:Family Matters

The aunts and uncles who lived on the Burris ranch located outside Casa Grande, Arizona loved to play games. Chinese checkers was a big favorite and one which we were allowed to play. Barbara seems to think it was Grandma Waddington who taught us how to play while I seem to remember it being Uncle Lee. Truth to tell they all probably did to some extent depending on who had the time to sit with us and show us the basic points of playing the game. As for our learning the finer points—we never got there as they had been playing for years and had their game honed to cutthroat perfection long before we came along.

I can still see the circular tin container that had the game printed in colors on the top with indentations for the marbles to sit in. On the side were clever little drawers that opened to disclose the small colored marbles that were the game pieces. There were ten of each color, red, black, yellow, green blue and white. Of course we all had our favorite color, feeling that luck would favor us if we were playing with the one we liked best. On occasion we would have all six colors in play on the board at once—if that wasn’t mass confusion, but the cleverest players seemed able to build their paths or use their opponents to get to the other side in spite of the congestion. One of the conditions for playing the game was that all the pieces had to be accounted for and replaced when we were finished. If we forgot, which childlike we sometimes did, we were not allowed to play the game without an adult until we promised faithfully to put everything in its proper place. They usually followed up on us and so the game remained intact for as long as we were on the scene and for many years after that as they had learned early that if you wanted to keep something you had to take care of it and there simple wasn’t the money to replace a game like we do now.

I can remember watching all the adults sitting around the round dining room table playing Canasta or Pinochle of an evening. We were allowed to watch as long as we remembered not to comment about who was holding what cards as we circled the table going from one player to the next. One of the things I liked to watch was this little gizmo that shuffled the cards. Zip, flip, zap and they were mixed to perfection with nary a bent corner or dropped card, something I have always had difficulty with because of my small hands. The Uncles would often play poker for pennies or matchsticks with mother once in a while joining them. There were also dominoes which they would stand on end about a quarter of an in inch apart until all the pieces were used up then one of us would get to touch the first one which caused a chain reaction with all the pieces falling down with a rhythmic clicking sound much to our delight.

I can remember playing with the little black and white Scottie dogs that stood sturdily, each on their own small, flat magnet. They were only about an inch and a quarter x three fourths inch in size but there seemed to be no end to the things you could do with them. Try as long and as hard as I might I could never get them to come close to each other if they were facing the wrong direction and believe me I tried. One little dog could be used to chase the other across the table top or turn it around and bang they were stuck together. A lot of time could be spent playing, and was, with those two little dogs.

Uncle Dewey was the youngest of the uncles. He had his own car and a girlfriend and was the subject of much speculation and good natured teasing about his relationship with her. (On thinking further about this I think I’m mixing him up with my mother’s brother Willie who I have pictures of standing by his car and with his girl friend—at the point I knew him I think Uncle Dewey was a confirmed bachelor.) He, in turn loved to tease mother about her almond shaped eyes with their distinctive slant by calling her a “jap” which used to infuriate her as this was during world war II. He also had several tattoos which he liked to show off. When he flexed various muscles the tattoo would move , try hula girl, which always drew appreciative gasps from his audience. I think we must have made comments where mother could overhear about how neat it would be to have tattoos of our own. Her reaction to this desire was immediate and fierce. We were not to even think of such a thing while living under her roof and when we were old enough we needed to keep a few things in mind. A tattoo was painful to acquire and even more painful to remove. She pointed out that just because we had a heart tattooed with our true love’s name there was no guarantee that our true love would keep that treasured position and if such a thing should happen wouldn’t we feel silly having the wrong name permanently etched onto our bodies and that was only the beginning of things she had to say about the whole idea. She was successful. Neither Barbara nor I nor any of my sisters ever had a tattoo. From this distance, living in a time where tattoos are considered body art by many and just plain sexy by others depending on where they are located, Thanks to her quick action in letting us know what the consequences could be I have absolutely no desire to acquire one although I find, that if not overdone they look like fun on some.

One of the things we always regarded with absolute awe was the carefully patched hole in the screen by the back door to the porch where every one entered the house, or exited depending on which direction you were headed. The patch was made necessary by the need to shoot a maddened steer rampaging around the house. We would often beg mother to tell us this story. She was there when it happened which gave an added fillip of excitement to her account although truth to tell, she spent most of the time hiding in a closet to keep her out of harms way should the animal charge into the house itself. Mother, who was always very independent minded ended up spending most of her time glued to a window where she could see what was going on reluctantly returning to her hiding spot when found by a passing adult.

The story began on a hot day as only days in Arizona can get hot. The Mexican drover was headed to a livestock sale in Casa Grande and stopped to water his animal/s at the Burris ranch. The bull decided that enough was enough and he no longer liked anybody moving on two legs and began to paw the ground, which is never a good sign. Next came the loud snorting and shaking of the heavy head with its large horns as warning of dire things about to happen to anyone within reach. The men quickly recognized the danger they were in and began to move as rapidly as they could for cover. That movement was all the angry bull needed to begin his charge. Round the house they ran with several peeling off down into the root cellar while the others continued on around the house where they were able to make a mad dash onto the porch which stopped the animal temporarily but all knew it wouldn’t be long until he would charge the house. That’s when the gun was brought out and the shot fired that killed the enraged creature. (Let me add this disclaimer; it has been a long time since I heard this story and I might not have all the details correct. If so I am hoping that one of my sisters or Cousin Mary will give this input.)

I can remember being a little envious that mother was so lucky to have had such an adventure, which is how most feel from the safety of their homes and have not had to experience the adrenaline rush that comes from a threat to one’s life that is averted because of quick thinking not to mention fast legs with a little bit of luck thrown in for good measure to change what could have been a tragic event, if you don’t count the bull, into one that had a happy ending.

And so I will end this part of my memories of a long ago time when I use to visit one of my most favorite places in all the world, the Burris ranch. To be continued . . . .

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October 1, 2006

“You don’t drive very far through desert when you leave Casa Grande until it is the Phoenix metropolitan area. There sure is not the wide open spaces that there used to be. Casa Grande has grown out past the Burris road also and almost to the interstate on the east. Its kind of sad because the landmarks that we knew as kids are gone.”

My cousin Mary Burris Meyer sent the above to me in an e-mail today. I have to nod my head in agreement because the old Burris home, where my aunts and uncles played out there lives outside Casa Grande, Arizona, is gone without leaving a trace of the hopes and dreams that were once there. When I was a little girl it was one of my very most favorite places in all the world to visit. We were spoiled and cosseted by the aunts and uncles–that is when they weren’t correcting us which they all seemed to feel they were entitled to do.

There were so many things to look at when we were there, the car that was still up on blocks under a shed in the corral put there during the Great Depression. In the same corral was the concrete water tank for the cattle that had fish swimming in its mossy water.

There was the old broken phonograph player that was almost taller than we were on the front porch complete with a selection of 1/4 inch thick records with songs from the twenties and thirties that we could listen to by placing the record on the turntable then setting the heavy arm with its thick needle onto the record and then make it ‘play’ by turning the record with a finger. Barbara once gave herself a blister from turning so long–why she got herself into such a position I don’t know but she could often be fast talked into doing some ridiculous things by her older sister, or it could be she was just fascinated by the whole process, as we all were. We, and this included our Burris cousins Mary, Margaret and Sylvester who had moved to be closer to family from Nebraska several years before we moved to Iowa, seemed to think it was a position of great glory to be the one who ‘turned’ and would often quarrel over whose turn it was and how long that turn should last.

Next to the phonograph player was a cardboard box whose contents we felt free to explore that held, among other things, the tail from a favorite horse which was long and blonde carefully curled and lovingly placed, originally, in memory of a faithful friend which our small hands so irreverently retrieved from its resting place and made use of in our ‘pretend’ games. Do you know how easy it is to prance when you have a real horse tail held in the proper position?

The porch also had the milk separator, a magical piece of equipment that only the uncles were allowed to turn in slow rhythmic strokes after pouring the still warm milk into the container on top where it was forced over a series of small metal funnels with the end result that large amounts of skim milk would pour from one spigot into the bucket placed on the floor and the cream would flow into its container in much smaller amounts through another spigot. The skim milk was then placed by the door and allowed to clabber in the heat of the day and was fed to the chickens later on. We used to hold our noses and say “yuck” if we happened to get a whiff of the souring milk as we passed in and out of the house through the screen door on the porch.

Uncle Lee smoked a pipe and that was a fascinating process for me to watch from start to finish.
He had a dark wooden pipe stand with spaces just the right size to hold his collection of pipes, which we were absolutely never to touch, under pain of getting our little behinds paddled but good if we did, that sat on a small table by the side of his easy chair in the corner of the dining room. The process of trying to get his pipe lit was always quite time consuming and more often than not unsuccessful. If he did get it lit it would produce a fragrant smoke that he would sometimes blow into smoke rings for our entertainment, but more often than not it would soon go out but he didn’t seem to mind as he would sit there with the pipe in his mouth or hand reading the paper or talking or just sitting. When you are little time moves differently than it does when you grow up and have the cares of the world on your shoulders and you hurry here and there trying to get all the endless tasks completed that are your lot in life. A child has time to watch and observe how the world works or at least they did before the days of TV and “Game Boys”

Along the wall opposite the separator were Aunt Bessie’s curtain stretchers which she would use during Spring cleaning when the lace curtains would come down from the windows to be washed and starched then the edges carefully placed over small nails placed at regular intervals in the middle of the long thin boards. We didn’t play with these mainly because the nails made them prickly and they weren’t sturdy enough to take rough handling not to mention the fact that we were told in no uncertain terms to “leave them alone”. We pretty well knew when we were taking too many liberties with our curiosity and ability to turn everything we saw into a plaything.

I can remember the heavy grindstone, that had a seat and pedals that turned the wheel where knives or hoes or mower blades or any of the myriad things that needed to be kept honed to a fine edge so they could be used efficiently, stood. This again was a forbidden item to play with but we did when there was no one around to see us. I think they were afraid that it might tip on us as we clambered up and down, but it never did.

There was a tool bench/work area against the wall of one of the outbuildings that was always a big draw—again forbidden which we basically respected as Uncle Dewy, in particular, would give us a tongue lashing if he found us there. I can remember a homemade cat carrier that resided on that bench for as long as I could remember that had been used to bring a favorite pet from Nebraska. I loved to look at it and imagine what it must have been like for the cat placed inside as it traveled those weary miles to it’s new home.

There was also a wooden cupboard on the porch directly across from the door that led into the kitchen where Aunt Bessie kept her jars of canned fruit and vegetables so carefully preserved by her hard work. I can remember mother and grandmother making an effort to be there and help with the canning when they could. It was always hot and steamy as the water was heated for the water bath canner required to ‘put up’ fruit or the pressure cooker heating up on the stove when it was time to do vegetables. We children were often put to snapping beans or shelling peas which is a task tedious beyond belief and we were often released to go play before the task was finished. The whole process made a long day for the women who did the work. The filled bottles were carefully lined up on shelves lined with patterned paper where their contents gleamed and glistened through the clear glass when the door was opened and the light hit them just right. It was a very satisfying feeling for a woman to know that there would be food on the table during the winter.

Aunt Bessie fixed the most delicious meals. I always enjoyed eating at her house. On special occasions she would set the table with her her Haviland china which she greatly treasured with its pattern of small pink roses. Mother would show us how we could hold a plate up to the light and see the dark outline of our hand through the bone china—telling us that was how we could tell true quality in china dinnerware.

There was an inside bathroom with a big claw foot tub and a sink along with the flush toilet. This was real luxury in a farm home of the time and greatly appreciated by all. (Mother would tell us about the out house behind her home in Nebraska which was a two ‘holer’—a big one for the adults and a smaller one for the children. She said they would use the pages of the Sears Roebuck catalog for toilet paper and if they didn’t have that they would use corn cobs—at least they didn’t have to worry about plugging the plumbing in those days.) The bathroom could be entered from two doors which was always cause for panic if we didn’t remember to lock both doors and someone started to open the door without realizing the room was ‘occupied’. This occasioned loud screams from my sisters or me although we weren’t above teasing each other by pretending to open the door as long as it wasn’t on an adult. They didn’t appreciate the humor.

to be continued. . . . .

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It’s automatic, you know, reaching for the garage door opener as we get close to home which is what we did on Tuesday last after choir practice. The door responded or at least it tried, rising about a foot where it paused and then refused to go any higher even after we issued several more commands. There was nothing for us to do but leave the car in the driveway and go in by the front door. MGH checked inside the garage to see if he could determine the cause. There are two tightly wound springs that raise and lower the door one of which had been repaired several years ago and now the other was undone. Upon discovering this he said to me,

“It’s a good thing the car was outside the garage”.

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