Updated
March 1, 2015 0:18 AM
From: Larry Wilcox
- click here for photos of Larry and his family.
Age 4 to 5 years
I recall several incidents while living
in the east end of the old depot building. I was somewhere around four
years old at this time.
The first incident that comes to mind has
to do with my fascination at the time with fire. I was disciplined several
times for playing with kitchen matches. I recall vividly on a nice sunny
spring day my mother was out back of the depot near an old stock pond.
I am not sure why she was there. I seem to recall that we had a pen
of pigs there. Anyway, I thought wow, now is my chance to play with
fire. I took the wrappers off of two or three old P&G bars of soap and
made a nice little pile in the middle of the bedroom floor. Then I struck
a match and lit the pile of wrappers. Then as the paper began to burn,
I heard my mother coming into the house. I quickly stamped out the fire
and swept the charred remains under the bed.
Later my mother found the partially burned
P&G soap wrappers and called me to her. I don't recall her words, but
I am sure they were along the line of: "Haven't we discussed this before
and you are not to play with matches". Then to my surprise and pain,
my mother struck a kitchen match and stuck it to my leg on the side
near the kneecap. I still have a tiny scar there to remind me that playing
with matches can be painful.
Years later I used to tease my mom by showing
her the scar and try to elicit some remorse from her for doing such
a dastardly thing to a four year old child. Her response was always,
"Well you stopped playing with matches didn't you?". Indeed, it worked!
I now wonder in our current day and age what a social worker would do
if she/he heard about such a thing.
The next incident I recalled that happened
while living in the east end of the old depot follows.
Incidentally, if you were wondering what
was in the west end of the depot, I'll tell you. There were several
rooms in the middle that was used for storage but the two end rooms
on the west side was used for grinding feed. In the west most room was
a large hammer mill that was belt powered by a tractor that sat outside.
Workers, we called them hands, would drive up on the north side and
scoop corn and other cow feed into a hopper that ran into the mill.
There was also plenty of room for material to be stored in the room
with the mill. As the material was ground by the hammer mill, it was
blown into another room where it either piled up and was scooped into
a wagon or truck to be hauled away and fed to the cows. Or, several
men would catch the ground material into toe sacks (burlap bags) and
sew the tops of the filled sacks with binder twine. The reason I remember
the details of this grinding facility is because ten to fifteen years
later I would spend many hours working in this extremely dusty environment.
To the south of the old depot about two
city blocks (of course this was in the country and there were no city
blocks) was the headquarters where men reported for work every morning.
There was fuel, oil and supplies for the farm vehicles. I recall one
day being near the headquarters when my father called to me. I was playing
with my brother Thomas and my friend Wayne Easterwood. We went to see
what dad wanted. He had two small watermelons that he wanted Thomas
and me to carry to the house. Well when we started for the house, Wayne
wanted to carry one of the watermelons. I didn't want him to carry mine,
so I took Thomas' watermelon and gave it to Wayne to carry. Well, this
upset Thomas very much and he ran crying to dad. I looked up and here
came my father running toward me. I could tell that I was in trouble.
So, I laid down my watermelon and ran for the house for I knew I was
going to get a "lickin". I recall running up to the screen door and
it was latched. Banging on the door I screamed for mother to let me
in. She ran to open the door not knowing what was happening. I dashed
in and dove under the bed. By this time my father has pulled off his
belt and told me to get out from under the bed. I knew what would happen
if I did, so I refused. Then my dad would try to hit me under the bed
with his belt. Each time he would swing I would roll to the other side
of the bed out of reach of the belt. He would then go to the other side
of the bed and try again. Finally, he gave up swishing on each side
of the bed and went back to work. I do not recall anymore about this
incident.
The final memory I have of living in the
old depot was actually our last day there. Somehow dad had gotten us
permission to move to a new place. It was called "The ole Doggit Place".
I understand it was once owned by a family named Doggit. Dad had borrowed
one of the farms trucks to move us. I recall we were all loaded up and
ready to go. My brother Thomas and I had a kitten each. We were sitting
on the back of the truck holding our kittens and just before dad got
into the truck's cab, he advised us to be sure and hold onto the kittens
because when the truck's engine started and we started moving, they
would be scared and try to get away. Sure enough, the kittens started
squalling and scratching. Tom held onto his kitten but I let my get
away. My little brother was tougher than I. Needless to say, my kitten
didn't make it to our new home.
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