Antiques are still a thriving business in our day. That which is old is bought up, repaired and proudly displayed in “modern” homes. At one time Jane and I frequented antique shops and from time to time purchased a piece or two. We still have a few of these, but most have been passed on to family or friends. What we cherish are those items which have more meaning to us.
Some of these hearken back to our families’ past. Mine is a dresser that belonged to my great-grandmother on Mom’s side, her paternal grandmother who lived in Iowa. It has handerchief drawers and a marble top, and is a beautiful old piece of furniture. I really cannot determine its age or even estimate if it has any special value other than to hold stuff. All I can remember of this ancestor of mine is a visit to a small house in a small town in eastern Iowa that we took when I was a pre-school kid.
One of Jane’s possessions from the past is a trunk which traveled from Sweden to America when her paternal great-grandfather immigrated to Minnesota in the 19thcentury. Painted on it is the word “Amerika”, as some Europeans designated this country. She also has her maternal great-grandfather’s captain’s chair, which sits on our front porch. Again, and monetary value is immaterial when placed against the sentiment it brings.
Another of my more valued “old” possessions is my grandfather’s .22 rifle. Its history is, in our family, storied. Granddad Fish bought it when he was a young man, and my mother learned to shoot with it. My first foray into gunplay was with this when Granddad took me rabbit hunting when I was barely a teenager. It has aged well, since the best we can date it is about 1910 or thereabouts.
Speaking of the past, The Prairie Pressregularly carries columns about events, places and people of the past. Roger Stanley and Alan Englebright write engaging tales that reek of times long ago and people who shaped who we are today.
What does this foray into the past have to do with this entry on the blog? Not much, but just musing about life in the past as we are now snowbound made me think of some of the times in years of yore with my family. And I have determined that the “good ol’ days” maybe weren’t so good, after all.
Come with me down memory lane as I revisit the past and examine how life was in the 40s and 50s for me. This will be random, so don’t expect any coherent theme.
There were three of us at home (until Steve came along as an afterthought) — my older brother, my younger sister and me. We usually had a four-door sedan and we three sat in the back seat while our parents occupied the front seat. This meant that we were scrunched together, with older brother at one window and younger sister at the other. You would be correct to assume that I was the scrunchee. Those cars were smaller, had no third row of seats, so long trips were not so pleasant times.
School was another matter that has changed radically. When we moved to Missouri in 1951 we went to a one-room country school. Stories of those temples of education are today couched in terms of pleasant memories, good friends and inspiring teachers. These stories are written by those who never attended one. Our school was called Affleck School, and normally housed about 18 students. My class had two students, one whom had the same first name as I, so the teacher unilaterally declared I would be known by my middle name, which I detested. If any people who knew me then were still alive, I would be greeted with a “Hi, Vern!”
This building was heated with a coal stove, which the teacher had to stoke each morning. When any of the other classes were being taught, the rest of us were required to shut up and do our homework. Also, the teacher was on a raised dais and was just a little below God in our pantheon. Ours was Miss Cleo, and she was the only teacher who ever struck me over my behavior; I was innocent, of course, but I had to pledge future earnings to my brother and sister to keep them quiet so my parents would not add years to my punishment.
Games played would be baseball, which were interesting unless a batted ball hit your face and knocked out two of your teeth. “Annie Over” and “Tag” were played with could include all kids, from first to eighth grade. However I flourished, as I became the valedictorian of my 8thgrade class. Of course, by that time, I was the only student in the 8thgrade.
We had to walk ¾ of a mile to school (although my older brother, I think trying to show how tough he had it, claims hewalked a mile!), and the only times we were driven were when it was pouring down rain, or snow was drifting the road closed. I do recall that Dad drove us to school more than once on his John Deere tractor, with my sister on his lap and the two of us guys just holding on behind.
Contrast that with today’s students, who are driven to school or ride a school bus which picks them up at their front door. If you ever go by Crestwood at the beginning or ending of the school day, it is a traffic jam as cars and pickups disgorge kids and pick them up. Central heating and air conditioning is the norm, games are played on a modern basketball floor, and the p. e. classes have various activities organized by the teachers. In the classroom, nearly all the students have some kind of computing device to help them with their studies. And pity the teacher who dares to raise a hand against a student, no matter how egregious the offense! They will be banished to Devil’s Island. So, tell me — in education, facilities and amenities, were they really the “good ol’ days?”
Our house was old, drafty and lacking some of the usual amenities. We had no running water, so one of our chores was to go to the pump out back and bring water into the kitchen. We had to make several trips on Saturday, for we three had to take our weekly baths on Saturday night. Eventually Dad dug a water line, hooked up the pump to a motor and we had water in the house. But we never got an indoor outhouse; ours was outside the back door, past the root cellar and back aways in the corner of the yard. It was a two seater, but probably was never used by two people at the same time.
Mom washed using an old wringer washer, and hung the clothers out dry on an outside line. Only when my parents did she get an automatic washer and dryer. She spent a bunch of time ironing our clothes, so part of her day was a never ending cycle of keeping her brood decently clothed. Speaking of clothes, one of the more embarrassing times in my life was when I was forced to wear hand-me-down clothes from my older brother. He usually got the new stuff, and I was forced to follow in his steps and in his clothes.
Our house was heated by a Warm Morning stove. For those of you not cognizant of the term, it was a pot-bellied, free-standing stove, with a pipe allowing the smoke to exit the room. It used coal and wood to burn, and sometimes the sides even show a burnished red color as it became hot. I used to get really aggravated when I was told by my mother (I think it was she) that I got warmed twice by this monstrosity; once when we cut down the trees and then when the stuff was burned. Speaking of getting the wood, Dad and my older brother got the pleasure of using the saw, while I had to clear the limbs and brush. This was part of my indoctrination into the world of division of labor; the lowest serf got the worst job.
Many kids these days maybe have seen an outhouse, but never had to use one on a daily basis. Hand-me-downs? Of course not, for most children are draped in new stuff, even if they are just 17 months younger than their older sibling. Enjoying central heating and air conditioning, lives for school kids today is Valhalla for them. They will never know the struggles of their grandparents in just surviving another day.
Many other memories of growing up poor in rural America could be used, but these make my point: none of us wish to go back to the good ol’ days, because they weren’t so good.