracked wheat, or germade (farina). I loved them all. Still do. Once in a while, she'd make cornmeal mush. I liked that, too. And then, occasionally, if we had run low on some of the other cereals, she'd make mush out of whole wheat flour. I knew she didn't like to make whole wheat flour mush very often because it was so hard to get out all the lumps and it took longer to cook.
But, I didn't mind. I liked it a lot. And, my dad cured his own ham and bacon. It took quite a while to get it to his satisfaction but it was worth the wait. Sometimes we had ham and eggs or bacon and eggs (and mush) for breakfast and daddy made baking powder biscuits and gravy with the ham or bacon. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I loved those big breakfasts. It seems to be a good idea to eat large breakfasts and small suppers. I was skinny until I changed the plan and began living like other people who ate little or nothing for breakfast and big suppers.
The sad thing is that I didn't do that for my family. I loved the big breakfasts but didn't take the time to make them. Of course, we didn't live on a "farm" and the pace was a little less relaxed when we were raising our kids. Sorry about that!
It occurs to me that you may be wondering how we were able to preserve those hams and bacon that my dad made. Well, flour sacks were always fabric in those days (never paper) so daddy would wrap the hams and bacon in several layers of flour sacks and then he'd climb the ladder on the north side of the house and hang those hams and bacon under the eaves. That was the coolest place there was. It seemed to work. No one ever died from eating his ham or bacon.
I got off in a direction I hadn't really intended for this installment. Originally, I had intended to tell you what life is like with no electricity, refrigerator, sink, running hot water, bathrooms, telephones, computers, carpet, double-paned windows, air conditioning, etc., etc. I can do that at a later time. There is so much more, as well. How I grew up is why I'm me and it has been a fantastic journey. I was rarely unhappy as a child--or at any time of my life. I've always thought it better to be positive and cheerful and have tried to maintain those attributes in my personality. I'm excited to be sharing this with all of you and I've loved your responses to my efforts.
One last thing before I sign off tonight: September birthdays: Taylor, 16, Sept. 10th; James, (how old are you?), Sept. 15th;Eric, 4, Sept. 25th; Davey (how old are you, 23?), Sept. 26th; Kammie, 18?, Sept. 26th. October birthdays: Heidi (I know how old you are but I won't mention it), Oct. 3rd: Zac, 19, Oct. 13:
Kacie, (are you 21?) Oct. 26. Happy Birthday to all of you. I love you more than I can ever say. You are all more wonderful than I have a right to expect and I'm proud of you.
Goodnight for now. It's been fun and it's still only the beginning.
I love you all.
Now the reason I'm telling you about her is this: When this lovely lady leaves Sacrament meeting to go to Sunday School she walks past where Grandpa and I always sit (unless I'm playing the organ for Church, or the piano for Choir or to accompany someone). She always stops, grabs Grandpa's hand, and reaches over to give him a kiss on his forehead. Then she turns to me, if I'm by him, and says, "He is my Sunday Sweetheart." If I'm not there, she tells him: "You are my Sunday Sweetheart." She squeezes his hand a little and then she is off to Sunday School class. Is that the cutest or what?
Now, back to the Pioneer era of my life.
Since I wrote last, I've been thinking more about the size of the two-room house where I was born. I'm thinking it was possibly a little larger than I told you. The rooms could possibly have been 15' x 15' each, so the overall total could have been 15' x 30'----that's 450 square feet and I was the seventh child. Porter had died but there were eight of us living there. No wonder Daddy felt compelled to add on some extra rooms, small though they were. Let's say the addition was 10' wide and the over-all length was 30'---that is an additional 300 square feet for a total of 750 square feet for eight people. I don't know how the older kids felt about the small space, but it was all I knew and that's just the way it was. I never remember wishing it were bigger. Good grief, the Navajos on the nearby reservation lived in hogans that were much smaller than our house and some of them had pretty good sized families. Often they had grandparents living in their hogan with them. And we have all read and heard horror stories about people in the third-world countries who have two or three families living in spaces much smaller than then home where I was raised. I was always grateful to have a roof over my head, food in my stomach and clothes on my back. And the house was always warm, during the day, in the winter.
Of course, when the fire went out, the house got cold. The bedrooms were never heated so the beds were COLD. We had a solution for that. We put bricks or smooth rocks (about the size of the bricks) in the oven to get hot, then we wrapped them in towels or old denim, or some such material, then we'd put them in our beds about 20 to 30 minutes before we expected to be getting into bed and lo! our beds were nice and warm. However, when I was small I was very skinny (yes, I really was) and before morning the bricks or rocks would cool off and my skinny little legs were too small to keep the bed warm so I'd have to sleep the last half of the night in the fetal position to stay warm.
In the mornings, I'd get out of bed and run out to the living room or kitchen where there was a stove with fire in it and dress by the stove. My dad was usually the fire builder. He'd always get up about 5:00 a.m. to make the fires. In the winter it didn't get light enough to go out to do the chores for a couple of hours after he had the fires built, so he would pull a chair up close to the stove (it took a while for the heat to spread around the room) and read the Scriptures, mostly. Sometimes he read his farm magazines but he really liked to read the Scriptures. As soon as it began to get light, he'd head out the door to do chores. What were his chores? Well, let's see. We always had at least one cow that had to be milked. And of course, the cows needed to be fed. Then he'd chop wood so the woodbox would be full for the day. He'd bring in coal (when we had coal) so mom wouldn't have to go carry it in. Also, all the kids had chores as we got old enough to do them. My mom and dad always believed in starting their kids when they were young. I remember when I was very young, going to the wood pile to pick up the chips that daddy created when he chopped the wood. We used them to start the fires in the mornings so we picked up chips every day. We also fed the chickens at a very young age, although daddy carefully oversaw things to be sure they were done correctly. We almost always had a pig and the pig liked to eat, as well.
I need to amend things just a little. Daddy didn't always read. Sometimes he fixed breakfast for the family. No, he didn't get the cornflakes out. We ate big breakfasts when I lived in my parent's home. We ate fairly good lunches and light suppers. (More about that later.) Oh my goodness, I loved it when my dad cooked breakfast. If he had recently killed a beef, or a pig, or a lamb, he liked to cut off some steaks and bring them in to cook. He'd make baking powder biscuits that were light and airy and wonderfully delicious. Of course, we always had homemade butter to spread on them or how about some milk gravy made from the meat drippings? We'd eat steak, pork chops or lamb chops with biscuits and gravy. While daddy was cooking up this really good breakfast, mom would come into the kitchen and make the "mush."
For those of you who do not know what mush is--we call it cereal now. She always insisted that we have hot cereal for breakfast. Sometimes she'd cook oatmeal (regular, not quick cooking)
or cracked wheat, or germade (farina). I loved them all. Still do. Once in a while, she'd make cornmeal mush. I liked that, too. And then, occasionally, if we had run low on some of the other cereals, she'd make mush out of whole wheat flour. I knew she didn't like to make whole wheat flour mush very often because it was so hard to get out all the lumps and it took longer to cook.
But, I didn't mind. I liked it a lot. And, my dad cured his own ham and bacon. It took quite a while to get it to his satisfaction but it was worth the wait. Sometimes we had ham and eggs or bacon and eggs (and mush) for breakfast and daddy made baking powder biscuits and gravy with the ham or bacon. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I loved those big breakfasts. It seems to be a good idea to eat large breakfasts and small suppers. I was skinny until I changed the plan and began living like other people who ate little or nothing for breakfast and big suppers.
The sad thing is that I didn't do that for my family. I loved the big breakfasts but didn't take the time to make them. Of course, we didn't live on a "farm" and the pace was a little less relaxed when we were raising our kids. Sorry about that!
It occurs to me that you may be wondering how we were able to preserve those hams and bacon that my dad made. Well, flour sacks were always fabric in those days (never paper) so daddy would wrap the hams and bacon in several layers of flour sacks and then he'd climb the ladder on the north side of the house and hang those hams and bacon under the eaves. That was the coolest place there was. It seemed to work. No one ever died from eating his ham or bacon.
I got off in a direction I hadn't really intended for this installment. Originally, I had intended to tell you what life is like with no electricity, refrigerator, sink, running hot water, bathrooms, telephones, computers, carpet, double-paned windows, air conditioning, etc., etc. I can do that at a later time. There is so much more, as well. How I grew up is why I'm me and it has been a fantastic journey. I was rarely unhappy as a child--or at any time of my life. I've always thought it better to be positive and cheerful and have tried to maintain those attributes in my personality. I'm excited to be sharing this with all of you and I've loved your responses to my efforts.
One last thing before I sign off tonight: September birthdays: Taylor, 16, Sept. 10th; James, (how old are you?), Sept. 15th;Eric, 4, Sept. 25th; Davey (how old are you, 23?), Sept. 26th; Kammie, 18?, Sept. 26th. October birthdays: Heidi (I know how old you are but I won't mention it), Oct. 3rd: Zac, 19, Oct. 13:
Kacie, (are you 21?) Oct. 26. Happy Birthday to all of you. I love you more than I can ever say. You are all more wonderful than I have a right to expect and I'm proud of you.
Goodnight for now. It's been fun and it's still only the beginning.
I love you all.
Monday, September 24, 2007
BEGINNINGS - continued
Today, I'll fill out some of the information I told you last time. I talked to my sister, Grace Krebs, who lives in Murray. She is a wealth of information and, of course, she remembers more than I do about things that occurred when I was very young.
I learned who the mystery "cousin" was who introduced my mom and dad to each other. Her name is Nora Kartchener Black. It turns out that Nora was a friend of my mom's and Nora married a cousin of my dad. I guess after Nora married my dad's cousin, both mom and dad considered her to be a cousin. Mystery solved. Anyway, from my view, I appreciate her involvement.
I should tell you about my birth. My mother's first six children were delivered by a midwife, whose name was Emma Nielsen. But by the time I came along, a doctor had moved to town. Great, huh? Well, not so great! Seems that the good doctor was at a party of some kind when I was giving indications I wanted out, so they went for the doctor. His name was Dr. Sherman. (Now, my mother's mother's maiden name was Sherman. This Dr. Sherman was no relation, thank goodness.) Dr. Sherman was not happy at having to leave his party so when he came to our house he was in a hurry to leave. I wasn't moving quite fast enough, so he pulled me instead of allowing me to come at my own speed. Then he left, and we have to suppose, he went back to his party. He apparently had a really lousy bedside manner, as well. However, everything seemed to be okay but as the months went on, my parents noticed that I couldn't hold my head up. Mom told me that I was over six months old before I could hold my head up at all. You know, I still occasionally have a little difficulty holding my head up for long periods of time without getting neck pains. But do not worry! I have found a solution. When I need extra help to hold my head up, I have a horseshoe shaped pillow that I wear around my neck for support. Now, all I need is a harness with reins and I can help pull the wagon.
But, that's not the whole story. That guy, who called himself a doctor, left in such a hurry that he didn't fill out the paperwork for a birth certificate. Thirty-seven years later when I went to apply for my first passport, there was no proof that I had been born. All my brothers and sisters were dutifully listed, but not me. So, you ask, what did I do? Fortunately, I had my certificate of blessing and my certificate of baptism. Then, I had to fill our a four-page application which required some signatures of people who were there when I was born. Fortunately, my mom was still living and she signed it and my sister Grace signed it. Or, I could have used the signature of my oldest child, Bret. But with the other two signatures, I didn't need his signature. The fact that I had given birth to a child seemed to be proof I actually live.
Hey, there is more. When I talked to the people at the Health Department who keep track of birth and death certificates, they suggested that I sue this Dr. Sherman. No such luck! He was already dead---and, I learned, he had lost his license to practice medicine because he performed an abortion on someone. (In those days, abortions were very definitely illegal.) Oh, by the way, Dr. Sherman's youngest son, Johnny, was a couple months younger than I so I attended school with him for several years until their family moved to Salt Lake City. That's where he lost his license.
My mom always said it was just about the worst experience she'd ever had and if she had ever had another baby, she'd definitely have had the Midwife in attendance. She didn't want any more doctors delivering her babies.
Oh, let me tell you about our house. When I was born our family lived in a two room house. I don't know exactly the size of the rooms but my best guess is 14 feet wide by 12 feet long. The whole house was 14 feet wide by 24/25 feet long. There were eight of us. Don't even ask where we all slept. I know where my mom and dad slept and I know where I slept except when I was first born. Maybe I slept in a dresser drawer or a cardboard box for a while. Maybe Grace will remember. My folks had a really big metal crib. I think George slept in it for a while after I was born. But as I grew, I eventually slept in the crib and the crib was in mom and dad's bedroom. My brother, Sherman, slept on the front porch. He had a waterproof canvas to put over the top of his bed. Good thing! Grace told me when it snowed in the winter, she had to go out and sweep the snow off his bed so he could get up in the mornings. But where was everyone else? I don't know and Grace said she doesn't remember. Anyway, one room was called the "bedroom" because that's where our parents slept. The other was a real all-purpose room. We had a big kitchen stove in there.
I must tell you about that stove. It was huge. It had a seven gallon reservoir attached so we had hot water whenever there was a fire in the stove. The oven was large enough that mom could bake eight loaves of bread at one time with plenty of space between them so they would bake evenly. Now, that's kind of oven Hansel and Gretel pushed the wicked witch into. It was easy to build a fire in the stove and easy to keep it fueled. Now, mind you, that was the only heat in the house so, at night, the fire would go out. The top of stove was huge so several things could be cooking at once, plus heating extra water in a large teakettle, and doing dishes in the dishpan at the same time.
Also, we had a table in the room, four upright, wooden chairs and four stools my dad had made. No big easy chairs, that's for sure. There wouldn't have been room even if Daddy could have afforded one. I remember my mother had a rocking chair but I don't know when she acquired it. I'll have to ask Grace. At night everything would have been pushed back against the walls or into a corner, because there were people sleeping in that room, as well.
And here's another thing. We didn't have an inside bathroom. Obviously, there was no room in the two-room house-----so, we had an "out house." It was a real jewel. It was a three-holer.
For you who have no idea what I mean--well, you remember the story of "Goldilocks and the three bears? Goldilocks went into the deserted house and found three bowls of porridge cooling on the breakfast table. She tasted the porridge in the biggest bowl and it was too hot. The porridge in the middle-size bowl was too cold. The porridge in the littlest bowl was "just right." When I was a child, the littlest hole was "just right." You get the idea. The outhouse was maybe 50 or 60 feet west of our house and those treks to the outhouse in the middle of the night were, to say the least, cold! The only "bathroom tissue" I remember as a child, were the old Sears Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogs. The glossy pages were almost worthless but if that's all there was, that's what you used. We found if we wadded the sheets and opened them again several times, it reduced the glossy a little. The sheets that were just black and white weren't so difficult to use, but they always left black ink on your backside---just like newspaper leaves black ink on your hands.
When I was nine or ten years old, we retired the three-holer and Daddy built us a brand new outhouse with a concrete floor--but it only had one hole. So, if someone was in there you just had to wait. I will be telling you more about outhouses later. Now, please don't presume that I have a fixation on outhouses because I have several stories relating to outhouses. It's just part of my "pioneer" history.
I'm not sure whether we had running water in the house when I was born. Daddy built an addition onto the house shortly after I was born. It was a "lean-to" and very small. It ran the length of the house but was only about 10 feet wide. He made the lean-to into a kitchen, pantry and screened porch. Finally, the cook stove had a home in a kitchen and the room where the stove had been became a "living room." Don't let that word fool you. It was still used for sleeping. And, we had running cold water in the kitchen. We still had to heat water when we wanted or needed hot water.
That's about enough for today. It's been fun remembering. AND there's lots more.
I love you all.
I learned who the mystery "cousin" was who introduced my mom and dad to each other. Her name is Nora Kartchener Black. It turns out that Nora was a friend of my mom's and Nora married a cousin of my dad. I guess after Nora married my dad's cousin, both mom and dad considered her to be a cousin. Mystery solved. Anyway, from my view, I appreciate her involvement.
I should tell you about my birth. My mother's first six children were delivered by a midwife, whose name was Emma Nielsen. But by the time I came along, a doctor had moved to town. Great, huh? Well, not so great! Seems that the good doctor was at a party of some kind when I was giving indications I wanted out, so they went for the doctor. His name was Dr. Sherman. (Now, my mother's mother's maiden name was Sherman. This Dr. Sherman was no relation, thank goodness.) Dr. Sherman was not happy at having to leave his party so when he came to our house he was in a hurry to leave. I wasn't moving quite fast enough, so he pulled me instead of allowing me to come at my own speed. Then he left, and we have to suppose, he went back to his party. He apparently had a really lousy bedside manner, as well. However, everything seemed to be okay but as the months went on, my parents noticed that I couldn't hold my head up. Mom told me that I was over six months old before I could hold my head up at all. You know, I still occasionally have a little difficulty holding my head up for long periods of time without getting neck pains. But do not worry! I have found a solution. When I need extra help to hold my head up, I have a horseshoe shaped pillow that I wear around my neck for support. Now, all I need is a harness with reins and I can help pull the wagon.
But, that's not the whole story. That guy, who called himself a doctor, left in such a hurry that he didn't fill out the paperwork for a birth certificate. Thirty-seven years later when I went to apply for my first passport, there was no proof that I had been born. All my brothers and sisters were dutifully listed, but not me. So, you ask, what did I do? Fortunately, I had my certificate of blessing and my certificate of baptism. Then, I had to fill our a four-page application which required some signatures of people who were there when I was born. Fortunately, my mom was still living and she signed it and my sister Grace signed it. Or, I could have used the signature of my oldest child, Bret. But with the other two signatures, I didn't need his signature. The fact that I had given birth to a child seemed to be proof I actually live.
Hey, there is more. When I talked to the people at the Health Department who keep track of birth and death certificates, they suggested that I sue this Dr. Sherman. No such luck! He was already dead---and, I learned, he had lost his license to practice medicine because he performed an abortion on someone. (In those days, abortions were very definitely illegal.) Oh, by the way, Dr. Sherman's youngest son, Johnny, was a couple months younger than I so I attended school with him for several years until their family moved to Salt Lake City. That's where he lost his license.
My mom always said it was just about the worst experience she'd ever had and if she had ever had another baby, she'd definitely have had the Midwife in attendance. She didn't want any more doctors delivering her babies.
Oh, let me tell you about our house. When I was born our family lived in a two room house. I don't know exactly the size of the rooms but my best guess is 14 feet wide by 12 feet long. The whole house was 14 feet wide by 24/25 feet long. There were eight of us. Don't even ask where we all slept. I know where my mom and dad slept and I know where I slept except when I was first born. Maybe I slept in a dresser drawer or a cardboard box for a while. Maybe Grace will remember. My folks had a really big metal crib. I think George slept in it for a while after I was born. But as I grew, I eventually slept in the crib and the crib was in mom and dad's bedroom. My brother, Sherman, slept on the front porch. He had a waterproof canvas to put over the top of his bed. Good thing! Grace told me when it snowed in the winter, she had to go out and sweep the snow off his bed so he could get up in the mornings. But where was everyone else? I don't know and Grace said she doesn't remember. Anyway, one room was called the "bedroom" because that's where our parents slept. The other was a real all-purpose room. We had a big kitchen stove in there.I must tell you about that stove. It was huge. It had a seven gallon reservoir attached so we had hot water whenever there was a fire in the stove. The oven was large enough that mom could bake eight loaves of bread at one time with plenty of space between them so they would bake evenly. Now, that's kind of oven Hansel and Gretel pushed the wicked witch into. It was easy to build a fire in the stove and easy to keep it fueled. Now, mind you, that was the only heat in the house so, at night, the fire would go out. The top of stove was huge so several things could be cooking at once, plus heating extra water in a large teakettle, and doing dishes in the dishpan at the same time.
Also, we had a table in the room, four upright, wooden chairs and four stools my dad had made. No big easy chairs, that's for sure. There wouldn't have been room even if Daddy could have afforded one. I remember my mother had a rocking chair but I don't know when she acquired it. I'll have to ask Grace. At night everything would have been pushed back against the walls or into a corner, because there were people sleeping in that room, as well.
And here's another thing. We didn't have an inside bathroom. Obviously, there was no room in the two-room house-----so, we had an "out house." It was a real jewel. It was a three-holer.
For you who have no idea what I mean--well, you remember the story of "Goldilocks and the three bears? Goldilocks went into the deserted house and found three bowls of porridge cooling on the breakfast table. She tasted the porridge in the biggest bowl and it was too hot. The porridge in the middle-size bowl was too cold. The porridge in the littlest bowl was "just right." When I was a child, the littlest hole was "just right." You get the idea. The outhouse was maybe 50 or 60 feet west of our house and those treks to the outhouse in the middle of the night were, to say the least, cold! The only "bathroom tissue" I remember as a child, were the old Sears Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogs. The glossy pages were almost worthless but if that's all there was, that's what you used. We found if we wadded the sheets and opened them again several times, it reduced the glossy a little. The sheets that were just black and white weren't so difficult to use, but they always left black ink on your backside---just like newspaper leaves black ink on your hands.
When I was nine or ten years old, we retired the three-holer and Daddy built us a brand new outhouse with a concrete floor--but it only had one hole. So, if someone was in there you just had to wait. I will be telling you more about outhouses later. Now, please don't presume that I have a fixation on outhouses because I have several stories relating to outhouses. It's just part of my "pioneer" history.
I'm not sure whether we had running water in the house when I was born. Daddy built an addition onto the house shortly after I was born. It was a "lean-to" and very small. It ran the length of the house but was only about 10 feet wide. He made the lean-to into a kitchen, pantry and screened porch. Finally, the cook stove had a home in a kitchen and the room where the stove had been became a "living room." Don't let that word fool you. It was still used for sleeping. And, we had running cold water in the kitchen. We still had to heat water when we wanted or needed hot water.
That's about enough for today. It's been fun remembering. AND there's lots more.
I love you all.
Friday, September 21, 2007
My Beginnings
Today, I'm giving you basic information regarding my beginnings. It's fairly interesting and in the days and years to come I will probably refer back to the beginning with tidbits to fill out some of my stories and make the history more complete--so here goes:
I was born April 6, 1933 (in the home where I was raised for 18 years) in Blanding, San Juan County, Utah. Parents: Justin Abinadi and Margaret Blanche Cox Black. I weighed in at 9-1/2 pounds. My mother told me I saw my first snowfall six days later. I barely remember it. My mother was 40 years old and she really had not wanted to have another child but my dad prevailed. I've always been pretty happy about that.
I was the youngest of seven children: Ora, born October 30, 1918; Sherman Cox, July 22, 1920; Grace, June 27, 1923; Porter Cox, April 17,1926 (he died in March of 1928); Durant Cox, May 30, 1928; George Albey, November 9, 1930; TA-Dah! And then there was me in 1933.
You may wonder why three of my brothers had the same middle name. It used to be the thing to do because it helped with genealogy. The sons were given the "maiden name" of their mother so the genealogy would be easier to trace. I'm not sure why George didn't get the "Cox" middle name but my mom had two favorite brothers: George and Albey so I guess they figured that genealogists could trace his lineage, as well.
As you can see, none of us three girls got a middle name. I always felt kinda cheated, but at least my name had seven letters as opposed to Ora's three and Grace's five. By the way, you noticed my mom's name was Margaret Blanche. She was always called Blanche (which means "white") For some reason (unknown to me) my dad's nickname was Jet (Jet Black). I found it amusing that my mom and dad were "white" and "Jet Black".
My parents were both born in Huntington, Emery County, Utah. Dad was born May 29, 1887 and mom November 17, 1892. My dad's family moved to New Mexico when he was ten and they never knew each other. Finally my dad ended up in Blanding, Utah. Although my mom and dad were not related to each other in any way, a woman who was cousin to both my mom and dad (I must find out the background on that one) became concerned because my dad was 30 and my mom was 25 and neither were married. Actually, in those days people married quite young so they were really "old." Anyway, this cousin suggested they meet each other so dad traveled to Huntington in the Fall of 1917. They met and I guess they liked each other. My dad went back to Blanding and they corresponded. Dad went back to Huntington and they were married in the Manti, Utah temple, January 9, 1918.
The trip from Huntington to Manti had to be pretty cold. They had no car and had to travel with a team and wagon. Brr-rrr!
Well, as they say, the rest is history. I came along 15 years later and as a direct result of the foregoing activities, all my above-average children, grandchildren and great-grandchild are here for me to enjoy. And, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the remarkable extended families who have blessed our lives with love and joy.
This is probably enough for one day but let me assure you, there's much more to come in the future. I just hope you find it as interesting to read as I have found it interesting to live. I should apologize, in advance, because I have a habit of rambling when I tell stories. It's only because I think of other factors that influence the outcome of my stories as I tell them. I just want my remembering to be memorable for all of you. After all, I have come from a "pioneer" era into the INCREDIBLE 21st century and if that is not worth reliving and retelling, I don't know what is.
I love you all.
I was born April 6, 1933 (in the home where I was raised for 18 years) in Blanding, San Juan County, Utah. Parents: Justin Abinadi and Margaret Blanche Cox Black. I weighed in at 9-1/2 pounds. My mother told me I saw my first snowfall six days later. I barely remember it. My mother was 40 years old and she really had not wanted to have another child but my dad prevailed. I've always been pretty happy about that.
I was the youngest of seven children: Ora, born October 30, 1918; Sherman Cox, July 22, 1920; Grace, June 27, 1923; Porter Cox, April 17,1926 (he died in March of 1928); Durant Cox, May 30, 1928; George Albey, November 9, 1930; TA-Dah! And then there was me in 1933.
You may wonder why three of my brothers had the same middle name. It used to be the thing to do because it helped with genealogy. The sons were given the "maiden name" of their mother so the genealogy would be easier to trace. I'm not sure why George didn't get the "Cox" middle name but my mom had two favorite brothers: George and Albey so I guess they figured that genealogists could trace his lineage, as well.
As you can see, none of us three girls got a middle name. I always felt kinda cheated, but at least my name had seven letters as opposed to Ora's three and Grace's five. By the way, you noticed my mom's name was Margaret Blanche. She was always called Blanche (which means "white") For some reason (unknown to me) my dad's nickname was Jet (Jet Black). I found it amusing that my mom and dad were "white" and "Jet Black".
My parents were both born in Huntington, Emery County, Utah. Dad was born May 29, 1887 and mom November 17, 1892. My dad's family moved to New Mexico when he was ten and they never knew each other. Finally my dad ended up in Blanding, Utah. Although my mom and dad were not related to each other in any way, a woman who was cousin to both my mom and dad (I must find out the background on that one) became concerned because my dad was 30 and my mom was 25 and neither were married. Actually, in those days people married quite young so they were really "old." Anyway, this cousin suggested they meet each other so dad traveled to Huntington in the Fall of 1917. They met and I guess they liked each other. My dad went back to Blanding and they corresponded. Dad went back to Huntington and they were married in the Manti, Utah temple, January 9, 1918.
The trip from Huntington to Manti had to be pretty cold. They had no car and had to travel with a team and wagon. Brr-rrr!
Well, as they say, the rest is history. I came along 15 years later and as a direct result of the foregoing activities, all my above-average children, grandchildren and great-grandchild are here for me to enjoy. And, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the remarkable extended families who have blessed our lives with love and joy.
This is probably enough for one day but let me assure you, there's much more to come in the future. I just hope you find it as interesting to read as I have found it interesting to live. I should apologize, in advance, because I have a habit of rambling when I tell stories. It's only because I think of other factors that influence the outcome of my stories as I tell them. I just want my remembering to be memorable for all of you. After all, I have come from a "pioneer" era into the INCREDIBLE 21st century and if that is not worth reliving and retelling, I don't know what is.
I love you all.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
On Sale Now
Marilyn is full of stories and anecdotes that her family needs to have forever. We look forward to jokes, updates, random thoughts, recipes and stories in no particular order but what pops into her head and out onto her keyboard. We can hardly wait!
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