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.
The death of a child is something that a parent does not "get over," the pain and loss continue throughout the rest of your life. In time, you learn to live again, but you are never the same person who your were before the loss. I imagine that alcohol abuse would be a very attractive alternative to confronting the pain of loss. So sad for your Mom, she had to have been a powerhouse of strength. Sad for the children who lived with loss and alcoholism.
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