500 miles of 2 lane roads.

 In October of 1950 Mom and Daddy put the Porterville place up for sale and took a trip into Idaho looking for a farm to buy. They looked at places in Lake Fork, Moscow and St Maries, Idaho, traversing the entire length of Idaho, ending up near the Canadian border. On the return trip they decided to look at the Lake Fork place one last time, and while there put down earnest money until they could sell the property and take care of their affairs in Porterville.

One month later December 3, 1950, four trucks were loaded with machinery, horses, cows and household furniture. A “touring car” carried the rest of the family. The five hundred mile trip from Porterville, Utah to Lake Fork, Idaho took two days. We left Utah in a rainstorm and arrived in Lake Fork in a blinding blizzard. 

The county road, that led to our new house was snow covered, with wind blowing a gale, making it impossible to see the unplowed road. Finally we arrived at the house to find it locked and the key nowhere to be found. I remember standing there in a strange place, in the dark close to the car, wondering what we would do now. I heard Daddy’s voice as he said, “Della come here I have an idea. I will pry up the window with this shovel, and since you are the smallest person here we’ll see if you can crawl through and unlock the door.”  With him boosting me up, I squeezed through the window and found myself standing in a dark, bare room, which I assumed was our new living room. A light flashed in front of me and Daddy said, “here is a flashlight, take it, find the door and open it from the inside.”  Soon everyone found the open door and came into the house, stumbling around in the dark until the electrical box was found and the electricity turned on. 

 I remember Mom and Daddy starting fires in both stoves, the fire snapping and crackling and soon the smell of chili filled the room as it bubbled on the stovetop. My sister and I had already explored the main floor and were very intrigued with the stairway that led up to more bedrooms. Daddy and the other men headed outside to unload the animals, fed them hay, and made sure they could get fresh water. After everyone had their supper of chili and homemade bread with home canned peaches for dessert, mattresses on the floor were quickly made up into beds, and all the weary travelers were soon asleep.

Daddy planned to make a new start in Long Valley, a place he grew to love. He was forty-four years old, strong, healthy and one of the hardest working men I have ever known. He farmed the two hundred acres of tillable land and again contracted out his labor and machinery to neighbors for extra income. He left the milk cows, all but one, in Utah swearing he would never be a slave to them again, but had to eat his words when it became apparent that they afforded the only way to have a small steady income, to supply much needed cash. He brought home bum lambs from a big sheep rancher and started a herd of sheep. He also diversified with a small herd of Angus/Hereford cattle. Pigs and chickens were added to the mix.

Three hundred acres of timberland came in the purchase and would be logged and sold to pay off the mortgage and finally Daddy would own property free and clear. That was his dream. 

The sound of chainsaws echoed high on the hill at the edge of the property in the spring of 1951. Daddy investigated and found a small local timber company (part of a larger timber company) cutting timber on his new property. They claimed to have the timber rights on this property and had moved their machinery into this part of the forest, using an old logging road for access instead of using the road that came passed our house. Daddy immediately sought legal help, but the sound of chainsaws continued. After many heart wrenching months, the case was settled out of court. But what did he have left?  Yes, the cash settlement paid off the lawyers and other bills associated with the court case. But the company harvested and sold the prime timber, leaving the land scared and ravaged.  His dream of owning land, free and clear, again only a dream. Although I saw him bitter and defeated he still struggled on, thinking that more hard work would someday pay off. He somehow kept a positive attitude never losing his faith or sense of humor. 

. Hard work doesn’t always pay off

I was born a year after they moved to Porterville, completing their family. Everyone wanted another boy, and vowed to have nothing to do with me, another girl!  But Mom said that as soon as I started to cry they couldn’t wait to hold me. My older siblings were in their teens when I was born and loved taking care of me. My sister, Mona was six years older than me and was not happy, when I got more than my share of attention from “her” Daddy.  She didn’t like me sitting on his knee at the breakfast table tasting his coffee. Daddy’s coffee was the best. It was a cup almost full of very strong coffee, with two spoonful of sugar added and then filled with thick cream. Mona didn’t like the taste of coffee but would try to inch her way in, so she could sit on Daddy’s lap as well. He would move me to his other knee and say, “Okay Sister come on there is room for you too,” and we would sit, each on a knee, me taking sips of his coffee, until he hugged us and lovingly scooted us off his lap and left for work. 

While in Porterville, two grandsons were added to our family, when Loraine married Steve Smith and Barbara married Worthy Reed…I became an aunt at 3 years of age to George Smith and Alan Reed. Now I had to share my dad, with two little boys.

Daddy borrowed money to buy a combine and a baler and had a good business working for other farmers. The idea was to pay off the new machinery with money earned from these jobs. Money always seemed to be in short supply no matter how hard my parents worked. Always of course the weather played a big part in farming and just when a bumper crop seemed eminent, hail or torrential rain would ruin it. The farm after nine years was overwhelmed with debt and Daddy started talking about moving. 

A new beginning, determination.

  “We didn’t sleep much the rest of the night and were very unsure of what would happen at the meeting, but your Dad didn’t sign any papers or pick up a rake the next day at the meeting, and after the meeting, we hired a lawyer to advise us further. We did get a settlement from the mining company eventually and we were always so thankful to Billy Ball, a man who dared to speak out.

With the settlement from the mine company, bills that had accumulated during the past three years were paid off. Daddy and Mom went in search of a small farm to buy. With the hope that a small farm with a few milk cows would bring in cash for food and clothing. They could raise chickens, sheep, pigs and beef along with a large vegetable garden for most of their food. As Daddy’s health improved a small farm would be doable. The family moved to Porterville, Utah in the spring of 1941.

  

In 1941 the average cost of a new house was $4,075.00, average yearly wages $1,750.00, gasoline 12 cents a gallon and houses rented for $32.00 a month.  Europe was at war and the US soon to follow. December 7th 1941, the United States, after being attacked by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor, entered WW ll. More than 2400 American servicemen were killed in that attack. Until that time the US had remained neutral, but now tanks were dispatched to Britain along with food, trucks, guns and ammunition. For the next five years all of America was affected by the war. 

The war touched our family because many of my parent’s nephews served our country overseas. Their daily living changed when the government issued stamps for gas, tires etc. In 1942 the US began to ration some necessities to guarantee that everyone would receive a fair share and to help prevent inflation. The following items were rationed; tires, sugar, gasoline, bicycles, footwear, fuel oil, silk, nylon, coffee, stoves, meat, cheese, butter, canned foods, dried fruits, jam, and many other items. Production of new automobiles and appliances stopped. Books of rationing stamps were issued to each person in a household including babies and children. Ration stamps had an expiration date to prevent hoarding. Automobile racing and sight seeing were banned. Unemployment that had continued through the years of the depression ended with the start of the war as wartime production created millions of new jobs. As the young men were drafted, women stepped into the workforce to replace them. This started the trend as women left traditional roles of homemaker and mother and moved on to a career. 

In 1941 Daddy settled into farming like any other job, working long hours, trying to eke out a living for his family. He plowed a garden spot, amended the soil and he and Mom planted raspberries, strawberries and a vegetable garden. They purchased a few sheep, pigs, chickens and milk cows to supply their food and bought only sugar, flour, paper products and clothing, from the grocery store. They worked side by side. Both of them milked cows while the kids gathered eggs, and fed the animals. Daddy always helped with the supper dishes before he relaxed in the living room after a full day of work.  In their spare time they made the house more livable, again papering and painting. While Daddy worked in the fields, harvesting hay and grain to store for the winter, Mom planted flowers, weeded the vegetable garden, cooked meals, baked bread and persevered fruits, vegetables and meats to fill the cellar for winter.

Grieving and trying to move on

 A couple of years passed, work at the coal mine grew steadier now and a move was under way to form a union for the workers. Mom and Daddy continued to work hard to provide for their family, but they also enjoyed small pleasures, such as listening to the radio on Saturday nights. Daddy’s favorite was the Saturday night boxing matches. As he sat near the radio, listening through the static, the four kids crawled onto his lap to listen with him. Sunday nights they would pop corn on the wood stove, each took a turn shaking the corn popper. On rare occasions Mom would make divinity or fudge so everyone could have a treat.

 

On March 3, 1938, Daddy fell while riding coal down the chute in the coal mine and suffered broken vertebrae in his back. A full body cast kept him immobile for three months and when the doctor removed it, Daddy tried to stand but fell to the floor. The bones set improperly, had not healed. Arrangements were made for him to take the train back to the Mayo Brothers Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. Daddy underwent another surgery while there, but was still in great pain when the hospital released him to return home. He started seeing Doctor Heather in Salt Lake City. Dr. Heather preformed another surgery; he removed a four-inch piece of bone from Daddy’s shin and fused it into his back to repair the broken vertebrae. The back injury caused him pain and suffering the rest of his life. But at least he could walk. Over a span of three years from the time of Daddy’s accident, he spent ninety-six days in hospitals underwent three operations and remained unable to work. All this time negotiations continued with the mine company for a settlement. The company said he was “just lazy”.  While Daddy was “laid up” with his back, Mom raised and sold fryers (frying chickens) to the local grocery store, with the help of her children. She also sold eggs and butter, to supplement the meager disability stipend they received. Three years passed before Daddy returned to full time work. 

Mom related the following story to me in 1992.  She and I sitting in the living room of her modest home in Elgin, Oregon, the smell of dinner cooking in the oven. I was fifty years old.  “Della. have I ever told you about the time Billy Ball came to our house in the middle of the night in Diamondville, Wyoming?” “No Mom, I’ve never heard the story. I know you’ve talked about him and know that you and Daddy both had a great deal of respect for him. But why would he come in the middle of the night?” 

 She began talking about her and Daddy’s early life, how he had been injured in the coal mine and how the company “dragged its feet” giving him a settlement. Her voice sounded far away and I sensed that she was back in a time, long before I was born.  “In the middle of the night before your dad was to have a meeting with company officials, we heard someone knocking on our bedroom window” she told me. “Daddy got up and saw Billy Ball, a company official motioning to let him in. Daddy quickly went to unlock the back door and asked him to come inside. We sat, in our nightclothes in the living room, with only a dim light, and listened to Billy.” 

She paused for a moment, remembering. “Billy talked in a hushed voice,” Mom told me. “He looked at your father and said, ‘Joe, you must tell no one about my being here tonight or neither of us will have a job. Tomorrow at the meeting, the company officials will ask you to sign papers so they can proceed with your claim, but if you sign you will get nothing from the company. The papers are worded in such a way that you will sign away all rights to a settlement. Also’ he continued, ‘they will try to get you to take a job, raking and picking up around the mine and they will insist that you start now, giving you a rake and watching what you can do. Do not touch the rake, simply refuse to do any of the things they ask.’  Then Billy looked at both your Dad and I and said,  ‘Do you understand?’” 

“So what did you and Daddy do?”  I asked. “Your Dad wasn’t sure at first. He looked at Billy. ‘Yes, I hear you,’ he told him. ‘But how do I know that you are telling me the truth?  Why would the company try to cheat me out of a settlement that I have every right too?  I can’t work, we will be out on the street and my family will starve.’  Billy shifted in his seat and tried to persuade your father. ‘Joe, you must believe me,’ he said. ‘I have risked my own job by coming here tonight. Why do you think I came here under the cover of darkness?  Please believe what I am telling you or you will have nothing.’

“Then your Dad looked right at me and said, ‘Blanche, what do you think?”’ I sat forward, now on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear what my mother did. “I took a deep breath and said,  ‘Joe, I think we have to do what Billy says. The company has been stringing you along for many months now and I think Billy is telling us the truth.’  Billy breathed a sigh of relief and thanked me. Then he looked at Daddy and said, please listen to your wife. Don’t you see?  I had to come here tonight, because you are a good man and a hard worker and I can’t let the company do this to you and your family.’”  

 “Your Dad looked at me and then at Billy, and then said. ‘You must be telling me the truth to risk your own job. Okay I will do as you say, when I meet with the company officials tomorrow.’”  Mom exhaled a long breath. I wondered how long it had been since she’d told that story.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“Billy stood, shook hands with both of us, and left by the back door. Your dad and I watched from the window and he was quickly swallowed up in the darkness.”  

Hard times, love held them together.

 

Their married life began in Granger, Utah, later moving to, Diamondville, Wyoming. Two little boys George and Joel joined the family. Daddy worked for a ranch that furnished them a  “shack”, to live in. I can see then now, cleaning, plugging holes between the rough boards with old rags, as they tried to block out the ever-present Wyoming wind. In summer dirt sifted through the cracks and in winter, mounds of snow were ever present inside the house. Mom found more rags and plugged more holes. They papered walls with old newspapers to hide the grease and grime of many years, and add light to the small rooms. A milk cow supplied the family with milk, butter and cream, and chickens furnished fresh eggs and occasionally graced the table for a special Sunday dinner. 

Mom in her early 20’s was already an accomplished cook and seamstress. She planted a garden, giving them fresh vegetables for the summers and when Daddy bought her a pressure cooker she worked during the heat of the day, over a wood stove, canning vegetables and meat along with fruit to store for winter. She stitched together warm coats for Loraine and Barbara, out of hand me downs from her family. In the evenings seated close to the stove, under a dim light from the gas lantern, she mended old and worn clothes so they would last another year. After the family moved to Diamondville, Wyoming, in the early 1930’s, Daddy still worked as a ranch hand but also found part time work in the coal mines. He told me he liked working in the coal mines, but only because when under ground the days passed quickly. 

Our country was in the midst of the “great depression”. Daddy worked two jobs to support his growing family. My older sisters have fond memories of growing up in Diamondville, and didn’t notice that their plates were filled first and their parents took small portions. Diamondville was a “rough” town with many different ethnic groups. They learned to be tolerant and love people for who they were, no matter what their nationality. The family dog, “Duke”, half German Shepard and half Great Dane, became their constant companion. They walked to the grocery store for bones for the dog, and then took them home so Mom could make broth out of them before the dog chewed on them, for his dinner. Daddy felt that the children were safer when Duke accompanied them. They walked the railroad tracks together, pulling a wagon, picking up coal that had fallen from the rail cars, as the trains left town. Coal served a duel purpose as it simmered the soup bones and warmed the house at the same time. 

In December 1936 the family anxiously awaited the birth of another baby, Mom was due to deliver any day, when Joel came down with a chest cold, that soon turned into pneumonia. Mona arrived December 14, 1936, and Joel felt well enough to reach out and touch her soft baby face, saying “Isn’t Mona pretty?”  A few days later his breathing became labored and without antibiotics, he died of double pneumonia on December 21, 1936. Mona was one week old and Christmas was four days away. With the help of family and friends the family pushed on, through that long winter. Christmas would always be a difficult time for Daddy, never able to cope with or understand “Baby’s” (as Joel was called) death. He turned to alcohol as it dulled the pain and sorrow of loosing a child. Daddy’s drinking would be the biggest “bone of contention” throughout my parents’ marriage. One that he and Mom never resolved and it affected our lives in many ways. 

Alcoholism was a problem that Daddy shared with his two brothers and later his son George, also became its victim, all heavy drinkers. He stayed away from alcohol most of the time, but he could not have a social drink. One drink led to another, then another; he turned to alcohol in times of high stress, such as years when wheat and cattle prices were low. These things didn't seem so bad, when alcohol took off the edge. When drinking, Daddy bought luxuries for his family, luxuries in the form of a new car, when our old one was still in very good working order. It made some rough times for our family especially for Mom, because she was the one who had to juggle and stretch the dollars, to pay the grocery bill at the end of the month.  I remember some Christmas's, not because of Santa Claus or presents, but because Daddy was drinking and our house was in turmoil. Mom always came down with a migraine headache and stayed in bed. My older sisters and brother took care of the rest of us.  As I grew older I came to understand that he drank at Christmas time to forget the Christmas of 1936, when they lost their little boy, Joel. 

Ready Made Family.

 Moonshine whiskey, cheap and available, accompanied the cowboys on trail rides, roundups, brandings and local dances. At the dances, dressed in clean Levi’s, cowboy shirts with kerchief’s around their neck, moonshine limbered cowboy legs after riding all day and they danced with pretty girls, late into the night. 

I choose to believe that Daddy met a certain girl, Blanche Parkin Fields, at one of those dances in 1929. I know for a fact that he courted her, taking her to dances where they danced to the strains of  “The Tennessee Waltz” and “You are My Sunshine”. Daddy sang along as he held her close. Blanche, recently divorced, and in need of a home, had moved with her two little girls to her parents ranch. On his days off Daddy rode horseback to the Parkin ranch, where he stayed for dinner and then played endless games of cards on cold winter evenings. Daddy found another way to help pass the evenings, he loved children, and spent time playing with Blanche’s two little girls, Loraine, age three, and Barbara only nine months. I can picture him in my mind as after supper he, holding a little girl in each arm, singing them to sleep.

Blanche at age twenty had a slim figure, hazel eyes and dark wavy hair. Daddy fell in love not only with her, but also with her two little girls. I’m not sure who stole his heart first, Blanche or the girls. Loraine and Barbara soon started calling him “Daddy Joe”, and within a year Blanche and Daddy married and he would claim the girls as his own. 

A story told many times, about a visit Blanche and her sisters, Jessie and Peggy made to the sheep camp where Daddy was tending a herd of sheep. They rode horseback to the camp, where Daddy planned to cook dinner for them. A sudden winter storm forced them to spend the night at the sheep camp. As the story goes, they all took their shoes off and crawled into the one bed. Daddy first, next to the canvas wall, then Blanche, Jessie and last Peggy. If one person turned they all had to turn and although Daddy was in bed with three girls, he nearly froze his “back side”, pushed against the canvas wall of the sheep camp. The girls’ father arrived early the next morning to find Daddy out doing chores and the girls fixing breakfast before they started home. 

My parents married on September 3, 1930, one year into the great depression. They stood before a Justice of the Peace, with a borrowed ring and Aunt Jessie and Uncle Truman acted as their witnesses. Blanche held Loraine’s hand, and Daddy held Barbara in his arms, as they exchanged vows. Daddy started to put the ring on Blanche’s finger; Barbara accidentally hit his hand and knocked the ring to the floor. Amid much laughter and scrambling around on hands and knees, everyone looked for the ring before the ceremony could continue. With the last “I do,” Blanche and Daddy shared a kiss, hugged the two little girls and started a life that in the next twelve years would see four more children added to their family:  George, born May 25,1931; Joel, July 5,1934; Mona, December 14,1936; and myself, October 21,1942. 

Cowboy Life, growing up.

  Not long after Daddy’s early sheep camp days in about 1924 his father remarried and Daddy found ways to stay with his uncles, out of reach of his father’s hand and his stepmother, Belle’s, tongue. Stories told to me, describe her as a hateful, whiny women who took her wrath out on the younger children. 

Daddy started working part time on neighboring ranches with cattle and sheep. He helped at brandings, moving cattle, and learned to rope and soon could ride with the best of them. He learned quickly and proved himself to be a good worker, always volunteering for any job, whether it was shoveling manure, doing the daily milking or doctoring sheep with hoof rot. The long hours made it difficult to keep up with the older, more experienced cowhands, but he never quit until the horses were unsaddled, rubbed down, curried and fed. He was the last “ranch hand” to wash up, before heading to the cook shack for supper and then to the bunkhouse to fall into bed. 

A local cattle ranch hired ranch hands in the spring, Daddy signed on. Horseback riding came easy to him and he appeared to be at home in the saddle. Now his riding skills improved even more, seated in the saddle, straight as a poker, moving with the horse as they became one. His love of horses grew as he unsaddled the working horse each night, breathed in the smells of the horse, as it nuzzled his hands and neck in appreciation of the care it received. He brushed and curried it with loving hands. He liked the challenge of staying in the saddle of a bucking horse and began entering rodeos, trying all the events, except bull riding. His expertise was in bronc busting; both bare back and saddle bronc. He often made extra money riding in the small local rodeos and traveled from Utah to Pendleton, Oregon, one time, to ride in the famed “Pendleton Roundup”. A broken shoulder, after being thrown from a bucking horse, ended his rodeo career in the early thirties. 

Daddy learned to smoke and drink at a young age, probably aided by his older uncles and the cowboys he patterned his life after. Alcohol gave him the courage to climb on yet another horse and take chances in the rodeo arena. It also relaxed him, so the ground seemed softer, when he landed, after the horse bucked him off. Cigarettes, easily hand made or cheap to buy, put them within reach for anyone who wanted to smoke. Smoking became very popular and soon even women smoked cigarettes in public places. The addictive properties of nicotine were unknown or ignored at the time. 

The “Prohibition Era” started in 1919 and ended in 1933. The people who fought for prohibition in 1919 believed it would help reduce crime and decrease poverty. However crime only increased and soon many organizations that had supported prohibition began a campaign for its repeal. In 1933 thus ended one of the most colorful periods of history, where homemade stills and bathtub gin were common in every community. 

Whistlin’ Joe

My father, Elmer Isaac Ashton was born in Woodruff, Utah on May 14,1907 to George and Idella (Eastman) Ashton. He was the fifth child in a family of seven, four girls and three boys. In his lifetime he was a sheepherder, cowboy, coal miner, farmer, and logger. More importantly, he was the man I called Daddy.  From the stories I’ve been told Daddy was a happy little boy and learned to whistle at a young age. His two uncles, Rawl and Marsh Eastman, nicknamed him “Whistlin’ Joe.”  

His name became Joe Ashton and he signed Elmer only on legal documents. Rawl and Marsh looked out for him and became his role models, as Daddy spent time with them, and away from his father, who could be abusive. Daddy spoke highly of his mother, a kind, caring person, and a positive influence in his life. Her death when he was a teenager devastated him. An accident while riding in a buggy caused injuries confining her to a wheelchair, in the last years of her life. Even when in the wheelchair, she continued her job clerking at a small grocery store. Daddy told the story, of her adding the bill in her head, faster than an adding machine, seldom making a mistake.

At the age of fourteen Daddy’s father sent him out to a sheep camp to herd sheep, while he attended to business matters. Daddy had no choice but to do as his father told him. He talked little about his childhood when I was growing up, but admitted to being afraid going to the camp alone. I can imagine that during the daylight hours he did quite well, keeping the herd together, and with the help of his dog, he brought them close to camp, where they bedded down for the night. As darkness fell, he would have felt brave, though surely on the inside he was as frightened as the lambs he had been sent to protect. Terrified at night with only a dog for company, he lay staring at the stars, listened to the howl of coyotes and prayed that all the sheep in his care, would still be alive come the next morning. 

Sheep camps were lonely places usually only one man, one or more dogs, and one or two horses. The “camp” best described as a covered wagon or simply canvas stretched over a frame and set on wheels. Sheep camps had to be moved periodically, after the herder found new pastures for the sheep to graze. A sheepherder could go for months without seeing another person and often ate the same diet day after day.  I imagine only the basics were included in Daddy’s camp. Most important was the rifle that stood near the doorway, then food; including flour, sugar, dry beans, bacon and canned foods. Packed away in a duffel bag was a change of clothing and a warm coat. In the summer he slept outside, under the stars, and in winter, a bunk with warm bedding was built into the sheep camp. 

Daddy was lucky this first time out, his father returned to relieve him after a week. I imagine the week he was alone. On the first night, he had fresh lamb chops, potatoes, and biscuits that his mother slipped into his saddlebags before he left the house. Daddy not only learned how to care for animals and brave the world alone, he also learned the basics of cooking. Through trial and error he taught himself how to make a pot of bacon and beans or lamb stew and sourdough biscuits. Mistakes had to be eaten or fed to the dogs, as food couldn’t be wasted. 

Colorful wardrobe.

 Yesterday Herb and I went to our second social event in the span of two days... I dressed in the same outfit on both days...Black jeans with a pink mock turtleneck and a bright red corduroy shirt (Christmas gift)...I like bright colors and the whiter my hair becomes the more I gravitate toward them--OR maybe it is because I've always liked them...OH OH reminds me of a time long ago.

I must have been about 10 years old when for Christmas I received a pair of red slacks and a pair of pink socks...Normally I had only white socks and blue jeans to wear...Mom only bought white underwear and socks...I had no choice, no matter how much I begged for red socks and panties..."No she would say they "run" in the wash"...My mind had a hard time getting around this statement as I pictured my socks and panties with feet and legs of their own running from washtub to washtub...Until she, looking at the puzzled expression on my face, explained that "run" means the red color comes out in the water and stains the other clothes making them pink...I thought this was a good idea but then she explained that she didn't think Daddy would like it if HIS underwear was pink... Now this made me giggle as my mind tried to focused on this picture...I never in my entire life saw Daddy in his underwear but I conjured up a picture and had to admit that she was right... By the miracle of Christmas, Santa had brought me pink socks, and red slacks...Bigger miracle Mom allowed them in her wash, surely the pink wouldn't run onto the whites and the red slacks could go in with the blue jeans...Now back then you did not wear pink and red together, they clashed I was told...Didn't matter to me I loved my pink and red outfit then as much as I love it today...And I continued to believe in Santa for several more years because I knew he was my only hope for red panties...OWAV:)

Mr. Whittaker, a lasting memory

Christmas vacation passed quickly and back in the school room Mr. Whittaker relied on more holidays to celebrate and keep us motivated. There was always a promise that if we finished our lessons and made good grades, we could again decorate the room and get up in front of the class and recite “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere”, one of our favorites.

Mr. Whittaker loved to tell stories anytime, Holiday or not. I recall he was a tall, portly man and seemed giant-like in comparison to last years teacher, a petite lady, who always brought to my mind a wilting flower, waiting for a drink of water. Mr. Whittaker wore glasses with dark frames and thick lenses, that looked like the bottom of a fruit jar. But some days he didn’t wear glasses at all. We wondered about this and ask how that could be. He took a small box from the desk drawer and said, “Students gather around my desk and I will show you. I have glasses that are called contact lenses.” We looked on in amazement as he opened the case and explained and demonstrated how you inserted them into your eyes. He told us that he could only wear them for short periods of time, before his eyes started to hurt. He wore them in Boise when he took a driving test. He passed the test and it gave him a second job, along with teaching, to support his family.

 His eyesight definitely came into question, later in the winter when driving on the snow covered roads between the schoolhouse and Lake Fork.  It seems that when he made the two-mile trip, once a week to buy groceries and pick up their mail, he would run off the road and have to be pulled out by a passing farmer. Sometimes this happened both ways of the trip and usually on the opposite side of the road than the side he was driving on. Several times, at the supper table, I remember my Dad, shaking his head as he said, “Mr. Whittaker did it again.” We would listen intently as he described the scene of pulling Mr. Whittaker’s car out of the snow bank.

Another interesting incident that was the subject around the supper table was the problem Mr. Whittaker had getting his car started for this weekly trip to Lake Fork during the winter. Temperatures dropped to -40º on a regular basis in December and January. Mr. Whittaker often built a small fire under the car, warming it sufficiently so it would start. Wonder of wonders it did not explode the gas tank and start the car on fire. 

As we celebrated other Holidays that year, I remember in particular, President Abraham Lincoln’s birthday.  We did research from our one set of encyclopedias, asked our parents for information and then each of us stood in front of the class and told what we had learned about this great president. Mr. Whittaker let each of us talk then he stood to speak. After giving his speech about president Lincoln and impressing on us how much he admired the man, Mr. Whittaker proudly pounded on his chest, and declared that he was as honest as “Old Abe.”  Now we were not worldly children, but most of us had been brought up with good values, honesty being one of them.  We picked up on the obvious discrepancy between being honest, and wearing contact lenses to hide the fact that your eyesight was not the best. In Mr. Whittaker’s defense, I'm sure he didn’t considered wearing contact lenses for the driving test dishonest, and I assume he wore contacts, when driving the bus, and maybe he should have worn them on his weekly trips to the grocery store.

Mr. Whittaker stayed for two years finishing the contract he had signed. I don’t know if the contract was offered to him again and he declined or maybe it wasn’t offered. He did explain to us that he wouldn’t be our teacher the next year, that he was moving his family back to the Boise Valley where the climate was milder and he hoped to teach and drive school bus again. With his departure Lake Fork lost a colorful character and conversation around the dinner table resorted to predicting the weather and wondering whom the new teacher would be.

Note…This story was written, along with many others, when I attended a local group, “The Write People.” My style of writing is called “creative nonfiction,” which gives me license to recall from memory and how I remember what happened…That can be totally different from how others’ remember it…Most of the dialog, brings interest into the story, and is what I imagine was said. The years at Wood Grove, were some of my best years and they left a lasting impression on me…I decided to write these memories, so our children would know what life was like back then.  Idella Allen

Christmas decorations.

 We celebrated any holiday that came along with a big production at Christmas. Hours spent at the table in the back of the room where all students, young and old, cut construction paper into strips, glued them into rounds and made paper chains. Streamers out of crepe paper were hung to make a false ceiling. Mr. Whittaker was in charge of hanging the paper streamers and since we didn’t have a ladder he made do. “Okay students you hold the piano while I climb up on top of it to attach the streamers.” 

I remember him stepping up on one of the benches and then while we students held it, he stepped onto the piano, just above the covered keys and from there to the top of the piano. Now he was at least 10 feet tall and the piano was on wheels so it could be pushed into place anywhere in the room. “Slowly now students, don’t push too fast, we have to be very careful.” Armed with hammer and nails he proceeded with the job at hand, he nailed, we carefully pushed and the room took on a festive air. Our eyes wide with excitement, we stood back to get a better look at the red and green streamers now draped across the room. As we let go of the piano, it moved and Mr. Whittaker trying to keep his balance stepped the wrong way into thin air and landed in a heap on the floor, staring up into the faces of his panicked students. Several of us exclaimed, “Mr. Whittaker are you okay? 

 “Of course I’m okay!” he replied as he practically bounced back up, brushed dirt from his clothing and exclaimed “I’m not hurt” and climbed back on the piano to finish the decorating.

 

In addition to decorating we spent many hours practicing our parts for a Christmas skit. When the big night finally arrived, families came bundled in hats, coats, mittens and boots, stomping their way through the anteroom and into the school. “Mom, Daddy, let me hang your coats.” I said, as I proudly led my parents to chairs near the front of the room where they wouldn’t miss a word of the program. I giggled with excitement before my first performance in front of a real audience. 

Students nervous as if they were auditioning for a Broadway play, recited Christmas stories and ended the evening singing “The Night Before Christmas” and “Here Comes Santa Claus” as Santa made his yearly visit, with shouts of “HO HO HO, MERRY CHRISTMAS.” Every student received a small sack filled with candy and nuts, and maybe an orange. We left that night, high from the excitement, shouting greetings of Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to our friends and neighbors.

Mr.W, A lesson learned

 We arrived at school in plenty of time. The morning bell hadn’t rung and a small group of kids stood outside the schoolhouse door. I quickly scooted out of the car, lunch sack in hand, waved to Mom and joined the other kids. They were talking in hushed tones and it was all about the new teacher. 

“Can you believe they hired a man?” 

“Did you know that he has 4 kids?”

 “He’s from Boise and it never snows there, well hardly ever, what will he do this winter?” 

“Do you think he has a paddle? I heard that men teachers always have paddles.” 

“I saw him in town yesterday and he wears really thick glasses, he must be almost blind.” 

 “My parents want to know, “What was the school board thinking?” 

And so the conversation went, until suddenly the door opened and the ringing bell almost deafened us as Mr. Whittaker appeared, swinging the school bell wildly, announcing the first day of school. 

“Children, why are you all out here, come inside, let’s find your desks and get acquainted, I’m Mr. Whittaker, your new teacher.” He shouted in a jovial manner.

The other students rushed in but I stopped just inside the door to breath in the familiar smell of linseed oil that made the rough wooden floor look like new. Rows of desks, clean and shiny were awaiting our return. Naked blackboards lined an entire wall with the alphabet written above in capital letters and lower case. Hard backed erasers pounded clean, rested along-side fingers of chalk waiting for the new teachers hand. Newly washed, half curtains, the color of freshly churned butter, fluttered in the breeze as the door opened and closed. The scarred and battered upright piano sat quietly against the wall, waiting for someone to caress its keys, when a special program called for music. 

Mr. Whittaker’s voice brought me out of my reverie when he said, “Students, please take your seats, school is now in session.”

Mr. Whittaker looked the part of a schoolteacher, always dressed in a suit and tie, sometimes minus the jacket, depending on the weather. His black hair had started to recede and thin on top, making him appear older than his years. The thick glasses he wore gave him an almost comical look. He seemed to be up to the challenge of teaching eight grades in one room, as he disciplined students when needed and kept an orderly atmosphere. We never did see a paddle. The next two years Mr. Whittaker worked at teaching this bunch of raw farm kids the 3 R’s. He was especially keen on teaching us fourth graders parts of speech and the art of diagraming sentences. One method of teaching he used was assigning older students to help the younger kids by listening to them read or drilling them on spelling words. One day in particular that I remember. I had finished my work and started to fidget at my desk, looking around with a mischievous grin. Mr. Whittaker could have 1. Glared at me. 2. Said, “Idella, find something to do.” But no, instead he said, “Idella please take Linda (a first grader) to the back table and help her practice her arithmetic using flash cards.” I was elated and proud when he chose me to help in this way and he instead of scolding me for possibly disrupting the class, quietly put me to work.

He was good-natured and kind, but we, his students tested him in many ways and our favorite one was; one of the older students would say, Mr. Whittaker, “What was it like when you were a boy growing up?” Then he would lean way back in his chair, put his feet upon his desk, his hands behind his head and with a dreamy look in his eyes he talked for a long time about “when he was a boy”. All thoughts of lessons flew out of his mind as he reminisced.

The desk chair he sat in was old and had a habit of falling over backwards if you leaned back too far, so a stick had been placed just so, to keep it from going over.  One day when he went to the teacherage for lunch, someone said, “Lets take the stick our of his chair.” 

“Do you think we should?”

“Sure, lets do it, he won’t get hurt.”

The stick was removed and carefully hidden way under the desk. So of course after lunch that day, him with a full stomach, it wasn’t hard to get him to lean back, feet on desk, hands behind his head, and over went the chair.  That was the worst trick we played on him and could have caused him serious injury but he escaped unscathed.  He wasn’t hurt, except for his feelings, and I remember his unsmiling face as he quickly stood up, straightened his tie and suit jacket, took out a clean white hanky from his pocket and wiped his brow. He stood for a long time, looking out over the classroom and finally said, “I’m disappointed in you students and hope this kind of thing won’t happen again.” That was it, he didn’t threaten us or try to find out who instigated the prank. He just let us know that we didn’t measure up to his expectations.

Mr. Whittaker

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, in a make believe world of cowboys and Indians, outlaws and a sheriffs posse. We used our fingers as guns, saying, “bang your dead” as another outlaw or Indian hit the dirt. We fashioned bows from willow branches, using 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. 

A total of 16 children from 1^st grade through 8^th grade were enrolled in September 1951. Our community was buzzing with the news that a man had been hired to teach at Wood Grove. We were excited and maybe a little apprehensive about Mr. Whitaker, as our new teacher. Men teachers were not common back then as grade school teachers. 

Mr. Whittaker had moved his wife and 4 children 100 miles north to Lake Fork from Boise, Idaho in August 1951. They came, she driving a car with the children and he driving an old school bus with their few possessions. Their two oldest children, a boy in second grade and a girl in first grade would attend school at Wood Grove. We never knew why Mr. Whittaker left the Boise Valley, where the climate was mild and he taught and drove school bus. Boise was the largest city in Idaho and now his family would be living in a rural community 2 miles from a grocery store and post office, in a 2 room cottage with an outdoor toilet, no running water, and only a small wood stove for heat. I wonder now, how did they manage, where did they all sleep, but at the time I gave no thought to those questions. I only wondered will I like him, will he be a good teacher? 

My Mom and I had shopped for school clothes at the local mercantile; two pairs of jeans, 4 t-shirts, underwear, socks and of course sturdy brown oxfords finished the outfit. That first day of school I dressed carefully in new blue jeans and a shirt. The new shoes felt tight on my feet but had extra room in the toe, jeans rolled up only to be unrolled as I grew through the winter. I was scrubbed clean of all the summer dirt and my hair so clean and tightly braided that my eyes felt squinty, like the eyes of a cat. 

I remember Mom braiding as I wiggled and squirmed. “Mom, you’re pulling my hair,” I cried out. “I’m not pulling your hair. You are moving and I’m just hanging on to your hair trying to get it braided, so hold still before I do more than pull your hair.” “But Mom, please hurry, I don’t want to be late.”