My Story continues Coal was the fuel of choice. Trees that grew almost exclusively along the creeks and draws were mostly willow and cottonwood. Firewood from these trees burned hot but quickly turned to ashes. Coal provided a hot, long-lasting heat. The problem was that you couldn’t just go out and chop down a coal tree. I know. There is no such thing as a coal tree. I’m only trying to say that getting coal wasn’t easy. It had to be hauled by wagon or whatever form of transportation available from the little town of Wood, about twenty miles east or from Valentine, Nebraska further south. The coal came in chunks. Sometimes big ones that had to be broken into pieces small enough to fit into the fire box of the cast iron stoves. The firebox contained a grate that wood or coal would be placed on. The grate allowed air to circulate and ashes to fall through. It could be turned over using a handle to change when burning one or the other. Getting bored? I told you I was going describe the LITTLE THINGS that no one else has. The fire was started in several ways. The safest but slowest was to get twigs of cottonwood, called kindling, burning and then add the larger pieces. A quicker method was to place several of the larger pieces first with the kindling on top. Dump a a tin can full of kerosene on it and light it up. Kerosene is a relatively safe fuel at normal day or nighttime temperatures. It can be extremely explosive and volatile if tossed directly on red-hot coals. We were always careful not to add kerosene once the fire had been established. When we lived in Nebraska and had lots of corncobs, we used to soak some of them overnight in a coffee can of kerosene. They were especially great for starting coal because they were slow burning and retained their heat without quickly turning to ashes. Kerosene works great for starting a fire but you better be mighty careful how you store and handle the stuff. This is an example of what not to do. On August 2 1938, Uncle Louie, looking very upset came riding in, He said Grandma had been in a terrible accident that morning; She always made pancakes for breakfast. That morning one of the boys had started the fire in the cast iron stove. It was a usual practice to pour a little kerosene on the kindling to get the fire going, She had mixed the batter and the griddle was very hot and ready. No one knows exactly what caused what happened next. The can that had held the kerosene had been set on top of the warming oven above the stove. It fell. Spilling it’s contents and bursting into flames on the nearly red hot griddle. Her entire left arm and hand suffered third degree burns. She was in the Murdo hospital for about six weeks. It took another six weeks of recovery at my Aunt Kate’s before she could go home. The pain was horrible and treatment in those days was primitive. The doctors wanted to amputate her arm but she said “NO WAY” . She was left with her arm terribly scarred but still intact.. Some fingers were locked at a ninety-degree angle but her index finger and thumb remained useable. She became quite adept at coping with her handicap. She could push a needle through her embroidery work, shell green peas and remove the string from string beans as well as anyone. With all that, she maintained her good humor and our precious Grandma until the day she died at age one hundred and one. She left behind many descendants, that at this time, number at least three hundred fifty: All outstanding citizens and patriotic Americans: Their accomplishments are far too long to set forth here: From ranchers and farmers to college professors, a nationally recognized artist and painter, State officials, doctors, lawyers and scientists, and successful businessmen and women engaged in all matter of endeavors, they are scattered across all America. The list goes on and on. Sure makes for interesting conversation at family re-unions. I started to tell you about toys or the lack of them before I got side-tracked . As I said almost no-one that I knew had store bought toys. One exception that sticks in my mind was when we visited the folk’s (we always called my parents, ”the folks”) long time friends, The Frank Halligans. There were at least three boys and one girl in this family that I remember. The girl was exceptionally beautiful and nice with long auburn, reddish brown hair. The oldest boy, whose name I think was Bernard, was a real cowboy. When we entered the porch leading to their kitchen, his saddle, chaps and spurs sat on the floor. Hanging from the saddle horn was the biggest pistol I have ever seen. My guess now is that it was a Colt 44. It may have been smaller than the eyes of a small child imagined it. I know I was intrigued, scared and in awe of it at the same time. I don’t know what he needed it for. I don’t think there any out-laws running around. He sure didn’t need that big a weapon to shoot a rattlesnake. Maybe he just liked shooting a pistol. The brother that had the toys, whose name I don’t remember, was the youngest. About my age or a little younger. The toys were building blocks. All painted and pretty with letters on the sides. He wouldn’t let me play with a single one. When I fussed about it, his sister took my side. That didn’t help my cause. He raised such a crying howl ( I’m sure I was a nice, quiet, good little boy) that Mom took me outside to play or pout as I chose. A resolution that I thought was totally unjust and unfair. One of my answers to the lack of toys was spoons. SPOONS? Yes. Spoons. Mom always complained that someone had gotten into her kitchen utensil drawer and her spoons kept disappearing. Spoons. The bigger the better. Tablespoons or bigger if possible. Tea spoons, if nothing else. With a spoon a kid could dig in the dirt. Use them to pile up dirt, build mountains and dams, dig caves and make roads and all sorts of things. Spoons made great drum sticks. An old cardboard oatmeal box made a pretty good drum. You could bend a spoon back with a rock in it and with a flick of your wrist shoot ever so far. Think about it. Spoons make great toys. I’ll bet there are still spoons in the dirt near where that old house once sat.
Posted on: Sun, 15 Sep 2013 22:31:48 +0000
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