Judy Sue Daniel

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Remember When: Finding Arrowheads

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Remember When: Finding Arrowheads

The farm my parents bought and moved us to in Southern Missouri used to be a First Nations Encampment in earlier times. We never found out for sure but the community our farm was located in was called Blackfoot. In my research, I found that Blackfoot was a common name given to some tribes of mixed cultures.  It is not generally known if they were true Blackfoot as they rarely traveled south of the northern territories.

 We discovered A Native American presence when it came time to get the garden spot mom picked out, ready for planting. Dad plowed the rows with his Massy Ferguson tractor and field plow. It would dig up four rows at a time. Our job was to walk behind the plow and pick up rocks and things that would get in the way of mom hoeing. She would spend hours hoeing and pulling weeds. She said the garden was her quiet place. We started finding lots of arrowheads, spearheads, pottery, and other artifacts that had come to the top of the ground. Mom asked the extension service about them and they told her about the encampment. That the reason we found so many was it had been a gathering place for several different groups.

That was the reason the district and school were called Blackfoot. We were located about four miles from Bennett Springs, another gathering place for the natives and sacred to all tribes. She was told that the area had been gone over and deemed cleared for sale. What we found we could keep.

We had collected boxes of the artifacts and even tried to put some of the pottery back together. The boys used the arrowheads to trade with their friends. But being kids we didn’t see that they might be of value in the future.   

Several dump sites were found on the property and provided many hours of hunting and discovery for us kids. When relatives came for visit we would take them on hunting expeditions and makeup stories of Indian raids and buffalo hunts.

Dad had built a pond at the top of a steep incline to catch spring runoff and from the bottom, it looked like a volcano. We would take our cousins on expeditions to the volcano and pretend we were in the mountains.

We didn’t have social media or video games back then and had to use our imagination to occupy our time. Maybe that is where I started learning to be a storyteller. Now that we have grandchildren and great-grandchildren it would be nice if we had kept some of the artifacts to pass on.

I think about the old home place as we called it. Life and the passage of time have changed my thinking. As a teenager, I couldn’t wait to leave home and pursue my dreams. Now I would love to be back there and try to rebuild the fond memories of family and simpler times. We live and learn.

Home Place

Remember When: The Old Swimming hole

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Our Old Swimming Spot

This is where we spent time as kids. When we weren’t needed on the farm we would go here to spend hot afternoons in the water. One of the older boys in the neighborhood would drive his dad’s pickup around and gather a bunch of us kids and we would head to our favorite place. It was called moon valley. Don’t know why that it is just what we knew it by.

There were shallow places for the little kids and deeper spots for the bigger ones to swim. We would pack a lunch or stick some hot dogs in a sack and cook them over a small fire. Sometimes we had bread sometimes not. Every now and then our parents would show up and we would make a day of it.

Many an afternoon was spent dozing in the shade or playing in the water. As we got older we found out it was a favorite place for teenagers to go on Saturday nights. It was a right of passage to be old enough to go in the deep water or dive headfirst off the cliff that ran along the stream.

I was a good swimmer and would have tried out for the school swim team if we hadn’t lived so far out of town. I could dive with the best of them and we would have contests to see who could dive the best.

One Sunday afternoon we were having a contest when after a dive I felt my head hurt. I pulled my swim cap off and blood ran down my face. I must have hit a rock or something floating in the water. We couldn’t get the blood to stop, so we loaded into the back of the truck and headed home. Mom said it needed stitches and took me to the ER. It took 8 stitches to close the cut that looked like a lightning bolt. The nurse on duty didn’t want to call a doctor in on Sunday but mom insisted.

When the doctor got there and said he was glad that he had been called, the nurse was even more upset. She was told to shave around the cut. She shaved the whole top of my head I looked like a monk. Boy was mom mad. My hair was long enough that I could pull it up on top of my head most of the time. As the new hair grew in it itched a lot, by the time school started it had grown out so it wasn’t so noticeable.

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Recently my sister and I went back to Moon Valley. The county has changed it all around and there is a cement slab where the low water crossing used to be. The trees have been cut back so it isn’t as cozy as it was before. But the spot still brings back memories of childhood where on hot summer afternoons we didn’t have care in the world. Do you have a favorite summer spot that just thinking about it takes you to a happier time?

Remember When: Nature’s Playhouse

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Making Do With What You Have

When I was 10 we moved to a farm in southern Missouri, from the suburb we lived in outside of Davenport, Iowa. My parents had always wanted to live in the country, so when the city moved the limits to include the suburb where we lived they decided to move. Some friends of theirs had already made the move and convinced them to come to Missouri.

It was a whole new world for us kids. We didn’t have all the neighborhood friends we had in Iowa so we had to find ways to occupy ourselves. We had to find things to do because toys were not received except at Christmas. Living out in the country during the 50’s we didn’t know economic times were hard, everyone was in the same situation. We took it in stride and came up with our own toys and places to play. One such place was our take on a playhouse.

About 100 yards behind the hay barn on the farm was a giant weeping willow tree. It was probably 80 feet tall or seemed like it, and the limbs hung down all the way to the ground. They were thick and would swing like curtains in the breeze. Inside the circle of the limbs, it was clear of brush and smooth like a floor. We used this area as our makeshift playhouse. We found an old wooden box large enough to be a table. Some old chairs and a bookcase we used as a cabinet/pretend stove. The farm dump was a treasure trove of pots, pans, and dishes.  We girls were in charge of the cooking and the boys would go out and hunt for food. Sometimes mom would let us pack a lunch and take it to the playhouse to eat. My little sister found an old drawer from a dresser in the barn and she used it as a bed for her dolls. Many an afternoon was spent playing under the swinging limps of that tree.

We were even able to stay there when it was raining; the limbs were so thick the rain didn’t come through. We would set close to the tree trunk and listen to the rain coming down. We had some old blankets and we would pretend we were camping. With the raindrops hitting the leaves we often found ourselves lulled to sleep. If mom couldn’t find us around the house or barn she usually found us in the playhouse.

Means of Escape

As I got older it was my favorite place to go and read after my morning chores were done. I have always been an avid reader. I liked adventure books and it was my way of escaping. I had dreams of traveling to faraway places and books were my way of getting there. Mom said I spent too much time with my nose in a book and not helping her around the house. But I couldn’t help it; I always had a book in my jeans pocket. I still have that passion today, not only reading books but writing them.

I could escape to a faraway place when I was reading, Africa or the mountains of the far east or the western United States. With the limbs of the tree sweeping the ground in the breeze, my sister sleeping on a blanket with her doll, it was easy to find myself in the midst of the story.

I often think of those times playing in the playhouse with my siblings. we were close back then and still are today. I wish we still owned the farm and that old willow tree.

Our Playhouse

Remember When: Our Local Bully

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Dealing with the Local Bully

You hear a lot about bullying nowadays, but back in the 50’s when I was a kid, not so much. We had a family of them on the road where I lived. They were always causing trouble in some way or another. No matter how much we complained to the parents it seemed like nothing was ever done to rectify the situation. Back in the ’50s, we knew our neighbors and we were a tight-knit community. But in every community, there can be some who want to cause trouble. I felt sorry for the mother of this family, she seemed nice but her husband and the older boys could be very mean.

One day a group of us were walking home from school when one of the boys opened fire on us with a high-powered Be Be Gun. Three of us were hit, one in the leg, another in the arm, and me across the top of my head. We all started yelling and running my brother and I lived at the end of the road as well as the boy who was shot in the leg. By the time we got home, I had blood running down the side of my head. Mom sat me down in the kitchen and sent my brother for my dad who was out in his shop.

Dad came running in asking where I had been shot. Mom was holding a towel on my head telling him it had grazed the top of my head and had been stopped by the Barrett I had in my hair. Dad asked who else had been shot and who we thought had done the shooting. My brother had to tell him because I was crying, first because it hurt, then because I was scared. We were loaded into the car and went to the houses of the other two kids that had been hit. Then we all went to the local police department. Each of us had to give a statement to the police, pictures were taken of our injuries, and we were sent home and advised to go see our doctor. Tommy had to have the pellet dug out of his leg, Peter’s arm was only bruised because of the heavy jacket he was wearing, I had a cut about 3 inches long, but I didn’t have to have stitches.

Dad wanted to take care of the situation himself but was warned against it, telling him to let the authorities handle it. Dad being ex-military and a professional Boxer had a very hard time keeping it to himself. We could hear him out in his shop taking his frustration out on his punching bag.

A few days later we had to go back in to talk to a judge at the courthouse. We were told that because we were all miners we would not have to appear in court but the weapon had been confiscated and the boy would be dealt with. We found that the teenage boy who had shot us was sent to a juvenile facility. His brothers would yell at us when we walked by so mom took us to school for the rest of the semester. We never heard what happened to the boy that shot the gun but we were told that it was kept by the police.

I still have the scar on my head, if the Be Be had hit an inch lower I might not be here telling this story. I thank the Lord for having his hand on me that day.

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Remember When: Winter Fun

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A few things we did in Winter

As I look back at the things we did as kids on a farm, lots of chores come to mind. We had to help our parents as we didn’t have hired help. Every now and then a cousin would come and stay for a while but no one stayed very long. Farm life looks fun to city kids but when they see how much work it takes, they soon tire of the fantasy and go home.

Fox and Chickens

Dad was a good boss though he would give us time to play in the afternoon when morning chores were done. We had a big field next to the house, after heavy snow, it looked like a giant white canvas. Dad showed us a game of Fox and Chickens, which he learned when he was a kid. First, we had to set up the course. We would walk behind dad shuffling our feet to make a big circular path in the snow. Then we made a cross in the middle of the circle connecting the top, bottom, and sides. Next on the outside edge of each section, we stamped down the snow in a rectangle-shaped box. These were safe chicken houses.

The way you played the game was one person was the fox and the others were chickens. The chickens walked or ran around the circle. The fox tried to catch the chickens by chasing them around the circle. The fox could cut across on the cross lines to get to a section faster. The chickens could jump into a safe chicken house to get away from the fox. When the fox caught a chicken they were out of the game, when all the hens were caught a new fox was chosen. This was one of our favorite games.

Fort Building and snow Ball Fights

Another game we played was, of course, building snow forts and having snowball fights. If the snow was good enough to make solid snowballs with you could make big ones put them together and make a place to hide behind. It seemed like the boys were always against the girls. There were two boys and two girls in our family, I didn’t think this was very fair as my sister was eight years younger than me. One time the boys were pelting us girls good when dad sneaked into our fort and started throwing snowballs at the boys, that day the girls got to win. Dad was always doing things to even the playing field.

Making Snow Icecream

Mom showed us how to make snow ice cream for a treat after a day of playing outside. We were thrilled because the ice cream was a summertime treat for family picnics. She should us how to find the snow that had not been bothered by us or animals so it would be clean to eat. She would mix milk, eggs, and vanilla together in a bowl them we would go out and scoop clean snow into the bowl and stir until the mixture got thick and frozen. We would sometimes eat it right out of the bowl. We told mom that nothing tasted as good as snow ice cream. It was even better than summer ice cream because we didn’t have to turn the crank on the machine.

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Nowadays snow is not a welcome sight. It is pretty when it is falling but I don’t care much for getting out in it. I guess our bodies could withstand the cold more when we were younger. We can’t be sure that the snow is safe to eat anymore and getting around on city streets can be a big problem at times. It is fun to remember those times we played out in the snow for hours and didn’t think anything of the cold.

Remember When: Favorite Brownie Event

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When I was in grade school I belonged to the local Brownie Troop. They are the group you go to if you aren’t old enough to go into Girl Scouts. We would meet at a different mother’s house every other Saturday to learn crafts and how to be a good citizen. About once a month we would get together for a backyard supper. Sometimes it was to cook hot dogs and s’mores or biscuits on a stick and meals cooked in foil, but our favorite was pocket stew.

We would meet at one of the member’s houses and the leader would have a big cooking pot of water boiling over a campfire. We were told it didn’t taste as good cooked indoors or on a grill. Each girl would bring her assigned vegetable in her uniform pocket; an ear of corn, a couple of carrots, a handful of green beans, a potato, an onion, a stalk of celery, maybe some peas. We didn’t usually have meat but one of the mothers would send some beef bouillon cubes for added flavor. We would put everything together and prepare it for the pot.

While it was cooking we would do a craft project that the leader had prepared for us to make, or play games. After the soup was finished, we sat around the campfire to eat soup. It was the best we had ever tasted because we made it and it didn’t taste like pockets at all. After we were done and helped the leader clean up which is what all good brownies knew to do. We would sit around the fire and the leader would tell a story while we waited for our parents to come and get us because it was usually after dark.

One story I remember was called Stone Soup. Here is how it went, you might have heard it differently but this was the version we heard.

Long, long ago a small village on the banks of a creek was going through a rough drought. It hadn’t rained much that year and food was in short supply. The men of the village carried water from the creek to water the gardens. Children fished and women stretched their supplies. Everyone did what they could to provide food for the entire village, no one was left out.

One day a traveling minister arrived. He would stay a few days, work with the men and pray with the village for rain. The women clustered together worried about how to feed even one more person. Granny Faith hushed the fretting group and announced. “We’ll make stone soup. That will feed us all for a few days”. She turned and hobbled into her small home muttering “where did I put that stone?”

The ladies of the town shook their heads at each other, stone soup? The old woman returned with a smooth, flat stone. “Get that great big kettle out here and I’ll get this soup going” she commanded. Looking at the disbelieving faces around her she said, “This is a powerful stone. It has fed many people through the years. I’m surprised none of you have one.”

She dropped the stone in the boiling pot saying, “Here is a little salt to help the flavor. She added it to the pot and began stirring. A lady whispered, “Granny, I’ve only one carrot would that help?” “That would be wonderful”. Someone put in a dry onion, another a wrinkled potato. Another had a few lentils, a spoon of flour, a bit of bacon, each lady scoured her pantry to help flavor the soup. They watched and stirred the soup all day, each adding any little bit they could.

They were excited to taste this new soup. That evening the minister blessed the food and thanked God for people who cared and shared what they had to the benefit of all. After all, had eaten and the left over’s divided among the villagers Granny Faith smiled and tucked the stone back in her knitting box.

It is an age-old story told in many ways and in many places. Have you told this story to your grandchildren? It never grows old.

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