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.”