“Walking” in Their Footsteps

[This was supposed to have been posted two days ago, and I thought it had. I just discovered that there had been some sort of technical error and it didn't go up, so here's attempt #2.]

When I stepped into my living room this morning, the front window was shining white with just that quality of light that promised wonders on the other side of the blinds. Sure enough, when the blinds parted they revealed a world glistening with deep frost. Without a second thought, I threw on yesterday’s clothes, donned a hat for the double purpose of warmth and hiding my unbrushed hair, grabbed my camera, and was out the door. Apart from genealogy, one of my greatest loves is hiking—and its milder urban cousin “going for a walk”—and any sort of pedestrian travel is always made more pleasant by beautiful scenery, whether it be jagged peaks and sprawling valleys or the small, delicate wonder of a frosty cobweb.

As I walked, my thoughts wandered, as thoughts will, and I began to imagine myself walking along the seawall near the Creeksea Ferry or down the road from Hachiville to the Hermitage, as my ancestors might have done. I wondered how the January days my great-grandmother Cora encountered in Kansas compared to this one, and if she had the leisure to occasionally indulge in such solitary walks—or the desire to do so.

When a large squirrel, all fattened up for the winter, stood up on his hind legs and gazed at me, apparently thinking that I may have some crumbs of bread to share, I wondered about the appearance of squirrels in eastern Essex. Squirrels are, to me, a great indicator of place. Even just within Oregon, you see different kinds of squirrels in different areas. For instance, I know I’ve traveled south when I see one of those big, bristly gray squirrels, or that I’m near the mountains when I see a ground squirrel that looks like a big chipmunk. But I have never been to England, and the squirrels there are as yet a mystery to me.

Eventually it dawned on me that modern technology has given us the ability to walk, as it were, on the other side of the globe. Really, it was my cousin who started me on this train of thought. He emailed me last month, telling me where to look on Google maps to see what’s left of the ferry landing. Yes, I know that Google maps and its street view feature have been around for years, but I have used it very little, and have somehow never thought of using it for getting a sense of an area.  As the frost melted in the warming sun, my desire to attempt a different kind of “walk” grew.

Once my morning walk was over, and after I’d breakfasted, I hurried to the library (which has internet access much faster than my own) and began my stroll around the world.

Since I have lately put most of my thought into the Amos branch of the tree and their home at the Creeksea Ferry, I decided to begin elsewhere. A sense of place for the Thines family in Luxembourg has proven the most elusive, so I typed in “Hachiville.” I was disappointed to find no access to a street view feature there—plus that particular village had somehow accumulated the only cloud cover in all of Luxembourg on the day that the satellite photographed the country. However, I did accidentally discover a feature of satellite view that I had hitherto never seen. By playing around with those features in the top left corner of the screen, you can lay out the countryside as an expanse before you instead of looking straight down at it, and fly over it in any direction your heart desires.

Eastern Essex, on the other hand, is well covered in street view. After a pointless but charming little jaunt down the Champs Élysées, I spent a fair amount of time wandering the streets of Southend-on-Sea, Canewdon, and Maldon. Roaming the streets via Google has its drawbacks, I admit. For one, you are limited to just that—streets—and cannot take off down this pathway or down that beach. Were I really able to be there, I would be doing just that; this morning my walk along the river ended with a slippery scramble up the side of a hill, as is typical for me. But despite its not catering to my sense of adventure, Google street view really is the next best thing to being there.

No doubt to many of you the idea of using Google maps to acquaint yourself with an area is old news. However, there must be others of you who, like me, had not yet discovered its possibilities. For me, genealogy is about understanding my roots, and a huge part of that is achieving what I call a sense of place, a feeling for the environment of my ancestors. Naturally, Google maps cannot take you back to the time when your family inhabited a place, but you can walk the streets and see the layout of an area. With the aid of a few historical pictures and some imagination, you can create your own time machine.

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 13: Of fruit and Olive

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

On this orchard we had all kinds of fruit trees, apples, six or seven variaties, petite plums, peaches, and pears.

Grandma Aileen in peach orchard, age 3 (1918)

We had all kinds of berries, especially strawberries The ever bearing kind and raspberries also some gooseberries. Dad liked gooseberry pie, but was sour without sugar.

We would pick them right off the vines for breakfast with sugar and thick cream they were sure good!

We had lots of melons watermellons, cantaloupe, musk melons These were pink inside. When these melons were ripe them would fall off the vine. We were taught that any kind of fruit had to be ripe before you ate it or you would have a stomachacke.

This proved, when my sister was small got into the gooseberry patch. She ate them when they were green and was she sick. They had the doctor for her, she had convulsions We were real scared. This was my sister Aileen. No more green fruit.

Dad had a big melon patch in between his rows of corn. One day when the Dorr’s were there. I tried to find a ripe watermelon for their son. So I proceeded to plug most of the large melons. Not one of them were ripe.

To plug a melon, you cut a small triangle in the melon. The cut has to be fairly deep and then pull the plug out If it is real red on the tip, it would be ripe.

Dad was upset for me to cut so many melons, he was afraid they would spoil, I don’t think they did, that was the last I heard about the watermelons. However I never plugged watermelons again.

My sister Olive was very quite, she staied around the house a lot. She had some curl in her hair and Mother would put her hair up in strips of news paper. Her hair was short and easy to curl.

Mine was different It was longer and put up in braids. I had pigtails with ribbons on the back of my head or one on each side. My mom braided my hair every morning, when I went to school. We walked a long way home, and on the way I would unbraid my hair and let it hang doun my back. It would be wavy after it was undone. After being braided all day. My friends liked. Mother would always wonder why it would come undone, she never knew and my brothers never told her.

Olive loved the water, she would get in the irrgation ditch close to the house, with all her clothes on. Aunt Sadie said she could stop this, she made Olive a pretty crocheted bead necklace. She instructed Olive to never go in the water and get them wet, or wear them in the water. Olive went in the water again but this time she wasn’t wearing them but had them in her hand trying to keep them dry.

Olive vowed she never had worn these beads in the water. Sadie was furious, that her plan hadn’t worked.

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

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 11: Leisure Time

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

Sorry about the delay in publishing this installment of Elsie’s manuscript. For some reason it slipped completely off my radar last Monday. I suspect that may happen a few times this season as we all prepare for Christmas.

On one side of our property for a ways ran a canal. It was short distance from the house. The canal furnished some of the water Dad used for his irrigation. We had a good well for our drinking water. Our neighbor, Mr. Church got their household water from our well. Mr. Church would come with a wagon drawn by two horses and in the wagon was four big barrels. He would fill them up and then drive one half mile home.

This land on the other side of the canal, Mother called “wild” It was mostly sagebrush, where rabbits, a few harmless snakes, and a lot of wild flowers, lots of pretty mosses, I loved that pretty moss. The moss was soft like velvet. We had a lot of fun exploring this land. We would pick flowers for our mother. My brother Bill would find a wild rose for me, he knew I loved them, they were scarce.

In the winter time we loved to tracking their little foot prints in the snow. The foot prints usually lead to a hole in the middle of a sagebrush bush. Some times we would find a snake skin. Do you know they shed their skins every year. Some of them were whole length of the snake and some were torn and in pieces. These were our treasures.

At bedtime, after a day of exploring, Mother would check us for wood sticks. Sticks are dangerous left unnoticed. They work themselves into your body, to get out you have to be careful not to pull their heads off. The heads keep in digging. The ticks live in the sagebrush, will stick to who or what comes near them. They caught onto sheep and dogs and can be carried elsewhere. They can course scarlet fever.

Once in a while my brother would catch me a little cotton tail rabbit. He made a little pen for it. The pen had a mesh bottom, which we could move, every day to a new place on the back lawn. This kept him clean and gave him all the green grass he needed. His name from the white tip on his tail. It looked like a small ball of cotton. We’d have him for a few days then Mother would let it out. She said she never let him out but, “that the ol cat must have gotten him.” This happened several times, so Bill and I gave up getting them.

On Sunday, afternoons, Mom and Dad, in their bib and tucker would sit in their rockers and enjoy, a afternoon o relaxing. Dad would smoke his weekly cigar and finish reading his newspaper.

He always read the newspaper to her while she was busy getting breakfast. All of us kids liked to have them outside together, taking it easy for a change. My brothers and sisters would play on the lawn, close by. If it was very hot afternoon Mom would make us a drink from soda, vinegar, water and a little sugar. It sizzled and sputtered and tickled our noses when we drank it. Different from the cold drinks of today, we enjoyed it very much, we didn’t know any better. I think everyone did the same those days.

At night we would sit on the top steps and watch the pretty dragon flies dancing in the light, showing off their beautiful colorful wings.

We would play games on the lawn. Ring Around the Posy, Hide an Seek and Pump Pump Pullaway. Also Kick the Can which my mother didn’t like as she was afraid it would wear out ou shoes to fast.

One of these times I stepped on a wasp. The sting was so hot I thought, I had stepped on one of Dad’s cigarette butts, that was still a light. This was the first wasp I had ever been stung by. No fun. Wasps are larger then yellow jackets and mostly black, on their bodies. A wasp can sting many times but a honey bee but once. On a sting by a honey bee you had to pull out the stinger, the bee would die soon after. If we got stung we would run for some soft mud or for the soda box. They would help ease the pain. We had a lot of bees so we got stung many times, we also ran barefooted, we also had a clover lawn that had blossoms the bees loved.

Dad had many flowers, he was very proud of them. We weren’t allowed to pick them only for special occasions. He said they would last longer and look prettier outside, so everyone could see them. He always had violets, Mom loved the fragrance of the violets.

I am very curious about the game Elsie calls Pump Pump Pullaway. It is not one I have ever heard of from another source. I would be curious to learn how to play it.

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

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 10: Refrigeration to Pronunciation (And My Grandma in Between)

To read this project from the beginning, click here. 

This entry, by serendipitous coincidence, arrives with perfect timing. Last Thursday, as you probably know, we Americans celebrated Thanksgiving Day. This excerpt from Elsie’s manuscript includes a brief description of the birth of my grandmother, Aileen Underwood, who happened to be born on Thanksgiving Day in 1914. I wish that Elsie had written more in her manuscript about the event. She once described it to me in fuller detail, but I seem to have misplaced the notes I took on that visit. However, I do retain a vague impression of the Underwood family carrying on their Thanksgiving dinner the best they could, with Aunt Sadie acting as hostess, while Flora labored in her bedroom. Naturally, Flora would not have been left alone, but I can’t recall the details.

Perhaps Grandma’s birth—and mine as well—were symbolic of what would become important to us. I can imagine Grandma Aileen as a baby in her mother’s womb, realizing that the family was gathering and thinking to herself, “I want to be there, too!” Grandma was the one who first introduced me to my family tree. I remember visiting her and being fascinated with a piece of paper she had spread out on the dining room table. It was the first time I had ever seen one of those classic family tree diagrams, the kind with a picture of an actual tree, and names written on the branches. She explained to me how each branch was a part of the family, and the twigs growing off the branches were the children of the person listed on the branch, while the branches themselves were the children of the people listed on the trunk. I have been fascinated ever since.

Like Grandma, my birth interrupted a family gathering, though in a less dramatic fashion. My parents were able to go to a hospital rather than being in the next room. But I can imagine myself, in the same way as Grandma, sensing a gathering of the family and thinking, “I want to be there, too!” It is almost as though Grandma and I were destined from our births to be the genealogists for our branch of the family.

Incidentally, Elsie misspelled Grandma’s married name, forgetting an s. It should be “Brosius.”

We had two horses, Dick was a prett rome color with a perfect white star on his forhead. He had a lot of spirit. The other horse’s name was Nig, a coal black, but much slower nature than Dick. He was a good work horse.

One day my mom wanted someone to get the mail, our mail box was on apost, about a half mile doun the road. No one was around to ask to get the mail. So I said I would go and get it. She really didn’t want me to go alone on a horse, I had never been on one alone but I wasn’t afraid. I went and got Dick and put his halter on. He was in his stall in the barn. I climbed up the side of his stall. I climbed on his back, bare back and off I went. Everything was fine until I couldn’t reach the mail boxes. I slid off the horses back, got the mail. To get back on the horse again was another story. I was short, I was hardly up to the horse stomack, about six years old. How was I to get back on this horse. I didn’t have a saddle or a blanket, just the reins. Not a thing to pull up with.

All of a sudden I thought of our fence just across the road, it was the corner of our farm land. I pull the horse as as possible to the fence. The fence had barbed wire on the top of a heavy mesh like fence. I had to be careful no to get hurt on the stickery fence, so I stepped really careful on the fence top and pulled myself up on the horse. Horses are slippery without a saddle. I was so calm and not afraid. We arrived home safe and sound. Mother had been watching from her kitchen window. She said I thought you’d have to walk home. It’s a wonder he would stand still for you. I really think the horse knew we had to get home safely.

Mom was always looking for letters from her family, she never wrote home very much but always looked for news from home.

Aileen was born here on November 26th. It was Thanksgiving Day. She was named after Aunt Sadie’s daughter and my dad’s mother Maryann. Her name was Aileen Maryann Underwood. Her married name was Aileen Mary Ann Broius.

We finally got our root cellar which we needed badly. To keep the milk and cream, eggs, fruit and vegetables cool.

The root cellar was dug deep in the ground with a peaked roof. The walls were cement also the steps going doun in it. Also the floor, it was easy to keep clean. It was cool in the summer and hot in the winter, atleast warm enough to keep things from freezing.

Before we had this root cellar, we had no refrigeration Our milk was put into milk pans. The pans were round, about fourteen inches around and about four inches high. They were stacked one atop of the other, with two narrow slats of wood between each pan. We usually had two stacks with four pans high. The fresh milk was always put on the bottom to keep it rotated for freshness. The cream would form on the top, it would take about two days to collect. The cream was so thick you scrape it off with a large spoon. It was so thick. And oh so good.

One evening Mother and Dad went to see “Alexander the Great” Alexander the Great was to be in Meridan, just six miles away. Dad really wanted to so he persuaded Mom to go with him. They left early to be sure they would get there in time for the start.

The boys had the milking to do, I knew the milk had to be taken care of right away, went to the place she kept the milk. I pour the fresh milk into clean pans. I knew I had to put the old new milk on the bottom, there fore I had to lift off the old milk and put this new milk on the bottom. The pans of milk were layered withthese thin slates between layers. I was young and short, to short to reach the pans well. Especially on my tiptoes. This pan was a lot heavier than I wxpected, it slipped and spilt all over me and the floor. My brothers thought it funny, they did help me get cleaned up. I was so afraid to face my mother when she came home. I was afraid she’d scold me, but she didn’t. She knew I just wanted to help. She did tell me I was too young and to small to try doing these things that were to big for me. I didn’t like scoldings but my brothers told me “A scolding don’t last and a whipping didn’t last and they don’t dare to kill to kill me.”

When Aileen was born, my teacher and a man friend came over to see Mom and her baby. The man had whiskers, he asked me if the baby looked like him. I said No! He asked me Why? I couldn’t say whiskers. A “W” was real hard for me. I couldn’t say “biskers” so while he was in talking to Mom I practiced saying whiskers unti they came out of Mom’s room. Then I yelled, She doesn’t have any whiskers.” My teacher was so surprised “Just why couldn’t she teach me that. I never said biskers again.

Vinegar was another word I couldn’t pronounce. I called it “bingar” or bing bing. I had a friend who helped me on the word vinegar. We practiced one whole lunch time. But it was worth it.

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

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 9: Laundry and cleanliness

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

These few pages of Elsie’s manuscript are a treasure trove of information on the everyday life of country women early in the twentieth century. It’s amazing to think of the changes that laundry, for example, has undergone in a single lifetime. Elsie and her sisters spanned the days of boiling shirts on the woodstove all the way to the modern technique of simply tossing everything into an electric washer. I’m sure they must have appreciated modern conveniences far more than anyone born and raised in our own era ever can.

You may also recognize a couple of the following paragraphs from my Halloween entry of last year. Now you will get to read them in their full context.

We had to iron most of our clothes, no dip dry or winkle proof or stain resistant. Sometimes stains were taken out by putting wet materials on the grass on a sunny day or rub a little salt on the stain if it’s stubborn. Milddew was common, if things weren’t used and laid around, they would collect damnest. Those days we never had heat all thru the house in the wintertime. A little lemon juice sprinkled on the spots and placed in the sun would come out easy. Grass stains were the most and hardest those days. The spots had to washed and then rub with soap and layed in the sun.

The girls wore dresses and slips, blacksateen bloomers. And black, long stockings Rarely did we have white stockings. We wore our hair in braids, with ribbons to hold the braids. I hated those braids and would take them doun on our way home. Mother never could figure out how they came doun, and I never told her. The children we walked home with would say how pretty my hair looked doun.

No slacks, shorts, pedal pushers, sleeveless blouses, pretty sweaters. No shells. We had gingham or calico dresses Shoes were MaryJanes, black, Oxfords, high shoes that came almost to your knees. Laced or buttoned. Pretty pretty awful. We didn’t know any different Everyone had the same. Maybe this is why they taught “Pretty is as pretty does”.

Mother wore ankle long dresses. She had a skirt and a pretty blouse, she wore on Sundays. She had a pretty pin she wore at the neck of her blouse.

We used oil cloth to cover our tables. They were easily cleaned, just wipe off with a damp cloth. Years later we had some cloth ones, Indianhead and a linen one for company. The Indian and linen, had to be real damp in order to iron them. With the irons we had those days, it took a couple of hours to iron one cloth.

The boys and men, wore overalls and jeans made of the overall material. The men wore dark blue serge pants to dress up. Those blue and white stripe coveralls were all most like some of the boys wore then. We called them milkman’s pans.

The irons were made of iron and heated on top of the stove If they got to hot they were pushed to the far side of the range top. The irons had a wooden removable handle. You needed about four irons to keep them hot enough, to do your whole ironing. On handle fitted all irons, the handle would clamp on top of the iron. If too hot it would scorch, to cold it wouldn’t iron. To hard to push across the article to ironed. So you had to test it by wetting your finger tip and touching it ever so lightly, if it spit, it was ready. Mom would clean her irons by wiping them on newspaper. This still is a good way to clean your iron. Only now rub your iron over a little bees wax or parafine then wipe it off.

Dad’s shirts were hard to iron, they had cold starched separate collars. The shirts were starched and then dried and then dampened doun real well. They were left several hours between dampening and ironing, for easier ironing. To dampen the clothes we would have a pan of water, dip one hand in the water and then shake over the clothes to be ironed. The collars of the shirts were really stiff. The collars were held on to the shirt in the back with a collar button. In the front of the shirt with the top button of the shirt. The men wore quite a number of bow ties.

Our clothes was two post set up, between these posts was rope. Usually two or three lines. Depending the distance between the post. Sometime we used to have to have props in the middle to keep the lines from sagging. Some of the clothes were long and heavy when wet. Especially Dads long johns.

The clothes were dried outside, if it rained they were hung on one of the porches. Monday was always wash day. The old saying “if there was enough blue in the sky to make a Scotchman a pair of britches” your washing would get dry.

They had no dryers, washing machines, no washing powder. The clothes were scrubbed on a washboard, with hoemade soap made from lard or fat and lye, hard on the hands. The fat was saved from the cooking of their meats.

No running water in the house, all had to be carried in The white clothes were put in a boiler on top of the stove and boiled. She had a certain stick to take the clothes out of the hot water.

Our wash basin, to wash our hands and face was on the back porch. We would wipe our hands and face, on a huck roller towel. The towel was a long one about one and half yds. Sewed together in the middle and then put on a roller. You’ve seen these they have them in some washrooms now. You would use what you needed then pull it doun a little so the next guy would have a clean spot. After all was used it would be removed and a clean one replaced the dirty one. No soft towels then.

We drank water from a long handle dipper, from a water pail that sat on our back porch.

With a barn and lots of animals we had a lot of flies. My mother hated them, she hung fly paper from the ceiling of the back porch. No matter how careful you are with this flypaper it is so sticky on one side. No fly can escape. The wind had blown one of these doun on the back porch which landed on the floor. My mother had called me in and I was in a hurry, I landed both feet right on this fly paper. It was awful, Mother came to help, she finally got a chair for me to sit on. She could get at it better. Between us we got that sticky mess off. It took a lot of soap and elbow grease to get the stickyness loose. She told me next time watch were I was going.” My dad had a good laugh over it. He said “We’ve really caught a big fly this time.” I didn’t think it was funny and I’m sure Mother did’t either. She was afraid I would get it on her floor, she was very particular about her floors.

My dad would take a bath sometimes in the canal, but we couldn’t because we didn’t know how to swim. Our baths were in the wash tub.

We didn’t have a bathroom in our house. Just a out house or (privy) as they were called. This was a small shed like type building, located a short distance from the house. Inside was a long seat across the back with holes small medium, and large, with covers, when not in use you put the cover on. Lye was used to keep it clean and oderless.

At night we would carry a lantern to see our way. One of the older ones would walk out with us, and stand out side and wait for us.

    

On Hallowe’en the big boys in the neighborhood, would like to tip one of these over, hoping someone was inside. They never got ours, maybe because we had a fence all the way round our place. The fence had barbed wire on top of the mesh fence, hard to climb.

No plumbing inside we had a poe (jerry or thunder mug) under the bed to use when we needed it at night. They even had different sizes of those. These were only used in emergencies.

Some of the poes were made of granite or china, they usually had a handle on one side, kept under the bed. Each had a cover.

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

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 6: Aunt Sadie

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

Walter and Flora Underwood had left their family behind in England when they came to America, and then left their Hawkes cousins behind when they left Idaho Falls, Idaho. Only their son Walter had ever met any of his extended family, and he had been a baby at the time. But in this installment of Elsie Crocker’s manuscript, things are about to change.

Dad was surprised when his youngest sister showed up. She arrived from England, was the first relative we had ever seen. We were excited, we had a lot of relatives in England, but England was a long way off. One thing we missed, by Dad and Mom coming to America, was not knowing our cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles. It seemed all friends had some relatives near by. That’s why Dad always wanted six children, he got his wish. He didn’t want us to be left alone, when he and Mom were gone.

One Thanksgiving, Aunt Sadie invited our family, for dinner. Dad gave us strict orders, to eat everything on our plate. Aunt Sadie was very much English. Very proud very stylish and spoke with an accent. We were young, and been raised Americans, we thougkt her quite different.

Dad wanted to impress her with his children, mind your manners, eat everything on your plate. Like it or not

Well I ate every thing but a huge big green olive. I put my tongue on it and it tasted awful. No, way was I going to eat that olive. I put it back on my plate, it even larger than ever. I didn’t know what to do I had to get rid of that olive, but how? I waited until all people were busy talking. I wasn’t very old about four and a half. I wore these black sateen bloomers, that had elastic around the legs just above the knees. I waited until no one was watching, I slipped that olive safely in one of my pant legs. When I thought everyone was thru their dinner, I excused myself. I hurried outside with that olive dangling in my pant leg. Being sure no one was watching, I let that olive out. I had never see a olive that big before. Our family never could aford olives no matter ripe ones or green ones.

My sister Olive was born, May fourth, in Burley Idaho She was named after “Olive Fremstead”, who was Doctor Fremstead’s daughter. Olive Mabel Fremstead, became a well known opera singer. My sisters name was Olive Mabel Underwood.

Aunt Sadie sang too I don’t know where it was opera or not. I do remember sometimes when she was going to sing she would, ask Mother if she had a lemon. She told us it would clear her throat so she could sing better.

We moved to Boise, we had a next door neighbor. Who had a big pear tree. Under the tree next to our house was a cellar door. (Basement doors were outside those days.) If a ripe pear would fall on that door or on our side. the neighbor told us we could have them. So you can guess who got the pear or pears. Dad would say “The early bird gets the worm”. I was all ways a early riser. Mother loved pears so much, she usually got my pears I picked up. She would share, with the rest of us.

Our neighbor, whose name was Alvy Mason, became our uncle. We were all surprised to see them together, we never even knew they knew each other. We were all happy because we had known him before.

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

Amanuensis Monday--Elsie Crocker’s Manuscript, Part 7: Boise, Idaho

To read this project from the beginning, click here.

This installment of Elsie’s manuscript discusses just a few of the experiences of the Underwood family during their time in Boise, Idaho.

Three of kids, Walter, William and I, always went to Sunday school, when we lived in Boise, Idaho. The church was just a couple blocks from our house.

It was Christmas time, we were having a program. Mother wasn’t feeling well so we kids went by ourselves. I was in the program. The teacher had us take a pair of white stockings to the church. When we got to the church she had me put these white stockings over my shoes. Just above the toe she placed a huge bow of sparkling tinsel. My part must have been a angel to have had tinsel. When the program was over we got a red mesh stocking of candy and nuts. However the stocking wasn’t the importand thing. It was this tinsel It was the first I had ever seen, I loved it so. I had to get home to show my mom. I didn’t even wait for my brothers. I ran as fast as I could, watching the tinsel sparkleing on my feet. The street lights sparkle and glisten even more. I watched my feet all the way home. Maybe this is why I love glittering things today.

I was just five when this happened.

This was the Christmas Santa brought my brothers a pair of scissors. One day while my mother was at the grocery store about two blocks away.

My brothers cut my mothers curtains and can you believe is, they cut off my eyebrows. Oh. What have you done now. She was mad!!!! I can’t leave you for a minute”

She knew the boys had put each other up to it. She said she couldn’t look at me, and that I would have to stay in the house so no one could see me. I felt bad I was a fraid she never loved me anymore.

In Boise Walter was very ill. Wasn’t getting any better, getting worse all the time. Dad sent for Dr. Fremstead, who came right away. (He had to come from Burley.) He took one look at Walter and ordered a prescription for him He was so ill he walked when necessary by using two chairs. One in front of the other, until he got to where he was going. Usually to the bathroom.

Walter was carrying his head to one side, which scared my mom. He started to show right away. He finally used his neck to hold his head straighter. It wasn’t long before he went back to school. We were happy to have him well.

The story of Elsie and her tinsel is another one of my favorites because it fit her personality so well. She seemed so sparkling herself that it was only fitting that she should love glittering things. As an example of her sparkling personality: I remember visiting her when she was in her 80s and living in a retirement manor. She had several rose bushes in the community garden, and early in the morning she would go down and cut a certain number of roses. Then she would put each in a small vase and leave one outside the door of every one of her neighbors.

Regarding the story of the scissors, I have often wondered about the logistics of a brother cutting off his sister’s eyebrows. Her hair, maybe, but her eyebrows? Just try to picture it.

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