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I
was born November 1, 1892, on a farm named Green Valley, ten miles north
of Brewster, in Eastern Washington. I was the eldest of eight children,
but one boy died after four days.
We learned early how to work, and we worked hard, you bet we did. We helped
plant corn and other crops and also helped in the harvesting, dug potatoes,
husked corn. Yes, I’ve done my share of planting corn. We helped do the
milking, slopped the hogs, fed the chickens, besides carry water for household
use and for the laundry. We didn’t wear trousers either. We wore skirts
and dresses.
Just think of having to wash all of that! Yes, we carried every drop of
water. Every drop of water that was used for washing and cooking. We carried
it from the spring down to the house. Then we’d heat it in the boiler
for the wash water. I know one of the men—he’s dead now—but the last time
I saw him he said, ‘‘As long as I live, I can always see you carrying
water from the spring down to the house with two big buckets.’’ I said,
"Yes, I carried my share.’’ It was heavy, too.
Yes, you name it, we kids did it. We carried wood for the cookstove, and
to heat the house. We girls also helped mama with the cooking. We ironed
with a hand iron and in the summer it was really a chore. The weather
was so hot, you know, and women’s clothes weren’t like they are today.
Dresses were long and usually had tucks or pleats. And our pretty dresses
and starched petticoats had ruffles of lace on them. Yes. Yes, I worked
hard in my life, from childhood on. Absolutely. Managed to live through
it, too.
One year, when I was 11 or 12, we went with
some neighbors, the Defflands, to the Catholic mission at Omak. They had
four or five girls and two boys; however I believe at this time they only
had the one boy. Anyway, that whole family plus me went in a wagon pulled
by a team of horses. It took one day to get there. Then we spent a day
at the mission, which meant attending church and going to the seven stations
of the cross. Really, it was a beautiful sight. The path we were to travel
was strewn heavily with lupine blossoms; the Indians would bring gunny
sacks full of these lovely blue blossoms and strew them along the path.
Then that evening we attended a program at the school, and the next day
we went home. A three-day trip. We slept out in a tent and many Indians
were camped right alongside us. We had fun playing with the Indian kids,
and of course the bigger kids threw frogs into our tent, and of course
we’ d scream. I have often thought of poor Mrs. Deffland managing a bunch
of kids, and having to cook over a fire and to take the amount of food
along, which she must have, as there were no stores any place along the
way. Anyway it was a fun trip. Now the flats and low hills are covered
with orchards.
In the winter I remember we had fun coasting
down the hill from where we carried water to the house. Down the hill
we’d go and across our meadow, And when the snow was crusted we’d sit
down, pull our coats around us and slide down the mountainside on our
feet; sort of rough on the bottom of our shoes, but children never think
of such things, you know.
One time we’d had a heavy snow fall and I conceived the idea on the way
home from school of standing up on my horse and falling backwards in the
snow. I did this for a long ways. My Dad had been to Brewster, and wouldn’t
you know it, he had to come home that way by the school house instead
of going home the same road he went to town on. And so of course, here
he saw so many imprints of a body along the road, he was shocked. So he
asked my brothers, and wouldn’t you know ,it they told Papa it was Signe,
and how she did it. Of course, it was a terribly unladylike thing to do,
you know. You also know who got paddled. Yes, me. But it was fun, and
I’d do it again if I could. Only now I’d be scared to stand up on a horse.
I used to ride standing up on my horse, Biddy, from the house to the barn.
I began riding when I was between sixand seven. It was such fun, and I
dearly loved to ride.
When we were kids we always had a real live Christmas tree. Papa would
always get one. As we kids grew older we’d go with him. He’d take a team
and bobsled and away we’d go. Mama and Papa would trim the tree after
we kids were tucked safely in bed. We did not see the tree until Christmas
Eve; then Papa would light the tree and blow a small toy horn. They’d
open the door to the livingroom, and of course there were always oh’s
and ah’s, you know. Then before we’d get our gifts, we would all take
hands and dance around the Christmas tree and sing Danish Christmas carols.
Our gifts were never wrapped in pretty paper, like now, simply because
there was no such thing. Our gifts were laid neatly on the table or the
bed, and Mama would give them to us. On Christmas Eve we were always allowed
to stay up as long as we wanted, and many a time one or the other of us
would go to sleep on a chair.
The day after Christmas was celebrated, as that is customary in Scandinavia,
only not as vigorously as Christmas Day. Sometimes on Christmas or New
Year’s Eve a neighbor would share the holiday with us, and always Papa’s
brother, Uncle Mathias.
My childhood home was the scene of many dances.
Many times the only instrument was a comb and a piece of paper played
by Mrs. Zanol. Mama beat time by hitting the brass mortar she brought
with her from Denmark. Later when more people moved in, there were some
who played a violin or a mouth harp, or Jew’s harp. There would be liquor
brought sometimes, and since my parents did not drink, Mama would pour
what was served to her and Papa into a jar. It would be used later as
a hot toddy for colds.
When Sylvia, my sister, was born, in August,
haying was on. Hired men had to be fed, and even though I was only 13,
I did the cooking and baking bread and cakes or whatever other baking
that needed doing. I cooked the three meals every day until Mama could
take over again. Mrs. Thayer, our neighbor, came every day and cared for
Mama and the baby, and she helped mostly with the dishes, of which there
was always plenty, I’ll tell you.
I got married when I was 19. After I got
married, I did not ride very much because we did not have a riding horse.
We lived for a time on a ranch, I guess you’d call it, on top of the mountain
across from Papa’s. After a time we built a house at the foot of the mountain
across from Papa’s. We also lived in Brewster Flat, where the children’s
father worked for people by the name of Milberry. lngwer was born in the
house across from the folks. Richard was also born there. When both boys
were born, Mama and Mrs. Thayer were over, that was all. You just got
along on days like that, that’s all there was to it. There was no such
thing as hospitals. Seattle or Spokane were the closest hospitals.
When Papa had appendicitis, he’d been working—now,
I don’t remember, but I think he was making fence or something or other—but
anyway, he got up in the morning, and, as was always his habit, in the
morning when he’d get through breakfast, he’d always say, "Good breakfast,
Mama," and he’d kiss her, and then he’d go on out to work—same thing every
morning. That day he said, ‘‘Mama, I just feel wonderful this morning."
But when he came home that noon, he was walking all hunched over. He couldn't
straighten up! And he sighs, and he says, "I don’t know what’s the
matter, but I’m awful sick." And he looked sick. And so she read
her Danish doctor book, and she told him, in Danish, of course, that he
had blindtarmsbetaendelse or one other thing—I can’t remember the
other one she said. Blindtarmsbetaendelse is appendicitis—it means
"blind gut infection.’’
Then she told him, she said, "Papa, you have one of these two things."
So we kids got the horses hitched up to the hack and Mama drove to Brewster—there
were no telephones—to see the doctor. We were ten miles out from Brewster,
so it must have taken two or three hours to get there with a team of horses
and a wagon. So she drove to Brewster and told old Doc McKinley, and then
she stayed there.
She says to Doc, ‘‘I’ll stay here and you come back. If you think 0le
needs some medicine, I’ll take it out to him. "And he goes to Papa and
he says, ‘‘By God, Ole, you’ve got nothing but appendicitis!’’ So he went
back to Brewster and told Mama, ‘‘Now, you go home because he’s got to
get to Spokane to the hospital. He has appendicitis."
So she drove home again and sent one of us off to the neighbors to get
help to move Papa. I don’t remember who went to the Thayer’s or anything
about it, but anyway, George came, and we got a team of horses hitched
up to the lumber wagon, and took the bedsprings and a mattress and put
them on top of the lumber wagon, tied ‘em on; put poor, old Papa up there—and
to get him up there—he was a big man! And then when you can’t straighten
up, you know, and help yourself, Lord sakes! Well, anyway, they got into
Brewster, then to get him off of there, to get him onto the boat, and
then that boat ride all the way to Wenatchee—to get him off of the boat
onto the train arid take him to Spokane!
It’s a wonder the man lived through it, it took so long! From the ranch
until—well, let’s see, it was evening then before he ever left the ranch.
It was dark, and it must have been at least ten o’clock or later before
he ever got to Brewster.
I don’t remember whether the boat was there
in preparation or leaving in the morning, or what, but old Doc says, "I’ll
go with him,’’ because he had to have somebody with him, and Doc did,
he went with him. And then to get him off of that boat and onto the train,
you know, oh, my, my, my, that poor old man, how he did really suffer.
It really was an ordeal, I tell you! I remember Jacob and Dave and me,
we were kids. We were standing behind the door in the living room crying
because Papa was so sick and helpless, and we had to take him away, and
it was just really an awful sad thing for all of us, And we wondered if
he’d ever come home again.
And poor Mama felt so bad. She cried too. But there you were, there was
nothing else to do.
Well, anyway, when he came home, the doctor told him he should stay in
Brewster a little while because he was too weak, you know. That was a
hard trip to come home. But at least he wasn’t suffering. He stayed down
in Brewster in Gamble’s Hotel, now I don’t remember how long, but he was
there for a while before attempting the trip home. And then when he came
home, of course, he went right out to work. Right out to work! Mama said,
"No," she said, "Papa, you can’t do that." "Oh, yes! Just think of what
there is to do on this farm." "Yes," she, says, ‘‘I know it, but," she
says, "you realize, Papa, that you don’t have the strength." "Well," he
says, "I feel perfectly good!" Of course he did. But at the same time
he wasn’t strong enough, even though he was a big, husky man, and of course
he came down sick again. And he pretty near died that time!
Mama hid his pants on him, so he couldn’t get out. She did! He wanted
to get up one morning and go out. He said, "Mama, do you know where my
pants are?" She says, "Yes, I hid ‘em! And you’re not going to get ‘em!’’
She said, ‘‘You go right back to bed.’’ What’re you going to do with these
stubborn men? And, of course, in those days you had just so much clothes.
Nowadays, you know, men’vet got this, and they’vet got that, and they’re
bought anyway.
So, anyway, he was an awful hardworking man.
A horribly hardworking man. Mama said that he used to go out and dig potatoes
when it’d be raining. He’d take a quilt and put it over him so he could
go out and dig potatoes, and the quilt’d get wet!
And Mama was awful hard working too, I can tell you. My goodness. There
wasn’t any of us that was allowed to lay around, I can tell you that.
My brother Jacob, of course, he would rather stay home and work than go
to school.
Mama, really, she was the force behind us
going to school. We had to go to school. Papa really didn’t mind that
much, no, because there was work to be done, and that had to be done;
that was all. School was really looked at as a luxury.
Of course Papa and Mama had gone to school in Denmark. Now I don’t know
whether they had the equivalent of a high school education in Denmark
then; I don’t know, but I know that they both of them, well, they were
pretty good. I don't know how far they went in school, or how the school
was, whether it was graded or how, I don’t know. When it comes to figuring
anything, they both could figure it. But as far as I’m personally concerned,
it probably wasn’t more than through the eighth grade.
When I was nine I started to school. I couldn’t speak English very well
because my parents spoke Danish entirely although they began to use English
so we kids could speak the language of the U.S. We only had school at
first six months, then as time went on the school term was lengthened.
And by the time we finished eighth grade, the school term was nine months.
My youngest sister, Louise, learned to play the piano; Mama paid for the
lessons with butter and eggs. We all used to enjoy singing around the
piano.
I never went to high school. Louise and Emil, those were the only two
that ever went to high school. When I was through school, then I worked
out. I worked, did housework in Brewster, I had my own room right in the
people’s home. Nice people, their name was Dorothy. That was their last
name, Dorothy. The other family’s name was Bassette. Both places were
going to have a baby.
I helped with the house work and did the
cooking and washing and ironing. I took care of one family one time, and
then at another time, the other family. There was nothing else to do!
There was no high school even. Not even in Wenatchee. There was nothing.
No. There wasn’t. We just grew up. Emil was really the only one in the
family that got an education, and that was really because he was blind.
If he hadn’t been handicapped, he would just have stayed and grown up
on the farm, just like Jacob and Dave did. Yes, absolutely!
After you finished work, you just stayed home. After you got the work
done, that’s all there was to do. You could read, that’s all there was
left to do was read. You couldn’t do anything else, there was nothing
to do like there is now, you know. No, you were just there. You could
read, and I did handwork, but that’s all there was to do. Just work, and
in the evening you would just spend your time, either reading or embroidering
or whatever. Even if you lived out in the country there was nothing to
do. Not a thing. No, there was nothing to do for any young people, and
they, the young people, really turned out good. Of all the kids that I
grew up with, there wasn’t any of them that ever grew up bad. There was
nothing for them to do to get into trouble. When you got through with
the farm work, you were tired, and after supper you were happy to go to
bed. You bet your life!
First
printed in Backbone 3, Seal Press (Seattle, WA), 1981
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