4th Grade and a male teacher.

 I’m having a hard time putting Mr. Whittaker’s story out for everyone to read…I’ve written the story as I saw him, through the eyes of a 9/10 year old…I had lived in Lake Fork, less than a year, spent 6 months at Wood Grove and never had a “male teacher.”..Most lower grades were taught by female teachers, because that was one of the “jobs” that was acceptable for women to have in those days…The only other choices were, nurses or librarians or the more acceptable choice was to find a husband, and raise a family…A college education was not deemed important and was not encouraged for women.

Teachers in those days had to be strict and used rulers, chalk board erasers, paddles or whatever was handy to keep order in the classroom…I had no reason to be afraid of Mr. Whittaker because our dad, didn’t discipline us by “unbuckling his belt,” as happened in many households…But as we, “students,” gathered in the school yard that first day of school September 1951, we were all wondering how this year would go.

Looking back, I imagine Mr. Whittaker was wondering the same thing…He had moved his young family, (I think he and Mrs. Whittaker had 4 children under the age of 6)…The oldest “Ernest,” would be in 1st grade…They had moved from the Boise Valley, mild climate to one of the snow belts of the United States..The “teacherage” a two room cottage, was their new home…Now he not only was responsible for his family but also an entire school, where he was also the janitor, wood splitter, snow shoveler, etc.

As you will see in the story, he was a unique character and I hope to bring that image to life, on paper…I can’t say he was my favorite teacher, but he certainly is the one I remember the most about…Story will start tomorrow…Hugs To All OWAV:)

What No. bathroom

About two years before moving to Idaho, my parents added a bathroom to our house.  No longer did we make the trek outside in all kinds of weather, to use the bathroom.  Nor would we ever have to take a bath in the small round tub in the middle of the kitchen floor.  

The shiny white porcelain tub sat in one corner of the new bathroom with a toilet next to it.  I remember sitting in a tub full of hot water, legs stretched out full length, soaking.  Then with a twist of the tap more hot water flowed into the bathtub and I could soak even longer. But now, we moved to a new house far away in Idaho, and again there stood an outhouse next to the woodshed. The trips to the smelly outhouse started once more.  It was winter and I hated sitting down on the cold wooden seat, the shock almost made you forget why you had left the warmth of the house, in the first place.  The early morning trip proved even colder than the night before!  In comparing this outhouse to the one in Utah, I liked this one better.  It had two seats, a shorter one for kids, where my feet touched the floor.  Here, in this harsh land I would soon learn to appreciate the little things in life.

There was a fun side to the outhouse for our older cousins.  They often came in the summers to help with the haying.  One year, our cousin brought his new “city” wife,  and he always accompanied her on the nightly trip to the toilet.  The other cousins soon picked up on this, and started plotting to scare her.   First, they hid behind trees and howled like a coyote, which made her really nervous, but they wanted more of a reaction.   The next night they carefully placed an old bobcat hide around the toilet seat, then hid in the hayfield and waited. When her bare bottom touched the bobcat fur, she didn’t disappoint them. I imagine the screams are still echoing from one end of Long Valley to the other. 

 

The weekly Saturday night bath was again taken in a small round galvanized tub in the middle of the kitchen floor, in front of the wood burning range, the warmest place in the house.  We were lucky to have running water piped into the house from a well, but we didn’t have a hot water heater.  Bath night worked a certain way at our house.  Mom would have to heat water on the wood stove in several kettles and then pour them into the tub and put more water on to heat.  She then added cold water to get the right temperature.  Then Mom took the first turn because she was the cleanest of the dirty.  After she finished, hot water was added and I was next.  Then we followed up the line in order of age, hot water added with every person.  Daddy was always the last in line, and I don’t know if he ever got to take a bath in clean water. 

 

Baths in the summer were taken more often and easier for everyone.  The hayfield crew came in hot, dirty and itchy, grabbed towels, suits (maybe) and a bar of soap as they headed for the icy waters of Boulder Creek, about ½ mile away. Boulder Creek’s headwaters located on Jug Handle Mountain and our house nested at its base.  A perfect swimming hole at the bridge, made a good place to get clean and cool. There was a lot of horseplay to bring a day of hard work to a close.  Proof that farm work is not all work and no play.  The younger kids were not forgotten in this ritual, since early in the morning, an old bathtub filled with water and left in the sun to warm during the day.  Before we were called to supper, all of us played, splashed and washed the dirt away, and then took a quick rinse in the cold water of the lawn sprinkler.

Water had to be heated for everyday needs, dishwashing etc. and washday.  Power outages and frozen pipes were always a problem.  If that happened, then we had to haul snow in, to melt for water.  It was never a problem to find snow in Lake Fork, but it still required many trips.  It takes a lot of snow to make that much water. 

I remember that Daddy installed a water heater that first winter so we would have instant hot water.  But an indoor bathroom didn’t make an appearance for several more years.  By then we again really appreciated being able to turn on the tap for more hot water, stretch out in the tub, and sit on a warm toilet seat instead of making the cold trip to the outhouse.  Maybe this was when Daddy finally got to take a bath in his very own bath water. 

Truly Amazing.

 I often complain about the USPS, not much about the delivery service, mostly about the high cost of sending a package…Today I have to commend them on their delivery service.

Remember the story I wrote recently about a classmate I hadn’t seen or heard from for many years, well in Tuesdays mail I received a letter from her, not sure where she found the address that she used but it wasn’t mine…

She had been looking through back, “2011” issues of Country Magazine and found an article about Wood Grove school, that I had written and decided to try and get in touch with me.

Idella Ashton Allen

1930 D & S Syringa Rd.

Joseph, Oregon 98746

The “road” is way off and the zip code should be 97846. I was totally blown away, that it arrived in our mail box. Kudos to the mail service. Now I have her address and will have to reply by snail mail, because she said nothing about email or texting or phone numbers, that will be a challenge for me… Hugs To All…OWAV:)

Highschool at Donnelly McCall

 High school came as a shock. It was all about clothes, name brand clothes such as Jantzen, White Stag, Pendleton, hairstyles, makeup, boys, dates, dances and clicks. The following paragraphs explain more about the dynamic’s of Valley County consisting of McCall, Donnelly, Cascade and Lake Fork. McCall had more rich people than the surrounding towns. The local lumber baron Warren Brown led the wealthy pack with Harwoods next in line. They built new ranch style homes on the lakefront of Payette Lake, which McCall is famous for. Three or more bedrooms with attached 3 car garages built in a curving “L” style so all windows looked out with a view of the lake…Compared to other houses in McCall that were basic 2 or 3 bedroom homes of less than 1000 square feet, the new lakeside homes were huge and spelled money in a big way.

I started high school with a new pair of shoes, a couple of dresses, skirts and blouses. The tag in them read, well really there wasn’t a tag, they were made by my Mom. She did her best but she wasn’t very fashion conscious. I’m not sure that I really cared but I do remember wanting a pleated wool Pendleton skirt. I was in the same boat with the majority of other kids because the poor outnumbered the rich many times over.

Sports for girls were non-existent except for a mediocre softball team. We played volleyball and half court basketball in PE classes. These games were nothing like today’s sports for girls. It was believed at the time that girls were more fragile and didn’t have the stamina for sports. We usually ended up being half/time entertainment at basketball games in the form of dance teams or comedy routines dressed in purple bloomers like clowns. 

As eighth graders we were asked to join the high school band and this opened doors for me to be part of an organization, get acquainted with older students and again ease my way into high school. 

A new band teacher, Mr. Boyd, had been hired and he worked hard to expand the music program.  He approached the administration about including the Jr. high students in the high school band and choir.  He was a fantastic teacher, he expected the most out of all of his students, and he didn’t put up with being late for class or forgetting your instrument.  He taught us the proper way to sit, instruments either at rest or in play position.  Watching him at all time was a must; if anyone was caught goofing off they were out of the band, second chances not allowed.  He commanded respect and we loved and admired him for it.  

He soon had all of us, junior high and high school working on more difficult pieces, and the most amazing part was that we were all enjoying making music.  We played in music festivals in Lewiston, Idaho every spring, marched and played in the Thanksgiving Parade in Boise.  He started a pep band, and we played at every ball game for the next five years.  We traveled with the teams to the Boise Valley, and stayed overnight with students from the other schools. When I was a senior we made a trip to Moscow, Idaho where we played for a University basketball game. He introduced us to the world of classical music, Grand Canyon Suite, Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies, marches by John Phillips Sousa, and many more.  

I continued playing in the band through high school and enjoyed it much more than most of my classes.  It gave many of us kids, who didn’t compete in sports, a place to excel and feel a part of the extracurricular activities. I traveled and experience things that otherwise would have been unavailable to me.

By the time I was a senior I had found the “college boy” of my dreams, was engaged to be married and no longer had to worry about whether I was popular or not or if my clothes were Jantzen or White Stag.

The Saga continues.

 Consolidation was not a choice for us, it was mandated and I think for me it was good because it eased my way into high school. One of the larger country schools was made into a junior high. Twenty-five students from Lake Fork and Donnelly attended this school with only one teacher, seventh graders on one side of the room and eighth graders on the other side. A water cooler in one corner near the pencil sharpener and the bathrooms one for girls and another for boys were outside. Another large room was kept closed off most of the time but in winter it had a ping-pong table, where we held endless ping-pong tournaments. In warm weather we played softball every recess. The Donnelly/McCall high school was only five miles away so we were bused there for a hot lunch and also to join the high school band for daily practices. I didn’t have any problems settling in to this new school. I made friends easily and compared to the other girls I was a good softball player and always one of the first girls chosen to be on a team. I found out quickly that my grades were mediocre compared to the other students’ as visions of honor student floated right out of my head. I was content to get average grades and never really learned good study skills.

I soon had a boyfriend. I wore a “dog tag” necklace with his name and he wore one with my name. At school we made no secret of this but each night when I went home the necklace was tucked under my shirt so my parents couldn’t see it. Most of our conversations were carried on via notes passed by friends or at the water cooler, as we just happened to get thirsty at the same time. We shyly sat next to each other on the bus as we rode to lunch, giving each other sidelong glances. I went to band practice and he to study hall. This romance was short lived as I soon saw him flirting with another girl at the water cooler and returned his necklace. 

One of the best parts of this change in schools was the hot lunch program.  I had eaten a cold sack lunch for five years and hot lunch was such a treat. Hamburger gravy over mashed potatoes and chili with homemade rolls were two of my favorites. We could have all of the bread and butter sandwiches that we wanted but were not allowed to waste anything. I was in heaven except for the occasional serving of canned peas that I had to choke down before returning for seconds. 

Our introduction to high school was a field trip to Boise and included all incoming freshman. We toured the Capitol Building in Boise and the Idaho Statesman Newspaper offices. We were supposed to get acquainted with the freshman from McCall but there was very little mingling on the long bus ride, everyone stayed with their familiar group or their own little click. Girls had to wear dresses on this trip and also would be required to wear dresses everyday at school. It was here that I began to notice the differences in clothing that became more apparent as the years went by. 

A school dance or mixer as it was called was held on the afternoon of the first day of school. I remember one girl in particular, a cute blond. She was blond, petite and knew how to dance. She wore dress shoes and nylons to go with her full-skirted dress as she twirled and bobbed around the dance floor, blond curls bouncing. She danced every dance and flirted with first one boy and then another as they all clamored for her hand. I sat on the sideline in a plain dress wearing saddle oxfords and bobbie socks, watching, palms sweaty, wanting a boy to ask me to dance but also afraid that they would because I didn’t really know how to dance. 

One boy did ask me to dance and he said to me, “I saw you watching ‘her’, you know don’t you that pretty is as pretty does”? 

“I know.” I answered, “But look she is so popular and cute.” 

I envied her through high school and her talents became even more apparent as the years went on. She could play the piano and made the honor roll. She was the first choice for the lead parts in the school plays. She changed boyfriends often and had a date for every school dance. Boyfriends, dates never happened for me but it didn’t stop me from going to dances and parties. I sat on the sidelines with my girlfriends and waited for girls choice. and I found my own nitch in the band program and as a member of “Girls Club” where I served as Vice President and President of the organization in my Junior and Senior years. 

Growing up years.

 These were idyllic years at school as well as at home. I had chores to do at home and didn't expect payment. Payment came in the form of a roof over my head, food on the table, a bed to sleep in and parents who loved me. School lasted for nine months and then the summer was mine. Of course I still had chores to do but I also spent endless hours riding horse back under Jug Handle Mountain. We had two horses for riding “Felt” and “Tricksy”. Felt was easier to catch and also smoother riding. Once I got the bridle on him, I led him to the closest corral fence and climbed from the fence onto his bare back. Now with one or more dogs trotting along side, I was ready to go after the cows for milking or maybe just ready to ride as I imagined myself an Indian free and wild. I headed out one of the many trails from our house that led to the meadows, the dry farm or the forest covered mountain behind our house. Shaped like the handle on a jug this mountain was dubbed Jug Handle and loomed over Valley County’s east side. I explored the trails, sometimes checking on our small herd of sheep or the range cattle. I didn't wear a helmet or a watch but my internal clock seemed to know when I better start for home or maybe it was my stomach signaling that it was time for a meal. There were no lessons, no organized sports, no play dates. I learned to entertain myself and the word bored was not in my vocabulary.

I loved attending Wood Grove where young and old alike learned together, played together and took care of each other. But our country was changing and ideas about education were about to change as well. The small country schools found it more difficult to recruit and keep good teachers. Four different teachers were hired in the five years I attended Wood Grove and consolidation of schools seemed to be the answer. My years ended at Wood Grove after 7th grade. 

School years.

 

For five years I attended Wood Grove, a one-room country school near Lake Fork. Grades 1 through 8 attended this school with 1 teacher hired to teach 10 to 15 students. In the back corner stood the pot bellied stove our only source of heat, windows that opened in spring and fall supplied air conditioning. Water was pumped from a well and carried inside for drinking and washing up before lunch. A lone towel hung on a nail next to a small enamel basin and a bar of soap sat in a dish. Everyone shared; water, towel and soap. The water was ice cold in winter, lukewarm in summer and was changed occasionally by pitching it out the door and refilling the basin. The water bucket had a dipper that everyone drank from. A small mirror hung above the washbasin and a lone comb lay on the shelf, we shared that also. No one ever had head lice and colds were far and few between. 

On the occasion that someone got a sick, they stayed home for a few days and home remedies were used. Mustard plasters applied to the chest for a cold, lots of Vicks vapor rub for sore throats and Vicks nose drops to clear ones head. Aspirin, sulfa drugs and hot lemonade were administered as often as the patient would allow. If your nose was stuffed up and you had a sore throat it was a cold. If you were throwing up it was the flu. If you had a fever and a sore throat it was tonsillitis. If you had tonsillitis more than 3 times in one winter a trip to the doctors office was in store next spring and the tonsils were removed. 

I breezed through the years at Wood Grove.  Classes were not very demanding. We were there to learn the 3 R's. Readin and 'Rithmetic came easy to me. 'Ritin was limited to printing, then cursive. We practiced forming the letters but very little time spent on making sentences. I thought I was smart. Little did I know? We didn’t have a library but our teacher read to us every day right after lunch and it soon became my favorite time of the school day.

Our playground was a field with a swing set, a teeter-totter and a place to play softball. In winter it became a snow field where we played fox and geese, made snow forts and waged war with the only available ammunition, snowballs. All students, young and old, boy or girl wore the same "uniform", jeans and a shirt. We didn't know about styles or color coordinating or name brands. Clothes were just something to cover ones body and keep one warm. 

Blue Frosting, continued.

 The year Connie and I started eighth grade the school system under went major changes.  The one room schools closed and all students rode busses to McCall or Donnelly (nearby towns) where we joined other students.  Roseberry School became a Junior High school with about thirty students in the two grades.  At this school we made new friends and our friendship started to fade.  We still rode the bus together and spent time together during the summer. 

 Our high school years saw us move farther apart, Connie with her new friends and me with mine.  I remained active in band and joined other clubs sponsored by the school.  Sometime during our Sophomore year Connie quit high school and was soon married.  She now lived in Council, Idaho.

I heard about her through mutual friends and our paths crossed occasionally at the local grocery store.  Over the next few years, Mrs. Thompson was treated for breast cancer and Connie’s brother, James left home and maybe lived in a group home. 

I graduated from high school, attended beauty college and was married, living in Utah and had children of my own, the next time I heard anything about Connie.  My husbands parents had retired and moved to Council.  Connie called their home and left a message asking that I call her the next time we came for a visit.  

I returned her call and we had a short phone conversation, and set a time for her to come to my in-laws house so we could continue our visit. I was a bit nervous, wondering if we would have anything to talk about after all the years that had passed. The day arrived but Connie didn’t.  I thought I might get a phone call, but I never heard from her again.  Maybe she too was nervous, her thoughts like mine decided that too much time had passed or maybe one of her children got sick, I don’t know, so many things could have happened and now forty years later I will always wonder. But I will never forget the good times I spent at her home and that delicious chocolate cake, covered in blue frosting. 

Blue frosting.

 

Mom shifted into a lower gear as we rounded yet another corner, while driving to school, on the slick, snow covered road.  It was snowing and blowing so hard, that the wipers had a hard time keeping the windshield clean.  Almost, as if out of nowhere a shadowy figure appeared on the roadside.  As we got closer we could see that it was a young girl.  She was bundled against the cold wind, wearing a coat much to large for her.  A scarf was wrapped around her head and tied under her chin.  She walked slowly as the boots she wore seemed too large for her feet.  She immediately moved off the road into the bar pit.  Mom stopped the car and I rolled down the window to ask if she wanted a ride.  She moved farther away from our car, shaking her head from side to side, it became very apparent that she wouldn’t accept a ride from us.  

My Mom was driving me to Wood Grove, a one room school that I attended for the next five years.  It was December 1950.  I was eight years old, in the third grade and we recently moved from Porterville, Utah to Lake Fork, Idaho. Wood Grove, truly a one room school, with only twelve students.  Students of all ages sat in the rows of desks filling the room. The teacher sat in a desk at the front of the room and black boards covered the wall directly behind her.  Windows lined a wall and a piano stood on the other side of the room.  A large pot belly stove, radiating heat, filled an entire corner.  Freshly split wood stacked nearby, and coats hung to dry behind the stove.  Boots, mittens and caps lay strewn on the floor.  The smell of wet wool permeated the air.

I quickly removed my outer layer of clothing, while the teacher arranged a desk next to the wall for me to sit in.  I sat down behind a boy, with blond hair, named Jimmy, also in third grade.  Just then the door opened and in walked the girl, we had seen on the roadway.  She sat in the desk behind me. I soon learned that her name was Connie and everyday, she walked over a mile to school, in any kind of weather. 

  Connie was a very shy girl and hadn’t been around a lot of people. When spoken to, she would duck her head and turn away. Homes were far apart in this valley, so it was not easy to socialize.   All the families were poor farmers, loggers or mill workers. No one wore expensive clothes and most of the kids rode horseback or walked to school. Wool was the best choice for winter and the Finish people were always knitting socks, sweaters, hats and gloves. In the summer all of us rode bicycles or walked to school.  By my second year in school at Wood Grove, Connie and I had became best friends.

  

I learned that her mother seldom left their house and didn’t drive.  Her father, worked at the local saw mill. She had an older brother, named James. Connie’s family lived on a small acreage with outbuildings for their cow and chickens. Their house was a small two story building with an outdoor toilet nearby.  I spent many hours and sometimes overnight at their home playing with Connie.  I ate meals with them and liked visiting there.  One thing I remember vividly is a 9 X 12 dark chocolate cake, with bright blue frosting.  It is the only dessert I remember and we had it many times when I went there to play.  I wonder if it was something Mrs. Thompson made to add color to her days.  

Mrs. Thompson worked very hard, and kept their house spotlessly clean.  Not easy to do since their house lacked electricity and running water.  She hauled water and heated it on the wood stove for cooking, bathing, laundry and cleaning.  She ironed the families clothes with irons heated on the wood stove and they read using kerosene lanterns. Her name was Madeline and I thought that was a beautiful name.

Connie lived about two miles away and I would ride my bike there, and we would play house all day.  We labored for hours making mud pies in all shapes and sizes. Family dogs, stretched out in the sun, watching us while we pretended to cook lunch for them.  It took very little to keep us entertained, our imagination providing us everything that we needed. Television had been invented, but not available in Valley County.

Connie spent many days and nights at my house and with my family.  It gave her the opportunity to socialize with my larger extended family and in the process I think she became more outgoing and gained self confidence. She lost some of the shyness. 

I remember my years at Wood Grove as a special part of my life.  The 50‘s were a wonderful time to grow up.  As farm kids we all worked hard, doing the endless chores, milking cows, feeding bummer lambs and calves.    Our lives were uncomplicated and our freedom was endless. The five years at Wood Grove School passed quickly.

Wood Grove School.

  It was September 1951. Summer ended with the last batch of relatives leaving after spending their vacation with us at our new home in Lake Fork, Idaho. They claimed that Lake Fork was even more beautiful than Yellowstone Park and they made plans to return another year. 

Summer had been a glorious time for me, playing with cousins, nieces and nephews, riding horses, and playing in the river. Exploring this new place we lived in, I, in a make believe world of cowboys and Indians, outlaws and a sheriffs posse. We used our fingers as guns, saying, “bang you’re dead” as another outlaw or Indian hit the dirt. We fashioned bows from willow branches, used fishing line for the string and sharpened sticks for arrows. Thick willow branches made into stick horses that carried us through the forest up and down hills and finally back to the house when our stomachs signaled suppertime. When the 4^th of July rolled around I got my own cap gun with a supply of caps and continued to bring law and order to the wilds of our ranch. The smell of the smoking cap gun remains in my nostrils to this day. Summer at nine years old was all play and no work, but soon ended and the school year began.

I was excited looking forward to the coming year and the start of 4^th grade. I started school in December of 1950 at Wood Grove School; a one-room schoolhouse located two miles from our home, sheltered in a grove of trees along side a narrow dirt road. Off to one side was a woodshed, next to the woodshed was a small two room cottage and nearby were two outhouses marked HIS and HERS. I had settled easily into this new school, although it was much different than the city school I attended previously. One teacher taught all eight grades and did janitorial duties, such as building a fire in the potbellied stove through the winter months, sweeping the floor each day, and on a regular basis also treated the wood floor with linseed oil. Some of the older students, usually boys were assigned turns at chopping wood and carrying it inside to stack by the stove. A hand pump sat near the front door where students pumped water from the well and carried it to the anteroom for washing and drinking. All students drank from the same dipper, and hands were washed in a small basin of water and dried on a lone towel, before we gathered around a small table to eat our sack lunches. 

Sunshine Boy

 

Sun shines now as it did June, 9, 1937. A baby boy cries as his father walks into the bedroom, joining his mother as she places their son in the crib, then covers him with a scratchy wool blanket, brushes his soft cheek with her moist lips, sunshine fills the room. Pleased looks and a lingering embrace are exchanged as the new mother and father look in awe at their long awaited little boy. The sunshine warms the child growing up on a small farm, his constant companion a dog name Amos. 

Sun shines as boy starts school, loses front teeth, tooth fairy arrives. Sun shines when the jolly fat man brings a banana and nuts for stockings that hang by the chimney. Packages wrapped in red, under a tinsel laden tree. Sun fades when boy finds out that Santa and parents are one and the same. 

Sunshine grows dim and the farm is unable to sustain their life, as the small herd of sheep dies one by one from anthrax. Sun is hidden as the farm is sold and they move, father looking for any kind of work that will put food on the table. They remain a small unit, 3 of them, content, living near relatives, making new friends. The family joins the Grange and the local church as the sunshine comes back into their lives. 

Boy is growing up, zits erupt on that same smooth cheek and whiskers soon follow. School keeps him busy, soon a part time job bagging groceries, supplies school clothes, gasoline, the first package of cigarettes, he briefly plays the trumpet and as coxswain keeps his team on cadence. He graduates from high school, leaves home to attend Ranger School, as the sun shines higher in the sky. 

Sunshine hides behind a cloud as mother coughs, gasping for breath when her childhood asthma rears its ugly head and angrily demands that they move to a less humid climate. Sunshine hides behind a black cloud as their meager possessions are sold or given away and a small cedar chest is packed with the mementoes of the past 20 years, along with only the necessities that will fit in a pickup bed covered with a homemade camper as the sunshine peeks out from behind the dark cloud. The sun shines on the cross country trip, three of them share in the driving of a 57 ford pickup. Five days and 3500 miles register on the odometer, the sun shines in a welcoming way as they reach McCall, Idaho, settle into a cramped apartment and begin life in their new home. The sun shines as father finds seasonal work on a bridge crew and mother takes in ironing to supplement the family income.

Sun shines high in the sky as son starts a summer job awaiting him with the Forest Service and enrolls at the University of Idaho the coming fall. The sun shines as his paychecks afford new wheels in the form of a 2 door, 1953 mercury, shiny and black, polished to a high gloss. The sun shines as parents stand waving, tears streaming down his mother face as their only child climbs into the shiny car, revs the motor, smiles at the rumble it makes and leaves the family nest for college.

Sun shines for the next three years, a college degree on the horizon, winters spent at school and summers at work, a combined family effort keeps boy focused. The summers brings sunshine as he makes friends, finds time to water ski, attend dances and parties, has a girlfriend, he met in college. Suddenly the sunshine moves in a different direction, girlfriend attends a conference back east and boy finds himself without a date for the Saturday night dance. Sunshine is slippery, as farm girl appears on scene, just for one date, what can it hurt? Girlfriend fades away as farm girl, still a teenager, snuggles close in the front seat of the ’53 mercury and sun shines as the relationship blossoms, boy’s parents struggle to come to grips with this sudden turn of events. Sunshine peaks from behind a cloud, boy returns to college, leaving farm girl behind to finish her last year of high school amid her own peers. Letters fly through the mail, an occasional trip home keeps the romance alive, a diamond ring is slipped on her left hand and thoughts of a June wedding float in the sun filled sky. But farm girl has niggling thoughts that maybe she needs more time, since marriage is forever.

After she graduates from high school the couple decide to postpone their wedding for a year and she enrolls in beauty school to further her education. Both sets of parents breath a big sigh of relief as the sunshine moves high into the sky.

Sunshine Girl

The sun shines on a cold October day 1942, baby girl is born at the family home, the last of 6 children. The sun peeks from behind a cloud, mother needs bed rest, recovery is slow. Sun is obscured when surgery is scheduled. Two older sisters step in to care for the new baby and sun shines again as the new little girl grows like a newborn calf, as she drinks jersey milk from a bottle. Soon her mother can be found working in the garden. The sun shines as the girl plays cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood children or runs through the sprinkler, clad only in underpants as the sun bakes her skin to a golden brown and leaves her bum as white as that of an antelope. Then on a sun filled day she starts to school, has to wear dresses and tight shoes. The tooth fairy arrives; a gap-toothed smile shows in the 2^nd grade photo. 

The sunshine dims as Father becomes disgruntled with endless days of work and mooching relatives. Clouds obliterate the sunshine as trucks are loaded with machinery and livestock. A touring car and a pickup truck complete the caravan and they travel for 2 days and 500 miles, from Utah to Idaho over treacherous roads arriving at their new home nestled under Jug Handle Mountain, late at night in a raging blizzard.

The sun shines on a frigid December day and Santa arrives that night to fill the stockings, one orange in the toe, mixed nuts and hard candy on top. Gaily wrapped packages under the tree adorned with icicles popular in the 50’s. Sunshine dims when her sister clues her into the fact that Santa Claus and parents are one and the same.

Sun shines as little girl starts school in one room with a potbelly stove and children dressed from head to toe in wool, most of them fluent in Finnish as well as English. The sun shines high in the sky when spring arrives, slowly melting the deep snows of winter. The next 4 years fly by as she and a fellow classmate spend the summers riding bikes, mixing skunk cabbage and dandelions into mud pies they leave to bake in the scorching summer sun.  The sun shines as she learns to milk cows, drive a tractor and a team of horses named Bert and Dick and also learns to play the saxophone.

Cloudy skies cover the sunshine, puberty strikes and she remains her Daddy's girl, a “short curly do” replaces her braids. Sticking close to her father’s side, she is his right-hand man, always trying to lighten her father’s load. Then sunshine hides behind a dark cloud as she enters high school, where it matters what you wear, jeans and t-shirts are exchanged for pleated skirts and sweaters with tags that say Jantzen, or White Stag, that is, if you belong to the “in group”. This girl watches from the sidelines or maybe settles in the middle group while the sun makes a come back. She enjoys making new friends and relates well to the teachers. Parties, dances, president of “Girls Club” gives her the social interaction she needs and she finds a niche in the music program, fills her spare time with bus trips as the band goes to festivals and the pep band follows the sports teams to ball games, as the sunshine hovers in the sky.

The sun shining now moves into the autumn sky, her parents smile and sigh as baby girl now 17, climbs into the family car, a 57 chevy, as she leaves in a cloud of dust to meet the college boy who entered her life only one short month ago. These two have been inseparable, spending every spare moment together and she now wears his class ring on a chain around her neck.  Her parents having raised other children accept this sudden romance with a wait and see approach.

The sunshine takes on a luminous glow as he drives with one hand on the wheel and his other arm around her as she snuggles close in the front seat of the ’53 mercury, for this their last date before he returns to college and she stays behind. 

The sun shines on this her senior year, Christmas brings a diamond to her left hand and a commitment to a wedding in June. A cloud with an ulterior motive appears in March. The sun still shines as plans change, wedding postponed for one year, girl’s life takes a brief detour as she enrolls in beauty school, giving her a chance to mature and grow before the wedding.

Petticoats and Pigtails.

          My eye’s popped open, it was early but I was wide awake.  I was eight years old and today was to be a special day.  

          Last night, Mom helped me wash my hair.  Then I took a bath and she checked to make sure my neck and ears were clean.  A place I always seemed to miss, much to her dismay.  My neck and ears passed inspection, I was clean enough to go shopping for a new dress.

          I’m sure that in todays world, a shopping trip for an eight year old would not be a big deal, but in 1950 for me, it definitely was.  

          We lived on a farm twenty miles from Ogden, Utah, the nearest large city.  I’m sure I had been to Ogden before, but those occasions were far and few between.  We would have gone shopping for school clothes, other times buying only underwear, socks and shoes.  Mom made my dresses and even my petticoats.  How I envied the girls at school, as they proudly showed off their new dresses, bought from the store.  They never made fun of my dresses, only the petticoats that Mom made out of the backs of my Dad’s old flannel shirts.  No, they were not very pretty nor silky feeling.  They did serve the purpose and in winter added a layer of warmth.

          Today I was going shopping for a dress, a store bought dress, a dress to wear to my brother’s wedding.

       Saturday shoppers crowded the sidewalks as Mom held tightly to my hand because I was so busy looking around at everyone and everything, she was afraid of losing me.  We went to JC Penny’s department store and straight to the girls dresses.  The saleslady helped by bringing a few dresses in my size.  Mom sorted through the dresses and gave some back to the clerk.  They were too fancy and had to be washed by hand.  The dress we bought had to be nice but also one I could wear to school after the wedding.  

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          I tried on three or four dresses that day.   Standing in front of a full length mirror, for the first time, I shyly turned around, one way and then the other, looking at the dress from all angles.  I wondered about the scrawny little girl in the mirror, yes, me, my nose covered with freckles, and my hair in pigtails.  Would the dress make me pretty, like the girls at school, in their store bought dresses?  

          I did try on one dress that had ruffles and lace.  It was kind of scratchy, but it had a full skirt and made me feel like Cinderella or a fairy tale princess.  I lost some of my shyness, twirling around in front of the mirror, almost falling down.  Mom caught me and we laughed.  Now I was being silly.  Finally I tried on the last dress.  It was made of cotton fabric,  green plaid with a white Peter Pan collar.  I knew that this was the dress I would choose.  It was all the things it had to be; washable, no ruffles or frills, a gathered skirt, but not too full, a darker color so the dirt wouldn’t show, and it would be comfortable to wear all day at school.

          That day along with the dress, we bought white anklets and black patent leather shoes to complete my outfit.  I wondered about a petticoat, but knew I should be satisfied with the new dress and shoes. 

           That night after supper I brought out the sack and proudly showed Daddy the new dress and shoes that I had for the wedding.  He admired the purchase, patted my shoulder, and went back to reading his paper. 

          Later that evening, when I was ready for bed, dressed in my flannel pajamas, Daddy kissed me, gave me a big hug and said, “Goodnight my Princess.”  It was then I realized that being a princess didn’t mean wearing frilly dresses and silk petticoats.  Plain old flannel pajamas would do the trick.      

Moving Day, December 1,1950.

The rain stopped for no one, not even for the men loading the truck.  Mud was tracked throughout the house and I can remember my mother sweeping and mopping, trying to keep the floor clean for the new owners. They moved in the back door as we hauled furniture out the front door.  The rain was turning to snow now as it was getting late, after 5:00pm.  It was not a good time to start a 500-mile trip, but start we did on December 1st 1950.  Furniture and machinery filled two trucks that were driven by friends.  My dad drove a pickup with my sister, Mona along for company.  I rode in the car with my mom and Myrtle, my brother’s mother-in-law.  My brother George, and his new wife Marlene drove a ton truck loaded with horses. 

I was eight years old and I don’t remember being told that we were moving.  I don’t remember packing clothes or toys.  I do remember an autograph book that I took to school for my teachers and friends to write in so I would remember them.  Little “ditties” filled my book;  “Roses are red, violets are blue, sorry you’re leaving, I’ll miss you.”  I still have that book.  I ask Mom why we moved, leaving behind my oldest sister and her family.  She said, maybe, it was to get away from so many relatives.

We moved from the house in Porterville, Utah where I was born to Lake Fork, Idaho.  Freeways, studded tires and four-wheel drives were unheard of in those days, so we just headed out with what we had.  Things went well until Snowville, Utah, then the snow started coming down faster than the windshield wipers could work and the wind was blowing a gale as cars and trucks spun out, sliding and ending up crosswise of the road.  Sanding barrels along side the road provided sand that could be shoveled from then onto the road, giving motor vehicles much needed traction.  The Men sanded and pushed until we reached the top of the hill and then it was almost as scary going down the other side.  We had supper in a café in Snowville, then started on our way again.

I must have gone to sleep because the next thing I remember is going into what I thought was someone’s house.  I had never heard of a motel.  We had traveled about 200 miles and were in Burley, Idaho.  It was midnight.  

The next morning dawned sunny and clear and the road stretched before us, another 300 miles to Lake Fork. A flat tire on one of the big trucks near Boise, held us up and I was really getting tired and bored after being on the road for so long.  To entertain me, Myrtle told me stories and when that no longer worked, she resorted to making faces and pushing her false teeth out to make me laugh.  That helped pass the last few miles rather quickly, but it was dark when we pulled into Lake Fork.  We turned off onto a gravel road and started the last three-miles to our new ranch, pushing snow all the way.  The key hadn’t been left under the mat, so one of the front windows in the house was pried up far enough for my dad to push me through, so I could unlock the door from the inside.  While Mom started a fire and fixed something to eat, the horses were unloaded and fed.  After we had eaten, beds were made and everyone went to bed as it was after 10pm.  My dreams that night didn’t come close to what my life would be like in this new land.

Embarrassing Situation.

 Farm to Market Road

My parents, sister and I after having dinner with my brother and his family in McCall, were now on our way home to Lake Fork. It was late evening and the temperature already below zero. Our fingers and toes numb from the cold as Mona and I shivered in the back seat, waiting for the car to warm up. Snow banks loomed over snow-covered roads while a full moon illuminated Long Valley. I chirped from the back seat, “Daddy lets take the Farm to Market Road tonight.” I liked this dirt road that wound like a snake through the countryside up and down hills, around corners and passed lone farmhouses lit by a single porch light. Daddy turned on the signal light and made the corner. The car lights shone bright and up ahead a car was parked on the side of the road, doors open and two people standing outside and the car still running. The car was parked at such an angle that the figures were partially hidden from view. Must be having car trouble, we thought, maybe a flat tire. Daddy pulled over and braked to a stop. “Joe, see if you can help and I will stay here with the girls.” Mom said.

Even with the full moon we couldn’t tell just what was going on as we watched the shadowy figures moving in the moonlight. Daddy wasn’t looking under the hood or at the tires of the car but was helping a person stand up, helping them (the figures looked like women) adjust their clothing and then guided both of the figures into their car. He shut the doors, turned and walked quickly back to our car. One look at his face and we should have known to keep quiet but we were full of questions. 

“Was that a lady by the car?” I ask. 

“Had she fallen down?” said Mona. 

Mom was trying to shush us and Daddy tight lipped said, “We will follow then until they get to their lane and make sure they get home.” 

 “But who are they and what was wrong?” 

“Della, they are two local woman who are quite drunk and one of the ladies had to go to the bathroom. She managed to go to the bathroom, but when she tried to pull her pants up she kind of “jack knifed and couldn’t stand back up.” 

The picture we saw (in our minds) was a lady, her bare bottom staring at the moonlight and Mom had sent Daddy to help. Mom, Mona and I started to laugh. 

Daddy said, “STOP, it’s not funny and you shouldn’t be laughing at them. They are to be pitied not made fun of.” “But Daddy,” “No, he said, that’s enough they are almost to their turn, lets hope they make it without going into the ditch. I volunteered to drive them but the one lady insisted she was able to drive. On a cold night like this they could have frozen to death, the state they are in.”

We continued on home in silence, the magic of the night was lost. The subject was later discussed between the three of us Mom, Mona and I but out of earshot of our Dad. It was plain to us that we were not laughing at the women who had too much too drink on a regular basis but that Daddy had been sent to help and walked into a rather embarrassing situation. About a week later as we gathered around our supper table eating our usual fare of bread and milk, a smile played at the corners of Daddies mouth and out of the blue he said, “I guess that was kind of funny last week when I had to help the lady pull up her pants.” Again we started to laugh and this time he laughed with us and we talked about what was funny about that night and he knew that we were not making fun of the two ladies.

 

Snowbound

 A winter wonderland, that’s how I felt about it.  A move to McCall Idaho in December of 1950, when I was eight years old landed me right in the middle of this snowy paradise.  Snow falling daily, wind-blowing, roads drifted closed so that a team and bob sleigh was, at times, our only transportation.  It was like a dream, and made me think of all the songs about winter and sleigh rides.  Our team of horses Bert and Dick were gentle and hard working.  With just a flick of the reins they turned left or right, walked slow or changed to a trot, they did exactly what my Daddy wanted, without him ever saying a word.  Morning and night the sleigh was loaded with hay to feed the cattle, with me holding the reins, while hay was thrown onto fresh, sparkling snow.  The cattle, steam rising from their warm bodies came running and bawling after us to get the first bite of hay.  Back at the barn the horses had to be unharnessed, brushed and fed.  I soon learned that I could help by walking under the horses’ belly unsnapping and loosening the harness so we could get our chores finished and into our warm house for the breakfast or supper that Mom always had ready.

More beautiful than ever was our Christmas tree that year.  Could it have been, because Daddy hitched up the team and with everyone bundled up against the cold wind, our breath visible in the air we found, cut and hauled the tree home?  Then Mom used her special magic, with a few treasured ornaments, strings of lights and icicles carefully placed to make it the tree, that every year we tried to duplicate.  Christmas Eve a few packages were under the tree and our stockings were hung.  We didn’t have fancy matching stockings for everyone; instead Mom would get stockings from Dad’s dresser, one for each of us.  We used his because they were the largest, and would hold more candy and nuts.  

We lived on a county road with our nearest neighbors a mile away; the Lake Fork grocery store and post office three miles away, and our one room school house two miles down the road.  County road equipment was nearly nonexistent, and what was available couldn’t begin to keep up with the snowstorms that came in one after the other.  If the county crew was lucky, and got the roads plowed you could bet that within a few days another storm would move in and they would soon be impassable again.  This happened over and over every winter.  Sometimes after the roads were plowed, leaving a layer of ice and snow on them, Daddy would let us hooky bob behind the bob sleigh on our sleds to a nearby hill.  At the top of the hill the sleds were unhooked and down the hill we would go, then Daddy would come down, and pull us up again.

I remember being snowed in for two weeks, unable to go to school.  Shoveling snow was a daily chore.  Usually, in between storms the temperature would drop below zero, then it was a  struggle keeping the water pipes from freezing, and making sure the cattle had enough to eat, and keeping a hole chopped in the ice so they could get water.  Even when the roads were plowed trips to the store to get groceries or the mail were far and few between.  My parents had planned well and worked hard so we had warm clothing, plenty of food to eat, and enough wood to last all winter. 

I don’t know why my parents decided to move and especially in the dead of the winter, unless it was so they would be ready to plant crops in the spring.  I’m happy they did because it made my childhood, a dream come true.                                                                            

A really long memory about washday.

 WASH DAY IN LAKE FORK

I pushed open the back door, coming out of the cold into the warm house on a dark December morning.  I took off mittens, heavy coat and wool hat, then struggled with cold fingers to remove my buckled overboots. The milking and chores finished for another morning. Daddy followed me in from the barn, shedding his coat and hanging it up before he washed up for breakfast. Mom was busy sorting clothes but looked up at him and smiled as he gave her a quick hug as he walked by.

As the welcoming warm air of the house surrounded me the odor of lye soap permeated my nostrils; it mingled with the smell of ham and beans cooking for our dinner, on the back of the wood cook stove.

The washing machine stood in the middle of the washroom surrounded by dirty clothes; Mom had sorted the clothes into big piles of whites, light colors, darks and really dirty clothes. .  I washed up, started the toast and set the table, putting thick cream and sugar out for the oatmeal and coffee. Fresh side-pork sizzled in the frying pan.  We had hearty appetites after milking ten cows, separating the milk from the cream, putting the milk in ten-gallon cans, and into the cooler.  Calves, chickens, and pigs waited to be fed.  There would be more to do after breakfast, but for now we concentrated on eating everything Mom had cooked.  As Daddy added cream and sugar to his second cup of coffee, he said, Della you stay and help your Mother with the wash, I can feed the cattle and sheep this morning without your help.” 

I quickly cleaned the table, did the dishes before going to the washroom. Mom had the washer filled with water, she added grated lye soap and started the gyrators before adding the first batch of whites.  I checked all the pockets a second time to make sure nothing had been left in them; maybe I would find some loose change that Daddy had missed.  Also I turned down and cleaned the rolled up cuffs on Daddy’s bib overalls, because they always had dirt and hay chaff in them. Mom didn’t want hay in her washing machine.  Mom was very particular about how things went into the washer; first, only lightly soiled whites, sheets etc.; then, light colors and continuing on until last came the really dirty clothes.  I loved running everything through the wringers, being careful to keep my fingers away from the wringers and folded the buttons to the inside of a garment, preventing them from breaking.  Everything went through two wash waters and two rinse waters, the whites going first into warm water, then into the second, hot water. 

“Della, remember to turn the socks wrong side out for the first wash, then after going through the wringer, catch them and turn them right side out before going into the second wash. Otherwise they won’t get clean.” 

“Yes, Mom I already did that to the first load and am almost through with the second.”

Ten to twelve loads of clothes waited to be washed.  On sunny days, even in the dead of winter clothes were hung outside. After the last rinse clothes were shaken, to get rid of the wrinkles, then laid out straight in piles. I picked up the first pile and put them over my arm, and with the clothespin bag tied around my waist, overboots, a heavy coat and hat on, I made my way to the clothesline.  Usually, in winter, the snow was frozen hard enough that we could walk on top of it.  If not Daddy had dug a narrow path and cleared snow from under the clothes lines.  No matter how cold it was, I didn’t hang Mom’s washing haphazardly or mix things up.  Every towel, pillowcase or sheet hung together in a group very straight.  It took several trips and 3 to 4 hours before we finished washing. Now all four tubs had to be emptied by draining the water into buckets, and then dumped down the sink drain or in the summer we carried it outside to water flowerbeds.  Mom wiped out the wash tubs and rolled them back into the corner, placed a sheet over them and as she did I glimpsed a nostalgic look on her face. 

“Mom, how long have you had this washing machine?”

“Oh, only a few years. Don’t you remember the Christmas in Utah when “Daddy” had them delivered on Christmas Eve? 

“No, maybe I was too young to remember or I was only concerned with what Santa was bringing me that year.”

“I was so surprised when the new washing machine arrived and it has made my life so much easier. The old machine had a gas motor that was stinky and hard to start and it only had one tub with a make shift rinse tub. I love this one with its two wash tubs and two rinse tubs in two units.” Then her mood changed as she said, “ Enough talk now, look at the time, Daddy will be in for dinner soon, please go set the table and I will be there in just a few minutes.”

Our dinner of ham and beans with huge slices of homemade buttered bread was eaten about noon, with a short rest afterwards. Later in the day, we brought in the washing, most of it frozen, stiff as boards.  It was then hung upstairs on lines, also downstairs over chairs in front of the wood stove.  After the sheets finished drying, we would remake the beds. I could hardly wait to have my bath and crawl between the crisp, fresh smelling sheets.

Afternoon over now and it was again time to milk the cows and do the same chores that had been done that morning.  Supper most nights was bread and milk with left over cold meat from another meal and home canned fruit from the cellar.  Bedtime soon followed because 5am came early.

Daddy had a surprise for Mom that year, when the day before Christmas an electric clothes dryer was delivered and installed.  Every winter, she treasured the dryer that made her life a little easier.  But come spring, clothes were again hung outside to dry, because nothing smells better than a bed made with line dried sheets.  Unless, of course, it is the smell of lye soap mingled with the smell of ham and beans.