Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 17: Food and Animals

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

In this installment, Elsie tells about a couple of foods that her family used to make, a misadventure with her father’s dinner, and a few animal interactions.

Sometime when it snowed, we would make ice cream. We started with a ten pound tin can with a clencher lid. We’d put some cream and a little milk, sugar, vanilla and eggs. We’d find a big drift of snow, we put doun in the snow. We took turns twisting and turning this ice cream. Of course we open the can up once in a while to see how it was coming a long. Icicies were used to freeze the cream instead of the snow, of course the icicles had to be gathered and copped up.

Mother made the best beef steak pudding, as she called it, it consisted of beef, a little flour, a little water, pepper and salt with a suet crust. She cooked it on the back of the stove allday long, on a wood stove. It was cooked in a heavy fire proof bowl, covered withe a cloth. Tied with a string. Then the pudding was put in a pan of water. This was a wonderful dinner with good mashed potatoes.

Mother cooked her plum pudding this way also.

One day Dad asked us to go over to the other ranch, across the flied, from us. This farm also belonged to the Dorrs and the Shaws. The tenants had moved and on one was living there. He had seen some scallions (little onions) over there going to waste. So one day Bill and I decided to go over and get some for him. We cleaned them and put them on the table ready for his dinner. That night Dad was happy to see that we had gotten his scallions. He took one bite. (What ever is this, where did you get this?” We told him it was what he wanted. Bill and I never had tasted or smelled garlic before. We thought it didn’t smell like onions. Bill and I got a kick out of this, he wanted us to get them and then they didn’t turn out right.

When the thrashers, came they would lift up the bundles of wheat. The binder had already been there and put the wheat in sort of standing up piles. The thrashers were pick up the piles and feed them into the machine to knock the wheat out of the stacks. Under some of these piles were a few baby mice, all pink and white. We children liked to watch the thrashers but also these litt mice. Bill and Walter being older than I, would encourage me to carry one of these cute little mice into the house and scare my mother. Of course the boys came with me but I carried this little cute mouse, by the tail into the house. I can still see Mother yelling “Get that out of here. One day she even got and stood on top of the table. Holding up her skirts yelled, Don’t let him loose in here

This was funny until one day, there wasn’t any mice. We found a water dog a little one, I was supposed to carry this in to the house. I took hold of his tail as I had did the little mice. He had a different He just curled up and bit me on the hand. That was the last I ever did that. The boys could carry their own animals after that.

I was surprised Mother didn’t like mice, as she had a little poem. I think she made up. The poem went like thi

     I’m only a wee little mouse ma’m

     I live in the crack of your house ma’m

     With a small piece of cheese

     And a very few peas

     Only having a little feast ma’m

     Oh, no need to open the door

     I can slip right thru this crack ma’m

I always enjoyed this little poem. She said there wasn’t anymore to it.

Every spring the sheepherders would bring their flocks of sheep, by our house, on thier way to the foot hills, to feed during the summer months. We lived on a small hill, we could see them coming in the valley below. The sheep would stir up a cloud of dust. Bill and I would run and get on the gate posts, the posts were flat on top, so we could sit on them. We waited for the band of sheep to come by. Then we would ask the sheep herders, if they had left any little lambs along the way that couldn’t make it. They would tell yes and where they had left them, not to far from where we lived. Bill and I would run all the way and fetch this cute new born baby lamb home with us. Sometimes there was only one and another time there would be a pair of twins. No matter we shared our little lambs. We knew how to feed them out of a bottle. Later they could eat grass and wheat like the big ones. We gave them a lot of love and attention.

Out of curiosity about that little verse about the mouse, I did a quick search on the internet. Without looking very hard, I found what is probably the original of that poem. It is entitled “The Mouse” and was written by Laura Elizabeth Richards:

I’m only a poor little mouse, ma’am!

I live in the wall of your house, ma’am!

With a fragment of cheese and a very few peas

I was having a little carouse, ma’am!

No mischief at all I intend, ma’am!

I hope you will act as my friend, ma’am!

If my life you should take, many hearts it would break,

And the trouble would be without end, ma’am!

My wife lives in there, in the crack, ma’am!

She’s waiting for me to come back, ma’am!

She hoped I might find a bit of a rind,

For the children their dinner do lack, ma’am!

’Tis hard living there in the wall, ma’am!

For plaster and mortar will pall, ma’am,

On the minds of the young, and when specially hung—

Ay, upon their poor father they’ll fall. ma’am!

I never was given to strife, ma’am!

(Don't look at that terrible knife, ma’am!)

The noise overhead that disturbs you in bed,

’Tis the rats, I will venture my life, ma’am!

In your eyes I see mercy, I’m sure, ma’am!

Oh, there’s no need to open the door, ma’am!

I’ll slip through the crack, and I’ll never come back,

Oh! I’ll never come back any more, ma’am!

(I found the full poem in Tirra Lirra RhymesOld and New on the Internet Archive and on Free Fiction Books. It also appears, missing the fifth verse, in The Unitarian Register, Volume 91, on Google Books.)

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 16: School Days

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

This installment of Elsie’s manuscript is rather a long one, but a common thread runs throughout. It discusses the Underwood kids’ school days, telling a little about the school itself, but mostly focusing on the human element: what they would do at different points in the day, and incidents that happened either on the way to or from school.

We went to Ten Mile School. It was at least one and a half miles around the road. Walking the canal bank was a little shorter. We were never tardy, we got a certificate. I wonder how many children would like to walk that far to school. now a days. Rain, frost, snow or sun shine?

This was a one room school with eight grades and just one teacher.

The canal ran part way thru our place and came out close to the school house. There was a bridge over the creek, this bridge we had to cross in order to reach the school. Sometime we walked the canal bank.

The owner that the canal ran thru his fields, warned us he had a ram goat that was real mean. He gave us permission to go thru his fields but be very careful of this ram. He said if we saw the ram not to go in that field.

One morning my friend Margaret Church and I was alone going to school, this morning we couldn’t see the ram anywhere, so we decided we would take our chances. We decided to go thru this field. We didn’t see the ram until we were almost out of the field.

Our hearts nearly stopped There he was on the canal bank right in from of us. No way to avoid him, water in the canal and a small creek on the other side. My girl friend jumed toward the stream. I was so scared I stood, afraid to move, by this time I was face to face with him. He such big horns, the kind that circles around, I had never seen such horns. I don’t know how but I put my hand out to pet him. He seemed as surprised as I was. His big horns were so rough and hard. I was so scared, I tried to move away. He then tossed his head, I stepped backwards and as I did I slipped and fell on the ground. I think I slipped on a small rock. The goat didn’t hurt me. I got up and looked at him and he at me. Then somehow I got out of there. The goat just stood and looked at me, I guess he was wondering how I got there.

In the mean time, my friend had ran to the school house and told everyone the goat had knocked me doun. But it didn’t. I had slipped by myself and fell. I wasn’t afraid anymore but I didn’t go thru that field again unless my brothers were there to see if the gaot was anywhere to be seen. Why press your luck.

The school had a big bell, I was located in a belfry. On top of the school. The bell was rung by pulling a long rope. You could hear this bell when it was rung, for a long ways. The bell was rung in the morning and again at our lunch time and at our recesses. The bell was rung more times in the morning, just once the other times. The teacher let me ring it once, it took me off my feet. My brother used to ring it often, he was taller. (Walter)

The teacher would line us up in a row to march us in to the school house. In the morning, lunch time and the recesses. The small children in the front and the tall ones in the back.

We had a out house, just one. The grounds was partialy fenced in. on one side it was as nature left it. Sagebrush and big boulders. In the spring there were a lot of wild flowers and a lot of bright colored moss. I loved that moss it had such a pretty color and velvet like feeling. There was a real flat big rock we called Table Rock. This is where, some of us would sit and eat our lunches every day.

Margaret and I would exchange sandwiches. She was fond of cheese We always had cheese at our house. She would have peanut butter and I was fond of that. So we got along fine.

The school, we had a pot belly stove that heated the whole school room. We had a huge blackboard right back of where the teacher sat. The desks and seats were connected. The seats would push back when we got off of them. They stayed until we pushed them doun, when we sat doun. The teacher had a regular chair and a fat cushion to sit on.

I wonder what occasion this photograph commemorates. The streamers imply some sort of celebration. (Elsie is the second girl from the right in the front row.)

The books, pencils and tablets were pushed into the front of the desk. The to of the desk didn’t lift up.

We chalk and erasers, to use on the blackboard. The teach ever so often would have a couple of the kids stay after school to clean the erasers. You had to be careful the chalk dust would fly all over. The boys (mostly) were the ones asked to do this, they would hit two erasers together to knock the dust out.

We carried our lunches in a lunch pail, we had no cafeterias those days. The lunch pails were put on a shelf in the cloak room. No lockers. Our hats, coats and goullashes, hung up in this small room.

Our lunch pail was probably a five pound lard pail. Our tablets were called “penny tablets” a very cheap grade of paper. The older children used pens. The pens then was a holder which held pen points. The pen points came in differend size points of course you used one point at a time. There was a small hole in the desk at the top and to one side, that held a ink well, which had a top, with a small hole in it. So the pen could enter. You’d have to dip the pen often to have enough ink to write much. They finally invented fountain pens.

The first fountain pen I had I lost in the snow and never found it untill the snow melted in the spring then it was too late. It had frozen with the ink in it and burst.

The boys used to like to put the tip of the braid of the girl that sat in front of him. They did’t dare do mine as I had two brothers big.

Inez was born, she was named after, the Shaw’s daughter. Inez Shaw. She was a surprise to me I didn’t know I was going to have a baby sister.

Coming from school one day. I had walked around the road. I was close to our house, I had to still go across the bridge of the canal.

A short ways from the road I was on was a big puddle of water. See there stood a big coyote with his teeth showing, and lookin straight at me. I was scared to pass in front of him I turned around and ran all the way back to our neighbors, about one half mile away. Never being late home from school, my mother got worried, she called the neighbors, to see if I was there. The neighbors told her I was there and afraid to go home. Mother sent some one to take me home. Mother was sure the coyote had stopped for a drink as he probably had been running. Said coyotes won’t attack you unless their hungry. I don’t know I didn’ stop to ask him if he was hungry. After Mother’s experiences with couotes I wasn’t taking any chances.

In the winter time the distance was a long way. There a lot of cold days in Idaho. We were lucky we had friends to walk with. The wind would blow a gale and seemed to go right thru you.

We wore scarves around our necks, up around our mouths Our hot breathe going thru the scarf entering the cold air would form icicles. We would blow our breathes to see the white steam come out. It looked like white smoke. Our noses were like a big red cherry. Our hands were so cold we couldn’t feel them at all, and we had on warm gloves.

When the snow came Mother didn’t want us to eat the first snow that fell She said it had germs in it. The snow cleaned the air. We children would make snowmen, angels by laying with our arms out straight and moving up and doun. Which made the wings. We would lay on our backs in the snow. Having brothers we made forts. We had a lot of snowballing. I didn’t mind the soft ones but the boys learned to soak the in water and they would hurt.

When it was really snowing, we would have two layers of clothes on. Lon johns, and long black stockings. Over our shoes we wore galoshes, which were called “over shoes”. They came all most up to our knees. Dad would wrap gunny sacks over our galoshes up to our knees. My brothers would have to remove these gunny sacks before we got to school. They would hide these sacks under the bridge of the canal. We would have to put them on the way back home after school. We took off our “over shoes” after we got to school. The teacher was good to help the little ones. These mornings the heat from the pot belly stove felt good

Our “over shoes”, buckled up in front of the foot with six or more buckles. There were hard to pull on over our regular shoes. Some of the other children got frost bitten because they weren’t dressed warm enough.

This little story reminds me of our family. A teacher was helping to put on a little boys over shoes. She tugged and pulled, finally succeeded in getting them on. The little boy piped up Those aren’t my over shoes. Reluctantly she took them off. Then the little boy exclaimed Those used to belong to my sister. So the teacher had to tug and pull them back on the little fellow. She wasn’t very happy about it.

At our house we only had a heater and the kitchen range for heat. We had a lot of fun popping corn and eating apples Some times we could make candy, I remember once, we were making some fudge, it was boiling real good and I stuck one of my fingers into it. I was burned real good. I learnt a lesson I never did that again.

In the winter we wore fannel gowns to sleep in. The gowns were long, we would wrap them around our legs when we got into bed. I bedrooms were always cold.

We wore long johns until Easter Sunday, off they came the long johns, on with the light weight clothes. It felt as tho we had lost ten pounds. We could wear white stockings.

Sometimes Dad would make a sliegh out of his wagon. If it snowed while we were in school and not clothe for the weather, he would pick us up, not only us but all the other kids. He would sing “It’s a long way to Tipperary” but my hearts right there.” We all got a kick out of it. I always thought he meant getting home.

A Murder in the Family

I have known for most of my life that my great-great-grandfather’s death was an unsolved murder, and since adulthood have heard it said among the family that his son probably did it. Naturally, such rumors are calculated to intrigue. I have long entertained a certain morbid curiosity on the subject, but found little information on my own. The information I did have consisted in his name: John Stephen CRAIG; his estimated birth information: Apr 1859 in Scotland; his family unit: wife Martha Mulvena RUBENALL (whom he married on 26 May 1886 in Denison, Crawford, Iowa), sons Matthew, Harry, and Dewey, and daughter Mary Josephine; and the following death information: died 21 Feb 1917 on 16^th St in Omaha, Nebraska, and buried 26 Feb 1917 in the Holy Sepulchre Cemetery of the same city. Now, as for names and dates that appears fairly complete. However, I knew there was a story for this man, and one that might prove quite interesting.

Finally I gave in and sent away to the Omaha Public Library for some research on my behalf. Although the internet has been a godsend to genealogists, there are still some things that must be done offline, and this, it seemed, was one of them.

Yesterday I received the lovely, creased envelope bearing my address in my own handwriting. This was it! I was finally going to read about my ancestor’s murder in the words of the local reporter. I slit open the envelope and pulled out four sheets of paper. The first was a cover letter; the other three were articles from the Omaha World Herald in 1917.

It is an odd sensation to find oneself delighted while reading about the violent death of one’s own great-great-grandfather, but delighted I was. At last I was reading first-hand information, not family rumors that might have been exaggerated through the years. For the first time I learned which son was suspected of his death. I learned that he died near 10^th St, not on 16^th St. Perhaps most remarkable, because it was the first time I heard of it, I learned that his wife had left him and possibly remarried.

But let’s back up just a bit, and I’ll share the articles themselves with you.

The first appeared on the front page of the Evening World-Herald on the day following his death.

  

Craig is Found Dead; How Killed Mystery.

Murder or Accidentally Killed by Train, Ask Police; Investigating.

Body Found Frozen Beside Little Used Track; Well Known Expressman.

  

Mystery surrounds the death of John Craig, aged 62, an express driver, whose body was found early this morning within a short distance of his home at Tenth and Paul streets, with mortal wounds about the head.

  

“I’ll die by violence some day,” was the fatalistic remark of Craig a short time ago, and his prediction was fulfilled. He had lived in Omaha nearly forty years, and for a long time past, had led the life of a hermit in a one-room wing of the 3-room shack he called hime [sic]. There are rumors that he had considerable money. He had an express stand at Fifteenth and Harney streets, and ran a little store at Eleventh and Paul streets.

  

For about two years he had been separated from his wife, who is now said to be remarried and living in California. Two sons, Matt and Harry, live in Omaha, as well as a married daughter, Mrs. Henry Stroesser. Matt and the daughter say they have not seen their father for some time past, and have had nothing to do with him on account of family troubles. Harry, the second son, could not be found.

  

Neighbors say that Craig came home as usual about 5:30 last evening, and put away his horse. He was not seen again until his body was discovered by Ole Jackson, colored, living at 2528 Patrick avenue, and Lewis Lesslow, Tenth and Seward streets. The body lay beside a commercial spur track leading from the Union Pacific yards across Eleventh street to the rear of the T. G. Northwall company building.

  

Half a dozen large boards which Craig had evidently been carrying when he was killed lay beside the body.

  

Murder or accidental death are the two theories on which the police are working. The fact that the dead man’s clothes were not disturbed, and that about $7, his watch and some personaly [sic] papers were not taken from the pockets, would indicate that he was not killed by robbers, say the police.

  

The position of the body beside the railroad tracks leave it possible, it is added, that the man was struck by a freight car being switched in or drawn from the spur track during the night. The body was frozen stiff when found.

  

The body is at Taggart’s undertaking rooms. An inquest is considered likely.

It certainly creates an image to read that John CRAIG “had led the life of a hermit in a one-room wing of the 3-room shack he called hime [sic],” that “for about two years he had been separated from his wife,” and that his children “have had nothing to do with him on account of family troubles.” And when he is quoted as predicting “I’ll die by violence some day,” I can’t help but wish that the reporter had elaborated, if only to tell how he learned of the prediction. He couldn’t have learned it from John himself!

Also, it is somewhat chilling to read such a dispassionate account of the condition of the body, when the body belongs to one’s relative. I have always found such descriptions much more unsettling than the gaudiest thing that gothic literature could invent, because there seems to be such a disconnect between “the body” and the person it once was. Gothic literature, at least, preserves the horror of the viewer.

The second article appeared the following day, but by now the story has been relegated to the second page of the newspaper.

Son Held as Police Probe Craig’s Death

Official Suspicion Aroused by His Story of Whereabouts Wednesday Night.

Sees All Three Newspapers, but Ignorant of Father’s Death, He Says.

  

Harry Craig, son of John Craig, 62, recluse, who was found dead with his head mutilated in a field near his hut at Tenth and Paul streets yesterday morning, was arrested by Police Detectives Dunn and Gaughan late yesterday, and is held without bond while the police investigate further his father’s mysterious death.

  

The police declare that they have nothing tangible to connect the younger Craig with his father’s death, but his story of his whereabouts the night before aroused their suspicions.

  

Harry Craig told the detectives that he saw three newspapers yesterday, but knew nothing of his father’s death, which was prominent on the first page of all the papers.

  

He said that he left the Millard hotel, where he washes dishes, at 6:15 Wednesday evening, wandered about town, and returned at 10:30, going to bed. Craig’s roommate told the police that he did not notice Craig until a few minutes before 6 o’clock in the morning. According to the police, young Craig was at a loss to tell exactly where he had “wandered about” earlier in the evening.

  

The police are now convinced that Craig was murdered. No cars are switched at night on the tracks near which the body was found, so he could not have been killed by a passing train. The blow on his head crushed his skull badly. Money and jewelry on his person were not touched and the padlock on his shack was not broken, so robbery could not have been the motive.

  

The police learned that Harry Craig had quarreled with his father recently and that they had been seen frequently together. According to the meager information they gathered of the family, Harry Craig blamed his father for trouble between himself and his wife.

So it was Harry who was suspected of his father’s murder. I have very little information on Harry CRAIG: only that he was born in February 1893 in Omaha. I do not even have the name of his wife. These CRAIGs have been difficult to research because it is a rather common surname—and paired with common Christian names—in a densely populated area. The problem is not that I cannot find a record for Harry CRAIG, it is that I find too many records and am unable to differentiate between them.

It seems that the trouble between Harry and his wife must have been serious, since they don’t appear to be living together. The article speaks of Harry’s roommate at his home. The idea of a parent causing trouble between a child and his spouse reminds me of the family rumor regarding John’s wife, Martha. It has been said that she had more than motherly feelings toward her son-in-law, Harry STROESSER. Whether that caused problems in her daughter’s marriage, I don’t know, but I can easily see how it could. These CRAIGs are definitely turning out to be an interesting bunch.

The third, and most enigmatic, story appeared in the morning edition of the newspaper on 24 Feb 1917. It is no more than a blurb way back on page 15, and a confusing one at that:

Deny Story of Arrest.

Denial of the statement that Harry Craig, son of John Craig, the expressman whose body was found along railroad tracks near his home Thursday morning, was arrested at the Millard hotel Thursday evening, was made last night by Harry Stroesser, carpenter employed by the city, and by Matt Craig, son of the dead man and brother of the man in jail. Stroesser is a brother-in-law of the Craig boys.

What does that mean? It says that Harry STROESSER and Matt CRAIG denied the statement of Harry CRAIG’s arrest. But what are they denying about it? They can’t deny that he was arrested; he is identified as “the man in jail.” If he weren’t arrested, how would he end up in jail? Are they denying that the arrest took place at the Millard hotel or that it took place Thursday evening? The most probable assumption would be that they are disputing his identification as a suspect, but if that is the case, the reporter has expressed it dismally.

Although I have long known that it was an unsolved murder, I find it frustrating to end on a mystery. Somehow I expected at least some closure. And I can’t help but wonder if my great-great-uncle got away with murder—and even more, if his brother and my own great-grandfather were accessories after the fact.

Citations

“Craig is Found Dead; How Killed Mystery.” Evening World-Herald [Omaha] 22 Feb 1917: 1.

“Son Held as Police Probe Craig’s Death.” Evening World-Herald [Omaha] 23 Feb 1917: 2.

“Deny Story of Arrest.” Morning World-Herald [Omaha] 24 Feb 1917: 15.

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 15: Churning and Chimneys

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

The farmers share with one another, they exchange work tools etc. Just like when your cow goes dry. You get milk from your neighbor, when his goes dry he gets milk from your cow. The only ketch is the children have to fetch the milk. In pails. Sometime it’s a good half mile, in sunshine, rain, or snow. Sometimes that half mile was a long half mile.

Mother would tell us we weren’t sugar or salt we would’nt melt.

Sometime the neighbors and Dad would go together and by a cow or a pig and go together and kill it and dress it ready to eat. They shared the meat and the cost. It was cheaper than buying at a market. And much better.

The churning of butter was the boys job, but I could help them some. The first churn I remember was a barrel type, it looked like a small barrel laying on its side, a frame to hold it up, a handle we could turn. This churn would have to be turn around and around to make the butter. Sometimes longer than others depending on the cream. Once in a while it woul spring a leak, us kids thought it funny. Our mother didn’t, for she had to clean it up. What made this leak the barrel had dried out between churnings. Mom would have us stop churning while she stuffed a piece of cloth in the hole. It worked. Mother had just scrubbed her floor and then this cream, she wasn’t very happy. The floor was hard to clean It was a bare wood floor. She scrubbed it with a broom, hot water, and homemade soap. Mother said we wouldn’t laugh if we had to clean it up. The cream came out and the turning around and around the cream splattered a ways in the air, covering a pretty big area.

Our lamps were filled with kersene. The lamps had wicks to carry the kerosene, so we could light them. The wicks were about two inches wide. If we turned it up we more light, turn it doun it would dim, it would almost go out, then blow in it and it would go out. If the wick was uneven it would smoke, this would make the chimney black. Every week the chimnies were cleaned and refill. To clean the chimney you would take it off the lamp and then blow into the chimney, then take a piece of newspaper and twist around and round inside the chimney. You might have to blow more moist air into the chimney to release the smoke. More newspaper may be needed.

We had several lamps to go around, they were carried from one room to another. Many times I had awakened and found my mother, lamp in hand looking doun at us. She said we were restless, she was just checking.

We finally had a new churn, this churn had a long handle with four paddles attached to the bottom of the handle. The churn had a lid, the handle coming right up thru it. We would have to pull the handle up and doun until we had butter.

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 12: Dresses

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

Merry Christmas! This installment isn’t quite in keeping with the season, but I believe that the Christmassy portion of Elsie’s manuscript has already been transcribed. So instead we’ll enjoy a little birthday and (previously quoted) Halloween merriment. The theme for this week is dresses.

One day my aunt made me a pink checked dress for my birthday. She gave me a party, so I was suppose to wear this dress. The guests arrived I took them out to see the animals, I was so proud of.

Aunt Sadie came out just as we all got seated on the top of the pig pen. The pen is open with a rail fence all around it. We were sitting on this rail. My aunt “told me what are you thinking sitting on a pig pen. I never made that dress for you to do this.” The pen was new and clean, I couldn’t see what the matter was. She got us together and marched us to the house. She told my mother and Mother said “I don’t see any thing wrong in that.” Aunt Sadie said “I never made that dress to sit on a pig pen.” We never got around to see the rest of the animals.

Talk about dresses Mother, sent away for a red plaid one, from a catalogue. I was in the first grade, I hated that dress. Someon must have hurt my feelings for not liking it. I hid it everywhere, under the bed, under the mattress, in the closet. She found it no matter what, she made me wear that dress. One day I took that dress and hid it under my gunny sack rug in my play house, which was on the canal bank. Mother found it but it was too late, it had mildewed and unable to wear. Mother couldn’t understand what was wrong with that dress. She said I was always so easy to get a long with. I couldn’t tell her why I didn’t like it. I never wore plaids again. I still don’t care for plaids.

These tent houses were made from large gunny sacks, our feed for our cattle and pigs and chicken, came in these large sacks.

Dad lets play with these sacks. So Walter and Bill made us a tent house, one for each of us. These were cool in the summertime, Idaho summers are real hot.

Walter cut out dishes, knives and forks and spoons. Out of tin sheeting Dad had.

On one Halloween we had our jack o lanterns on our (probably a apple box) table. Right close to the opening of our tents. Our dad was on the school board, we were having a program that night. Our teacher was over to our house, she wanted Dad and Mom to drive her on an errand, they were gone a short time, when they came back my teacher asked me to turn around. I turned, all the back of my dress was burned. But how? The only fire I was around was our jack o lanterns. We had lit our lanterns to show the teacher, when she got back. The wind must have blown my dress against the lit pumkin, as I was closing the door of my tent house. I must have sat doun real fast to have put the fire out. I always believed I had a guarding angel. Of course I had to wear my school dress to the program that night. This reminds me of a little poem Mother told me.

(The Girl)     Which dress should I wear?

               My blue one or my new one

               Or the one I wore last.

(Mother)

               The last one you wore last

               It’s the only one you have

Tocontinue with the next installment of Elsie's manuscript, click here. 

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 8: The ranch near Meridian

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

We have finally reached a point in Elsie’s manuscript for which I have photographs! It has been quite a while since I have been able to bring Elsie’s words to life with pictures, so I am rather gleeful about the opportunity this week. This installment tells of when the Underwood family moved outside the city of Boise to a farm near Meridian, Idaho. Though it will be a couple weeks yet before we learn of it in Elsie’s words, this is the farm where my grandmother was born. 

Dad was on his way again, this time to the furtile valley of Boise Idaho, ten miles from Boise.

This was a large ranch, over eighty acres of ground. The ranch was located six miles from Meridan and ten miles from Boise, Idaho.

The ranch was owned by two families, the Dorr’s and the Shaws. The two families lived in the city, Boise.

This ranch was bran new, Dad must of worked on this ranch before we moved in, while we were living in Boise. The house was new, up to now this was our first real new house of any size. The house had four bedrooms, living room (parlor in those days) a kitchen and two porches, one in the back and the other in the front. On hot days we would sit on the back porch in the morning and the front porch in the afternoon, when it was shady. Until the trees grew up it was pretty hot, in the sun.

The Shaw’s and Dorr’s came often to see how things were coming along. The Dorr’s had a boy about my age and the Shaw’s had a girl about Walter’s age.

We soon had a well dug, we lived on a small hill, so the well drillers had to go a long ways doun to reach water. They put a motor to pump the water up. We had lots of water now for the house and irrigation. There also was a canel running on one side of the ranch, where the water from the canel was used for watering the fields. No alikali and plenty of water Dad was happy.

They were paying Dad to build this ranch up and plant the eighty acres with prune trees.

The ground was ready to plant, he also had some help (hiredhelp) Also he had us kids, Walter, Bill, and even me.

We soon had the barnes, chicken coupes, and a pig pen, also a shed to cover the pump, it was called the pump house. A root cellar was later built. This was a great blessing for Mother to keep the milk from souring. The root cellar was built under ground, it was much cooler there. We kept our vegetables and fruit there also. We had lots of eggs also.

After the buildings were up and useable, the weather right. Dad started to plant the eighty acres of prunes. These trees were small straight sticks which came bundled so many to a bundle. The sticks (trees) had no leaves. No branches, just a very few roots.

They were planted just so deep and so far a part. Then each tree was wrapped with a piece of tar paper. The paper was cut about fourteen by twelve inches, which came already cut. Thank goodness!

The tar paper was wrapped around the little twig of a tree, several times, then tyed wit bailing twine. The bailing twine came in large round balls. The paper was tyed top and bottom. This was to keep the rabbits from eating the bark off the little trees. Our land was new and we had a lot of rabbits.

My brothers and I would help to put the paper around the trees. Dad and the men planted the trees and we tyed the twine and put the paper around. I’d hold the paper in place while Bill and Walter would tye the twine.

I liked being with my brothers and dad, but my time was limited. Mom had to cook for Dad and the hired men. She needed help at lunch time, she would come out side of the house and wave her tea towel, that was for me to come home and help her. One of my jobs was to set the table which I like to do. Sometimes I was busy to see her waving but Dad would call my attention and saying “I think you Mother is calling”.

To continue with the next installment of Elsie's manuscript, click here.

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 14: Animal Tales

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

Well, here we are again. It has been longer than I care to admit since I have posted one of these “weekly” transcriptions, so it’s about time I resumed the habit. This installment tells a few animal tales in the lives of the Underwoods.

One morning Dad came in to the house, Mother could see he was upset about something. “What’s the matter” she asked him. Dad told her that the mother pig refused to let one pig nurse. If this goes on we will lose the little one. I over heard what was going on and volunteered. Dad informed us this little pig had to be kept warm and fed often. Mom agreed to let me take him, if I kept him on a blanket back of the stove. I had to keep him in the kitchen.

I was so happy to have a little pig for a pet. I know how to feed him as had helped feed some calves. I’d get a clean cloth and double it up like a nipple. Put it in a pail of warm milk. Tightly holding on to the nipple, the little pig took to this right away. He was hungry.

Later on I used two fingers held in the pail of warm milk he would suck on my fingers. He seemed to like it. He was hungry all the time. I had a lot of fun trying to keep this little pig in the kitchen and on his blanket back of the stove.

He was pink skin with light short hair. I spent my days chasing this little pig. Mother would say “Get that pig out of here”. So I would run and try to caught him. He was so chubby and fat, I would put both hands around his stomach and try and hold him. Sometimes my hands would slip, I’d get ahold of his leg. He’d squeal something awful. Mother would yell “You’ll break his leg. I don’t think I held him that tight. I would let him go and Mom would yell “Will you get him out of here.” I was trying my best, but pig’s hair grows from the front to the back, making it hard to hang on to.

Well the little pig grewup, he could eat by hisselve now. He got a long with the other pigs. I missed him I wondered did he miss me? I really think Mom missed him too.

I think every child should have a pig for a pet. I’m lucky to have had one, it a great experience.

A magpie is a large bird, very much like a big crow but much uglier. Someone told me if I could catch a magpie and split its tongue it would talk to me. It had to be a baby bird.

Maraget Church my girl friend and I was at the creek, at the far end of our farm. Above us was a big willow tree. There’s nest, after watching for a while, the mom and dad bird appeared. Oh, it’s a magpie couple. We could see the baby birds reaching to be fed. Margaret urged me to climb the tree. So I did. I stole a little bird, we took it home, right into the house. Mom and Margaret’s mom was there. Everything broke loose when my mom saw that bird.

I had never seen Mom mad like that before. She asked what we were thinking about to steal a baby bird from it’s mother. Go back and take that bird to it’s home this minute But Mother we wanted someone to cut it’s tongue so it would talk to us. My mother asked “Who ever put that idea in to your heads? I never heard of such a thing.”

So Margaret and my brother and I took that bird home. The birds parents seemed to be glad it was back. I never found out if we had split it’s tongue if it would talk. The was the first time and last time I ever stold a bird.

Living on a farm the children always had chores to do At least helping with them. Bringing in the wood two kinds kindling, wood for the range and heater. Horses beded doun, and fed, cow to milk, chickens to feed and to gather the eggs, etc.

Our family album has a very decided shortage of pictures from the time covered in Elsie’s manuscript. This is a picture of my grandma, Elsie’s sister Aileen, holding a chicken a decade or so after the incident Elsie describes below.

I used to like to feed the chickens and help gather the eggs. Sometimes one of the hens would decided to sit on some eggs. My brother Bill would, lift the hen up and I would reach under her and get the eggs. Later this hen would be put on a special nest with a dozen eggs to hatch. In a short time we would have some baby chickens. They are so cute. When you hold them in your hand you can feel their little heart beat thru the soft doun feathers.

Never knowing Dad had bought a new rooster, I started to feed the chickens. This rooster knocked me doun and started clawing my face. My dad jumed the fence, grabbed the rooster twisted his head off and threw it over the fence. Mother was upset spending money for the rooster and not having it one day. Dad told her if she had seen that rooster clawing at my face she would have done the same thing. I’m glad my dad was there, I still have the scare right close to my eye.

I remember when Elsie was still alive she showed me the above-mentioned scar. It was faint, so faint that I never would have noticed it if she had not pointed it out to me, but it was visible. I think that this story is the reason that I am wary of chickens to this day.

To continue with the next installment of Elsie's manuscript, click here.