 |
| |
 |
Oklahoma pioneer family Stubblefield, Dustin Ward
includes tidbits about life on the prairie.
These sections do not need to be read in
conjunction with the pioneer story, but for great
background, make sure to read Parts I, II, III, and IV!
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Edna Stubblefield attended Hagy school, a little one-room schoolhouse in a locust grove down the hill northeast of the
farm. I did some Internet searches for information on Hagy school and found this on a real interesting website on Cloud
Chief at members.aol.com/okscotland/ccresponse.html.
“In 1893 Edmonia Jordan traveled by wagon from Chickasha to seven miles south of Cloud Chief where her husband
managed a store at what was known as Hagy, owned by Captain Pleasant S. Hagy. Mrs. Jordan taught school the greater
part of 37 years. Her first term of school was taught in an old shack with no floor and with slabs of cottonwood with pegs
for supports used as seats.”
Well, 7 miles south of Cloud Chief is about the location of the Oak Creek Farm (more like 8 really.) I wonder if the Hagy
store referred to above later became Hagy school. And I wonder if Edmonia Jordan could have been Edna’s teacher at one
time. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any other references to Hagy, except this short blurb in a Cloud Chief newspaper dated
Dec. 30, 1904. “Perry Evans, who is inclining the twig at the Hagy school, spent Christmas at home.” Whatever that means.
Glenn Ward said the first school wagons were
horse-drawn but none of the brothers ever
drove those, though they rode to school in
them. He was the first to drive a school wagon,
but by then they'd progressed some. They
hooked the old horse-drawn wagons to a Model
T chassis. When you were assigned a school
wagon you took it home with you and were
responsible for it. In the winter they'd have to
drain the water out of the radiator every night,
and fill it every morning before taking it on the
bus route (no anti-freeze back then). He said
the Model T’s were crank-started, and if they
would not start you’d have to jack up a back
wheel, crank it some more, and then it would
usually start.
The Model T’s had two levers on the dash, one
for spark advance and the other for gas. You
could get to top speed, about 30 mph, by
"pulling the ears together," or advancing both
levers until they touched. There were four coils
on the floorboard and sometimes one would
stick and they'd have to stop and "flip the coil"
so the engine would run smooth again.
The next big advance was the Model A school
bus, a real bus with the wagon built on at the
factory. He said they felt like they were riding
in style when those came out.
I asked if he ever broke down on his route and
he said no, but he got it stuck once after a rain
and had to hike to get a farmer to pull them
out. He said no one minded being late for
school, though. He remembers him and Uncle
Jack as school wagon drivers, and said others
probably drove too but he couldn't remember
who they were. He said it was a "big deal"
being a school wagon driver, and part of the job
was keeping the other kids in line. Bet he liked
that.
Joe: From Uncle Stan’s perspective, all of the
brothers got their turn at driving a school bus,
and therefore inherited, in turn, a legacy of high
weekly gasoline consumption. Evidently an
older brother got started with siphoning some
gas for personal weekend recreational use and
the following driver/brothers had to continue
the procedure. They way he told it, had
Superintendent Gore found out that the weekly
consumption had been 20 gallons less than
usually reported and the route hadn’t changed
for several years, the repercussions wouldn’t
have been funny. It was fun while they were
doing it though, I am sure.
Glenn Ward recalls:
“As I grew up all farm power was supplied by horses and mules. Since I
was the oldest boy, my dad had me doing a man’s work at 10 years of
age. Later the two boys next to me (Jack and Tink) joined the power
crew and we had our own teams to harness, hitch, and pull a farm
implement. It took the earning power of all thirteen of us to survive and
obtain the necessities of life.
However, it was not all work. Our dad was not a “churchy” person but
he did not believe we should work on Sunday. Mom was a devout
Methodist and took the brood to church and Sunday school with our
penny donations almost every Sunday.
So we had one whole half day to play. We older boys had a horse to ride
and usually met with the neighbor boys to play cowboys and Indians or in
the summer rode to a swimming hole or used
Oak Creek. A fun, but a bit dangerous game, was corncob fights. Small
fry played stick horse, cob horse, or any other innovation with
homemade toys.
Boys wore overalls and girls wore homemade gingham dresses as
everyday attire. Mom and the girls, using the old Singer foot pedal
sewing machine, made most of our clothes. Dress clothes for the boys
consisted of shirts (made by mom) and knickers (we called them knee
pants). When I was about 14, styles were changing and I got to wear my
first long pants. About the same time I suffered my first love and
thereafter became addicted to girlfriends.
By today’s standards we lived in poverty. However, a majority of families
in our country neighborhood were in the same boat, so we didn’t
recognize another way of life.
Our mom always cultivated a bountiful vegetable garden and canned at
least 500 quarts each year. We had chickens and eggs to eat, milk to
drink, and native greens like poke and lamb’s quarter to gather for our
summer diet. Dad always butchered 8-10 hogs for winter meat. He had
corn ground for meal and wheat ground for flour thus we almost totally
lived from the production of our own land. On rare occasions beef
peddlers came out in wagons and mom would pick some out for us.
When I was a boy there was abundant grass, enough to keep ten or
twelve horses, two to four ponies, a whole pasture of hogs, and ten to
twelve cows. All that changed with the great drought and Dust Bowl,
though. The native grasses died out and never came back, and now
there’s not enough grass to support half that.
If we wanted ice we had to haul 50 lb. blocks from Gotebo. Otherwise
we kept things cool by running well water through a trough in the
smokehouse.
Overalls for boys and gingham dresses for girls cost $1.00, shoes $2-
5.00, gasoline for our first automobile, a 1918 Dodge, was 16-18 cents
per gallon, fountain cokes 5 cents, bread 15 cents, and a penny bought
two banana caramels. Some years were lean and cash almost
unavailable but I don’t remember being hungry other than between
meals.
My three sisters and myself arrived our first day of school (Lake Valley)
in a school wagon drawn by horses or mules, whichever was the team
of the day. By 1920 school transportation modernized, the school wagon
beds were placed on Model T Ford chassis and we rode in style. There
was no heater on those busses, though, and I can remember times
when it got so cold we would all stomp our feet to keep warm.
We had a different school schedule than city kids. We would go to
school in July and August and let out in October and November to pick
cotton. At cotton harvest time every member of the family slaved
daylight to dark to get the crop to market. I always liked to be the one to
take a load of cotton to town. Gotebo had two cotton gins back then.
There would always be six or eight wagons ahead of me and I would
have to wait my turn. I got out of a whole day of picking cotton that way.
One year we got 100 bales.
All eleven of us began our primary education at Lake Valley and
graduated from high school there. Even though dad didn’t have much
education, he insisted we kids did. We always took our lunch from
home packed in a paper sack or molasses bucket. The school had no
running water and the students used boys’ or girls’ outhouses at each
end of the school.
It was a smokehouse in name only. No
meat was ever smoked in there. (Like
Uncle Pug said, the only thing that was ever
smoked in there was tobacco.) In the early
days meat from butchered hogs was
stored there, though. It was packed into
troughs and layered with salt.
By the time we kids came along it was used
as an additional bedroom and for general
storage. We boys used to love to play there
because it was apart from the main house
and away from the supervision of our aunts
and uncles. It was like our own clubhouse
or something.
There was a makeshift closet on the west
wall that had some of our uncle’s military
uniforms hanging in it. Above it was a shelf
jammed with the neatest stuff to young
boys. I remember a sword and a bayonet, a
gas mask, some web belts and garrison
caps and sailor hats and maybe a helmet or
two.
For a while Enda kept her dress dummy in
the smokehouse. It ended up with a few
bayonet holes in it, courtesy of Joe and Jay.
I remember either Nub’s or Punkin’s or
maybe both their names carved onto the
windowsill next to the bed. Of course we
younger boys had to carve our names there
too. We were always looking for an excuse
to use our pocketknives anyway. That
windowsill disappeared with one of the
later renovations.
There was a “shower” in the southeast
corner (a water hose routed into a can with
holes punched in the bottom). One day
when Ken, Joe, and I came back from
making mud slides on Oak Creek, Uncle
Jack took one look at us and herded us
straight to that shower before we could
come back in the house.
Ken: Speaking of corncobs, I will always remember the first time that I was
escorted to the two-holer behind the chicken shed by Aunt Goob. There was
indeed a large pile of corncobs to one side out front, but Goob brought a roll of
the modern stuff along. She gave me “the drill” and waited outside with the
door cracked while I did my business.
It was real scary for a little kid - a big DEEP hole with a sight at the bottom that
only some of us can remember. The scary part was the diameter of that hole
- appearing big enough to let a little kid drop right through - and the thought
that a giant black widow spider would start strolling across my cheeks whilst
I was perched precariously. I do recall a Sears catalog and another (torn)
mail-order farm supply catalog hanging somehow in the old two-holer; but, of
course the Sears one migrated back inside when the “new” house was built.
Dustin: I remember that two-holer. The holes were huge to a kid, but they
were worn smooth so you wouldn’t have to worry about splinters. And I
remember what it looked like down in the “pit.” And I remember wind
whistling past while you were doing your business, and thinking about how
utterly exposed you were to snakes and spiders and whatever else you could
imagine.
My dad built that two-holer onto the end of the chicken house right before the
war. He built it out of scrap lumber and took a lot of ribbing from his brothers
for its rough appearance. They called it his “masterpiece.” (Dad has always
been more concerned with function than appearance.)
Nub: Ken, Dusty. You are both right about the two-holer. The Black Widows
were real, healthy and bold. I never saw a snake or scorpion but I knew they
were down there, giants with fangs gleaming.
And the sounds. . . . It was OK if you were with someone. But if you were
there alone, night or day, there were sounds. They came from everywhere.
Down below of course, but mostly from the chicken house next door.
Scratching and rustling, squawks and clucking. There were sudden
explosions of sounds when the entire building would seem to shake and dust
would fly. Sometimes you might be brave enough to barely open the door a
crack and peek around. Usually you just sat there and didn’t twitch until the
sound stopped and it was safe to fling open the door and run the first two or
three steps then stroll bravely back to safety.
And the smells. . . . . There were the obvious, of course. Nothing good could
live in those gasses, but there were things there, moving. . . . And the fear of
dropping something important down there. Or of just letting something
important dangle. You had to hike your overall straps and shirttails well above
bare skin while you lowered your hind parts into the action zone. But maybe
your pocket knife might slip out and fall. What would you do? And the cold!
Tim: I remember the outhouse faintly. I also seem to remember that I got
constipated whenever I visited the farm for some strange reason. My
recollection of my first exposure to the thing was Dad taking me to it and I
was small enough at the time that I had to perch on the edge. I wasn’t as
scared of what was down there as I was scared of falling in.
at the site of their housefire, and an old sign
advertising Gotebo Bar. Talk about
discovering some history!
The Stubbelfield family's homesteading in Oklahoma Territory was advocated by railroads and expansionists, who saw
riches and opportunity to be had in what used to be designated as the new Indian homelands. Farmers should not be
blamed for the take-over of Indian Territory. The settlers were comprised of people wanting to live the old rural lifestyle
of their ancestors, and with most of America settled and industrialized, Oklahoma proved their last chance to live the
way they wanted. But speculators and bankers forced many into tenancy in order for farmers just to break even - or
less- on the world market. What followed for most Oklahoma farmers was the mass exodus of the 1930s.