Grandpa and Grandma Glessner

Mama's parents, Grandma and Grandpa Glessner, lived in Okobojo, about a mile from our home.

If Papa had to be away from home overnight, Mama hitched old Washta to the buggy and set out with us children for Okobojo well before sundown. While Grandma made beds on the floor for Willis and me, she told us about the trundle beds that Mama and Aunt Kitty slept in when they were little girls. (A trundle bed was one that slipped under the big bed during the day and was pulled out at night.) We wished mightily that those trundle beds were still there for us to sleep on.

The next morning, Willis and I went with Grandpa to feed the chickens and geese. We also "helped" him cut the kindling, bring in the coal, and pump water for the house. The gander always chased Willis, and once a rooster attacked him and had to be felled with Grandpa's cane. The rooster was actually "knocked out" for a few minutes. For some reason, the fowls never bothered me. I figure they probably read Willis's mind!

Mama's brothers, Uncle Charley and Uncle Hal, lived on the ranch with Grandpa and Grandma. They had a blacksmith shop, where they repaired the farm machinery and shod horses. Sometimes we were allowed to turn the bellows of the forge and watch the sparks fly. I loved to hear the ring of the steel hammer as one of my uncles shaped the red-hot iron on the anvil. Those experiences made it easier for me to memorize "The Village Blacksmith" when I was in school. "The Anvil Chorus" still brings to my mind the ringing of the steel hammer on the iron.

I was shocked to the depths when I saw Uncle Charley pick up a club one day and knock down a horse that was just standing there. Mama said there was a cruel streak in the Glessner men that she hoped none of us would inherit. (Perhaps that accounted for Willis's sadistic treatment of my dolls.)

The only time I ever saw Papa be unkind to an animal was after a long trip to Onida to get coal, when I was helping him put the team in the stable. It was dark, and I suppose old Kid didn't see that I was a child and not a dog. He lifted his hind foot and kicked me very gently on the leg. Papa stepped up and kicked him in the rear as hard as he could. Kid didn't do any more kicking.

Apples, potatoes, and other fruits were stored in Grandpa's cellar—and the apples always tasted like the cellar to me. At the bottom of the cellar stairs there was an inner door that had a big hook fastener on the outside. One day, when Grandpa had gone to the cellar to get potatoes for dinner, Willis slipped down and fastened the hook. Grandpa called him to come and open the door, but Willis didn't answer. He just sat on top of the cellar enjoying Grandpa's predicament and rising anger. Mama found him there when she came out to see why the potatoes were not forthcoming, and what she did to Willis when she heard Grandpa's story shouldn't happen to a dog!

I don't know why I watched all this and didn't tell Mama what Willis was doing. Maybe I wanted him to "catch it" for a change.

Grandma Glessner and I were twin spirits. I adored her and I revere her memory. Grandma had large bones and heavy features, but she was not a large person. Although her face was lined with age when I knew her, I remember her as being beautiful. She wore her hair about neck length, and when she pinned it up it fell in little ringlets down her neck, around her ears, and across her cheeks.

Grandma was born in Liberty, Pennsylvania, in 1842. She was the youngest of a large family and was a favorite of all. When she was ten years old, she and her mother were standing in the doorway looking across the valley. Suddenly her mother grasped her arm and said, "Oh, child!" Then she dropped dead. Of course Grandma never forgot that terrible moment, but her brothers and sisters took her into their homes and loved her. Her brother Shelley, a dentist in Waynesburg, Ohio, finally took her into his home and sent her to school in Waynesburg.

When Grandma was in her late teens, she moved into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Glessner, to help Mrs. Glessner care for the older folks in the home. John Wesley Glessner, the young son of the family, fell in love with this girl with the dark brown eyes and curls to match. They were married and had six children--three boys and three girls. Little Kitty died in infancy, but Grandpa named the next girl Mary Catharine so that he could call her Kitty. Catharine was the name of Grandpa's sister.

Grandpa's family was of German extraction; his grandmother was Katrina Margretta Wilhelm of Baltimore. He was well educated and read Latin and Greek. A Civil War veteran, he had fought under Sherman and Grant--as had Grandpa Green. They seldom talked about the war except when they were together. Then I wish I had been old enough to write down what they said. Grandpa Glessner cherished a little book that he had picked up in a Southern home while they were marching through Georgia. Uncle Charley had that book, and I wish I had read it.

Although Grandpa was a trained musician and had been a member of the band when he was in the army, he was a jeweler in Waynesburg when he and Grandma were married. Apparently he was not too successful in that occupation, since he also did other part-time work--for example, driving the village hearse. When someone asked him why he didn't put some modern touches on the hearse, Grandpa replied that he hadn't had any complaints from any of his riders. (I learned about the hearse when Jack and I visited Waynesburg after attending his fortieth class reunion at Oberlin.)

In spite of his learning, Grandpa was not interested in seeing that his children had a good education. Grandma was the ambitious one, who drove her children to become teachers and further their education at every opportunity. They had a good library in their home, and everyone in the family knew Dickens's characters as they knew their friends. I could say, "Barkis is willing," long before I knew anything about Dickens!

It was at Grandma's urging that Grandpa agreed to go west, get land in the newly opened Dakota Territory, and start over. Mining was the only thing open to young men in Ohio, unless they had college educations, and Grandma could not foresee that possibility for her sons.

Grandma and Grandpa settled in that part of the Dakota Territory that was later called Sully County. Unfortunately, Grandpa was no rancher and no judge of horseflesh. He paid a fancy price for a good-looking team of horses, which had been stuffed with bran mash but had no teeth. One of the horses dropped dead soon after he bought the team, and he replaced it with an ox. It was Uncle Charley, then fourteen years old, who had to drive this mismated team to Pierre to get supplies.

Grandpa mismanaged everything. Before Uncle Charley got old enough to take over, he and Grandma lost their homestead. Then they got a pre-emption (bought a quarter that someone else had abandoned), lost that and got a tree claim, then lost that and got a "dug-out" house and quarter section. The day finally came when Uncle Charley, Uncle Hal, and Uncle George were able to buy land and operate a successful ranch.

Having read law in his youth, Grandpa served for a time as Justice of the Peace--and also as postmaster. After my father bought the local newspaper, The Okobojo Times, in 1909, Grandpa was editor of it for a while.

Uncle George eventually joined the army at Fort Sully, but he sent money home each month to help support the family. The army gave him a musical education, and he eventually became a member of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. We were always very proud of him. Uncle George wasn't the only one who inherited Grandpa's musical ability. Uncle Charley played the clarinet, and Mama played the clarinet and the piano--beautifully!

Mama and Aunt Kitty taught school for years to help pay for the ranch; but in the German tradition, the boys inherited the land. When the girls were married, they got some cattle and their own saddle ponies. Mama also got two dogs, Heinie and Hannibal. Hannibal was a black dog with brown spots above his eyes, who didn't care much for us children. Heinie, a sheep dog with long gray hair, loved us dearly--and we returned his affection. When Heinie died, Papa buried him in a distant draw, hoping that Willis and I wouldn't find the grave. We did find it, though, and mourned for our friend in a proper manner.

Grandma's house was a low, weather-beaten cottage nestling on the banks of the Okobojo Creek. The only good well for miles around was about twenty-five feet from Grandma's kitchen door. Neighbors brought their barrels or tanks to this well, to fill them with water for their own households. A tall windmill pumped water into a huge trough for the cattle. For many years, Papa hauled our water from Grandpa's well in a big oblong water tank made of galvanized metal.

When the cistern had to be cleaned, either Willis or I was lowered by bucket to the cement bottom. After we had scrubbed it, rinsed it, and wiped it dry, we climbed into the bucket and were pulled to the surface. That was quite an adventure for us.

Willis and I were taught to kill snakes as soon as we were old enough to throw rocks and wield an implement such as a rake or hoe. Grandpa Glessner had a pet blacksnake that he told us not to bother, since it was harmless to humans and death to bugs in the garden. Grandpa also had a nest of baby birds high up on the platform of the windmill. Even Willis didn't try to look into the nest, since climbing the windmill ladder was strictly forbidden. One day we saw the blacksnake climbing up the windmill. We called Grandpa, who yelled at the snake and turned the windmill on in an effort to save the birds—but it was useless. The snake got them. Grandpa was so furious that he killed the snake as soon as it came down. That was the last of Grandpa's pet snakes, and Willis and I were glad of that!

After I started school, most of my visits to Grandma and Grandpa were made in the afternoon after school. As soon as I dashed in, Grandpa would look up from his rocking chair in the corner by the stove and say, "Well, well! How did school go today?" Then, as if my coming were a signal, he'd take off his black alpaca smoking jacket and the little black skullcap that he always wore inside the house to cover his bald head. After hanging them up, he'd put on his hunting cap and jacket, along with his gloves, and go forth to do his afternoon chores: feeding the chickens again, cutting more kindling, bringing in more coal, and taking out the ashes. Last of all, he cleaned out his little spittoon box and fixed a new bed of ashes for it.

As soon as Grandpa left the house, I slipped into his chair. If the weather was cold or wet, Grandma opened the oven door and made me put my feet inside the warm oven. While I luxuriated, she got out a little skillet and fried an egg for me. Along with the egg, she gave me a piece of toast and a cup of weak coffee made from the pot on the stove. Since I wasn't allowed to have coffee at home, this was a tremendous treat for me. In return, I told her all the news of the day.

Grandma, a strict Methodist, instilled in me a hatred of all worldly evil. She was afraid I would grow up and marry some trifling boy in the community, so she spent hours telling me how worthless they all were, and their parents before them. I lapped up all this juicy knowledge and brought fresh bits to garnish it whenever I could. If one of my schoolmates was caught in a lie, I would tell Grandma. Brown eyes snapping, she would rise to the bait: "What did I tell you? Just like his father before him! If you run with that kind, you'll suffer for it."

When Grandpa came back in the house, I knew it was time for me to go home. If it was cold, Papa sometimes came for me. Otherwise, I hurried to his printing office, feeling greatly refreshed and much loved, and the two of us walked home together.
I loved Grandma so much that I used to go out to the outhouse and cry for fear she might die. When I was eleven, Grandma got pneumonia. When Papa came home one day and told me she might not live, I sat on his lap and wept until I was exhausted. He just held me and let me cry. During Grandma's illness, Mama stayed at her house in order to nurse her.

The night Grandma died, the doctor came from Pierre. We children were taken in to see her. She was propped up in her bed, her eyes closed and her breath coming in loud, rasping gasps. Grandpa was sitting by the bed holding her hand, and Mama was crying. Grandma didn't speak to us, and after a while we were taken out of the room and told to stay in the kitchen. When the gasps finally stopped, we knew Grandma was gone. It was March 15, 1915.

In those days, the neighbors laid out the bodies of their good friends. Mrs. Bunch came and helped Aunt Kitty prepare Grandma's body for burial. Then her body was put on a door and carried into the living room to await the undertaker, who came the third day. Fortunately, the weather was cold.

I don't remember the funeral, which was held in the living room, and I don't remember looking in the casket, although I'm sure I did. I do remember following the black
hearse, drawn by two black horses, to the cemetery. She was buried there on the prairie, which she had held in awe and some fear all the days she had lived in Dakota.

Mama grieved for Grandma so deeply that the whole family was affected. One day she heard Willis and me quarreling over a May basket. In those days, we children celebrated May Day by making little paper baskets, filling them with prairie flowers, and hanging them on doorknobs. Then we'd knock on the door and run. The recipient of the basket--who was usually watching from behind lace curtains-- ran out the door, gave chase, and kissed us if we were caught. It was an exciting experience for little folks.

At the time I am writing about, Willis had made me cry--probably by tearing up my May basket. Mama cut me to the heart by saying, in her grief, "Why, Cathie Green! You cried more over a silly May basket than you did when your grandmother died. You ought to be ashamed!"

Mama didn't know that I had done my crying before Grandma died--but Papa knew. I have been like that always. My wild grief comes with the first shock of death's shadow-- not at the end. After the worst has happened, I'm as calm and stoic as an Indian.
After Grandma died, Grandpa lived with us. He was a gentle, studious man, and was the easiest person in the world to have in one's home. He spent his days in his rocker in a sunny corner of the kitchen, skullcap on his head, book in hand. His hands were small and blue-veined. The slightest bruise made a deep purple blotch on them. (My hands are like his in this respect.) His white mustache and little goatee were carefully kept. His kisses tasted like tobacco, and I liked the taste! His black alpaca smoking jacket sagged comfortably at the pockets.

Beside his chair he kept a little cigar box of ashes, which he used as a spittoon and which he cared for meticulously. His pipe was never cold. I wished he would smoke some of the ornate meerschaum pipes that Uncle George sent him from St. Louis. I noticed, however, that these beautiful golden pipes had holes in the bottom of the bowls. After all, meerschaum is a soft white clay before the smoke turns it into the lovely gold-and-brown beauties in the pipe rack.

Toward the end of his life, when he was failing, Grandpa sat in his chair all day reading The Tribune--the same one--over and over.

The only time I can remember his speaking irritably to any of us was one evening when Willis and I were washing the dishes and entertaining ourselves by singing all the songs we knew in ringing tones. When Grandpa's musical ear could stand it no longer, he stepped into the kitchen. "What I can't understand," he said, "is why, if you must sing at the top of your lungs, you have to do it through your noses!"

I was so surprised by his unaccustomed irritation that I took time to find out what he meant by saying we sang through our noses. Apparently we had acquired the habit from a family of ranchers who had moved into the neighborhood from Missouri. The man was a real cowboy, and although they had five little children his wife was more at home in the saddle than in her kitchen. They had taught us all the songs of the range, and we had taken on their nasal twang as part of the song. They had also taught Willis to speak the worst English we had ever heard. For a while, all of us talked that way in fun; but Willis did not entirely recover. From the standpoint of grammar, it was a devastating friendship for him. 

Grandpa and Grandma Green

Papa was six feet tall and well built. He had the fair skin, black hair, and deep blue eyes of the Irish. His square jaw was inherited from his great-grandfather, Darby McGannon, who was born in Belfast, Ireland, but came to America in time to serve four years in the Revolutionary War, enlisting from Culpepper, Virginia. Papa's Great-grandfather Green had escaped from Skiboreen, Ireland, on a smuggler, during the Irish Rebellion, and arrived in America in time to serve in the Revolution, enlisting from South Carolina.

The Greens had moved westward from the Carolinas to Indiana, where Papa's father, John Simpson Green, was born. Then they moved to Flora, Illinois, where Papa was born on November 26, 1870. He was the fifth child of his parents, four sons having died in infancy. Only Sherman and Grant lived long enough to be named.

When Papa was five years old, Grandpa put his sick wife and small son in a covered wagon and headed west again, with a cow tied behind the wagon. "You'll bury your wife beside the trail!" their families predicted as they set out. Not a pleasant farewell!

As they traveled westward, Grandma began to feel better, and at times she walked behind the wagon for exercise. Her appetite returned, and by the time they reached the Dakota Territory, she was able to do the work required of a pioneer wife and mother.

Grandpa settled in Hutchinson County near Yankton, and here two more boys, Hugh and Charley, were born. This was Indian country, and many nights Grandma sat in her little sod shanty with her babies, waiting for Grandpa to return from Yankton with supplies. As she waited, Indians whooped and yelled around her little home. They looked in the windows at her, and then went away because they were not able to frighten her. She was made of stern stuff, was Mrs. Green.

Grandpa Green was thrifty and practical. He didn't like to read and was annoyed by those who did! He lived to be 83 and had a full set of his own teeth when he died. He could bite corn off the cob and make it look like a horse had eaten it.

I don't remember Grandma Green, because she died when I was just starting to walk. Ten months before her death, she had a stroke and was unable to talk after that. She cried when she saw Willis, who was born in April before she died in July. When we went to see Grandpa after her death, they say that I tiptoed into the room and, pointing to the closed door, said "G'an'ma s'eep?" That broke them all up. But I was the smartest little girl in the family at that time. In fact, I was the only little girl that ever came into that family. No competition!

I inherited Grandma's old bureau, a handmade wedding present which she took to Dakota with her in the Prairie Schooner. To my prejudiced way of thinking, it is priceless.

I used to look at Grandma's picture and try to look like her. I would make a straight line of my mouth and try to pull my chin down into a square jaw, but I never resembled her at all. Mama was afraid I might be heavy like Grandma, who weighed 200 pounds. But with Mama's good supervision, I grew up with a weight complex and have never let myself get too much overweight.

Mama's own weight complex led to her death when she was living with us during World War II. We didn't realize what she was doing. We had good, wholesome food, but she wasn't eating it. Her hands got blotchy, and we took her to a doctor. Instead of examining her himself, he had his nurse look at her and treated her for arthritis. About the time we moved to our own home on Morehead Avenue, she became, very ill and told me she was dying. We got a different doctor, who put her in the hospital and found that she had acute pellagra and had had a slight stroke. She was gone in two weeks.

Papa and Mama

Papa had the easygoing Irish way with him--Shanty Irish, Mama used to say when she was disgusted because he didn't clean the yard--and a great sense of humor. Mama had a good sense of humor too, although they seldom thought the same thing was funny. Fortunately, I have a sense of the ridiculous and was able to enjoy both of them.

Mama's family was hard-working. Because Papa spent summers roaming around the country following the harvest and then came home broke so that Grandpa Green had to grubstake him for the winter, they thought Will Green would never amount to anything. Mama felt, differently about him, and after he returned from the Philippines--where he served two years in the First South Dakota Infantry with great pride—they were married.

Papa had contracted malaria in the Philippines, and when he came home in a hammock on a hospital ship he weighed less than 100 pounds. Many despaired for his life, but Mama didn't give up. Papa gradually regained his weight and strength, and on February 14, 1902, he went to see Miss Madge Glessner to propose marriage. Since she had a bad cold, he had to wait until the next night--but I have always enjoyed his romantic attempt to make it a Valentine proposal.

"All they'll ever have will be what we or his folks give them," said Uncle Charley Glessner.

"Old blue-headed, baldheaded Bill," Uncle Hal added, and laughed heartily at his own joke. (In later years, he used to resurrect that joke and throw me into a frenzy!)

Papa never fully recovered from malaria, and in the summers he often had to go to the Veterans Hospital in Hot Springs, South Dakota, to "soak it out" of his system. Because of complications from the disease, my childhood was spent looking forward to the times when Papa would feel like doing things with the family. I will always remember how Mama used to look at him when he came in the house at night. That look would tell her whether he would lie down on the couch or sit up and visit.

Mama was a beautiful woman, with burnished copper hair that curled around her face and neck. When she was in school, she wore her hair in long curls, which Will Green loved to pull. She was a wonderful Christian. She stood her ground out there on the prairie when everyone else gave in to the devil and had a heyday. Every night before we went to bed, she read from Proverbs to Willis and me. Now if you've ever read Proverbs, you know that correct conduct for children and adults is set forth in uncompromising language.

When she read, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," she explained that her switch on the warming oven was there to see that we were not spoiled. We were to obey our parents, and she was doing what the Bible said to do when she switched us. Mama's switch was sacred to her and the Bible, and if anyone broke her switch, we really cried about it! This was an excellent approach to discipline, because it put the burden on the Word and not on the parent.

We had no church in Okobojo, but on Sunday morning or afternoon Mama would take us to the Hall, where a big dance had gone on the night before. We carried out "dead soldiers," as we called the empty whiskey bottles, and swept out the debris. Papa was there too. Then Mama selected a hymn, played the organ, and started Sunday school. She taught the lesson to everyone until I was able to read the little colored cards that belonged to the Primary class. Then there began for me a lifetime of teaching. Usually some of the neighbors would bring their children--but if not, we had Sunday school anyway.

I never learned anything about baseball, because they always played the games when Sunday school was going on in the afternoons. Mama loved baseball, but we didn't go to Sunday games.

When I was twelve or thirteen, I wanted to go to the dances on Saturday night. My friends at school, Hildred and Irene, went and told me wondrous tales about what went on inside and outside the Hall. But I didn't approach Mama more than once on that score. 

"My dear little girl," I can hear her now, "I am taking care of you whether you like it or not!" That was Mama. 

"But Mama, Hildred and Irene don't have to stay at home all the time. Don't you think that, after all the years you've been taking care of me, I can take care of myself by now?"

"I certainly do not think that a girl your age has enough judgment to do that!"
"But Mama, your friend Clara was married and had a baby at my age, and was keeping house."

"And you might as well know that her baby was born before she was married, too. And all that because her mother didn't take care of her. Poor child! She should have been playing with dolls--and so should you!"

"But, Mama ..."

"You might just as well think about something else, Cathie. As long as you are in my care, you will not run wild. If you take it upon yourself to disgrace me after you are grown up, that will be your business. Right now it happens to be mine."

It always ended that way, and I'd take my disgruntled self away muttering about the silliness of a person my age having to be "taken care of." I hated the very words.

To Mama, taking care of me at that time meant not allowing me to date, play cards (they were the tools of the devil), dance, or go riding in cars with other youngsters. Not being allowed to dance was the worst privation, because it would have made all the other things possible. And that is exactly what Mama thought!

One night after an Old Settlers' meeting, I was allowed to stay for a little while after dark to hear the orchestra and watch the dancers. I watched Hildred and Irene, waist-high to their partners, tripping giddily around the old Hall floor, which had been waxed by powdered wax thrown on the floor and polished by the dancers' feet. I felt that they were terribly gay and wicked! None of the boys who knew me asked me to dance, because they knew better. One strange boy, seeing me sitting there and thinking me a wallflower, dashed up and asked me to dance. I was so shocked that I answered rudely, "I don't dance!" I really croaked it out! Had he insulted me, his dismissal could not have been more final. I shall never forget the startled expression on his face as he turned and fled for his life into the stag line. I think now that some mean fellow who knew me told him to ask me. Papa came along presently and took me home to bed--well "taken care of."

Mama didn't say no to everything without giving me something better to think about. She said over and over again, "You are going to high school and you are going to college!" No one had ever gone to high school or college from that wild community, so I was really intrigued. But that was ahead of me, and the present loomed large.

We lived twenty miles from a theater. Since we always had to go to a restaurant for supper after the show, we didn't get home from a movie until after midnight. Until I was eighteen, I always had to take Willis and his date along when I went to a show with a swain. I didn't really mind, since Willis always dated my friends, and anyway he needed watching more than I did. The only thing that bothered me was that he was supposed to be taking care of me! When I reached the age of good sense, however, I was grateful to Mama for seeing to it that no one could ever criticize me, since Willis was always along.

Okobojo

We lived a mile from Okobojo, which boasted a general store, a telephone office, a town hall, a parsonage but no church, the residences of the people who ran the various enterprises, and a number of other houses in various stages of use and disuse. However, Okobojo was the center of life for most of the people in the western part of Sully County, so the store was full of cowboys and farmers in the evenings. Their wives usually came along to buy everything from groceries to calico. The post office was in a corner of the store and was run by the storekeeper, Cousin Alex McGannon.

I remember one morning when Hildred and Irene Ripley and I were in the store looking at some new piece goods. We were on recess from school, which was bad enough--but I was forbidden to hang around the store for any reason, so my conscience was very guilty. All of a sudden, I felt my little waist-anchored petticoat slipping. The button had come off. The girls walked in front of me and behind me while I hitched at my skirt until we reached the back room of the store, which was definitely off limits for us. With much fear and trembling, we got me together and scooted for school. It must have been a traumatic experience, to stay in my mind this long. Today girls that age don't even wear petticoats--but I was no strip-teaser!

In the early days, there had been two stores in Okobojo, the Red Store and the White Store--so designated because of their colors. Then there had been a thriving settlement of houses, a hotel, stage house, post office, parsonage, town hall, and printing office, where The Okobojo Times was published.

During my life there, the population was reduced to about fifty people. The Red Store was the only store left; Papa owned and published the paper; a telephone exchange was added to the business place.

Grandpa and Grandma Glessner lived on the creek near the bridge, and it was their wonderful well that supplied the community with water. Mama called their place The Oasis--but the name wasn't very popular, since it implied that all the neighbors lived in a desert!

Barney and Washta

Every child of the Plains had his own horse, but few of them had a deed of gift to theirs as I have. I say "have" because the document still lies in the bottom of a little cedar chest which was a gift from my first admirer, Herman Morgart. The letterhead reads, "J.W. Glessner. Justice of the Peace; Notary Public; and Conveyancer." And in Grandpa Glessner's writing is the following statement:

Sept. 19, 1908
Know all men by these presents:
That Grandpa Glessner, Grandma Glessner, Uncle Charles Glessner, Aunt Murtel Glessner, and Uncle Hal Glessner, have this day, the fifth anniversary of her birth, presented to Frances Catharine Green, the "Pinto Colt" of the pony known by the name of "Siechie" to be her own individual property and to be used as a saddle pony or in any other way in which she pleases.

J.W. Glessner Josephine Glessner
(seal)

Chas. L. Glessner Murtel Glessner

Hal C. Glessner

The cedar chest also contains a little note from Grandma, written just a few months before she died, which reads, "Accept this little present on your eleventh birthday. Be good and you will be happy. Affectionately, Grandpa and Grandma."

I place the deed and the note back in the bottom of the box that Herman gave me. On top are other keepsakes of various sorts: a telegram asking for "seventy bucks" from Willis; a Christmas card Aunt Kitty sent to me on my first Christmas; the Lord's Prayer; "Your Name" by Edgar Guest; pictures of Willis and George when they were in school; "Mia Carlotta," a reading I used to give; a college handbook that I edited; a game; a scrap of family record data; my wedding gloves, together with my bra and an orchid from my bouquet; a pair of baby shoes that Mama gave to Welles, our first baby; a baby bonnet, handmade; and a compact brought to me from Paris.

Tenderly, I close the cracked lid of the little cedar chest. Each treasure brings back a flood of memories so great that I start guiltily when I remember that I meant to think of Barney, that beautiful blue-gray roan with white legs, a blazed face, and little black dots the size of silver dollars, scattered here and there over his roan-ness. I loved him. He died on the frozen, barren prairie during the Depression. Like all prairie horses, he had to die where he had roamed, for no one could move a dead horse from a barn.

Walter Ripley knew how to break saddle horses to ride. His father, Frank, was very good with horses. When I was eight and Barney was three, Papa told Walter he could gentle Barney for me. Walter had had his eye on Barney for a long time, aching to do just that, so the deal was made.

It was almost more than Grandma Glessner could endure to see Walter prancing around on Barney, She was sure he would ruin him, and that he was abusing him, and all the rest. In spite of her fears, however, Walter turned him over to me well trained.

Willis and I had learned to ride bareback on Washta, the buggy horse that was part of Mama's "dowry" when she and Papa were married. Mama and Papa wouldn't let us use stirrups because of what had happened to Lizzie Yates. She was coming home on horseback, with a pail of plums on a rope beside her. Somehow the horse became frightened. Lizzie fell off, caught her foot in the stirrup, and was dragged to death. The fact that at 74 years I still remember that tragedy shows what a terrible impression it made on me.

Willis and I used to ride double on Barney. Willis could climb on by holding his mane, but he had to find a stone for me to stand on before I could get on behind him. Then away we went. Mama said that Barney ran as easily as a bird flies; that he just seemed to glide along the prairie. We rode as fast as he could run, and I think Barney enjoyed it as much as we did. When he shied at something and threw us off, he'd wait for us to get on again.

Washta (Indian for "good”) was Barney's sister, but much older. Siechie, their mother, was a tiny strawberry roan Indian pony. (Her name means "bad," but there was nothing bad about that cute little pony.) Sometimes I would ride Washta, and when we were out of sight of the house Willis and I would try to race--he on Barney and I on poor old Washta. Washta was a good sport, but she soon gave up and just jogged along, as if she knew that's what she was supposed to do.

Sometimes on our rides we killed rattlesnakes, as we had been taught to do. To leave a rattler at large was unheard of. Horses can smell snakes (at least Indian ponies can), and many times we spotted snakes by the snorts and the direction of old Washta's ears. Then we got off our horses and stoned the snake to death. Our horses waited for us, reins dangling.

We hated rattlesnakes because little Mabel Holms, who lived with Grandpa and Grandma Green, had been bitten by a rattlesnake when she went to the cornfield to get some green corn for her pony. Before help could reach her, she turned black and died. I can still remember Grandpa Green telling this story with tears in his eyes. He had asked a neighbor boy, George Trumble, to go for a doctor; but George went home to supper and forgot about Mabel until it was too late.

Little girls didn't wear overalls in those days, so when I became conscious of my bare knees Mama bought me a divided riding skirt. From that moment on romance rode with me wherever I went. I imagined city people riding through the country and being captivated by my horsemanship and my great beauty! Handsome men were constantly seeking my hand. I pictured myself floating down our open stairway in bridal array. After a proper marriage we rode away into the sunset, a la THE VIRGINIAN. It's a good thing I had my dreams.

Chickens and Carpenters

We lived on a quarter-section of land, NW 1/4 29-114-79, to be exact. Papa taught me that description of our land when I was very young. Our closest neighbors in the village of Okobojo were one mile away, and that was the way Mama wanted it. She literally turned us out to pasture after breakfast each morning and sometimes didn't see us again until noon. At least we thought she didn't see us. I imagine she knew where we were by our shouts and the general flurry of chickens and livestock wherever we went. 

One year when little chickens were hatching, we listened to the eggs that didn't hatch. If we heard a little pecking at the shell from a chicken too weak to make it on his own, we cracked the egg gently and helped the wet little thing out and put him on the warm nest under the hen. Some of the biddies lived; but. most of them eventually died. Willis was the one who was brave enough to crack the egg. I couldn't do it, but he reasoned that we were rescuing a chicken from death, so I helped Mama wasn't, very enthusiastic about, this, but she let us go on with our rescue act.

Mama couldn't kill a chicken. Willis and I had never had enough fried chicken, and one day Mama told us that when we got old enough to kill a chicken she would fry all the chickens we wanted. She should have known better! Without further ado, each of us caught a chicken. We had seen Papa wring a chicken's neck, so we thought that was the best way. Grabbing the plump chickens by the necks, we started to wind them around and around our heads at a terrific speed. When we thought they were dead, we let them go. Mine flew over the fence, and Willis's ran away. Nothing daunted, we tried the second best way. We stepped on their heads and pulled them off. That was the way Aunt Matt Boyles did it.

Mama didn't want any details of the slaughter, but she fried the chickens for us and told us that the next lesson for us was to pick the chickens and then clean them. That came later.

Before my brother George was born, Papa had the house remodeled. We had been living in the original house that Grandpa Green had built when he first got his land from the government. Now that a new member was about to be added to the family, Mama wanted a larger house. Papa hired John Mitchell, a red-headed carpenter neighbor, and Uncle Ike McGannon to do the work. Uncle Ike was a half-brother of Papa's mother.

When Willis and I started out to be helpful, someone should have put us behind bars. Every day we did something to make things harder for the workers, but they didn't want to worry Mama, so they didn't tell her of our escapades. They grew so harsh with us that we thought we should give them something to gripe about. A white leghorn fryer made the mistake of stepping by in a haughty manner. In less time than it took the thought to materialize, Willis had the chicken in his arms. We sneaked up the ladder to the new second story, and when our carpenter tormentors weren't looking we slipped the chicken between the inside wall and the outer layer of lath ready for plastering. Then we had business where we could see but not be seen.

At first Uncle Ike thought he must be hearing things when a chicken squawked between the walls. He looked for us, but we were not in sight. Hidden nearby, we heard them talking, and their language was a delight to our ears. Such juicy words we never used, unless we wished to undergo the mouth-washing-by-soap ordeal.

Before long we heard the men ripping off the lath, and soon Rooster-Pooster came running dizzily out of the house as if indeed "the sky had fallen." We hurried to the barn to do the chores, so that Papa would believe no evil of us when he came home from the printing office. 

Punishment From Papa

My last attempt at carpentering was not so happy for me. The house had been finished and painted white with green trim. Papa and Mama were very proud of it, as it marked a milestone of achievement for them. I liked it too. There was a beautiful open staircase that came down to the living room. I saw myself dressed in bridal white and floating down to marry the right man. It was great, really.

Willis and I were inspecting the house one day when we found some carpenter tools that had not been put away. One of the tools was a drawknife. Immediately I wanted to try it on something. There was that perfectly beautiful corner of the house. Just a little curl wouldn't make any difference. But I rounded off the entire corner. Then, seeing what I had done, we headed for the barn, where there was always manure to clean out.

I was really digging deep in the manure when I thought I heard steps. Looking sidewise, I saw my father's legs standing nearby.

"Who whittled the corner of the house?"

"I didn't!" was Willis's prompt reply.

"Who whittled the corner of the house?" My father repeated the question.

"I did," I confessed miserably.

"Why did you do it?"

"The drawknife was so sharp. I didn't think what I was doing, till I saw what I'd done." That was the truth, and he knew it. 

When I looked at Papa, he was drawing a long cottonwood switch out of his trouser leg. He'd had it concealed there, held by his belt. I had never seen such a long switch in my life, and I had seen many!

"Now dance!" he said.

The switch landed with red-hot bites on my pipestem legs. "Wurp! Wurp!" I stood it as long as I could and then burst into convulsive sobs. Papa threw the switch down, and I ran into the house. Falling face down on the davenport in the living room, I cried as if I would never stop.

The door opened and Papa came in. Gathering me in his arms, he sat, down in the rocking chair and rocked back and forth until I could control my sobs. I wasn't angry, because I knew I had ruined the house and deserved the punishment; but it crushed me to have Papa lay a finger on me in displeasure.

He talked to me a long time about respect for property; then, to take my mind off my misery, he told me about his cutting Uncle Hugh's hair when they were boys. He cut it properly until he came to the top. Then he cut a short spot on top, to make uncle Hugh look bald. When Uncle Hugh looked in the mirror, he grabbed a stick and started after Papa. He chased him all the way to Okobojo--a mile--but when Papa ran into the store he didn't dare follow him because of his haircut. Papa had to give Uncle Hugh a wide berth for a long time after that.

The story made me laugh, and Papa gave me further comfort by putting a silver dollar in my hand when he got up to go on with his work. It was hard for Papa to punish us, even when we needed it--which was often. 

A New Brother

Willis was four and I was five and a half when we helped build the house. Not long after it was completed, we were allowed to spend the night with Grandma and Grandpa Glessner in Okobojo. We loved to go there. They lived on a little creek, the Okobojo, and had trees and usually a good garden. I remember the rhubarb hills, the asparagus bed, and the white horseradish roots that Grandpa ground up for a meat relish. I can feel the sting of horseradish in my nose whenever I think of it. We watched the ducks and geese come in from the creek at night and. were always chased by the old gander. Grandpa's cane saved us from many a pinch.

One day when I was playing out in the yard, I lost my gold ring. The next spring, the gander came up and hissed at Uncle Hal. There on his tongue was my ring. As the gander's tongue had grown, it had broken the ring in two. When I look at that little ring today, I feel sorry for that old fellow, who must have spent some miserable hours in his goosey way.

Usually, when we spent the night with Grandma and Grandpa we didn't go home until the next evening. This time, however, Papa came down to get us before we had had breakfast. Soon we were on our way home, hurried off by a smiling grandmother, who for once didn't urge us to stay longer.

Papa said he had a surprise for us. It was June (June 17, 1909, to be exact), so we guessed new colts, calves, pigs, chickens, and every other desirable thing we could think of. Papa thoroughly enjoyed our curiosity and followed close on our heels as we ran to the house to ask Mama what the surprise was.

Mrs. Mallick was there. Mama was in bed looking very happy--but the thing I shall never forget was the clothesbasket beside her bed in the big chair. They told me to look in it, and there I saw the most beautiful, dark-haired baby brother anyone could dream of having. Papa let me hold him--all eleven pounds of him. When I felt that soft, bundle of baby in my arms and knew he was ours, I loved him so much that it hurt. From that moment forward, I protected him and took care of him—when I could spare the time from my calf-breaking and horse-racing! But I've loved him always.

The baby was named George for Mama's oldest brother and Hugh for Papa's oldest living brother. (By this time, Uncle Hugh had forgiven Papa for cutting a bald spot in his hair.)

Tumbleweeds, George, and Curley

When the wind whistles around the house and the leaves skid across the yard, my mind goes back to an autumn day in South; Dakota, when Willis and I were very young. We saw a strange herd; lumbering across the fenceless prairie, straight for our house. Terrified, we ran to Papa and pointed out the fearsome beasts. Papa reassured us by telling us that they were the giant Russian thistles which had hugged the fence lines near houses that summer. Now that fall had come, they were tumbling across the prairie to scatter their seeds to the wind.

Soon the possibilities of the tumblers dawned on us. Rushing for ropes of any kind, we tied the largest tumbleweeds into two-, four-, and six-weed teams. All day we were swept along by our tumbling steeds. Sometimes we had to let them go when the wind came down with a roar and our chargers jerked us off our feet. A runaway team! We watched them disappear over the hill as they plunged on toward the creek in Okobojo, where they would do their fall planting and then succumb.

Today I listen to the wind in the leaves on the trees, but the wind I hear is the wind that swished through the long prairie grass, only a trifle faster than the flying feet of a boy and girl who drove those wonderful, lunging, plunging steeds--the tumbleweeds.

By this time, George was old enough to go outside and play with Curley, his little black-and-white water spaniel. Uncle Hugh and Aunt Emma had brought him from Pierre in their buggy drawn by Grandpa Green's old Tommy. 

Tommy was a black buggy horse and Grandpa kept him in wonderful condition--sleek, fat, and ready to go. I remember when Grandpa hitched him up and drove downtown in Pierre to get groceries or just to give Tommy exercise. We loved to go with him in the buggy--a rare pleasure, since we usually went home before Grandpa had occasion to go any place.

George was a baby and Curley was a puppy. They grew up together, and if it hadn't been for Curley, George would have had a very lonely time--especially after Willis and I went to school. While Willis and I were driving tumbleweed horses, George and Curley were running around the house. George held a piece of paper over his head, and Curley jumped to see if he could catch the wind-tossed white object. They did this for hours at a time, until Mama came out to get them and make them both take an afternoon rest.

I remember when George could run under the dining-room table and not hit his head. We thought this a wonderful accomplishment! One night George had his little red wagon in the kitchen and was putting something in it that I thought would get him in trouble. I said to him, "Georgie, Mama will spank you if you do that." With all the assurance in the world, he replied, "Mama will not spank me." And he was right.

George was very smart. When he was a tot, he could add and subtract quantities of eggs, potatoes, and produce in his head. He was the pride of the family and the right arm of Mama when Papa became sick and she had to have someone help her take care of him.

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