Home Remedies

Dave and Ada

Grandma Stricklan had a few quirks, it is true; I remember a few from my childhood, although I'm sure didn't notice all I would notice if I knew her now. I know she liked vinegar. She made low-sugar cookies with Jell-o. She didn't like doctors. She even went so far as to refuse to go to the hospital when she was sick in her older years for fear of not coming out again. It seems as though her lack of regular check-ups made her circulation problems (affecting her mobility) worse, although I can't say for sure.

To tell you the truth, I actually completely understand. (Yikes.) I am hoping I won't get to the point where I refuse treatment for something I need, but as it is I really hate going to the doctor. Uh, really hate it. When I had mastitis twice after Norah was born, the second time was even more insulting than the first not only because it was frighteningly painful, but because I knew I'd have to go to the doctor AGAIN. It's not that I'm afraid--I just don't like the inconvenience. Ha! What a terrible excuse. But true.

As a result, I do all I can to avoid needing medical care. Good food, lots of exercise, fresh air, and a dose of vinegar every day. Don't worry, grandma's remedy is alive and well! Don't laugh, but I don't even remember why I started drinking the vinegar daily, but it's become a routine and I haven't been sick all winter. I know I'm basically just lucky and young, so I am going to try hard not to be crazy when I'm older and need attention (who will help me?).

In Hannah's book, she mentions that her health is improving in April 1929 because of a yeast drink she makes. Listen:

"I'll tell you how I make it. Boiled potatoes water, [something I can't read], add a little pinch of hops and a yeast cake or a start of yeast, no salt in it. Drink a cup after every meal. Have it good and strong so it will work a batch of bread & it will help you if you ever get stomach trouble."

It cracks me up. What is she even talking about, really? Yeast? In all of the gut-health reading I've done, yeast is one of the main things we want out of our system, not in. A cup after every meal? And what about baking bread with it? And yet, Hannah plainly said her health has improved. Who can argue with an 86-year-old journal entry?

A case for keeping buttons

Every time I take a personality test I end up with the same maddening result: Neither/nor, or sometimes either/or. If a question came up that said, "If you had a chance to take home a collection of buttons, some of them matching but in varied sizes and colors and you had no immediate use for them, would you keep them?"

I would surely answer a scoffing "No thank you."

But then I would keep them in real life, because I did. 

I love throwing old useless "stuff" away or just not acquiring it in the first place--I get a thrill from dropping things off at D.I. But shoot, I love these buttons. Both of my kids are absurdly entertained by them. And no, Norah doesn't try to eat them; what can I say, she's an anomaly. They came from Grandma Stricklan's sewing supplies that I swiped inherited, and although all of my sewing projects with buttons have been furnished from this collection, I just like to keep them around for fun. Stacking, sorting, dropping, throwing (not allowed), and cleaning them up again. 

I still generally throw things away rather than keep them for posterity, but I am extremely thankful that my parents and grandparents and Nate's parents and grandparents didn't do that (or else I'd never have anything to wear on Sundays--about 75% of the time I am wearing something or other that came from the Clarks' basement to church.)

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween from the old times! I've got some costume ideas for the kids. Crazy scary masks? Guns? Yes!

hard times

On February 26, 1922, Hannah wrote in her book, "Oh yes I must not forget Ostlin came in early Friday morning to tell us a boy come to their house. All getting along fine. That is our 13th grand child good luck to him." Sadly, all were not fine after all, and the mother, Mary Marinda Johnson Hanson, died on March 4th, just a week later from complications (probably blood poisoning, guessed Hannah).

Hannah said, "We are all broke up," and took into her house Ostlin and the three girls: Ada, my grandma, age 5; Connie, age 4; Leona, age 2. The baby boy went to live with the maternal grandparents. Hannah doesn't even mention his name, come to think of it, but she says that the girls went to visit him often on Sundays. (His name is Kenneth, by the way.) About a month later, Leona came home from Grandma Johnson's with this cut-out baby head and said it was baby brother. Hannah thought it was sweet and pasted it in her book. I am home from church with a sick baby today who looks an awful lot like that, too.

Throughout her entries in 1921 and '22, Hannah lists the prices of potatoes, hay, butter and eggs. Eggs go from $.40/dozen down to $.16 the day of the baby head picture, and then back up to $.30 later that year, and by selling that and butter they get along, but just barely, since I think potatoes were their main crop, but there were too many potatoes and no one to buy them. She says they have enough to eat and "ware," but no money. "Taxes & interest are killing us," she scribbles in the margin at the end of an entry. " Her sons are off working elsewhere, too. "We will all have to leave the farm to work for wages, for anything is better then farming but I don't think it can stay that way for people will have to eat," she foresees, being both pessimistic and optimistic as I guess you had to be as a farmer.

It is easy for me to romanticize the past; it is what I do, it is why there is even this blog. Of course, though, I know it was not an easy life. I know our 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom, air conditioned house would seem like a luxurious vacation to Hannah. But here I am, and I wonder why we can't seem to acquire funds for a house with a better layout, where the table doesn't have to be in the living room and with a dishwasher that doesn't roll. I wonder why Nate's parents could buy their first home for $40,000 and sell it for twice that just a few years later, when our house would probably not sell for a dollar more than we paid for it four years ago. I think our times have got to be just about the worst. Insurance prices are ridiculous and it doesn't even cover doctor visits anymore; after four years we have barely made a dent in our principal balance for our mortgage because of interest; our kids will wake each other up all night long because of sharing a room. And of course, in the most cliche way, reading the old journal brings some good old-fashioned perspective right back to me.

However, I must honestly tell you that even with this refreshed perspective, I am not 100% convinced that it is better to live in this absurdly comfortable era. I have half an idea that if I could, I would jump into the pages of Hannah's book, roll up my sleeves, and help her put up 500 quarts of berries.

Speaking of which: Ada's words about Cecelia Andersen

"Speaking of which" is something we sometimes say when we weren't exactly, which is the way I use it here (and, incidentally, the way my 3-year-old uses it to amuse grandparents and anyone who will listen to him). I found in my Grandma (Ada) Stricklan's compilation of writing an essay where she talks about the same Cecelia I spoke of in the Hakan Andersen pioneer post. She spelled the name "Cecilia" instead of "Cecelia," which actually seems more natural to me, but the official records aren't in accord on the point of spelling, so I don't know which way is correct. Does anyone care? It probably doesn't matter.

Ada, in what is labeled as 1957, but I feel like it must be later than that. What do you think?

Before we get there, though, it just struck me that what I was reading was an Idaho Writer's League assignment in 1975. Who knew there was such a thing as an Idaho Writer's League, Arco Chapter? I had read Grandma's writing before, but didn't realize she was part of a League of extraordinary writers. It is funny and strange what people do, don't you think, to write what they think needs to be written?

But anyway, back to speaking of which, in an essay about grandmothers, my grandmother wrote about Cecilia:

There was once a girl named Cecilia. She lived in Sweden. When she heard the Gospel she knew it was true. After awhile she came to America. She wanted to live with the Saints. Her father told her, "If they do not kidnap you or murder you, you can write and tell us and we will all come."*  Cecilia walked to Salt Lake City Valley from St. Louis. Along the way she was weary and hungry. She met and married a good man. She had children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. She loved her family. She said, "I would like my children to remember their heritage and the hard-ships that their ancestors wen through to get to this country and become established...and remember the reason that brought them here in the first place, to remember these things and to be better men and women for it."

*I wonder if Cecelia's father had read the Sherlock Holmes story A Study in Scarlet, which portrays the Mormons as kidnapping, murdering types. Though I guess that's not possible, since it wasn't published until 1887, which was long after Cecelia came. 

O Pioneer: Hakan Andersen

Next on the "easy" pioneer list is Hakan Andersen. Of course, as with Nancy Naomi, it was really a couple whose story I knew, but in this one he is the main character for some reason, just as NN was the main character in her story. I'm not sure why this is, but nevertheless it's how I think of them.

The bad news here is also my motivation to learn more about family history: I thought I knew the story but now I'm not so sure. The Hakan Andersen Book would set me straight, but it resides at my parents' house (so mom, you may have to set me straight). Here's what I think happened.

Hakan (or Hogan) (or Haakan) (or about ten variations) crossed the plains as a young-but-not-that-young convert to the Church. When he arrived in Salt Lake, as a strong healthy man, he was asked to go back and help others across the plains. There he met a girl and fell in love with her...however, she was sick or something and died. I think. But the good news is that this girl had a friend! And she was Cecelia. And Hakan and Cecelia got married and had a family and moved to Idaho.

This is the lineage: Hakan and Cecelia had a daughter named Hannah, whose son Hakan Ostlin went by Ostlin and was my paternal grandma Ada's father. So in reverse, Me/Dave/Ada/Ostlin/Hannah/Hakan & Cecelia.

Hakan & Cecelia's family

Hannah Andersen, presumably before she married John Alfred Hanson

But listen here, I am not the only one who thought I would celebrate Pioneer Day by exploring my pioneer ancestors. Familysearch.org itself sort of stole my thunder by sending me a list of all of the pioneer ancestors I had, complete with company and any information they have on the person.  Holy smokes, that makes my aspiration to find out who my Pioneer ancestors are about 97% more likely to happen. Thanks, Familysearch. I don't know how I would have found out on my own; I really have a lot (or everything) to learn about family history.

So here is what Familysearch.org taught me. Hakan crossed in 1859 with the George Rowley Company. Cecelia Swenson crossed in 1863 with an Unknown Company. They were both from Sweden (but I already knew that one).

You can find your own Pioneer Ancestors on Familysearch.org too, I think. Do it! It's cool.

the piano, part one: acquisition

"My father, Ostlin Hanson and sax," written on back by Ada

Dave and Evelyn at the piano, about 1960

Ada wanted a piano. She grew up with a father who played saxophone in the local band, she played the piano, and she wanted her daughters to play as well. She did hard work, lived a country life, and she wanted a little bit of refinement in music. Wives of sheep herders and ranchers don't get an income, however, and though I doubt Paul had any objection to owning a piano, he objected to buying one. Since Ada had no money to her name, it seemed that she was out of luck. As my dad said, "Of course Paul wouldn't give her the money for it," even with all the work she contributed to the running of their land.

The situation reminds me of a scene in a book where a woman with four children and a successful husband tries to get some money at the gas station in rural Louisiana in the 1950s. She fills up her gas tank for five dollars and asks the clerk to charge ten to their account and hand her the other five. Though he's clearly done it before, the clerk won't do it this time; he's been ordered to stop giving her cash. (Ordered by the Mister.) No matter the wiles she uses, he won't budge.

Myself being a housewife who earns absolutely no money but has nearly complete control over the household expenses, I can't understand the conventions that reigned fifty years ago. That's how they lived, however, and there was nothing that fictional wives or real wives like Ada could do about it.

So here stands the problem. A desire for a piano, no income to buy it. But of course, that's not quite true. Sheepherders with a business to run would occasionally find themselves with excess lambs: motherless from a dead ewe or too many for her to take care of. In those cases, the ranchers would often dispose of the lambs because they were simply too much work to nurse to adulthood and usefulness. If someone wanted to take the bum lambs, however, they could bottle feed and coddle them until they were big enough to sell, though they'd still be worth less than the regular sheep. It sounds like a lot of work for a minimal reward; however, when choices are limited, people get crafty. People like Ada, who could get these bum lambs to adulthood and save the pennies she earned for a basic piano from Chesbro Music in Idaho Falls. So that is what she did.

When she had saved the money for the piano, she picked the one she wanted from Chesbro, and they were to deliver it to the Darlington house. When the man from the music store arrived with the piano, it became evident that he had delivered the wrong instrument. Ada had already paid for it, but he had no intention of returning the 80 miles to Idaho Falls and bringing back the correct piano. He told her she could take it or leave it. After all of that work! I'm pretty sure I would have wanted to smack him up side the smug face, or at least give him a withering stare. I'm not sure if she did either of those things, but I do know she took the piano.

A baby boy

"1958 Dave and me" from back of photo

When my Grandma Stricklan was 42, she was hospitalized for an illness. She had some blood clots in her legs and was receiving treatment. Before she was released, she told her doctor, a longtime acquaintance, that she was pregnant as well. "Impossible," he said, and sent her home to finish her recovery. About nine months later, my dad was born. When my grandma saw that the baby was a boy, she asked my Grandpa Stricklan what he should be named. She had named the girls, and Paul would name the boy. Paul, at 48, was a terse old farmer and rancher with strong opinions. "Dave," he said. And that was that.

At the time, the Stricklan family lived in a place called Darlington, Idaho in Butte County. It is not a town or village, just a "populated place," officially. The house they lived in still stands, if only just barely. It looks much older than a house that could have been home to a family in the 1950s; you would maybe think pioneers. But no, just a hardy Idaho midcentury family, raising sheep and cattle working and living on a plot they half-owned.

Dave was the fourth baby born in the family, but the first boy and much later than anticipated.