Keeping warm in the winter, part II
It was on July 4, 1941, and Dad was out splitting wood that morning for the kitchen range. To this day, no one in our family remembers, but I think someone set off a firecracker while Dad was bringing that sharp ax down toward the log. His left hand was in the way and he chopped his thumb off, slick as a whistle. It was only hanging on by a piece of skin. What to do?
Brother Bob, who was only 15 at the time with no driver’s license, hurried Dad the 15 miles over to Indianola in our 1928 Chevy while Mom called to tell Dr. Shaw they were coming. Glory be! They were back home in a few hours with the thumb sewn back on and a steel pin holding things together. Our Aunt Adeline from Chicago was visiting that day, and we have her pictures of our whole family in the front yard, including Dad with his cast and bandaged hand. The pictures have 1941 in small print on each side marking that tragic event. It was a good healing process and for the rest of his life, Dad would wiggle that left thumb and say, “See, it’s still in good working order.”
On school days, after dressing and scrubbing our hands and faces in the round porcelain wash pan sitting on the commode in our kitchen, we had steaming hot oatmeal and a glass of milk. It was then off to school when Theodore Lippold stopped out front in his little yellow school bus that would only hold about 10 kids. We were bundled up with our high-top buckle overshoes, mittens, stocking caps and of course, long underwear under our school clothes. My sister Theresa and most other girls in school wore long underwear and long cotton stockings which they hated. It wasn’t stylish, but parents knew warmth took preference to style.
Our two story brick school in the village of St. Marys was built in the 1920s and was modern with electricity and steam heat, which was piped from the furnace room just off the basketball court in the lower level. It was a far cry from most rural farm homes with wood burning stoves, no indoor plumbing or electricity. Looking back, when school was dismissed at 4 p.m., we migrated back into the “Olden Days” atmosphere. I used to tell our children that Abraham Lincoln and I studied together and wrote with chalk on our slates by candle light or glow from the fireplace. I would relate that Abraham was born in the log cabin just like the one out at Maytag Park and of course that part of my story was true.
There was virtually no insulation in farm homes and many like ours were built with a rock foundation. In the fall, Dad would stake an insulated barrier about 2 feet high and a foot thick around our farm house, which was merely chicken wire packed with straw. This kept the wind from whistling under the house, up through the floors and made our downstairs much warmer. But upstairs was another matter. It was colder than billy-bejabbers and would even freeze a glass of water in our bedrooms on extremely cold nights.
Our beds were piled high with homemade quilts and comforters. Mom would many times heat bricks on top of our kitchen range, wrap them in newspapers and put them in the foot of our beds. We always slept two to a bed for body heat and of course long underwear was a good insulator. My sister Theresa reminds me that May 10 each year was the official day to shed our long underwear. She doesn’t know exactly why.
Most cars, including our 1928 Chevy and Model A Ford, had no heaters and of course, no radios. So, heading further than the 2-mile drive to church or a school function at St. Marys called for wrapping in blankets. In those days, purple colored alcohol was used in the car radiators and it wasn’t too good. I can still see my dad adding purple stuff to the radiator, hoping to keep the water above freezing. There was not much heavy traveling in those days. Some old timers merely started their cars with a crank, added water and drained it when they arrived at their destination. My grandchildren sometimes don’t seem to believe some of my stories, but they are true!
Dad generally took care of that big black heating stove in our dining room while Mom took care of the big heavy cast iron kitchen range. It was my job to keep a 5-gallon bucket of corn right by the stove, which would make a quick fire each morning before wood was added. By the time we got up the fire in that kitchen range, we had our kitchen pretty warm. Those fires never went out and we consumed a lot of wood, which was thankfully plentiful and rather cheap, if not for free. But heating with coal was another thing.
When Dad started working at the Army Ordinance Plant at Ankeny in 1942 or 1943, as well as taking care of the farm, there was not much time for cutting firewood. So, the coal truck would bring a couple loads each winter, used to supplement wood. It made a longer lasting fire, was hotter and of course more convenient. So part of my nightly chores was to also bring in a couple 5-gallon buckets of coal in addition to the wood. I’d feed the chickens, gather the eggs and my evening chores were over by 5:30 p.m. so I could listen to “Jack Armstrong the All American Boy” on our battery powered radio, sponsored by Wheaties — the Breakfast of Champions.
My older brothers Jim and Bob had more important chores like feeding the livestock and doing the milking. I grew into these tasks later on, and my younger brother Charles inherited some of mine. But, during those cold winter months on the farm, we all seemed to be involved one way or another in keeping things warm and reasonably comfortable. It was a good life!
