The Sister I Never Knew 1943 - 1951

According to the Dictionary:  Rheumatic Fever is a severe infectious disease occurring chiefly in children, marked by fever and painful inflammation of the joints and frequently resulting in permanent damage to the heart valves. 

Classic symptoms are fever,joint pain, fatigue, paleness, lack of appetite, weight loss, rash and bouts of strep throat.

The Dreaded Diagnoses
In 1947 my sister was diagnosed with a bout of the Whooping Cough then later a diagnoses of Rheumatic Fever.  In the 1940s children were not vaccinated against Whopping Cough and many children died from this disease. Whooping cough is a highly contagious disease that affects the lungs. Penicillin had been discovered but evidently not widely in use since it was a new drug. Carol's heart may have already been too weakened for drugs to help.

A Little About Carol
Carol was born August 17,1943 in Union Furnace,Ohio. She was born in a large two-story house that was situated back a ways off from Highway 328. The driveway to the house went under the old wooden railroad trestle. In 1947, my mother with children in tow, went to live with her parents on the Nickle Plate Road farm. Pictures of Carol show her as being a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. I don't remember seeing any pictures of Carol smiling. I remember a color picture of Carol hanging in our living room. The picture was in a huge oval shaped frame. Mother made sure Carol's picture was always on display.     

Carol was in and out of Children's Hospital numerous times over a three year period. On good days when she was able to be at home, she joined her siblings in playing with toy cars and trucks. The children liked to play in the basement near the coal pile. This part of the basement was unfinished with a dirt floor and a heap of dirt near the coal pile. I imagine they played in the dirt loading the little toy trucks with bits and pieces of coal. Cardboard boxes were another favorite play item. Most children didn't have lots of toys back then,so having a big imagination and creativity served as useful entertainment. 

On one of Carol's really good days she went with her younger brother to ride on an old push-and-ride metal scooter. The two instigated a plan to ride the scooter to the small village of Union Furnace. Perhaps they were thinking of purchasing some penny candy from the country store. Penny candy was kept inside a big wood and glass display case which made it very enticing for young children. The two young children didn't get very far. They managed to get to the end of the lane before they were discovered missing. Walking the country lane was a fairly far distance for Carol considering her illness and the Doctor's protocol for limited physical activity.

Carol went to Union Furnace school for only short periods of time. Our road wasn't on the bus route during this time in the 1940s. My oldest brother reported that Mr. Geiger was the bus driver; however, Mr. Geiger drove his personal car which was a 1937 Chevrolet, to the farmhouse to pickup the kids so they could get to school.

Added Memories of The Geiger Store As Told By My Brother
Mr. Geiger also operated a small grocery store as well as sold gasoline. His store was located on Highway 328 across from the United Brethren Church in Union Furnace, Ohio. My brother, who was about ten-years-old at the time,remembers this store in detail because of the old gas pumps. A clear visible glass cylinder which held a few gallons of gas was on top of the pump so you could see what you were getting or to measure the gallons of gasoline. In those days you requested gas by how many gallons you wanted. A manual pump was used to get the gasoline out of the underground tank. In order to get gasoline you needed to pull back and forth on the pump to get the gas into the glass cylinder at the top. This apparatus was eight or ten feet tall and the gas flowed down a hose by gravity into the car. These pumps were popular in the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s.  
    
Children's Hospital Stays
I'm sure Carol dreaded being ill, staying in the hospital, and she felt abandoned as I remember the stories mother told of her lengthy stays at Children's Hospital. Mother couldn't stay with Carol all the time; having other children at home to care for and not wanting to put all the responsibility of caring for them on her mother,(my grandmother),as well as having limited funds which made the situation even worse. I know my mother felt guilty for not always being able to stay at the bedside of her very sick little girl. 
  
My oldest brother remembers the blizzard of 1950 when the lane to our house had over four feet of snow to be shoveled out. Carol had been home for awhile when the blizzard hit. Carol suddenly became much worse;having to call an ambulance to come to the house;there was an immediate need to clear the lane. It took several people to shovel the snow. Mother with a shovel in hand joined the others in clearing the road. The road to Union Furnace was cleared but the road going to Logan in the other direction was closed. The snow drifts in that direction had reached as high as seventeen feet, needing a bulldozer to open up the road. 

Death Comes to Nickle Plate Farm
During the next six months Carol's condition continued to worsen. Many, many times mother would get on the bus in Logan and ride to Columbus to be with her very sick child. It was May 12th, 1951 when eight-year-old Carol took her last breath. Mother said that white doves came and lingered at the window when Carol died and there were white doves at the funeral home as well. I can't imagine the overwhelming sorrow and grief that my mother felt at that moment. I do know that mother blamed herself for not being able to do more and she carried this burden of guilt with her for years.

Mother made arrangements with the funeral home to transport the casket to the Nickle Plate Farm House. Friends,neighbors,and family came to pay their respects. After several days the casket was transported to the United Brethren Church in Union Furnace for the funeral. Mother placed all of Carol's dolls and toys in the casket with her. Many people attended the funeral as well as students and teachers from the school. Carol's body was laid to rest at the New Straitsville Cemetery, New Straitsville, Ohio, beside her grandparents.

Saying Goodbye
Saying goodbye is always hard but when you're only a child it's even worse. My sister claims she has no memory of Carol even though there are pictures of them together. My younger brother was very young at the time and has a very limited memory of her. I gained so much more information about Carol in a twenty-minute span from my older brother, who was about ten-years-old at the time of her death. I was born later, so I never knew Carol.

Mother continued to speak of Carol throughout the years. She worried that Carol would be forgotten and flowers would not be placed on her grave every year. Since my mother's passing, every year either my siblings or I place flowers on the grave of the sister I never knew. 
             

  

Apple Pickin' Time

Going off to the orchard was like a family outing back when we lived in simpler times. It was a seventy-acre peach and apple orchard in southeastern Ohio, near the little village of Ilesboro, Ohio. I thought it was a great adventure but then any outing was an adventure back then. We didn't often leave the farm. My uncle did the driving since my grandmother didn't drive. We went to the orchard riding in a red 1948 Dodge truck. It seemed like it took a very long time to get there because of all the hills and curves on State Route 93 South. People didn't make a habit of driving fast back then. My grandmother thought that 30 miles per hour was too fast. She would frequently order my uncle to slow down when approaching the curves. 

I remember apples packed in bushel baskets but my brother remembers a bushel of apples being packed in large sacks. I guess that might depend on what orchard you went to as to using baskets or sacks. A bushel of apples weighs about 48 pounds so I reasoned that a sack of apples would be like carrying a sack of potatoes. I asked my brother how much a bushel of apples cost in the 1950's and he thought it was about $3.00. There was a variety of apples back then...Winesap, Jonathan, and Red Delicious were the most common. There are so many varieties of apples that you would need to become an apple connoisseur to know which is the best.

Apples are ready to pick in September and all apples must be hand picked to prevent bruising. I think my younger brother came along with us that day. He was the reason my grandmother said, "Don't shake the tree branches!" The brother who liked to tease and ask a million questions. The one who was always inquisitive and testing out everything. I didn't know back then that apples had to be gently twisted off the branches.

Some orchards have pre-picked apples or pick-your-own apples. My older brother tells me that this particular orchard had pre-picked apples but I remember standing in the orchard under the apples trees looking up at red apples dangling from the branches. My uncle drove the truck into the orchard and placed a few bushel baskets of apples into the back of the truck. Maybe I imagined that, however, that picture of the apple orchard is stuck in my brain.

Apples can be prepared many ways...baked, fried, dried, snacks, apple butter, applesauce, apple jelly, pies, apple cider, apple juice, cobbler, and vinegar. Did I forget anything? Oh, yes...caramel apples. My grandmother made applesauce, apple jelly, apple butter, apple pies, and canned many quarts of apples for the winter.

My grandmother had her work cut out for her when she got home. I can still see her sitting in the kitchen peeling a whole apple in one long, curled strip. I thought that was amazing. I still can't peel an apple in one long strip. She and my mother sat paring apples and cutting them into slices for canning. How my heart aches for the comforting aroma and taste of apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg  coming from one of her homemade hot bubbling pies. I find comfort and peace when I look back on those days. 

Our neighbor had an  apple orchard. My oldest brother said he picked apples for our neighbor. Mr. Funk had a day job so he hired my brother to do chores on the farm while he was at work. Picking apples and taking them to one of the orchards that had a cider mill  was one of my brother's jobs. He drove the neighbor's truck to the orchard and waited there until the whole process of squeezing juice from the apples was done. The apple cider was put in glass gallon jugs.  The end product was about 30 or 40 gallons of soft apple cider. It takes about 40 apples to make 1 gallon of cider. Mr. Funk would then sell the apple cider at his farm. I'm sure it was non-alcoholic cider.

Some folks spike the apple cider with bourbon or rum during the holidays which then becomes hard apple cider.  I would never do that. Cheers! 



     



  

Going Hunting

Back in the day when I was growing up going hunting was a favorite pastime for the men in my family.  Rifles and shotguns have been in my family for generations, so I was accustom to the men going hunting. When my uncles,cousins and brothers gathered at the farm it wasn't a big deal.  However, I do recall my grandmother giving the men strong warning about being careless with those guns before they set out. Now remember, some of these guys had been in World War II and the Korean War. I guess a mother never quits worrying about her kids. 

It was a different world then.  My brothers had pocket knives, hunting knives, rifles, shotguns, and BB guns. I'm sure someone taught them about safety, how to handle and clean their guns.  

The guys set out with their hunting license displayed on the middle of the back of their coats, rifles in hand, plenty of ammunition, hunting knives, and the trusted rabbit dog with them. Sometimes some of the others brought their dogs along. So, it was off to the grassy, brushy areas, fence rows, fields and thickets. It wasn't long until the beagle picked up a scent and we could hear him off in the distance trailing a rabbit.

 Rabbit hunting is an adventure in the woods, although I never thought of it that way. It wasn't until I started writing this article that I even wondered about how fast a rabbit can run. I've found several different answers to that question.  Twenty-five miles per hour seems pretty fast to me but then I guess they do have to out run those dogs.

My brother reported to me that he still has his 12 gauge, Mossberg shotgun as well as his Stevens .22 single shot rifle. He said he bought his .22 rifle from our local Firestone Store where he was able to make payments on it.

All my questions finally jogged his brain, so I was quite surprised when he proceeded to tell me a funny story. It seems that one of his teenage friends, named Paul, invited him to go coon hunting. His friend picked him up in a 1949 black Ford coupe.  They ended up driving down an old road that ran alongside the railroad tracks where open fields were. Sometimes the farmers planted corn in these fields. For some reason my brother's friend decided to turn the car around but he didn't want to drive on down the road where there was plenty of space to turn around. He backed the car over the railroad tracks where it got stuck, consequently there they sat not knowing what to do or how to budge the car off the tracks. I could picture them trying to push it over the tracks before they decided to go get help. Desperate to get the car moved off the tracks they ran to get help but when they arrived back to the car a train was fast approaching. My brother said they just got back in time to see the train hit the car, knocking it off the tracks, and totally destroying it. 

Then, there are always those stories of the dogs not coming back because they were off on the trail, running for miles, and getting lost in the big woods. All the stories I've been told had happy endings where the dogs came home or someone found them.

I never went hunting but I did target practice at the neighbor's place. I never did tell my mother or my grandmother about that. The words of my grandmother, "You better act like a lady."  

The Raspberry Patch

We scurried off to the raspberry patch with pails in hand and a spring in our step. It was that time of year when those prickly plants with the slightly fuzzy leaves burst forth with the most delicious small, plump, red, juicy, berries. It wasn't just a patch of berries. It was a field of berries. Row after row of neatly planted red berry bushes or vines. Some people call them berry vines because the plants are usually supported by  trellises making them look like vines. My grandma planted those berries. I don't know who helped her plant all those berry bushes or how long it took to produce that delicious fruit. I do know my grandma put a lot of  hard work into maintaining that raspberry crop. I also know that when you're a child picking berries and filling up that small tin pail as well as eating almost as many as you put in the pail, is one of the best childhood experiences ever.

So off we went to pick berries, my big sister,  my brother, and myself with grandma leading the way. She always wore a dress, a homemade bib apron tied in the back  in a big bow, and wide heeled black shoes, scuffed, and worn over on the sides. Her light golden-yellow hair was pulled back in a bun with combs at the sides to hold it tightly in place.  She packed a hoe over her shoulder and extra containers for the berries. With clever looking blue eyes shining through her glasses she gave us plenty of warning to be on the lookout  for snakes which might be lurking in the berry patch. She often made humorous, witty remarks or made up little rhyming verses so I wasn't sure if this snake warning was real or not, nevertheless I kept a close eye out for anything slithering on the ground.

Once we got to the field we went about filling our pails with the ripe, red, berries as well as eating about as many as we picked. The sweat bees could be most pesky on a hot summer day, stinging me on the legs when I tried to swat them away. My brother was alone picking berries clear down at the end of the row when all of a sudden he started yelling. "It's a snake in the weeds! I think it went up my pant leg!" We watched from a far as he wildly shook his legs and danced up and down like a lunatic.

Calmly my grandma went to his rescue with the hoe in her hand. She raked the hoe through the weeds and checked out the situation with no sign of a snake being in sight. My brother often kept us entertained if not with his boyish antics then with his constant questions and teasing. My grandma often said he should become a lawyer because he was always asking questions or committing impromptu, mischievous, and laughable pranks.

And so we filled our containers with red, ripe, berries and went back to the house to get cooled off with drinks of iced tea or Kool aid.

Looking For Sputnik, Watching Westerns , and Family Time

We stood under the star-filled night sky looking for Sputnik, the Russian earth-orbiting satellite. My mother said it would be circling the earth and to look for bright red blinking lights. I didn't know that we needed binoculars nor did I know that only amateur radio operators could pick up the radio signals. It was the fall of the year in 1957 and there I stood beside my mother looking up at the stars believing that I could see the bright red blinking lights on a Russian satellite.  In actuality, it was the lights on an airplane passing over. So there I was a young child believing I saw the Russian spacecraft with a dog on board. My mother always was one to gaze into the starry night sky. She was filled with celestial wonderment, so much so that many years later she bought herself a telescope.

I complained that I was too cold to stand outside any longer. My mother grew weary of my whining, therefore, we hurried back to the house. We walked around to the back of the farmhouse to enter through the kitchen. We rarely used the front door. The screen door slammed shut upon our entering. The kitchen was empty now that supper was over. The dishes had been washed and put away.

The rest of the family sat in the living room watching the famous Marshal keep law and order in Dodge City in the television series that was on Saturday nights. My grandma was sitting in her bedroom in her platform rocking chair.  The floral pattern bedroom door curtains were drawn to one side so she could view the show. (It was common to use archway drapes or curtains in doorways to separate a room, keep out drafts or to keep heat confined to a room). My grandpa, Pop, was too ill to participate in watching the show. He had already retired for the evening. My sister, brother, uncle, mother, and I sat in the living room watching the Marshal chase the bad guys out of Dodge. My oldest brother had gone off to college but sometimes came home on the weekends to be with the family.
I had an extended family somewhat like the "Waltons" television series that aired in the 1970's.

Cowboy shows were popular when I was growing up and my grandma never missed her favorite shows which of course became some of my favorite shows as well.  I can still hear those whips crack as the caravan of covered wagons headed out west not to mention being pleasantly entertained by another cowboy show with a handsome, suave, riverboat gambler/conman. There were plenty of cowboy shows.

Evenings were a time to rest and be with family because the next day we would start all over again from sunrise to sunset...that's life on a farm.

Back To "Nickle Plate Farm" or "My Garden of Eden"

Nickle Plate Farm

The large pig pen was beyond the barnyard, just up the old road a ways.  Because of the wafting smells the pig pen location was pretty far from the house, however, that's not to say that on a hot summer day when a sudden gust of air blew in just the right direction, you could get a strong whiff that reached clear to the house.  My grandma would cut tall coarse weeds which she called pigweeds and filled the wheelbarrow full.  Full --- meaning the tall weeds hung over the sides of the wheelbarrow. She pushed the wheelbarrow to the pig pen and dumped the weeds inside.  Later on, in the year when the pig nuts,(a species of hickory nuts), would fall to the ground she would gather the nuts in buckets to feed to the pigs. You could say we did organic farming. 

I followed my grandma everywhere. I followed her to the pig pen where I peeked through the fence to watch the large black and white spotted hogs eat as my grandma poured the wet sloppy mixture from buckets into the long narrow wooden trough.  The hogs had a keen sense of smell and so it wasn't long before a few more hogs came on the run to join in the evening meal.  They snorted, squealed, rooted, and slopped around in the wet mixture as well as bumped and pushed each other out of the way.  Isn't that just like a bunch of pigs?

Now a pig has a large snout which is made for specifically rooting. Pigs love to root in the dirt, in the mud, around old trees, tree roots, as well as under fences, which accounts for an occasional pig on the loose. The wooden boards along the bottom of the woven wire fence made the hog pen look more like a fort but then it takes a fortress to keep the large two-hundred pound, mud-caked pigs confined. I never had to chase a pig. I missed out on that opportunity. My brother says he had the pleasure of chasing pigs back into the pen. He claims it wasn't too difficult. I raised my eyebrows at that as we talked on the phone, reminiscing about Nickle Plate Farm and those happy pigs.

I know it's needless to say but I'll say it anyway, we had plenty of bacon on our table. 

Cock - A- Doodle -Do

Cock -A- Doodle-Do


Hello and welcome back to Nickle Plate Farm Memories.

The last time we visited I shared a few memories about my grandma as she did the morning farm chores. Today, I will share more barnyard memories.

I waited at the henhouse door as my grandma chased the hens off their nest. She quickly gathered the eggs and carefully placed them in a basket. The process seemed challenging as I fearfully watched for the Rhode Island Red rooster to come running around the corner at any moment.

I wasn't the only one in fear of the red rooster. The old red rooster put the fear in many family members and visitors  who came to the farm, many of whom barely got their car door open, their feet out of the car and on the ground, when the old red rooster would come on the run. I never knew a rooster could run so fast! How can a tiny bird brain be so scary? Terrorizing is a better word to describe those ruffled red feathers and black beady eyes coming after you!

One Sunday afternoon he raced across the yard, prepared to flog and spur his enemy. It may have been funny had it been a cartoon, however, this was the real thing.  My uncle grabbed a broom and swiftly hit the old red rooster in the head, knocking him to the ground as the rest of the family stood there in shock of the unexpected as well as very timely death of the Rhode Island Red rooster.

I'm sure we had chicken and noodles for supper the next day.  My grandma made the best homemade noodles.

Welcome!

Hi, and welcome to my author blog! I'm thrilled you stopped by my little corner of the world! I grew up in the 1950's and was raised on a farm in southeastern Ohio, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. The Hocking Hills area is famous for hiking, horseback riding, camping, arts, crafts, and quaint, relaxing, picturesque country views. It's natural beauty never ceases to amaze the thousands of visitors who come here every year.  It seems to be the perfect place for relaxing, reading, and writing.

My interest in writing goes back to some intriguing stories my grandmother told me about her father, who fought in the Civil War.  Other stories of interest and curiosity were the stories she told of her own childhood, where she grew up in Dupont, Ohio.  I never tired of listening to her stories of which inspired my interest in our family history and historical events. See my book information at the bottom of this page.

A little about my own childhood

I have many fond memories of growing up on the farm where I followed my grandmother around as she did the chores.  I would follow her across the shaky old wooden footbridge that crossed the small creek leading to the barnyard. Together we followed the well worn path to the chicken house. She carried a bucket of chicken scratch feed while I carried an empty basket to carry eggs in. The warm morning sun shined on the old Plymouth Rock hen as she took a dust bath, scratching in the dirt, flapping her wings, and ruffling her feathers. The Rhode Island Reds were the first to come running when the scratch feed was thrown out on the ground. They were a friendly and happy bunch of brown egg-laying, free-range chickens. I can still hear those happy social clucking hens as they scratched and pecked in the dirt to find every last speck of grain. I should give a word of warning about those Rhode Island Red roosters.  They can become very aggressive and sneaky, but that's another story to tell.

Come visit me again and I'll tell you more about growing up on the farm. 

I'll see you soon!

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