MEMORIES ~ stories

We also didn’t know of careers. Our dad was a bookkeeper in a door plant in a small town in the Northwest, but he was king of our home.

My Mother was trying to show restraint in her happiness, but it was easy to see that she had considerable joy in making this move and checking out room by room of her new domain. She had never had much in her life and here she was living large and commenting how she’d never seen so many bathrooms and so much storage space. Each bathroom seemed the size of a bedroom. And the bedrooms had window seats where one could sit and read for hours. The attic was massive and about the only furnishing in that area was a grand roll-top desk and an old trunk which we would later explore. This large attic was later used as a basketball court by my 5 brothers. Can you believe actually being able to play basketball on the 4th floor and not have the other rooms shake with the virbrations to the floors below. That's how sturdy homes were made then.

It seemed we had literally moved from darkness to light, as the prior house was somewhat forbidding and dark but now we had many windows and lots of light. There was a hidden staircase off the kitchen for butlers and maids, but now were just intrigues for us kids. There was also an entry hall that was another grand room and a sunroom, both rooms having fireplaces. What we children didn’t think about was that the real owner of the manor was a wealthy German dairy farmer, who built two large houses and some barns and silos on this knoll overlooking the fertile valley below where Holsteins could be seen grazing. The gravelly dirt road leading up the hill from the main highway diverged at the top, leading to left for us and to the right for the landlord. Our house seemed as grand or grander than the one he occupied, so to us kids, he didn’t seem any better off than we were. Little did we know that he could hold our fate easily in his hands—the kind of fate that later employers and landlords would always wield over us. But these lessons were not yet learned and so there was just living and being happy; If there were worries, it was with our parents. Even these were kept from us.

Why had this rich old country dairy farmer rented so reasonably to this man with such a large family? Fifty dollars even in the 1950s was a cheap—almost unheard of rental fee for a house of this magnitude. We still speculate to this day what lay behind the owner's great generosity to our family--and those speculations could fill a book.

There were 9 of us all total—Mom, Dad, five boys and we two girls. The two oldest boys had been called by the Air Force and were then serving in a land far away by the name Saudi Arabia. To us that only meant exotic gifts arriving in large packages at Christmas. A bracelet with intricate silver work for a little girl seemed so grown up. There would be drawstring leather bags for the older ladies in the family and for the boys, battery-operated tanks that spit fire as they rolled across the floor. Metal toy police cars would zoom around the grand entry hall with their battery powered sirens and lights a blazing in the room darkened just for that purpose. Velvet like wall hangings were thoughtfully sent for my parents and they displayed them proudly, especially the one of the deer feeding.

We lived joyfully in that house all the while we were there and many a wonderful memory kicks in when I see these pictures of our home. But this grand house would not remain forever and we have a sad ending, I am afraid. In recent years, we learned that "our home" full of memories and history was razed so that a new housing development could be built. The son of the wealthy landowner must have finally felt farming all that acreage was just too much for him and his family. Prior to the house being razed, an auction was held to sell off the father's possession after he passed. I believe he was nearly 100 years of age. I cried the day I learned the house was torn to the ground and it had a shocking effect on all us kids; but our memories remain. They are a lot harder to tear to the ground.

EPILOGUE: The reason our family moved from that wonderful house was because my father purchased a 20-acre farm and moved us about 10 miles away to that property at the end of a road. It had an old house on it that was partially log and probably one of the oldest houses around. It was dilapidated and the farm overgrown in brush, but it had a wonderful fruit orchard behind the house. My mother sat down and cried the day of the move. It was hard to envision that she could ever make a home of it; but she did indeed. My mother was made of strong stuff. My dad worked days as a bookeeper and evenings and weekends making a farm of the place. The land was cultivated and some timber removed and we planted strawberry fields. We had deer, cougars and black bears roaming the uncultivated acres and the deer were a problem for the strawberry fields. We had the best NORTHWEST Strawberries in the entire county and people drove for miles around to get them. Then in 1961, my father sold the place to move the family to Southern California. He sold the farm to the granddaughter of the original owner, as she had an adjacement property and wanted to enlarge it and have the family home back. I have heard that the property became overgrown again and went back to brush and deer roam the property with complete freedom. And that is the story of one house. Houses have their own stories and this is one of them. I haven't shown a picture of the farmhouse we moved to but maybe one day that will be the subject of another story because that is the place we now all call HOME, even though it was not a lovely home like this grand one pictured. Still my love for this mansion (as we called it) will never cease. Each home we have carries a story for our hearts. I have lived in California ever since that 1961 move.