Nothing Gold Can Stay: A Reminiscence

By Gloria J. Reed

Nothing Gold Can Stay is a richly described reminiscence of childhood on an extended family farm in the late 1940s and in the 1950s. It is written in a beautifully lyrical style and told with disarming honesty. A unique history of one unforgettable place in time, it details a distinct way of life in an America that no longer exists. Thanks to author Gloria June Reeds clarity of memory to the smallest of details, Nothing Gold Can Stay will gift you with accounts of:

the fortitude and hardships of immigration as both sets of Reeds grandparents leave the Volga Valley in Russia and emigrate to America;
family strength and courage during World War II;
surviving the Great Blizzard of 1949;
the freedom to be a child and explore the wonder and fascination of the natural world;
the adventures and pranks of farm children in the long, golden summer days;
memories of a unique country school;
the significance of both past and place in forging a life.

The stories within Nothing Gold Can Stay are of Americas golden age, when family and faith were strong, Judeo-Christian values and patriotism flourished, and America was both a manufacturing capital and a beacon of freedom for the world. It was a refreshingly innocent time. But nothing ever stays the same, and eventually the farm and its way of life are destroyed by affluence, greed, demographics, changing values, and the resultant assault of swift changes in the world.

This history of a bygone era and the people in it will engage and delight you. The richness of life on this farm will endure in your memory. Youll finish the book with the satisfaction of having read something of value that needed to be told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449721008

Gloria J. Reed

Gloria June Reed was an educator for thirty-two years, specializing in literacy. She has written articles for local publication. Her passion is reading and writing in a wide variety of genres. She lives in Aurora, Colorado, with her husband, Allan; they have three grown sons. This is her first book.

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Copyright © 2011 Gloria J. Reed.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2098-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2100-8 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2099-5 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011933418

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A Division of Thomas Nelson

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 8/15/2011

For my family

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

—Robert Frost

Contents

Preface

Introduction:

1    Born to the Greatest Generation

2    The Farm: Home ~ 1948

3    Learning

4    A Banquet for the Senses

5    The Great Blizzard

6    Creatures Great and Small

7    Mosquitoes and Other Hazards

8    My Grandparents’ House

9    Immigration

10    Mother

11    Daddy

12    Bird’s Eye View

13    The Country Schoolhouse: Grades 1-3

14    Grandma Leah

15    Christmas

16    Fourth of July

17    Safety

18    Leadville

19    Love of Learning: Grades 4-5

20    Entertainment

21    Visitors

22    Greeley, Colorado

23    Impetigo and Baseball: Grades 6-8

24    The End of Innocence, The End of the Farm

References

Preface

This is a book of my reminiscences from age two to fourteen. I’m blessed to be able to recall experiences from so long ago! The first three chapters and the last two are chronological. Most of the remaining material is arranged thematically. Therefore, chapter twenty, for example, may contain incidents that occurred anytime from age four to fourteen.

Introduction:

There is a richness added to our lives from memories,

including the ones we have forgotten.

~Unknown

Some things should never be forgotten. This being true, I set out to record the untroubled and innocent memories of my childhood, a lifetime ago. As I study the national and global events since then and all that is taking place today, it was a world ago as well—so many changes. Those idyllic days are far removed from the culture as it is now. There may be those who say we are better off today in the twenty-first century. But they don’t know, they weren’t there, on that farm, safe from the world’s woes and surrounded by all we held dear. We were part of a country that, even with faults to be corrected, was the best nation and a healthy place to be. But the days of the small family farms, close extended families, and innocent childhoods are disappearing or gone; the precious world I knew then is no more. So I have to record it.

•••

CHAPTER ONE

Born to the Greatest Generation

1943 was a good year to be born in America. My infant self did not know there was a terrible war pouring its destructive dragon breath throughout the world. I did know I had a mother who held me close in fierce love, determined to protect her first child despite all wars and battles. Shortly after I was born, my dad and two of his brothers went off to war. Mother and I stayed with her parents for about a year. The time was long and anxious for her, eased mainly by taking care of me and spending time with her brother and his family. She had a special surprise when my dad wrote that he would be home for a twenty-day leave, having completed his training for the Merchant Marines on Catalina Island. After he left she missed him so much that she began to save for a bus trip from Colorado that would correspond with a time he was in port and had a bit of leave. Then she left me in the care of Daddy’s parents and went to the home of my Uncle Hank and Aunt Avis in Hollywood, close to Dad’s port in San Pedro. Uncle Hank didn’t pass the military’s health test due to a heart condition. While waiting for the ship to come in, Mother and Aunt Avis worked in a candy factory. She told me years later that it was like Lucy and Ethel’s dilemma—the conveyor belt went much too fast. Instead of stuffing their mouths with chocolates, however, they just giggled helplessly.

Mother found herself in the undesirable position of either missing Daddy or me or both of us. After his short leave was over, she returned to Colorado and immediately bundled me up for the bus journey back to Hollywood. She was ill at ease during the bus drive there. When the passengers’ names were called out she responded to our obviously German surname and received what she perceived to be hostile glares from some of the other travelers. By their very nature wars create distrust where in ordinary circumstances none would exist. She held me closer to her. Mother told them that her husband was serving for the United States in the Pacific. They nodded, their faces cleared, and they turned away. Even so, she was grateful and relieved when we reached our destination.

My parents had only been married eleven months before I appeared on the scene and were still in the sunny realm of first love. My earliest memories are of our sojourn there, with perpetually jolly relatives and my smiling mother. Dad’s stops were short and rare; I don’t remember any of them, although treasured snapshots record my parents’ joy the couple of times when they were together.

Early memories pressed themselves indelibly into my mind. These are the things that I vividly remember from that time, at two to almost three years of age:

I slept in the living room on two easy chairs pushed together. One night I arbitrarily decided I wanted my head and feet to change places; that night a large hanging potted plant crashed down where my head would normally have been. It was heavy; there were no plastic pots then. I remember so well my aunt and mother repeating, Just think, if she hadn’t switched places, that would have landed on her head! They considered it a mercy from God and mentioned it over and over. I learned and filed away the concept of miracle at an early age.

In another memory, we were going up a winding staircase, my mother and aunt and I, and sat at one of many tables. We had food, and bubbles appeared everywhere as beautifully dressed women walked in a line on a red carpet. Years later I asked Mother about it and she recalled the fashion show, amazed that I had remembered it. An event like that seems incongruous with wartime, but people had to keep some sense of normalcy to life. Chocolates and fashions go on.

We stayed with my aunt and uncle even after the war was over, by their earnest request and perhaps my dad’s need for a respite. Mother was cheerful and gladly took up the tasks of cooking and cleaning that Aunt Avis just didn’t enjoy doing. I was an easy-going toddler, seldom cried, and contentedly entertained myself with whatever was at hand. My dad was high-spirited and full of war stories. I didn’t know until much later that he had often been in serious danger during the war. There were more miracles to file away.

While in southern California we took the opportunity to visit Mt. Palomar, the LaBrea Tar Pits, and the San Diego Zoo. I was awed by the solemnity of the majestic observatory at night and the luminous beauty of the planets. The tar pits left a lasting impression too, the concept of ancient animals buried in the tar. I felt sorry for their fate and wondered if they were still alive and struggling in their sticky, gluey grave.

America having settled down in earnest to peacetime, my parents and I prepared to leave Uncle Hank and Aunt Avis. You’d think we’d have worn out our welcome, but they were sorry to see us go. As we packed our car, an old Ford model that Daddy called Flivvy, I kept running back into the house to look again at the covers of Aunt Avis’ paperback horror stories. They gave me goosebumpy chills that I liked. Mother said the pictures weren’t real, but I kept going back anyway to scare myself with one more look.

After returning to Colorado we lived in a modest house on my Uncle Gus’ farm. Being farmers kept three of my uncles out of the war; they served in another vital and crucial way, growing crops and raising livestock. I have five unrelated memories from this interval. One day, several of Uncle Gus’ pigs escaped from their pens. I laughed and clapped my hands in delight as I kneeled by a window and watched the chase—the men ineffectually running after the pigs, frantically flapping their arms and hats as they shouted. I think they made three circles around our house before they disappeared to a different part of the farm.

On another day my older cousin Joanne, Uncle Gus’ daughter, invited me to make mud pies. Soon we were joined by a little boy belonging to the hired hand. Joanne carefully patted each pie into a perfect round cookie shape and handed one to each of us when, to our alarm, he began to eat his! He didn’t know English but we kept him from further harm.

It was there that Mother wanted to learn to drive. Having since then had my dad for a driving instructor I can understand why she had some problems with this venture. At least I learned on an automatic shift; Mom didn’t have that luxury. One day when she came home from the store, instead of stopping in front of the house she kept on going, no doubt confusing the accelerator and the brake. She smashed into the house, on the kitchen side. There were broken dishes everywhere. Daddy and her brother, my Uncle Ray, helped with clean up and repair. My dad thought it was quite humorous and laughed heartily. Mother didn’t join in at first. Most of her dishes were ruined and she was furious with herself. But Daddy’s good humor was contagious and she eventually laughed too.

I had my tonsils removed during our time there. When a nurse took me away from Mother and closed the door, I cried out, Mommeeee, and recall the anxiety she tried to cover with a smile (adults cannot fool children). An evil doctor with a face eager to torture young children cackled with glee as he slammed an ether mask over my face, chortling, There now, doesn’t this smell good? I managed to get out a Nooo, before I was out and knew nothing until I woke up and my parents fed me ice cream, sincere smiles on their faces this time. That doctor was our family doctor; he delivered me and later my sister Cynthia. As a young man he had treated Mother’s painful leg condition. Of course he was not the sadistic man I saw in my fear, but strangely enough, that is the way I still remember him, on that particular day only.

Finally, and I am especially fond of this one, I was in my little bed tucked into a recess in the wall when I heard my parents in the kitchen singing Christmas carols and laughing together. I crept out and peeked around the corner. Daddy gave me a big smile and called me to his lap, making me feel valued and included. How I wish all children could hear their parents laughing merrily! It provides a tremendous sense of security.

•••

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Mom, Dad, and Gloria, August 1943

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Gloria’s dad in his Merchant Marines uniform

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Photograph Mother sent to Dad while he was at sea

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Mom and Dad in Hollywood when he was on leave

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Mother with Aunt Avis in Hollywood

CHAPTER TWO

The Farm: Home ~ 1948

The family is the nucleus of civilization.

~Will Durant, historian

Two little girls chased each other through an incredibly tiny, empty house, screaming their summery squeals as little girls do. They were my Aunt Shirley, just-turned-eight, and me, almost five. My dad was painting the walls a pale lavender and warned us that we would be painted next if we didn’t pipe down. This remarkable four-room house requires some description. The main, and only floor, was about 500 square feet, perhaps a bit more. There was a basement, which would have been another 500 of course, but a coal furnace took up some space, and a meager coal room grabbed some more. The main floor lost some area too for the basement stairway, the large square register above the furnace, a small dry sink and miniature counter, and the two appliances, a stove and refrigerator.

The kitchen, not much larger than a walk-in closet, led into a little room that contained a table, three chairs, and a cupboard. A year and a half later, after my sister was born and needed the crib, it also contained a narrow day bed for me. My mother attempted to put up a wall planter for a philodendron or a shadow box for knick-knacks, in the distinctively feminine way