Gram's Writings

Some of you know that I get my love of writing from Gram.  I have had the pleasure of reading some of her life-story writings.  Please check in from time to time to read more about Gram, in her own words.  I have added parentheses to provide definitions for some of the outdated words - I actually had to look some of them up :)  Happy reading, and God bless!

God Was Looking

by Minerva G. Beal 

The summer before my sixth birthday (1917) our family took to the woods.  Dad had to ship out a large consignment of lumber which his woods crew had prepared the previous winter and left to dry.  He wanted the whole family to enjoy a month at the sawmill site while he transported the boards to the freight depot a couple miles away.

We stayed in a typical loggers cabin with over-sized cookstove and woodbox, a table and assorted chairs, a dry sink and four double bunks; adequate summer quarters for the eight of us.  A solitary electric bulb was suspended from the rafters above the table, while a woodshed and outhouse behind the cabin completed the arrangements.  Mother soon had the place looking homey with curtains, tablecloth and bedcoverings.  One corner was curtained off for a dressing room.

Outside there was much to interest us.  The mill had been removed but a veritable mountain of sawdust remained.  We found a brook for wading and for catching lively little minnows which Mother insisted we return shortly to their natural habitat.  There were woodsy paths, birds and small creatures, fireflies, frog choirs and whippoorwills.  There was even an old railroad spur with handcar intact, ready to furnish many hours of enjoyment as we’d pump it up the slight incline and coast back to the platform.  With neither house nor road in sight, we considered this delightful world very much our own.

Chores were done promptly and cheerfully because of adventures awaiting us.  Nine-year-old Isabelle helped Mother with the morning work.  Buddy, the only boy, was seven; he and I carried milk and drinking water from a farmhouse two long pastures away.  Water for laundry and baths, we fetched from the brook.  All three of us were ‘on call’ as other needs arose.

The time sped by.  We expected to move to a neighboring town the first of September, but word came that the house would not be ready until October.  So we stayed on.  Dad was now a mail clerk on the train, leaving late Sunday and returning Friday evening with groceries.  The two older children walked over to the farmhouse five days a week to get a ride on the “school team” (a horse drawn “school bus”).

October came and went with no further word concerning our house.  The first Sunday in November, as Dad left for his mail run, he promised to check the possibility of our moving the following weekend.

The weather had been clear and cool.  By Tuesday, it was raw.  Late in the afternoon, Mother suggested bringing in extra wood.  The sky was gray and we might get snow.  “Before Thanksgiving?” Isabelle asked.

“It could happen”, Mother replied.  It did happen.  Snow began falling in the night and continued most of Wednesday.  Then the wind swirled it against the windows until on Thursday morning, we seemed enclosed in a silent dusky vacuum.  The little ones called for a lamp (there being no electric power) but Mother said we’d better keep the kerosene for emergencies, and take our cheer from the fire’s glow.  She had been up the night before with Buddy, who was feverish and restless.  By that afternoon, Mother looked so weary we had to ask her to rest awhile.

Mother couldn’t get up for supper so Isabelle took over the care of the baby and preparation of meal.  She set the alarm clock in order to put wood in the fire that night, as the cabin was drafty.  I helped with the household chores and amused the little ones.

All went well until Saturday morning when we awakened in a chilly room.  The fire was out.  Isabelle was unable to rise when the alarm went off.  Mother urged us to stay under the covers until she could get the place warmed up.  As she prayed for strength to do what must be done, the three-year-old asked, “Mommy, are you still sick?”

“Yes, but I’ll be fine very soon”, Mother reassured her.

“We prayed – are God looking?  Will he help us?” the little girl persisted.

“Yes,” Mother answered firmly, then made her way over to the stove.  She laid the wood in order and was just lighting a fire when a knock came at the door.  Elderly Mr. Parker from the farmhouse called in – “Are you folks sick?”

“Some are,” Mother said.  “It’s probably the grippe.” (former name for influenza).  He sympathized and said they hadn’t been surprised when no one came over during the bad weather, then added, “You know, we can’t see your place, in cool weather when you have a fire we can see the smoke rise.  This morning there wasn’t any, and Marthy got worried.  She made some hot gruel just in case.  I’ll set that and the water and milk inside then get some wood.  There’s a note from Bill, probably delayed because of the freak storm.  I can’t come in,” he added as he shoved things inside the door, “You know how Marthy frets about me picking up cold germs.”

While he went for wood, Mother read Dad's brief note saying that he couldn't get away, a coworker was ill, and the mail was piling up.  When Mr. Parker returned, he asked if Dad would be arriving shortly.  Mother replied, "Not for another week."  Our good friend promised to come again on Monday.

Mother had to go back to bed.  I served the gruel after we were reminded to be thankful for kind neighbors who had missed our smoke and lent a helping hand.  Having just turned six and being in charge of the toddlers made me feel important, but it wouldn't have bothered me to exchange my 'authority' for some of the older ones' bossing on that long, lonesome Saturday.

Each day someone had been able to tend the fire.  Now my turn came.  Setting the two stovelids farther back on the stove, I shivered with nervousness, recalling that sometimes the crosspiece fell in an must be fished out of the hot coals.  I decided to set that back, too.  The ordeal I’d been dreading turned out successfully, happily removing my fear of being a ‘Stoker’, as Dad called it.

Sunday, Mother and I did the needful things.  On Monday, Buddy was able to help her a bit as the rest of us were all down with what proved to be the grippe.  This second week of Dad’s absence seemed worse than the first, especially when Mother and Buddy suffered relapses on Tuesday.  Fortunately, all were content to lie and rest.  None had their usual hearty appetites.  Isabelle could tend the baby and put wood on the fire occasionally.  Wednesday morning, Mother was up and dressed, able to carry on for the remainder of the week.  These facts, plus the faithfulness of the Parkers really ‘saved the day’ for our family, Mother claimed later.

Mr. Parker had come on Monday with liquids and another large lard pail of hot gruel, enough for two days.  Wednesday, he brought meal to cook in case anyone still needed it. (Having seen Mother on his previous visit, he figure she was well.)  Isabelle had been instructed not to mention the relapses so as not to worry or overtax our friends.  We’d manage until Dad’s return.  As it happened, the Parkers were to be away for a week or so.

Complete bed rest helped immeasurably.  By Friday evening all were feeling much better and eagerly awaiting Dad’s arrival.  Most had fallen asleep by the time Mother heard his familiar signal outside.  As she approached the door he warned, “Hazel, don’t open the door yet and listen carefully.  I’m not feeling well and will go over to the other cabin.  Don’t enter it for any reason or let the children near it.  We can’t risk the family getting sick”.

Mother asked what was wrong.  Dad said, “I hate to bring home bad news but the fellow who worked beside me is very ill – with smallpox.”  Then he asked her to set out a jar of water, and to bring light nourishment to his doorstep each evening.  She could tell he was shaking with the chills, and hurried to hand out a warm blanket with the water.  Praying for help in this new emergency, she was thankful that the small cabin across the clearing had been well-supplied with wood and bedding, as well as some medical and first aid remedies.  Dad, as foreman, had lived there the preceding winter and liked to have things on hand in case of sickness or injuries among his men.

Of course we were disappointed that Dad’s illness prevented our seeing him.  While Mother could face up to the possibility of it being smallpox, she didn’t want to burden us so she explained his isolations by saying that Dad thought it better to be over there and didn’t want anyone coming near to get his germs.  Assuming he had the flu, we were willing to stay away from any further experience with that.

Dad had told Mother not to do anything unless his food remained untouched for three successive days, at which point she might want to send Buddy over to the Parkers’ and have them get help – but he didn’t feel it would be necessary. (He knew there was a great deal of sickness and it was hard to find a doctor.)  During the next week the food stayed out two evenings in a row, and many earnest petitions shot heavenward.  But the dreaded ‘three’ never came.  Mother always called Dad’s name when she went over and after some days she heard a faint ‘thanks’.  Later on, he began sending brief messages to his ‘kidlets’.  When bits of his natural humor crept in, it gave our spirits a big lift.

Once the crisis was past, Mother sent the older children back to school.  The Parkers returned and were very sorry to learn that Dad was on the sicklist.  During their absence the man who tended their cows had placed our milk in the well-house so we coud pick it up when getting water.  Groceries were left there also.

Mother finally got a letter off to Grandmother Smith, lest she become unduly concerned about us.  When the reply came it was obvious that Grandmother, a practical nurse, hadn’t much time to think of mail.  She was working ‘round the clock in a church-turned-hospital, caring for twenty patients the over-crowded hospitals had to turn away.  This was the prelude to the great flu epidemic, which would sweep over vast areas.

I’m not sure how long dad was shut away from us.  To his children, it seemed a sizable part of ‘forever’.
Finally the afternoon came when, following stringent measures to prevent further infection, Mother walked Dad across the clearing to our cabin.  The six of us watched from the doorway, dismayed that Dad looked so thin, yet pleased to find the same old twinkle in his eye.

What a memorable hour we spent around the table that evening!  Not that we remember the meal itself except for the delicious rolls and jam Mrs. Parker sent over for the occasion, but excitement reigned at being together again.  We always plied Dad with questions about his experiences on the mail run, for he was an accomplished raconteur (a person who is skilled in relating stories and anecdotes interestingly). He frankly admitted that when he ran out of factual material, he just ‘pulled yarns out of the air’.

Then Dad had a question for Mother:  Why did his family look so pindling (sickly) after a healthful summer out-of-doors?  Mother told him briefly our ordeal with the flu during his absence, and of the Parkers’ timely aid.  She gave credit to the children (ages 9, 7 and 6) who carried on when her strength gave out, and she could rest and pray.  With tear-filled eyes Dad thanked God for bringing us safely through two real crises which could have turned out quite differently.  Then his habitual smile broke through as he produced the long-awaited key.  That smile spread family-wide.  We could move into our new home!  According to a saying in our household, everything was ‘just all right’ again!

Yes, little Sis, God was looking.