Ethel Proctor-Life Story Part One

My Book of Memories

by Ethel P. Formo

1910-1978

I guess if I start where I should, it would be what my mother told me about myself.  She had never been able to afford a doctor for her first three deliveries—God bless her---so I was sort of a first experience with her. It was a cold, blustery December 1^st (1910) when I decided to make my entrance into the world.  The family lived on a farm in Benjamin, Utah quite close to a railroad track.  Mom said she was used to the sound of the clacking wheels and the signal whistle when the train approached the road crossing.  But this particular night it seemed to have a different sound---as though it were letting the world know there was something special going on.  Dad protested leaving her long enough to go for the doctor, but Mom said she “wasn’t so dumb she couldn’t handle things until he and the doctor got back----if he wasn’t too long.”  Of course the horse and sleigh practically flew into town and back with Dr. Snow.  And wouldn’t you know, just as I let out my first “hello” to my parents and the doctor, another train sailed by welcoming or challenging my entry into this big, wonderful blustery, wintery world.

     I have often wondered if these events could have had any bearing on me being such a shy little “scardy-cat” for most of my life.

     As for my own memory pictures, here goes:

     I can’t remember when my brother Max was born.  He came 22 months after I did.  But it was soon after his birth that we moved up to Wapello, Idaho.  It really wasn’t a town but rather a water stop for the railroad.  There was a schoolhouse and a general store.

Home in Wapello, Idaho

     We had moved west of there about five miles.  Dad had sub-leased a farm from Mr. Arbough.  We were the first house after crossing the railroad again.  A big apple orchard ran parallel with the train tracks with only a fence between to keep them from getting struck down.

     I must have been about two and a half or three years old.  That old orchard had a fascination for me beyond belief.  Those small irrigation ditches at the bases of the trees generally had water in them and my sister Rozella (eighteen months older than I) and I had a ball out there every chance we got.  Poor Mom, we must have worn her legs out chasing us.  But of course old Mr. Arbough often sat out there in the shade and kept an eye on us.  He was a blessing in disguise.  As long as he was around, Mom need not worry about us.  He loved children.  He was a great organ player and would often take us in and play for us.  I used to love to sit on his knee and count the big brown freckles on his hands and arms.  Then he would tell me, “Don’t ever smoke or chew tobacco like I did or you’ll get freckles like I have.”  I truly believe it was a lesson, for I could never imagine myself wanting to either.  Of course eventually I got freckles on my hands but it was from hard work, not smoking. 

     They say the hobos or railroad “Bums” had an unspoken way of letting their so-called brothers know where they were sure of a handout.  My mother was a true Mormon lady and no one ever went away from her door hungry.  Evidently the unspoken message got around.  Our house was a very popular place.  Often we would average 10 a week, sometime two and three a day.  I truly don’t know how she managed to feed her hungry family and them too.  If we were close by the house when it was time for the train to slow down for the next town, we would be scooted into the house for it was pretty certain we would have someone stopping by for a handout.  Mom always baked her own bread and made her own jam and jellies.  People said she just could not be beated doing these things.

     Whenever anyone knocked she would have them sit on the porch and she would fix sandwiches out of whatever she had on hand.  I can remember one time a very very old looking Indian came.  He could not speak our language but Mom knew what he wanted.  His face was very wrinkled though his eyes were very sharp.  Since Blackfoot, Idaho was bordered on the south by the Blackfoot Indian reservation; naturally we had heard many tales about the Indians living here.  We lived five miles east of Blackfoot and whenever we went into Blackfoot we were awed at the sight of Indians.  Anyway, the day this old gent came to the door, mother scooted us into the house.  I must admit she had a hard time making the old fellow know he had to sit out on the porch instead of in her kitchen.  Since she was out of bread she hurried and stirred up some good old pancakes (made from scratch – of course) and fried a freshly gathered egg.  After spreading two hot pancakes with butter and jelly and filling a tin cup with milk, she let the old gentleman stay long enough to consume it.  He wanted to stay longer but Mom finally got the message over that he had to leave.  Dad was a bit shook that she had let him stay to eat the food but thanked her for not turning away a hungry man.

     Before we moved to Idaho, Mom and Dad had taken in and raised two of Dad’s younger brothers after their mothers had passed away.  [These two boys were Niva Bodez Proctor and Bryan Jennings Proctor.  Their mother, Isadora Pierce Waite Proctor, died in 1899. Niva was only 4 at that time and Bryan was only 2.]

 They often came to Idaho to visit and to help Dad out with the crops at harvest time.  Uncle Bryan was a special hero to me.  He loved to take us out into the apple orchard to see the birds and show us which were robins, sparrows, finches, bluebirds, red-winged blackbirds and meadow larks.  He could name them all.  If we could find a nest he would show us the eggs and distinguish the birds by the color of the eggs.  We were fascinated most when we would run across a water snake or garden snake.  He would grab its tail and twirl it around and around his head, and then would throw it against a tree to kill it.  How we looked forward to his visits.

     It had been a wonderful summer but now the leaves were falling and it was getting too chilly to play outside anymore.  The harvest was in.  Uncle Bryan had left and we seldom had any hobo visitors.  Dad said they had left for warmer climates where they could keep warm without having to work to buy coats and boots and gloves like we had.

Bryan Jennings Proctors 1919

     Once in a while Mother would let us walk down the track to see Mrs. Whitney.  She was a sweet old lady that always gave us cookies or fudge or lemonade every visit we made.  Mother would often send her some fresh bread or new made butter and we, my sister and older brother and I could be the messengers.  My sister was eighteen months older than I and my brother was five years older than she.  I was three.  One day when we arrived at Mrs. Whitney’s , the only response we got when we knocked was a voice saying—“Go away—awrk, awrk.”

     Elwood said, “But we have some fresh bread for you.”

     “Awrk, awrk” came the voice again, “Go away.”

     We know it wasn’t Mrs. Whitney’s voice nor her way of greeting us so we ran home as fast as our legs could carry us.   Of course Dad and Mom went right back to her house to see if she was sick or something.  She had passed away in her sleep during the night and her parrot had sent us away.  Of course I didn’t know, then what had happened but when we couldn’t go to see Mrs Whitney ever again, I was sad.  She was such a nice lady it was hard to understand why we had been told to “go away.”

     Winter came with winds and blowing snow.  We had to find amusement inside the house with only an occasional trip out to the little house---otherwise known as the toilet, the cranny or outhouse.

     Sometimes Dad would hitch up the team of horses to the sleigh, fill the sleigh full of hay and warm blankets and away we would go for a ride.  Oh what fun!  Mom always had hot chocolate or most often a pot of tea when we got home.  She was of full English decent and tea had played an important part of her family’s life so although she loved her religion she “cured” many colds and tummy aches and what-nots with a especially “true” way of brewed tea.

     It was soon after my fourth birthday that my brother and sister and I decided to play like we were going sleigh riding.  Of course we had no sleigh but they were the horse and I was the driver.  We would race through the house from room to room.

     There was a one step drop from the kitchen and dining room into the back part of the house where the bedrooms were.  There it was clear sailing again.  There was only a narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms so it would be a sharp turn or we would have to forget the hallway and go straight into Mom and Dad’s bedroom.  They had such an elegant bed stead.  It was carved from flowers with open streamers of leaves from flower to flower.  It was in gleaming satiny white with little touches of pink here and there to set off the flower petals.  It was beautiful until this day of the indoor sleigh ride.  My horses ran a bit too fast for my legs.  As they turned the corner, my hands came loose from the reins, my legs buckled under me and I hit the floor sliding into the carved petals of a leaf.  One scream and everything was gone.  When I came to, I was looking up in the face of Dr. Davis and a very frightened set of parents.  I never knew how really close to death I had been.  Mom said later the doctor told her if the cut on my forehead had been one eighth of an inch deeper it would have been instant death.  But I healed rapidly and only Mr Arbough’s patience and ability to fascinate me with his songs and organ playing held me down so Mom could go about her work and I still stayed quiet.  I have carried that scar with me all this while.  Mom used to rub warm consecrated oil on it almost every night for quite awhile so the color matched my natural skin and few people ever really noticed it.

     Spring came and the hustle and bustle of farm life started to repeat itself.  Only there was a new hum in the air when we were at the supper and breakfast table.  It was something about building a house.  When would it be done?  It was of little interest to me.  I loved it where we were.

     Even then with all the talk going on, we had our family singing in the evening.  How I loved to climb upon Dad’s lap, have him cuddle me close and sing, “Go to sleep my little pick-a-ninny.  Black Jinny-sly old fox will get you if you won’t.  Oly, oly, oly oly oly, underneath the sunny silvery moon—Hush abye rock abye—Mammy’s little baby—Mammy’s little alabamy coon.”  Where she got the lullaby from I don’t know but they way my Dad could sing it was so sweet and personal.  Just between my Dad and me. 

     They taught us all some very different but, to us, beautiful lullabies.  I would like to put them all in writing but they would fill a book by themselves.  Perhaps someday I will write them down if I have the time left.

To be continued next week