IDAHO MEMORIES

 

          When I began the lost post about my semi-feral childhood, it brought back so many memories but none that seemed worth an entire blog post. So, I thought I’d put them into memory paragraphs in no particular order. And, even though I managed to delete that one post, the old 286 managed to dredge up quite a few recollections

          When it snowed in Idaho, IT SNOWED!!! I can remember my mother dressing me in my snowsuit so I could go up the road to the post office. I don’t remember being scared at the time, but the snow was way higher than my head and it was still snowing hard. I made it there and back, but now wonder what my mother was thinking or what was so important at the post office. Most likely, she just wanted me gone temporarily so she could have some peace and quiet.

          Our water came from a spring up the road. It was administered by the wealthiest family in the small community…they had a really nice house and their daughter rotated her friendship through the community’s group of girls. I always felt special when she chose me because her house was so nice and she had the best paper dolls.

          Anyway, about the water. It was the coldest water right out of the faucet. Every summer the men in the community would go clean out that spring and do whatever repairs were required. For several days after that day, the water out of the faucet held worms, moss, dirt and unrecognizable stuff. Didn’t take long for it to clear up though.

          The family down the road had fourteen children and it would have been eighteen if four additional ones had survived. The mom rarely left the house because she was HUGE. Maybe once a summer, she’d manage to get down the stairs of the house, down the stairs to the road and then mosey up the road surrounded by many of her children, talking to the various adults as she passed. I was always amazed at her size. Once I understood about having babies, I was even more amazed by her.

          That family also had an outhouse of which I have two memories. The first is that since I had indoor plumbing, I enjoyed (hey I was a kid) using their outhouse. I remember dashing to it and yanking open the door only to find the dad enthroned. He yelled. I ran. The second memory is of how they cleaned up that outhouse. The older sons were given the job of shoveling the contents into wheelbarrows, wheeling them across the road to the edge of the riverbank and dumping the contents there. This was also the community dump.

          You’re probably appalled by the previous paragraph as I was then and now, but the river was not pristine. The silver mine in Burke Idaho poured tailings into Canyon Creek and until the late 1990s, raw sewage was pumped into the creek as well. The canyon and creek became an EPA superfund site. The last time I was by there, six years ago, the creek ran clean and clear and Burke was a ghost town.

          For a while my uncle and his family lived on the other side of the creek. To get to or from his house, I could walk down the road and cross the creek on a car bridge, or I could use the pedestrian bridge. The smaller bridge was faster but very very scary to a little kid. The old man who lived right by the walking bridge took care of it. I don’t know if he just did it because it was there or if he was paid to do so. In any case, he used whatever pieces of wood he could find to replace those that had fallen or rotted. Those replacement pieces were not always adjacent so I had to hang on to the railing, which wasn’t always the safest either, and take a huge step to get from one board to another. Meanwhile, that dirty, gray water rushed on by below and I just knew if I slipped, I’d be a goner. Still, I used that bridge more than the car bridge.

          Whenever there was a mining accident, a huge whistle would blow and it’s sound carried up and down the canyon. Wives, mothers, grandmothers and children waited for news, fearful their man had been caught in some disaster. I don’t remember being worried when this happened, but looking back now, while my mom and grandma may have smiled for me, they were quite concerned. The only person I ever knew or knew of that was injured in the mines was the man next door. He lost part of his leg and had to retire. Still, I think that’s why mom and dad decided to move the family to Seattle. Both my uncles left the mines as well; one to California to work in an airplane factory and the other to work for the railroad. The railroad man still lived in Idaho until his death.

          Our little house wasn’t much. It was basically five rooms, i.e., living and dining room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms gave up some space when daddy installed a bathroom. I was quite the envy of my girl friends who had the outhouse. My grandma and I had one bedroom and my folks the other. Adding my brother and sister may also have had something to do with the move to Seattle…we needed more room.

          It wasn’t until John and I bought this house that I found out my folks had owned their house and garage, but not the land beneath it. I was still corresponding with the next-door neighbors then and received a congratulatory letter about our house purchase as well as the news the old drunk who’d moved in to my house all those years ago had finally sold his house…drum roll please, for $1,500.00. I now wish I’d thought to ask my parents how much they sold it for in 1953.

          In any case, my mother and grandmother kept that house immaculate. There were sheer curtains at the windows and twice a year, spring and fall, those curtains were taken down, scrubbed on a scrub board, stretched on some contraption made of wood with little pins along the edges (wish I knew what this was since I’ve never ever seen another one) and rehung when dry. That’s where I learned how to keep house using elbow grease and soap. You didn’t have vacuum cleaners or other labor-saving devices. You used a broom, got down on your hands and knees and scrubbed.

          In that house is also where I learned to iron. I started out with my daddy’s hankies. In those days, every single piece of clothing was ironed after it was washed in a big tub with a scrub board and rinsed in another big tub. Even my dad’s tightie whities were ironed. I do have an ironing board and iron, but they are seldom used and I never ever ironed John’s hankies or jockey shorts.

          There was a small stove in the living room that heated most of the house. I now cannot remember if there was a wood-burning stove in the kitchen as well. I remember the living room stove well because I was entranced by my new little brother and wanted to see while mom changed him. Since I couldn’t get to them by going around the front, I crawled around the back and burned the heck out of my left arm on the stovepipe. Not only was I injured, but mom was pissed I hadn’t listened to her. Sort of served me right, I guess. I think you’d have to look real hard to find that scar now.

          My mom was a superb cook and baker, most of which she had to give up when we moved to Seattle and she had to get a job. I’m sure she made bread, but what I remember best are the cinnamon rolls she’d whip up. Those, cakes and pies, oh my. My mouth waters just remembering how good they tasted. And biscuits, again, oh my!!! I’ve never ever been able to make a biscuit like my mom and grandma. On school mornings when I didn’t want to eat my mush, I could be bribed with a piece of pie or cake. I’m sure she made cookies too, but those didn’t claim a place in my memory.

          This was probably way more of a stroll down my memory lane than you actually wanted. In any case, it’s wine time, so I’m going to stop. Perhaps that wine will cause my old 286 to dredge up more memories of me, myself and I under the age of eight.