Gas was only nine cents a gallon but we couldn’t afford much of it. Fifty cents a day pay on the job didn’t allow excessive use. Anyway, most of the roads around us were dirt, unpaved, except for the highway that ran through the town fifteen miles away. Rainy weather made the local roads almost unusable
There was no telephone except for the one three miles away at the train depot. We only used that in case of emergencies. There was no one to call anyway, since none of our friends had a telephone.
We
did have lights though. We had one in each of three rooms. They were
called “coal oil” lamps and you turned them on with a match rather than
a switch. To do homework or to read we gathered around the kitchen
table, used the same light. Warm to sit by in the wintertime but hot as
blazes in the summertime.Refrigerator, keeping the door closed was no problem, there was none? A large tin tray with three inches of water in it; the butter and milk kept in crock ware covered with screen wire to keep the flies out. Water splashed on the cloth that covered it kept the contents cool.
Radio didn’t bother anyone, didn’t have one of those either. For entertainment the adults played dominoes, cards or forty-two. Kids always found some sort of game to play.
I don’t want to wear those old clothes again either. Mom had to make most of them, couldn’t afford many of the store-bought ones. I still see her foot moving back and forth as she pedaled, the Singer sewing machine whirring, carefully sewing the cutout pieces together.
I liked the washing machine though. Had one of those – Mom. Everyone pitched in early in the morning on washday, Wednesday, to carry the water to the large iron pot Dad had a roaring fire under to heat it. Then carefully carry the hot water to the tub where Mom soaked and washed the clothes on the washboard.
Didn’t like the dryer much either. It was a long wire stretched between two trees where the clothes could be pinned with a gadget called a “clothespin”. Nice if there were a breeze where the clothes could flap back and forth, otherwise the clothes dried stiff chaffing your skin until they limbered up. Cold winters presented another problem. You wore them as long as you could stand them.
For long distance transportation the train was used. No commercial airlines except for trial versions. The train was great but in the summer with the windows open to keep cool the coal dust from the smoke just about ruined your clothes. It took about four days to go from one shore to the other. We couldn’t afford to do that though; we just read about it in the paper the train kicked off at our little town as it sped through – that is if the bundle didn’t get under the wheels and get chewed up.
What you just read above pretty much described the daily life I knew until sixteen and it was in a place called Elm Valley. Almost no one believes the things I describe as true except the few old friends that still are with me today. My sons seem to think, perhaps, that "the old man" has now gone off the deep end. Although you would not recognize it today, I still remember vividly how you got to our valley.
In the very early years of my life a narrow, graveled road ran almost straight from a city to the north, Abilene, Texas. The road ran almost
due South from Abilene to a plateau that overlooked the Valley and then
zigzagged down through our valley to a small town called Buffalo Gap¹ and
ended there. A small Baptist Church sat affectingly on the edge of that
plateau seemingly guarding the entrance to the winding road that
followed. In those days the road made a sharp right turn just after the church, wound snake-like downward to cross and old one-way wooden bridge built by the county with the help of the Valley citizens. The county furnished the lumber and labor for the bridge while my Grandfather and his neighbors built the approach to the bridge with horse drawn Drag Scrappers. The bridge where towered oak and willow tress arched over, made a shady, almost tunnel-like entryway into the Valley.
Passing through that entryway was almost a magical experience to an eight year old, the years I remember most vividly. In the summer, once on the other side of the creek, the view was green with maize, corn and wheat fields and stock grazing on the freshly harvested fields in the fall. Only in the late 30's did that entryway become impassable from too much rain at the same time causing the creeks to overflow and cover the valley with a foot of water.
The Model T’s of the era had a hard time climbing out of the valley, sometimes having to back up the steep grade, however, the Model A’s that followed could traverse it in second gear handily. It was fun coasting down that hill on a bicycle but a tough time pushing the bike up. Needless to say, that took most of the fun out of it and the fad didn’t last long.
This was my world at eight to sixteen years of age, I shared it with others; close friends Roger and me, Barney and me and Charles and me. Roger, the longest friend in the valley and I, grew to manhood in that valley. Barney stayed until thirteen and then left us when his family moved. I would not see him again until we were forty. Charles was a close frined that lived in another Gap called Cedar. I saw him once a week when his Mom and mine washed the clothes together on Wednesdays.
We grew up with Tom Mix, Hop Along Cassidy, Laurel and Hardy in the movies – Jack Armstrong, Fibber McGee and Molly, Ma Perkins on the radio – music from the big bands of Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey and all the rest. We rode the narrow roads on bicycle and the creeks and woods on horseback as my one-eyed, bob-tail dog Pat treed the squirrels from tree to tree. He and I perhaps, spent as much time on the creeks in the woods as we did at home.
I spent more time with Roger than Barney during these years. Barney was a good companion, followed me anywhere I would go, perhaps off the end of a cliff if I desired, for he was a true friend. Sometimes I may have taken advantage of him, as the time when we were under a pecan tree picking up the fresh pecans.
Barney
had received a new knife for Christmas. He was proud of it and actually
could carve quiet well with it. He could shell a pecan in seconds. I
would bet him he couldn’t shell them as fast as I could eat them. He
took me up on that. Of course, he was the winner and, the game would end
when I had my fill of pecans. But, he had the knife skills and others as
well.Charles and I spent many Wednesday’s together and he enjoyed the creeks as well as I. On trips to his farm we spent many hours skinny-dippin in the large, Government constructed lake. The earth around the Gap’s was almost red. Thus, the water in the creeks from the run-off, saved in the tanks and lakes was generally light red in color.
Once, years later, on a quick trip back there he and I would drive back to that old lake, then almost filled with mud and silt. While enjoying a cold coke from his pickup cooler we reminisced. “Can you believe we used to swim in that”, he laughed. “Yes,” I said, “and spent much time under the hose at the house trying to get the red mud stains off our bodies so the folks wouldn’t know we had." It was great bonding with an old friend for I would not see him ever again
We all thrust toward manhood, eagerly, accepting the challenges that presented itself to youth. There were “Johnny come-lately’s” of course, younger guys that either was born after us or came with their family when they moved there. But, we were the older guys, the kings of the valley and younger ones left out until we grew older and wiser perhaps. Then, they too were let in on the secrets of the valley.
Looking back, it seemed that half of my seventeen years there was spent in the cellar from the thunderstorms that passed over the
valley. Tornados were common in that era and wiped a small town from the
map not far from us. At the first sign of thunder we headed for the
cellar containing all the comforts of home, which were not many in those
days, while we dozed to the wild thunder as the storm would pass over.The house we lived in was small, three rooms, one a dirt floor. I suppose money ran out when constructing and it was never finished. The house was hot in the summer and cold in the winter but it kept you dry. In the winter, one had to lay old clothes or towels in the cracks under the doors to keep the frigid air out while constantly feeding the old wood stove that hungrily ate the wood we chopped in the fall. In the summer the hot, humid air of the valley poured through the few windows and we only found comfort in moving beds to the outside sleeping coolly but under nets to keep the pesky bugs out.
Perhaps the last time I helped with the gathering of the winter wood occurred when I was ten. My trusty one-eyed dog had treed something in a thicket of prickly pair a desert-like cactus that seemed to grow quiet easily among our native grass and Mesquite trees, also a desert plant.
I got close enough to the thicket to see something move. I leveled my trusty twenty two' and fired. With gun still in hand I rushed up to see what I had just shot. I obviously missed the critter for he took his turn in this dual of man over beast. He was a better shot than I and planted it neatly in my forehead where one rarely survives.
I dropped to the ground, mortally wounded, it felt. There was no pain, however, there was only a horrible, musty scent that produced unstoppable gagging and removal of the lunch I had not long ago enjoyed. I felt hands tearing at me to finish me off rubbing dirt on my face, perhaps skinning me alive which I later discovered were my parents removing my clothes, throwing them in the fire that had cooked the lunch I lost.
Naked before God and anyone else I rode in the back of the wagon with only an old horse blanket to protect me. After many baths in tomato juice, lye water I was pronounced alive and stable. Further treatments of frequent bathing with lye soap, patting down with soda powder and a prescription to sleep outdoors on the porch for several nights completed my recovery. The moral of the story of course is, you learn to shoot better than a black critter with a white stripe down his back.
Good winters were the exception, however, with no indoors plumbing, the trips to the bathroom were chilling to say the least. I never did understand why the outhouse was built with the open back facing the northwest where the prevailing winds blew. Needless to say, the trips were short and upon return it was necessary to turn around and back up to the stove and warm up the cold part of your body.
But, by the time I was ten we did have some modern conveniences. We got a telephone. Our number was two long rings and one short. When you answered the phone, you could hear a click, click, click, as others down the line picked up the receiver to see if perhaps it might have been their ring. Then, as the conversation got boring, the same click, click, click sounded again as the listeners hung up. I am not sure there were many secrets in the valley.
It was peaceful there. An occasional traveling salesman would put a spark in the day as he traveled up and down the valley showing his wares. There were others passing through also, what we probably would call homeless today, chopping wood or some other small chore for a good meal. My Grandmother never let a hungry man pass her porch.
Otherwise,
we were protected in the valley, world wise, and perhaps rode the
straight path without many incidents. Yes, there was a couple. Barney
and I had a try at smoking. That career ended with the burning of an old
bridge. Hiding under the bridge coughing and spiting, the butts were
thrown away neatly to hide them in the trash that had gathered there
from the last high water, later burning nicely, taking the old bridge
with it. The burning of the bridge was attributed to a passerby that
might have camped under it for the night. We got out of that one at the
expense of some poor, homeless guy.At an older time, the mischief continued; coming home from a Sunday movie in a father’s car, on a straight stretch of road the car suddenly headed toward the only bridge abutment in ten miles and struck it head on. There was no reason for this except perhaps the two in the passenger side kept turning the key of the 37’ Ford off and on.
To stop the silly exchange I simply turned the key and removed it from the ignition, forgetting of course that the steering wheel in the Ford’s of those days locked when the key was removed. Why that bridge abutment was there instead of ten miles further down the road I will never understand. For the very moment brakes were applied, the car veered dead center to that abutment. The print of it was very vivid in the bumper and the center of the grille.
The winter nights seemed long, for as soon as the sun set the new Aladdin lamps were lit. These were brighter than the old coal oil lamps. They had a wick that glowed providing enough light for one room and the first to have decorative shades over them, glass of course.
It seemed no longer than winter came around, spring followed quickly. The old mesquites turned green assuring you that there would be no further freeze. The dove, quail began to appear and an occasional cottontail would further certify that spring was officially here. It was also a time you sat in class, staring out the window at the green grass wishing you were down on the creek with your one-eyed, bob-tailed frined close behind.
Spring turned the valley into a whole new world. The bees, wasps buzzed with activity. The bees replenishing the honey stolen from they’re hive and the wasps building new mud homes for the young. I learned to respect both after I poked a beehive and about four of them gave me a positive message that I shouldn’t do that. But, the honey was delicious with hot biscuits spread with real butter.
Spring
plowing and planting had to be done and you could go to the fields and
watch as either granddad or dad guided the four-horse team slowly across
the field. You could lay in one of the freshly plowed furrows, the
coolness of the upturned earth against you as you watched a hawk or a
crow fly lazily across the bright blue sky. The field was a perfect place to try out the new kite built during the cold winter days. The late March wind blew steadily, and depending on how much string one had the kite could almost go out of site. Sadly, I would loose some of my prize ones to the thermals that were prevalent in our area. To watch them sail away in the distance was dis heartening but, you could always build another. Newspaper and willow sticks were in abundance.
The spring rains made everything smell fresh and new, even if you did have to spend time in a musty old cellar. After the storm you could smell the sweet peas and the honeysuckle at night while listening to frogs croak from a mile away, it was so quite. The sweet smell and the distant croaking lay you to sleep quickly.
The summer changed from winter to summer seventeen times before I would leave the valley for the city north and travels around the world. I would return there many times before the farm was sold. The old house, long unlivable, unkempt and left to the forces of nature burned, returning it to the ground from whence it sprang. The tracks of us four and a one-eyed, bobbed-tailed dog, however, had long since washed away.