V1923-03PS

The World Beyond Our Home, 1925-1930

Activities beyond the confines of our yard beckoned me to explore. I was gradually given permission to be out of sight and beyond earshot for extended periods of time.

The Mill: Behind our home was The Mill. Actually it was a combination grain elevator and flour mill named The Oberlin Rolling Mill . This imposing wooden structure, the tallest in town, was covered with corrugated sheet metal. The large base became smaller at higher levels and terminated with a room at the top called the Cupola.

Grain elevators such as this stood like silent sentinels at every siding along the railroads spanning the prairies. It seemed as if the homesteaders had planted them at each settlement along the tracks and they had now grown to full maturity. They could be seen for miles. We didn't know it then but the life span of these wooden Elevators/Mills was coming to an end. Technological changes were constantly at work making obsolete their wood structure, flat belt machinery drives and primitive gasoline engine power plants. Today few of these structures are left and soon there will be few with an intimate acquaintance with the men and their ways of working them. We were fortunate as ours was a Flour Mill in addition to Elevator to lift/store wheat for storage and shipment.

Mill 1920 view from ditch of mill burning down people on bridge across ditch when mill burned

Much later did I realize why the Banta’s let me wander about the mill as if one of the family. The Mill was owned by H.Q. Banta who’s wife was my Sunday school teacher – and they knew, though I did not know then, that my Grandfather had been manager of the Oberlin Coop Elevator. When in high school I went to work for them in their rebuilt elevator.

As a little Kid I was attracted by sounds of men yelling and would look up to see a team and wagon with driver standing as they emerged from a huge doorway having just unloaded their burden of wheat. He'd swing around the mill to a set of scales by the office on the other side. Later seeing movies of chariot drivers I was reminded of this view of animals accelerating an empty wagon, wheels throwing dirt in a turn and the driver maintaining balance on the lurching wagon while absorbing jolts with bent knees. Such dynamic activity whetted my curiosity. The sweating team behaved like colts aware their burden had been removed, the wagon & driver were like playthings trailing behind.

Whenever I'd see men working outside I'd go and watch. I'd keep out of their way, be helpful if I could and ask few but what to me were important questions. Little by little I was permitted to penetrate the cavernous interior. I was unaware at the time but was informed years later by the owner that I was the only one of the neighborhood kids they allowed to roam about inside. My recollections of this mill were prior to my being 7 years old. At that time I was completely unaware my Grandfather had been manager of the Coop Elevator on the east side of Main Street, that my Uncle Wayne ran the Elevator in Kanona & that Dad had served his tour of duty shoveling and lifting in an elevator. Much later I was to learn to scoop & lift for long hours per day.

The function of a grain elevator operation was to buy farmers wheat, unload and store it and later load it into freight cars for shipment. Wagons or trucks of grain were first driven on a scale, weighed and the grain sampled. Grain was tested for moisture content and to see if it was free of weeds. Teams then pulled the loaded wagons up an incline into a driveway through the elevator. The heavy plank floor of the driveway was supported by large beams over a concrete pit. The pit had a cone shaped bottom that sloped to one side.

The front wheels of the wagon were pulled onto a lift at the far end of the drive. A steel rim came up out of the floor first, then the rim & floor under the wheels lifted the front end of the wagon to a steep slope. I thought it was slick the way the rim came up so the wheels wouldn't roll off when lifted. At the back end of the wagon was a metal grating over the pit under the floor. The workmen removed the tailgate and the wheat poured out of the wagon and fell through the grating to the pit below. The empty wagon was driven back and weighed. Wheat was priced by the bushel and a bushel weighed 60 lb.

Rather than drive an empty wagon home farmers would often back up to a loading dock to take on sacks of ground feed or flour. The loading dock was level but the height from dock to ground sloped. This simple arrangement permitted placing the bed of a short or tall wagon at dock level so workmen could easily roll loaded two wheeled carts out onto the wagon.

These things I could see but I couldn't determine what happened to the wheat after it fell through the grate. I was most curious. The operator would push a button and sounds would start. The sounds emitted from a hollow wood column on the side of the driveway. The operator would then go to an iron rod and wood wedge poking out of the floor. He'd remove the wedge, lift the rod and re-wedge it in place. The mechanics of the wedge holding the rod were obvious even to a small child. Once the path was opened one could hear sounds of grain falling inside the hollow wood column. The operator would go over to the column, lift a sliding door in its side and look in. When he wasn't too busy I asked him what was inside. He shut down the machinery and lifted me up so I could look. There was a big flat belt that ran from way down below to way up to the top of the elevator. Metal buckets were bolted onto the belt. It was like a vertical waterwheel that scooped wheat up in the buckets as they came by the funneled outlet of the pit. These carried the wheat to the top dumping it out as the buckets turned upside down for the descent back to the bottom. The housing about the belt with buckets was called the Boot. I was told the belt was driven by an electric motor at the top. He also removed the grating and showed me with the beam of a flashlight that the rod he'd adjusted extended from floor level to the outlet of the pits funnel. The rod connected to a flat plate. This plate metered the flow of grain into the buckets. If the buckets were allowed to become too full the belt would become too heavy, slip and the whole works clog. He explained that you listened to the sound to detect if it was over loading. If it clogged they had to shut off the motor and shovel the excess wheat out of the bottom by hand in cramped quarters. It's also true that a stalled belt on a spinning pulley becomes hot. I began to understand why this part of the structure was called The Elevator.

There were always sounds from the Mill Across the street: Max Miller, Me, ? Mildred Miller, ?,?

It was some time before I was permitted to go to the top to see what happened to the wheat after it was elevated. From near the top one could look into the storage bins. The main part of this structure was a honey comb of vertical square bins. The walls of the bins were 2x4's laid flat, like long bricks and nailed to each other. They alternately overlapped at corners. Three-quarter-inch iron rods were placed in an # pattern at 6 foot level intervals from the bottom to top of each bin. These held the sides together. This way any bin could be filled or emptied without collapsing a wall. It was a fearful sight to look all the way down to the bottom of an empty bin. I could see that the bottoms of the bins were also sloped and like the pit, their outlets could be spilled into the elevators buckets.

The big electric motor at the top had a small flat pulley which was connected by a belt to a large diameter wood pulley that turned a heavy shaft. The belt with its buckets draped over a large iron pulley on this shaft. Big bearings supported the shaft and the weight of the long column of buckets filled with wheat. The motor was never intentionally shut off with the buckets full because the weight would run it backwards and clog itself to a halt. Such undesirable incidents caused a scurry of activity and burst of explosive language devoid of mirth. I learned to keep out of the way till tempers mellowed.

Wheat was delivered to a selected bin via a rotate-able spout. Wheat from the buckets spilled into the spouts funnel and the spout extended to one side. The spout was aimed like a pointer to spill into one of a circle of troughs that dumped into each bin. This rotate-able spout was connected by a very long iron pipe to a large wheel and pointer at ground level. The operator at ground level would turn this wheel above his head to set the spout clear up at the top where he wanted the wheat to go. In addition to circulating grain from one bin to another he could throw a lever and spill wheat into a truck in the drive or drop wheat the height of the elevator into a freight car.

Filling freight cars made noise. Enclosed box cars had outside sliding doors covering the open center on each side. The side wall openings were covered with rough cut heavy wood plank sections to within three or four feet of the top and sealed with sheets of heavy paper on the inside. Wheat tends to flow like water and could empty through a small hole on a bumpy train ride. The sides of a pile of wheat tend to slope at a 60 degree angle and the men made use of gravity when possible to move wheat.

A long flexible metal spout hung from the rail side of the elevator. This spout was inserted into the box car opening and tied in place. The wheat to be shipped was elevated to the top and dumped into a small bin suspended from a set of scales. When filled to a given weight the scale dumped and wheat plunged downward gaining velocity. One could hear the periodic avalanche of grain and see the flexible pipe stiffen as it ejected a new load like a shot from its nozzle. The wheat lofted like water form a hose into the far end of the box car. A skilled operator could thus fill a car with a minimum of scooping to finish out the load in the far corners.

It was very difficult for the men to move a loaded box car. They tried to time their activity to when the Big Railroad Steam Engine could shift the cars for them.

When they did have to move a car by hand they used a big pinch bar. It was a special kind of crow bar with a metal end they'd fit between the rail and wheel and a long round wood beam end from which they'd suspend their weight. The metal end had a mechanism that pushed upward on the back under face of the wheel and downward on the rail when they applied their weight. Motion was barely perceptible at first. As they'd slowly achieve motion they'd quickly catch another bite and continue this gut straining process to keep the car moving. I'd grunt in support of their obvious physical strain and marveled at how they could move a car so heavy it bent the rails and solid wood ties as its weight creped forward.

The milling part of the business consisted of grinding and sacking grain. Different types of grain were processed from coarse to fine and sacked as a pure grain or as mixes. The dominant product was white wheat flour.

Cleaned wheat fed from overhead bins into large machines called Roller Mills. One could look through windows to see grain pass between large metal rollers with diagonally grooved faces. The grain proceeded from one machine to another with finer grooves and closer spaced rollers as it changed from cracked wheat to fine flour. Between machines the grain was lifted to the floor above and passed through tumbling wire screen drums of differing size mesh.

Bran was separated and stored in Gunny Sacks, Burlap Bags. Flour was stored in high quality cotton sacks. Specialty products as corn meal, whole wheat and Graham flour was packaged in paper bags. Mother used Graham flour for making my pancakes. Perhaps this is why pancakes from regular flour seem anemic in texture to me.

Products were packaged under the trade name Morning Glory and identified by an artistically appealing picture of a blue Morning Glory. About 95% of all Mill products were stored in 100 lb. sacks. Sacks were stored in a separate building to the north. An elevated planked walkway connected this building to the mill. From our yard I watched men in flour whitened denim coveralls cart stacks of sacks across and a bit later wheel the empty cart back. I wondered what they did with the sacks.

When old enough to follow the men I found that laths were placed between layers of alternately crossed sacks. They could thus be stacked to high levels and not topple over. This building was sealed from weather and rodents.

Sacking was done on the main floor. Flour came out of a vertical wood spout with a sliding board gate. The back edge of a sack was hooked on the shoulders of a board on the back of the spout. The sack was held up by the back shoulder board and pulled opened to be filled with one hand while the gate was operated with the other hand. Flour dust would swirl up and cling to a mans eyebrows and lashes.

A filled sack was slid onto a nearby scale and weighed. Flour was added or removed as required and the sack sewed. All sewing was by hand with a three inch long triangular bladed needle. Needles were kept on a magnet and a large spool of cotton string on a peg. The man pulled a piece of string with one hand and cut it with a swipe of the triangular needle blade. With another motion he'd thread the needle which had an open place in the side of the eye. I couldn't understand why mother didn't use this type of needle which would cut and thread with a sweep of ones arm.

The man would run the string through one corner of the sack and form an ear by throwing two loops over the material and yank the string tight like a noose at the base of the ear. He'd then draw the material together at the top by pulling the other corner of the sack with his left hand and make rapid diagonal sweeps with his right, stitching and drawing the top together. An ear was formed at the other end and the string cut with a final sweep of the needle blade. In my minds eye I became as skilled as they. Years later I would emulate their skills by doing as they had done.

The scoops used when weighing and topping off the sacks were unique. The scoop part of these was round like half of a piece of pipe with the front end tapered at 45 deg angle. The back end was plugged with a wood board. The handle instead of poking back of the wood plug extended forward above the scoop opening. The handle fastened to the back plug and via straps to the front sides. These scoops balanced nicely in ones hand when full or empty and the handle couldn't snag on a sack. Such scoops were also used in grocery stores. At that time many products as navy beans, nuts and coffee were shipped in barrels then sacked and weighed by the grocer in amounts requested by a customer. I haven't seen such scoops since the advent of automated packaging.

After a sack was sewed the man grabbed it by its ears and with a lift with his arms and a boost from a knee place them horizontal, stacked eight high on a cart. The carts were two wheeled heavy dollies that stood upright and tilted back slightly. Long oak handles curved back at the top and were counterbalanced by a heavy metal nose piece in front of the wheels. The nose piece was smooth and wedge shaped so it could be shoved under a sack without tearing. To move the load the man placed one foot on the axle, pulled back on the handles and balanced the 800 lb. load as he pushed it along.

The interior of the mill had a dusty haze during working hours and a distinct but pleasant smell. Everything was covered with grain dust. Anything relatively clean had been recently used or repaired. Floors and handling equipment were polished smooth from sliding sacks and grain. I didn't have to worry about getting splinters in my hands or bare feet.

The mills machinery was driven via flat belts from line shafting mounted to the ceiling of the main floor. Power was provided by a large single piston gasoline engine. The large piston stroked horizontally and the engine body rested on a high concrete platform. This platform provided clearance for two huge flywheels one on each side fastened to the engines crankshaft. These flywheels were about 7 feet in diameter with four huge spokes from hub to a thick 12 inch wide flat outer face. Us kids had played on an abandoned pair of these and had often wondered what they were for. I was surprised the first time I saw those huge wheels fastened to the engine and asked the men what they were for. The men said that they were Fly Wheels & made the engine and equipment run smooth. They said it was hard to get them up to speed but once turning they were hard to stop. They said they kept things turning till the engines big piston could push again. I readily understood their explanation. I could see how hard it was to start and later stop a box car because it was so big. I don't recall them using the terms inertia or momentum but the idea of deliberately using something heavy in this way was credible and intriguing.

The engine delivered its power via a flat belt from a small pulley on the outside of one of the flywheels to a large pulley on the end of the plant line shafting. The belt was removed when starting the engine. The men turned the large flywheels by hand to stroke the engine and prime it with gasoline. Then they'd turn on the ignition and several of the men would pull hard on the rim of the big wheels to keep them rotating till the piston would fire and take over the burden. The process was often repeated as the engine was not easy to start, the men would become aggravated and frustrated. The location was cramped and the engine took on the personality of a contrary mule. It would wheeze and cough as it sucked in air and regurgitated the rich gasoline mixture until finally if fired & sent smoke up the exhaust in desperate puffs trying to turn the near stalled flywheels. I didn't understand all the details but I'd be as delighted as they when the engine kept firing and the huge flywheels came up to speed. The sound of the engine smoothing out was like music playing all's well that ends well. The drive belt, removed for starting, was reinstalled by connecting it to the engine first and then on the large line shaft pulley. The men handled the last step gingerly as it could be dangerous when the belt caught and things almost instantly came up to speed.

This equipment room was a shed annex with a concrete floor. The floor was used as a place to mix chicken feeds. Sacks of various cracked grains were dumped in a pile on the floor and mixed with scoop shovels. Included in a batch was salt, fish or cotton seed oil, crushed seashells for calcium, etc. The mixture was then sacked and stacked. This was the beginnings of what later evolved into formulated special feeds. Eventually the livestock feed business out grew the flour business.

One day I found that the large electric motor at the top of the elevator had burned out. The men had to lower it down flights of stairs inside the mill. They used rope block and tackle and had to transfer from one set of ropes to another in working down from one stairway ramp to another. I recall hurrying home to eat so I could get back & to help them and not miss out on how they did it. I never thought in terms of going out to play, only to go out to help which was my word to watch. I began using the word as a means of avoiding having to take a nap. Having to go Play didn't carry the weight of having to go Help as a reason for not having time for a nap.

At times when two or more men were working on a task and the others leave to get something the remaining one would sometimes find himself talking with me rather than to himself on what to do next. This prompted me to also be trying to figure out what to do next. I never really thought of myself as a child, I was simply not big enough to do what they could do. But I'm sure they felt ridiculous at times when they found themselves unwittingly engaged in a discussion on what to do next with a child. I was highly flattered when they would consider the merit of my comment or take time to explain why it wouldn't work. It was a fantastic learning experience.

It was always a big event to climb to the top of the elevator and look out the cupola window to the country side and the people below. I remember calling to and waving at R B Vernon our neighbor. He was a large man but looked so small way down below.

The mill was owned and operated by H.Q. Banta. His son Howard worked there at the time and later graduated from milling school at Kansas State College in Manhattan, Kansas. Mrs. Banta, H.Q.'s wife, was Superintendent of our Sunday School. H.Q. was a good business man with an outgoing likable personality. He also practiced his religion and refrained from smoking, drinking or swearing, at least so far as I knew.

The men who worked at the mill smoked roll your own cigarettes or pipes. Edgeworth tobacco was their favorite and was perhaps the first word I knew how to spell as I'd study the name on empty tobacco cans. They also chewed Copenhagen snuff. I found that they used the office for shooting craps after hours and would liven the occasion by nipping from a bottle retrieved from a sack of grain. At first such get togethers were hidden from me but later they'd let me hang around till it was my going home time. I knew such a get together was pending when one of them would send me for a sack of candy late in the afternoon. My main interest in staying was to get a few pieces of candy. I remember well the kind of candy they always wanted. Its still a common bulk variety having a tan non smearing outer coating. Mice and cats were inhabitants of grain elevators but the saying "When the cats away the mice will play" always reminded me of those men laughing, joking and shooting craps after the boss had gone home. The language and lessons were certainly different from what I was taught in Sunday school. I liked the men and kept these special activities to myself though nothing was ever said that I should.

The Vernons: The R B Vernons were our next door neighbors to the north. Mrs Vernon often helped mother in time of need and their daughter Nola would baby-sit me.

They had a toy brass monkey named Jocko I was permitted to play with. Jocko held a brass ball in one hand like a baseball player and was left out one cold winter night. The next morning Dad and RB were visiting about how cold it had been. I couldn't fathom what was so humorous about being so cold it froze the balls on the brass monkey. I couldn't under how Jocko's brass ball could freeze. They preferred to drop the subject when I said I didn't understand what was funny, normally they were every patient and helpful with explanations.

The Vernon's had a player piano in their home. There were two sliding doors where one normally placed sheet music. When these were slid apart they revealed a scroll of paper with holes in it. Brass levers behind the keyboard controlled the movement of the paper over a beam with a slot. Air was sucked into the slot when the player pumped two foot peddles below the keyboard to power the piano. As the player pumped and the paper swept across the beam the piano keys played with gusto. It was exciting to watch the key's move up and down all over the keyboard, see the padded hammers strike the strings, and listen to a variety of sounds emitted. With such a machine one didn't have to learn how to play a piano. Years later when trying to describe an electronic Read Only Memory etched on a quarter inch square chip of silicon, I said it was simply a micro miniature form of player piano music that advanced one row at a time instructing what played or did not play at a given instant. Unfortunately those I was trying to communicate with were of a post player piano generation and the description didn't play.

The Vernons moved and before the Wickhams moved in the interior of the house was remodeled. I watched the workmen mix plaster in a low wide tub curved up at each end. They used large hoes with two holes in the blades. The first batches were brownish and later batches whiter. Some batches included what looked like strands of horse hair to help bind it together. At the end of a day the workmen dumped lime in a large metal drum and filled it with water. By the next morning it would be set up like pudding they called slack. The men dipped into this paste and mixed it with fine sand to make the plaster. Some 40 years later when building onto our home and needing to plaster I'd concentrate trying to recall every detail of how they had prepared and plastered those walls. I had to relearn but that's a later story.

The McMullens: The McMullens lived further north on Buffalo street. Mr. McMullen painted houses and I'd stop and watch him prepare his buckets of paint. He had white paint and linseed oil in five gallon cans in his garage. He'd mix them in a bucket with a wooden paddle and then pour them in a five gallon can with a lid. Then he'd load paint, brushes and ladder onto his car and drive off to paint.

They had a concrete driveway between the garage and street. The driveway was only two strips of concrete each only wide enough for one wheel to roll on. Even so it was a luxury and had an affluent appearance especially after a rain when dirt driveways were muddy ruts.

One day Mr. McMullen caught a rat in a wire cage he called a Rat Trap. I'd seen mice mother had caught in spring Mouse Traps but they had always been dead. This rat was very much alive. The wire cage had a funnel shaped entry through which the rat could enter but not get out. I've never seen such a cage since. When I arrived he was filling a galvanized wash tub with water. When I asked what for he said it was to drown the rat and proceeded to put the cage with rat in the tub. I watched as the rat swam in the submerged cage. It seemed to try and breath more and more water before laying down to sleep, no longer trying to breathe. As I walked away I wondered if it knew it was going to drown and if it hurt. It didn't seem like it did, on the other hand it kept trying to escape from the cage. I forgot it for the moment but the image remained.

The Blickenstaffs: The Blickenstaffs lived on the northwest corner or the intersection of Buffalo Ave. & Hall St. to the north of us. Grandmother Bobbitt lived a block west of them. The two Blickenstaff girls, one married and one still at home and the three Bobbitt girls had been chums as they grew to adulthood. I became acquainted with Grace the youngest of the Blickenstaff girls. She'd say hello and we'd visit when she'd see me go by on my way to and from Grandmas.

Max in Grandma’s tire swing Me sitting Darrell, Max, Grandma, Hazel at Max's west of Grandma’s

One day Grace asked Mom if it would be all right if I came to visit her and stay for dinner(lunch). Mother had me bath, put on clean clothes and instructed me to mind my manners. I believe it was the first time I'd ever dined at someone’s home other than family. I was very proper and on my best behavior. Grace was equally desirous of leaving a good impression. She was perhaps 20 and I was about 4, neither of us knew quite how to behave toward the other. She drank coffee and she let me drink milk from a coffee cup. She had prepared soft boiled eggs and placed them in a little egg holder. I'd never seen such holders before and didn't know how to prepare the egg and use the holder. She was gracious enough to show me how by doing hers first and letting me follow her example. She let me do my own as if I too were a grown up.

Grandma’s Swing:

The swing at Grandma’s was made of an early model car tire – the rubber had turned hard as a rock. It was at least 21” in diameter and had an unusual tire tread. It didn’t look damaged, perhaps the car gave out first and it wouldn’t fit on newer wheels.

The Park: When the town was first laid out the street in front of Grandmothers home was the main east west road through town. By the time I arrived the highway had been rerouted along the north edge of town. The second house to the west of grandmothers bordered on the east edge of the original City Park. The east half of this park had Boxelder trees and the west half Cottonwood trees. A building with rest rooms was in the center. The trees were full grown and constituted a forest, a terrific playground for us kids. To us kids it was our private domain and except for occasional campers it was. Our systems became charged with adrenaline as we played hide and seek in the tall grass and under-kept Boxelder trees.

My cousin Max taught me how to make a whistle from a 3/8 inch diameter green boxelder branch. A four inch long piece was cut and the bark gently pounded with the handle of a knife until it would slip off the inner piece of wood. The inner piece was then cut for an air passage and reinserted in the bark and a final notch cut in the side 1/4 inch from the mouth end for an outside air port. Fancier versions were made with finger ports or an internal sliding end piece. We'd use these whistles to call or signal each other. We worked out coded whistles to signal each other when one bunch stalked one another.

We used trash can lids for shields during battles and bent the handles so they'd fit our forearm. We made swords by whittling pieces of lath and nailing on hand protector cross pieces. These battles tested our courage and agility. They also led to the use of BB guns but woe be the kid that missed the shield. Even so if it hit the lid opposite ones arm it stung. We finally decided, of our own volition, that we'd better not use BB guns because some kid might get hit in the eye. In retrospect it seems like unusual restraint for rambunctious excitable kids.

Circuses: A lot across the street to the south of Grandmothers was the site of circuses each summer. My Grandmother always referred to the site as the old Chautauqua Park where people had gathered in covered wagons then cars each year for a several day social get together. She had fond memories of such occasions.

Circus at the Chautauqua Park 8 years prior

Some came in those new horseless carriage’s

A big circus arrived by train and its cars were strung along the spur to the south of our home. I was all eyes and ears watching the men work elephants to lift tents. Three or four men with iron rimmed mallets would chant a rhythm and alternately swing their mallets down to drive large stakes which anchored tent ropes. Lions, tigers and other such animals didn't hold my fascination the way elephants did. I marveled at every aspect of the huge, intelligent, agile creatures.

This circus was the biggest I've ever seen. In fact it spoiled me for what followed as the era of the traveling circus faded into history. There were three large rings in the main tent with trapeze artists, jugglers, animal acts, clowns, etc. There were also a number of side shows.

The circus performed for a week and each day before the start they would parade up and down the main street. I became engrossed with a large organ like contraption on wheels called the calliope and indeed it emitted a calliope of sounds. I've since wondered about the origin of the word - the sounds or the contraption - its a bit like which came first the chicken or the egg.

The people in the circus lived on the train. One night one of the circus women began to sing as she walked home from the circus grounds. It was a clear pleasant night and as she sang all beings became quiet so they could hear her beautiful melodious voice. I had gone to bed but was not asleep. Mother stopped what she was doing and commented "what a beautiful voice - what an unusual talent". The singing woman sounded happy yet lonely. She seemed to be singing to the stars oblivious to the rest of the world.

Milk: Mother would send me to Grandma Browns to get milk. I never knew why everyone called her Grandma Brown and not Mrs. Brown. To me, barely old enough to run the errand, it seemed natural that she was named Brown because they had a brown Jersey cow. Mother would put some money in a clean gallon can with a lid and wire handle and I'd walk down the track to the west and cross the drainage ditch to the south to the Brown's house. Mr. and Mrs. Brown were both quite elderly but in good health and very pleasant people. Their home was clean but Spartan. The cow had a halter on her head and would be led out at the end of a rope each day by Mr. Brown who tied the rope to a stake. The stake was moved as required to extend her range to new grass. Each evening he'd lead her back to the house and milk her before dusk. When I'd arrive I'd knock on their back porch screen door. Grandma Brown would come and visit as she'd fill our can with fresh milk. The milk was kept in a large pail with a clean piece of flour sack cloth over the top as a cover. She'd remove this cover and stretch another clean cloth across the lip of the pail and strain the milk as it poured into our can. She was quite meticulous because she wanted to make sure the milk she gave us was clean. Refrigeration was not available and milk was used while still fresh. Pasteurization was not practiced, other than as natural benefit from cooking food. This is how it had been done for generations. Unfortunately these methods had contributed to high infant death rates.

I could never understand when they said Browns cow was no longer fresh, or that in a month she would come fresh again. That's another topic gown ups would drift away from. I thought the milk their cow gave was always fresh, not fresh would be sour which it never was. Sometimes she quit giving milk at which time she was not fresh yet not sour, it was very confusing.

Apples: Bobby Sawdon lived a block to the west of us on the north side where the railroad spur ended. He was older than I but we were playmates. We had played in our sand pile, climbed trees and eaten some cherries from our tree and decided to go play at his house. They had an apple tree. It was about mid afternoon when we perched like a pair of monkeys in their tree and sampled the apples. They were quite firm, of modest size and had a tarty taste. In fact they were quite green. I didn't like them at first because they weren't sweet like Moms apples. However, the more we ate the more palatable the sharp sour taste became. After a while Bobby said he didn't want to eat any more green apples but by then I'd acquired a taste for their tarty juice and proceeded to eat and eat.

I became aware that I was quite full, in fact it was more than just full, I didn't feel like playing any more. I said goodbye to Bobby and walked home puzzling over the fact that I kept feeling worse. I called to Mom as I came around the north side of the house to the back door. She came out the back door and found me near the back corner of the house bent over but still standing. I told her "my tummy aches something awful" and doubled over some more holding my stomach with my hands. Mom kept asking me to tell her what I'd been doing, where had I been, had I eaten anything. Between groans I managed to say "well, Bobby and I did have a few apples from their tree". Mom asked "were they green?" I managed a nod and she ran inside to call Dr. Reeves and Dad.

When Mom returned I was doubled up on the ground and was in real pain. It felt like my insides would split open. It hurt too much to cry. By the time Dad and Dr. Reeves arrived Mom had me up and into the house. I was put in the folks bed in the front bedroom. Dr. Reeves asked about the apples, how many I'd eaten and felt my stomach. Then turning to my folks he said he should be all right now except for a sore gut, but that he'd give me a pill since he was there. I'd never taken a pill before and was a little leery of swallowing anything with my stomach so sore. After slobbering it around in my mouth a while I spit it out. I'd worn away the sugar coating and it became bitter. After the effect of those bitter apples I decided I didn't want to swallow a bitter pill. Mom, Dad, the Dr and I had quite a struggle trying to get me to swallow that pill. Finally Dr Reeves said that if I was spunky enough to fight taking the pill I wasn't sick enough to need it. He also told them they'd better teach me how to swallow a pill because there was no sense going through this again when I really needed one.

Mom and Dad scolded me for fighting and not swallowing the pill. I heard them and realized I'd been a bit of a brat but mostly I remembered what the Dr. said about learning how to swallow a pill. It seemed like something I should learn and soon did, first with water and then without.

Leave Home: By age 4 1/2 I'd developed to the point of feeling self sufficient and capable of making my own decisions. I had reached the phase that all children experience, a rebellious clash with parental direction and discipline. I decided to leave home.

The triggering event happened about 10:00 a.m. It was a confrontation with Mother and in the ensuing debate I responded ".......then I'll just leave home!" My parents were not overly dictatorial or restrictive. They did demand obedience and respect. I did respect and love them and felt a genuine sense of obedience. By leaving home I could still love and respect them but not have to obey. I could stay up late, play with other kids as long as I wanted and eat as much candy as I could hold. The fact that the heated debate was permitted indicated tolerant parents.

Mother did not react to my pronouncement. I'm sure that she and her peers had discussed how they'd handled such flare ups of fledgling independence, perhaps she reflected on her own first desires to break free from the nest. However, this was her first initiation to this parental experience and wanted to handle it properly. She asked what I intended to do for food and clothes and where I'd go. As my response had been a spur of the moment reaction and I hadn't thought that far ahead, I said I'd earn my own money and take my savings with me till I could get a job. I'd seen cartoons of hobo's with their possessions tied in a large bandanna and carried at the end of a stick over their shoulder. Mother helped me tie some possessions in a large handkerchief and change to some clean warm clothes. Her help violated my sense of independence and although she offered to pack a lunch I declined. After all I'd claimed my independence and pride held me to my commitment although each moment I became more aware of some practical problems. I waved goodbye and headed north on the side walk along our front street.

I began to wonder where to go. When I came to the first intersection I decided to head toward town rather than toward my Grandmothers. I had already decided that I needed to go beyond where my mother could see before I stopped to figure out what to do next. I proceeded to the next intersection to the east and sat down on the curb.

I took out my savings bank. It was a brass bank in the form of a House. The underside had a door which unlocked with a key and had a slot for inserting coins. There was a label on the house saying Reserve Bldg and Loan, this was where my father worked. I couldn't get the money out without a key unless I broke the little house. I was fond of the house as I'd played with it as a toy and if I went to get the people to open it with a key my Dad would know of my leaving and take me home. It didn't occur to me that Mom had probably already called him and they or their friends probably knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. I began to be more concerned about how much money was in the little bank.

It sounded about 1/3 full and I knew it was almost all pennies. For the first time I began to wonder how much things cost. I tried to take mental inventory on how many pennies the bank contained. I tried to figure out how many stacks of five, one for each finger on a hand, they would make. Then I wondered how much candy that would buy. I had made purchases of 1 cent and 5 cents worth of candy which gave me a standard of reference. I decided on getting some long 1 cent licorice pieces. They could be carried in my sack and wouldn't melt like chocolate or spoil. I began trying to figure out how long this would last as food. I was becoming mentally tired from trying to think these things out so I just lumped an estimate that it wouldn't last long and that I'd need a job soon.

A man came walking by on his way home for dinner(lunch). He wanted to know if I was all right. I stood up and visited for a moment to show that I was OK and not hurt. He said I'd better be getting home or I'd be late for dinner. I explained that I was leaving home and was going to look for a job. Instead of hurrying on he now stopped, studied me a moment and then visited. I had a button on my shirt and he had a different one on his. It was a presidential election year and Al Smith was running against Herbert Hoover. Adults and even kids were wearing campaign buttons. Campaign speeches on the radio made us kids aware of the contest even if we didn't understand what was being said. Rather than admonish or encourage me he used the buttons as a conversation device. He said that if my candidate lost I'd probably have a hard time finding a job. He wanted to know if I was in favor of the candidate on the button. I said I was and he chuckled. I have no doubt that he and Dad knew each other and probably spared together or in opposition on political issues. I have no idea who's button I was wearing. He may have been chuckling because I was touting a Republican button while my father was a Democrat. As I grew older I found that my father delighted in the political tease. He would flip from one argument to the other to draw out an interesting personality who would belatedly realize Dad was pulling his leg. He was also an ardent supporter of his beliefs and was Democratic County Chairman during one of the Roosevelt campaigns. After the man left I studied the button and wondered what it or the man who's countenance it conveyed had to do with me getting a job.

There was little traffic and I realized that my knowledge of what was beyond was nil. I vaguely had in mind to hitch a ride to somewhere with someone. I had implicit faith in the goodness of everyone and no fear of being mistreated. By the time the man came by on his way back to work I was still there but had made up my mind to call off running away from home. I realized that I was unprepared and didn't even have a plan in mind. After the man left I decided that I'd just continue to wait for awhile before going home. My pride would not permit me to return home and admit defeat. I knew Mother wouldn't say anything, she wouldn't have to. The Orientals are projected as people with a strong compulsion to save face. Such concepts bring to mind my childhood dilemma, why should that compulsion be considered unique to Orientals.

After what seemed like an infinitely long time away from home I picked up my small bundle and returned home. It was perhaps mid afternoon. I decided that I'd been gone long enough for effect, and might as well acknowledge the fact that I was not ready to be on my won yet. It was the first time I was forced to accept a state of being defeated when not physically defeated. It also encouraged a sense of planning & being prepared before I acted. I really had no desire to leave home, my parents were wonderful and I knew it, it just seemed I wanted to grow up faster than I was. No longer did my parents need to encourage me to save my pennies and not spend them all on candy for the moment.

Groceries, Candy & Superstitions: Mother would send me to Hanson Bros Grocery when she needed something in a hurry. Occasionally I was rewarded with a penny or nickel and would continue on to Fringer Variety where they had a large candy counter. The display window started about knee high and sloped back and up so one could study each kind and the price. Prices were also gauged for Kids, showing how many pieces per penny or how many pennies per piece. It was a dumb Kid that couldn't read candy prices before he went to school or able to count how many jelly beans you could buy for a nickel.

I'd linger study and compare then finally point with coin gripped between my fingers at what I wanted. The lady who waited on me was always very patient with my prolonged pondering. If Dad was with me he'd urge me to hurry. But she'd say "Rell at his age it's a very important decision, just let him take his time." I liked her and always preferred to have her wait on me. How could I have dreamed that she would one day be my children's Great Grandmother.

It was on these errands that I had to cope with superstitions. I'd been told that if a black cat crossed your path it was bad luck and that it was bad luck if you walked under a ladder. The only one that bothered me was "Step on a crack and you'll break your Mothers back." The side walk to the grocery store had lots of cracks and I found myself carefully avoiding them. I didn't believe these sayings but my mind was still trying to determine what was true and possible versus what was false and impossible. I was tormented about the cracks and was not going to tempt fate. Yet I reasoned such things could not possibly be true, I'd already unwittingly stepped on many cracks and it would be impossible going through life avoiding every crack. It was during these errands that I disciplined my mind to cope with myths and superstitions. I was never troubled there after. The feeling and inner conflict I experienced left me with compassion for the feelings of primitive people coping with a world explained only by superstitious beliefs.

When observing small children abstractly walking along day dreaming and talking to themselves I've often wondered what manner of thoughts are churning in their heads. Children's minds can run the gambit from fantasy to profound via paths of rational that would never occur to an adult.

Frogs, Dogs & Pigs: To the southeast of the Mill was a bridge over the drainage ditch that paralleled the railroad. Fabricated iron beams spanned a wide and deep concrete box. The beams were covered with heavy planks which rumbled when a vehicle crossed. Sparse but firm iron rails on the sides permitted pedestrians to cross with safety. One could determine by sound if a truck, car or team and wagon crossed the bridge.

The downstream side of the bottom under the bridge abruptly dropped 8 feet to a lower concrete slab. This slab transitioned into an eroded gully that eventually dumped into the creek. Upstream of the slab turbulent water had scooped a basin. This mud hole held water for several weeks after a rain.

The warmth of Spring sprouted millions of weed seeds in the fertile soil of the ditch. Short grasses first carpeted the soil made barren by Winter. Then tall varieties like sun flowers made a veritable jungle for the neighborhoods preschool Kids. We Little People maintained trails in the manner of small animals from haunt to haunt. A favorite meeting place was the water hole by the bridge.

We were intrigued by the water spiders and insects that populated its stagnate waters. We were most interested in the Pollywogs. We'd follow their growth to full size and then excitedly show each other the marvel of some sprouting legs. We'd continue this almost daily surveillance until they were fully developed frogs capable of escaping our hand held scrutiny.

Immediately after a rain we'd run to the water hole to watch bigger boys throw sticks for dogs to fetch. There were three Clauson boys; Victor, Don & Warren all older than I. Victor would be killed in Italy during WW Il. They had a large black dog named Bozo. Their neighbor Cass Steel, a barber, had a brown Boxer named Mickey. Mickey would jump into the water to retrieve a stick and could also be induced to jump from the bridge into a pool upstream from the bridge producing a big splash. Bozo would have nothing to do with the high dive but would relentlessly go after a thrown stick. After playing in this muddy water the boys would take the dogs home and hose them down with fresh water. The dynamics of the water encountering the concrete slab under the bridge gouged out a 4 feet deep 10 foot wide & 15 feet long hole which retained water long after there was no more flow in the ditch. This pond would last for at least a month.

There was an 8" wide 45 degree concrete wedge bracing the 8 foot vertical drop off in the slab under the bridge on the down stream side. Shinnying up and down this narrow ramp was the only route by which us Kids could go on down stream. It was quite a task for us little guys to make it up and down. We had to balance carefully to not slip or fall over its side. We could inch down feet first fairly easy but had a time inching our way up. The big Kids teased us if we'd go up backwards.

One day when I was perhaps 3 1/2 I went down the ramp when no other kids were around. We usually never went alone in case we needed help. I decided to go on downstream to see what was there. I'd never been beyond sight of the bridge before. I made my way almost to the creek when I encountered some pigs running loose in the gully. I'd seen pigs before but they'd always been on the other side of a fence. These were about 1/3 grown and were big by my standards. They stared at me and grunted. I stared back. Their tails didn't wag like a dogs and I wasn't sure if they were friend or foe. They were emigrating up the gully and started toward me. I backed up and then turned and ran. They grunted and squealed racing up the ditch behind me. We arrived at the concrete wall at the bridge which boxed in the gully at about the same time. I tried to hurry up the narrow concrete ramp but my feet would slip. The pigs ran about and took turns grunting at me. I had become frightened and was in near panic. I couldn't make it up the ramp and mistook the pigs running about as attacks at me. I felt exposed in the center of the slab so I ran to a corner with the wall and a side behind me. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I alternately yelled "Help" and prepared to kick at the pigs if they got any closer. I was near the point of hysteria because I didn't know what to do, I couldn't escape and didn't have a stick to defend myself. Then I heard Mr. Kesler call down from the bridge. What a relief to know someone was there! He came down, chased the pigs away and lifted me up the ramp. My fear was gone and I tried to stop the uncontrolled sobs that had welled up like periodic spasms. Mr. Kesler tried to assure me that the pigs wouldn't have hurt me. I wasn't convinced but thanked him for helping me and managed to subdue my sobs before I reached home. Next time I carried a good stick as a weapon.

I admonished myself for crying and behaving like a coward. I was glad it was Mr. Kesler that found me. To him I was a child and had behaved like a child. I wouldn't have received the same understanding from the older Kids. To them I'd have been a cry baby. I realized I hadn't been able to climb the ramp because I panicked. I also gave considerable thought on how to protect myself if necessary.

Years later when I was in high school I was attacked by a dog when I walked home alone from a movie late at night. The incident with the pigs flitted through my mind as I posted myself near a lamp post when the dog swept by to take another nip. I recognized the dog as one that had bitten some Kids recently and knew it intended to bite me. I crouched ready to grab the dog and swing/crush his body into the lamp post, in my frame of mind that dog wouldn't have a chance, those pigs had preconditioned me for an active defense. My reaction was a form of premeditated conditioning on what to do if attacked and without a weapon. The dogs owner saved the dog by calling him back from his outing. The owner later found it necessary to dispose of the animal because of parental concern for their children's safety.

Power Plant: An early adventure away from home was to follow the railroad tracks eastward toward Main street. Us little Kids didn't have to worry about getting lost because we could always follow the tracks back. Some workmen had been repairing tracks near the mill and we had gathered to watch. When they finished they rolled a little flatbed car with four small railroad wheels on the track. It had what looked like a teeter totter pivoted on a post in the center. They shoved the car and the teeter totter moved up and down. They then jumped on and rode while two men stood on the platform and pushed the teeter totter arms up and down. We thought it was a clever way to make the car go. After they disappeared down the track we decided to follow.

We came to an area where telephone poles and power poles were stacked and went over to explore. A dog barked and we ran after him as he chased a cottontail rabbit into the protection of the poles.

We returned to the tracks and crossed a railroad bridge over a storm drain ditch. This bridge was much different than the Mill bridge. It didn't have iron or concrete. Creosoted poles, like telephone or power poles had been driven into the ground and cross braced. Heavy beams and railroad ties were mounted and bolted on top. It looked very sturdy and well planned.

Beyond the bridge on the north side of the railroad was a large brick building. The closer we got the more we could hear a rhythmic rumbling sound. When we came close to the building it seemed that we could feel the vibrations. We'd been told this was the power plant where they made electricity. The fact that we couldn't look into the building only added to my curiosity. Across from the power plant was a shed where the railroad repair men kept their tools and parked their little car. By then we decided we'd gone far enough and decided to return home.

Later I saw smoke rings rise from tall pipes above the power plant and decided to see what was inside. The next day I took off by myself, went to the back door of the power plant and found it would open. I opened the door and peeked in. The sound was louder and there were huge machines spaced on a spotlessly clean painted concrete floor. I couldn't see anyone. If I'd seen someone I could have asked if it was all right if I looked about. The rumbling sounds, the enormous size of things and the mystery of it all was rather frightening. I returned home wanting to know more.

Dads job on the City Council was changed from Street and Light to Power and Water. As such he had an interest in the power plant. Because of my questions and interest he took me with him on a tour through the plant. I couldn't understand what he and men said but I certainly tried to memorize what I saw. Years later after new engines were installed I found pleasure in reviewing the old ones that had interested me so as a child. Those big Diesel engines were made by Fairbanks Morris.

Blacksmith: The ringing sound of hammer striking steel would carry from its origin to our home. The sound carried and penetrated like that of the school and church bell. The tone and rhythm would change and one began to recognize a pattern to the sounds. Once they'd start you'd listen for the finish like listening for the second shoe to drop or completion of a rhythmic tune as: "Shave and a hair cut-six bits". One of my early excursions was to find what caused these sounds. They emanated from an unpainted smoke darkened wood building with large doors opened to the street. Persons always seemed to be about. I walked along the sidewalk, came to the entrance and peeked in. It was dark and hard to see but there was a dirt floor, iron objects scattered about and a man holding something in a fire. He'd pull it out red hot, place it on a large anvil mounted on a stump of wood and hit it with a hammer. Sparks would fly. He'd flatten, round and bend it to form a horseshoe. He'd hold it up and when satisfied drop it into a sawed off oak barrel of water. The water would violently boil and sizzle for an instant. This startled me. The man saw me peeking around the corner. He grinned, said something to a man watching him, spit on the huge anvil and pulled another hot piece of iron from the fire. The hot iron and hammer came down splat on the spittle which burst to steam and exploded like a shot under the impact. I must have jumped two feet and they chuckled at the reflex triggered by the sound. I turned and scampered home full of questions about the place when Dad got home that night.

The blacksmiths name was Vern Bradley, his daughter Elaine & I were class mates all the way through school. Watching Mr. Bradley work metal became one of my favorite interests. Almost all blacksmithing pertained to farm work and most of farming was still done with real horsepower. A horses lower leg is like a large finger and the hoof is in reality a toe nail. It grows and can become ragged, split and sore if not protected. A horses hoof was first cleaned and trimmed with a rasp. The bottom was filed flat and the sides smoothed. To do this the blacksmith would back up to the horse, pull the horses foot up between his legs and clamp his knees together thus holding the hoof bottom up and steady so he could file on it like planning wood. Each iron horseshoe was tailor fit for each horses hoof.

The forge was similar to a barbecue grill in that it contained a bed of coal that had been converted to charcoal. A bellows, operated by pulling down on an overhead wood beam, blew air up through the center of the forge. Two pulls provided enough air for the coals to become white hot. The piece of iron to be worked was handled with tongs and placed in the edge of the hottest part. Color was used to judge temperature. If it became too hot it went from a white heat to giving off sparkles. The iron was then said to be burning. When whitish yellow it was easily bent but scale formed and darkened its surface as it was worked. When pale red it was most ideal for forming with a hammer. When dark red it was becoming to cold to shape and might split rather than flow.

The anvil had a long cone shaped nose, a flat top and squared off back end above the main body trunk. The anvil was mounted on top of a segment of tree trunk. A cutting piece could be placed in a square hole in the tail plate. A piece of strap iron heated to pale red and placed on top of the cutting wedge would cut like a piece of cheese when hit with a sledge. The round snout on the anvil was used to form circular shapes like the back radius of a horseshoe. The tips of the horse shoe were bent to 90 degrees over the square edge of the anvil top. These cleats provided traction for the animal on ice or pavement.

The shoes were attached to the animals hoof's with special nails. Nail holes were made along the outer edge of the shoe with a rectangular shaped punch. The formed shoe was heated, placed on the anvil, the punch placed and struck with a sledge. The shoe was then moved over a hole in the anvil and the punch driven through forming a rectangular countersink pocket for the nail head. The completed shoe was then quenched in water and allowed to cool before being nailed to the hoof. The blacksmith held the horses hoof in the same manner for nailing as for filing. The horses would stand in docile tranquility through the whole process.

I had an uneasy feeling the first time I watched the blacksmith shoe a horse. I had already had my bare foot stomped on and people had taught me to stay clear of a horses back hoofs. This I well understood because I'd seen them kick. With these images in mind I was unprepared for the ease and confidence with which the blacksmith handled the horses main weapons. Most were "plow horses" and compared to a day in the field this was a relaxing relief. Horses have the facility to sleep standing up and this is what they proceeded to do during most of the shoeing process.

Wagon wheel rims like car tires today would wear out. Oak hubs, spokes and the wood circumference were held together by an outer band of iron. The wood part of the wheel if not protected, would dry out, shrink, become loose and wear. It was some times necessary to reduce the size of an old rim.

A contraption with two vices and long levers to control their grip and spacing was used to bend new strap iron and to shrink a rim. The ends of a newly bent piece of strap iron were "welded" together. This was done using the forge, anvil, sledge and some white powder. The two ends were heated in the forge. White powder was sprinkled on the ends and they were hammered together, one end lapped over the other. The segment was thinned, stretched and shaped to match the thickness and contour of the remainder of the hoop. This circular strap was then cooled and checked against the wood wheel for size. If too small the rim was heated, hammered and elongated. If too big it was placed in the vice contraption after a segment was heated and by pulling on the long levers the heated section was pushed into itself, shortening its length. After a number or such fittings it was deemed ready. The wood wheel was mounted horizontally on a dummy axle and spaced so that the outer periphery rested flat on the ground. Some wheel spokes do not extend radially from the hub. Buggy wheels were often large diameter with the line of the spoke directed toward the center of the buggy. The iron rim was then heated all around its periphery, lifted with tongs and placed on the wood wheel. Once in place it was quenched with water. As it cooled and shrunk it tightened converting the assembly of spokes into a tight solid structure. I thought it was very clever the way pieces of iron could be spliced together like pieces of pie dough yet be very strong. I was also impressed by the way iron would expand when heated, shrink when cooled and be used to fuse the wood together. The spokes always fell out of my Tinker Toys.

“Warny”, “Marjie” & Phyllis at Grandma’s; Dr. Warren Kump, Chairman Board of Directors, 65 yrs later

Cousins Warren Kump, Marjorie & Phyllis Landau at Grandma Bobbitt’s: The three cousins, shown in the next 1931 photo, would be together again in 1997 -- for a last visit with Jack Kump who died of cancer the week after Alumni Banquet. Jack, Warrens little brother had not yet been born when the following photo was taken. Jack enters the scene, and our lives, in the next act.

Our own New Car: The cars Dad had driven to/from work had belonged to the Company. When Henry Ford made it possible to have a car other than Black Dad bought this New Green 1928 Model A from Uncle Lee Kump. This was the first year the Model A was produced. This was the family car till 1936. It took us on our first trip to the mountains with Mom & Dad, Margaret & Francis and Me. That's when they finally shut me up by letting me "climb a mountain". The world beyond our home became bigger.

About 1965 the Old High School site was converted to a Home for elderly by 1965: By the time I started kindergarten the old grade school was gone and I began in the newly opened grade school in 1929.

Our Home now facing US 183, in 1970, 40 years after we moved away

This home was last visited in 1985 and found abandon, by 1990 it had been removed, even the fire plug was gone – I felt I’d lost my index to the world. This serves as a reminder of change, of how fleeting time is, how quickly the past can slip beyond reach.

Summary

How early do we remember? We underestimate how much kids learn, and are capable of learning at an early age, We’ve all heard people say Oh but I don’t remember that far back. Thus I was interested, when compiling these recollections, to have some way to index recollections with time. Mom photos permit me to do that. I KNOW I remember much from before my first birthday – and that there is much I do not remember. My knowledge of our kitchen was from when I crawled about on the slick linoleum floor before I could stand up and walk. I remember things like the kitchen sink from the bottom looking up. I also have clear recollections of other events described above prior to my first birthday. I’m convinced this is normal for all little kids.

What do kids know before starting kindergarten? I knew much about what we call science and nature. Kids know about the three phases of water, frozen liquid and solid’ and they also understand evaporation by the sun and return as rain or snow. They also know the earth is round, that the Earth rotates, making it seem like the sun comes up and goes down. They know how to find the North Star, and read the big dipper as if the had of a clock. They know plants grow from seeds. That frogs lay eggs which become pollywogs which become frogs. They know how to tell a boy animal from a girl animal. They know female animals give birth, male animals do not, that a male animal makes if possible for a female animal to have babies. I knew quite a bit about horses, mules, wagons, harness and what they could do. I knew how to start a gasoline engine, and how line shafting and belting worked, I knew how blacksmiths shoed horses and worked iron. I learned about plastering and painting a house. I knew how to tell time and how to look at sheet music and find the keys on the piano.

I did and didn’t believe what I was taught in Sunday school, I was told: “Jesus love me this I know for the bible tells me so, we are weak and he is strong, yes Jesus loves me the bible tells me so.” I was told that God created the World, that we were all gods children. But though I believed most of what people told me, I knew there was a lot adults didn’t know and that adults could be wrong. Even kids sayings like “step on a crack and break your mothers back” I knew that was not so, I did not believe Santa Clause was for real, I was delighted with Christmas and could get as excited as any, but I knew Santa did not come down the chimney and did not fly about on a sleigh pulled by reindeer. All us kids were experts on play like and make believe. We could make delicious chocolate cakes with stick candles. Though I was told Jesus loved me, I was not convinced, how could he know me if I’d never met him. I also could not buy this idea of going to heaven and about angels with wings that lived in clouds. I could not understand that a thing that was buried, like a pet, could go to pet heaven. I just plain did not believe in magic; and leaned to depend on my “good sense” to know the difference. I leaned to trust that little voice from within on what was right and wrong. I was very fortunate in having good family and friends teaching me what’s right and wrong.

I could have learned much more if I’d been taught – all kids can.