486. A delightful re-blog of my mother's childhood on the farm -- very poor, but happy.
I noticed today that someone had read this blog about my mother, Ruth Allen Miles, from April 26, in 2014. I re-read it, and really enjoyed it. She is the one who wrote the beautiful poetry in blog 95, posted on Feb. 12, 2014. It has been the second most read blog of all I have written. The blogs before and after this # 138 are of my mother's life. She was a teacher, and such a wonderful person! If you have time, you'd enjoy going back and reading some of them. I'm so glad they are on here to basically live after me! (She passed away on Feb. 10, 1999).
Childhood on the farm:
My earliest recollections on the farm I guess was the summer I turned 6 years old. (This would have been about 1914, and the summer before her father died in October.) We were living in a little log house close to what we called "the wash."
Often there were immense floods that came down this wash, from Casto Canyon about 2 miles to the east. These swift torrents would cut in at the bottom of the wash, and soon a big section of the land would slide into the flood. I remember this summer watching my father walk along the side of the lucern patch which was sliding in piece by piece, as if his walking there could stop the disaster. Each flood left its deposit of sand in one bend, which we joyously played in calling it our "sand patch." It was the most beautiful white sand I've ever seen. I wonder if I were to go back there now if it would seem so white and clean.
Farther on down the wash were little ravines where the most beautiful red berries grew. We called them "Bull Berries." They were the only fruit that dared to try to grow in that cold climate, except some wild currants and elder berries. The "bull berries" made a tart lovely jelly. The currants were used for pie, cobbler, and just plain bottled.
Many a happy day was spent "berrying". The currents grew on low bushes and had to be hand picked. Jelly was made if we had sugar. If we didn't, the juice was bottled and made up later. Sometimes we took the raw berries to town to sell. These wild berries and currants also grew all along the Sevier River, which was not far from our home. Many a happy afternoon was spent, meeting the Haywood girls who lived a mile up the river or the Barton girls who lived a mile down the stream, to gather berries together.
How I'd love right now to lie on my back among those bushes, on a carpet of grass and gaze at the blue, blue sky, with its many changing cloud pictures, making up stories of what we could see in the gently moving clouds. There was always a chorus of blue-birds, black birds or wild canaries which would keep up their noisy chatter trying, it seemed, to attract the attention of thesquirrels, chipmunks or other small wild animals of the ground. An old song expresses my feelings as I remember –
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood
When fond recollection presents them to view.
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood
And every loved spot that my infancy knew.
Oh, for a quiet peaceful day all alone among "The Hills of Home." The ones I know and love. These hills, both the ones to the west and the beautiful red canyon to the east offered beautiful picnic spots. Our picnics, however, were usually a part of a family work projects. In Red Casto Canyon we gathered elder berries, got a load of wood or hunted cotton tail rabbits which were mighty tasty the way mother cooked them.
On the west hills we usually went for pine-nuts in the fall. Well do I remember gathering the first nuts of the fall, roasting them, and shelling them to decorate a 3 layer cake to send to my brother Earl who was then in the army in World War One. A cake to go through the mail from Utah to Texas must not have arrived in the best condition, but my! A lot of love went with it in that carefully prepared box.
The summer I was seven, father had died and mother decided to "prove up" as it was called, on 60 acres (I guess) that joined our farm. Whether father had planned that or not I don't know. To "prove up" on the land, a house had to be built, and lived in so many months of the year. Also a specified amount of land had to be cleared and planted. Uncle George Wilson and his sons came down to build the 2 rooms which became the home of mother and her 8 children.
This is a picture of Larene on the left and her sister ? daughters of Ruth's brother Philo. They are standing in front of the remains of the home in Casto, (I think!)
It was a family project to dig up the huge sage brush that grew in the rich soil. I remember one day we had a pile of them as big as a barn it seemed to my young eyes. Someone asked "May we have a bon fire tonight"? and then followed the question, "May we roast some meat on the coals?" Mother looked up, held her back, which I'm sure was aching, hesitated a minute and said "Have you ever eaten potatoes roasted on coals? They just melt in your mouth." I guess we didn't have meat, but my mother made the roasted potatoes sound wonderful. And they tasted that way, after the huge bon-fire had died down enough to put them in the ashes or coals. The coals glowed as the darkness deepened into night.
We sat around on the ground: a widowed mother with her children and she sang songs to us and told stories of the "olden days" when she was young. I remember she had an old treasured note book filled with the songs she knew, loved and sang. I never did see her use this old song book. She had them all memorized. How I'd love to hear once more her singing "Red Wing," "When the Snow Birds Cross the Valley" or any of the many she hummed or sang as she worked.
It was this summer I think that a huge flood came down from Casto Canyon. It cut in so far that the old log house where we had lived, gradually toppled into the flood.
We were on the bank of the wash across from our new house and watched as the logs one by one floated along on the waves. Mother would identify each one it seemed as she'd say -- "Oh there's the log that was in front of the fire place -- the back door, " etc. What a lot of memories must have passed by mother on the waves of the flood that day!
Our new location was much closer to the Sevier River and its fishing holes. My brother Philo loved to fish and so did I. Just as day was breaking was the best time to fish. Philo couldn't always get George enthused about getting up this early, and LaVern didn't always share my enthusiasm, so often Philo would let me go with him. My, what beautiful mornings -- fish jumping out of the water just asking to be caught. Beavers slapping their tails on the water to warn their mates of the danger of "a man around" -- and warbling birds just splitting their throats with the joy of living. One who hasn't spent such a morning just hasn't known one of life's greatest joys -- and then to carry home a string of fish for mother's waiting frying pan, hoping that the others had finished the milking.
"Those were the days my friend -- I thought they'd never end" -- (another song of later days)
(Pal's note: The descriptions she gives sound like prose and poetry to me!)
There was an old shearing corral above our farm, where grew the biggest tenderest pig weeds I've ever seen. They make the world's best "greens." Spinach or chard can't begin to compare with them. How we enjoyed them and the bush watercress that grew so tall and tender in the natural springs near by. After a long winter with no fresh vegetables, as we can buy now, these early greens were surely a welcome change in our diet.
There was always plenty of work for each one of us. It was LaVern's and my responsibility to herd the cows. We didn't have a regular pasture so the cows had to be driven to grassy spots on the public domain around our farm. First one place, then another as feed ran out. Sometimes we'd take turns, sometimes we'd go together.
LaVern liked to ride horses. I was inclined to be afraid of them, particularly "Old Gilts" a great big horse that we often had to use or walk. Often I'd run along by the side while LaVern rode, because i was afraid of him. One day I remember getting frightened. I went home and told mother that I'd been thrown off and my neck was stiff. (I was careful to hold it and walk slowly.) I'm sure mother knew I was lying but she also probably knew I needed a little security at the time. She gently rubbed my neck and had me go to bed to "be careful". She even insisted on me "being careful" and staying in bed, when the others went swimming later. If I'd known about the swim, the horse wouldn't have thrown me that day. (?)
As Adelia got old enough I could always coax her into going with me by promising to make up stories. My what stories! If they'd been published I'm sure they'd be best sellers.
Our milk was kept cool in 6 quart pans placed on racks in an old dirt cellar. Mother would skim part of the cream off to make butter and then use the milk to make cheese. Often we drank straight skimmed milk, so all the cream could be used for butter. This could be sold for cash, but many a time too, some hungry child? would slide into the cellar quietly and take a little of that thick cream to put on bread and then top it all with sugar. Um!
As I've said, mother made cheese. About the happiest time of the day was when it was ready to put in the press. Usually we'd each get a little cheese cured in our hand, or if we were lucky even some in a dish sprinkled with salt. Commercial cheese curd from a factory can't possibly touch the kind mother made. Because of the farm work we'd always have to move to the farm before school was out in the spring, sometimes missing 3 or 4 weeks. The fall of the year presented the same problem. The fall work had to be done before we could start school. Some years we'd miss as much as 4-6 weeks of the 8 month school year, yet we managed to keep up well in our classes. At least I thought I was smart, and no one tried to make me believe differently.
As I got older, and Earl was married and gone, the boys needed more help in the field. Lavern was more frail and it was often me who went with the boys. I learned how to irrigate the big fields so as to conserve water. There was no machinery that I didn't have to learn to handle. First the hay rake, pulled by 2 horses, then the hay mower and finally the grain cutter and binder. I was always afraid the machines would break down while I was using them -- and often they did. What major tragedies, but no more major than fighting the mosquitoes. It makes me itch now to think of trying to use a shovel with both hands and trying to blow away the mosquitoes that would crawl up under the net I had around my hat. Such were the joys and sorrows of Life on the Farm!
Our water supply during my early childhood years was a well in our back yard. How very modern we felt when the tap system came in to town. We couldn’t afford taps in our house, but we did get an outside tap, down in our barnyard. The water had to be sort of pumped into buckets and then carried to the house. A few years later we did get one tap in the house but still all water had to be heated on an old wood range, which range also produced the heat we needed in winter. On this stove was heated the water for our baths, which were taken in a round No. 3 tub in front of said stove, with the oven door down to let out more warmth for the bath area. Girls, then boys, took their turns occupying the kitchen while the others stayed in the “other room” getting their Sunday clothes pressed and ready for the next day. Yes, Saturday night was bath night. I suppose we had baths in between, but Saturday night is what I remember, waiting for water to warm, then 2 or 3 bathing in the same water to save longer waiting.
This is the chapter on my mother Ruth's childhood. She truly was a great writer, and described her life so you could feel like you were there. More to come!
138. Ruth's beautiful description of her childhood on the farm, and family life in near poverty.
Childhood on the farm:
My earliest recollections on the farm I guess was the summer I turned 6 years old. (This would have been about 1914, and the summer before her father died in October.) We were living in a little log house close to what we called "the wash."
Farther on down the wash were little ravines where the most beautiful red berries grew. We called them "Bull Berries." They were the only fruit that dared to try to grow in that cold climate, except some wild currants and elder berries. The "bull berries" made a tart lovely jelly. The currants were used for pie, cobbler, and just plain bottled.
Many a happy day was spent "berrying". The currents grew on low bushes and had to be hand picked. Jelly was made if we had sugar. If we didn't, the juice was bottled and made up later. Sometimes we took the raw berries to town to sell. These wild berries and currants also grew all along the Sevier River, which was not far from our home. Many a happy afternoon was spent, meeting the Haywood girls who lived a mile up the river or the Barton girls who lived a mile down the stream, to gather berries together.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood
When fond recollection presents them to view.
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood
And every loved spot that my infancy knew.
Oh, for a quiet peaceful day all alone among "The Hills of Home." The ones I know and love. These hills, both the ones to the west and the beautiful red canyon to the east offered beautiful picnic spots. Our picnics, however, were usually a part of a family work projects. In Red Casto Canyon we gathered elder berries, got a load of wood or hunted cotton tail rabbits which were mighty tasty the way mother cooked them.
On the west hills we usually went for pine-nuts in the fall. Well do I remember gathering the first nuts of the fall, roasting them, and shelling them to decorate a 3 layer cake to send to my brother Earl who was then in the army in World War One. A cake to go through the mail from Utah to Texas must not have arrived in the best condition, but my! A lot of love went with it in that carefully prepared box.
The summer I was seven, father had died and mother decided to "prove up" as it was called, on 60 acres (I guess) that joined our farm. Whether father had planned that or not I don't know. To "prove up" on the land, a house had to be built, and lived in so many months of the year. Also a specified amount of land had to be cleared and planted. Uncle George Wilson and his sons came down to build the 2 rooms which became the home of mother and her 8 children.
It was a family project to dig up the huge sage brush that grew in the rich soil. I remember one day we had a pile of them as big as a barn it seemed to my young eyes. Someone asked "May we have a bon fire tonight"? and then followed the question, "May we roast some meat on the coals?" Mother looked up, held her back, which I'm sure was aching, hesitated a minute and said "Have you ever eaten potatoes roasted on coals? They just melt in your mouth." I guess we didn't have meat, but my mother made the roasted potatoes sound wonderful. And they tasted that way, after the huge bon-fire had died down enough to put them in the ashes or coals. The coals glowed as the darkness deepened into night.
We sat around on the ground: a widowed mother with her children and she sang songs to us and told stories of the "olden days" when she was young. I remember she had an old treasured note book filled with the songs she knew, loved and sang. I never did see her use this old song book. She had them all memorized. How I'd love to hear once more her singing "Red Wing," "When the Snow Birds Cross the Valley" or any of the many she hummed or sang as she worked.
It was this summer I think that a huge flood came down from Casto Canyon. It cut in so far that the old log house where we had lived, gradually toppled into the flood.
Our new location was much closer to the Sevier River and its fishing holes. My brother Philo loved to fish and so did I. Just as day was breaking was the best time to fish. Philo couldn't always get George enthused about getting up this early, and LaVern didn't always share my enthusiasm, so often Philo would let me go with him. My, what beautiful mornings -- fish jumping out of the water just asking to be caught. Beavers slapping their tails on the water to warn their mates of the danger of "a man around" -- and warbling birds just splitting their throats with the joy of living. One who hasn't spent such a morning just hasn't known one of life's greatest joys -- and then to carry home a string of fish for mother's waiting frying pan, hoping that the others had finished the milking.
"Those were the days my friend -- I thought they'd never end" -- (another song of later days)
(Pal's note: The descriptions she gives sound like prose and poetry to me!)
There was an old shearing corral above our farm, where grew the biggest tenderest pig weeds I've ever seen. They make the world's best "greens." Spinach or chard can't begin to compare with them. How we enjoyed them and the bush watercress that grew so tall and tender in the natural springs near by. After a long winter with no fresh vegetables, as we can buy now, these early greens were surely a welcome change in our diet.
There was always plenty of work for each one of us. It was LaVern's and my responsibility to herd the cows. We didn't have a regular pasture so the cows had to be driven to grassy spots on the public domain around our farm. First one place, then another as feed ran out. Sometimes we'd take turns, sometimes we'd go together.
LaVern liked to ride horses. I was inclined to be afraid of them, particularly "Old Gilts" a great big horse that we often had to use or walk. Often I'd run along by the side while LaVern rode, because i was afraid of him. One day I remember getting frightened. I went home and told mother that I'd been thrown off and my neck was stiff. (I was careful to hold it and walk slowly.) I'm sure mother knew I was lying but she also probably knew I needed a little security at the time. She gently rubbed my neck and had me go to bed to "be careful". She even insisted on me "being careful" and staying in bed, when the others went swimming later. If I'd known about the swim, the horse wouldn't have thrown me that day. (?)
As Adelia got old enough I could always coax her into going with me by promising to make up stories. My what stories! If they'd been published I'm sure they'd be best sellers.
Our milk was kept cool in 6 quart pans placed on racks in an old dirt cellar. Mother would skim part of the cream off to make butter and then use the milk to make cheese. Often we drank straight skimmed milk, so all the cream could be used for butter. This could be sold for cash, but many a time too, some hungry child? would slide into the cellar quietly and take a little of that thick cream to put on bread and then top it all with sugar. Um!
As I've said, mother made cheese. About the happiest time of the day was when it was ready to put in the press. Usually we'd each get a little cheese cured in our hand, or if we were lucky even some in a dish sprinkled with salt. Commercial cheese curd from a factory can't possibly touch the kind mother made. Because of the farm work we'd always have to move to the farm before school was out in the spring, sometimes missing 3 or 4 weeks. The fall of the year presented the same problem. The fall work had to be done before we could start school. Some years we'd miss as much as 4-6 weeks of the 8 month school year, yet we managed to keep up well in our classes. At least I thought I was smart, and no one tried to make me believe differently.
As I got older, and Earl was married and gone, the boys needed more help in the field. Lavern was more frail and it was often me who went with the boys. I learned how to irrigate the big fields so as to conserve water. There was no machinery that I didn't have to learn to handle. First the hay rake, pulled by 2 horses, then the hay mower and finally the grain cutter and binder. I was always afraid the machines would break down while I was using them -- and often they did. What major tragedies, but no more major than fighting the mosquitoes. It makes me itch now to think of trying to use a shovel with both hands and trying to blow away the mosquitoes that would crawl up under the net I had around my hat. Such were the joys and sorrows of Life on the Farm!
Our water supply during my early childhood years was a well in our back yard. How very modern we felt when the tap system came in to town. We couldn’t afford taps in our house, but we did get an outside tap, down in our barnyard. The water had to be sort of pumped into buckets and then carried to the house. A few years later we did get one tap in the house but still all water had to be heated on an old wood range, which range also produced the heat we needed in winter. On this stove was heated the water for our baths, which were taken in a round No. 3 tub in front of said stove, with the oven door down to let out more warmth for the bath area. Girls, then boys, took their turns occupying the kitchen while the others stayed in the “other room” getting their Sunday clothes pressed and ready for the next day. Yes, Saturday night was bath night. I suppose we had baths in between, but Saturday night is what I remember, waiting for water to warm, then 2 or 3 bathing in the same water to save longer waiting.
This is the chapter on my mother Ruth's childhood. She truly was a great writer, and described her life so you could feel like you were there. More to come!
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