WAY BACK THEN

By Beatrice M. Hanson

The early nineteen hundreds proved a peaceful, almost dull, period. Many people lived frugally, from dire necessity, close to the cities where some form of employment might be found, to keep them in food and shelter.

My father’s family, English and Scotch ancestry, came to this country to settle in New England. Grandfather found to his liking, in a small town in Massachusetts, A good-sized farm with land and buildings to suit his needs. Acres of rich black land faced the mountain ranges to make good pastureland for his herd of milking cows.

When his only son, Archie, married, he brought his young bride to the homestead. They lived with Grandpa and Grandmother Mellen until their first child Thelma, was born. Papa worked with his father on the dairy farm. To Mother’s great joy, a house adjoining the farm went up for sale. This was indeed a God-send. The young couple made immediate plans to buy the place, which made it our home during the early years of their child rising.

The babies came in due time. Mother, only nineteen when she married, began her struggle to raise the infants as they arrived. Our home, although not large, was well constructed. I remember the front railed in porch, barely room enough to accompany a rocker or two. It’s door opened into a hallway with a stairway that ascended to the three upper bedrooms, Mother and papa’s room, at the head, being the largest. The heavy oak furniture took up most of the space. A baby crib was permanently placed in a corner for the next arrival.  As the family grew, beds were added to the other two chambers, as they were needed.

Downstairs, I can still visualize the wallpaper in the dining room. It’s design of purple grapes, hanging in clusters from ceiling to mop-board, always fascinated me. All our family meals were served in this room, the kitchen space being taken up with a huge black iron stove that seemed always aglow with red coals. A square table pushed up against one wall to leave a well trodden path for little feet. On this table we were fed our evening meal of soda crackers and milk. Mornings, we ate our rolled oats cereal here before being sent out to play.

As in many of the country houses of that era, we did not have a bathroom. Our baths were taken in a round galvanized tub, laid in the center

of the kitchen floor, holding as many little naked bodies as it could in one sitting. Each child was scrubbed clean with Mother’s laundry “bar soap”, then lifted out to her knees to be dried with a fluffy large towel. Our night dress thrown over our heads, and with a slap on the buttocks, she would point the way to our bedrooms. As far as Mother was concerned, her day was finished! Papa would then dump the tub, probably join her on the porch for a quiet moment before going to bed.

Papa retired early, as he was expected to be at his job, bottling milk, before daylight. I imagine Mother sometimes dreamed of being single again and, after tying a blue ribbon on her brown hair, of joining her girl friends in a cooling drug store for ices. She might well have complained, but actually would not have had it otherwise.

To reach the “out house” one passed through the back shed to the outside “privy”. Mother’s out-dated catalogs served as toilet tissue. A fenced in chicken yard joined the shed. Here Mother led her youngest for safety measures, as she did the housework. Papa kept a few chickens for eggs and eating purposes. Papa became an expert at chicken raising, as was proved by the many “first prize” ribbons he won in almost every contest he entered his famous strain of” Rhode Island Reds “. Much later in life he accepted the position as head superintendent to a very wealthy man’s poultry department.

Mother, in her twenties, was a slim wasted medium height woman with pretty brown curly hair and a pleasant personality. She was a kind person who loved her family and worked for them all her life. Papa, as we called him as children, had good height and classic features. His hair and “handle bar mustache” were a golden red. His eyes, blue and piercing, gave one, at a glance, an inkling to his strict morals and reserved personality. Not often did he show outward affection to his wife or children, although he never denied them anything they might need. His sense of humor, however, was more in evidence when he was a younger man.

I remember watching him take a box of cough drops from his pocket and put one in his mouth. I was about four years old at the time. Looking up at him standing so far above me I asked wishfully. ‘May I have one, too, papa? “ Looking down at me he seemed to consider. “ Do you have a cold ?’, I nodded affirmatively. “ Show me how bad it is. “ I gave a weak cough. “ Oh, papa said, putting the box back in his pocket, “that ‘s not a bad cough. “ I coughed harder. “ Ho!” he said, “you can’t call that a cough.” Then, I coughed so hard I nearly toppled over. “ Oh, you do have a bad cold. You need a cough drop.” and he handed the whole box to me !

Being poor in cash money did not f or a moment mean ,we were anything but rich in our inheritance. Both sides of our family were proud people. Neither parent would accept anything they had not earned or paid for. To accept charity of any kind they considered an insult to their characters.

As one stepped out from the shed door on the south side of the house, as far as the eye could see were the lush green fields, dotted here and there with fruit trees, and the picturesque mountains in the back ground. Jest beyond the shed grew an apple tree with low hanging branches. Here we children played and fought and sometimes cried. Between the two plots of land grew a long line of grapevines. The center made an arch of which we used to use as a short cut to the farm.

On hot summer days we were allowed, the eldest in charge, to spend the day on Grandfather’s pastures. There, under a chestnut tree, we laid aside the lunch Mother had prepared for us. Removing our shoes and socks, we filed down to the cows’ drinking pool under the willow tree.        ( the brook being held back for this purpose.)  Here we splashed and waded to our hearts content, while the uncontrollable brook sped off, making terrible gurgling noises. Tiring at last, we returned to the hill and our lunch of cucumber sandwiches and home-made cookies. Nothing ever tasted as good! When we heard the tinkle of cow bells, we knew it was time to head home.

There were many such days that gave us the wonderful memories for later years.

Our town ,was a good twenty miles from the city. It required taking a trolley-car to reach it, the service running only on the hour. Hence, when we needed new clothing or household articles, Mother spent much time making out a catalog order to Chicago. Papa mailed the letter while on his milk delivery route. When the order reached the Post Office, a card was mailed to us informing Mother her order had arrived. Papa would then pick it up on his return on that day. Such excitement prevailed as he carried the box in and laid it on the table for Mother to examine!!

 Along with her own needs, she always ordered one thing for each of us.

I remember one time when the last package was opened, Mother held up a bright red cape with attached hood. I had never seen anything so pretty and reached out to take it. “ No,” said Mother tartly, “It’s for your sister.” I cried tearfully and, for spite, hid in the clothes closet. Eventually, I emerged to find my sister, having tried on the cape, found it was too small for her. It ‘was then proclaimed mine. Somehow, the nagging thought that it wasn’t really ordered for me, took some of the pleasure away.

My four sisters were now of school age. They walked the two miles, to and from each day to attend. This left me at home. I did not mind. I was a child who enjoyed her own company. Making mud-pies or following the magic of wheelbarrow tracks in the soft earth, or playing with my dolls under the apple tree, kept me happy all day long.

Each week day morning, after getting the children off to school, Mother enjoyed her one free hour, by having her morning coffee and toast,

while she read her current magazine. I remember the breakfast table and it’s long white tablecloth. While Mother was involved in her story reading, I’d pour myself a glass of creamy milk, of which we had plenty. What Mother did not notice was the tablespoon of sugar I added before crawling back to my hide-away under the tablecloth to drink this concoction.

One morning, I awoke to find a strange woman in our kitchen. Taking me by the arm, she pushed me toward the cereal she had spooned out for my breakfast. “ Where’s my Mama? “ I asked, backing off and glaring at her in unabashed disobedience. “ She’s in her bedroom,” she said sharply, “and you can’t see her!” Quick as a rabbit, I turned and ran for the stair way. She caught up with me half way and held me by the neck of my dress.  “ Let me go, t, I shrieked, “ Mama, Mama! “ I heard my Mother’s voice, soft and unhurried, “ Let her come up, nurse, to see her new baby brother, James Collester!” A son was finally born to carry on the family name.

With my sisters now entering “teen years” they no longer enjoyed children’s games we had been used to playing. I only remember a lawn-swing

appeared and was set up just outside the side door’s lawn area. Every spare moment, on holidays or sometimes in the twilight hours, all the girls made for the swing. I was usually seated on one or another's lap to make room. When, by pushing hard with their feet they had the swing going “full speed” they began their singing­ “harmonizing” they called it, and didn’t stop until they had sung every song they knew. I remember getting bored with this new game and jumping from the swing, set it jerking. All the voices called out loudly for Mother to punish me soundly for such action. Sticking out my tongue at them, I’d steal away to my own rope swing under the apple tree. Even then, I enjoyed my own company best.

One day, my parents heard bad news. Grandpa was selling the farm!  I remember standing alone in the tall grass, after passing through the arch, listening to the auctioneer’s monotonous voice. Of course, I was too young to realize the significance even though every piece of equipment was sold and removed.

I recall my first day of school. On our return, my elder sister pointed to a large farmhouse set back from the highway. A wire fence ran parallel to the road for a mile or so, covered with red rambler roses. “That’s to be our new home”, my sister said,  “Papa said so! “

And we did indeed leave the little green house to move to this ten room farmhouse which was included in Papa’s new position. We had enough room for everyone to have their own bedroom and enjoyed the novelty of a nice big bathroom, as well as electric lights and hot and cold water.

The last son, George, was born in this house before the family was complete.