Letters from Hillside Farm (2 page)

Cleveland, Ohio

Dear George,

Your letter of March 15 arrived today. I'm so happy to know that you all arrived in Wisconsin safe and sound. I know it must be disappointing to not have electricity, to have to go to the bathroom in an outhouse, and to warm your house with wood-burning stoves. But do you remember what I told you about what it was like when I was a little girl? In case you don't remember all the details, I'll share some of them again.

I grew up on a farm in northern Ohio not too different from the one where you now live. I was born there in 1876 (now you can figure out how old I am!). My parents—they would be your great-grandparents—had moved there before I was born from New York State, where they had been farmers. But the crops were poor in New York. Mother and Father were looking for a better life, and moving farther west seemed the way to do it.

If you think your Wisconsin farmhouse is primitive, let me tell you a little about the house where I was born. It really wasn't a house but a log cabin that my father and some of the neighbors put together when Mother and Father first moved to Ohio. I know you've read about and seen pictures of pioneer log cabins. The one I grew up in was a lot like those. It had only one room, with a big fireplace at one end and a bed with a mattress stuffed with corn shucks on the other end. That's where my parents slept. They could pull a curtain across that end of the cabin, which in a way was like having another little room.

My two little brothers (your great-uncles) and I slept upstairs in the cabin. We got there by crawling up a ladder that my father made out of oak branches. It was cozy sleeping up there, especially on a rainy night with the raindrops pounding on the roof just over our heads. It was also very dark in the cabin's loft, because there were no windows.

We didn't have real windows downstairs, either. Glass windows were scarce and too expensive for our family. My father stretched a piece of white muslin (a kind of cloth) over each window frame and then oiled the cloth to make it last longer. These makeshift windowpanes let in some light, but we couldn't see out like you can with glass windows. Our light in the cabin came from kerosene lamps, just like you have. And yes, George, we had an outdoor bathroom, too.

I'm sorry to hear that your leg is still giving you problems. But let me tell you about another person who had lots of health problems when he was your age: Theodore Roosevelt. You've probably read about him, because he became our twenty-sixth president of the United States. He didn't let being sickly get in the way of doing great things. He just held his chin up and kept going. Sometimes that's what we've all got to do.

Don't let Amos Woodward get under your skin. I think he might be jealous that you know how to do things with leather that he doesn't know how to do. And he probably enjoys teasing you because you limp—some children are like that. They like making fun of anyone who seems different. Just ignore him. It's not your fault that this Amos boy is picking on you. Something else is going on in his life. That would be my guess, anyway.

I'm so glad you are safe, and I look forward to more of your letters. I miss all of you very much.

Love,

Grandma S.

March 21, 1938

Monday

Dear Grandma,

It's the beginning of my first full week of school. I hope it goes better than last week. The only good thing about school is that I don't think I'm too far behind. We had a spelling test today, and I got a perfect score, 100 percent. I even did better than the eighth-graders. There are two of them at my school, and one is Amos Woodward, that big brown-haired kid who picks on me. He got an 85 on the test. Rachel Williams, the other eighth-grader, got a 92. Miss Harvey didn't say anything to me about my perfect score, but she did smile a little when she handed back my paper. She told us that in two weeks our school will compete with Forest Grove School at a spelling bee. I'd sure like to be on our school's spelling team.

I haven't been late for school since that one time. It's hard walking, too. With a few warmer days, the snow has been melting, and the dirt road past our farm is a river of mud. The mailman and the milkman can scarcely drive without getting stuck. The roads are better in the morning because the ruts are still frozen. This afternoon it took me nearly an hour to walk home from school, and when I got here my boots were muddy nearly to the top. Ma said I looked like I'd been jumping up and down in the muck. I said I hadn't, but I felt like a better nickname for me might be Stuck-Meyer instead of Struckmeyer. I got stuck in the mud at least three times, and one time thought for sure I'd lost my boot.

Time to do my homework.

Your grandson,

George

Dear George,

I'm so happy to receive your letters and hear about all that you are doing in Wisconsin. Did you know I went to a one-room school that was a lot like yours? Our school was made of logs, and it hadn't been built very well. In winter the cold air sifted into the room between the logs that were not chinked well. (That means the material plugging the spaces between the logs wasn't put in properly.)

Paper was scarce in those days, so we each had a slate where we worked numbers and wrote the letters of the alphabet. A slate is like a little blackboard, but small enough so that you can hold it in your hand. Of course, we also studied spelling, learned a little geography, and spent time reading and writing. It was reading and writing that I most enjoyed doing. I thought it was lots of fun to read about what other people were doing and how they did it. And I always liked writing; I still do. I am happy to hear how well you are doing in spelling. A perfect score in spelling is something special.

Do you know we played anti-I-over when I was in school? We played it just as you described. It was so much fun! I'm glad to hear that children are still playing the old school games.

Keep writing. Your letters mean a lot to me, George. It gets pretty lonely around here without you, little Annie, and your folks nearby.

Love,

Grandma S.

March 23, 1938

Wednesday

Dear Grandma,

Did I tell you that we don't even have a radio here in the hinterlands of Wisconsin? We don't have electricity, so I didn't even ask Pa about getting a radio. But he surprised me. When I came home from school today, I saw a brand new Philco radio sitting on a little table near one of the kitchen windows. I told Pa I couldn't see how it would work without electricity, and he kind of smiled and pointed to the two big batteries that sit under the radio. Then he showed me a wire that runs from the back of the radio, outside a kitchen window, and all the way to the top of our windmill. He called it an aerial and said it will help us pull in radio stations from as far away as Chicago.

One thing I haven't complained about since we moved to Wisconsin is not being able to listen to my favorite radio programs every afternoon like I did back in Ohio. I especially like
Captain Midnight
. (Luckily I remembered to bring to bring my decoder badge along with me from Ohio, which I need to figure out the secret messages at the end of each
Captain Midnight
program.) I also like listening to
Jack Armstrong
,
Tarzan
, and
Terry and the Pirates
.

After the chores were done tonight, I snapped on the radio, gathered some paper and a pencil so I could write down the numbers the announcer reads at the end of the program (for the secret message), and sat next to our new radio.
Captain Midnight
came in just as well as it did in Ohio! What a wonderful thing a radio is.

Of course, Pa wanted a radio as badly as anybody in the family. He likes listening to the news, the farm market reports, and the weather forecasts. Ma likes her programs as well, especially
The Romance of Helen Trent
,
Ma Perkins
, and
Our Gal Sunday
. And we all listen to
Fibber McGee and Molly
. Little Annie loves it when Fibber McGee opens the closet door and everything falls out with a big clatter. We're all looking forward to Saturday night, when we'll listen to the WLS National Barn Dance show from Chicago. Here in this new place these shows feel like old friends.

Sure wish you were here so we could listen to some of them together, Grandma, like we did when we lived in Ohio.

Your grandson,

George

March 25, 1938

Friday

Dear Grandma,

I asked Pa again when I will get my puppy. At first he looked at me like he had other things on his mind. But after all, he did promise me a puppy if I'd quit complaining about having to move to Wisconsin, so he smiled and said that he sent in the order yesterday. My puppy should be here in about a week! Now I have something to look forward to. I have always wanted a dog.

Yesterday Pa bought fifty laying hens from a neighbor. He said we need fresh eggs to eat, and Ma can sell what we don't use. It was one of the first times I've seen Ma smile since we got to Wisconsin. She doesn't say much, but I don't think she likes living here. Pa keeps reminding us that we are on a Great Adventure and said again that we must keep looking at the sunny side of things. I guess he means we must keep our spirits up. But that's not easy to do. Maybe having some egg money will cheer Ma up a little.

Pa turned the chickens loose in the chicken house. They didn't seem to mind that they were in a new place at all. They went right at eating the oats that Pa had bought for them. I hope they remember that they're supposed to be laying eggs, not just eating and prowling around their new location.

Pa also bought ten Holstein milk cows yesterday. Holsteins are the ones that are black and white, but I bet you already knew that. They were delivered in a big red cattle truck, and they seemed kind of scared. I suspect everything is new for them, just like it is for me. Pa said he'll teach me how to milk and that milking will become one of my chores. Grandma, we've got to milk these cows every morning and night, every day, even on Saturdays and Sundays. When will I ever have time to work on my leather projects? This morning I was out in the barn at 5:30! The only light we have in the barn is a kerosene lantern that shines feebly, much less brightly than our lamp in the house. I pointed this out to Pa, who told me that you don't need much light to milk a cow.

The lantern hangs on a nail on the back wall, and there are shadows everywhere. It's kind of scary—I imagine all kinds of wild creatures hiding where the light doesn't reach. Pa says about all that's in the shadows is a mouse or two, and that one of our neighbors might give us a couple of barn cats to keep the mice in check.

The cows stand in a row, their necks stuck through metal and wooden bars that Pa calls stanchions. The cows can't move around much, but there is no place to go anyway, and besides, it's warm in the barn. Mornings are well below freezing here in Wisconsin, and there's still some snow on the ground.

The first time Pa showed me how to milk a cow, he told me just to watch. He sat on a little three-legged milk stool that he pulled up right under a cow, with a shiny milk pail clamped between his knees. Then he took a teat in each hand, and milk shot into the pail with a zing. He said that that all you do is squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull, and the milk will come. He made it look easy.

Don't laugh, Grandma, but the first time I tried to do this, nothing happened. Nothing. The harder I squeezed and the more I pulled, the jumpier the cow became, but still no milk came out. Pa said to just keep trying, so that's what I did. After I relaxed a little, the milk started coming—not in big squirts, but enough that I could say I was milking a cow! Tonight it went even better. But my fingers are so sore they feel like they'll drop off my hands. Pa said it will take a while for my fingers and wrists to toughen up.

Polly is one of the cows I milk. She likes to swipe me across the face with her wiry tail. That is no fun at all. Last night I got so mad at Polly when she hit me in the face with her tail that I hauled off and hit her on the rump. That was not a good thing to do. Polly jumped, tipped me over, and spilled the little milk I had in the bottom of the pail. Pa came running when he heard the noise. I told him what had happened after he helped me collect the milk stool and pail and crawl out of the straw where I'd landed. Pa was angry. He said I should never hit a cow, no matter what. He didn't need to tell me—I had already learned that lesson!

I crawled back under Polly, sat on my milk stool, stuck the milk pail between my legs, and said, “Polly, you hear me!” The big cow turned her head, her big dark eyes staring right at me. “We're in this together. You behave and don't hit me in the face with your tail, and I won't whop you on the rump with my hand.”

I don't know if she understood what I was saying, but we are getting along a little better. Maybe it's because I'm learning how to milk.

The barn is filled with strange smells that I'm not used to. There's the smell of the hay that Pa feeds the cows and the smell of cow manure, of course. All of that mixes in with the smell of fresh milk, which I think is a nice, clean smell.

I'm glad I have a weekend ahead of me. I sure wish I didn't have to go to school. It's no fun. On Monday the kids are choosing up sides for ball teams, and the teacher says everybody plays, even the little kids, if they want to. I can hit a ball as well as anyone, but I can't run with my bad leg. It makes me feel awful. Whoever heard of a kid who can't run?

I wish I was back in Ohio, Grandma.

Your grandson,

George