Once Upon a Green Meadow: An American Family's Struggles Between the Wars

By Ernestine McMillan Hilton

This poignant memoir shares one woman's memories growing up between the two world wars as a member of the McMillan family, a hardworking bunch who made their living on an eastern Washington farm.

In a series of vignettes, Ernestine McMillan Hilton recalls the joys of small-town holiday celebrations, close-knit neighbors, and the events that shape the lives of the McMillans as they scratch a living from a scabland farm. With vivid detail, Hilton remembers how the sweet taste of strawberry Jell-O mingled with the wonders of Election Day in 1924 when her mother had the opportunity to vote for the first time, and she revisits how the end of the horse-and-buggy era gave rise to the Model T. She also relates the arrival of her baby brothers, the joys of going to school, and the hardships of the Great Depression.

Once Upon a Green Meadow re-creates the charm and hardship of a rural American life that has vanished forever. But more importantly, Hilton's memoir reveals how one family's love sustained them throughout the hard times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 22, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595887330

Ernestine McMillan Hilton

Ernestine McMillan Hilton was born in 1920. Her childhood was spent on a scabland ranch in Spokane County. She graduated from Eastern Washington University and taught in a country school. During her college years, Ernestine worked as a reporter for the Spokane Daily Chronicle. She raised her four children on a cattle ranch less than ten miles from where she grew up. Mrs. Hilton was a member of Washington State School Directors? Association, president of Washington State PTA, and served on the National Committee for the Support of Public Schools. She was recognized for her work on behalf of children and youth in Who?s Who in America, 1964, American Women, 1970 and Women of the World, 1972.

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by Ernestine Hilton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses

or links contained in this book may have changed

since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily

reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility

for them.

ISBN: 978-0-595-44403-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-68949-1 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-88733-0 (ebk

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Father Makes Up His Mind

Pollo

The Train Ride

A Home of Our Own

When Father Read to Me

A Community Christmas

Jewels in the Grass

Harvesting the Camas

A Happy Surprise

Our Neighbors

A Terrible Fright

We Get a Baby Brother

The Tortoise Shell Comb

Election Day

An Amazing Surprise

Going to Town

Father Goes to Work on the Road

Margaret

An Unusual Pet

Mother Always Raised Chickens

Lesson at the Well

Baby Brother Ted Arrives

Father Builds a Dairy Herd

Grandfather Comes for a Visit

Our Home on Baker Road

Everybody Worked at Our House

A Big Sister Comes to Live With Us

Harvesting the Wheat

Games We Played

Summers at Grandmother’s House

The Great Man Himself

The End of the Horse and Buggy Era

School Days

A Near Tragedy

The Sixth Grade Learns a Civics Lesson

We Move Back to the Green Meadow

The Long Walk to School

Father Has a Tragic Accident

An Exciting Adventure

A Double Celebration

The Last Nickel

The Days of the Great Depression

The Final Blow

Father Gets a New Life

Coming Home

These little stories are dedicated to the memory of my mother, Myrtle Mae Marks McMillan

Her indomitable spirit, her strong faith, and unconditional love kept our family going through the times I write about.

Image22522.JPG

Mother at time of marriage, 1916

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to my children, Richard, Nancy and Jerry Hilton, who believed that this story was worth writing. You provided the tools of the trade, stood by me while I mastered the computer and lent an ear as I tried out my memories of those days of long ago. You made this book possible.

These stories would never have become a book without the help of our dear daughter-in-law, Mary Parr, the finest of editors anyone could ever have. Your exquisite taste and expertise, and red pencil, shaped it all into a readable tale. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

To the members of the Newport Writers for Personal Enjoyment, who patiently listened as my stories took shape, a sincere thank-you.

A special thank-you to my forever friend and husband, Earl Hilton, whose love and encouragement have always given me room to grow.

Introduction

These are true stories of my childhood. I am writing them because I have a notion that you might like to know what life was like growing up when the twentieth century was young.

You might wonder, How do I remember those days of my childhood? These memories come to me in many ways. All of us have vivid memories of things that happened to us, or around us, long before we were old enough to understand them. Often the true picture of early happenings comes to us when we hear those incidents retold by others who have been close to us.

My family settled in Washington before it became a state. Over the years, Mother and I participated in several oral histories of those early pioneer days under the auspices of the Eastern Washington Historical Society, the Spokane Genealogy Society, and Eastern Washington University where old stories of early times were dredged up and recorded. During the sixties I was invited to give a series of lectures on the Great Depression at Western State University in Bellingham, Washington, and many old memories resurfaced.

I grew up in a multi-generational family. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins lived nearby. We had family get-togethers as far back as I can remember and we continue that tradition today. We look through old pictures and share tales. I spent a part of every summer of my childhood from eight until I was eighteen in my grandparents’ home, caring for my young twin cousins whose mother was in ill health. My grandfather was a great storyteller and I learned much of our family history from him.

The city of Cheney sits at the top of an area called the Channeled Sca-blands. There is nothing like it anywhere else in the world. This series of deeply cut channels in the erosion-resistant Columbia River basalt and the rock that covers most of the east central and the southeastern part of the state are evidence of the great Missoula Flood and the effects of the mighty ice jam theory.

To the south of town are the fields of rich volcanic soil that produce the abundant wheat crops of the Palouse. There are also pockets of deep meadow soil between the many bluffs and rocky cliffs found in the wetlands of East and West Cheney Townships where abundant crops of native grasses support cattle ranches.

There are also farms scattered throughout the area where the soil only thinly covers the rocky and gravely sections. These places are scarcely suited to farming and are often referred to as scabland ranches. It was to one of these in West Cheney Township that Father brought our family to live in 1922. This is where my stories take place, on the beautiful Green Meadow covered with native grasses, beside the Little Creek that wound around huge towers of basalt rock, tumbling over a gravely bed on its way to the big river and the sea.

Image22528.JPG

House on Green Meadow, 1989

Father Makes Up His Mind

It was in that period of time after the First World War had ended and many changes were taking place that Father decided he and his little family should have a home of their own. Father had barely escaped the life of a soldier. He had been on his way to sign up when the war ended. He was thirty-two years old, the oldest son in a family of ten children. Up to now, he had stayed at home to help his father on the farm while his younger brothers and sisters went out to seek their fortunes. He and Mother had been married for six years but had never had a home of their own. Now that his younger brothers were old enough to help with the farm work he felt that the time had come for him to move on.

It was September after the wheat had been harvested, in the lull before fall seeding began, that Father made up his mind. He was ready to give up wheat farming with his father and try something on his own. He had his eye on just the spot. It would mean leaving his folks and taking up land to the north and east of the Big Bend country in West Cheney Township in southwest Spokane County. He had ridden over every inch of it and had fallen in love with it.

It was a small ranch in west Spokane County, some 240 acres of timber and meadow that stuck out like a sore thumb against the wheat-growing prairie of the Big Bend. There at the eastern edge of the Columbia Plateau the waters of the small streams flow south to the Snake River rather than north to the Columbia. The ranch was a ragged piece of land where little creeks meandered through green meadows cupped between rocky out-croppings and patches of tall timber. It was beautiful but the soil was too thin for good farming.

In earlier times, this area had been a meager hunting ground for the Spokane and Colville Indians. In those years the Indian tribes had trapped beaver and muskrat from the little streams, but that crop had long since been depleted and only small colonies of muskrat remained to build their underground lodges and muddy the waters of the little springs. The Indians still wandered off the reservation to the north to dig the camas bulbs that turned the meadows blue with their blossoms in springtime.

After a short discussion with Grandfather, Father saddled Old Rock to ride into the little town of Benge to talk with a real estate agent. Overhearing their conversation, I set up a passionate plea to go along with Father. I was almost three years old, and Father often took me with him. Finally Father gave in, and I was hoisted up behind his saddle, and off we went. Going with Father was always a special treat for me. I didn’t mind the dust swirling up from the road or the heat of the Indian summer day. I rested my head against Father’s broad back and gave into the rhythm of the horse’s steady gallop.

The little hamlet of Benge in Adams County, Washington has all but disappeared from the map. Even in those days, it was only a small dot on the barren scabland above the Palouse River, a train stop on the OWR & N railroad between Spokane and Portland. There were only a few small houses scattered along its single graveled street, and a general store with an imposing front marking it as Benge Mercantile.

As we pulled up at the hitching rail in front of the store, Father tossed the reins over Old Rock’s head, and reaching behind his saddle he handed me down to the ground. Dismounting, he took my hand and led me scrambling up the steep steps. Several men lounging in chairs on the porch spoke to Father as he took off his hat, shook the dust from its brim, and stepped into the store. I hung onto his hand, cautious in the dusky interior of the strange room.

Good afternoon, Father spoke pleasantly, his hand reaching out to shake the hand of the proprietor coming to greet us, I’ve come to deal with you about that property up in West Cheney Township.

I looked the man up and down. Not as tall as Father, but smiling broadly, his blue eyes twinkled as he bent down and hoisted me up, setting me on the long wooden counter. As he offered my father a chair, he handed me a pink peppermint stick and told me I could pet the yellow cat that was curled up nearby. I carefully lifted the cat onto my lap where it purred contentedly. I watched and listened as the man and father talked.

The dickering went on and on. The day was quite warm. The cat slept, and after awhile I slid off the counter and prowled carefully around the store, sniffing at the strange smells and peering into bins and boxes that held all sorts of unusual things. I found potatoes, and sweet smelling apples, and big pickles in giant jars. There were bins of shiny nails and little bolts and big bolts. There were round barrels taller than me, and by the big black stove, sat a golden jug that smelled of strong tobacco.

I listened to the talking and thought it would never end. Finally I decided enough was enough and walking up to the gentlemen I waved my hand and said, Goodbye, Mr. Man, Father and I are going home.

The man laughed and turned to Father. They shook hands and he said, It’s a deal!

I remember little of the ride home. Riding in front of Father, his warm arms around me, as Old Rock galloped us homeward in the crisp sunset hour of that autumn afternoon I didn’t know we were on the edge of a new way of life. Soon we would leave the big family I loved and go to a new home of our own.

That is how we came to live on the Green Meadow in West Cheney Township. In the fall of 1922, we went in Father’s fancy buggy with the fringe on top behind his prancing bays to live in the first home of our own.

Image22534.JPG

McMillan family in Adams County, 1922 Cousins Martha & Ona Floch, Grandmother & Grandfather McMillan, Father and Uncle Morris. Mother holding baby sister Edith, Ernestine in chair, Uncle Roy in wagon

Pollo

The year before we moved to the new place when I was not yet two, I was stricken with polio. It was called Infantile Paralysis in those years. It was a dreaded disease that left its victims paralyzed. It had become an epidemic that fall and many people became ill with it, especially young children and babies. We were still decades away from the Salk vaccine.

The crisp October day had been bright and cheerful and the family had spent it together out in the garden, bringing into the cellar the last of the vegetables to be stored for the winter. A bumper crop of Father’s prized Netta-Gem potatoes had been dug up, sacked, and put in the potato bin in the little cellar. Golden pumpkins and bright green squash were clipped from their dry vines and stored in the hayloft of the barn. Mother and Grandmother pulled the last of the carrot patch and stored them away. Father had come along to help carry them in. He took out his knife and peeled a nice fat carrot and gave me a piece to munch on.

Busy with the harvesting, Mother didn’t notice my listlessness and rising temperature. When the family began gathering up their things to go into the house to prepare supper, Father took my hand to lead me into the house and discovered that I was running a temperature. He immediately turned me over to Mother, who thought I had probably caught a cold. But soon she began to believe that I was seriously ill. By the next morning, my temperature was still very high and I had stopped crying and lay listlessly in my bed.

Mother was alarmed. When Father came in from work that afternoon she insisted that he go for a doctor. There were only a few doctors in the area in those days. Father saddled his horse and raced for the little town of Winona on the Snake River to fetch Dr. Victor. Soon a second doctor was summoned and a diagnosis of polio was made, striking terror in my parent’s hearts.

I was in a coma for twenty-one days, but I rallied, and when I finally opened my eyes, I had to learn to walk all over again. I was a sturdy child and Father was determined and made every effort to get me to walk. Each night he would soak my paralyzed leg and foot in very warm water. Soon I was up and walking around. However, I carried evidence of the disease by ending up with a lazy left foot.

Father was determined that I would regain complete use of my foot. Throughout the long nights, he would keep a warm poultice rolled up in a diaper on my leg. He would warm the poultice over the chimney of the kerosene lamp that stood on the nightstand beside my bed. The pain in my leg kept me awake while Father snored beside me. When the diaper on the lamp would begin to smoke, I would poke Father awake and he would hold the poultice on my leg until he fell asleep again.

My leg did improve and sometime after I learned to walk properly, I was fitted with a high-top shoe with a small metal brace attached. It kept my foot from turning inward when I walked. Later, the story was told that I resented being carried about. I would say, Put me down! I’ve got ‘feets’. I can walk.

Father never gave up on me. I can remember him constantly urging me to do new things. I would run with the other children and often fall and lay there ready to give up, only to see Father looking out the window shaking his finger at me, waving his hand for me to get up and try again. He never allowed me, or anyone else, to think of myself as handicapped. He always urged me on.

I hated my ugly high-topped shoes. They looked like boys’ shoes. The brace made them feel clumsy. I thought if I could get rid of those shoes, I could run like the wind! I longed for pretty slippers like other little girls wore. As I grew older, I set a goal for myself to be rid of the brace and the high-topped shoes by the time I reached Cheney Junior High.

Father was determined that I recover the full use of my foot. I was his constant companion. He was always urging me to do more, constantly reassuring me that I was capable of doing anything I set my heart on. After a time I too came to believe it. I tried to learn to skate but never mastered it. I loved to dance, but was never very graceful at it, but the music made up for it, and my parents always saw to it that there was music in our house.

Mother loved to dance. In fact she was a great fan of the famous dancer, Isadora Duncan and had given me Isadora for a middle name. Early memories of my mother remind me of how she danced with me, and how I loved whirling around and around with her. When I would fall down in a heap, she would laugh and try to show me how to fall gracefully.

I was urged at a very early age to become a teacher. Father was convinced that I would never marry, and needed to find a way to support myself and be independent.