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 1st
(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
