Dec. 9, 1984

I have just finished reading the first account of General duster's campaign in the Little Big Horn country of Montana Territory. It is in the December issue of the American History Illustrated. The second account will appear in the next issue. It was written by an army officer who took part in that campaign. This officer lived until 1932 and retired as a Brigadier General. Somehow this account touched me in a very special way. It almost seemed that I was there. I couldn't help but think of some of the things that Dad told us concerning the early days. I guess the thing that really hit me is that I was only one generation removed from that time. Whether the Indian was wronged by the white man or not is a sort of academic question. He was, to be sure, a very worthy and able opponent. One gets the idea from the account that Custer had a premonition that he would die on that battlefield (and of course he did). In many instances the white man showed no mercy and the Indian retaliated in like manner. Dad told us that it was not uncommon for a band of Indians to attack a wagon and if they overpowered the whites they might set fire to the wagon and use the wagon kingpin as a red hot instrument of torture. Then too, the troop might wipe out an Indian village and kill all, women and children included. Man's inhumanity is as old as the race of man himself. If one carries this sort of self examination or meditation far enough it will take a great deal of religious faith to keep one from wondering just how important is one's own life. Of course I must hasten to add that we do not have the right to determine when it will end; but why, oh why, can't man live and let live. I wish that I had been able to know my father better. He was certainly a deep thinker. He was probably more inclined to be 'one of the boys' than I am. On those rare occasions when he did open up he gave me much that I am grateful for. God willing, I trust that I can do the same. Just his memory and perhaps something that he said has sustained me on many occasions. There was another side. He demanded and received unconditional obedience on occasion. Let me tell you about our home. The only one I ever knew until your mother and I were married. I don't remember the soddie where I was born. I do recollect seeing it later. Probably my earliest recollection is an incident that took place very close to that soddie. In those days there was an abundance of water in Sand Creek and the Solomon. There were ponds along the stream bed. Some were quite deep. On one occasion I sat on the bank and Dad stripped down and went swimming. I could not have been much past two because we left there in 1922. The next event was riding with Julius in a hayrack loaded with household goods and arriving at the place that was to be home until Dad died. Now to describe that house. Today it would probably be considered a shack unfit for a dwelling. Never the less, all of us children lived there at one time or another. It was dug into a bank. Three sides were in the bank and the east side was a cement wall. The three other sides were cement too but they were not exposed. The windows were in the east and the door was too. It had a wood floor but some of the wood had knotholes and the knots had dropped out. So sometimes, if some little thing was dropped and went through the hole, it was lost. It had two rooms. It was about fourteen feet by thirty. The roof sloped only one way and between the ceiling and the roof we had what was referred to as the loft. It was reached by a ladder. A cubbyhole with a lid provided the only entrance for many years. This loft was my bedroom for as long as I can remember. In winter, it was not unusual to awaken in the morning and find snow on the bed.
About one third of the main part was partitioned off for a bedroom. All the girls slept there. Five of them at one time. Dad and Mom had a bed in the main room, which also served as kitchen, dining room, living room and utility room. In addition this room contained a wood burning cook stove, (it had a habit of smoking so bad that it would be necessary to open the door), a heating stove, that also burned wood and cow chips and a sink that was used for just about everything you can think of. At one time it had a drain that was always plugging so in later years we used a bucket to catch the used water. It wasn't so good when the bucket ran over. We did have a supply tank and water was piped into the house, but the tank leaked so bad that it was finally abandoned and from that time on water was brought into the house with a bucket. This included the water on washdays. That was always on Monday. Guess who carried a lot of water but seldom without a heated discussion about whose turn it was. Mom got old in a hurry. I wonder why? We really didn't know that we were poor. You see, no one ever told us. Sister Rosa raised at least part of her family in about the same conditions. Dad
In the years before she died, Vera worked as a maid in several homes owned by people who had more money than they needed. She explained; It gave her a chance to handle "nice" things. Apparently she missed never having those things that are associated with the more "gracious" lifestyle.