Stories and Highlights from Green Mountain Whittlin's
Congratulations to the 2013 essay contest winners!
First place: Have you Lost Your Marbles? by Bob Philipson
Second place: A Seventh-Grader's Leon W. Dean Memory by Neil Towne
Third place: Church Lawn Socials Then and Now by Simone Cormier
1st Place - Have you Lost Your Marbles? by Bob Philipson
Have you lost your marbles!!??
Winter’s cold, icy grip would eventually loosen and the early spring flowers would rise to the surface. Before long, thoughts of sliding and snowball fights would turn to warmer weather play. Making makeshift boats and floating them in the little streams created by a recent rainfall, next to the sidewalk curbing, was one of many things I did. Playing games like “Tag” and “Red Rover” or hitting and catching a baseball in a game of “500” were games we all enjoyed playing.
As a young boy growing up in the town of Richford, Vermont, I played all of these games, and many others as well. But one game that would always get your attention was “Marbles!” Marbles were (and may still be) a coveted commodity. They were revered by some and collected by many. A game of chance mixed with skill, Marbles was not a game to be taken lightly. An “allowance” was not something that anyone I knew got, and so getting marbles meant finding a way to get some money. Collecting bottles on the side of the road at two cents each was one way, or doing an odd job or two for someone was another (like cleaning a yard of leaves and debris). Another way to get marbles was to win at “Marbles!”
To play the game you needed a hole in the dirt, usually fashioned by digging the heel of your shoe in the ground and turning round and round until a hole was made. My Converse sneakers weren’t very good at making a hole, and using your good Sunday shoes to make a hole was not the thing to do, so at times we used a hard stick or maybe a screwdriver. Removing the dirt from the hole and smoothing out the area around the hole for a somewhat clean level playing ground needed to be done as well. We would sometimes use an old board (if one was to be found close by) to smooth the area out around the hole, which would be perhaps four to five inches across and about three inches deep.
It should be noted that there were several different kinds of marbles and as such they had different values. There were the ordinary white marbles with different colors blended into them: red, blue, yellow, etc. Cat’s Eye, a clear glass marble with a color swirled into its center. Usually I had only one color rather
than multi-colors and that color would vary. There were some that were called “Clearsies;” they were transparent glass marbles of any color and some with no color at all. Bunkers and Boulders were another kind, which were bigger in diameter and came in all of the aforementioned colors and varieties. Some were steel and looked a lot like a large ball bearing. I don’t recall now what their values were, but a Boulder was worth something like ten regular marbles and a Clearsie (or Puries)was worth perhaps five regular marbles, and so on.
Rules varied a little from “Home Court” to home court, but for the most part play was the same. A line would be made perhaps eight feet or so away from the hole, and then the rules would be discussed and play would begin. A quantity of marbles would be agreed upon to play. Standing at the line, marbles would be tossed in hopes of getting them into the hole. Usually you played with different colored marbles so everyone knew whose marbles belonged to who. After everyone tossed their marbles, the one who had a marble closest to the hole would start. Using a curled finger, a marble was given a short, quick stroke, a flick of the wrist, usually not allowing the finger to move more than about half an inch, (in other words you didn’t drag the marbles to the hole) in hopes of rolling the marble into the hole. If the marble made it into the hole, you would continue until you missed, and the next player’s turn would begin. Whoever got all of their marbles in the hole first won whatever marbles were in the “pot.” Play would continue until all marbles had been played. If a player lost all of their marbles, they would be out until a new game began.
There were two ways to play Marbles. “Funsy” was one where the less daring or less skilled players (like myself) could play under the stress of the game but not lose any marbles. It was like a practice game. The other, of course, was to play for real. Nerves of steel were needed to play for “Real!” Remembering that getting money to purchase marbles was at best scarce, it’s easy to understand that playing Marbles was NOT for the feint of heart. But the excitement of the game brought a lot of children together to play.
Earlier I mentioned that some collected marbles. Winning the game certainly enlarged your collection, but trading marbles was equally popular. My oldest brother had amassed a large collection of marbles that he kept in a toolbox that I believe belonged to our grandfather. It had many compartments in the top and several drawers underneath. My brother had his marbles all neatly separated into all the drawers and compartments. Each held a different kind and color marble. I was perhaps six or seven years old and remember sneaking off to see and marvel at his collection. My favorite marbles to look at and admire were the transparent ones (Clearsies). I would hold them between my thumb and forefinger close to my eye and ever so slowly roll them around, gazing for LONG periods of time through them into the light of the sun. The marbles had small occlusions in them that the light would dance through making them sparkle. I would gaze through them much like a kaleidoscope, turning them in the light. With the blue ones it was like looking into the late day sky just as the stars began to come out. I would marvel at the spectacle I was holding in my fingers. It was like gazing at the heavens, and my thoughts would be taken away to travel through space, looking at the planets and stars. I did this countless times and enjoyed seeing an imaginary world far beyond my reach. At one time I told a friend what I had been doing in hopes of sharing my awesome experience. He looked at me dumbfounded and said, “Have you lost your marbles!?” To which I softly replied, “No, I haven’t lost my marbles. I have held the universe in my fingertips.”
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXIV 2013 p. 23
Winter’s cold, icy grip would eventually loosen and the early spring flowers would rise to the surface. Before long, thoughts of sliding and snowball fights would turn to warmer weather play. Making makeshift boats and floating them in the little streams created by a recent rainfall, next to the sidewalk curbing, was one of many things I did. Playing games like “Tag” and “Red Rover” or hitting and catching a baseball in a game of “500” were games we all enjoyed playing.
As a young boy growing up in the town of Richford, Vermont, I played all of these games, and many others as well. But one game that would always get your attention was “Marbles!” Marbles were (and may still be) a coveted commodity. They were revered by some and collected by many. A game of chance mixed with skill, Marbles was not a game to be taken lightly. An “allowance” was not something that anyone I knew got, and so getting marbles meant finding a way to get some money. Collecting bottles on the side of the road at two cents each was one way, or doing an odd job or two for someone was another (like cleaning a yard of leaves and debris). Another way to get marbles was to win at “Marbles!”
To play the game you needed a hole in the dirt, usually fashioned by digging the heel of your shoe in the ground and turning round and round until a hole was made. My Converse sneakers weren’t very good at making a hole, and using your good Sunday shoes to make a hole was not the thing to do, so at times we used a hard stick or maybe a screwdriver. Removing the dirt from the hole and smoothing out the area around the hole for a somewhat clean level playing ground needed to be done as well. We would sometimes use an old board (if one was to be found close by) to smooth the area out around the hole, which would be perhaps four to five inches across and about three inches deep.
It should be noted that there were several different kinds of marbles and as such they had different values. There were the ordinary white marbles with different colors blended into them: red, blue, yellow, etc. Cat’s Eye, a clear glass marble with a color swirled into its center. Usually I had only one color rather
than multi-colors and that color would vary. There were some that were called “Clearsies;” they were transparent glass marbles of any color and some with no color at all. Bunkers and Boulders were another kind, which were bigger in diameter and came in all of the aforementioned colors and varieties. Some were steel and looked a lot like a large ball bearing. I don’t recall now what their values were, but a Boulder was worth something like ten regular marbles and a Clearsie (or Puries)was worth perhaps five regular marbles, and so on.
Rules varied a little from “Home Court” to home court, but for the most part play was the same. A line would be made perhaps eight feet or so away from the hole, and then the rules would be discussed and play would begin. A quantity of marbles would be agreed upon to play. Standing at the line, marbles would be tossed in hopes of getting them into the hole. Usually you played with different colored marbles so everyone knew whose marbles belonged to who. After everyone tossed their marbles, the one who had a marble closest to the hole would start. Using a curled finger, a marble was given a short, quick stroke, a flick of the wrist, usually not allowing the finger to move more than about half an inch, (in other words you didn’t drag the marbles to the hole) in hopes of rolling the marble into the hole. If the marble made it into the hole, you would continue until you missed, and the next player’s turn would begin. Whoever got all of their marbles in the hole first won whatever marbles were in the “pot.” Play would continue until all marbles had been played. If a player lost all of their marbles, they would be out until a new game began.
There were two ways to play Marbles. “Funsy” was one where the less daring or less skilled players (like myself) could play under the stress of the game but not lose any marbles. It was like a practice game. The other, of course, was to play for real. Nerves of steel were needed to play for “Real!” Remembering that getting money to purchase marbles was at best scarce, it’s easy to understand that playing Marbles was NOT for the feint of heart. But the excitement of the game brought a lot of children together to play.
Earlier I mentioned that some collected marbles. Winning the game certainly enlarged your collection, but trading marbles was equally popular. My oldest brother had amassed a large collection of marbles that he kept in a toolbox that I believe belonged to our grandfather. It had many compartments in the top and several drawers underneath. My brother had his marbles all neatly separated into all the drawers and compartments. Each held a different kind and color marble. I was perhaps six or seven years old and remember sneaking off to see and marvel at his collection. My favorite marbles to look at and admire were the transparent ones (Clearsies). I would hold them between my thumb and forefinger close to my eye and ever so slowly roll them around, gazing for LONG periods of time through them into the light of the sun. The marbles had small occlusions in them that the light would dance through making them sparkle. I would gaze through them much like a kaleidoscope, turning them in the light. With the blue ones it was like looking into the late day sky just as the stars began to come out. I would marvel at the spectacle I was holding in my fingers. It was like gazing at the heavens, and my thoughts would be taken away to travel through space, looking at the planets and stars. I did this countless times and enjoyed seeing an imaginary world far beyond my reach. At one time I told a friend what I had been doing in hopes of sharing my awesome experience. He looked at me dumbfounded and said, “Have you lost your marbles!?” To which I softly replied, “No, I haven’t lost my marbles. I have held the universe in my fingertips.”
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXIV 2013 p. 23
2nd place: A Seventh-Grader's Leon W. Dean Memory by Neil Towne
He stopped reading his latest Potash Kettle newsletter and gazed out the window focusing on nothing. He was digging through his memories. The newsletter had informed him that 2008 would be the 60th birthday of the Green Mountain Folklore Society founded by Prof. Leon Dean in 1948. “Sixty years is a long time,” he mused, “but it must have been about seven years before that when he’d first crossed paths with that University of Vermont professor.”
His attention anchored itself again on the newsletter article, and his mind sped back the sixty-seven years to what had turned out to be one of his special boyhood adventures. For a day, it had taken him away from his dairy-farm home, the one-room school he’d already attended for seven years, and made him the only 7th grader among all those high school adventurers. For him it had been storybook good!
Weeks before, three of his older brothers had come home from high school with the news that there was going to be a history trip on Lake Champlain aboard the steamboat Ticonderoga. Someone at the University of Vermont had organized a history trip to sail the Lake to spots where important incidents had taken place during the Revolutionary War. Although his three older brothers weren’t great history scholars, they certainly wouldn't miss this fun day away from school. The cost was one dollar and each of them figured they could scrape that up somewhere.
“It’s not fair! High-schoolers get to do all the fun things, and seventh-graders get to do nothing! It’s just not fair,” the youngest son complained to his mother.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have your trips when you’re in high school,” she responded, knowing full well that she had heard only the beginning of another of her youngest son’s campaigns.
“Yes, but they’ll never have a trip like this again, and it’s a chance to learn about Vermont history, and I’ll bet I could go, too. And you’d only have to ask the high school principal and tell him how you think this would be a good opportunity for me to learn, and that I’ll probably never have this chance again.”
“You can’t go. It’s only for high school students,” scolded an older brother, “and besides, where are you going to get a dollar?”
“Quit this now and eat your supper,” their dad unconditionally commanded as he turned his ear to hear Lowell Thomas on the radio. Discussion ended for the meal only to be revived while doing the dishes. Being the youngest son’s turn, he used it to plead his case to mother while his older brothers were out of hearing range. Neil had a good record of convincing his mother of things that would benefit him. He already suspected that he was his mother’s favorite, and since his older brothers often accused him of being her “pet,” he took this as evidence that his suspicions were correct.
While his mother tried to hurry his dishwashing, he suggested, “It wouldn’t hurt if you called Mr. Bullis at the high school just to see if I could go, too, and if he says no, then I won’t ask you any more.”
She responded with, “I’ll see, but right now finish those last dishes. You’ve dawdled so long it’s time for you to be in bed.”
Neil was sure that the “I’ll see” was good news, and he went to bed too excited to fall asleep. His imagination soared. He was sure this was going to be the best thing he’d ever done. It would be even better than seeing his first movie when he was six.
Later in the week that seemed like months to him, his mother reported that the high school principal had given his okay, since his older brothers could look after him. Finding the dollar was the next hurdle, and in the end his mom provided the thirty-seven cents he was short.
Finally, the day arrived, and the four Towne boys joined other Milton High School students for the trip to the harbor at the bottom of Kin Street in Burlington. There they joined other Vermont high school students and were soon allowed to board the steamboat Ticonderoga. It took only a few seconds for the seventh-graders to be deserted. ........
To read the end of this story and many more get -
Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXIV 2013 p. 49
His attention anchored itself again on the newsletter article, and his mind sped back the sixty-seven years to what had turned out to be one of his special boyhood adventures. For a day, it had taken him away from his dairy-farm home, the one-room school he’d already attended for seven years, and made him the only 7th grader among all those high school adventurers. For him it had been storybook good!
Weeks before, three of his older brothers had come home from high school with the news that there was going to be a history trip on Lake Champlain aboard the steamboat Ticonderoga. Someone at the University of Vermont had organized a history trip to sail the Lake to spots where important incidents had taken place during the Revolutionary War. Although his three older brothers weren’t great history scholars, they certainly wouldn't miss this fun day away from school. The cost was one dollar and each of them figured they could scrape that up somewhere.
“It’s not fair! High-schoolers get to do all the fun things, and seventh-graders get to do nothing! It’s just not fair,” the youngest son complained to his mother.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have your trips when you’re in high school,” she responded, knowing full well that she had heard only the beginning of another of her youngest son’s campaigns.
“Yes, but they’ll never have a trip like this again, and it’s a chance to learn about Vermont history, and I’ll bet I could go, too. And you’d only have to ask the high school principal and tell him how you think this would be a good opportunity for me to learn, and that I’ll probably never have this chance again.”
“You can’t go. It’s only for high school students,” scolded an older brother, “and besides, where are you going to get a dollar?”
“Quit this now and eat your supper,” their dad unconditionally commanded as he turned his ear to hear Lowell Thomas on the radio. Discussion ended for the meal only to be revived while doing the dishes. Being the youngest son’s turn, he used it to plead his case to mother while his older brothers were out of hearing range. Neil had a good record of convincing his mother of things that would benefit him. He already suspected that he was his mother’s favorite, and since his older brothers often accused him of being her “pet,” he took this as evidence that his suspicions were correct.
While his mother tried to hurry his dishwashing, he suggested, “It wouldn’t hurt if you called Mr. Bullis at the high school just to see if I could go, too, and if he says no, then I won’t ask you any more.”
She responded with, “I’ll see, but right now finish those last dishes. You’ve dawdled so long it’s time for you to be in bed.”
Neil was sure that the “I’ll see” was good news, and he went to bed too excited to fall asleep. His imagination soared. He was sure this was going to be the best thing he’d ever done. It would be even better than seeing his first movie when he was six.
Later in the week that seemed like months to him, his mother reported that the high school principal had given his okay, since his older brothers could look after him. Finding the dollar was the next hurdle, and in the end his mom provided the thirty-seven cents he was short.
Finally, the day arrived, and the four Towne boys joined other Milton High School students for the trip to the harbor at the bottom of Kin Street in Burlington. There they joined other Vermont high school students and were soon allowed to board the steamboat Ticonderoga. It took only a few seconds for the seventh-graders to be deserted. ........
To read the end of this story and many more get -
Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXIV 2013 p. 49
3rd place: Church Lawn Socials Then and Now by Simone Cormier
I have a sweet childhood memory, however faint, of events called church lawn socials in my hometown of Richford, located one mile from the Canadian border in Franklin County. All the Christian churches, whether Baptist, Methodist or Catholic took turns sponsoring this summer party that took place on a spacious closely mowed empty lot at one end of the village on a Saturday afternoon and evening in July or August. Roughly a dozen or so quickly constructed booths were framed from unplanned lumber, with bottom sections decorated in various buntings and lit up with strings of bare bulbs, courtesy of the local electricity department.
My father gave me fifty cents to spend, all of it nickels. This was first for the fish pond, a completely enclosed cubicle, where for 5¢ I threw my pole over the top and when I felt a tug on the line, reeled in a “fish,” (actually a cheap trinket from the five and dime store, worth not much more than that nickel!). Three chances for a nickel to try to encircle a milk bottle with a stiffened ring made of rope, another cheap prize to a winner. I played Bingo (three cards for a nickel) and here the prizes, donated by church members, were more valuable. I noticed my mother buying a raffle ticket towards a pretty teapot at one booth. There was a popcorn machine and Mom and I shared a nickel bag full of delicious butter soaked and very salty movie theater quality snack food. When I checked my money stash I could tell there was just enough for a 5¢ hot dog, lemon pop bottle (5¢) and a new item, chocolate covered vanilla ice cream on a stick! That nickel treat had to be eaten very fast before it fell off!
To read the end of this story and many more get -
Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXIV 2013 p. 6
My father gave me fifty cents to spend, all of it nickels. This was first for the fish pond, a completely enclosed cubicle, where for 5¢ I threw my pole over the top and when I felt a tug on the line, reeled in a “fish,” (actually a cheap trinket from the five and dime store, worth not much more than that nickel!). Three chances for a nickel to try to encircle a milk bottle with a stiffened ring made of rope, another cheap prize to a winner. I played Bingo (three cards for a nickel) and here the prizes, donated by church members, were more valuable. I noticed my mother buying a raffle ticket towards a pretty teapot at one booth. There was a popcorn machine and Mom and I shared a nickel bag full of delicious butter soaked and very salty movie theater quality snack food. When I checked my money stash I could tell there was just enough for a 5¢ hot dog, lemon pop bottle (5¢) and a new item, chocolate covered vanilla ice cream on a stick! That nickel treat had to be eaten very fast before it fell off!
To read the end of this story and many more get -
Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXIV 2013 p. 6
The 2012 Essay Contest Winners are;
1st place: "Aunt Ida" by Joe Citro
2nd place: "Sunday Dinner" by Donald Lefebvre
3rd place: "Civil War Letters" by Nancy Knapp
1st place: "Aunt Ida" by Joe Citro
2nd place: "Sunday Dinner" by Donald Lefebvre
3rd place: "Civil War Letters" by Nancy Knapp
1st place: "Aunt Ida" by Joe Citro
Aunt Ida: A Recollection
By Joseph A. Citro, South Burlington
Shortly after I was born on January 5, 1948, my parents took me home from Rutland hospital to 33 Pleasant Street in Ludlow, Vermont. For a number of years I lived there with my mother, my father, and my Aunt Ida. Aunt Ida wasn’t my aunt in any blood sense. She was my aunt in an old fashioned way. Years ago it was proper for young people to address older women who were close to the family as ‘aunt”. But such distinction made no difference to the young me. I had lots of aunts, but she was the only one who lived in my house. Later, when I had acquired some measure of consciousness, I realized it was not our house at all; it was hers. Aunt Ida was also our landlady. And as time passed, there were still more secrets to discover about her.
Every memory of her is that she was old. She was in her seventies when I was born, so for me she played more the role of grandmother than aunt. My earliest memories are that we were all one family. In my developing brain, this was the arrangement; she had a house and we had a house, and the two houses were connected by a single door leading from our dining room to her living room. Generally it was kept closed, but often used. We passed back and forth without knocking. I can remember opening the door slightly and peeking in. She’d be sitting in her padded rocking chair by the window, feet on a stool, her rectangular magnifying glass poised above the newspaper, a letter, or the Bible. She was likely to see me, smile, and invite me to the couch where we would sit side by side while she read to me. Mostly I remember the Thornton W. Burgess books with the wonderful illustrations by Harrison Cady. On sunny days I’d often join her on the porch – the piazza she’d call it. We’d sit in rocking chairs while she taught me the names of the various birds that seemed so plentiful in those days. I remember bluebirds in particular; to me they looked like mis-colored robins. She kept flower gardens, a gigantic vegetable garden, and even a pear tree.
In the three years before my brother was born, I spent a lot of time with Aunt Ida. Sometimes I’d wait on the porch for her. She never drove nor had a car. Instead she’d come walking home from the grocery store, the Baptist Church, or the Bible School classes she taught. It was a puzzle to me why we didn’t all go to the same church, but that, along with some any other things, seemed perfectly normal in those years. Later, after my parents bought our own house, we continued to see Aunt Ida very regularly. My father and I would go to help her with the yard work or to manage the snow, which – like flowers and birds – seemed more plentiful back then. As she got older still, she’d come to stay with us during the Vermont winters that she had endured on her own for so many years.
I have no bad memories of Aunt Ida. She never forgot my birthdays and always had something under the tree for me each Christmas. In my mind she remains the quintessential sweet little old lady. I remember her caring for my brother and me when our parents were away. I remember peanut b utter and homemade jelly sandwiches at her round kitchen table, looking out at the colorful bursts of her flower garden. I remember the dessert she made, a homemade confection something like ice cream taken from the freezer in ice cube trays. She would then do the dishes in a metal dish pan using bits of recycled (of course we never used that term in those days) hand and bathe soap broken up in a sealed metal basket with a handle. It was called a “soap saver,” I think. She’d swish it around in the dishwasher summoning bubbles that billowed from the top of the pan. Quite different from the way things were done in our division.
She had been single all her life; those who didn’t call her Aunt Ida addressed her as Miss fuller. Someone told me that she had been in love and had planned to marry a man who was killed in the First World War. So she never married. Part of the story was that he had been a fighter pilot. I never asked her about this and have never learned the truth. I wouldn’t call it a secret, really, but if it were true she never talked about it.
Above all, she was a Vermonter through and through. She was born on a farm right there in Ludlow in 1874. She went to school with Calvin Coolidge. She was a teacher until 1905 (and was still teaching when I knew her), politely, often humorously correcting my grammar. “You ought to really know grammar,” she joked before giving me the scoop on split infinities. From 1905 until she retired in 1939 she worked as a legal secretary for John G. Sargent, who was Attorney General in the Coolidge Administration. She was a Republican. We all were in those days. She was an independent, spirited, highly principled woman. Some might say she was ahead of her time, but she wouldn’t have gone along with that. She never touched coffee or tea, always sipped a cup of hot water with her meals. She never raised her voice nor appeared to be angry or confused about anything. She could quote the Bible but didn’t, yet she lived and taught the principles of Jesus. “He’s as much alive now as he ever was,” she once told me.
Aunt Ida inadvertently achieved a modest degree of fame in her lifetime. I remember she was asked to go on network television, which was a really big deal in those days. The producers for I’ve Got a Secret contacted her, inviting her to appear live with Garry Moore. She emphatically refused (but politely, though sternly, I imagine). It is not that she didn’t want her secret known. Rather, it was because she found out the show was sponsored by a tobacco company. (Perhaps needless to add, Aunt Ida never smoked nor owned a television.) But Aunt Ida didn’t take her secret to the grave. In fact, she is quite well known in certain circles to this day.
Ida may Fuller – Aunt Ida – was the first person in the United States to collect Social Security. The check, number 00-000-001, was issued to her on January 31, 1940. The amount: $22.54. That was eight whole years before I met her.
Aunt Ida: A Recollection
By Joseph A. Citro, South Burlington
Shortly after I was born on January 5, 1948, my parents took me home from Rutland hospital to 33 Pleasant Street in Ludlow, Vermont. For a number of years I lived there with my mother, my father, and my Aunt Ida. Aunt Ida wasn’t my aunt in any blood sense. She was my aunt in an old fashioned way. Years ago it was proper for young people to address older women who were close to the family as ‘aunt”. But such distinction made no difference to the young me. I had lots of aunts, but she was the only one who lived in my house. Later, when I had acquired some measure of consciousness, I realized it was not our house at all; it was hers. Aunt Ida was also our landlady. And as time passed, there were still more secrets to discover about her.
Every memory of her is that she was old. She was in her seventies when I was born, so for me she played more the role of grandmother than aunt. My earliest memories are that we were all one family. In my developing brain, this was the arrangement; she had a house and we had a house, and the two houses were connected by a single door leading from our dining room to her living room. Generally it was kept closed, but often used. We passed back and forth without knocking. I can remember opening the door slightly and peeking in. She’d be sitting in her padded rocking chair by the window, feet on a stool, her rectangular magnifying glass poised above the newspaper, a letter, or the Bible. She was likely to see me, smile, and invite me to the couch where we would sit side by side while she read to me. Mostly I remember the Thornton W. Burgess books with the wonderful illustrations by Harrison Cady. On sunny days I’d often join her on the porch – the piazza she’d call it. We’d sit in rocking chairs while she taught me the names of the various birds that seemed so plentiful in those days. I remember bluebirds in particular; to me they looked like mis-colored robins. She kept flower gardens, a gigantic vegetable garden, and even a pear tree.
In the three years before my brother was born, I spent a lot of time with Aunt Ida. Sometimes I’d wait on the porch for her. She never drove nor had a car. Instead she’d come walking home from the grocery store, the Baptist Church, or the Bible School classes she taught. It was a puzzle to me why we didn’t all go to the same church, but that, along with some any other things, seemed perfectly normal in those years. Later, after my parents bought our own house, we continued to see Aunt Ida very regularly. My father and I would go to help her with the yard work or to manage the snow, which – like flowers and birds – seemed more plentiful back then. As she got older still, she’d come to stay with us during the Vermont winters that she had endured on her own for so many years.
I have no bad memories of Aunt Ida. She never forgot my birthdays and always had something under the tree for me each Christmas. In my mind she remains the quintessential sweet little old lady. I remember her caring for my brother and me when our parents were away. I remember peanut b utter and homemade jelly sandwiches at her round kitchen table, looking out at the colorful bursts of her flower garden. I remember the dessert she made, a homemade confection something like ice cream taken from the freezer in ice cube trays. She would then do the dishes in a metal dish pan using bits of recycled (of course we never used that term in those days) hand and bathe soap broken up in a sealed metal basket with a handle. It was called a “soap saver,” I think. She’d swish it around in the dishwasher summoning bubbles that billowed from the top of the pan. Quite different from the way things were done in our division.
She had been single all her life; those who didn’t call her Aunt Ida addressed her as Miss fuller. Someone told me that she had been in love and had planned to marry a man who was killed in the First World War. So she never married. Part of the story was that he had been a fighter pilot. I never asked her about this and have never learned the truth. I wouldn’t call it a secret, really, but if it were true she never talked about it.
Above all, she was a Vermonter through and through. She was born on a farm right there in Ludlow in 1874. She went to school with Calvin Coolidge. She was a teacher until 1905 (and was still teaching when I knew her), politely, often humorously correcting my grammar. “You ought to really know grammar,” she joked before giving me the scoop on split infinities. From 1905 until she retired in 1939 she worked as a legal secretary for John G. Sargent, who was Attorney General in the Coolidge Administration. She was a Republican. We all were in those days. She was an independent, spirited, highly principled woman. Some might say she was ahead of her time, but she wouldn’t have gone along with that. She never touched coffee or tea, always sipped a cup of hot water with her meals. She never raised her voice nor appeared to be angry or confused about anything. She could quote the Bible but didn’t, yet she lived and taught the principles of Jesus. “He’s as much alive now as he ever was,” she once told me.
Aunt Ida inadvertently achieved a modest degree of fame in her lifetime. I remember she was asked to go on network television, which was a really big deal in those days. The producers for I’ve Got a Secret contacted her, inviting her to appear live with Garry Moore. She emphatically refused (but politely, though sternly, I imagine). It is not that she didn’t want her secret known. Rather, it was because she found out the show was sponsored by a tobacco company. (Perhaps needless to add, Aunt Ida never smoked nor owned a television.) But Aunt Ida didn’t take her secret to the grave. In fact, she is quite well known in certain circles to this day.
Ida may Fuller – Aunt Ida – was the first person in the United States to collect Social Security. The check, number 00-000-001, was issued to her on January 31, 1940. The amount: $22.54. That was eight whole years before I met her.
Congratulations to the 2011 essay contest winners!
First place: Stygles Show: The Circus Came to Vermont by Nancy Knapp
Second place: Walter, the Hired Man by Lucille James
Third place: Cats and Dolls by Laurie Jordan
First place: Stygles Show: The Circus Came to Vermont by Nancy Knapp
Sitting at the base of Mount Mansfield on the road between Cambridge Village and Underhill Center, there is a place known as Pleasant Valley. Before the automobile, back in the late eighteen and early nineteen hundreds, there was once a very active community. There was a general store, plus a jewelry store, a post office, blacksmith shop and grist mill, all serving the residents of the Valley. The most surprising of all in this community was a circus known as Stygles’ Big Show.
Carroll Stygles moved to “pleasant Valley at age 26 and worked on the Earl Prior Farm” (Hazelton, 106). In the spring of 1892 “ Carroll married Mr. Prior’s daughter, Julia, and about this time bought the Buker Store” in Pleasant Valley moved the older, smaller store across the road, making room for a new and bigger two story store with a barn out back. Soon his love for animals came into play and he started collecting, not just any animal, but wild animals.
Carroll started very simply with a family of raccoons. “He and some friends tracked this raccoon family to a hollow tree on the West Hill, and by holding a grain sack over the hole where they entered, was able to catch them alive” (Putnam,1). Soon after this, a farmer gave him two baby raccoons that he could tame. The tame coons had the freedom to roam this village and would get into trouble at night by getting into the neighbor’s maple sugar tubs. Floyd Putnam remembered that if the door was left open on a warm night, the raccoons would come inside and sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed (Putnam, 1). These animals were housed in the barn near the store, and many of the town’s people came to see them. With so many interested in seeing the different species he had collected, Carroll got the idea of starting a circus. It started with wild animals from around the Valley: a lynx, hawks, a fox, an eagle, white tailed deer, and moved on to include a bear and lion named Dewey. Carroll also had a wolf that could never be tamed. The wolf was kept chained outside the store. My grandfather, Errol Butler, said sometimes the lion would get out and wander around the neighborhood. What a clever lion to get out of his cage and take a walk to visit his neighbors. I can just picture coming out my back door and seeing a lion checking out the chickens. Thank goodness he was tame and well fed.
Eventually, Carroll Stygles decided to take his circus on the road. This circus had “acrobats, clowns, bareback riders and slack wire artists, trapeze actors and the Murdock Brothers who were general character actors” plus the wild animals (Putnam, 1). Carroll had “set the tent up on the flat above his house and gathered together the crew of performers” (Putnam, 1). They built wagons to carry the animals, a wagon for the band, and took the big show tent” to the counties of Chittenden, Orleans, Lamoille, and Franklin” (Hazelton, 107). It must have been fun to hear the circus band practice, as sound travels easily in Pleasant Valley. I wonder if the neighbors picked the right time to shop at the store or go to the post office, then peek in and see the artists and acrobats practice. What fun it must have been for folks to see the circus come into their town, the band sitting on top of the band wagon in bright uniforms and a parade of wild animal wagons to follow. They must have had a lot of horses and wagons besides manpower to carry everything they needed to put on their big show.
“One of the first shows was at Lamoille Valley Fair in Morrisville” (Putnam, 2). Here Carroll hired a farmer with a nice loud voice to be the barker. This would have been great, but when the farmer got up on the box and saw the great number of people standing around to hear, he went weak in the knees and could only whisper, “Ladies and gentlemen, come in and see the animals” (Putnam, 2). To the farmer, the sea of faces must have been more frightening than the wild animals inside.
Sadly, this circus did not last long. When it was in St. Albans, the circus was closed down and Carroll fined for exhibiting a circus without a license (Butler, 2). Carroll was so saddened by this, that the circus was disbanded. he found homes for his animals in different parks and animal farms; the lion went to the Franklin park Zoo in Boston, and the untamed wolf broke loose and ran away, dragging his chain behind him. “He was later killed with a club as he fought with some dogs” (Putnam, 2). he was 43 miles away in Bristol and identified by the chain still around his neck. Soon after this, Carroll and his wife Julia sold the valley store and “purchased the Thomson general store near the railroad station in Underhill Flats” (Hazelton, 106). It has been said that this was the first circus in Vermont. I have not found any records to prove or disprove this, but the people of Pleasant Valley were very proud to say they had a circus in their little village. The village is gone now. Where 8 to 10 homes and businesses stood, there are only two of the original homes. When the automobile came along there was no longer the need to have a store so close, and the Valley folks could travel the four miles to the larger Cambridge store. Change came about, but the circus will always be remembered.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXII 2011 p. 15
Works Cited:
Butler, Andrew. Pleasant Valley as it Was, 1999.
Hazelton, George. A Genealogy of Hazelton and Stygles Families, Gateway Press Inc., Baltimore.
Putnam, Floyd D. Stygles Circus and Wild Animal Show, October 22, 1957, Williston, VT
Carroll Stygles moved to “pleasant Valley at age 26 and worked on the Earl Prior Farm” (Hazelton, 106). In the spring of 1892 “ Carroll married Mr. Prior’s daughter, Julia, and about this time bought the Buker Store” in Pleasant Valley moved the older, smaller store across the road, making room for a new and bigger two story store with a barn out back. Soon his love for animals came into play and he started collecting, not just any animal, but wild animals.
Carroll started very simply with a family of raccoons. “He and some friends tracked this raccoon family to a hollow tree on the West Hill, and by holding a grain sack over the hole where they entered, was able to catch them alive” (Putnam,1). Soon after this, a farmer gave him two baby raccoons that he could tame. The tame coons had the freedom to roam this village and would get into trouble at night by getting into the neighbor’s maple sugar tubs. Floyd Putnam remembered that if the door was left open on a warm night, the raccoons would come inside and sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed (Putnam, 1). These animals were housed in the barn near the store, and many of the town’s people came to see them. With so many interested in seeing the different species he had collected, Carroll got the idea of starting a circus. It started with wild animals from around the Valley: a lynx, hawks, a fox, an eagle, white tailed deer, and moved on to include a bear and lion named Dewey. Carroll also had a wolf that could never be tamed. The wolf was kept chained outside the store. My grandfather, Errol Butler, said sometimes the lion would get out and wander around the neighborhood. What a clever lion to get out of his cage and take a walk to visit his neighbors. I can just picture coming out my back door and seeing a lion checking out the chickens. Thank goodness he was tame and well fed.
Eventually, Carroll Stygles decided to take his circus on the road. This circus had “acrobats, clowns, bareback riders and slack wire artists, trapeze actors and the Murdock Brothers who were general character actors” plus the wild animals (Putnam, 1). Carroll had “set the tent up on the flat above his house and gathered together the crew of performers” (Putnam, 1). They built wagons to carry the animals, a wagon for the band, and took the big show tent” to the counties of Chittenden, Orleans, Lamoille, and Franklin” (Hazelton, 107). It must have been fun to hear the circus band practice, as sound travels easily in Pleasant Valley. I wonder if the neighbors picked the right time to shop at the store or go to the post office, then peek in and see the artists and acrobats practice. What fun it must have been for folks to see the circus come into their town, the band sitting on top of the band wagon in bright uniforms and a parade of wild animal wagons to follow. They must have had a lot of horses and wagons besides manpower to carry everything they needed to put on their big show.
“One of the first shows was at Lamoille Valley Fair in Morrisville” (Putnam, 2). Here Carroll hired a farmer with a nice loud voice to be the barker. This would have been great, but when the farmer got up on the box and saw the great number of people standing around to hear, he went weak in the knees and could only whisper, “Ladies and gentlemen, come in and see the animals” (Putnam, 2). To the farmer, the sea of faces must have been more frightening than the wild animals inside.
Sadly, this circus did not last long. When it was in St. Albans, the circus was closed down and Carroll fined for exhibiting a circus without a license (Butler, 2). Carroll was so saddened by this, that the circus was disbanded. he found homes for his animals in different parks and animal farms; the lion went to the Franklin park Zoo in Boston, and the untamed wolf broke loose and ran away, dragging his chain behind him. “He was later killed with a club as he fought with some dogs” (Putnam, 2). he was 43 miles away in Bristol and identified by the chain still around his neck. Soon after this, Carroll and his wife Julia sold the valley store and “purchased the Thomson general store near the railroad station in Underhill Flats” (Hazelton, 106). It has been said that this was the first circus in Vermont. I have not found any records to prove or disprove this, but the people of Pleasant Valley were very proud to say they had a circus in their little village. The village is gone now. Where 8 to 10 homes and businesses stood, there are only two of the original homes. When the automobile came along there was no longer the need to have a store so close, and the Valley folks could travel the four miles to the larger Cambridge store. Change came about, but the circus will always be remembered.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXII 2011 p. 15
Works Cited:
Butler, Andrew. Pleasant Valley as it Was, 1999.
Hazelton, George. A Genealogy of Hazelton and Stygles Families, Gateway Press Inc., Baltimore.
Putnam, Floyd D. Stygles Circus and Wild Animal Show, October 22, 1957, Williston, VT
Second place: Walter, the Hired Man by Lucille James
Much has been written about famous people and events. Now I want to introduce Walter and the events in a common life. Walter Wimmett lived just beyond our farm with his mother and many other children. His father was killed in a horse accident. Their acreage was small, a hut of a house, a larger barn, a brook running near and horses, horses, horses!
Twice a year their mattresses were taken outside, the straw removed and burned to be rid of bedbugs, and refilled with clean straw. Bedbugs bit and leave scars. Walter’s mother had a reputation for ridding people of warts. I happened to have had a large one on one finger. One day I took a chance, unknown to my family, and knocked on their door. A gravelly voice said, “Come in.” The inside was dark, dirty, and smelly. It was scary. The mother was dressed in a long, one-piece greasy dress. I showed her my wart. She pointed to a chair for me, and when seated, she pointed to the table. A big butcher knife was there. I could hardly breathe due to fright. She took a potato form the pail beside her chair, slashed it in tow. Motioning me to come closer, took my hand and kept rubbing the cut potato over and over on the wart, all the time changing strange words. Finally, heaving herself out of her chair, and motioning me to follow, went outside, picked up an old shovel leaning against the side of the house, dug a small hole, put the cut potato in, constantly mumbling strange words, covered the hole and returned to her kitchen. Wow! The next morning, the wart was gone, never to return.
Before I continue about Walter, I’ll add about the wart on my sister’s finger. She refused to have the wart on her finger removed. She had a better plan! Every so often, in school when class was tiresome, she would take out her shears, cut off the top of her wart and yell, “It’s bleeding again!” Teacher rushed up with paper towels, pupils, knowing the routine, gathering around, refused to be seated. When order was restored, it was time to end the school day! Are you wondering why my parents weren’t told? My father was Selectman. My grandfather was a school director. Teacher feared losing her job if she complained. Times have changed.
With growing family and more acreage, my father need farm help. Enter Walter. It was understood that when a person was hired to work, that they had the privilege to be free to attend church on Sunday morning. Walter was a Catholic, and the church was ten miles away in the shire town of Middlebury. His horse and buggy was useless. There was no place at the church yard to accommodate the animal. Train travel was, in those days, the only method of transportation. Walter was not deterred. After much talcum powder and his best clothes, he was ready. A Catholic couple, working next door, joined him, and away they went, hoping they could go cross lots through a pasture to the station a mile away… if the huge angry bull hadn’t been let out to graze. If it had, they would have a two-mile hike to the station.
One went fasting to a Catholic service. After a long sermon and much pomp and ceremony, the service was over and they were free to snack while waiting the train’s arrival, and the long walk home from the station.
Walter was tall and thin, and after a few paychecks, felt the need for better dress clothes. Because he walked tall, the children at school kept asking us to look in his closet and drawers to see if he wore corsets. Corsets were the order of the day!
Walter had a very placid temperament, the exact opposite of my father, especially after his bad accident in the goods, getting up the winter wood. Walter, on his way up to meals, would stop and split the big chunks of wood, and then stack it under the house for winter.
Walter had a slight speech impediment. His love was chewing grape gum every waking hour. The pronunciation of “gum” was a bit different.
At that time, a Mr. Shapiro was peddling with a backpack, pictures of suits, and taking orders. Eventually the Shapiro’s opened a store in Brandon, and later two in Middlebury. One was a clothing store and the other ones were stocked with all needs. Middlebury College drew customers. The store had a unique way of collecting money. Each Friday a salesman arrived to collect a dollar until Walter’s suit was paid for. A dollar I those days was a large amount.
Then came Halloween. It was a perfect night. In those days, it was a “scary time.” It was not a time when you rang a house bell to see how many goodies you could stuff into a container bag! Oh no! Halloween was a “scare time.” But, an older person had to be in charge. This year, Walter was chosen! We dressed in the blackest clothes we could find. Walter didn’t have any. So we found an old lace curtain that we draped round and round his head and shoulders, as the “headless horseman.” Away we went. It was a night when the clouds overpowered the moon, and the wind whistled through the trees.
On the way, we kept picking up the neighborhood children we had contacted earlier. Halfway to the neighbors’ house that had summer boarders, we became very quiet because we knew that a big bull was pastured there. Seeing his house alight, we made our plans amidst giggling. How could we each take a Tic Tac to put on each window and a certain signal to pull the string to make an eerie noise? Scary. So we crept quietly up to each window and hearing all the chatter inside, giggled at our plans. Just as we went to pull our strings and hide, every light in the house went out, and out of the two doors came screaming figures in white shrouds. One matching scream from our guardian, Walter, and he was out of sight. We were not far behind! Next morning the curtains were found hanging on the roadside trees. Later, we learned my father had listened in on the party line and alerted the neighbors.
Walter was quite different from his brothers. At harvest time another hand was needed. My father made a bargain with Walter’s brother Benny for so much money, his meals, and weekly washing. Benny was fascination. Never had we seen anyone eat with a knife! We were astonished to see him line his peas upon his knife and without a loss of peas, into his mouth. Of course we tried this without success!
Come wash day, Benny brought his clothes for washing in a thick cardboard case fastened with a half-inch woven band of material. That kind of case was also used by students, men or women, w ho were away at school and each week would send their soiled clothes home. Baths were only once a week, on Saturday night, and fresh clothes on for the coming week. We still have suitcases like that in our attic. Come Monday, Mother opened the case, being wash day, to find three fat bedbugs on top of Benny’s clothes! Her scream could be heard for miles! The suitcase flying out the back door was never to be seen again.
Walter had one experience that he never stopped talking about. He was not needed one summer, as a relative came to stay and my father found him a job as a busboy on the ship Ticonderoga, in dry dock at the Shelburne Museum in Vermont. Food was served to visitors. Paid visitors. When he returned, the stories were too graphic to be published!
Walter had been given the gift of graceful movement, especially seen when there was a kitchen tunk (dance), or a gathering at the Town Hall. Younger generations coming by horse-drawn vehicles, older ones home caring for the small children. Women gossiping in groups, men the same, until the two older gentlemen opened their fiddle case to tune up for square dancing only. Walter’s feet began to move to the rhythm! When couples began to pair off, Walter would cruise the room to find a partner, stand in front of the lady of his choice, bow low in front of her, and say, ‘Shalsey we dance?” He never was refused.
Then came fall harvest time. We were fortunate to have a never-failing spring above our house, piped down to the house and barns, running away in a brook where ducks and geese swam. Very few houses in town were as fortunate. They had outside pumps, cisterns under houses to catch rain water for baths and the occasional shampooing of the ladies’ long tresses.
Harvest time was a dirty difficult time. One farmer owned a threshing machine and went from farm to farm. Farmers followed the machine, women provided the noon meal, huge helpings, and if the need arose, supper, if the job was not finished. Of course Walter was given the dirtiest job.
In advance he harnessed his beautiful brown horse, fed it during the day, ready to drive to Middlebury to the “flicks” after stabling his little mare. That was costly. Usually there was time for a bath before one drove to Middlebury Proper, but not this night. Time had run out for a bath. A quick face wash, hair brushed, best clothes, and away he went. Shortly after, my father came in and inquired the whereabouts of Walter. Hearing the dreaded news of no bath, he hoped no accident would befall him, knowing the thrashing job left one’s body covered black, especially the legs. His hope was not granted. As Walter drove into Middlebury, a young man lost control of his car, struck the horse and wagon, catapulting Walter onto the pavement, smashing the wagon and badly injuring the horse’s legs. Walter recovered slowly. The horse was “put to sleep.” Walter stayed with us until the farm was sold to a Canadian couple. Then they sold the farm, moved to Middlebury, taking Walter with them.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXII 2011 p. 23
Twice a year their mattresses were taken outside, the straw removed and burned to be rid of bedbugs, and refilled with clean straw. Bedbugs bit and leave scars. Walter’s mother had a reputation for ridding people of warts. I happened to have had a large one on one finger. One day I took a chance, unknown to my family, and knocked on their door. A gravelly voice said, “Come in.” The inside was dark, dirty, and smelly. It was scary. The mother was dressed in a long, one-piece greasy dress. I showed her my wart. She pointed to a chair for me, and when seated, she pointed to the table. A big butcher knife was there. I could hardly breathe due to fright. She took a potato form the pail beside her chair, slashed it in tow. Motioning me to come closer, took my hand and kept rubbing the cut potato over and over on the wart, all the time changing strange words. Finally, heaving herself out of her chair, and motioning me to follow, went outside, picked up an old shovel leaning against the side of the house, dug a small hole, put the cut potato in, constantly mumbling strange words, covered the hole and returned to her kitchen. Wow! The next morning, the wart was gone, never to return.
Before I continue about Walter, I’ll add about the wart on my sister’s finger. She refused to have the wart on her finger removed. She had a better plan! Every so often, in school when class was tiresome, she would take out her shears, cut off the top of her wart and yell, “It’s bleeding again!” Teacher rushed up with paper towels, pupils, knowing the routine, gathering around, refused to be seated. When order was restored, it was time to end the school day! Are you wondering why my parents weren’t told? My father was Selectman. My grandfather was a school director. Teacher feared losing her job if she complained. Times have changed.
With growing family and more acreage, my father need farm help. Enter Walter. It was understood that when a person was hired to work, that they had the privilege to be free to attend church on Sunday morning. Walter was a Catholic, and the church was ten miles away in the shire town of Middlebury. His horse and buggy was useless. There was no place at the church yard to accommodate the animal. Train travel was, in those days, the only method of transportation. Walter was not deterred. After much talcum powder and his best clothes, he was ready. A Catholic couple, working next door, joined him, and away they went, hoping they could go cross lots through a pasture to the station a mile away… if the huge angry bull hadn’t been let out to graze. If it had, they would have a two-mile hike to the station.
One went fasting to a Catholic service. After a long sermon and much pomp and ceremony, the service was over and they were free to snack while waiting the train’s arrival, and the long walk home from the station.
Walter was tall and thin, and after a few paychecks, felt the need for better dress clothes. Because he walked tall, the children at school kept asking us to look in his closet and drawers to see if he wore corsets. Corsets were the order of the day!
Walter had a very placid temperament, the exact opposite of my father, especially after his bad accident in the goods, getting up the winter wood. Walter, on his way up to meals, would stop and split the big chunks of wood, and then stack it under the house for winter.
Walter had a slight speech impediment. His love was chewing grape gum every waking hour. The pronunciation of “gum” was a bit different.
At that time, a Mr. Shapiro was peddling with a backpack, pictures of suits, and taking orders. Eventually the Shapiro’s opened a store in Brandon, and later two in Middlebury. One was a clothing store and the other ones were stocked with all needs. Middlebury College drew customers. The store had a unique way of collecting money. Each Friday a salesman arrived to collect a dollar until Walter’s suit was paid for. A dollar I those days was a large amount.
Then came Halloween. It was a perfect night. In those days, it was a “scary time.” It was not a time when you rang a house bell to see how many goodies you could stuff into a container bag! Oh no! Halloween was a “scare time.” But, an older person had to be in charge. This year, Walter was chosen! We dressed in the blackest clothes we could find. Walter didn’t have any. So we found an old lace curtain that we draped round and round his head and shoulders, as the “headless horseman.” Away we went. It was a night when the clouds overpowered the moon, and the wind whistled through the trees.
On the way, we kept picking up the neighborhood children we had contacted earlier. Halfway to the neighbors’ house that had summer boarders, we became very quiet because we knew that a big bull was pastured there. Seeing his house alight, we made our plans amidst giggling. How could we each take a Tic Tac to put on each window and a certain signal to pull the string to make an eerie noise? Scary. So we crept quietly up to each window and hearing all the chatter inside, giggled at our plans. Just as we went to pull our strings and hide, every light in the house went out, and out of the two doors came screaming figures in white shrouds. One matching scream from our guardian, Walter, and he was out of sight. We were not far behind! Next morning the curtains were found hanging on the roadside trees. Later, we learned my father had listened in on the party line and alerted the neighbors.
Walter was quite different from his brothers. At harvest time another hand was needed. My father made a bargain with Walter’s brother Benny for so much money, his meals, and weekly washing. Benny was fascination. Never had we seen anyone eat with a knife! We were astonished to see him line his peas upon his knife and without a loss of peas, into his mouth. Of course we tried this without success!
Come wash day, Benny brought his clothes for washing in a thick cardboard case fastened with a half-inch woven band of material. That kind of case was also used by students, men or women, w ho were away at school and each week would send their soiled clothes home. Baths were only once a week, on Saturday night, and fresh clothes on for the coming week. We still have suitcases like that in our attic. Come Monday, Mother opened the case, being wash day, to find three fat bedbugs on top of Benny’s clothes! Her scream could be heard for miles! The suitcase flying out the back door was never to be seen again.
Walter had one experience that he never stopped talking about. He was not needed one summer, as a relative came to stay and my father found him a job as a busboy on the ship Ticonderoga, in dry dock at the Shelburne Museum in Vermont. Food was served to visitors. Paid visitors. When he returned, the stories were too graphic to be published!
Walter had been given the gift of graceful movement, especially seen when there was a kitchen tunk (dance), or a gathering at the Town Hall. Younger generations coming by horse-drawn vehicles, older ones home caring for the small children. Women gossiping in groups, men the same, until the two older gentlemen opened their fiddle case to tune up for square dancing only. Walter’s feet began to move to the rhythm! When couples began to pair off, Walter would cruise the room to find a partner, stand in front of the lady of his choice, bow low in front of her, and say, ‘Shalsey we dance?” He never was refused.
Then came fall harvest time. We were fortunate to have a never-failing spring above our house, piped down to the house and barns, running away in a brook where ducks and geese swam. Very few houses in town were as fortunate. They had outside pumps, cisterns under houses to catch rain water for baths and the occasional shampooing of the ladies’ long tresses.
Harvest time was a dirty difficult time. One farmer owned a threshing machine and went from farm to farm. Farmers followed the machine, women provided the noon meal, huge helpings, and if the need arose, supper, if the job was not finished. Of course Walter was given the dirtiest job.
In advance he harnessed his beautiful brown horse, fed it during the day, ready to drive to Middlebury to the “flicks” after stabling his little mare. That was costly. Usually there was time for a bath before one drove to Middlebury Proper, but not this night. Time had run out for a bath. A quick face wash, hair brushed, best clothes, and away he went. Shortly after, my father came in and inquired the whereabouts of Walter. Hearing the dreaded news of no bath, he hoped no accident would befall him, knowing the thrashing job left one’s body covered black, especially the legs. His hope was not granted. As Walter drove into Middlebury, a young man lost control of his car, struck the horse and wagon, catapulting Walter onto the pavement, smashing the wagon and badly injuring the horse’s legs. Walter recovered slowly. The horse was “put to sleep.” Walter stayed with us until the farm was sold to a Canadian couple. Then they sold the farm, moved to Middlebury, taking Walter with them.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXII 2011 p. 23
Third Place: Cats and Dolls by Laurie Jordan, Essex Junction
“This is dedicated to my best friend growing up next door, Diane Smith Brady, who passed away last year.” Laurie Jordan
Cats and children roamed in farm fields, climbed on bar rafters, and played in attics. Diane and Laurie played with dolls and cats amidst old furniture and boxes in Diane’s attic. The roof was high in the second story storage area for a Ford Tractor business downstairs. Minerva, Diane’s favorite marble-colored cat, had many nooks and crannies to hide in.
Laurie’s little round doll suitcase held a perfect fit for Minerva.
“I think you’ll wear this dress today, “Diane told Minerva. “It’s too big for your little rubber Suzie doll, Laurie.” She slipped the larger, pink flowered dress over Minerva’s whiskers. The paws fit nicely in the sleeves. “Here’s a bonnet that’s just right!”
Laurie wiped her forehead and explained, “It’s getting too hot up her. Let’s take them for a walk.” Minerva raced around the girls as they made their way down the closed-in, narrow stairway to the bright outdoors.
“Should we go to the tractors out back or your house?” Diane asked.
“Through the field between our houses,” thought Laurie. “Just stay on the path. The spiders are out.”
The girls visited back and forth all summer long across the acre of grass and wildflowers. The path was well marked in the two-foot tall grass.
Minerva jumped out of Diane’s arms and darted off into the grass. “Minerva!” Diane shouted. “Come back here!” Oh, she’ll get the dress ripped! We just have to find her. It must have been a mouse.”
“Do you really want to walk in that grass?” Laurie worried. “But if we make a house on the edge of my lawn, she might come right back to us.”
They stepped just to the side of the path and stomped down the straw for a living room and a pathway into a kitchen. Suzie’s colorful hand-made doll quilt was just right for the floor between their legs and the scratchy grass.
“I’m glad I brought my dishes so we can eat,” explained Laurie.
Diane agreed. “Yes, I am very hungry. And now I need to go get my other doll. I’ll get some of Ma’s cookies and the machine downstairs has strawberry pop,” Diane grinned. Her eyes sparkled on her round rosy face as she hurried back up the path.
Meanwhile, Laurie set up as she was used to doing. She folded Suzie’s clothes in the blue suitcase. The tin plates and cups were set on the old quilt tablecloth. Laurie watched for snakes and black and yellow spiders. The black-eyed Susans gave her some delicious chocolate chips. The golden dandelions made butter and their long leaves became nice hot dog rolls. Diane returned with cookies and soda pop.
Minerva returned, too – with a mouse for her lunch.
“The dress got dirty,” sighed Diane. “I’ll have to take it off.”
The sun went behind the clouds, as all four enjoyed their afternoon snack.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXII 2011 p. 19
Congratulations to 2010 essay contest winners!
First place: Ina M. Isham, The Green Swamp Monster
Second place: Jean B. Alexander, The Incurable Romantic
Third place: Robert Webster, Night Remembrances
The Green Swamp Monster
I was born in 1937 and grew up on a small farm in St George, the smallest town in Vermont, our farm was located between Mount Pritchard and Shelburne Pond, and it provided our family of ten almost everything we needed. The nineteenth century buildings were on east or upper side of VT Route 116. The out buildings consisted of two barns for the cows and horses, a tool shed a house for the pigs, a hen house, and a woodshed. There were orchards and gardens on both sides of our house and my grandfather, “Gramps”, house. The houses had been built on ledges, with only a few feet separating the buildings from the thick woods which surrounded both sides of the yard. There was a pond behind the houses to collect the water that flowed out of the ledges. A spring for drinking water was located in the woods behind and above the house. The bee hives and bee keeper’s shed was in the back against the ledges, between our house and Gramps. Near the road, on the right side of the driveway my Dad had a little county store, and gas pump. His name was Floyd Isham.
This area of about two acres was my whole world for most of the first six years of my life. I was not allowed to cross the road by myself. Now that I think about it, two acres is a pretty large playground.
I could only see a bit of the road at the end of the driveway, Butternut and Walnut trees lined the road side, Grapevines grew between the trees. Time went on, and I was six years old starting school. The schoolhouse was about one mile away. So now that I was considered old enough to walk to school I could cross the road to the fields and pastures. A lot of warnings came with that freedom. First I had to stop, look and listen every time I crossed the road. Just as important was not to go into the Swamp, ever!
I was told by my Dad and Gramps that a huge Green Swamp Monster lived there, and it did not like to be disturbed. This was not a surprise to me, as for years I had been hearing these same warning given to my three older sisters. They liked to scare me, telling me tales about the Swamp Monster, such as “if I didn’t watch out it would come across the road and carry me back to the Swamp!” One night I woke up screaming and when my Dad came I told him the Swamp Monster was coming up the stairs. He told me it was just a dream as the Swamp Monster was way too big to get into the house. I asked him how big? He thought awhile and then said, “As big as both our work horses put together”. The thought of old Broom tail and Jennie trying to fit through our door made me laugh which helped me to feel better. My older sisters did not give up; they said it would come and get me in the yard. So I wouldn’t go out side unless my Dad or Gramps were close by. When they figured out why, they told me not to worry as the Swamp Monster could not live outside of the Swamp, it could never survive long enough to get through the hayfield and cross the road, to get to our yard. I never told on my sisters, though you can be sure I stayed as far from the Swamp as possible. When I wondered where the Green Swamp Monster was in the winter, Dad told me it went by way of the brook that flowed from our swamp to the larger swamps near Shelburne Pond. There it spent the winter with other Swamp Monsters.
There was a lane between the field and the Swamp, to bring the cows in from the pastures at night. That was the closest I got to the Swamp for several years, I think I help my breath every night until I reached the end of the lane. Now, I had a little brother, Junior, he was just one year younger than me. He was my shadow and followed me everywhere. When I started school he was upset at being left at home with no one to play with. The next year he started school too, and could cross the road with me. We were both happy, most of the time, but he liked to tease me a lot. Junior was not taken in one bit by the huge Green Swamp Monster warnings.
Our Swamp was more like a bog. If you stepped on one of the humps of grass you would be stuck deep in water and mud. It was all fenced in, about an acre in size. On one side was a hay field. The pastures bordered the other three sides. When we went after the cows Junior would crawl under the fence to get in the Swamp. When he jumped from one hump of grass to another, other humps ahead of him seemed to pop up and down. He would yell at me to look and see the Green Swamp Monster. I really believed that I saw it. It was green, with black spots, and had long brown hair. He got a big thrill out of scaring me. I couldn’t leave the cows. I learned to put the cows between me and the Swamp and hurry along until I was past it. Of course I never told on him. I did not go in the Swamp for years, until my Dad, took me in, and explained it all to me. We walked on a wooden bridge he had built across it; I never did walk on the grass humps!
My Dad said that the Green Swamp Monster tale was a way to keep the kids safe from harm. He said it was better to be “scared to death, than be dead”. He then told me about a little boy who had drowned in a swamp, on a neighbor’s farm sometime ago. That was a true story, it really did happen. Of course he didn’t explain until I was old enough to understand. He had been scared just like me, by his father Irving Isham, who in turn had been scared by his father, Gilbert Isham, who was scared by his father, Amasa Isham, who was scared by his father, Jehiel Isham, who started the Swamp Monster story in 1874 when he moved to St George Vermont, from East Haddam, Connecticut. All of these Isham families lived in the area between Shelburne Pond and Mount Pritchard from 1784 to 1965. It is possible the tale goes a long way back to England. The first Isham in my direct linage to appear in America was John Isham of Barnstable, Massachusetts, in 1670.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXI 2010 p. 29
Note: Joe A.Citro wrote about the Green Swamp Monster in his book,
The Vermont Monster Guide, 2009
First place 2010 Green Mountain Whittlin's: Ina M. Isham
This area of about two acres was my whole world for most of the first six years of my life. I was not allowed to cross the road by myself. Now that I think about it, two acres is a pretty large playground.
I could only see a bit of the road at the end of the driveway, Butternut and Walnut trees lined the road side, Grapevines grew between the trees. Time went on, and I was six years old starting school. The schoolhouse was about one mile away. So now that I was considered old enough to walk to school I could cross the road to the fields and pastures. A lot of warnings came with that freedom. First I had to stop, look and listen every time I crossed the road. Just as important was not to go into the Swamp, ever!
I was told by my Dad and Gramps that a huge Green Swamp Monster lived there, and it did not like to be disturbed. This was not a surprise to me, as for years I had been hearing these same warning given to my three older sisters. They liked to scare me, telling me tales about the Swamp Monster, such as “if I didn’t watch out it would come across the road and carry me back to the Swamp!” One night I woke up screaming and when my Dad came I told him the Swamp Monster was coming up the stairs. He told me it was just a dream as the Swamp Monster was way too big to get into the house. I asked him how big? He thought awhile and then said, “As big as both our work horses put together”. The thought of old Broom tail and Jennie trying to fit through our door made me laugh which helped me to feel better. My older sisters did not give up; they said it would come and get me in the yard. So I wouldn’t go out side unless my Dad or Gramps were close by. When they figured out why, they told me not to worry as the Swamp Monster could not live outside of the Swamp, it could never survive long enough to get through the hayfield and cross the road, to get to our yard. I never told on my sisters, though you can be sure I stayed as far from the Swamp as possible. When I wondered where the Green Swamp Monster was in the winter, Dad told me it went by way of the brook that flowed from our swamp to the larger swamps near Shelburne Pond. There it spent the winter with other Swamp Monsters.
There was a lane between the field and the Swamp, to bring the cows in from the pastures at night. That was the closest I got to the Swamp for several years, I think I help my breath every night until I reached the end of the lane. Now, I had a little brother, Junior, he was just one year younger than me. He was my shadow and followed me everywhere. When I started school he was upset at being left at home with no one to play with. The next year he started school too, and could cross the road with me. We were both happy, most of the time, but he liked to tease me a lot. Junior was not taken in one bit by the huge Green Swamp Monster warnings.
Our Swamp was more like a bog. If you stepped on one of the humps of grass you would be stuck deep in water and mud. It was all fenced in, about an acre in size. On one side was a hay field. The pastures bordered the other three sides. When we went after the cows Junior would crawl under the fence to get in the Swamp. When he jumped from one hump of grass to another, other humps ahead of him seemed to pop up and down. He would yell at me to look and see the Green Swamp Monster. I really believed that I saw it. It was green, with black spots, and had long brown hair. He got a big thrill out of scaring me. I couldn’t leave the cows. I learned to put the cows between me and the Swamp and hurry along until I was past it. Of course I never told on him. I did not go in the Swamp for years, until my Dad, took me in, and explained it all to me. We walked on a wooden bridge he had built across it; I never did walk on the grass humps!
My Dad said that the Green Swamp Monster tale was a way to keep the kids safe from harm. He said it was better to be “scared to death, than be dead”. He then told me about a little boy who had drowned in a swamp, on a neighbor’s farm sometime ago. That was a true story, it really did happen. Of course he didn’t explain until I was old enough to understand. He had been scared just like me, by his father Irving Isham, who in turn had been scared by his father, Gilbert Isham, who was scared by his father, Amasa Isham, who was scared by his father, Jehiel Isham, who started the Swamp Monster story in 1874 when he moved to St George Vermont, from East Haddam, Connecticut. All of these Isham families lived in the area between Shelburne Pond and Mount Pritchard from 1784 to 1965. It is possible the tale goes a long way back to England. The first Isham in my direct linage to appear in America was John Isham of Barnstable, Massachusetts, in 1670.
This story taken from Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXI 2010 p. 29
Note: Joe A.Citro wrote about the Green Swamp Monster in his book,
The Vermont Monster Guide, 2009
First place 2010 Green Mountain Whittlin's: Ina M. Isham
The Incurable Romantic
Reg and I had been dating a month, when he gave me my first bouquet. It was my 18th birthday, and the florist sent over 12 carnations with a note attached, which read: "Happy Birthday. Sorry I couldn't get you better flowers, but they we all out of stink weed. Reg." At twenty-one he was cute, kind, courteous, caring, protective, generous and very sexy, oh yeah! And romantic? Well judge for yourself.
Two and half years later in 1948: We have just been married, and it is 11 o'clock p.m., and we are at last to leave the reception. We are to spend our first night together somewhere on the road. Despite my mother's many and profuse warnings to her new son-in-law, that without hotel reservations, we would never ever find a place to park the car, by the side of the road. Particularly after 11pm at night, she reiterated, and on a Saturday, and especially God forbid, on Labor Day weekend. The groom way adamant. We would stop at some quaint little cabin, by the side of the road, when we were ready to retire. Well Mother was dead wrong. We found our quaint little cabin by the side of the road, at exactly quarter of four on Sunday morning.
To read the rest of this story please turn to page 20 in the Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXI 2010 .
Second place 2010 Green Mountain Whittlin's: Jean B. Alexander
Two and half years later in 1948: We have just been married, and it is 11 o'clock p.m., and we are at last to leave the reception. We are to spend our first night together somewhere on the road. Despite my mother's many and profuse warnings to her new son-in-law, that without hotel reservations, we would never ever find a place to park the car, by the side of the road. Particularly after 11pm at night, she reiterated, and on a Saturday, and especially God forbid, on Labor Day weekend. The groom way adamant. We would stop at some quaint little cabin, by the side of the road, when we were ready to retire. Well Mother was dead wrong. We found our quaint little cabin by the side of the road, at exactly quarter of four on Sunday morning.
To read the rest of this story please turn to page 20 in the Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXI 2010 .
Second place 2010 Green Mountain Whittlin's: Jean B. Alexander
Night Rememberances
I sit here at my desk as evening approaches. It's not yet the black of a winter night, but the sunless sky gives little light to the country side. The foliage of still-leafed cedars has blended in the gathering darkness into a black mass against the gloaming sky, becoming a wall with nothing to distinguish one from the other. The day has been one of those December days; short, lit by the slanting sun, cloudy at times and stingy with warmth. We have settled into our winter mode, a slower pace partly necessitated by our not being able to perform jobs outside and partly because of the darkened environment. As I gaze out my window at the lowering light, I am reminded of those dark short days of winters past, particularly those long nights when I was about 12 years old. At that time, in the 1930's, I had reached the age when I could obtain a library card and, by doing so, opened up a Pandora's box of books. Day after day, instead of my usual rush up Seminary Hill when the final school bell rang, I now sped to the Kellogg Hubbard Library and its treasures. I had discovered new worlds I knew little about and thirsted to learn about them. Since we were limited at this age to taking only two books at a time from the library, I usually read at a table there until about four o'clock, then rushed for home in time for supper around five. About twice a week, I was allowed to return to the library after meals as long as I got home by eight. These hours are what I vividly remember, especially the brisk late evening walk back home.
Note: This is the first chapter of Mr. Webster's unpublished book, Stories.
To continue reading this chapter please turn to page 32 in the Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXI 2010 .
Third place 2010 Green Mountain Whittlin's: Robert Webster
Note: This is the first chapter of Mr. Webster's unpublished book, Stories.
To continue reading this chapter please turn to page 32 in the Green Mountain Whittlin's Vol. LXI 2010 .
Third place 2010 Green Mountain Whittlin's: Robert Webster
