The Emersons : According to Vivian, Part One

Ed's Day Wednesday

Dear FOLKS,

Each Wednesday I continue to share family information that was provided by my late cousin Edwin J. Ostrom. We now focus on stories and anecdotes regarding Ed's maternal grandparents, Reinert Immanuel Emerson and his wife Dora Elisa Nilson. We have learned of the records found for Reinert that I wrote earlier as a report. You can see this report by clicking here.

In recent weeks the memories have included those of their children Ruby, Geneva, Lola, Ole, Alice and Ivene. These you can read through the following links:

• Ruby's story by clicking here
• Geneva's story by clicking here
• Lola's story (Part One) by clicking here
• Lola's story (Part Two) by clicking here
• Ole and Alice's stories were combined here
• Ivene's story (Part One) by clicking here
• Ivene's story (Part Two) by clicking here

IMAGE: Curly-headed Vivian and Verola Emerson, dressed
in leggings and a pair of rompers. (ca 1925). Digital file
 from the family collection of Edwin. J. Ostrom.

This week we will be entertained by part one of Vivian Vera Emerson's story. An identical twin, Vivian (1920-2012) was one of a pair of babies who were added last to the Emerson offspring. So with interest we will learn of being a part of this large homesteading family from its youngest member.

MEMOIRS 

of Vivian Emerson Cowe

January 1996

     Vivian's introduction message: These memories of my childhood are in response to a request made by our daughter Lynn; and then presented to her on her 50th birthday.

FROM THE BEGINNING...

     As I write this at the age of seventy-five, I am aware that age has its privileges. I can reminisce selectively. I have the liberty to write it as I remember. It may sometimes be in conflict with someone else’s facts, but I record them relying on the memories. This account will include the family I was born into, memories of each one and my own reaction and responses as I play out my role as the baby and child of a family of fifteen, including Mama and Papa.

     My first recollection of my existence on this planet Earth came at the approximate age of four. I was very much aware of being surrounded by people, lots of people, coming and going. I was born at the tail-end of a flock of thirteen, some of whom had grown tail feathers and had flown the nest.

     My arrival to the world scene was on June 12, 1920, born twenty minutes after an identical twin of the same sex. We shared our fetal compartment for nine months, so we knew each other well. I am told I have a mass on my right kidney that I have had no doubt since birth. It is perhaps an injury sustained during combat while in the womb. I am thoroughly convinced if it had not been for the fact that we were a double delivery (an oddity in that small community), the older sisters would have done away with the new arrival. They were the local Diaper Service.

     Having an identical twin is a unique experience. She was named Verola, whom I shall refer to hereafter as ‘V’. During our childhood, I felt a security in the companionship. I always had a playmate. When she hurt, I hurt. When she cried, I sulked. As much as we were alike, we had our differences. She was neat, I was more often sloppy. She took the hard jobs, I was awarded the easier tasks and accepted them willingly. She loved challenges. I recoiled at them. She was fastidious. I said, “It’s good enough.” She liked Opera, give me Western. She liked a linen napkin; I didn’t care if I had a napkin. Her social behavior was to make a good impression and my attitude was a toss of the head and “who cares!” Eleven children added up to a large family. The older ones did not much look forward to another baby, but our dual delivery brought envy from the neighborhood children. ‘We have twins at our house!’ My arrival was not without incident. V was handed to sister Ruby and I was given to sister Geneva for our first cleansing. I am told when she poured the warm water over my tiny body; I gave a lurch and very nearly fell off her lap. This was a feat my twin did not achieve. I am also told Dad’s chest was extended a bit after viewing my powers.

     Winters were long and hard on the North Dakota prairie. We were issued long johns when the thermometer dropped to below zero. The long arms and legs of the underwear were restricting. I HATED them! When wash-day came, Mama would lay out a fresh pair. We protested, as we had grown used to the old pair and they were ‘broken in.’ The fresh pair was stiff and scratchy. We would often pull up the sleeves which would give the appearance of bulk lumped up under the outer garment. It was a dead giveaway we were wearing the hated underwear!

     V and I decided to find a solution. We had enough of those demon long sleeves! I do not know which one of us hatched the forbidden deed of snitching the big scissors and carry out the act of debauchery. In our small house there were not many private places where acts of violence could go undetected. It was preferable it be a dark secluded place, out of earshot. It was decided to go up behind the staircase where the dirty clothes were thrown. It was just large enough to hold the two of us. Scissors in hand, we climbed up and pulled our arms out of the underwear and discussed how far we would shorten them. The light was bad so we had to make a guess on the alterations. Then Ivene heard the clacking of the scissors and caught us dead cold. Of course she ran to Mama and snitched. ‘The twins are cutting the arms off their underwear’. I cannot recall if we were punished, but no doubt we got a pull on the hair right there behind the ear, that tender spot.

     We all had our chores, some were hated, some were fun and some were ho-hum. The most hated was filling the coal pails in an adjoining shed to the house. It was double hate when we had a fresh delivery of the black stuff, then the top of the pile was about four feet from the ceiling. This meant we could not stand up straight and our mobility was restricted while filling the pails. There were about eight of them the size of a coal scuttle. I never plunged in with the task, I surveyed the surroundings and counted the empty pails, six, seven, eight. By the time I got to seven I groaned! How I hate this job! Then I would console myself by saying, ‘Tomorrow V has to do this and Ivene the next day.’ That assurance was comforting and I proceeded with the job. One day when it was my turn, I sat on an empty coal pail and analyzed how I could get the job done faster. I wanted to go out and play. We were required to use a large hammer to break up large hunks of coal. They had to be small enough to get in the nine-inch opening on the cook stove. Why should I have to do that? It slowed me down and I had more important things to do, like play! I counted the pails again thinking I may have counted wrong, but there were eight! I looked at the large hunks of coal. I put one in each pail then filled them with the smaller pieces. It did go fast and soon the eight were filled. I joined the others at play, until about an hour later, I was summoned to the kitchen. Mama pointed to the monster piece of coal lodged in the bottom of the pail. There was no need to lecture me, my crime was exposed and I was dispatched to the coal shed to redo the task. It was a lesson in futility.

     Another time I analyzed a chore where I was rewarded with cash, three pennies if I filled a syrup pail with broken glass I found in the yard and barnyard. This was in the spring when we were permitted to go barefoot. Now Ivene and V were given pails as well. They were finding more glass than I. I had to find a quick solution to compete. The older brothers saved old bottles and kept them in an old granary. I took several and went behind the granary and hit them against a large rock. Wow, the bottles were reduced to a pile of shattered glass on the ground. I filled my pail and headed for the big payoff. Mama took one look at the pail of glass and said, ‘Shame on you Vivian. You broke a bunch of bottles. Can’t you see they are all the same color?’ I was humiliated and gave up in despair. There went my three pennies!

     During the month of May the snow would start melting and water puddles would appear as did good-sized sloughs here and there. It was an exciting season of the year. We were permitted to take off the long johns and wear pink rayon, thin-strapped undie tops. They felt so good. I would run my hand over my body. It was smooth. We always wore jeans, not carrying the Calvin Klein label, but Sears Roebuck. We rolled up the legs to mid-calf and got permission to go barefoot. We had the world by the tail. Oh the joys of youth!

     A more pleasant task was the daily washing of the cream separator. It was housed in a small wash-house by a granary. A shelf was installed to hold a large pan of hot water and utensils for the cleaning process. It would take easily an hour, but I didn’t much mind. I didn’t have to keep bent over like I did in the coal shed and I could sing to the top of my lungs, often songs I had ‘composed’ myself. I was alone and away from the laughing and taunts of Ivene and V. I could think my own thoughts and fantasize my moments of romantic interludes with an imaginary hero.

     Our grade school teachers up to 7th and 8th grades were ho-hum. I did learn to read and add and subtract, but that was the extent of my education. Our 6th grade teacher was a male type, Obert Bjorke by name. He played the accordion at the local dances. It was extra income for him and I do think that took precedence over the classroom. There were four of us in the 6th grade. V and I and two boys. We took seats in front of the teacher’s desk during class session. Invariably he would shield his eyes with his hands and look at the text book and ask questions. Then he would nod off, his head jerking from his hands. We waited quietly for his head to drop to the top of the desk, and then we would quietly slip out the door, get the bat and ball and play baseball. After half an hour or so, he would appear and join us in the game.

     Our 7th and 8th year was ‘catch-up’ time. I have always been grateful for the teacher assigned to us, also a male type. He was very perceptive and shy, but had excellent teaching skills. He had his work cut out for him! He worked hard trying to teach us in two years what we should have learned in six! He worked especially hard with V and me for we wanted to go to high school. After two years under his tutelage, we found much of our freshman year in high school not that much of a challenge. We were in some subjects advanced to the other students. I recall I was asked twice to sit in for the teacher during study sessions in Literature class. I was flattered. It was an honor to sit in her space.

     During our 4th and 5th grade years our local school was closed for lack of pupils and funds. We were instructed to go to a school some four miles east of our school. It was too far to walk, especially during the winter months when the North Dakota winds blew. Our option was to ride horseback as we were used to riding. We had a favorite riding horse, Frisky, who was like a member of the family. A hay shed was built on the school property and the horses were fed and sheltered there during the hours of class. There were times we rode in temperatures of twenty and thirty below and often blizzard conditions. Mama wrapped wool scarves around our necks, leaving just enough of a slit for us to see where we were going. We would take turns riding in front holding the reins, however, Frisky knew the way. I truly believe she loved us as much as we loved her! She would go directly to the feeding shed and we would dismount and tie her to the stall. Other kids rode to school as well and we would often race on the way home. We would almost always win the race, no doubt because there were two of us kicking her in the sides urging her to run faster. Then we would pat her and hug her and kiss her and tell her how wonderful she was and she believed us!

     One warm spring day we wanted to ride through a slough by the road. It had been melting and much of the snow had disappeared. Frisky did NOT want to go and stopped. We insisted and prodded her with the kicking of our heels in her sides. She slowly proceeded through the water. About half way she stopped, as much as to say, “I’ll show you two”. She gave a hard twist to her back and off we went into the drink! We yelled and screamed at her. The water was cold! She stood shaking like a leaf as much as to say, ‘What have I done?’ She is in heaven now with the angels!

     We were sometimes permitted to go to town on a Saturday when the cream cans and egg cartons were full. These were sold to the creamery and the food merchants, then the funds were used to buy groceries and staples and often dry goods such as yardage to make clothing for the growing family. There were no cash registers as such in the dry-goods stores. The saleslady would put the sales slip and your money in a small metal container, pull an electric device and the ‘thing’ traveled on a network of wires the entire length of the building and up to another floor to a cashier who made the necessary change and down it would come to the saleslady. We watched this with fascination. One spring when the hay barn was empty, we decided we could duplicate the money-changing operation at J. C. Penney. There was a small platform about four feet square, high up on the far wall of the barn, reached by cross pieces nailed to the studdings. We put a table of sorts at the far end of the large space and strung a rope on a pulley. Up, up and away! It took the genius of Oliver and Ivene, as I’m not sure how much brain power V and I contributed to the installation. We connected a small metal safe about eight inches high and five inches wide that we stole from above the organ where Papa kept it, for what I do not know. It had a combination lock, so it was perfect! We attached it to the pulley and we were in business. Our older brothers had a car repair business for a short time. After it dissolved, much of the purchasing orders and receipts were kept on a shelf in one of the outer buildings. We helped ourselves! They were perfect to write on and stuff in the ‘carrier’. We spent hours, weeks and months at our new venture. It continued until the fall when once again, the winter’s supply of hay was put into the space. Our ‘business’ too was dissolved.

     I remember well one late autumn. It was turning bitter cold and it was predicted we were to have a severe winter. Mother had reported to the Authorities her concern for a family north of us. They were fairly new in the community and were obviously struggling to make a start in farming. They had two small boys and a new baby. Mama had visited them and brought food and clothing. They had a dirt floor and mattresses were laid on roosting racks from the chicken house. She could see there was little food if any. One day during that autumn there was a knock on the door and there stood a large woman wearing a black hat and coat. Her ‘driver’ remained in the car. She announced she was from the County Assistance Department and was responding to Mother’s request to give aid to the new family who appeared to be in need. The woman sat down and laid a large leather bag on the table. It did look ‘official’ as we kids sat entranced as she withdrew the papers, writing pads, pens and her glasses from the ‘official’ looking leather bag. She asked Mama a good many questions and wrote the responses hurriedly on the official looking forms. My eyes zeroed in on the leather bag. Was there anything in this world more beautiful than that bag? I thought about that bag for days. Someday, I was going to be a Social Worker!

     One hot summer morning we were washing clothes in the washroom next to the house; I was putting the clothes through the wringer. Our female cat who was in the ‘family way’ came to Mama crying and meowing loudly. It was clear she was in labor. She laid at Mama’s feet and ‘stuff’ started to come from her rear end. She had been hit by a car a few weeks earlier and no doubt damaged the fetuses. Mama had had a lot of babies and had endured multiple labor sessions. There was an instant bond of understanding between them. Mama got down on her knees and the mama cat laid there quietly looking up at her ‘deliverer’, meowing softly. Doctor Mama pulled out pieces of dead kittens using her apron as forceps. I stood there watching, transfixed with the awe of Mama’s understanding and skill helping the mother cat deliver her dead babies. When the deliveries were over, the cat, relieved of the ordeal, licked Mama’s hand. I was overcome with admiration for Mama who obviously had empathy for a lowly animal in distress. The mama cat seemed to know where to go and whom to go to for help.

     We had a neighbor lady who did not speak English, only Norwegian, coming as an adult to the States. She married widower Albert Peterson, a mile to the west of us. He and Papa were good friends, but his wife would not be friendly with Mama. She was critical of Mama. Mama raised turkeys and dressed and sold them to the Thanksgiving market in the fall. The proceeds were hers to spend as she chose. I remember her buying a Kolster console radio (the first radio in that rural community), a matching sofa and chair, yardage to sew for the children and fur collared coats for the twins! Astrid Peterson did not approve of Mama having this money to do with as she chose. It should have been turned over to the man of the house, namely Dad. Mama just laughed at her critic. Astrid would go to the neighbors and tell lies about Mama but the neighbors knew Mama better than she did, so the lies died a natural death.

     The Peterson’s well produced soft water, the envy of the community. It was wonderful for washing clothes. Ours was very hard and had to be ‘broken’ with lye before wash-day. Occasionally we would put two barrels on the stone-boat and go for soft water from Peterson’s well. We asked brother Bill if we could use his prized roadster to go for the soft water and he gave us permission. Ivene, V and I argued who was going to drive. Our driving experience was rather limited, so we decided we would divide it up. With the stone-boat and the two barrels in tow, off we went. We had to cross a main road, stop, open and close a gate and on to the windmill and well. We filled the barrels and headed back, one on one running board and the other on the opposite side, stopping to open and close the gate, cross the main road and on to our house. By the time we reached the house, we noticed the heat gauge was on high and the motor was steaming. What did we know about motors anyway? Bill was dispatched and he looked the car over, making some inquiries. He asked us what gear we drove in and we had to admit we used only one gear, LOW, and we had neglected to release the brake! That terminated our ever using his roadster again!

     One day Mama told me Astrid Peterson was dying. She was going to see her and bathe her for burial. She was in the last stages of cancer. Her husband had asked Mama to do this and she consented. She told me I had to help her. I protested, “Why did I have to go? Why me?.” I suppose I was about ten years old. No doubt Ivene and V were off someplace, they weren’t in sight! Albert, Astrid’s husband had been to town some weeks earlier and purchased a cheap coffin. It was stored in the granary waiting there in the cold and darkness. When we walked in the house, a hideous odor hit my nostrils, the stench of death. Astrid was lying on a single bed in the middle of the living room, her eyes sunk deep into the sockets. She had lost so much weight, her flesh stretched over the facial bones. She spoke not a word. Mama rolled up her sleeves and ordered me to get some warm water from the kettle on the stove and fill the wash basin. I was glad to leave the room. I opened the kitchen door to take a deep breath of fresh air for I did not intend to open my mouth once I returned to the bedside. I knew if I opened my mouth, germs from Astrid would invade my body and I would die. Mama pulled back the covers. Astrid had lost control of her bodily functions. The odor was unbearable and I sealed my lips tighter! Mama lathered up some soap she had brought with her and proceeded to wash her. Then she began to hum hymns softly and steady. I wanted to say, “Mama, how can you sing at a time like this? How can you be so loving to this person who has slandered you and said such evil things about you?” but I said nothing for I didn’t wish to unseal my lips to give entrance to the germs. Astrid was so weak she couldn’t raise her hand or speak but her eyes followed Mama’s face every move she made. There was a pleading look in her face as much as to say, “Please forgive me, please forgive me” and perhaps that is just what she was trying to tell her. I want to believe that. Mama put a fresh gown on Astrid and we changed the bedding. I do remember the admiration I felt for Mama, her faith and Christian commitment was so manifested in that act of mercy and forgiveness. It was a wonderful experience for me, excluding the stench! We washed our hands with hot soap and water and left.

     At the age of twelve, I experienced abdominal pains in my right side. It was determined I had appendicitis and surgery was scheduled. This required a trip to the Big City and the foreboding edifice known as trinity Hospital in Minot. Mama was overcome with apprehension. Surgery in those days was considered life threatening and Mama was concerned not so much about my recovery or success of the surgery, but the condition of my soul. She confronted me and frankly told me I could die and asked me to give my heart to Jesus. I had no fear of dying. Mama would be praying for me and there was POWER in her prayers. She was my intercessor! When I returned from the hospital and I didn’t die, I was treated like a celebrity. No tasks or chores were given me and I was pampered and cuddled for weeks. Then one day, Ivene and V went to Mama saying Vivian had long enough to recoup, it was time for me to resume my responsibilities as a member of the household. They were weary of doing my jobs and Mama agreed. I protested, but I was overruled. I was sent to herd the cattle, a chore I did not care for.

     During my recuperation, we played ‘hospital’ every chance we could. I was always the ‘Doctor’, showing them how it was done. They went along with it for a time, then announced we had to take turns being the doctor. That didn’t set well with me. What did they know about doctors and nurses and trays and thermometers and bed pans. No doubt this is when their decision for me to resume my duties took place. I was outnumbered!

     A Lutheran church sat on a small piece of land about a mile west of us. It was seldom used, occasionally for funeral services for someone in the community, but that was rare. I remember going to a number of funerals as a child and I did not like them! Everyone looked somber. People wept, it was foreboding and dismal. I wanted to go home, but Mama felt we should be exposed to the reality of death. The most vivid memory was the walk to the grave side. We had to walk through a small field of weeds up to our knees and grasshoppers jumping around us, hitting us in our arms and legs. The casket was placed on straps across the ground opening, a motor switch was turned on and the casket was lowered into the grave. The motor made a low grinding sound, an eerie sound. I decided I was never going to die!

     One day when I was sent to herd the cattle, I brought a book to read. I gave Frisky her reins for grazing. We were in the pasture just outside the fence surrounding the graveyard. I leaned against the fence post with my book propped on my knees. It was so peaceful, the crickets broke the silence and occasionally a meadowlark gave forth its song. Suddenly I heard the grinding sound of the motor used to lower the casket. I stood to see if there was a funeral in progress. I peered over the fence toward the graveyard, but all I could see were the weeds gently moving in the breeze. My heart started to pound. I could still hear the motor. Frisky raised her head from grazing and her ears stood straight up as if she too heard it. I grabbed my book, mounted Frisky and moved the cattle to another pasture. I had difficulty concentrating on my book the remainder of the day. I was happy and relieved when it was time to head for home. I told everyone at supper the experience I had, but they just smiled.

     There were no medications dispensed to us as children. Mama’s first aid kit consisted of Lysol, liniment, Vapo-rub and prayer, not necessarily in that order. If we had a bad cold we were put in Papa’s chair, covered entirely with a heavy quilt, our feet submerged in a pail of HOT water and made to drink a glass of hot water with a bit of liniment and sugar. We were confined there until the perspiration stood on our brow. Sweating it out was the cure. My body would be prickly all over. It was torture! I would rather have had the cold and fever than the cure. The only redeeming factor was the privilege of sitting in Papa’s rocking chair as it was a sort of a comfort zone. We never sat in it when he was in the room, as it was HIS chair!

     We lived about a half mile from a main highway. It was visible from our house. It was not unusual in the spring of the year to see a caravan of Gypsies going toward the west. One day a caravan stopped directly in line with our property. We could see a Gypsy woman coming across the field toward the house. We watched until she came to the door. She did not ask but TOLD Mama she was taking a chicken from our flock. She said a woman in the caravan had just had a baby and needed nourishment; she would help herself to the chicken. Mama informed her SHE would get the chicken for her, for she didn’t intend to give away her prize breeding hens. The woman was not pleased as SHE wanted to make the choice, but Mama stood her ground!

     Occasionally beggars and transients would come to our door and ask for food and shelter. Mama and Papa never turned them away. A meal was prepared and they were given bedding and directed to the hay loft. They were grateful.

     Two missionaries from the Seventh Day Adventist Church drove into the yard one day. They asked for a meal and explained they had no money. When leaving they presented Mama with a ‘Doctor Book’ entitled HOME PHYSICIAN, published in 1923. It is in my possession today.

     Next week it will be "ON TO THE FAMILY," where we will learn of the memories that Vivian had of the individual members of the family.

I truly enjoyed reading this first part of Vivian's story. I found different parts to be sentimental, humorous and reflective, very entertaining.  The portion where she tells of her visit to the J.C. Penney store, remained me of my first visit to the J.C. Penney store in Raymond, Pacific County, along Washington's southwestern Pacific coast. Raymond was then and continues to be a small town, although the largest within the county, whose main industries are fishing and logging and borders Willapa Bay. In the 1950s I went to Raymond to visit my grandparents. While visiting, I got to tag along apparel shopping at this department store and witness my grandmother walking up to the sales counter to make her purchase. The saleslady completed a slip from her sales book and put it along with grandma's money into a round metal canister. Wonder of wonders, the canister was whisked along to the balcony that overlooked the store to the cashier. The magical part was that this container followed along in a tube up to the second floor. Instead of the electric-wire set-up that Vivian witnessed, this was a pneumatic system, as air pushed the container along inside the tube. I remember it going whish.... up and then whoosh.... back to the saleslady after the cashier put grandma's change and the final copy of the receipt into the canister, sending it along for its return trip. Cash registers have since replaced this marvel of the retail world; and the Raymond store is no longer there. People of this area now travel to the town of Aberdeen for a J.C. Penney shopping trip. Getting back on track...

I want to thank the members of the Emerson and Ostrom families who helped to bring this story to us. Next I want to thank you, my faithful readers for joining me in this week's Ed's Day Wednesday article. We learned a bit more about homesteader's life in the rural area on the grassland prairie of the northern midwest and mainly Torning township, Ward County, North Dakota.

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