THE ORIGINAL CABIN

 

In examining this photo of the first bean harvest on the Julian (Jack) Dobson homestead (see post of Sept. 20), Mike and son Murray discovered an obscure image of the “original" cabin, the first cabin that Grandpa Jack built here. Look closely, and you’ll see it just over the head of the man farthest left. (See enlargement.)

This one-room cabin was rough and rustic but served as their home base while they cleared the land and began their farming operation.

The "original" cabin, 1912

My aunt, Ethel Dobson Robinson, said that the cabin was built in November and December 1895 and was the first cabin in the Gilbert community. The Gilbert post office closed in 1920, but the general area on Russell Ridge is still known as Gilbert.

I don’t know when the cabin was demolished, but according to Aunt Ethel, her sister Myrtle Dobson (known to me as Aunt Lynn) took the picture in 1912. The family was living in the new cabin by 1900, and the present farmhouse was built in 1917. KW 

THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

Our north field in the foreground; planting on the neighbor's field

 I thought I had my semi-annual dental appointment on the 24^th, but I discovered that I had it all wrong. It’s not until November. So, we loaded the Jeep and headed to the farm.

The seasonal change was obvious as we drove along. It was a beautiful sunny day, but the tilt of the autumn sun often put the highway in shade. Autumn just has a look all its own. I suppose all seasons do, but with autumn, it seems more pronounced. It’s still early yet for the leaves to change color, but I saw a hint of fall color here and there.

While I dream of autumn, we’re still having 80-degree afternoons here at the farm. That sun is hot!

I left Jingles the Elf in town. He’s a stupid project, but I’ll finish him and we can all laugh. I’ve been saving patterns for other stuffed elves and Santas that I want to try, but first things first. Jingles must be finished.

I brought the Halloween quilt with me but left the instructions in town. C’est la vie! It’s always something. And I took one sewing machine back to town with the last trip and brought the other one back to the farmhouse. “Is this the same sewing machine we carried to town,” asks Mike. I was glad to be able to say no, but for all the good it does me, I shouldn’t have bothered. I just have to have some things with me or my life feels wrong!

Over the last couple of days, we have watched as the farmer planted the neighbor’s place. There’s just something comforting about the sound of distant farm machinery on a quiet autumn day. Our fields are stubble and won’t be planted until spring.

Son Murray came for dinner last night and spent several hours stargazing with the aid of an app. He identified the International Space Station, various satellites, etc.

Mike and I picked two gallons of pears from the old tree the other day, and I dried the ripest ones. Very good! (If I remember my grade school education, I think pears and apples should be measured in bushels and pecks, but apparently those measurements are obsolete now.)

I suspect that our garden is about finished. A few strawberry plants have blossoms, but none of the summer squash plants are in bloom. I picked a dozen tomatoes and will pick more before the next trip to town. I also picked many “Sweet 100” cherry tomatoes and might try making jam. I watered well this morning, and then Mike put the hoses away. I also pulled all the honey crisp apples off the tree and tossed most of them. What few I salvaged I managed to scorch in an effort to make applesauce. It happens – more and more. KW 

BEAN HARVEST, 1897

This photo, taken in 1897, is of the first bean harvest on my grandfather Julian Dobson's homestead. I submitted it to the Lewiston Tribune for the "Blast from the Past" section, where it was published on Thursday, Sept. 18.

My aunt, Ethel Dobson Robinson, identified the photo as follows: Ross Pratt, Junius Dobson, Julian Dobson, Frank Dickson, Perry Chandler, Charley Boehm, John Boehm, Clarence Chandler, and Marshall Brooks. 

Aunt Ethel adds: "No machinery was used on this bean crop. The beans were pulled by hand and later threshed on the barn floor with 'flails.'" 

Mike and I think the location is the field north of the house. KW

TACKLING A BUFFALO

On Dec. 10, 2023, as I attempted to digest the information that our son Milo had been murdered, so much went through my mind – shock, grief, anger, hurt, and dread -- dread because I knew this wrongful death would be disruptive to my daily life for a long time. “No!” I screamed into the phone. I felt the muses slipping away, and I knew they would be gone indefinitely. Mike and I now had work to do. Hallie soon took over much of it, but we are involved in the details. And so, we have worked diligently according to our leadings, and it’s not over yet. Life finally feels more normal, and the muses have returned despite the underlying sadness.

Anyway, that work in Milo’s name is not the buffalo. The buffalo is “Jingles the Elf,” a crochet project in process. The other day, as I tried to start yet another crocheted doll sweater, I realized that I should just retrieve Jingles from the shed and finish him. His face is finished, so he looks at me ruefully every time I go to the shed. My memory was that my work had just been interrupted, but I had forgotten that he was indeed a buffalo of the first magnitude.

It was his hair – the next step in his construction. The instructions ask me to crochet a strip of double loops into a chain, and this is just so difficult to do. I hate to say I can’t, but in some cases, it just isn’t practical in terms of time and stress. (And besides – the pattern is just someone’s idea, and who’s to say that my idea isn’t just as good?) With yarn and a needle, I think that I can come up with the same result – perhaps even better. So, I skipped his hair for now and moved on to his tunic.

We have a few friends among the prison inmates now, and one of them crochets stuffed toys. He says his grandmother taught him to crochet, and with time on his hands, he has perfected his craft. He uses worsted weight yarn ordered from Herrschners and a size F bamboo crochet hook. Inmates can ship things out of prison, so he takes orders from other inmates and makes stuffed toys for their children. 

His work is an inspiration to me. Just look how tightly he makes that fabric. I hope to emulate that work. KW

A LITTLE COOLER AND ANOTHER FINISH

After the storm -- morning fog

It’s cooler now – not quite cool enough for winter pajamas but cool enough to have a blanket at the ready for those early morning hours when your knees get cold.

Last week, I finished chair backs and arm covers in a hexagon quilt pattern from a farm-themed fabric. I’m not a perfectionist, and I don’t do perfect work, but I live with a perfectionist in my head. The hexie project was not difficult but took me months because the perfectionist balked at actually sewing. As long as a project remains in my head, it’s perfect. It’s only when I work on it that it becomes imperfect. Anyway, once I got into it, I enjoyed it, and it didn’t need to be perfect anyway.

And now it’s on to the next thing – a Halloween quilt. “Didn’t you make a Halloween quilt already?” asked Mike. Yes, I did, and I loved that fabric so much that I’m making another. Do I need another Halloween quilt? What does it matter? And even though I will work on it, I might not finish it this year. It’s difficult in that I’m feeling my way along, and as always, I have other things to do.

Wednesday (Sept. 10), I made a batch of hawberry jelly. It only amounted to four jars, but I have enough juice for another batch. The haws are sweet but rather bland. They don’t tickle your taste buds. Lemon juice sparks it up some. We checked again the other day for sincere elderberries but didn’t find any. And we didn’t get any serviceberries this year either. The jelly of the year is haw.

Wednesday night, we had a BIG storm at the farm – big wind from the south coupled with lightning and thunder and finally, heavy rain. The cistern is somewhat replenished now, but we hardly need it. In fact, with more rain in the forecast -- and the fact that we're at the end of the season -- I’m less worried about the raised beds and the fruit trees. Even so, I don’t really know what to expect in this changing world. The given is that the days grow short, and the vegetation gets the message that the season draws to a close.

I picked ten tomatoes yesterday, and a load of cherry tomatoes that I scarcely care about. I had no summer squash, but I have had enough for side dishes and zucchini bread. I even have a few boxes in the freezer -- more than I get some years.

Surprisingly, Bess weathered that storm on the porch, but when Mike put her to bed in the shed, she cried and cried. She does a lot of whining and complaining these days. He finally let her stay in the house. KW

The warm sun dispersed the fog

NOTES ON CHILDHOOD DISEASE AND INOCULATION

From the National Library of Medicine: “During the 1950s an annual average of greater than 500,000 cases of measles and nearly 500 deaths due to measles were reported in the United States. Surveys indicated that 95% of the population had been infected with measles by the age of 15 years. The introduction of measles vaccine and its widespread use, which began in 1963, has had a major impact on the occurrence of measles in the United States.”

I think that the collective memory has forgotten how very serious the childhood diseases can be. I think we have also lost our sense of working together for the good of the community.

I grew up before inoculations against the childhood diseases were available. Most of us children experienced those diseases, and it was hoped that you would contract the disease as a child so that you had your immunity before adulthood. Children endure the childhood diseases better than adults.

When I was five years old, I came down with the measles on the same day that my maternal grandmother, Nina Portfors, passed away. My mother was with family at the hospital on that day, so I was left at home in my dad’s care. Perhaps I hadn’t been feeling well because I was sitting on the bed in the front bedroom when Daddy came in and told me that Grandma had died. He also told me that I had to stay in bed because I had the measles. It was news to me. How did he know?

Once Mother was home, she called Dr. Pappenhagen, who subsequently made a house call. (Yes, I can remember when the local doctor made house calls.) “I’ll have to see more spots than this before I’ll call it measles,” he said. The next morning, Mother called Dr. Pappenhagen again. “You wanted to see more spots,” she said. “Well, I have them.” I don’t recall that the good doctor came again. I think he took her word for it. And any instructions for my care would have been very general. Medicine could do very little for us.

After that, I was feverish and delirious. I remember my poor mother coming and going from my bedside to attend to my needs. It had to have been a stressful time for her because the family had many out-of-town visitors for Grandma’s funeral. The household was abuzz with activity, and I was missing out!

Well, measles is just one example, of course, but it was not to be taken lightly. I remember one of my elementary teachers telling us that if we had measles, we should stay in bed in a darkened room and not try to read. Measles can cause blindness.

For my children (c. 1980), inoculation was the order of the day. If you didn’t have your children immunized, if you were even granted an exemption, your peers looked at you with derision. It was un-American and all but illegal not to protect your children and by extension, your community. I figured out that if I followed the immunization schedule for my babies, we would finish before they were old enough to put up much of a fuss. And then there was the booster when they started kindergarten. And as they entered junior high, each kid came home from school and reminded me that they needed a booster. They didn’t balk, and neither did I. (I add here that chicken pox vaccine was not available for my children. They all had the actual disease.)

As an adult, I’ve had Covid shots and boosters as recommended. Once I had a Covid booster and a flu shot at the same time, and that proved to be a bad idea. I had a reaction and passed out at the supper table. I won’t do that again. And four years ago, before I went to help with Baby Silas, I was immunized against whooping cough for his protection. KW 

BEACH SEASON ENDS ABRUPTLY

When we’re in town on a hot day, Mike exercises Bess at the beach in lieu of her evening constitutional. He uses a “Chuck-It” to toss balls into the river for her to fetch. Naturally, it’s her favorite thing to do, and she starts to nag us well before it’s time to go. If perchance we take her for a walk instead of to the beach, she will indicate her displeasure by attempting to herd us, as if to say, “No, no! This isn’t what I want to do.”

During the summer weeks, there were other families at that beach, but as soon as school started (Aug. 26 or so), we pretty much had it to ourselves. I guess families just have other activities when school starts, but it was still hot – over 100 – and as we drove past the ballfield at the school, we marveled at the kids suited up for football practice in the hot afternoon sun.

On Wednesday (Sept. 3), we noticed the river was rather high, and half of the beach was under water. We opined that they must be letting water through the dam. On Thursday, “the beach” was just a little strip at the edge of the water. Friday, I didn’t go, but Mike took Bess and said the beach was totally under water. There was no beach. He threw a few balls for Bess but didn’t take his customary dip.

It's just a sign that summer draws to a close. I washed our towels and suits and put them away. Mike’s not so sure, but I’m finished.

 

APPLE TREES AND HOT SUMMER DAYS

The farmhouse from behind the pond

“What happened to August,” asked brother Chuck. What indeed? It went the way of July, and now it’s already September 3. The current heat alert came into effect on Aug. 31, I think, but the weekend (and next week) should be more seasonable.

It’s hot, and I’m tired of watering, but I keep at it. The garden changes day by day. I’ve despaired of having more zucchini, but as I watered this morning, I discovered another overgrown squash that will grate up wonderfully for quick bread, and I saw a few blossoms. The tomatoes are slowly fading from green to white to orange.

The hummingbird feeders are now in storage, but this morning, a hummer buzzed me. Too bad. He’ll just have to live off the land.

Over the last several days, I noticed fewer apples on the “Empire” tree, and today I realized that I must pick them now or lose the crop entirely. Apparently, the deer are reaching over the fence. The apples snapped off easily, but I do think they could have stood to ripen a little longer.

Bess & Mike prepare to shoot clay pigeons

The Empire apple was developed in New York State during the mid-60s, a cross between the delicious apple and the McIntosh. It’s grown mostly in the northeastern U.S. So, why do I have this tree? Because four years ago, as I was shopping for apple trees, the nurseryman sold it to me. This variety was unexpected, but I guess I can’t complain. The apples are crisp, have good flavor, and are wormless.

Someone once told me that apples ripen toward the end of October, but if we waited that long, we would never get a single apple. They would fall off the tree and the deer would eat them. I think it depends a lot on the weather and the water. Anyway, I’m proud of myself for (mostly) saving the Empire apple crop.

The “Freedom” apple tree, planted at the same time, bloomed prettily in the spring but bore no apples. And the “Honey Crisp” apples were abundant but infected with worms even though we sprayed. I’m concerned about the trees that are closest to the grove.

Last Saturday, Mike and I walked down to the old apple tree at the end of the lane. It has been identified as a “Winterstein,” a variety developed by Luther Burbank in 1896. I have no proof, but I pretend that my grandfather and his twin brother, who homesteaded here in 1896, planted that tree. For an apple tree, it’s huge – probably 30 to 40 feet, which means it was grafted onto standard stock. The apples are wormy and mealy, but I chopped off the good parts and cooked them into delicious sauce. Mike says he’ll pick more next week, and I hope he can. The deer bed down under that tree, and they will eat the fruit on the lower branches.

Another rattlesnake greeted us as we walked around the pond the other day. That’s our ninth sighting this season, but I wonder if we’re seeing the same snake again and again. It seems short and plump to me.

We’re still hazy with smoke. I can barely see Teakean Butte to the north, and Cottonwood Butte to the south is totally obscured. KW

Little Canyon -- disappointing photo. Breathtaking in reality.