General Notes

A Patriarch of the Pioneering Days
by Ethel Hudson
(as published in MICHIGAN HISTORY, Volume 37, Number 2, June 1953)


As I STOOD IN THE LITTLE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD, and gazed at the moss-covered tombstone of my great-grandfather with its simple inscription "Simeon Owens--1808-1897," I pondered on many things.

This visit to my home state of Michigan had proved to be both satisfying and surprising. Surprising because I had accepted the popular theory that those nostalgic souls, who have the urge to return to their childhood home, are doomed to disappointment. I had not found it so. There were any number of changes, to be sure; but many old friendships were renewed, and the lapse of time dissolved into nothingness.

It was Indian Summer, that interval when Nature seems to pause in contemplation, lazily dreaming of the summer just passed, hesitant to succumb to the rigors of the winter ahead. The old churchyard followed the course of the winding river, and the trees in their brilliant fall colorings made an ideal setting in which to meditate.

Great-grandfathers life had been an inspiration to all who knew him. At his passing the entire countryside came to pay tribute to this lovable old man who had lived among them, sharing the hardships as well as the pleasures of their pioneering days. Throughout the years as he grew old, his face reflected that inner peace which comes to those whose lives have been well lived. His clear blue eyes, unafraid and still twinkling with the joy of living, lighted up his kindly countenance.

Much has been written of the hardships of the early settlers, but there was also a brighter side. I remember that, at the time of which I write, life was quite well established; in fact, the trials of the early days were all but forgotten.

In selecting land on which to file a claim, woods were of the utmost importance. They supplied logs for the home and for barns and other outbuildings. The forest furnished an inexhaustible supply of fuel and cash. Great-grandfather had shown remarkable foresight as he selected his land and filed his claim.

The first need was shelter, which was met by building a two-room log house. Later, a two-story log house was built. This we called "the big house." It was the scene of much work, gaiety, and tragedy. It was here that I spent my vacations. The original two-room house was then used for the carriage shed.

The land was cleared of stones. They were rolled on a stone boat — a flat-bottomed sled for hauling heavy stones — then hauled to the sites of the various buildings where foundations were laid. Stone fences separated the fields; many still stand today.

There were two rooms downstairs in the big house. The large kitchen, in which stood the long drawn-out table, was the focal point of interest. The sittingroom, as the big room was called, also served as sleeping quarters. Homespun curtains partitioned off the two four-poster beds in the room. The big round oak stove stood in the center. Rag carpets covered the floor.

Four steps down from the sitting room was the cool, stone-walled and floored milk room. Shelves lined the walls, and on them the milk was stored in large tin pans. Rich yellow cream rose to the surface and was skimmed off and churned. The butter was patted and shaped into a roll, and with the wooden paddle a flowery design was executed. The butter was then placed in a wooden bucket and lowered deep into the well, to be kept until needed. Two rooms upstairs augmented the sleeping area.

Great-grandfather's son, Lew, died, leaving his wife, Julia, and their six children. Lew had brought Julia to his fathers home as a bride. Great-grandfather loved her as his own. He loved the children as they came. My father, William, was the eldest. Great-grandfather was the patriarch of the family, wielding his paternal right to govern all who lived beneath his roof.

Everybody worked and all needs were met, with little money involved. When the boys reached the age of ten, they were given a gun, taught how to use and care for it. When the inevitable courting days arrived, great-grandfather gave each a horse and buggy. This created great rivalry as to their respective horses' racing ability, and many a race was run down the dirt road — but unknown to great-grandfather. In those days the rig was many times the deciding factor in attracting the courted young ladies. They vied with each other as to whose beau drove the best rig. "Classy" was a later expression; and pity the girl who had no Sunday beau.

Great-grandfather later built another log house for another son, Uriah, and his family. It was on the wood lot, a quarter of a mile from the big house. Aunt Betsy, Uriah's wife, was a carpet-weaver and owned a loom. Since Colonial days the thrifty housewife had torn strips of rags, sewed them together, then rolled them into balls. We children were intrigued as we watched her deftly throw the shuttle back and forth. There were balls of solid colors, and balls of mixed colors called hit and miss. Weaving with imagination, she combined these colors, the result being an attractive carpet.

Through great-grandfather's wise planning and planting, the farm had become prosperous. It was the supply center for Uncle Uriah's family as well as his own. The huge walnut trees standing sentinel at either side of the wide entrance gate invited one to enter; and with the latching of the gate, an atmosphere of security prevailed.

Coal oil lamps had been in use for quite some time, but great-grandfather would have none of them. "Nonsense," he said. He had always made and used the candles. "I'll have none of those new-fangled lights. By Judas Priest, we'll use candles!" And we did! Great-grandfather had shoe lasts too — all sizes. But the children were getting modern ideas. They refused to wear the homemade shoes.

There were many outbuildings: the big barn, the granary, the carriage shed, and the smokehouse where hams and bacon were cured and hickory smoked. Ice was cut from the lake in winter and was stored in the sawdust-packed icehouse. The privy back of the woodhouse was an ideal place where one could read the latest novel undisturbed.

Beehives were in the apple orchard. Great-grandfather loved working with the bees and he needed no protection from them.

There were many red squirrels. They were noisy, mischievous little fellows. They scampered along the rail fence and chattered when they saw him coming, knowing he was their friend, for there were always nuts in his pocket. He cracked them, picked out the meats, and the squirrels would eat out of his hand.

The old homestead was great-grandfather's domain. He seldom left the place. There were no phones — friends and kin folks came unannounced.

During the hunting season the men folks went hunting; and in the summer days, worms were dug, a wholesome lunch was packed, and off everyone drove to the lake — the men to fish, the women to visit.

The big yellow harvest apples usually ripened early in the summer, as did the blackberries. One fine morning the berrying season would start by great-grandfather saying: "Julia, you know I saw some berries down the lane a few days ago — almost ripe, too. Give those two whippersnappers some buckets. They may as well be picking berries as thinking up devilment." The whippersnappers meant Lew, Jr. (two years older than I) and me. So off we went, each with a gallon bucket. We found berries growing along the fences and in great profusion in the fence corners. As we welcomed any excuse for going to the woods, we remembered they were more plentiful and much bigger there. One day after working our way deep into one of the patches, I reached for some particularly large ones, and there coiled in the bushes was a spotted adder! I was barefoot, but in no time at all I was out of the thicket. It was later that I discovered the deep scratches on my legs. Going home, we spied the horses in the pasture lot. "Beat you to a horse," Lew yelled. The berries were dropped; the race was on. We drove the horses into the fence corner where we mounted them and raced around the field.

Poor little city kids!

And threshing time! Neighbor women came the day before the threshers, wearing their fine-checked gingham aprons, elaborately cross-stitched in intricate designs. "To eat like a thresher" was a well-known expression which was well understood after the first experience of feeding them. The women laughed and talked as they cooked and baked. A threshing crew consisted of about eighteen men, too many to be seated at one table, which necessitated a first and second sitting. We were up before daybreak and were delighted when we saw the threshing machine, drawn by a steam engine, as it labored clumsily along the road and turned in through the wide gate.

Threshing was a fascinating operation. A steady hum was heard which announced that work had begun. The sheaves disappeared down the broad throat of the monster. The bundles were pitched to the self-feeder where a whirling cylinder shelled out most of the grain. Great-grandfather would pick up a handful of wheat, run it lovingly through his fingers, and wonder how many bushels it would yield to the acre. "Looked like a right good stand," he would say. Quite often the threshers would not finish in a day, in which event they slept in the hay loft in the barn.

Fall found the cellar full to bursting. The bins were filled with potatoes, onions, and apples. Along one side of the wall were the barrels of cider, vinegar, sauerkraut, and salt pork. Pork loins and sausages which had been fried were packed in stone jars and the fat turned over them. They kept fresh all winter. Shelves were crowded with jars of fruit and pickles. Ears of popcorn and medicinal herbs hung from the rafters. Let winter come!

And winter did come. There would dawn that first gray day, and as it progressed the sky grew darker and darker. A deep hush was upon the country side — the lull before the storm. Great-grandfather went to the barn; the horses and cattle had to be fed, and the mangers filled with hay. "Might be snowed in by morning," he declared. It was getting colder by the minute. "Yes," he continued, "starting to spit snow now. You two whippersnappers fill up the wood boxes." There was an air of excitement and expectancy. Then around the corners of the house would come shrill shrieks as the wind whistled and gathered momentum. The storm was upon us. It raged all through the night, but the following day the wind subsided, and great soft flakes of snow tumbled through the air, piling the snow deeper and deeper. The whippersnappers were restless, moving from one window to another, watching for signs of a break which did not come until the following morning. When we awakened, a dazzling, glittering expanse of snow enveloped the landscape. The fences were nowhere to be seen. With shouts of glee we grabbed our caps with the ear flaps, mittens, coats, and overshoes. There was work to be done. Paths were shoveled to the barn and woodshed. My remembrance is that the only help we gave was that of shouting and snowballing. But once the paths were broken, our chore was to keep the wood box filled. In our home-made sled we hauled countless loads of wood through the snow trenches to feed the hungry stoves.

The second day after the storm subsided found the men laboriously opening up the roads with snow plows. Our isolation was over. After a check-up of neighbors, life resumed its normal tempo.

After the first snowfall thoughts turned to trapping. The more adventurous hunters went to the Upper Peninsula. But the small trapper worked with his dogs and traps and took his pelts to the general store where he traded them for food and clothing. At the end of the season the merchant sent the stock he had accumulated to St. Louis, or some other large trading post.

The aristocrat of the dog world was the hunting dog. On the farm that meant old Jumbo, a large brown and black hound with wise, sorrowful eyes. Dad told of the time Jum took him and two of his brothers on a three-day fox hunt. And was grandmother worried when they did not come back? No siree, not grandmother! An apprehensive neighbor asked when she expected them back. "When Jum runs down the fox," she answered. That dog loved to follow the men. Who knew when they would take off with their guns? One day they went to the woods to fell trees and, as usual, Jum was with them. He was growing old and his many hunting experiences had left their scars. A tree toppled and fell on him, breaking his back. When Dad rushed over to him, Jum, with his eyes, begged to be relieved of his suffering. Who could deny such a request? We hear much talk about facing life and death, of being realistic. Our pioneer ancestors neither thought nor talked of it — but, of necessity, practiced it.

Winter brought the church suppers, box lunches, and square dancing. There were always a few fiddlers and some callers to be found among the country folks. The people arrived in cutters and bobsleds, snugly tucked in with their buffalo robes, with a warm soapstone at their feet. There was much excitement at the sound of the sleigh-bells on the cold, clear air, and shouts of joy and laughter as they piled out. There were large pans of popcorn, baskets of apples, and jugs of cider on the table. Oyster stew was served at midnight. Then back to the call of the do-si-do and allemond left. The day of the baby sitter had not yet arrived. But babies were no handicap, they were brought along and bedded down for the night.

Sugaring time was even better than blackberrying; almost as good as fishing. The sap stirred early in the legs of country girls and boys; about the time that great-grandfather discovered sap was running in the maples. The snow was still one or two feet deep in the woods. The oxsled was used to make a road to the sugar camp. Sap buckets were scalded and sunned, then put on the sled and the campaign was on. The bare branches of the trees allowed the sun to reach the ground, and the snow was soon softening. The trees were tapped, a spout driven into the trunk, and the buckets were hung under them. There was a steady drip, drip, drip; sometimes almost a steady little stream, but, on the whole, slowly. The camp was made; the shanty covered with boughs, and in front of it two enormous logs were rolled close together; and a fire was built between them. The kettles were hung over the fire, which was never allowed to go out. Night and day someone was busy feeding it, watching that the kettles did not boil over, and keeping them filled. The liquid thickened and was reduced to syrup, then it was taken out to cool and settle until it could be "sugared off." The dog enjoyed it, too, except when someone poured some of the syrup on the snow, where it congealed and formed a sticky wax substance. The dog would jump for it and seize it with much glee, but his expression soon changed when he found that he could not open his jaws. He ran around in circles, dashed back and forth into the woods, but he couldn't howl. Finally the lump of congealed sugar dissolved and the dog was freed of his predicament.

After "sugaring" one spring, great-grandfather stooped more than usual and leaned heavier and heavier on his cane. And as the trailing arbutus, Johnny-jump-ups, jack-in-the-pulpits, and violets greeted the world again, he quietly left us.

For years I had thought of our family as being poor. We were not poor, but rich; rich in our way of life; rich in all fundamental things. It is well to ponder on these things for, in so doing, faith is renewed. This is a testimony of gratitude for the heritage left me by great-grandfather.

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  Recorded Events in His Life

• Parents: Uriah Owens and Elizabeth Foot Food.

• Moved: Tekonsha, Michigan, USA, Between 1830 and 1839.