Papa Buys a Model T 

During the first World War, Papa sold our herd of horses and bought one of the first Model T cars in the county. Our tag number was 588. Our next one was 8380. I don't remember the others. The first number was black and white; the second was red and white. The first trip we made was to Pierre to celebrate Decoration Day—Memorial Day to you. It must have been 1917 or 1918. I remember that I wore white elbow-length silk gloves, and put my hand on the top support so that all my friends could see the gloves. I nodded happily to all the neighbors gathered on the store porch to wait for the holiday mail. Those who planned on being in Pierre for the celebration had been on the road for hours driving their faithful teams. These we should soon pass with a roar, scaring their horses to death. The stay-at-homes I pitied heartily.

We stopped at Grandma's house to pick up Grandpa Glessner. Grandpa had one of Henry Ford's first three-seaters, He drove it to Pierre once and was sick in bed for several days thereafter from the exertion and strain. Grandma never let him drive it again if she could help it. He defied her one evening and cranked it up with great difficulty. He started off with a great roar and a leap. He got through the gate all right and headed for the store about three blocks away. On the way, there was an old basement near the road. In his frenzy to avoid this pitfall, Grandpa drove straight into it. Unable to get the "devil wagon" out of the pit, Grandpa walked home without the tobacco and peppermints he had started out to get. Later, Uncle Charley--the only one who could ever run the car--extricated it and brought it home.

So far as I can remember, this is the last time Grandpa ever tried to take the car out--but he was car-minded and enjoyed going with us on our maiden voyage. He sat in front with Papa and probably Willis, while Mama and George and I sat behind.

Grandma declared that she would never set foot in an automobile, but her confidence in my father soon overcame her fears and she permitted him to take her, now and then, on some urgent errand or visit.

After driving half an hour at the terrific speed of eighteen miles per hour—a cruising speed my father held for his steady driving--we came upon the first buggy. When the startled occupants saw us, they looked to their horses, which were almost standing on their hind legs and snorting like dragons, with nostrils wide, eyes wild, and emitting sounds that seemed to come from deep in their stomachs. 

Being naturally considerate, Papa stopped the car and gave the horseman time to get his buggy out of the ruts and onto the prairie, where he could control a burst of speed without endangering the buggy wheels in the deep ruts. After the team had gained a safe distance, Papa cautiously put the car into low gear and we slid by as quietly and slowly as possible, so as not to cause a runaway. By the time we had passed a dozen buggies, we were all pretty well worn out—but we children never doubted for a minute that it was worth all the cost.

George, like Papa in ways as well as in looks, did not care about horses. He loved the car, and began driving Mama to the office when he couldn't see over the steering wheel. The first time he was to take her to the office in the Model T, he couldn't eat his dinner until Mama told him to run it in low gear, if he had to, and not worry about it. So he perked up and ran the car as well as he did it when Papa drove with him. He is still one of the best drivers I know. 

Mama Gets Her Piano

Another memorable occasion was the purchase of a piano for Mama. All her life she had played and pumped an old organ, but her one wish had always been for a piano. Here again she would have chosen the backlog of money, but Papa intended to live a bit as he went along. Maybe he sensed that he would not live long enough to enjoy backlogs. At any rate, without telling Mama what he was doing, he ordered a piano from Reed and Sons in Chicago.

I shall never forget when it came. Papa went to Onida, the nearest railroad station, supposedly for a load of coal. When he got home late that night, however, there was a huge box in the wagon instead of coal. The shape of the box betrayed its contents.

Although Mama was so excited she could hardly contain herself, she wanted to wait until morning and get a couple of men to help unload the piano. Not Papa! He was the kind of man who would never ask directions, never tell anyone his business, and never let anyone outside the family help him unload his surprise for Mama. Mama, my two little brothers, and I helped unload the piano. Papa used two-by-fours, two-by-sixes, and all sorts of rigging so that we could lift it on the leverage principle and not rupture ourselves.

Finally, at one o'clock in the morning, we got the piano in place in the living room. The old organ was set aside. George, who was four or five years old, had gone to sleep on the couch, as no one had stopped long enough to put him to bed. He was afraid he would miss something, so he wouldn't go to bed anyway but finally keeled over on the couch. We were all tired, dirty, and sleepy, but we were the happiest family in the world.

Papa proudly placed the old kerosene lamp on a table, so that we could get a better look at the wonderful instrument. Then Mama took her place on the new piano bench, and we all stood around and listened with rapture while she played "Sunset." It sounded so beautiful to my childish ears that I have never forgotten it. All through the years, whenever Mama went to the piano, I requested "Sunset" before she left it. I really believe that if the angels should ask me what music I want to hear as I enter the gates of Heaven, I will say, "Please let Mama play 'Sunset' just once more."

We children grew up with a love of music. One of my first memories is that of an Edison cylinder machine with a huge brass tulip-shaped horn which balanced precariously on the record while suspended by a little chain from a high, semicircular brass crane. This crane stood on little music-stand tripod legs that invariably tripped up small children, causing many accidents and subsequent dents in the old horn.

I learned Lincoln's Gettysburg Address from the old Edison record, and I still judge all readings of that famous speech by the sympathetic, vibrant voice that came over that old recording. I still remember the announcement of the singer of most of the songs: "'The Merry Widow,' Miss Julia Belle Jones, Edison Record." The voice was squawky and easily imitated.

I often wondered what became of the old Edison, but never could recall that bit until I saw George about fifty years later. He said that I dropped it, and it fell into a thousand fragments. I was cleaning the living room, picked it up to move it, and dropped it. I'll bet anything that I tripped on those dumb tripod legs that threatened me all my young life!
However that may be, when the new cabinet machines came out, Papa quietly got the old "Sears and Sawbuck" catalog, as he insisted on calling it, and ordered a beautiful new Silvertone phonograph. He also ordered some Uncle Josh records, and one laughing record that kept us all in stitches the first time or two we heard it. After that, someone groaned whenever it came on.

Mama had a wonderful sense of humor, but it seldom jibed with Papa's. Papa enjoyed Uncle Josh on sewing for the Belgians Mama was busily knitting for the World War I boys, as was I.

One Hundred Silver Dollars

When Mama was forty years old, Papa gave her one hundred silver dollars for a birthday present. I was in on the secret, since I always helped him in the office by setting type and doing all the odd jobs that a "printer's devil" is supposed to do. Stacking the dollars and wrapping them in a big roll, he wrote on the package, "For that trip to Ohio."

Mama had left her native Ohio when she was seven years old and had come to the Dakota Territory in 1883. Compared to that new, raw, relentless prairie, Ohio had always seemed next door to Heaven. We grew up on stories of Ohio's peaches, apples berries, etc. We yearned for a real tree swing that would carry us high in the air, and for the general delights of the Buckeye state.

Mama was a great admirer of Carry Nation, so we were convulsed over the story or Mama's fall from grace while she still lived in Ohio. It seemed that one of her schoolmates was the daughter of a saloon-keeper. One day, on the way home from school, this little friend invited Mama to step inside for a glass of beer--which she did. But when she arrived home with a questionable breath and a glowing account of the time spent in the new environment, she was "taken in hand" by Grandma. This story became a family favorite.

The money for the trip to Ohio, then, was to be the fulfillment of her heart's desire. Instead of taking her, Papa gave her the money so that she could have the satisfaction of that backlog feeling that meant so much to her.

Strange to say, now that the trip was possible, Mama decided to wait until Papa could go with her. Then World War I started, and she bought a Liberty Bond with her birthday money. When it matured, she put the money in the bank and lost it when the bank failed during the Depression. In the meantime, Papa had given her a second hundred dollars to go with the first--but he died before they could make their trip together. Mama didn't go back to Ohio until she was on her way to Virginia, to visit us and to see Welles, her first grandchild.

Mama was always sorry that she hadn't urged Papa to go with her when he gave her the birthday present, instead of holding on to the money—and she never ceased to rejoice that he had bought the car, piano, phonograph, and many other things when he wanted them. Money alone is cold comfort, but remembered happiness warms the heart as long as life lasts.

Winters on the Prairie

The long winter evenings at home were filled with comfort and pleasure for a little girl.

We had an early dinner, fed the stock, and took care of everything outside. Heinie and Hannibal slept in the haystack when the weather was cold. . After supper, Papa lay on the couch with a boy on either side of him while Mama read a book to us. I made doll clothes or tried new effects with my ribbons and pigtails.

Much interested in making myself beautiful, I read all the beauty columns in the magazines. I spent one evening in the kitchen, parboiling my face "to remove blackheads." I didn't have any blemishes until I had finished the treatment, and then I was a sight. My face was a mass of red blotches, and so sore I could have wept. That was a severe lesson. However, I never tired of trying to comb my hair into smooth waves like Mama's--and my hair wasn't curly! I also tried to pile it high in a sophisticated "fiske" knot. Imagine my embarrassment when I learned how to pronounce Psyche, and discovered that Mama arranged her hair that way every day!

We undressed around the big coal-burning stove, which Mama called Herschvogel after reading us the story of the Nuremberg stove. We loved Herschvogel, a huge nickel-plated stove with isinglass doors, through which we watched the blue flames chase the red ones across the gray coals. There were all sorts of flame pictures awaiting our eager eyes. Papa helped us use our imagination here and in the clouded skies at sunset. The room was never dark, and the most comforting sight in the world was the ruddy glow of Herschvogel when we opened the door after coming home late from a school entertainment. Often we sat around the stove with just the fire for light as we ate apples or whatever Mama had for a bedtime snack. It was great to feel the heat, penetrate our bodies before we climbed the stairs to our cold rooms.

A ceiling register above the stove helped to take the chill off my bedroom and made a waffle pattern of light on the ceiling. As soon as I was safely in bed, I'd watch the light and burrow into my pillow. A blizzard made going to bed more interesting, because the wind howled around the house like a banshee and prickled my spine. I would pull the blankets up around the back of my neck, and roll back and forth a little to tuck in the sides. Then I'd wriggle my toes in my bedsocks, stick one foot out into the cold side of the bed, and jerk it back to the reassuring warmth of its squirming mate. As I watched the waffle pattern of light and listened to the murmur of my parents' voices below, I felt warm and safe and loved. The storm was a lullaby.

Before he went to bed, Papa would come up to tuck me in against the late cold of the night. I was secure!

The Old Pioneer Schoolhouse

The old pioneer schoolhouse, where Papa and Mama and all the other young people of the community went to school, was still standing and in use when I finished the eighth grade. A new one was built the first year I was in high school in Pierre.

The old schoolhouse furniture consisted of the teacher's desk and an odd assortment of old coupled desks that were so carved up with the initials of former students that it was impossible to write on them. It gave me a feeling of great pride to see Papa's initials there among the others. He was no slouch!

A washstand with a water pail and basin and a cake of tar soap stood in one corner. The water came from a neighbor's well. Very smart students were sometimes allowed to take half an hour during the teaching session to go fetch water; others were sent at recess time. A great coal heater, reaching halfway to the ceiling, stood in the back of the room. In another corner was a little cupboard called "the library," where supplementary reading books were kept. Below this cupboard, on a small table, was Webster's International Dictionary.

The schoolhouse stood on the side of the hill overlooking the valley below--the Okobojo Valley. Okobojo is an Indian word meaning "Valley of Nettles." The Okobojo Creek winds leisurely to the Missouri twelve miles west. Our home was a mile north of the schoolhouse, on the road running north and south through the valley.

When our parents went to school, the room was crowded with pupils of all ages. In addition to the three Rs, a fairly complete course in courtin' was carried on after school and between classes. To my great disappointment, there were only five of us in school when Willis and I started. Walter Ripley and his sisters, Hildred and Irene, made up the rest of the student body. Walter was six years older than the girls and I. Willis was the youngest.

Walter sat behind me. I was the only girl in the room that he could tease by sticking his fingers through the crack in the seat to make me jump, or by pulling my yellow pigtails--so of course he devoted a lot of his study time to this sport. One day I forgot, and leaned back to stretch in a very unladylike way, and he kissed me on the cheek. True to my training, I arose and slapped his face hard--much to the amusement of the others in the class, including the teacher.

A Moment of Perfect Awareness

Out of the labyrinth of memory comes a moment of perfect awareness, so poignant that to recall it is to live it again.

I stood in the back yard of Grandpa Glessner's home; it nestled gray and weatherbeaten on the bank of the little creek in the valley of the Okobojo. It was dusk. A column of white smoke came from the chimney and went straight up into the clear atmosphere. Behind it, the western sky was streaked with rose and gray.

Around me were the sounds of evening from the village: the barking of a dog; children's voices mingled with their fathers' as they did the chores; the bawling of a cow; the sleepy bleat of lambs looking for their mothers; the drowsy conversation of chickens on the roost.

Inside the kitchen, the Rochester lamp shed a soft glow on the supper table. I saw Mama go from table to stove as she prepared the evening meal. The fragrance of good cooking drifted out to me. I heard, her voice as she talked to Grandpa where he Sat in the rocking chair by the stove.

A fall chill was in the air. "I shall always remember this moment, I told myself. Then I went into the house to help my mother.

Buffalo Rings and Cows' Tails

One day, when Willis and I were little, we were riding across the unfenced prairie with Papa. He stopped the horses and we all got out to look at a large circle of grass that was different from the buffalo grass all around it. Papa told us it was a buffalo ring. The bulls and older buffaloes stood in a ring around the cows and young calves at night, to protect them from coyotes and wolves. They moved around the circle and wore it down so that a different grass grew up where the circle was. Papa said that the buffaloes in the ring usually faced out, so that they could see danger if it approached.

That day we found some old buffalo chips, so dry that they didn't dissolve in the rains. These chips the Indians used for fuel. That day Willis came home with a buffalo horn, too old and weatherbeaten to polish, but the real article. We had it around for years, but I don't know what became of it.

I also remember the cool of the draws between the hills on the prairies. It was also darker in the draws, and I was afraid that something I didn't like might come over the rim of the draw and frighten me. I didn't like to round up the cows in the evening when they were in the draws. Of course, Willis was never afraid.

Willis's motivation in life was to be a cowboy, so as we got older we spent a great deal of time roping and riding calves. I didn't do much riding, but I was expert at the hitching post. Willis fastened the rope on the calf's neck and then put a strap around the calf's middle. With this for a handhold, he mounted the calf and the show was on. As the calf bucked and kicked around the corral, I took up the slack rope at the post and tried to keep the matter under control. Usually we had a successful rodeo, with Willis the winner. Since the corral was behind the barn, Mama couldn't see us from the house. She thought we were cleaning the barn.

One day we tackled a mean little yearling by the name of Dixie. He was a shorthorn, and all shorthorns are short on temper. I didn't get my hitch made before Willis and Dixie were tearing around the corral. Willis was bucked off, and Dixie went over the fence with the rope. We chased him all over the place before retrieving him and our rope. Neither of us mourned when Papa sold Dixie to a cattle-buyer. We hoped he would end his days as a rump roast!

Bringing in the cows for milking was our task every evening. If we were on foot for some unusual reason, we came in on the cows' tails. Papa used to feel exasperated when he saw us come swinging home, each one hanging onto a cow's tail. We used the tails for rudders to steer the cows, and to lend wings to our feet. It was such fun that by the time we reached the barn, Papa pretended he hadn't seen us. His sense of humor, like mine, sometimes cheated justice.

Washday

Washing clothes is much easier now than it was when 1 v/as a little girl on the prairie, helping my mother. Papa had to draw the water, pail by pail, from the cistern in the yard. There was no windlass, so he drew it up hand over hand and carried in enough to fill the boiler on the stove, the machine, and the two rinse tubs. He always left a number of pails full for other things. But even so, Mama had to draw more water before we finished the tremendous task.

The washing machine was hand-powered. The first one had a wheel to turn by hand--and how Willis and I hated to turn it! The next one had an upright stick handle that we pulled back and forth. That was fun for a while, but it became the hardest kind of work before we were done with it. Mama usually did most of the turning and pulling exercise. The wringer fitted on the machine, but it always wobbled so that one of us had to steady it while the other one did the turning.

Mama liked to hang the clothes out on the line, and in South Dakota there were always the prevailing westerlies to dry the clothes. The sun bleached them. When we children brought in several baskets of clean clothes, Mama could fold away most of the flatwork without ironing it. The fresh, clean smell of beds made with bedding dried by the wind and sun is something to remember.

Mama never got all the ironing done each week. When I got old enough to use a second ironing board, we heated two sets of irons on the oil stove and made things hum.

After Grandpa Glessner died, Mama became the owner of the old home where the well was. We moved to the village to my grandfather's house. Here we had all the water we wanted to pump. I can remember carrying pail after pail of water and using more than we needed, just because we no longer had to haul it.

Hauling water had been a big chore. We always ran out of water when Papa was especially busy doing something important like printing the paper or branding cattle. He would have to stop what he was doing, load the old galvanized tank onto the wagon, with the help of the family, and go to Grandpa's for water. The old tank held about 500 gallons, I presume. If the windmill was running, the tank was filled at the well by the windmill. Otherwise it had to be filled by hand, and that was drudgery.

Before the water could be emptied into the cistern, someone would have to clean the bottom. When Willis and I were old enough to do it, we were lowered by bucket to the bottom of the cistern, where we cleaned and rinsed it until it was ready for the new water. Before that, Papa went down by ladder to do the job himself.

No wonder Papa dreaded to haul the water! No wonder we all learned to save water! And no wonder we all pumped ourselves to exhaustion the first few weeks we were living beside the original source of water--Grandpa's well.

A power washing machine was the final step in washday luxury, and the merry "Put-put-put" of its little motor accompanied a gay song in my heart as we washed and washed and washed!

Snowstorms

Snow was not wet and short-lived in South Dakota in the early 1900s. It came hard-driven by the wind and piled up in solid drifts that were glazed on top and as smooth and hard as the finest pavement.

The drifts were irregular in size and shape, and after a big storm one could believe himself at either pole, surrounded by limitless hills and valleys of dazzling white snow. Buildings became mountains, and fenceposts wore caps and shawls. The whole world looked like a beautiful Christmas card until we played games and tramped some of the wonder out of the snow.

During the storms, Mama usually read passages from "Snowbound," and Papa's favorite expression was that it was cold enough to "freeze the ears off a brass monkey." When he came in from feeding the stock and milking the cows, icicles hanging from his mustache, frost clinging to his eyebrows and eyelashes, we called him Santa Claus. He had gone to the barn by waiting for the storm to lull and then running as far as he could see the barn. Then he had to stand still and wait for the next lull before running again until he got to the stables. He came back the same way.

After storms were over, we put on our snow clothes, took our smaller shovels, and helped Papa tunnel through the snow. We couldn't see over the tops of the runways, but as soon as paths were made to the cistern, barn, cellar, and outhouses such as chicken coops, we were free to take our sleds and explore the drifts.

These were hard on top, but on the sheltered sides the snow was soft and fluffy, so that a flying start over the wavy drifts was sure to end up with only our heels sticking out of a soft spot. We came up breathless and rosy, to have our faces licked by Curley, who had caught up with us at the moment of disaster.

When hunger drove us to the house, we were met on the porch by Mama, broom in hand. The snow was as dry and fine as sand, and when we were finally brushed off to her satisfaction and our coats were placed near the stove to dry, there was usually only a wet ring around the tops of our overshoes and at the tops of our mittens. That kind of snow wouldn't make a snowball or a snowman, but it was a very satisfactory snow for sledding.

One afternoon when we were in school we were surprised by a knock on the schoolhouse door. Papa had come to take us home. He told the teacher to dismiss school and send all the children home, because a blizzard was on the way. Then we got into the bobsled with Papa and Curley, George's dog. Papa was driving old Kid and Lee.

Snow was coming down fast in small flakes, which meant deep snow. The wind was strong and picking up snow from the ground in eddying whirlpools. All signs pointed to a blizzard, and we were excited. Papa thought he could find the way home in the greatest storm, and although he couldn't see beyond the horses' heads he tried to direct them. The team pulled against him, and Curley went to the back of the sled and, whining, pointed his nose in a different direction. Papa kept sawing the lines and urging the team on faster, until he realized that we should be home. Just then he recognized a fence that was a half-mile west, of where we should be.

"Great Scott! I thought I knew the way home," Papa said, "but I'm not as smart as old Curley."

When he gave the team their heads, they turned around and started off briskly in the opposite direction. Curley came to the front of the sled and, wagging his tail, pointed his nose toward home. Down the hill we went, across a steep draw, and through a gate. Ahead of us was our own house and a worried Mama, who had been looking for us for a long time.

Willis helped Papa feed and bed the team that had brought us safely home through the storm. George and I rushed to the house with Curley, to tell Mania we had been lost in a blizzard. We were all pretty solemn about the experience. Every Dakota child knows what it means to be lost in a blizzard, and as we sat around the table laden with Mama's wonderful cooking we did not forget to slip out a generous portion for Curley, who was smarter than we.

The Rabbit Hunt

The great winter festival was the annual Rabbit Hunt. Western Sully County was divided into two sides for the occasion. The hunt lasted a week, and on Saturday night the rabbit ears were brought in and counted. The losers had to pay for the big oyster stew and dance. Rabbits were infected with boils at that time, so the meat wasn't eaten.

There was more than just a desire to go hunting behind this yearly event. Rabbits were so numerous that they were destroying the young trees the ranchers had planted and nursed so carefully. When the snow got too deep for the jackrabbits to find plant food on the prairie, they ringed the young trees and ate the bark. Thus it was another battle for survival that brought the men of the county out with their guns.

Papa was no hunter, but he usually managed to shoot one or two rabbits with our little .22 rifle. He ambushed the rabbits around the haystacks and corncribs on a bright moonlit night when they came to feed.

I remember going to the window with Papa on one of these clear nights, to watch a family of rabbits play on the snow. They made all sorts of paths in the snow, frolicking like children. The next morning we went out and tried to follow their paths in the snow--a new kind of fox-and-geese game.

The night of the hunt, huge washboilers of milk were brought in by the men and placed on oil stoves at the back of the Hall by the stage. We children played on the stage, careful not to disturb the sleeping babies wrapped in their mothers' coats and placed near the food, so that both could be watched at the same time.

My friends, Hildred and Irene Ripley, played with me until Beth and Leota Knox came from the Bend (in the Missouri River). Then they all deserted me for the remainder of the evening, while they whispered and whisked around in a great dither of mystery. I felt bleak and alone, although I knew it would happen. I tried to console myself by being friendly with some other little girls who were also alone.

Long tables were spread with white cloths and set with plates, bowls for the oyster stew, and silverware. The menu always included celery (a great treat), potato salad, pickles, pies, and all kinds of cakes. I didn't care for the stew. It was never as rich as Mama's homemade oyster stew, which was half cream. My main diversion was trying to swallow a raw oyster--a feat I failed to accomplish until many years later!

When no one could eat another mouthful, the tables were removed and the floor cleared for dancing. That was our family's signal to get. our coats and go home--which was probably the reason I wasn't, included in the mystic circle that included Hildred, Irene, and their other friends. I really didn't belong. 

The following Monday at school, I got a detailed account of ail the wonderful things I had missed: who had danced with whom; who had not danced nicely; what Bert, Maynard, Walter, Ernie, and Geoff had said to each of them and what they had said in reply. My heart swelled with longing as I gobbled up the crumbs that fell to me. One night they had learned to dance the "Bunny Hug." We spent the entire recess period trying to master the steps to "Everybody's Doing It." When I gave a demonstration of both dance and song at home, Mama "put her foot down" and thereby deprived herself of a liberal education in up-to-the-minute songs and dances.

Hildred

When I was 11, Hildred and I were bosom friends. Willis and Irene (Hildred's sister) were waging war with each other at that time. One day Irene gave Willis a sharp kick on his tailbone that sent him howling to see Papa in his office. Another time, when Irene and Willis were riding downhill together on a sled, she cut her eyelid on a barbed-wire fence and ran home to her grandmother. They never appreciated each other until they were both grown and married; then they became fast friends and enjoyed remembering all the mean things they had done to each other.

Hildred is three years older than I, and as Mama said, . she was allowed "to run." Compared to me, she was very worldly, and her opinions on anything and everything made an indelible impression on me.

It was she who told me the "facts of life," long before Mama knew I was interested. Later, when Mama handed me the family-doctor book and told me to read a certain chapter, I did so avidly. When I tried to discuss the chapter with her, however, she told me to read the book and not talk about it. I read many other chapters that were not recommended, thus acquiring at an early age advanced knowledge on all sorts of deformities and monstrosities.

It was Hildred. who tauqht me the steps of the "Bunny Hug," a thoroughly indecent dance for that day. And when we became conscious of the body beautiful, it was she who pointed out all the flaws that were mine--and they were legion. I didn't resent her perfect proportions, nor did I doubt for one minute the truth of all she told me about my own shortcomings.

At that time I was tall for my age, well developed, and a decided blonde.

"Too bad your legs are so skinny, Catharine" (I was using my second name then), Hildred remarked one day, patting her plump, short legs.

I pulled my skirt down as far as it would go and stumbled over my feet more than ever.

"Tall girls look so funny beside anybody but a giant. The boys all like me because they can look down on me and feel so tall themselves. I don't ever have to worry about going with an extra-tall man. You will have to watch out for a telephone pole in panes. But of course, you'll probably marry some little short fellow like Oral."

"Don't ever think I'll marry anyone so short that I'd feel like I had to lead him across the street!" I retorted hotly. But I yearned to be short and tried to juke down into my shoulders, until Papa noticed it and made us take setting-up exercises every night. That saved my posture.

Those setting-up exercises were really the Manual of Arms. Willis and I had .22 rifles which we shouldered with great-pride. Papa demonstrated the movements with his old 45-70. We did the drill to the music of "The Manila Grand March," played by Mama. The First South Dakota Infantry had drilled to that in the Philippines, so Papa knew every note of it and every drill movement that accompanied it. It is a peppy march, and we had great fun marching ourselves almost to exhaustion. We finished by standing at attention while Mama played "The Star-Spangled Banner." Papa was very patriotic and insisted that we rise when we heard the national anthem. So rigid was this discipline that for years I was the first one on my feet, regardless of the nature of the gathering, when I heard the first notes of "Oh say, can you see . . .?" Not long ago, I heard the man next door call his daughters inside to do their exercises. When I saw them drag into the house, grumbling, I wished that they might have the fun of being soldiers and, shouldering their guns instead of dumbbells, marching off triumphantly to fight the battle of Blockhouse No. 4.

Hildred made me so conscious of my height that I became hipped on the subject of tall men. No matter how charming a man might be, I didn't give him a second glance unless he was taller than I. Mama said i carried a yardstick, and if a man didn't measure six feet I passed him by. She should have understood: she married a six-footer herself.

"What sharp knees you have, Catharine!" said Hildred one day as we were sitting cross-legged in the sunshine. "Mine are just a smooth curve all the way. See? So much better!"

I looked, I saw, I suffered.

"What a long neck you have!" continued my friend. "I never noticed it before. And there are two wrinkles in it already."

Years later, I read that I have what is called the "necklace of Venus"--but that didn't comfort me then. I tried to wear high collars and wanted to wear a black velvet band around my neck, with a pin in it for decoration.

"Have you ever noticed what prominent elbows you have? And your wrist bone is a regular knot! My elbow is much smaller, and do you see how my wrist joins my hand without any noticeable joint?"

That night I had a scene with Mama, who couldn't understand why a little girl should want to wear long sleeves with ruffles at the wrists. I cried and insisted that I had to have that kind of sleeve or be miserable for the rest of my life. She made my next sleeves extra long with the merest suggestion of a ruffle, and I felt more at ease, especially around Hildred.

One day Hildred and I were sitting together in school, looking at our hands. "I was reading an article about hand's in the Home Journal last night," said Hildred. "This authority says that a person with uneven finger joints should never wear rings or jewelry of any kind."

She smoothed her own slightly tapering fingers, and then pressed the uneven joints of my long fingers.

"You see that your fingers do not taper either." She was right, but they were much slenderer than hers.

Not long after that, Mama gave me a beautiful sapphire-and-pearl ring that had been hers. I had been wild to have it for years, and now it fitted me exactly. When she gave it to me, I slipped it on, looked at my bumpy fingers, took it off, and carefully put it in my little ring box.

"Cathie, I don't understand why you don't wear your ring," Mama said to me some time later. "I was wild about rings when I was your age. You are a queer little girl!"

There wasn't much Hildred could say about my eyes and hair, except to regret that my eyes weren't brown like hers and that my hair was so much like straw. The freckles on my fair nose and the way I sunburned were both indications of inferior skin.

"I don't burn or freckle. I just tan," she would say as she rubbed her brown skin, but Grandma had another name for that particular shade of skin--and it wasn't ivory!

Long after I was grown, I reported to Mama and Willis and George some of my conversations with Hildred on the subject of my looks. "If you had only told me all this at the time!" moaned Mama. "There were so many nice things I could have told you, but. I was afraid I would turn your head."

"If I'd known about this," stormed Willis, "I'd have given old Hilly a few left-handed compliments myself!"

But it was just as well. I certainly grew up without any illusions as to my great handicaps, and it has made me a fairly understanding person--I hope!

The Printing Office

The printing office was the home of The Okobojo Times, the only newspaper in western Sully County, South Dakota. The county seat, Onida, had one paper, The Onida Watchman. Later on there was a paper called The Agar Enterprise, which was taken over by The Watchman and so did not figure very long as an independent voice of the people.

In the beginning Steve Travis owned and ran the paper at Okobojo. He sold it to my grandfather, J.W. Glessner, who sold it to John Livingston, who sold it to my father when I was a small girl. From that time on, we were prosperous. We had legal work from the county, ads, and 200 or more subscribers at $1.50 per year. We could count on at least $100.00 a month from the paper. Papa always paid his grocery bill and doctor bill first, but there was always enough to get whatever we needed. Money wise, we had security.

Since Mama had been a schoolteacher" before her marriage, she wrote the news items and an occasional editorial when she felt the need to take a stand on some matter of vital importance. She was redheaded and forthright, and Papa sometimes had to tone down her editorials a bit. Compared to Mama, Papa was a quiet man, but he knew how to make friends and keep them. He was also coming along as a young politician, but no one suspected that.

It is ridiculous for a girl who declares that she spent, every minute of playtime in the printing office setting type (of course I didn't) to be unable to describe what life in the printing office was like. But there is no frame of reference for my children and grandchildren. The old Washington hand press stood in the left corner at the back of the room. I remember that it was a huge cast-iron frame with a little red devil on the top. The devil had a pitchfork, horns, and a tail with a spear on the end of it. His eyes were mean and his beard was pointed. He was there because helpers in the printing office were called "printer's devils." This frame held underneath it a large steel slab, as smooth as glass.

When the paper was ready to be printed, another long steel slab, carrying the forms of the paper locked onto it, slid under the upper slab as Papa turned a huge crank. When it was in position, Papa pulled a big arm lever and pressed the upper steel slab onto the forms of the paper, and the paper rolled back into place via crank. Papa then took it off the frame and placed it on the stone.

Before the forms rolled under the big steel slab to be printed, I stood on a stool behind the inking table across the press from Papa. I spread, the right, amount of printer's ink on the small table, rolled it until the consistency was just right and the roller was covered with a smooth, thin layer of ink. Then I ran the inked roller over the type forms that had been locked in. While I was doing this, Papa placed the blank ready-print on the tall cover for the type forms and closed the cover over the forms. Then he rolled it under the press for printing. This we did for more than 200 times before we had enough papers for our subscribers, and a few extras.

Ready-prints were printed on four sides of the newspaper when we got them. We printed the two pages, front and back, that we used. The ready-prints came from Sioux Falls from the Western Newspaper Union, and were delivered each week by stage from Blunt, S.D. 

The stone was a heavy block of marble, dark brown with light markings, held in place by huge posts of oak, about six inches square. The legs formed below the marble top (which was about three by four feet) a box of heavy oak wood about six or eight inches deep. Here scrap metal, lead, etc. were thrown. This was called the "hell box." Willis, George, and I spent many happy hours in the hell box when we were small and Mama was helping Papa in the office.

The typecases along the walls near the windows were the height for a man to stand -while setting type; but since Mama and I did most of the typesetting, we had high stools to sit on. The cases had runners for many cases of type, but we used just two sizes: eight point for legal work and ten- point for general news and articles. Newspapers today use eight-point for most of their work. Sometimes want ads are put. in six-point, or nonpareil.

A complete set of cases consisted of a large lower case with individual boxes for each letter. The e's were in a large oblong box in the upper center of the lower case. The letters used most were near at hand; the others--y's, x's, etc.--were in small oblong boxes. Punctuation marks and spaces--letters without heads--had their places. The upper case was smaller, since it was all capitals. Both cases were set at easy angles that kept the letters in boxes, yet made them easily accessible to the one who was setting the type.

After each print day, which was Thursday all my young life, the forms had to be put on the stone and cleaned with gasoline. Then we learned how to pick up a section of the type and put it in our left hands in lots of about twelve or thirteen lines. With the right hand we picked up two or three words, separated the letters into the various boxes, and distributed the type. Each line was separated and held together by a thin lead that did not reach the top of the letter. Between the words, lead spaces were placed--the letters without heads, as we called them. Now we were ready to begin the paper for next week.

Setting type was my major job in the printing office. Papa usually distributed the type over the weekend and got things ready to go. I usually finished my lessons before the end of the day, and took the last hour to run down the hill to the office to set type. Usually the work was items of personal interest. We tried to get as many names in the paper each week as possible. Sometimes the same person's name was mentioned several times.

Once each month the county commissioners' proceedings were published in each of the two legal papers for the record. This was always good money. Once I made a terrible mistake and left the "ess" out of "assessing." I'm sure Papa did a double-take when he discovered my mistake! I had to do a whole column over.

How did I set the type? I had what was called a "composing stick" about four inches long. The stick fitted the left hand, once I had learned to put it there right. Each word was spelled letter by letter, with a space between the words. At the end of the row, more spaces were put in between the words until the line was tight. A lead was placed next and a new line begun. The stick held eleven, or thirteen lines of type, depending on the size of one's left hand. I started with eleven lines, but soon advanced to thirteen, since I got two cents for setting eleven lines, but two-and-a-half cents for thirteen. When I made fifty cents a day, I thought I had arrived!

Hildred Ripley, my best friend, decided to make some money too. She learned to set type, but she and I had some wild times. There was an old outhouse that belonged to the parsonage. This was our private place, and we used to go out there and sing all the songs that were popular: "Silver Bell," "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie," etc. We didn't realize that everyone who went to the general store could near us in full voice. Finally, Mama told me that we were embarrassing Papa, as the store's customers were kidding him. We were sorry.

Another time, we thought Papa was being too hard on us, so we informed the next man who came in that we were just white slaves, and that Papa, our slaver, was giving us a terrible time. Again Mama took me aside, and that was the last poor Papa heard of white slavery!

When we had time, Hildred and I were supposed to sweep the floor and dust the office. Papa's desk had shelves above and a dictionary on top of it. Nearby was another typecase and the old iron safe that Papa never locked, although he once saved a hundred silver dollars in it for Mama's birthday. The windows were never locked either, and Ralph, the town drunk, always opened a window and "slept it off" on the floor of the office. It was not unusual to find Ralph there after a dance.

I remember one day when Hildred and I felt that we had done a particularly good job on the office The dust still rose from the wide old boards if one stomped on the floor, but the office was neat. We knew that Mr. Pigney, the one-armed stage-driver who brought the ready-prints each week, would be there soon. He always kidded us, so we made a sign and put it on the door: "Please do not spit on the floor." Papa paid no visible attention to us, but. he didn't miss a trick. Mr. Pigney came--with a bulging cheek as usual. He looked at the sign and read, "Please do not sit on the floor."

"Who wants to sit on the floor?" he asked. Then he spat; a great mouthful of tobacco juice right on our neat floor! Assuring Papa that we would never again clean the office, Hildred and I sailed out to our private place.

Most of my work and fun in the office took place while we were in grade school. After we went to Pierre High, I didn't have time to work in the office except in the summers.
Papa had always had malaria in the summer since he contracted the disease in the Philippine Insurrection and almost died. Every summer he went to a veterans' sanitarium in Hot Springs, where he took baths and sweated the malaria out of his system. While I was in high school, I served as manager of the office during his summer absences and had the privilege of signing checks.

One day in the mail came an offer from the Chesterfield Cigarette Company, offering us a sizable sum of money to run one of their big ads in our paper. Mama, a solid Methodist, was dubious about such advertising, but my conscience troubled me not at all. I signed the contract, and when the huge cut came I ran it on the front page. When Papa received his copy of the paper that week, he was both shocked and amused by my boldness. When he came back home, he continued to run the Chesterfield ads--but not on the front page.

I don't talk about the old printing office very often, because no one knows that era--but I am glad for the spelling I learned and for the discipline and love I knew, as well as for the responsibility I had to take.

Eighth-Grade Graduation

The first scholastic triumph of my life was accompanied by the first great disappointment of my life. I loved school and once made the statement that I was going to school until I learned all there was to learn!

I had gone to the old country school from the age of seven to the age of fourteen. Then came the eighth-grade graduating exercises at Onida, the county seat. It was commencement for all the county schools and was very important, because for many ranch boys and girls it was the end of school days.

My white graduation dress and the white ribbon for my hair were ready for the great event days ahead of time. The day arrived, and so did a nice spring rain. Papa thought it would clear up after dinner, so he rested and took his time. Mama kept urging him to get ready, so that I wouldn't miss the program. Papa seemed to have a contrary streak in operation that day, and he didn't start getting ready until nearly dark. One reason why he didn't care to go was that Mama had to stay home with Grandpa Glessner, who was living with us and was too feeble to go out at night. Papa didn't want Mama to miss everything that came along, and so it was pretty much the same struggle every time we went off without her.

Finally, Papa reluctantly got out the old Model T and we started for Onida with barely enough time to make the graduation exercises. Papa chose to go by the north road, which was not graveled. Mama tried to get him to go by the south road because it was graveled, even though it was longer. In his contrary frame of mind, Papa ignored her advice.

I had my graduation finery packed in the suitcase, since I was to change my clothes at Aunt Myrtle's. We finally decided that I might have to change in the courthouse if we were late. Off we went, only to find the road so bad that we had to come home. By that time it was too late to get to Onida by the south road.

Mama was sick over my failure to attend my first graduation, and I imagine that she had a great deal to say to Papa about it after I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I heard all about the program from my schoolmates whose fathers had started early enough to get them there in time. My disappointment was even greater when I learned that I was vice president of the class, having finished second highest in the county, and that the superintendent had held up the exercises for an hour, hoping we would get there in spite of the roads. Mama never got over that, because we could have been there if Papa had just taken her advice and gone by the south road.

A week or two later, Mama took me to Pierre to have my graduation picture made. It's a sweet little-girl picture, but it always makes me sad to look at it and remember how that little girl felt when it was taken. Now that Mama is gone, I may be the only one who sees the sadness in the serious young face.

Life with Aunt Kitty

The nearest high school was in Pierre--too far to commute in those days. Mama didn't want me to leave home so young and go among strangers. Since Aunt Kitty Eakin lived in Pierre, I was sent to live with her. To keep me out of mischief, I was to work for half my room and board. Aunt Kitty, Mama's sister, had no girls of her own and was determined that I should find no time to play around with Satan. Later on, I worked for all my room and board with strangers and never had half as much work to do as Aunt Kitty found for me when I was supposed to be earning half of it.

Aunt Kitty didn't want to tell me to my face that I had left the sink messy in the mornings, when I was rushing to get the dishes done before I walked the mile to school. But when I came home from school, I would find a sink full of dirty lunch dishes and a note written on a shredded-wheat divider telling me how I had failed to do my work satisfactorily. I hated those notes, as did Mama and Papa. But Aunt Kitty was "taking care" of me, so we continued our arrangement to the end of the term. However, my great love for her dropped to minus zero that year and never rose much above that level.

My only recreation while I was at Aunt Kitty's was an occasional Epworth League party at the church. My cousin Charles, who went with me, had to be home by nine o'clock. We drove to church in a buggy pulled by Aunt Kitty's mare, Myra. By the time we had hitched the horse and played a game or two, it was time to unhitch Myra and go home. We always had to leave before refreshments were served, and even then we were late getting back. It was easier just to stay at home.

On my first day in high school, I wore a new Norfolk jacket and a dark skirt. I had to wear Aunt Kitty's high-top buttoned shoes, because I had blistered my heels the day before, trying to wear my own new shoes. Charles, to his everlasting embarrassment, had to drive me back and forth in the buggy. After the first week, we walked the mile or more to school, on an old boardwalk that tripped us frequently until we became familiar with the loose boards. Charles and I carried our lunches and had an hour to eat them in one of the classrooms designated for that purpose.

Aunt Kitty was very active in the Methodist Episcopal church in Pierre. As a matter of course, I attended all the services with the family--who, I soon discovered, were concerned over the salvation of my soul. I had not given the matter much thought. Our family had gone to Sunday school and church as long as I could remember, and I intended to join the church--just as I planned to go to college. No one had ever put any pressure on me until I went to live with Aunt Kitty, and I felt confused.

I knew that I was expected to go forward and take my stand for the Lord. I had done this in groups all my life--but going forward alone in a church full of people terrified me. Many nights I tossed and rolled in my bed, trying to get up enough courage to do what I should do. I know now that I was under conviction. When I could endure the conflict, no longer, I arose alone in church one evening and, on trembling legs, went forward to kneel at the altar. I remember the tremendous sense of relief I felt when it was over and I knew that I had made a public testimony of my faith. I felt that I had not let the Lord down, and that He would uphold me for the rest of my life. That was my conversion, and it marked the first milestone of my spiritual awakening.

Of course I wanted to do my part in the church, now that I was a member. Aunt Kitty made a great error in not consulting Mama and Papa in the matter of my joining the church. She seemed to think that she had put something over on them by getting me "into the fold"--and to make matters worse, she encouraged me to make a pledge to the church budget without consulting my parents.

This I did, and when I told my folks about it--with some misgivings, I'll admit--their indignation knew no bounds. They were furious, not with me but with Aunt Kitty, to think that she would do this without their knowledge. "How do you think you will pay this pledge?" they asked me.

I was miserable over the whole affair, because I knew I had no money of my own to pledge to anything.

"Let Kitty pay it, as long as she has taken over the management of Cathie," said Papa. And he was stubborn enough to let it rest there.

Whenever the church sent me a bill for my pledge, I writhed in mental agony. I vowed that I would pay it when I could, but that I would never pledge to anything else again as long as I lived. In the stress of Papa's failing health, the little pledge was forgotten temporarily.

Years later, when I was teaching in Lane, South Dakota, Mama and I went to the treasurer of the church and paid my pledge. She told him why it had not been taken care of before, and he was very understanding. For Mama and the church, the pledge was satisfied--but for me the scar remains. 

I Discover New Talents

English was my favorite subject, and in my sophomore year I wrote such passionate compositions that my teacher called me into his office and told me, in all seriousness, that he believed I had talent and might some day become a writer. "But," he added, "you will have to live a while first."

His encouragement set me on fire with a desire to write. It was the end of the school year. Before I went home to the ranch and the printing office, I purchased several writing tablets. As soon as I could do so without arousing suspicion, I went to my room at home and took my pencil in hand, pad upon my knee.

"So he thinks that, after sixteen years I haven't lived any!" I told my reflection in the mirror. "Phooey on living any longer without writing a story! Anybody who has lived to be sixteen in this household and this community has known Life,"

I held my pencil poised expectantly over my pad. No story came. Perhaps the old boy was right after all!

My sophomore year began so-so but ended very happily for me. Susie Moffaat and I had an upstairs apartment in the home of a girlhood friend of Mama's. Susie was from Okobojo too, and we were to keep house and go to school together. Before the second semester began, however, I had a cold that left a spot on one of my lungs. Dr. Kenney, a widower doctor whom I loved very much at the time, said that I could continue in school if I went to live with Papa's brother and his wife--Uncle Hugh and Aunt Emma.

I was delighted, and I had a carefree ball the rest of the year. No more working for half my room and board!

Dr. Kenney said I should stay outdoors and get a lot of sun during the summer. When Mama suggested that I could raise a garden, he replied, "She will raise hell in a garden." That made Mama mad, and she told him so! I was stricken to think Mama would dare say anything unkind to my dear Dr. Kenney.

When I was 16, Dr. Kenney told me that I looked 18 and that when I was 30 I would still look 18. I always cherished that remark, and he was right. I have never looked my age. (Now I'm almost 75, but people guess that I'm in my sixties. Jack is the same way.)

That summer I learned to sew, if not to write. Mama told me she would buy all the material I could use. She did, and I made dresses of my designing for both of us. That was the year for unbleached muslin decorated with appliqué in pastel colors. At that time I wanted to be a dress designer.

Good-Bye to Papa

The second semester of my senior year was a nightmare. Papa's condition got worse all winter, and in February he had an operation at the hospital in Pierre, followed by a hemorrhage. Mama had to come to Pierre to take care of him, so I went home to Okobojo to board the teacher, look after George, and publish the paper. By the time Papa was well enough for Mama to leave him, Willis had flunked out of high school in Pierre--so he went home with Mama to help her. I missed six weeks of school at that time, and many other days besides.

Although I was editor-in-chief of the school annual, the PIERRE HI GUMBO, I had to be out so much that I didn't do much work on it. When I got back to school, the principal and teachers were lovely to me. They made ray make-up work a mere form, as I had studied at home and gone on with my classes anyway.

When this Commencement came, I was there, replete in cap and gown, with my name on the honor roll and a big gold seal on my diploma to prove it. The only flaw in this graduation was Papa's absence. He had gone to the Battleground Sanitarium in Hot Springs, S.D., in the hope that there he would improve. I still have the lovely letter he wrote me when he heard about Commencement, and I still have the gold watch that he and Mama gave me for a graduation gift.

That summer we hired a printer to run the paper, so that Mama and George could stay in Hot Springs with Papa. I was teaching in the Green School--the same country school where Mama had taught before she was married. I boarded in a home belonging to a man whose father she had taught, and I taught the children of the children she had taught. It doesn't sound like progress; but life didn't move so fast then, and a new crop of students had to be grown!

I was having a good time teaching and being "courted" on weekends by Ralph Christy; but before long I heard about problems at home that I had to resolve. I learned that Willis was working for a neighbor and was wearing the car out by tearing around in it at night. He had too much freedom for a seventeen-year-old boy to handle. The printer turned out to be a "dope fiend" of some kind, and soon the neighbors told me that the paper was not being published on time. I wired Mama, and they all came home.

We had Thanksgiving in Pierre at Grandpa Green's house. The next day, we took Mama and Papa to the train, where they embarked for the Chamberlain Sanitarium. Mama stayed all night there and received a very discouraging report on Papa's condition--but she had to return to Okobojo the next day to get the paper published.

On December 7, Papa was tying his necktie before going down to breakfast, when he had his final stroke. He lingered a little while, but none of us could get there before he died. Uncle Hugh Green went at once and brought Papa's body back to Pierre.

Grandpa Green insisted on bearing all the expenses of the funeral. He said that not even his wife's death had hit him as hard as Will's. He and Papa were more like brothers than like father and son. Papa was the first child to survive, after three older brothers had died, and Grandpa Green almost idolized him.

After a church services at Grandpa’s Baptist church in Pierre and a Masonic service at our home in Okobojo, Papa had a military burial at the family cemetery near the old homestead. The first occupant of that cemetery had been Great –grandfather McGannon, Grandmother Green’s father.

It was a desolate family and heartbroken wife that left Papa to sleep under the deep snow that twelfth day of December 1922. The thought of Christmas just around the corner--the first one we children had ever known without him--only emphasized our sorrow.

[There is more but I'm not done typing it yet. Check back soon.  SG]

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