The other day I discovered, as we all do at some point in our lives, that it is amazing the childhood memories that can be conjured up and nurtured to the surface after having been suppressed for so many years!
For example, in my earliest juvenile recollection I am wandering around the farm looking for my older brother. As I ambled about, I found him in the machine shed beneath the forage wagons. He was in the process of constructing a rather elaborate Matchbox city in the dirt. What fun! I delighted myself by lending a hand! I was completely oblivious to the clothes I was wearing, having just come home from "Sunday School."
For whatever reason, my grandmother was in charge of watching us that day, and man do I remember "catching it." In fact, you folks may find it hard to believe, but I seem to recall "catching it" quite a bit when I was in grade school. To this day, nearly two decades after the fact, I can still hear the pitch in my grandma's voice if she discovered that I was using too much water. I still have a difficult time throwing away food, and I habitually will go ballistic if you leave a light on in my house.
On the lighter side, my grandmother was among the most generous, kind-hearted individuals I have ever known. I can vividly recall her habit of, without fail, delivering lunch to my dad and grandpa should they be involved with summertime fieldwork. One day she put together a lunch and we walked from her house to the hay field where my grandpa was baling hay, and back - a distance of more than a half-mile. I remember asking if we could have driven, to which Grandma replied, "No - that wastes gas."
I bring up these stories because the other day I came across something that I had nearly forgotten. The discovery was not startling in itself; I always knew I had this document, but had paid little heed to it for quite some time. When I was in fourth grade, my Social Studies class was required to do a project on American history - specifically, the Great Depression. For this project we were to have a grandparent fill out a simple yet comprehensive questionnaire on their childhood. The project was four pages long, and naturally I chose my grandma to complete it - she lived a half-mile down the road! I gave my grandma the assignment, handed it in, and as a 10-year-old, thought little else of it. Then, following the completion of the Social Studies chapter, my teacher handed back the questionnaires with instructions, "Here - keep this, put this in a safe place, because some day you will appreciate it."
Sage advice, and thank you, Mrs. Rufenacht!
This was the document I uncovered the other day, which inaugurated my mood for reminiscing. You see, having spent my childhood just a half-mile from my grandparents, I was constantly exposed to stories of living without running water, walking to school, and taking a weekly bath. Sadly, such stories did not interest me at the time, and now my grandparents are all passed; my grandmother has been gone for six years.
Recently I have found a certain value in the stories my grandmother wrote on that questionnaire, so many years ago. Indeed, upon discovering it I sat for over an hour, absorbing little details and attempting to empathize. Even the handwriting - why, you don't see penmanship like that anymore! All of the letters are perfectly formed, tightly knitted together into words that uniformly lean to the right. It is the penmanship that is the product of a one-room schoolhouse, and is as authentic to my grandparents' generation as electronic shortcuts like "lol", "j/k", "rotflol", ":-)", are to mine.
Upon rediscovering this document I have put together a series of articles, dedicated to that time in American history between the wars. Any college-level history course will talk about "The Great War," and then delve into World War II, and, oh by the way, there was an economic downturn in the middle, and man did women and minorities have it rough! But to me, this blind, politically correct revision of history greatly misses the point. To me, that period of time in American history is what defines this country's greatness. It is a time when people displayed just what the individual is capable of, from seemingly minute daily farm chores, to piloting a streamlined fighter over the Pacific, to unknowingly picking up a German spy in France.
As time passes, I have found greater meaning and value in the stories my grandma used to tell. Now that she is gone, these tales become that much more precious. Folks, for the next series of articles I want to take you to a time when Jack Benny graced the airwaves and Shirley Temple ruled the silver screen (that is, if you were lucky enough to see a movie once or twice a year). This is a time when a Plymouth cost $800 and you could fill it with fuel at the rate of five gallons for a buck. This is a time when groceries came in bulk; flour in 50-pound bags, sugar in 100-pound bags. I do not intend to idolize, or make heroes out of anyone. Rather, this will be a depiction of what people did, and how they lived. After all, with each day that passes, fewer and fewer people remain who can truly empathize with life without running hot water, or running water at all.
I have no idea how long this series will last; I am constantly conjuring up new ideas and references, and am certainly open to new perspectives. In reference to the late historian Steven E. Ambrose, over the past couple weeks I've interviewed a handful of people from my grandparents' generation. I consider it a privilege to hear their stories, and then write them up.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a weekly column for Friday editions of the Times. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
For example, in my earliest juvenile recollection I am wandering around the farm looking for my older brother. As I ambled about, I found him in the machine shed beneath the forage wagons. He was in the process of constructing a rather elaborate Matchbox city in the dirt. What fun! I delighted myself by lending a hand! I was completely oblivious to the clothes I was wearing, having just come home from "Sunday School."
For whatever reason, my grandmother was in charge of watching us that day, and man do I remember "catching it." In fact, you folks may find it hard to believe, but I seem to recall "catching it" quite a bit when I was in grade school. To this day, nearly two decades after the fact, I can still hear the pitch in my grandma's voice if she discovered that I was using too much water. I still have a difficult time throwing away food, and I habitually will go ballistic if you leave a light on in my house.
On the lighter side, my grandmother was among the most generous, kind-hearted individuals I have ever known. I can vividly recall her habit of, without fail, delivering lunch to my dad and grandpa should they be involved with summertime fieldwork. One day she put together a lunch and we walked from her house to the hay field where my grandpa was baling hay, and back - a distance of more than a half-mile. I remember asking if we could have driven, to which Grandma replied, "No - that wastes gas."
I bring up these stories because the other day I came across something that I had nearly forgotten. The discovery was not startling in itself; I always knew I had this document, but had paid little heed to it for quite some time. When I was in fourth grade, my Social Studies class was required to do a project on American history - specifically, the Great Depression. For this project we were to have a grandparent fill out a simple yet comprehensive questionnaire on their childhood. The project was four pages long, and naturally I chose my grandma to complete it - she lived a half-mile down the road! I gave my grandma the assignment, handed it in, and as a 10-year-old, thought little else of it. Then, following the completion of the Social Studies chapter, my teacher handed back the questionnaires with instructions, "Here - keep this, put this in a safe place, because some day you will appreciate it."
Sage advice, and thank you, Mrs. Rufenacht!
This was the document I uncovered the other day, which inaugurated my mood for reminiscing. You see, having spent my childhood just a half-mile from my grandparents, I was constantly exposed to stories of living without running water, walking to school, and taking a weekly bath. Sadly, such stories did not interest me at the time, and now my grandparents are all passed; my grandmother has been gone for six years.
Recently I have found a certain value in the stories my grandmother wrote on that questionnaire, so many years ago. Indeed, upon discovering it I sat for over an hour, absorbing little details and attempting to empathize. Even the handwriting - why, you don't see penmanship like that anymore! All of the letters are perfectly formed, tightly knitted together into words that uniformly lean to the right. It is the penmanship that is the product of a one-room schoolhouse, and is as authentic to my grandparents' generation as electronic shortcuts like "lol", "j/k", "rotflol", ":-)", are to mine.
Upon rediscovering this document I have put together a series of articles, dedicated to that time in American history between the wars. Any college-level history course will talk about "The Great War," and then delve into World War II, and, oh by the way, there was an economic downturn in the middle, and man did women and minorities have it rough! But to me, this blind, politically correct revision of history greatly misses the point. To me, that period of time in American history is what defines this country's greatness. It is a time when people displayed just what the individual is capable of, from seemingly minute daily farm chores, to piloting a streamlined fighter over the Pacific, to unknowingly picking up a German spy in France.
As time passes, I have found greater meaning and value in the stories my grandma used to tell. Now that she is gone, these tales become that much more precious. Folks, for the next series of articles I want to take you to a time when Jack Benny graced the airwaves and Shirley Temple ruled the silver screen (that is, if you were lucky enough to see a movie once or twice a year). This is a time when a Plymouth cost $800 and you could fill it with fuel at the rate of five gallons for a buck. This is a time when groceries came in bulk; flour in 50-pound bags, sugar in 100-pound bags. I do not intend to idolize, or make heroes out of anyone. Rather, this will be a depiction of what people did, and how they lived. After all, with each day that passes, fewer and fewer people remain who can truly empathize with life without running hot water, or running water at all.
I have no idea how long this series will last; I am constantly conjuring up new ideas and references, and am certainly open to new perspectives. In reference to the late historian Steven E. Ambrose, over the past couple weeks I've interviewed a handful of people from my grandparents' generation. I consider it a privilege to hear their stories, and then write them up.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a weekly column for Friday editions of the Times. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
