At the Manor

(From This…That…and Goodness Knows What All)

Another birthday came along
Goodness, Goodness me
I can hardly believe that
I am ninety-three.

Someone rolled the years real fast
Much faster than they should
If I could have my way
I’d make them slower, if I could.

I guess we have to take what comes
Soon it will be snow
Then all will have to bundle up
And how the wind will blow

Many hurry to get to work
But I don’t have a care
I’ll watch it out the window
Sitting in my easy chair.

P. iii – Copyright Esther Barnhart

Soda Pop

(From My Golden Rule Days)

(Hermann) was the town where we did our trading. We went by team and spring wagon and it took a long time. Our Dad always took two of us along, and I remember before Helen and I started school how one day we happily climbed up on the single seat and we were off, enjoying the changing scenery. When we got to ton and the team was tied up, Dad always took us in a store to get us an ice cream cone.

This day as we were walking, a man came stumbling all over the sidewalk. I asked, “What is the matter with him?” Dad said, “He is drunk.” In the store, the owner told us that he had a new item called Soda Pop. We were given bottles of it, and when I when I tasted mine it was so sharp that I thought it must have been what made the man drunk, and I wouldn’t drink it. Helen loved it and drank mine too. How I did miss my ice cream cone that day.

Our house was not made of bricks; it was old weather-beaten boards. It had two rooms, and it had a low attic where we kids slept. There were no railing where the stairs opened up there, and I would get scared every time I looked at it. There were tall cedar trees by the house and cardinals — we called them red birds — would fly up on them to eat berries. It was as beautiful as any painting. there was a path through the cedars that led to a pump. From there, we carried water for the house and watered the horses and the cows. A large oak tree was there, and we would milk the cows under it.

The barn was just big enough to put in the eight cows, the team, the wagon and some hay during the winter months

P. 2-3 – Copyright Esther Barnhart

Our Daily News

(From Rejection Slip Poems)

Every morning the reporter tells us
Of earthquakes, violence or war,
Whatever awful occurs somewhere
It may happen right here or afar.

He gets it fast, death and destruction
Mud thrown by political foes
Drought or flood and people hunger
We hear about these worldwide woes.

After his allotted minutes are up
When he tells us all he has to say,
He always ends the report like this;
That is all for now – have a happy day.

Telling It Like It Was – Pt. 2

(From We Went Westward . . . Ho Ho Ho)

When a few weatherbeaten houses came into view, we drove up and saw one had a sign that said, HOTEL.  A man was sitting on the steps, and we asked him what the name of the place was.  We still laugh about it.  He looked puzzled for a bit, then said, “Gosh, I don’t know.  I’ll go in and find out.”

When he came back, he told us it was Alzada, and it was in Montana.  “Well,” I said, “It can’t be much farther now.”  But it was.  The road became narrow, muddy and more rutty.  It became necessary for me to brace myself with my feet to keep from “hitting the top.”  As mile after mile passed, I was sure the ruts would lead nowhere, just end out there in the mud somewhere.  I was so tired that I didn’t care much if they did.

The sun went down, and it was on a down grade that we high centered, but for good.  Then we had a lucky break.  A carload of teenagers, out for a drive, found us.  They were just bursting to help.  They told us that Broadus was the next town.  They knew a man who had a truck and would pull us out, and there was a hotel and a dairy where we could buy milk for the baby.  One girl sat on her boyfriend’s lap so Barney could go back with them.  Waiting in the car in the dark, it seemed the quietest place in the world.  I thank God that I didn’t hear a coyote howl that night.  I would have been sure that we would end up eaten by wolves.

The trucker got us out and refused pay, and it was a good thing as we were not very flush.  As long as I remember anything, I will never forget the mud in the hall at the hotel.  It was inches deep, and men in cowboy boots and big hats walked back and forth in it.  I bet the one who had to do the cleaning had to shovel it out every day.  We bought a quart of milk in a blue fruit jar, a loaf of bread, and a little something to make sandwiches, had a lunch in our room and turned in.

At six o’clock in the morning it was a noisy place as others started to stir around, so we ate what was left from the night before and went to the desk and asked directions to the homestead.  “Go ten miles north to the Olive Post Office, ” we were told.

“Then turn west through ranch land.  Go through three wire gates, turn south and follow the trail, and when you see a large barn, it will be a short way from it.”

We almost missed Olive.  It was a small brown building, and I saw the post office sign just in time.  So we turned and drove over range land.  Every so often there would be a small log building, and I asked Barney what they were.  He answered right off: “Houses.”  I waited for him to finish the joke, then realized it was the truth.

“You mean people live in those things?” I wailed.  It was quite a shock.

P. 2 – Copyright Esther Barnhart

Telling It Like It Was – Pt. 1

(From We Went Westward . . . Ho Ho Ho)

We came to Montana in 1933.  Not in a covered wagon, although there were times we could have made better headway in one.  It was the month of April when we left Kansas City, Mo., heading west in a Ford Coupe pulling what possessions we could get in a two wheel trailer.  Our girl was eighteen months old, named Marla, by her grandmother.  The baby boy, six months of age, we called Bud, because his sister was asked so many times, “Is that your brother?” that she called him “Buddy.”

The coal soot that blackened the curtains when the windows were open, the heat that made us perspire all night and only cooled a little about the time the milkman’s horse came clopping by, were among the reasons we wanted to move.  A man that lived in the city had a vacant homestead and said we could try our luck on it if we wanted to.  When word got around that Barney and Esther were going out west, friends and relatives did a lot of protesting.  I can still hear a cousin as she said loudly, “But why Montanaaaaa?”

We had both been raised in the country, and city life never got much of a hold on us.  Besides that, Barney had an uncle and family out there, so off we went.  It was a long way.  Man Alive!  It was a long way.  The first night we stayed in Nebraska City, Nebr., at a motel cabin for a dollar and a half.  The next evening we came to Winside, Nebr., where relatives of mine lived.  This was as far away from home as I had ever been, having visited them once before, so I thought Montana must be like Nebraska.

The trailer load had shifted, so Barney unloaded and rearranged it.  There was a heavy oak dresser that had been in his family a long time, a double bed with a mattress, two baby beds, a high chair, my cedar chest and a large wooden bakery box, both of these filled with clothing and other things.   There was a child’s rocker made of willow sticks that I had bought from a door to door salesman for fifty cents.  We brought four kitchen chairs, and a coaster wagon was on top of the tarp with chair legs sticking out.  The load stayed in place all the rest of the way, and how it could with all the rough roads we went over, I’ll never know.

The next night we stopped at Alpena, S. Dak., where Barney’s relatives lived and where he grew up.  Here he met old friends and fellows he went to school with.  The houses were large and the barns big and red.  “Maybe, ” I thought, “Montana will be more like South Dakota.”

We had a flat tire near Rapid City, S. Dak., and spent another night there.  Then the going was slower and rough.  Marla was carsick most of the time and threw up a lot.  Sometimes it took a while to figure out where the road was, as the frost had gone out of the ground, and there were tracks everywhere.

Before we got to Belle Fourche, there was a low place with water running over (the road.)  Our car sank down and stayed there.  No farmstead was to be seen or any sign of life anywhere.  Another car was stuck there too.  Then, two men came from around a hill and told us it was their car and said, “We will all be here for a long time.”

They were mad and had been drinking, and they scared me.  I wasn’t about to be there after dark, so I twisted off a lot of sagebrush, and Barney found some rocks.  Putting this under the wheels gave some traction, and after a while we got out.  Near the city we got quite a jouncing, as the trail went over large, partly exposed tree roots.  We left South Dakota behind and went through a stretch of Wyoming, seeing only wide open spaces, following a rutty road.

P. 1 — Copyright Esther Barnhart

From Hermann to the Farm

(From My Golden Rule Days)

My parents, Otto and Ernestine Graupner, (German translation for “Graupner”: “one who delivers hulled grain”), lived in St. Louis, where my father was a hod carrier.  He carried the heavy load of bricks to the men who laid them.  Most of the houses were made of brick in those days.  He had to carry a lot of them up a ladder and his shoulders were always sore, so they decided to move to a farm. They had three small children, Clark, Oscar, and Alma.  My mother had quite a few relatives there, and they were all farmers.

The nearest town was Hermann, founded in 1836 by the German Settlement Society of Philadelphia, who wished to preserve their native culture.  This area north of St. Louis, was chosen by scouts because of the Missouri river; its bluffs and hills reminded them of the Rhine valley.

I was the first to be born on our eighty acre farm, followed by Helen, Paul, and Ruth. The doctor lived three miles away in the village of Stony Hill and he came in a two wheeled cart pulled by one horse.  Ruth was born on Christmas Eve, and he arrived wearing a heavy fur cap and coat.

Trying to keep Hermann German failed, as children preferred English, and World War I changed everything.  Many a grandfather and the grandmothers were bitterly disappointed.  Later, it was realized that a perfect colony was not to be, but the influence of those early settlers is still in evidence.  One hundred sixty years later the well-made brick buildings still stand.

Many events are now an annual affair, the Maifest being the biggest drawing card.  The large German School is now a museum: the huge underground wine cellar with its large casks of homemade wine, house tours of homes with antique furniture and modern television sets.  There is lots of music and singing as the home folks put on a pageant.  Then too, the good food to enjoy.

Page 1-2 — Copyright Esther Barnhart