Magpie 96 - Christmas Memory

Photo Courtesy of Tess Kincaid

This photo immediately reminded me of my Mother, who had long, dark hair and always wore a headscarf.  It follows that thinking of her during this time of year would bring back childhood memories, so I have chosen to share one of those memories.

The memory is from Christmas when I was about four.  My Father was one of eleven children born to Sidney Smith Hummel and Eva Sophia Suzannah (Geist) Hummel.  At Christmas time all the children would come home to the four room cottage where their parents had completed their raising.  At this time there remained ten of the eleven children, having lost an infant brother from the family.  These ten children were all married except for three boys who were still living at home.  The others were accompanied by spouses and many, many children.  To say that the walls of the small home were bulging at the seams would be proper.  The older children were all encouraged to play outside in the snow while the adults congregated inside.  I remember a small enclosed porch where the icebox and storage area opened into the rectangular kitchen.  This was the largest room in the house and was filled in the center with a gigantic oak table.  At one end was a large cookstove with warming ovens and a hot water reservoir.  A teakettle was always kept warm on the side grate so that it could be heated quickly if needed.  A dry sink and open wood shelving ran down the inside wall to provide housing for all of Grandmother's cooking utensils.  I never recall seeing her anywhere in the house except in the kitchen. 

This particular year I had attained the magical age of four and was deemed old enough to be one of the children banished to the cold, snowy outdoors.  Bundled up and excited to be allowed to play with the big kids, I remember the excitement as I headed out to the porch and through the outside door.  A few feet from this door was the well complete with an ancient iron pump that provided all the water for the family.

In the beginning, I was pulled on the sled which was piled to capacity with all the children who could fit without falling off.  The snow was deep and icicles hung long and thick from the eves of the house.  The bigger boys pulled the sleds and looked after the younger kids.  My brother was one of the middle kids, four years older than me but not old enough to be considered one of the elder children.  He was a member of perhaps ten boys of like ages that comprised this in-between age group.  After my turn for the sled was over a group of these boys took me to the pump...sadly, my brother was one of this group. They all were laughing and telling me that I needed to prove how brave I was.  I needed to lick the pump handle and then I could be a part of their group and not be one of the babies.  Peer pressure is a strong influence.  I, of course, was going to show them how brave I was!  Now you must remember that teakettle that sat on the side of the cookstove...my screams resulted in the door flying open and my Father's shouts for my Mother to bring the kettle.  Yup, my tongue was stuck painfully to the pump handle.  Mama came through the door with the kettle of warm water in her hand.  She quietly soothed me as she poured water over my bleeding tongue to release it from the pump's hold.  I was crying, but I could hear my Father giving the boys a good talking to as Mama took me inside, a wiser four year old.

Magpie 94...

(Prompt Provided by Tess Kincaid)

Growing up in the Midwest during the period following WWII, I witnessed many people passing through our small town, people who were without the means to feed or care for themselves.  My Grandmother (my Mother's Mother) operated a small cafe and she would hand food out the back door to those who climbed the stairs to ask.  My Father said the hobos, as they were referred to at that time, placed a mark on the businesses and residences that would provide help.  I don't know if this was true, but they did come and they were always fed even though my Grandmother herself lived in a single room that she rented in a boarding house and had little herself. 

Our family had little but my Father's job and he worked hard to make certain that he kept it.  He had been born to a wealthy farming family, the third oldest of eleven children.  During the Great Depression his Father mortgaged his farms to acquire more land.  In the end he lost everything.  The family was set out of their home in the middle of a ferocious Iowa winter.  They were allowed a wagon, a few pieces of necessary furniture, a team of horses and because there was a newborn baby, a milk cow.  My Father related the story to me throughout my growing up years so I know the facts by heart.  Even so, I still cry as I think about the suffering of not only this family but of the hordes of people who faced the same desolation.  The family boarded up an old abandoned shack nearby the river and moved the family of thirteen into two rooms.  The baby, Ezra, caught pneumonia and my Father told of his Mother rocking the baby all night long trying to keep him alive.  Sadly, he did not survive and is buried in the Riverton, Iowa cemetery with a small marker made by his brother out of rocks.  

The oldest son left home and my Father was taken out of school in his seventh year so he could support the family.  He was also the one who had to walk the fourteen miles roundtrip to pick up what was called 'commodities' back then.  This consisted of beans, rice, cheese, whatever the government had available to help people survive.  The embarrassment of having to accept assistance lived in my Father to his dying day.  He raised his children, myself and my brother, to work hard and never accept anything we did not earn.  I must say those lessons were profound and I have lived my life trying my best to live as he had wished.  He worked at whatever jobs could be found, chopping ice from the Missouri River and transporting it many miles by horse-drawn wagon to the ice house was one such job.  My youngest son still has the heavy iron ice tongs he used to lift and move the blocks of ice.  When he finally  acquired a job as an equipment operator for Fremont County Iowa, he worked twice as hard as anyone else and in 57 years of employment never missed a day of work.  At the time of his retirement he had finally acquired a monthly salary of $1,000.  

I have been blessed to have been born into a loving family who taught me strong values and responsibility.  I have lived through the cold war and watched as our Nation changed from one that would sacrifice for it's fellow man into one of greed and corruption.  It seems appropriate that we now have morphed back into a Nation of people who need jobs and assistance.  I only hope that the people of today are made of strong enough stock to endure the hardships of today and tomorrow.

GOD BLESS US ALL.

Original work of C Hummel Kornell.

Family

As the Holidays draw nearer, I can't help but remember the days of my childhood. Growing up in Iowa was wonderful through the eyes of a little girl. Our family was poor but my brother and I were fed, kept warm and loved (unconditionally by our Mother). I remember wearing hand-me-downs as I grew up. Not a bad thing, except I only had one sibling, a brother who was four years older than me. Like all little girls I idolized him, something that remains in my heart even today. He was always patient and tolerant of me even though many of the other older children of the neighborhood (mostly boys) were not. He was my protector. Although there wasn't much in the way of activities we found great adventures in our neighborhood. Our Dad had built us a swing in a tree in the front yard and summers were spent sharing it with the neighborhood. Winters were a bit more challenging. The winter storms back then seemed to be more severe than they do today. Staying warm was a full-time job. Our baths were taken in a round galvanized tub by the stove in the living room. Funny what memories remain with you as you grow older.

Christmas was not a luxory our family could afford. We knew the story of Mary and Baby Jesus and understood it was His birthday that was celebrated at Christmas. It wasn't until I started kindergarten and the other children shared their stories of their Christmas celebrations with me that I began to comprehend the meaning of being poor. I was in the first grade when my brother took matters into his own hands. He would have been 9 or 10 at the time. He insisted that there be a Christmas tree that year. I remember going into the country with him and Dad and cutting a small tree. Anyone who is not from Iowa may not appreciate the meaning of that. The evergreen trees that grow there are not like the ones in the Northwest. They are nothing but stickers! If you get near them you have these stickers attached painfully to you. No matter, Dad cut the tree and he and my brother pulled it through the snow to the car where it was loaded and taken home. That is the first Christmas we observed. I remember the gifts of a coloring book and crayons (The Cisco Kid & Poncho) and a small plastic bank shaped like the spaceship of Flash Gordon. Television was just becoming popular and these were the popular shows of the times. I'm sure our parents had a difficult time providing these gifts for us and I still love my brother for his efforts to see that his baby sister had Christmas.

I suppose in times such as our country is facing now many of us can reflect back on more difficult times. It seems to me that as long as you have family and friends you will always be rich. I grew out of poverty and have lived what is considered a prosperous life. It's still these growing up years that I recall the most vividly. I doubt that I could ever possess anything more valuable than the love (of parents and especially my brother) that saw me through those years of my growing up.