By Kenneth Duncan
The Random Array Of The Years Passing By
Contributed By Alice Horner including Notes Once or twice a school term there were box or pie socials, as noted above. Nicely trimmed boxes, especially well done pies. I remember at one pie social of a plump gooseberry pie bringing the unheard of price of $3.25, the result of up bidding by two young men, each interested in the young woman pie baker. At box socials the various wives who brought the attractively trimmed, equally attractively filled dinner baskets were not supposed to have informed the husbands which box might be theirs, but somehow this was evaded, the husband choosing his wife’s, usually to the delight of their children who would participate in its consumption. Equally so with the young, unmarried women, who somehow practically always tipped off the young man they were interested in. There was always a Christmas Party at school. In the afternoon of the day that school let out for the Holidays. Always a tree, always a Santa Claus, someone from outside. One year, the teacher I do not recall, but the Santa Claus was the Rev. George Fetter, of the Mt. Carroll Baptist Church, he entering in a long fur coat, masked, jingling sleigh bells, Ho Ho Ho’ing, very jolly. Each Party had its arranged program, pupils reciting, singing or enacting short Christmas plays. Gifts for one another. One year Emma Freeman gifted me with a fine plaid Windsor tie, giving me a Christmas kiss afterward under the suspended mistletoe. Nice Emma. In season she wore a delightful gray knit hood, interlaced with blue ribbon. Rosy cheeks, sparkling brown eyes. She delighted in me, I in her. Many years afterward I saw Emma in Freeport, clerking in a store. Married, divorced, married again to Cecil Imel, the remarriage I think after I glimpsed her in the store. John Hay, a small somewhat homely, brilliant man, for many years was County Superintendent of Schools. Mr. Hay was a conscientious administrator, covering the county well. Mr. Hay was an occasional visitor to Preston Prairie School, dropping in unexpected, observing the teacher’s handling of school routine, the reaction of the pupils. He served a number of terms, satisfactory to all concerned. Across the road from our farmhouse lay the Milton and Emma Jane Dodson farm. Emma Jane was the daughter of Will Petty, and a sister of Albert Petty. Their farm and Albert’s were part of Will Petty’s considerable estate. Milton and Emma Jane were the grandparents of Thell and Lois Tomlinson, children of Gail and Grace, their home being in Davenport, Iowa. During summer school vacations Thell and Lois were at their grandparents, and became good friends of Donald and I. Dodson’s youngest daughter married Carlos Eacker, a blithe spirit from the Polsgrove area, the two coming to live on the Dodson farm. I recall their wedding day, Milton, Emma Jane, Helen, and her two sisters, coming past the Preston Prairie schoolhouse in Milton’s big Stephens automobile on their way to Mt. Carroll. It was Valentine’s Day, noon time recess, Milton tooted the car horn, we all waved a greeting. Milton and Emma Jane had the three daughters, no sons. However, about 1912 one morning at Wacker store Milton encountered a waif of a boy, an apparent run away from home, fourteen years old, Edward Braun by name. The boy was desolate, and Milton, drawn to him, and also considering that he could be helpful on the farm, brought him to the Dodson home. Emma Jane was agreeable, Edward staying on for several years. Neal and he became great chums. Edward came to call Milton “Dad;” a bond was forged between them. Edward was an ingenious lad; among other things he would come to possess was a quite high powered air rifle. One afternoon in springtime, Edward, shooting his rifle in the Dodson barnyard, by mischance lodged a BB in a cow’s nose. He came over to our house, telling Neal that it would not do for Milton to learn of the happening, so he and Neal returned to the Dodson barnyard, maneuvered the cow into the barn and into a stanchion where, with the awl blade of a pocket knife, managed to extricate the pellet. Some four or five years after Edward had come to the Dodsons he would leave to return to Chicago, from whence he had come. In 1920, at Christmas time, Neal, on his way home for the Christmas recess, stopped over in Chicago to see Edward, later reporting that he was in his parents home, was employed at International Harvester shops, seemingly well established. Anticipating daughter Helen’s marriage to Carlos, and their coming to live on the Dodson farm, Milton and Emma Jane constructed another house on the extreme southwest corner of their farm. A well built, well planned one-story, with extra room space in the attic. There they moved, Helen and Carlos having the farmhouse. The Dodson farm was the same acreage as ours, and of similar topography. Quite a bit of hill land, but across the road from the house were forty acres of well laying land, and at the farm’s east edge, atop a considerable hill, was twelve to fifteen acres of agreeable tillable land. For Carlos’ coming, Milton had changed a polyglot dairy herd to a herd of Brown Swiss. A bull secured to accompany the cows, a bull that Milton had got on the wrong side of when one day, the bull broke through a fence and Milton used blows to return him. Soon afterward in the barnyard the bull charged Milton, knocking him down and badly bruising him. Adjoining the Dodson farm was the George Fulrath farm, with a 15-acre tapered field across the road to the west from the farmhouse, the taper created by the slant of the Milwaukee Railroad, and north and east was a substantial, quite hilly field, there being a sort of boggy spring in its bottom. This was usually pasture, the least desirable land east of the house, the eastern balance being mainly level prairie type land. He had a large barn, basement accommodations for a considerable dairy herd, a large glazed tile silo, milk house adjoining a good sized hog building, a good sized well-kept farm house. George was what could be described as a steady farmer, employed the services of a regular hired hand. He ran a good operation. Unfortunately, before his capable work years were over, he sustained a moderate stroke which put an end to his farm work years. He and his wife Mae had three daughters, reasonably close together, and a considerably younger son. I attended Preston Prairie School with them, all finishing their terms before me, that is, the girls; I do not recall being in school with the boy. In later years Dorothy, the youngest, would marry Will James’ son, Harry; Lucille, the second girl married Wilbur Wilcke, who later became a lay minister in, I believe, the Rock Falls area; and Neva, the oldest, Preston Prairie School teacher for my final year, who became the wife of Harold Merchant, they residing on a farm north of Lanark. George farmed soundly, liked to keep up with the work. In 1918’s summer, for some reason or another, at oat cutting time George found himself temporarily minus his hired hand. As he wished to have his oats shocked promptly, he asked Father if he and Neal could assist in that task. As our oats was cut and in shock, agreement was reached and the two pitched in, getting the grain in the desired condition almost as soon as George was through with its cutting and binding. George was greatly pleased, paying Father and Neal what they considered exorbitant wages, although it was World War I time, when such amounts were not unusual and George undoubtedly thought that their favor merited the wage. George sold cream to Frank Isenhart, who conducted Isenhart’s Sugar Bowl, Frank making the ice cream for his business. One November morning Frank wanted an early delivery of the cream, so George, who was aware of my daily progress to and from Mt. Carroll High School, asked if I could pick up a ten gallon can at his milk house, taking it in to Frank. I did this, cramping the buggy and horse at the store’s front door, Frank and a helper coming out to take the cream from the buggy. All well and good so far, but as I, with horse and buggy, was descending the short, sharp hill at the north end of Mill Street, on the way to my stable area a short distance south of the Mt. Carroll water tower, one of the hold back straps attached to my driving mare’s harness broke, allowing the back cross piece of the shafts to strike her sharply on the haunches. This was one thing she would not tolerate, it apparently frightening her, so away she went on a wild, tearing gallop, the buggy careening, and I holding desperately to the reins in an unsuccessful attempt to check her panic. Fortunately there was a long, straight level run from the bottom of the hill to the turn off spot leading to the stable, she finally galloping herself out, and settling down. A runaway horse and carriage can be a very scary thing. The year before, when Donald and I, school bound, driving the same mare started the descent down what we termed Schaut Hill, this being the approach to the level lane leading to the Lon White farm, the same thing occurred, the mare taking off, but with no long level distance to run, charging up the slope leading to the stable, making the necessary sharp side street turn, but cutting short, smashed the left front wheel against a light pole, the wheel rim flying off. It was but a short distance to the stable, we making it OK, the mare, once in the stable yard, pulling up. Fortunately there was a moderate rain that day, and in the afternoon we managed on the softened ground to run home on the wheel spoke ends. The Ren Williamson farm adjoined George Fulrath on the east. It had several good prairie type fields. If I remember correctly, this was the farm where Wallace Williams’ father and mother lived prior to the father’s death, Wallace but a small boy at the time. Ren was of the Williamsons who lived north of town in the Plum River bottom area, and it must have been a considerable change of scene for Ren to move from flood bottom land. I recall that Ren, scouting for a farm in the general area, one day came onto our farm to see if it was for sale. Ren and his wife had a son, Donald, and a daughter whose name you may remember. Sort of supercilious kids. After high school, Donald went away to college, as I suppose the girl did too, their parents being ambitious for them. In Mt. Carroll School Donald had a considerable flowing mane of blondish hair, incurring the nickname of “Paderewski.” The Williamson farm was on a different road than the one I customarily traveled, I knowing little of it. As I recall the house, originally brick, had been sided over with wood drop siding, painted white. The Milwaukee Railroad bounded George Fulrath on the north. North of the railroad, on the west side, was the Lew Weidman farm, not especially large in acreage. Lew was a general farmer, milk cows and the raising of hogs. His wife’s name was Mamie, a rather good looking woman. They had six children, all of whom you know, or knew. Lew liked to chew either Peachy Plug or Peachy Scrap tobacco, coming in a yellow tin or glazed paper pouch. Later on Lew and family would move to the Center Hill area. On Halloween the young people in the neighborhood dearly loved to devil Lew, attempting to run off with various of his wheeled vehicles. Lew entered into the spirit of the evening, taking up his location near the yard water reservoir, pump shotgun pointed up in the air, in hand, box of shells at the ready, firing fiery resounding blasts, after fiery resounding blasts. No firing at people, just blasting off, like a Fourth of July celebration. I recall one brilliant full moon Halloween evening when daring youths, skirting Lew’s location, ran off with his low wheeled wagon and wagon box, to the enjoyment of all concerned. North of Lew Weidman was the 120 acres or so of what was known as the Downing land. Many years before a tornado, called a cyclone, had swept across the acreage, destroying the buildings, which had not been replaced. There was a well there. Loomer Downing, residing west of the Jim-Charley Petty farm, on the Mt. Carroll-Savanna Road, farmed the land. Loomer could be considered a forerunner in farming practice, he being one of the first to have the more productive Holstein dairy cattle, and the first in the neighborhood, as I recall, to replace horse drawn equipment with tractor power. I remember one spring day, walking home from school, observing Loomer on the Downing land, progressing west with a tripod type of steel wheeled tractor attached to a two-bottomed plow, a light blue smoke rising from the exhaust. The first field operating tractor I had seen. Alice Horner’s note: Kenneth Duncan hasn’t described the Downing property accurately, nor is it on his map. It was owned by Loomer Downing’s father, Harvey Loomer Downing Sr., who probably didn’t farm it myself after the cyclone, and by 1908 or so was retired and living in Mt. Carroll. The property was 117 acres on the west side of what was then Prairie Road (and what is now South Preston Road), in the southern part of what Kenneth Duncan shows on his hand drawn map as Tom Bashaw’s farm. This farm had been owned by Harvey Loomer Downing Sr.’s father, Sumner Downing (and possibly also by his grandfather, Abner Downing). Refer to the first 2 ink drawings and corresponding 2 photographs in the "Then and Now section to see how this farm looked: Alice Horner’s note: The farm across the road that is shown as the Cliff Downing property on the map was also owned by Harvey Loomer Downing Sr.; it had originally been the property of his father-in-law, Samuel Preston. Cliff and Loomer were brothers. Cliff and his family lived on the larger of the two homes on this farm, which also included the pond, which was a landmark in the area. The Preston Prairie School, not marked but where the large black round spot is on the map, was originally part of Samuel Preston’s farm; Samuel Preston had given the land for the school. Click here for more information on Samuel Preston’s farm: Across the road from the Downing land, its southern boundary the Milwaukee Railroad, was the Albert Petty quarter section. Mostly level land, of good soil type. Preston Prairie land. Albert had a large basement type red barn, large fenced barnyard, solid square two-story house. Albert had a fondness for good draft horses. His wife, Mae, or was it Mary, was quite active in Hickory Grove Methodist church activities, being the organizer, sponsor and teacher of a teenager class to which Donald and I belonged. M. M. Class we were known as. We had various class activities, including one of which would be a successful ice cream social. Albert and his wife had four children: Ray, Dulcie, Beulah, and Ruth. Will Petty was his father. I would presume that the later Will (Bill) Petty, State’s Attorney, was named for his great grandfather. The north portion of Albert’s farm adjoined the Preston Prairie School’s school yard, there being a medium wide swale of land where, in good fall and spring weather, the school pupils, climbing over or through the fence separating the two, would play their own brand of baseball.  after the cyclone of 1898; the barns would have been built after 1920. This photo was taken looking south down South Preston Road. This photo is from the Erma Krum collection. I have not located on the map the Dave Flaharty property. However, its quite small acreage bounded the Downing land on the north and was, itself, bounded on the north by the Tom Bashaw farm. The Flaharty’s had what could be described as a medium sized, story and a half, frame house and out by the road an unpainted frame building, of fair size, housing Dave’s rag rug weaving looms. Dave was a Confederate Army veteran, a medium sized man, of rather quizzical mien, chewer of Climax Plug tobacco of which he saved tin boxes and red stick in plug tags for greedy grasping hands of the looking-in-upon-him-in-his-weaving-room passing by school children. We also had blue warp tubes to distribute. Dave had all of the rag rug weaving he cared to take on. Housewives would cut into strips their sheets, tablecloths, farm clothing, etc. worn beyond reasonable use conveying the strips to Dave, and he would weave rugs. Dave had two looms and could weave most any size rug up to the width of the loom. Women liked to supply a variety of colors strips in order to assure a colorful, something like mosaic effect. Quite a few of the women would order a large rug, and accompanying small rugs, furnishing sufficient strips to accomplish the mission, Later on, after the Flahartys had gone away, the property became the Wacker Church of the Brethren parsonage. This photo is the weaving shop building after it was moved to Lanark. Alice Horner’s note: The text on this link about the weaving shop conflicts with Kenneth Duncan’s account, and also with what I know. This weaving shop definitely moved to Lanark later than 1890, for my own mother referred to it being in Preston Prairie in her childhood and she was born in 1906. North of Dave was the Tom Bashaw farm, extending north to the Mt. Carroll – Savanna Road. Tom had a new square white frame house on the corner and a medium sized red barn south of the house. Tom was one of the Bashaw brothers, along with Eugene and Henry, who lived in the general area. I believe that the three brothers were all living in their 70s, a bit of a rarity at the time. And of course, and write it prominent, the Preston Prairie School, District No. 64 on the hill north of the Albert Petty farm, and across the road to the east from the Bashaw farm. A medium sized white drop sided building, serving the community for many years. I suppose much like any country school of the time, but special to us. While I have present knowledge of the whereabouts of most of the Preston Prairie schoolmates, I do not know of Lucille Fulrath Wilcke, Beulah Ritenour, Hazel Downing Stiteley, Helen and Margaret Petty, and that, I believe, is the list. The north arm of the school district commenced with Loomer Downing Farm on the west and completed with Charley (as we knew him) Bickelhaupt on the east. The really choice Preston Prairie land lay east of the Mt. Carroll – Savanna road T with the south running Prairie Road. I remember my father saying that he would have been pleased to have had the convenient sized prairie soiled Charley Bickelhaupt farm in preference to the one where he was located, that 140 acres was too much for one man. And in particular that its topography could not compare.  who was one of the earliest settlers in Carroll County. (Heman Downing did not live in this house.) The cider press was in a barn to the rear of this house for a time. Cliff Downing had some very good land, but not all, due to topography. After Cliff died, I think it was in the summer of 1914, victim of an appendicitis operation, Jennie, his widow, with the assistance of her half brother, Harry Ross, stayed on for a while before moving to Mt. Carroll. Jim Blair succeeded. Jim had an erudite daughter, Ardath, marrying later somewhere out of the community, Blair was a cattle feeder, one of his practices the cutting off of corn to form into shocks, later in the winter, with the assistance of a hired hand, going out in the field with a hayrack on a bobsled and dragging the corn thereon to transport to the feeding yard. Jim worked too hard, later on his hard work showing on him.
The Jim-Charlie Petty farm had some good back laying fields. Jim Petty, who lived in town, on good days would come out to the
farm, driving an old white horse to a dish wheeled hack.
Where the Gillespies lived had been the Higlin farm. John Higlin, two children Lloyd and Grace, and of course Mrs. Higlin.
Later on Lloyd would become an Evanston mail carrier, Grace would marry Jim Rush, who worked for the American Express.
Alice Horner’s note:
Where the Gillespies lived had also been the O'Neal Inn
The Howard Petty farm, the Jess Colehour farm, Myrtle, his wife. She was quite active in the Wacker Hickory Grove Methodist Church, sponsoring and teaching the quite active upper teenage Booster Class, to which Neal belonged, along with others in the community of his age. Myrtle, years later on, was responsible for the gifting of an electric organ to the Wacker church. I remember at the time of World War I, a hired hand of Jess Colehour’s, Lewy Ferris, was drafted into service, and as I recall, lost his life in an army training camp. Jess was a careful considerate farm operator.
George Bickelhaupt and his wife Louise, cousin of Anne Lambert O’Neal, lived in the house east of where Charlie, Mae, and Glen lived. One winter George and Louise spent in California, and the next season at one of the customary monthly community meetings at the school house, Louise gave an interesting illustrated talk on their California experience. They had been much impressed by the vast orange groves, the splendid weather, and among other things, had encountered Charles Evans Hughes, United States statesman and jurist, whom Louise described as both courtly and charming.
 This house was just to the east of the Charley Bickelhaupt house, and was lived in by Charley Bickelhaupt’s parents, George Valentine Bickelhaupt and his wife Louisa (Lambert) Bickelhaupt. George, Louisa, and their son Earle are in the photo; the horse’s name is Topsy.
The Clay Weidman farm east of the Cliff Downing farm was, I believe, in the Fairgrounds school district as was Ross Cummings, east of Weidman. Ross, an amiable fellow, living there with two sisters. The Albert Hartman farm, later owned by Fred Allison, the cattle feeder, lay east of the Bickelhaupt farm. Fred was sort of a plunger, paying an inflated wartime price for the Hartman farm, turning it into a cattle feeding project. His ambitious projects may have been too much for him. This farm was in the Fairgrounds district. The William Knauer farm was east of Ross Cummings on the south side of the road. An example of thrifty Germanic land operation. A successful operation, conservative, tried and true farming methods. No plunging here. We are at the Fairgrounds school now. At one time taught by Allen Sword, a martinet of a teacher. No nonsense, the order of the day. The Will Hartman farm was across from the schoolhouse, another example of careful successful farming. Will Hartman, among other things, had a Franklin air cooled automobile, usually driven by his wife, with Will crouched in the seat beside her. Around the corner, the Chase Brown farm. Chase, an extremely corpulent stub of a man, considerable of a hog raiser. Across from Chase, the Jake Richter farm. Another example of conservative, successful farming. Jake, quite early on, had a many-horse pulled mechanical corn picker. One of his daughters, Lillian, was in my high school class. Jake’s land ran well to the north. Below him was Lon White’s quite profitable gravel pit, a huge, high bank of good gravel. Lon had a good team of horses, a good gravel wagon, and distributed gravel where needed. Up the hill from Lon’s farm entrance was the substantial two-story house that Schaut, the carpenter, had built. Beyond Schauts, the small acreage of Harry Seiple, the long time rural mail carrier. Beyond Seiple, Treloar’s small acreage with however, fair sized house and fair sized barn. Treloar’s were related to Will James. South of Treloars the pleasant, set back from the road, small acreage of Scoop Crouse, another rural mail carrier. The Mt. Carroll Waterworks is located on the flat a short distance north of the entrance to Lon White’s gravel pit acreage. For quite some time there were Warfields operating the works. Mt. Carroll has been blessed with good water. Its tall water tower is up the considerable hill from the pumping station. One of the things that I, as a boy, noticed in my Grandmother O’Neal’s house, located below the water tower location, was the force with which water came gushing from the faucet. Quite understandable, considering the closeness of the high tower. Quite a boon to grandmother, who for years had the task of conveying water by pail. For her it must have had some of the compensatory qualities of today’s various Senior Citizen’s benefits. Oh yes, as Robert Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra advised, “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.” And haven’t the old paid their dues over long years of effort? Grandmother O’Neal may not have considered it exactly that way, but was, I am sure, pleased to have it for her convenience. Summer in the Central Plains is growing time. On hot July nights one can almost hear the corn grow. The present day hybrid corn is quicker to mature than the corn that was grown previous. Farmers used to think “knee high by the 4th of July” was doing well. Now the hybrids, which mechanized farming allows to be planted at least two weeks earlier, may well be in first tassel stage by the 4th. Lots of today’s corn is safe from frost four weeks earlier than previous varieties. Our former vice president, Henry Wallace, was a pioneer in the development of hybrid corn, fittingly he named his hybrids “Pioneer.” DeKalb was in the ranks of the forerunners in the development of hybrids. There are many brands of hybrids today, truly a great forward step into the field of increased production that farmers enjoy today. Summertime was, first, corn cultivation time. Horse drawn cultivators, one row walking cultivators for the first two cultivations, then horse drawn riding cultivators for the last two, it being customary to make four cultivations. I recall one year that the corn grew so fast, and its cultivation was delayed by the necessity to make hay, that we made but three cultivations. Father was perturbed by that. One summer, when we had corn in the thirty-four acre southwest field, and Don and I were doing the third cultivation, using riding cultivators, we completed the acreage in two days, a eat not accomplished before. Tractor cultivation today would cut that in half, and with one four-row cultivator. The transfer from horse to tractor power, with its specially adapted equipment, has worked an amazing transformation in farming. Where a farmer years back was limited to the use of horses, found it all he could do to properly farm his farm, now he finds it not the least bit difficult to farm two to three times his previous acreage. Hay making in hot late June and early July. Mow it down, let it dry in the swath, rake it up, hitch the hayloader behind the hay wagon, straddle the windrows, a boy driving the team, two men on the wagon taking the hay as it boiled up from the windrows via the hayloader, load the hay wagon high, take the hay to the barn, where, with grapple fork and overhead hay carrier it was dumped in the mows to be mowed away. Loose hay, stored in mows, commonly went through what was known as the “sweat,” this creating heat. Occasionally but not often , the hay, not quite dry enough when taken from the windrows, would create such heat during the curing process that spontaneous combustion would occur. I recall one hot summer night during haymaking time that the Gill Craig farm to the east lost its barn due to spontaneous combustion. Father remarked that of all the farm processes he liked haymaking the least. One year at haymaking time, probably 1918 or 1919, the Chautauqua, appearing for its customary week’s run, offered William Jennings Bryan, Nebraska Senator, three times unsuccessful Democratic candidate for U. S. President, noted orator, as an afternoon speaker. Father, remarking that it probably would be his only opportunity to see and hear this famous political figure, took the afternoon off from haying, saying “the haying will have to keep.” Haymaking, a hot, sticky, unpleasant job. After haying came oats cutting. Four horses on the binder, Father driving, we boys picking up the bundles, making them into shocks, capped with two bundles, spread heads and butts. When the grain was cut, standing in shocks, it was customary for it to stand some two or three weeks in a process known as “curing in the shock.” Then it was ready to thresh. Threshing was the great summer crop venture. Not only because it brought stores of grain to the farmer’s bin, but it also afforded a sort of communionizing, whereby neighborhood farmers got together, forming what was known as a “threshing ring,” usually around eight separate farms, the threshing machines commencing at one end of the “ring” and continuing through, farm by farm, until the ring was completed. I remember four separate threshing rings that furnished service to our farm; John Sack, McIntyre, Yoeckel, and Loomer Downing. The threshing ring did not always have the same farm makeup. For instance, the Loomer Downing ring had him at the west end, Ross Cummings at the east, and then came down the Prairie Road to the Dodson farm and our farm. Threshing, in good weather, customarily was about a two week process. Farmers enjoyed the fraternizing, and especially the good meals supplied by the various housewives, each of whom saw to it that she set an ample table. This was a time for the housewife to require assistance in the kitchen. Lots of food preparation, the preparing of a long area of table, the hovering to be sure that the threshers were continually supplied with food. Good food and plenty of it. Threshing time! An ode could be written to it. The hauling in of bundles from the field, the throwing into the machine, the grain pouring into the grain wagons, the straw spraying out from the straw blower, the long drinks of cool water on the warm days; seen objectively, an idyll I suppose. Customarily, the farmer sowed grass seed at the time he seeded the oats. He was always happy then, at grain cutting time, there was a prolific stand of clover or alfalfa showing in the stubble. Rains coming after the threshers had cleared the field, resulted in a dense mat of the legumes. It meant hay for the next year, pasture for the year following. After threshing, customarily a two to three week lull, time to relax a bit, time to go to events such as Old Settlers Day at Lanark, or maybe to the annual Argo Fa picnic. Time to do odd jobs that had been neglected due to the summer crop rush. A lazy time, a good time, an earned time. Early on, before the general introduction of the silo into the farm scene, there would be the cutting off and shocking of corn, later to be shredded. There was some clover hulling. But with the incoming of the silo, there was silo filling, usually commencing around Labor Day. This procedure was also done in “rings.” One year the far east farmer in our particular ring was Ward Weidman. I recall that the filling started there on September 10th, that I was helping, that the task was not completed on that day. That night a heavy killing frost came, about a month earlier than usual, not interfering with the next morning’s filling completion, but causing the corn to show a graying and shriveling, which I particularly noted when, not needed at the next farm’s filling, I walked home in an early brilliant afternoon. A pleasant day to walk, but grieving at the early death of the great crop. There was a great amount of shredding at one time. Corn cut off, shocked, untouched for weeks. In late October the process started, the same method, of loading onto the wagons, the hauling to the shredder, but there was no pitching in as with oat bundles, the unloader from the wagon placing the eared cornstalks on a platform and from there, the feeder, who stood between a platform on each side, fed the cornstalks, tassel end first, into the stripping rollers, much the same as on today’s mechanized field pickers, where the ears were stripped off, the stalks passing back into a beating, cutting mechanism which shredded them, the mass then being blown out, via blower, into the loft of the barn. Shredded fodder made a fair feed, and was especially good for the bedding process. There was corn picking by hand, usually commencing at the first of November and lasting the month. A good picker could husk a load in the morning and another load in the afternoon. Horse drawn wagon, with a high bangboard above the wagon box, the ears being thrown against that, then falling down into the wagon. Corn husking could become an art, an art dedicated to the rapid husker. At that time, the Prairie Farmer publication sponsored a yearly corn husking contest, particularly skilled huskers invited to attend. One year one of these men husked 112 bushels in the allotted time, literally a tremendous feat, necessitating a continuous barrage of ears against the bangboard, continually an ear in the air. This of course was done in an exceptionally heavy stand of corn, with a driver in charge of the forward motion of the wagon. Corn husking closed the cycle of seedtime and harvest. Generally shortly after corn harvest the ground commenced to freeze. I set the time as December 4th, this from observation. Winter was chores, cutting wood, cleanups. Short, short daylight days. They passed, the sun moved higher, the roads commenced to thaw, a mass of mud, they dried, again we neared seed time. Perhaps the great summer vocation in the area was the yearly Chautauqua. This fine entertainment and diversion took its name from the small resort town of Chautauqua, on Lake Chautauqua, seat of the educational association sponsoring the program. At its height the Chautauqua consisted of a considerable number of weekly entertainments which moved from town to town. In Mt. Carroll, the great tan Chautauqua tent was located on the open land east of the Mahood home, across the street from the Caroline Mark Home. A week’s program, lectures, concerts, and the like, all of prime quality. Entertainment of the best. Season tickets were sold in large quantities. Mt. Carroll, as other places throughout the nation, was delighted to welcome and patronize the Chautauqua. Our family attended as we could. I recall one Sunday when an announced program took our family, traveling in team drawn surrey, to the Chautauqua grounds. Whatever it was, we enjoyed it. Afterwards Father treated us all to ice cream at Al Edwards soda fountain. Quite a day. Mother thought that boys should not miss a circus. So, when a circus was announced for Mt. Carroll, on that day in Dell-drawn buggy, we made it to the circus parade grounds, just south of the entrance to Point Rock Park. It was a bright sunny day. Oddly enough, while I remember us walking past the side shows with their barkers, my only recollection of the interior of the circus tent was a seal balancing a ball on its nose. I don’t recall of us ever attending a picture show while Mother was living. Later on, when the picture “Sudden Jim,” starring Charles Ray, came to Mt. Carroll, Father was particularly interested, having read the “Sudden Jim” stories in the Saturday Evening Post. So again, it was the surrey (and yes, it had the fringe on top), we having hurried through the chores, were away in good time. There was a Fatty Arbuckle comedy, and then “Sudden Jim.” As I recall, the film makers had taken some liberties with the original stories, as film makers often do. A considerable summer experience for the Mt. Carroll area was the constructing of the concrete road between that point and Savanna. This was one of the many statewide projects inaugurated by Governor Len Small, who ran for the first term on a program dedicated to, as he said, “Pull Illinois out of the mud.” A vast bond issue was floated and road construction got under way throughout the state. The contractor for the Mt. Carroll – Savanna Road was Vanderboom Brothers. At that time great mechanized equipment, such as used today, was still far in the future. Grading was done with mule teams and scrapers. However, the highway mix, sand, crushed stone, and cement was hauled in small Ford dump trucks, one of the supply points being the rock quarry located on the Eugene Bashaw property, across from Loomer Downing. Rock from the quarry was crushed there, and with sand and cement was elevated into an overhead storage bin, the dump trucks running under to receive their quotas. The road was commenced in 1922. I do not recall when it was completed, maybe 1924. It was a colossal task for those days. Nothing like today’s enormous capability.  where Florence Downing Horner and her Model A are sitting. The quarry is east of the farmhouse, beyond a small pasture, but out of camera range. This photo was probably taken about 1927. Construction of Highway 52, Mt. Carroll, Illinois
 riding a wagon down the newly paved highway in front of their farm. The Eugene Bashaw farm is in the background. Mother died in the summer of 1915; eclampsia, complication of pregnancy. She was 43. She was almost to term, was delivered by cesarean section of the still born baby girl she had hoped for, she dying the next morning. It seems likely had we not been isolated in country surroundings, had she ready access to frequent medical attention, she could have come through, with her child. Certainly today, with the wonderful antibiotic drugs and advanced knowledge there would be no difficulty. We were never the same again. Father and Neal, then 15, were aware immediately of the supreme loss. Don and I, boys of nine and eight, really could not fathom the effect of what had occurred. And it was only when I was past middle age that I realized. I commenced high school in the fall of 1919, just a tad of a lad. I remember the first day, before going into the building, of seeing Mildred Hall, this too being her first day of high school, wearing a blue sweater, coming up the south sidewalk toward the school entrance. Mildred was to prove brilliant. I could, when I tried with special effort, keep up with her in certain subjects, but certainly not all, particularly not geometry, always my bete noire. The better students in our class proved to be girls, but certainly not all of the girls, another one being Dorothy Slick. I passed through high school without distinction. My bete noire almost proved my undoing, but help by Zella Corbett, she coaching me in that which I couldn’t understand on my own, and in the giving me of a special test, brought me through. I was probably about a B, over all. 
What was special in high school? I suppose the coming in contact with more sophisticated youngsters than myself, a lifelong appreciation of English courses, its literature, its language. Another thing, quite special I guess, but not to be wondered at, the pinning on me of the designator, “Scrub.” The originator of that moniker was Ted Colehour. One noon, enroute south from the school, I, scampy little imp that I was, was continuing badgering Ted, which exasperated him to the point of exclaiming, “Why, you miserable little scrub!” The name stuck, I was so known throughout the remaining years. Thinking on it now, something I did not have the perspective to do then, I can see it must have been tempered with affection for a little guy among older, larger ones. I suppose something like the nickname, “Monk,” for Kenyon Pierce, alluding to his face, and “Doggie,” for John Dynes, alluding to his appearance and tenacity. Clarence (Jim) Colehour was kinder, to him I was “Dougie.”
Another thing that pleased me a great deal was, each class year, of being on the class team that played in the annual spring class basketball tournament. Our team, not always the same members from year to year, in my senior year, at long last, knew success, we winning the thing, over a good freshman class team, one of whose members was Harold Williamson, Roberta’s oldest son. As I recall it was Harold Noble who scored the winning basket. I don’t think I shot once in the game, playing the position of back guard.
We didn’t have a large graduating class, under twenty, as I recall. The commencement exercise was held in the Baptist Church, our speaker a middle aged man from an agency. His theme was, “Aim high, hitch your wagon to a star.” Probably a speech he had delivered a number of times. I remember him reciting this scrap of verse: “I know not where his islands lift their fronded palms in air, I only know I cannot drift beyond his love and care.” Appropriate enough for a commencement address in a church. The theme was appropriate too. Good advice most anytime. It was warm that evening. Of course Father and Jessie Lee, his second wife, were there, she wearing a smart black sailor hat, with her attractive black suit. Quite likely Father heaved a sigh of relief when he saw me step up to receive my diploma, as he hadn’t been at all sure that I would make it. Thanks to Zella, I did. I wasn’t pleased, graduating so young, so small; but I did want to finish in four years. No graduation announcements were sent out, but Mrs. Dodson presented me with an attractive pair of interwoven, nicely overchecked beige socks. I was pleased. Kind Emma Jane.
In high school, in my junior year, I was selected for a sort of walk-on role in the annual class play, that year presented in the old opera house, located directly south of the Drs. Mershon office. I remember Clifford Isenberger as the male lead, with Lucille Hanna accompanying. One of my appearances, at the very last of the play, when all had turned out well, was to walk across the stage declaiming, “Last call for dinner in the dining car.” The opera house was old, had narrow back aisles, behind the curtained stage, stuffy dressing rooms. In its day, though, it had welcomed a plethora of traveling road shows. Our play director was Miss Stewart, the English instructor. She was tall, rather slender ashen blonde who had a crush on George Reeder, a member of the senior class, basketball player and sportsman. In my senior year she was succeeded by Lucille Hastings, from Pinckneyville, Illinois, some 60 miles southeast of St. Louis and 25 miles north of Carbondale, she having received her college training in that area. The junior play appeared on consecutive Friday evenings, to a good attendance.
In my senior year I was again in the class play, this time in the role of a black valet, complete with black face, curly wig, and short white waiter’s coat, borrowed from a downtown restaurant. Hastings was our director, taking considerable pleasure in the proceeding, assisting in make up and in a number of other ways. Clifford Isenberger was again in the lead, with Alice Clark costarring. This play was in the high school gymnasium, for consecutive Fridays and drew full houses.
I remember Hastings well. She was just middling fair as an instructor but had considerable flair. Slim, lithe, supple, dark auburn hair, wearer of horn rimmed glasses; a superb ballroom dancer, favorite partner of the “alive” young men of the county. She loved it; to her teachers did not live by the school room alone. She would have fitted better in a more urban setting, but adapted quite well to our high school and our community.
After I had graduated I remember in that fall Mt. Carroll staged an Autumn Festival, or street carnival, three weekend days and nights. Outside entertainment was brought in, one of the acts being a small Italian accordion player, named Salerno, whose specialty was moving through the crowd with his instrument, playing favorites of the day. The last evening of the Festival, when the carnival had shut down for the night, Salerno appeared in the Humbert-Poole restaurant, playing before a crowd of appreciative listeners, mostly men, who called out requests. He picked up considerable in the way of tips. He came from Chicago where he had a brother, Lawrence Salerno, who for some time sang on WGN broadcasts, our accordion player accompanying on occasion.
English instructors, I had four of them in four years: Vevah Flower, short statured, middle aged; Rose A. Jack, high busted, trim figured, in her 20’s; Miss Stewart, I have mentioned; Lucille Hastings. I don’t recall if Hastings had more than one year. The high school principal in my senior year was the well liked P. F. Grove, an urbane diplomatic personality who would stay on for a score of years, until retirement. He got along quite well with all concerned. After I had returned in the summer of 1947, I had the pleasure of meeting and greeting P. F., with his second wife, on a Saturday evening in downtown Mt. Carroll. He was just the same.
When recalling the past, a person remembers what he thought he might not remember. In the fall of 1924, seated in the Mt. Carroll Library reading room, I was pleased to note a dashingly well dressed young person, topped with a rakish felt hat, complete with jaunty feather, coming through the door. It was Dorothy Slick, now a country school teacher, a former classmate. I was so pleased when, noting me, she came over with a pleasant word of greeting. She had indeed blossomed out. Dorothy Slick was Harry Slick’s daughter, the family at the time living west on Creamery Road. She had capacity, capability, in school. She would marry, move away east. I sometimes note her name as visitor in the Mt. Carroll area.
The entertainment scene of the area had as one of its features the singing of Jud Miles, owner and proprietor of the Miles Lumber Yard located adjacent to the Mt. Carroll Milwaukee Road railway station. Jud was of medium height, full chested, possessed of a very good light baritone. He sang frequently at the Thursday night band concerts, and at various events occurring from time to time. I recall one early summer afternoon at Oak Hill Cemetery when Jud, standing between front and back seats of a top lowered touring car, sang quite effectively the popular song “Silver Threads Among The Gold.”
Jud, who lived in a large two-storied white frame house on Cole Street hill, extreme southwest part of Mt. Carroll, with his wife and daughter, had the misfortune to lose his wife and with the daughter growing up and away to school, felt lost in the large dwelling and disposed of it to Charles Freeman Sr., our neighbor to the west. Later on Jud would marry Cliff Downing’s widow, Jennie, who as noted before, had moved to Mt. Carroll. Thus Jud and the Preston Prairie area had a mutual connection.
After Charles Sr. had bought the house, and before he and his wife moved there, he had constructed a well built, medium sized, two-story barn at the south end of the property’s considerable yard. He brought his good horse, Dick, buggy, and light hack to town with him. Although Freemans had for a number of years owned an automobile, Charles Sr. much preferred to drive a horse and carriage, and so it was that a consistent scene on our road was Charley westbound to the farm in the morning, or eastbound around four o’clock in the afternoon, Dick at a trot, ears pricked up and forward.
For a time another familiar horse carriage on our road was the one of Erve Ritenour, he being a Burlington Railroad way station operator at Big Cut Junction, south of Wacker. Erve and wife, Beulah, Albert Petty’s second daughter, lived part way up Center Hill, in the house across from the Adam Bickelhaupt farm. Erve had a wild eyed, harum-scarum of a horse, a wild, heads up runner type, a regular road tearer. Erve drove a rattle trap of a buggy, with loose rear back flap, and it was quite a site to view the tearing horse, rocking buggy, coming from the north and turning west, or at the end of the shift reversing direction. Erve was quite a jester. When Father, after having eyed the horse’s antics for some time inquired of Erve where he got “That Horse,” Erve replied, “Sears Roebuck.” I don’t recall the horse ever running away with Erve, but he for sure was a stepped up one.
When Joe and Myra moved to the farm in 1905, it was in need of some upbuilding after years of tenancy. This was done over the years, heating stoves replaced with a basement furnace, new window spaces cut at the top and bottom of dark stairways, a cold and hot water system installed, a good sized summer kitchen constructed, an old shed type of building moved away from the house and incorporated into a combination machine storage and grain bin. A considerable, sloped roof extension was built on the south side of the barn, incorporating an installing of eight box stalls as replacement of the existing tie stalls. A combination ice house and milk house, of long glazed tile, was erected, Charles Bashaw, son of Thomas Bashaw, being the mason. When the silo mania swept the neighborhood, a silo was erected. New, large orchard, convenient to the house and a large garden were formed. When Father died in 1947, and Neal and I were in lawyer Charles Stuart’s office in matters concerning his estate, the lawyer who for years had handled father’s limited law business, remarked that for a number of years Joe had steadily remodeled the farm, but following Myra’s death, had largely abandoned that procedure. Although I hadn’t thought about that, I realized it was true.
This account would not be complete without substantial mention of Minnie Buck, “Miss Buck” as we boys addressed her. She came to us as our several year housekeeper in the September following Mother’s death. It will assist in identifying Minnie to say that she was the aunt of Roberta, Mae and Grace Wright, her orphaned charges for a time. Roberta became Mrs. Adam Williamson, mother of Harold, Richard, and I believe two other boys. Mae married Harry Kearnaghan, and Grace, not married, became a long time school teacher. Minnie Buck was probably a bit older than Father. A country woman, raised in the Zion area, familiar with farming procedure. A good housekeeper, substantial plain cook, she tended to our well being, brought to our attention thrifty, sound, old fashioned methods of doing. One of her practices was the seeding of navy beans in corn hills, the vines having the corn stalk for support, burgeoning during the growing season, ripening as the corn ripened, then the plant pulled up, the beans threshed out. Stewed beans, baked beans, bean soup, good hearty food. She was familiar with turnips, a great hand for cabbage, boiled and in cole slaw. She was the first one to introduce us to green tomato pie. She cooked, kept house, mended, sewed, canned, preserved. It was as though she were a mother in the home. She took care of the chickens, milked on occasion.
I remember one Christmas, when Father, Don, and I on invitation went, by train, to be with Aunt Amy and family in their Dodgeville, Wisconsin home, Minnie, assisted by Neal, took care of the farm operations. She was a considerable church person, not fanatic, but regular. I never heard her refer to Sunday except as “the Sabbath.” I was the youngest, the most callow, she sheltering me the most, probably because I needed it. I remember one May Saturday when Minnie, me accompanying, driving Nita, the gray mare, took the road to Zion to visit her brother George, wife Belle, and children. It was in the hills, north of Mt. Carroll, a three hour drive. George was not much like Minnie, not churchy, smoked a pipe, swore a bit. George had two small collie dogs, one of which, Ring, was a nipper, terrifying me, accustomed to friendly Carlo. On the way back, Sunday afternoon, we stopped so Minnie could visit her sister, Mrs. Roscoe Pauley in their farm house northwest out of Mt. Carroll. Howard and Harry Pauley were nephews of Minnie, and that Sunday we were there some young people were in the house. Minnie remarked later that one of the girls was Howard’s special attention at the time.
Minnie was a great, good person, and we remember the good, kind, nice ones, don’t we? In the spring of 1919 she married Chris Kupfer, a short statured stub of a German who had bought, on contract, her small forty acre farm, located about a half mile east of the then Zion store. The next summer I was allowed to have a week’s visit in their farm home. Minnie and Chris maintained several milk cows, milking them in the open yard without benefit of stanchions, something I had not witnessed before. Their farm was a small operation, rather hilly, but enough for them in their modest way of living.
Minnie died sometime before Father. Surmising that she would have been buried in Zion Cemetery, of which church she was a steady communicant, I drove up there one day, locating her grave without difficulty, it being marked with a moderate sized red granite stone. A bit later on, in Mt. Carroll Library, I remarked to Roberta Williamson, the librarian at the time, of the nice appearance of the stone, she replying that she and her sisters had wanted the grave nicely marked and had assisted with the expense. Good Minnie Buck, may the grass be ever fresh and green for her!
I was out of high school for three years after I graduated and before I went away to the University, helping Father. I grew to my present height, put on weight, was large enough to be capable of doing a man’s work. We were horse work operators; in fact the only tractor I remember near by was Freeman’s squatty, four-wheeled McCormick-Deering, which wasn’t used too much for field work. Father and I worked together well enough, he gave me a regular allowance, not much, allowed me to run about in the Ford automobile. Through the offices of Thell Tomlinson, who I visited in October of 1924 at his Davenport home, going there by train, I was introduced to cigar smoking, via one of the very best cigars, in fact, the Robert Burns panatela, a long, slim Cuban tobacco cheroot, with mild, mellow taste. I couldn’t have had a better introduction. Great cigars of the time were LaPalina, El Roi Tan, White Owl. Cigars were displayed in wood of cedar boxes at the various glass display cases. One of the garishly decorated inner surfaces of the box lids fascinating me was a substantial lithograph of the social reformer of the middle 1800’s, Henry George, with the underneath inscription, “I am for men.” A true statement, his history indicating he was just that. The Henry George cigar, a 5¢ one, did not match him as regards quality. Cigar boxes were marvelously lithographed, constituting modern day collectors’ items. I have not smoked a cigar for some time.
After high school, I formed an acquaintance with Lew Buchenau, uncle of our acquaintance, Clarence Buchenau. He lived directly west of the Milwaukee Railroad crossing where the Henry Wagner family had lived. He had a small Crosley radio, with earphones, receiving WOC DAVENPORT quite well. Many evenings I sat with him, enjoying the various radio offerings. Lew lived alone, and some years later on sustained a stroke and was removed to the County Farm, where a considerable bill was run up. When he died there, he left his estate to Lois Tomlinson and me, Father as administrator. Lois Tomlinson, granddaughter of Milton Dodson, who was a crony of Lew’s, was a kind natured, fluent conversationalist, with a pleasing quick short way of laughing. She had always talked to Lew, treating him with regard. I was in Chicago when Lew died, Father informing me of the bequest, suggesting that I not get my hopes up as the Buchenau estate was in poor shape, considerably debt ridden. He was correct; after all was squared away, Lois and I received $200.00 apiece.
I was away for Champaign in the fall of 1926, after having dallied for three years, putting on sufficient maturity to warrant the move. I left accompanied by Homer Kearnaghan, who for a time would be my roommate. My college endeavor I did not complete, leaving early in my second year, irritated at the required courses of valence chemistry, geology, and economics. I was in the College of Agriculture, when I should have been in Liberal Arts and Sciences.
So I come to the end of what has been a considerable abridgment. What I have written is an outline only, but a fraction of the whole. I feel, with Oliver Wendell Holmes, Justice of the Supreme Court, that “life is painting a picture, not doing a sum.”
And having written, what do I think? Certainly people were not as “up” materially as they are now, certainly not as sophisticated. All things are relative, the times of which I write are of a different era. We did as we could, with what we had.
I commenced with verse, and would like to close with the same. This from Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley’s, “Afterwhiles.”
Luring us the lengthening miles Of our lives? Where is the dawn With the dew across the law Stroked with eager feet the far Ways the hills and valleys are? Ah, the endless afterwhiles
As I wrote so, many memories came thronging back; things, people, occurrences, events I had not thought of for years. Were one skilled sufficiently, if one had patience, one could write on and on and on, and never repeat oneself. But I wrote I hoped that I could complete this in June. It shall soon be in your hands. Salud! The World War commenced in late July of 1914. I remember Father, on our front porch, reading of its onset. The drive of the Germans toward Paris, the French resistance at The Marne, the long years of trench warfare. The stalemate on The Western Front until the American entrance in 1917. The victories at Bellau Wood and Chateau Thierry. The gradual winding down. The German capitulation in the fall of 1918. The “Make The World Safe For Democracy” motto. Our regional world was stirred to patriotic fervor by such happenings as the appearance, on a gray November Saturday afternoon, in downtown Mt. Carroll of an enthusiastic martial Great Lakes Naval Training Station Jackie Band, and by a contingent of olive drab U. S. Army tanks and trucks, loaded with khaki clad soldiers, running around and about Court House Square in April of 1918. One of Mt. Carroll’s contributions was the appointment of its R. B. Rice as certified examiner, M. D., for armed service fitness. In our community, Russell Bird, of Wacker, in army uniform, accompanied by proud mother and sisters, appeared at afternoon church services. Lewis Ferris, former hired hand of Jess Colehour, lost his life in an army camp truck collision; a son of Jacob Richter was a victim of the spinal meningitis epidemic at Rockford’s Camp Grant. Fund raising events, of all kinds, with resulting contributions to the Red Cross and War Relief. Ersatz foods, among them corn meal and corn flour substituting for wheat flour, became the order of the day. On the clear, cool morning of November 11th, Don and I walked to school to learn from teacher Dollie Mahood that an armistice had been declared and that Superintendent John Hay had declared a county wide school holiday, I smashed my home made wooden gun on a school yard fir tree and took off for home. There, at noon, Emma Jane Dodson came over to ask Father if she and Milton, with their friends George Strickler and wife, could take Don and me to Savanna for an improvised victory parade. He was agreeable, so off we went in Strickler’s large sedan. Savanna had arranged an effective parade, complete with the Savanna band, various floats, marching citizens with signs and banners. We were there, gawkers on the sidelines, until the sun, dropping down, sent the beginning of creeping shadows, indicating it was the time to go home. A remembered afternoon. The following Sunday, George and Maude McGinty, she a cousin of Mother’s, drove up from Thomson for a pleasant afternoon visit. Maude, so plump and short legged that, in a rocking chair, her feet did not reach the floor, asked Father what he had done on Armistice Day, he replying that all he had wanted to do was to be alone in the cornfield, husking corn, giving thanks that the great conflict had ended. The George McGinty’s had a most personable daughter, Vada, married to John Carroll, an enterprising dairy farmer in the below Sunfish Lake area. It was on a pleasant October Sunday afternoon, prior to the George McGinty visit, that Father, Miss Buck, Don and I, in the surrey, had made a leisured scenic trip down Vada’s way, stopping there for a chat, mainly with Vada, John engrossed with his herd. They had a daughter, Lois, at just entered school age, a plump jolly little girl. It seems likely that George and Maude, having learned of our stop at Vada’s, were returning the visit when they came to our house the Sunday following the Armistice. The Great War was over, but its memories lingered on. In the following spring at the Mt. Carroll picture show, there was shown a film “Civilization”, a considerable satire on a society that could produce such a holocaust. I thought I would like to attend, so Father, remarking that he didn’t think I was old enough to understand, allowed me to attend, riding horseback in the evening. He was right; it was too advanced for me. About all I could say was that I had a horseback ride and a picture show attendance. After the War a considerable prosperity boom settled on the nation, to the extent that Father remarked that he had not experienced such prosperity. A welcome change from the scraping of prewar and war years. In the fall of 1919, Father was able to purchase a Ford touring car, and we were ushered into, for us, a new era of transportation.
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