My Papa and his brothers built a three room house for his bride which is still standing today, almost a century later. How proud and happy they were to move into the house. Anna had saved her three-dollar per week salary diligently. She sent to Famous & Barr in St. Louis for her white wedding gown. They were married in the new church with relatives and friends present. What a disgrace - Anna was marrying an "American". The best that could be said was that " at least he was not a Protestant." "Americans" were cut from a different mold than the stolid hard working Germans. They loved to tell stories, make love, and play music. Mama would advise her girls " If you don't want to be poor, never marry an American." But this was said with a little twinkle in her eye. She had defied tradition and married for love. Her gown would later be cut up for her third daughter's first communion dress. A tear dropped onto to the fabric with each stitch that she ripped out of her dress. This would be only one of the many sacrifices that would have to be made in the ensuing years.

Mama

All my life we "saved for the new house" which never materialized. The money was kept in a carbide can at the top of the stairs. Rooms were added on to the original house in a seemingly haphazard fashion. Sometimes the roof leaked and we had to place buckets to catch the rainwater. At the first sign of rain, we took the covers off the rain barrels. Rainwater was precious for washing clothes and shampooing hair.

Years later, the wood shingled roof was replaced with a tin roof. This was over the objections of Mama. She was certain that this roof would make our house stand out like a sore thumb. Only hard scrabble Ozark people had tin roofs. No self respecting German would have a tin roof. What could one expect from a " Kentuckian" who had been born and raised in a log cabin? But Papa assured her that "it would hold the rain out for another fifty years. The house will look great after I have finished painting the clapboard white and the window frames green"

The children kept coming for the devout Catholic family. Breast-feeding was the only form of birth control permitted by the Church. The town midwife was kept busy delivering little Smiths. Her pay was the promise of a chicken each spring. Each year after the hens were setting Mama would capture the now useless rooster. She enticed it close to her feet with grains of corn. Then she swooped down with a tin wash tub, which she quickly clamped down over the rooster. Next morning she would grab the unsuspecting rooster by his legs, deftly avoiding his vicious spurs, and push him into a gunnysack. The ends were swiftly knotted. My brother was then dispatched to the midwife's house with the sack. He wisely held it at arm's length to avoid contact with the wildly thrashing rooster. The midwife set the rooster free into her chicken pen. He was fattened up with more corn, only to be destined for the stew pot. At other times Mama would send the midwife lard that she had rendered from the pig fat.

On one occasion, the birth of a baby was so difficult that the midwife could not handle it. Father Peters had no expertise in delivering babies. Papa rode pell mell for the eight miles into a neighboring town to ask the doctor to come. He rode bareback as fast as Pony could carry him through the trail in the forest. Out of the corner of his eye, Papa saw a crouching panther in a tree waiting to pounce. He gave the horse a kick in the ribs, shouting "Go, Pony". The panther sprang to the horse's rump leaving great claw marks but failed to make purchase. Once again Pony had responded admirably. The doctor hurried to Glennonville in his buggy and delivered the baby safely.

As time wore on the timber was played out and my Papa found it necessary to travel to the hated Arkansas to cut trees. Arkansas, that wilderness across the St. Francis River, that was a haven for thieves, outlaws, snake handlers, loose women, and primitive Baptists. Anna and her young children were left alone in the small cottage for weeks. But there was little time for loneliness. There was an endless amount of work to be done. Her days were filled with gardening, cooking, gathering eggs, canning, making lye soap, milking the cows, slopping the pigs, and feeding her riding horse. She kissed little hurts and wounds and supervised homework

The iron-laden water had to be boiled for drinking. When the rainwater gave out, the water had to be broken with charcoal for clothes washing. Mama would heat the wash water in the black soap kettle and transfer it to the galvanized wash tubs. She grated the lye soap onto the wash board and scrubbed the clothes. All these clothes had to be ironed after drying on the clothesline. The irons were heated on the kitchen stove. Mama sprinkled the clothes, rolling them up into a tight roll. She tested the heat of the iron with spit. If the spit sizzled, the ironing was begun. A second iron was waiting on the stove to replace the first cooling iron.

The wood had to be chopped and the fires kept burning in the kitchen stove summer and winter. Matches were a scarce commodity and sometimes not available at all. If the fires went out, the oldest child would be sent to Aunt Laura's with a little metal bucket for live coals to restart the fire. Truly, "the home fires had to be kept burning brightly".

Picking goose feathers for pillows and feather beds was a chore shared by Mama and her sister. Aunt Mary would come each fall for this happy occasion. They herded the geese into an enclosure, and then one by one they snatched up the geese. They put the goose head between their knees. Their full ankle length skirts and aprons protected their legs from the beaks of the geese. They picked the soft down from under the goose's wings and underbodies. The feathers went into a container nearby. Then the goose was turned loose. It gave a mighty shake ruffling it's remaining feathers and went squawking off to the barnyard. The feathers were sewn into blue "feather ticking" for pillows and beds. Mama and her sister picked goose feathers all day, laughing and talking in German. We children could not understand them. What secrets they must have shared!

German was becoming a lost language in the colony. Father Peters had cautioned his parishioners to speak German only in the confessional during World War I. All German speaking people were suspected of sympathizing with the Fatherland. Now the war against Germany was just a memory. The sisters felt safe speaking their native language in our barnyard.

At long last bedtime would arrive. Anna would sink to her knees to pray. Mama was not to be disturbed when she was praying her rosary. Drinks of water and refereeing fights would have to wait. While praying, her deep sighs would quiet.

She prayed for the poor souls in purgatory. She pleaded for God's forgiveness for the day's sins of impatience and uncharitable thoughts. She begged God to keep Papa safe in his dangerous wood cutting work and to keep the children well. "Please God, don't let me have to send for Father Peters to treat a sick child and please, no more typhoid. Let the quinine hold out for another bout of malarial chills and fever".

Front row: Dorothy, Mama, Margaret, Beatrice, Sylvester (with hat), Hyacinth. Back row: Frederrick, Mildred, Francis. Sitting: Arnold.

Just the week before, she had taken two of her children to Father for treatment. They had made drinking straws out of jimson weed stalks. Their faces were fiery red and their breath came in shallow gasps. It had been torturous waiting for Father Peters to finish consulting his leather covered medical volumes for advice. Thankfully they were now sleeping peacefully and tucked under the quilts in the feather beds. Anna's children had lived through ten-day measles, three-day measles, whooping cough, strep throat and chicken pox. They had escaped infantile polio and smallpox. Her neighbor's children had not been so lucky. They walked with shortened limbs from polio.

Saturday night would find her bathing the children in the tin wash tub. She scrubbed scalps with a vengeance. My hair was twisted into pipe curls. "Pride must suffer", my mother said as she yanked and twisted the locks of hair. The family must be shining before attending mass the next morning. And certainly they would have to "stand up straight" in church. A poke of a finger between the shoulder blades guaranteed good posture. There was to be no slouching for the numerous little Smith children.

About once a year, a drummer would come to our yard. His wagon was loaded with precious supplies for the housewife. He had needles and thread. He had pearl buttons, glass buttons and lace. He would waft a bottle of toilet water under Mama's nose. Sometimes, Mama would buy needles and thread. Most of the time she resisted his wares. One spring day Mama hid us all in the closet when the drummer was spotted in the distance. We all had to keep very quiet. What a wonderful game to be playing in the closet with our Mama. Perhaps she owed some money that she was unable to pay. Or perhaps she was afraid that she could not say, "I don't need anything, this time"