Ethel Proctor-Life Story Part Three

My Book of Memories

by Ethel P. Formo

1910-1978

     During the summer months, Uncle Will’s bees gave us quite a lot of trouble.  At first we were both afraid and fascinated by them.  Uncle Will would put on a heavy jacket and a very wide brimmed hat.  Then he would drape himself with soft white netting.  The net would extend out and down over the brim of the hat and under his chin where he would close it by pulling a draw string.  That way he could see what he was doing and avoid being stung about the face and head.  A high collar on the jacket protected his neck.  He wore fine fitting leather gaunt-like gloves that reached above the elbows and rubber boots about his knees and feet.

     I often wondered how he protected himself from his belt to his knees. I never found out.  He would go out and gather the honey combs and place them in a big vat to drain in a special building built just for that purpose.  He would replace the frames in the hives while the bees hummed and dived in protest in huge swarms, but it never seemed to bother him.  I guess he had become immune to their stings----only he never seemed to get stung.  One day Uncle Will wasn’t feeling very good and the bees had to be taken care of so Dad volunteered.  Aunt Amelia saw to it that he was dressed like Uncle Will but he got stung twice.  Was he ever sick!  We nearly lost him.  Never again would Uncle Will let Dad near the honey house.  And Dad would always go out front and up the road to their house instead of taking the short cut.  Of course the bees would fly many miles hunting for flower nectar to make their honey, but the chances of being stung out in a barren road were much less.  Rozella and Max and I were scared stiff when the stings made Dad so sick but small minds soon grow brave again.  Before long we were slipping through the fence again at the end of the gardens and our short legs would sail us past the bee hives and over to play with Lee and Rebe.  I swear those two never got stung---so why should we?  The oftener we tried it the braver we got.  Then one day---Disaster  We had stopped to pick some raspberries and Max’s little red nose was the target.  He let out a scream that brought everyone running.  Of course the first thing to do was try to get the stinger out.  No way would he hold still for that, so on went the traditional mud pack.  The only thing that will ease the burning sensation and draw out the stinger.  He was a sorry looking sight.  Thank goodness he was not as allergic as Dad but his nose swelled up so big it made both eyes turn black.  What a grotesque figure for about ten days.  I don’t think Max ever traveled that path again as long as we lived there. 

     Sometimes Uncle Will would let us help in the honey house.  We had to press the honey out of the wax combs into various sized hot buckets to be sealed immediately.  Of course we were only allowed in there if we had scrubbed our hands and faces and tied a white towel around our heads.  Then Uncle Will would tie a huge white apron around our neck that would reach to the floor.  It was such a thrill to see that pure clear sweet honey we could eat.  We really could anyway, but it always tasted best right from the honey house.  And ohh---to chew that sweet bee’s wax with honey still in it was a delight beyond words.

     Eventually we became accustomed to the bees and I think when that intense fear of the bees left us they seemed to quiet down.  At any rate we learned to catch them inside the hollyhock blossom and you could expect a sharp sting.  Of course, we would grab for the mud when that happened and never, never would we complain.  We wouldn’t dare.

     We loved to scatter the straw around to pile it up to make rooms for a play house.  We were always being warned of the danger of the straw stack collapsing in on us and being smothered to death.  But the warning was soon forgotten. With Mom working out in the fields so much, I’m sure she and Dad prayed constantly for our welfare while they were away.  Their prayers just had to be answered for we seemed to get away with it every day.

     Fall weather came.  Oh what a busy time.  The pumpkins and squash had to be picked and stored in the straw stack.  The carrots and cabbage had to be dug then buried in a pit Dad had dug.  The outside cabbage leaves had to be wrapped around the inner head to keep it crisp and clean.  No way could one be buried if the outer leaves had come loose.  Then they were turned upside down so the roots were above the ground thus giving  something to hold and pull up on.  The carrots were topped and piled up and covered with straw.  Oh—how fresh and crisp they kept all winter long.

      It was time to cut and stack the hay.  There were no bales in those days.  It had to be pile high in stacks.  The derrick forks had to be pulled up by hooking one end over the top of a very tall frame that could be moved from stack to stack area.  While Elwood and Dad leveled off the hay as it was pulled to the top and dumped, we kids had to ride the horses forward to raise the loaded fork, then be able to back them up to lower the empty fork.  We had two beautiful big mares named Maude and Pet.  They had a reputation all over the country.  They were big and willing and together could pull a load that even questioned the ability of a couple of elephants.  They were very much in demand to help people get unstuck in the fields.  Sometimes Dad wondered if he had two horses of his own or if he should quit farming and just hire out his team.

     Max would straddle Pet and I would handle Maude.  Our legs stuck straight out from their backs they were so wide.  We loved to ride and didn’t mind the long hours it took to make a hay stack.  Pet and Maude seemed to know us and were very gentle and careful.  One day Max fell off and old Pet just stood there never making a move, until he had been rescued but she was a quiver all over and her eyes were big and frightened.

     It was my first year at school and I loved it.  But it had its drawbacks.  One day we were coming through the fields.  There were about ten of us.  My sister Rosella was the tom-boy of the family.  No one had better dare her to do anything or it would get done.  She loved to climb trees and rob the bird nests.  Or she would climb up in the rafters of the barn hunting for bats.  All the boys liked her.  If I was ever choosing up sides for a game she was always the first one chosen.  But even at that age not everything is acceptable.

      One day we were coming home from school, Rozella and Serge Marshall, a neighbor boy seemed to think Rozella was an angel on legs, were walking ahead of us.  All of a sudden Serge put his arm around her neck and we heard screech.  She had swung her lunch bucket and hit him just above the eye then took off on a run.  Serge wouldn’t tell us what happened but he scurried home.  We were finishing supper, when here comes Mrs. Marshall and Serge.  He was dragging back but Mrs. Marshall was mad.  It had taken her until then to find out what had happened.  He kept saying it was his fault and not to blame Rozella.  She had come over to find out what Rozella had to do with Serge having a whale of a black eye and a lump the size of a chicken egg just above that eye.

Rozella

     Rozella said, “I hit him with my lunch bucket.  He don’t need to think he can kiss me!!”  Her eyes were blazing.  Mrs. Marshall was very apologetic and after accepting a piece of cake and a cup of tea, headed home but left Serge to play for awhile.  We were all playing again as though nothing had happened.  Isn’t it great kids don’t seem to hold grudges once they’ve made their point?

    One day we were playing out by the haystack.  My brother Elwood, my cousin Eugene Hone and a neighbor friend their own age had been whispering together quite a while teasing us little ones beyond words.  Finally they took me aside and asked me to go in and tell Mom that Rozella had fallen off the haystack and was dead.  No way would I go for that.  Finally they started bribing me with pretty robin and sparrow eggs.  They added a few marbles, still my answer was no.  Gene and Owen left but were soon back.  They added a couple of pencils---one had not even been used---a very tiny cupie doll, beads, two pennies and bright piece of cloth to make a dress or blanket for my rag doll.  There was a whole shoebox full of goodies!  I couldn’t resist such treasures.  I went slowly up to the door and hesitated.  They urged me on.  I went in.  Mom was cooking supper.  She asked where the others were and asked me to call them to eat.

     “I can’t,” says I.  “Rozella fell off the haystack and is dead.”

     Mom dropped the spoon, grabbed hold of a chair and almost fell.  That scared me and I started to cry as she went running out the door.  I could hear the other laughing---then all was silent.  Mom came back into the house and her face was white.  She never said a word, just looked at me. I buried my head and sobbed.  She gathered me in her arms and stroked my head.  “Why, oh why don’t she spank me?” I thought.  But I think what she was doing would hurt me more than any spanking she could give me.  I’m sure she was right for it haunted me all my life that I could have been so cruel to such a wonderful person.  A spanking can be so easily forgotten.  I think we accept it as payment for a misdemeanor.  I felt like crying every time I looked at either Mom or Dad for a long time.  I’m sure she must have told Dad all about it but would not let him spank me either.

George Kidd and Annie Ludlow Proctor

     We lived about 2 ½ miles from school if we cut through the fields.  It was 5 miles around by the road.  Since there were no buses and everyone was so busy in the fields, we had to walk to school.  But we didn’t mind.  We’d often rob the chicken coup on the way out and trade the fresh eggs in at the little country store near school for a pencil or a bit of candy, or whatever the “store man” felt like giving us.  I was afraid to take more than two at a time.  So I usually ended up with an all-day sucker or a pencil.

     But it was more fun just exchanging parts of our lunches with the other kids.  Mom would let us mix cocoa with thick cream to make a thick paste and spread it on our good home backed bread.  We were very popular lunch exchangers. In fact Mom finally had to put a stop to it because we were making more sandwiches than she knew we should eat.  We got pieces of chicken, cake, cookies, other kinds of sandwiches or whatever—even for our good cocoa sandwiches.