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The Memories of Irene Whitfield Chisholm |
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In 1979, I gave my mother a hardcover blank book and asked her to please write down all the stories of her childhood that she'd been telling me. She claimed she couldn't think of which stories I could possibly want written down. So, I sat down and made a list. I gave her the list and then she gave up and started writing. She didn't write everything on the list, and she wrote a few things that weren't. However she wrote down things in more detail, than what she told me. At first, they were merely interesting. But now, more than fifteen years after her death, they are a treasure trove of history and family knowledge.
Two undesirable aliens suddenly appeared at the door of the old house. Undesirable
because they frightened away the fairies. Alien, because most grownups are, in a child's
world.
'What are you doing out there?' demanded my grandmother. Most of her questions were
demands.
I wriggled my bare toe in the dust.
'Well, speak up.'
'I was watching the fairies fly over the fence,' I admitted.
Children see many things that most grown ups do not, grandmothers anyway, partly because
they are outdoors more and maybe quieter, at times. Because of the language barrier and
because they are unable to describe and/or interpret what they see and also if their
elders are ignorant or unobserving the children are unjustly called liars and maybe
get their mouth washed out with soap. Uncle Warde saved me from that fate several
times when Grandma could not believe my description of a bird I had seen and she had
not.
In this case it was Grandpa. He asked me, 'Which fence?'
I pointed to the one with the flowers on it.
'How big were they?'
'Itty-bitty.'
'Hmmmm, and what did they look like?'
'They went so fast, they were just just a blur. I don't know what they looked like.'
I was trying to get closer when they came and scared them.
'Nonsense,' says Grandma, sternly. 'There are no fairies.'
'But Grandpa said maybe I would see one someday if I kept looking.'
'Lew,' she scolded, 'don't put such ideas in her head. She gets enough already.
What will her other grandparents think.'
But Grandpa didn't seem to care what they thought. He said that I was his
grandchild, too. So they took their quarrel into the house.
But the fairies did not come back.
A few days before this I had been trying to invent a magic spell so that I could see
some fairies. There was a small canyon near the old house, not much more than a very
deep ditch really, and in it were many old logs left from some long ago logging project.
One log, very large and soft on top made a trail almost across. On that I paced or
danced with gesticulations singing my 'spell' in monotone. Grandpa found me there
and to my relief he did not laugh when I explained but said, 'maybe you will see a
fairy someday if you keep on looking. If you find the spell, tell me, too.' He said
they were most likely to come when I least expected them to. I believe that is true.
Grandma gave me a corner of the living room to keep my 'things' in. Thre was a
cupboard with shelves. I had dolls and doll-clothes, some of them borrowed from
a big girl nearby. They were pretty, but rather boring.
On the shelves I also
kept my perfume experiment. There were rose petals and possibly other flowers
in bottles of water. Disappointingly, they turned brown instead of smelling pretty.
Grandma made me throw them out when they started to smell.
Dandelion chains were fascinating and there were lots of dandelions. I made one chain
up the steps, across the porch and clear across the livingroom. It could have gone
much further but Grandma thought it rather messy.
Grandpa Whitfield had a blacksmith 'outfit'. He 'shoed' horses and did other fun things. Mostly I had to stay out of there, but one day he let me stay if I would climb up and sit on a plank near the roof. It was a bit scary at first but very interesting. There were live coals that he blew with a handbellows that made the coals glow brighter. The piece of metal in the coals got red, too. After awhile when the metal looked almost transparent he removed it with a long handled tongs and put it on the anvil, a queer shaped hunk of iron, and banged on it with a sort of heavy hammer. Sparks flew like sparklers on the fourth of July, but even prettier and more exciting. Somewhere along the line he doused the iron into a bucket of water which made a loud hissing sound and a cloud of steam. He heated and re-heated and banged on the iron many times until it suited him. Cooled it many times, too. Glad though I was to get down off that plank, I had enjoyed every minute of it from my ring-side seat.
Grandpa and Grandma Whitfield had several cows from which they provided for their own diary needs and supplied some of the neighbors as well. I always like to hear the cows come home in the evening at feeding and milking time. Grandpa asked me why. He always wanted to know why. I told him it sounded like music. His cows all had bells that tinkled when they walked. 'It IS music' he said rather abruptly. I think he was pleased, though. I heard him afterwards tell Grandma that none of the other kids had noticed that. Later, Grandma told me that he was very particular about the tones the bells made. It had to be exact so as to harmonize. They were a sort of walking orchestra and none of that discord sometimes heard at other farms. Each bell was at the proper pitch for pleasant listening.
Grandma had a cat with weirdly beautiful markings in many colors. All her friends
wanted one of the kittens. The problem was, if anyone looked at the kittens before they were weaned,
she would leave them and Grandma would have to try to raise them herself. In those days before electricity,
it was problem to keep them warm enough, especially at night. Grandma tried sleeping with them in her bed,
but disaster struck when Grandma rolled over in her sleep. The kittens seldom lived long enough to give away,
especially those Grandma slept with.
The cat had a new litter of kittens while I was there. Grandma had a grey kitten
while I was there, too, a half-grown one, pretty wild. It was standing on the bureau
and when I came into the room it spit at me. I returned the complement several times
with interesting results.
Soon Grandma bustled in hollering, 'Stop teasing that cat!'
At this point cat got really scared.
'I wasn't teasing it,' I protested.
'You were,' she practically screamed. 'I could hear the poor thing spitting and
spitting.'
'Now, Fanny,' put in Grandpa soothingly. 'That cat is always spitting.
She is very wild.'
'And I want to get her tame!' shouted my grandmother, frightening the cat still more,
'and I can't when people tease her.'
Cat took off rapidly and hid in the closet.
'I don't think I was teasing it,' I hesitated.
'Let's hear just what did happen,' suggested Grandpa.
'Well,' I drawled. I always began sentences with 'well'. It gives more time to think.
'Grandma called me and I couldn't come because Cat always said 'spt' at me when
I tried to get past and so I said 'spt' at her and she said 'spt' at me and I said
'spt' at her a lot of times and then I said 'meow'.' At this point I gave forth a
yowl, a real masterpiece if I do say so.
'Poor little Cat,' sighed Grandma, 'No wonder she is scared. Where is she anyway.'
'She went in there,' I pointed.
'Poor kitty she's scared to death,' moaned Grandma. 'After this you leave her alone,'
sternly.
'Is she really scared to death?' That sounded exciting. 'I'll go find her.'
'No', screamed Grandma. 'You stay away from her, scaring the poor Cat to death.
She'll never get tame that way having to hide in the closet, poor frightened
little thing,'
There was a young woman who came over for eggs and butter once or twice a week.
She asked me to stay with her for a few days, so I did. We walked to her place
through the woods. It seemed a long ways, though it probably was not more than
half or three-quarters of a mile. It was a big house with a balcony upstairs.
I slept in the room with the balcony. It was fun. She told about watching
for submarines from there. I could not even see the water. Maybe the trees
were higher. So one day we went to the short to watch for submarines. Of course,
we didn't see any.
I did take home quite an adventurous tale to the grandparents who scolded the nice
lady for frightening me. She really did frighten me once.
She intended to visit a friend whose child had the measles. The lady thought I should
be exposed to them. They had quaint customs like that in those days. I already knew
about measles, the hard way and I didn't want any. I hid. By the time she found me
it was too late to go.
The nice lady complained to Grandma about my bad behavior. Grandma told the woman
that I and my whole family had already had the measles, that my mother had died
because of it and added a few choice remarks about what she thought of a person
who would recklessly expose someone else's child.
I am sure the lady meant well, but she was young. Grandma was right, though. It was
not her responsibility to do that.
Mostly it was all sunshine at the lady's house and very boring. I swung in the hammock
a lot and watched the pole beans climb their very tall poles. That was very slow work.
I pretended Jack the Giant Killer put them there. I asked Grandpa why the bean poles
were so tall and how did people pick the beans, but all he said is, 'They don't have
to be. It's all nonsense.' And so, I suppose, it was.
'What is that child up to now?' came Grandma's voice, querulously.
'I'll see,' replied Grandpa.Sometimes Vera Peterson came to visit. Vera was maybe ten or eleven years old
and I got the impression she was not very happy at home. She liked to visit
and comb my hair and walk with me to get the mail. That was probably less
than a mile but it seemed longer. We tried to 'meet the mailman' so sometimes
we had to wait quite awhile.
Afterwards Vera read the 'funnies' to me, a rare
treat, that. My folks never read them to me. They had a theory that if I
couldn't read them I was too young for them.
Getting the mail took us a long
time. No wonder Grandpa would rather get it himself. He walked faster, too.
One day Vera wanted to tell Grandma a joke. She wanted me to leave the room.
Naturally, I objected. To my surprise, Grandma sided with me. She asked Vera,
'Why should the child leave the room?' Vera maintained it was not the sort
of joke one tells before children. 'Then,' said Grandma, 'It is not the type
of joke you tell to me, either,' and she went on sternly. 'If you can't repeat
a joke before children, don't repeat it at all.' I have always thought that was
good advice, but Vera didn't think so at the time.
I remember how shocked I was one day to find a bottle of whiskey under Grandpa's bed.
I had been chasing Cat around and Cats go everywhere. Grandpa explained that
he sometimes needed a little whiskey for medicine. That it wasn't good for young
people especially, and that he had it under the bed because that was where he was
when he needed it. Besides most people weren't likely to find it there.
I think Grandpa valued my opinion as much as I valued his.
(Grandpa Howe never
had liquor in his house, mainly because Grandma 'put her foot down'. She knew
that if Grandpa started drinking, he wouldn't know when to stop. I could see
that tendency in relation to candy, too.)
One morning when I got up there was a strange man in the kitchen. He was standing
in the doorway and at first glance I thought it was Grandpa. Then I knew it wasn't
and I was afraid until I saw Grandpa and Grandma across the room.
'Come in Child and let me look at you.'
Hesitating, I glanced at Grandpa for approval. He smiled an agreement so in I went.
'Well,' said the stranger. 'I see you do know which is your grandfather. Do you think
we look alike?'
Silence.
'Your Grandpa is going fishing today.'
'Oh, could I go?'
'You could ask him, but don't get your hopes up too high. He wouldn't take Francis.'
That didn't sound very encouraging. Frances seemed to be a very important person
around there, especially with Grandma.
'And you'll have to dig worms', she warned.
'Dig worms? What for?' That was puzzling.
'Why for bait, Child. Have you never been fishing before.'
'Not ever,' I sighed.
'I don't think so. Kenny dared him to eat some chicken dirty, too but I wouldn't
let him.'
'That's right,' said Grandpa approvingly. 'You must look after your little brother.
Did you tell your stepmother?'
'No.' Such a thought would not have occurred to me.
'Why not?' he persisted.
'Because.' My favorite answer.
'Because, what?'
'Well, Kenny always tells her it was me that did it and she believes him.'
'Oh,' said Grandfather. 'Hmm, yes, I see. I think we have enough worms now, so
let's go fishing.'
Sometimes Francis came over and sometimes I went to her house. Francis and I did not get along very well. She was a few months older than I and correspondingly bigger and stronger. She always had the very annoying attitude that whatever I could do, she could do better. She could climb better, run faster, spit farther, and even sew. Incredible. Apparently she had been to school and could even read. I felt resentful and subdued. She could throw a ball or rocks like a boy and when she came over to my place a year or so later, I wouldn't go out to play with her at all. She had a rock throwing contest with my step brother. I simply did not care to compete. My step mother simply didn't understand it at all.
Cast of Characters
Here are some short family lines to sketch in who is in what generation. This does NOT include all the sibs & cousins and children! This is just who is in the stories in Irene's diary, plus any others needed to make sense of the list.
Diary: Irene Margery Whitfield Chisholm
Photographer: Jack Chisholm
Author/artist/designer/programmer of page: Rowan Ainslie Chisholm
This website and all contents copyright 2009 Penelope Chisholm aka Rowan Ainslie Chisholm
This page first posted 8 May 2007
Latest revision: 23 January 2011
