As I mentioned last week, I tend to be interested in the littlest details Grandma reveals in her letters. They tell me about her personality – the things she likes and doesn’t like. Take the Jan. 7, 1913, letter. In it, she talks about receiving photos of “Jack and Wilford”:
“Jack wears glasses now. He looks so funny. I hope I never have to wear them.”
And she allows that she doesn’t know how to play a game I had imagined was about the first one anyone ever learned as a child:
“Everyone here plays checkers now-a-days. I guess I’ll have to learn how.”
Others are just plain puzzling. I’m not sure what to make of the opening line of the Jan. 15, 1913, letter:
“Was awfully glad to [receive] your letter and didn’t get a bit hot before I got done with it. You can write just as many of that kind as you want to.”
Now, doesn’t it just kill you that we don’t have his letters to place that in context?
It’s also funny to see her drop in non sequiturs like this:
“I think if I was a basket ball player, I wouldn’t play when either Amandus or Glen played. I’d be afraid ‘me good looks would be spoiled forever.’ ”
It’s funny to see what she writes about other people, too. In the Feb. 12, 1913, letter, she lets fly:
“Do you know Mr. Grout? He’s about as batty as Bill Von Hess. He told us he was coming over to spend the evening last night. He wanted me to sing for him, the silly old thing. So Tella and I went up to Neta’s. Sister Sprague said she would send him up there and we were afraid she would.”
There also are comments about things that just seem to spring out of nowhere. In the Feb. 19, 1913, letter she talks, not all that seriously, about someone reading her fortune.
“After you folks went up to practice that night, Bob told our fortunes. They were surely funny. He told me I’d be a flirt if I could ever find any one to flirt with but, of course, that is a mistake, ’cause Billy will flirt with me most any time. He told Roah [Grandma’s sister] she would be married. She said, ‘More than once,’ and he said, ‘No, Roah, you’ll do darned well to get one.’ He didn’t tell us anything that was very complimentary; some of it was true, though.”
That, people, is a good sense of humor and a pretty fair writer, too. She makes me laugh out loud. More evidence is in her March 18, 1913, letter, in which she relates her experience at a local dance:
“We had one awful time. I fell down on my knees in a quadrille. Frank Gould’s feet got in my way. I told the kids his feet stuck out farther behind than they did in front. He’s sure awkward and so am I.”
Like I said: funny.
“What have I done that you should treat me the way you have lately? If I can make it right I will gladly do it. Will you please tell me what it is?”
Again, wouldn’t it be informative to know what he was writing to her? Her next letter, on June 2, 1913, comes from Thermopolis, Wyo., where I think she worked at least one summer, maybe more. They still haven’t sorted out whatever the conflict was, clearly:
“I received your note tonight. I was quite surprised to get it. I thought you weren’t going to answer mine. I looked and looked for an answer before I came over here, but was disappointed.
“Now, tell me what you heard. I couldn’t imagine why you didn’t come up after I came home, until one day Lilias told me some things she had heard. Then I wondered if you had heard something, too, so I sent you the note. I am sure I haven’t done anything for you to be angry about. I wish I could see you and tell you about it instead of writing.”
In her Oct. 21, 1913, letter, Grandma expresses some frustration about “fastening down” the desks in her Otto classroom. Apparently, someone named Kirk was supposed to do it, or at least be helping her.
“My hands were so sore I could hardly use them when I got through with it. I’ll bet Kirk’s ears were pretty warm all the while I worked, too. He’s the limit.”
Reading her letters sometimes takes a bit of surmising to figure out exactly what she’s saying. In her Nov. 3, 1913, letter, for example, she writes about what I guess are two guys who get drunk. It’s interesting the way she phrases it:
“Billy and Ed Harris went to the barbecue at Basin Friday. They got home Saturday about noon and Oh! They were feeling fine. It took the whole street for Ed to walk in and Billy was almost as bad. I never saw anything so disgusting. Billy was too silly for anything. I kept my front screen fastened so he wouldn’t come visit me.”
The very next day she writes another cryptic letter:
“I think you’re mean, though. You know very well that isn’t the reason I wanted you to release me up home. And I’m not teaching in the same department with John, either, so there! You think you are smart. If I had you here (and I sure wish I did) I’d box your ears nicely. You’re a bad boy, but I rather like bad boys, anyway. You don’t need to worry about the Bishop giving me a recommend, for I’m not going to ask for one. I don’t want to join this ward.”
I’m also intrigued by the snippets of stories she sprinkles throughout her letters. In the Nov. 8, 1913, letter, she writes one paragraph that’s frustratingly vague, but also a little haunting:
“I feel sorry for Bro. and Sister Reid. If I had a child that would treat me so, I’m afraid I’d use a club, too. I’m glad you helped them out, for they surely need it.”
And that’s it. Nothing more. A child? A club? Grandpa helping them out? I’d love to know what that was all about.
Another thing: I haven’t taken a count, but I’ll bet the word she uses most in all these letters is “lonely” or “lonesome.” Being a school teacher in Otto must have been isolating. She’s frequently quite blunt about how she doesn’t like to be alone, and she wishes she could be surrounded by family and friends. From time to time she even writes about her moods. One example is in her Nov. 11, 1913, letter, which she lightens with a reference to Grandpa:
“I’m glad you can’t see me tonight. Ruth says it tickles her to look at me, I look so cranky. I’d probably put on a different expression, though, if I saw you.”
In her Nov. 19, 1913, letter, she speaks of being close to a “hermit,” and says she does OK in the daytime, but likes to stay home at night and not go out at all. Taken altogether, she paints a picture with dark clouds hanging overhead.
And, as I’ve said before, the terminology in some of the letters is fun to read. In her Dec. 1, 1913, letter she refers to what we now call Germany as “Germania.”
In the same letter she speaks of going to a dance for which all the females are expected to bake and take a pie to be raffled off. Likewise, she speaks of a dance she’s been “advertising” for, and calls it a “Basket Dance.” Does anyone know what a basket dance was/is? I don’t have a clue.
She flirts with a romantic line from time to time, too, as in the Dec. 8, 1913, letter:
“Many thanks for the bill you sent. You are a dear, good boy. If you were here I might thank you in the way I’d like to.”
Also, she keeps mentioning “Stringtown,” but I still don’t understand which town that is. Does anyone know?
In the same letter, she writes of a dance for which she played the piano: When she ran out of tunes, the dance ended, but everyone stuck around to pull taffy.
And there is a reference to corporal punishment in her classroom in the letter:
“My youngsters were kind of bad this afternoon; Lou Blakesley and Frank Welch, especially. I whipped them both just before school was out.”
I know this is, as they say, a long drink of water. But I hope some of you find it useful or interesting. It’s been fun for me to read through the letters, and I hope some of you have been taking the time, too. Next week we’ll review the 1914 letters.
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