A Christmas Memory 1924

 I was born in this house just three days before Christmas in 1924.  Our family home had been destroyed by fire in November and my parents and six children had taken refuge in a workshop and garage for the winter.

On the morning of December 22nd, my sister Edna remembers waking and peering down the ladder stairway to see our close neighbor sitting by the potbellied stove in his long johns.  My mother had been taken to this house to give birth.

The house belonged at that time to Uncle Leonard and Aunt Jo Moore, and it still stands on the Sand Cove near New Albin, Iowa.  It was the home of my grandparents before they retired to New Albin.  You can see them sitting on the edge of the porch in this photo.

So this is where the family would have gathered for Christmas and the first opportunity to see the new baby sister.  Aunt Jo was also pregnant, at the time, with my cousin Arnold.  I always think of Mother and Aunt Jo when I hear the story of the Annunciation, and Mary's visitation to Martha. Aunt Jo was my Godmother when I was baptized on New Years Day 1925.

MY STORY:

I was born at my Uncle Leonard's farmhouse on the Sand Cove, near New Albin, Iowa.  I was the ninth of the ten children born to John and Mary Moore who lived on a nearby farm in Lansing Township.

Both farms were part of the land that Great Grandfather Martin Moore acquired when he settled in this area 1855.  It is said that Martin was injured in a logging accident in 1859 and was unable to leave home.

His wife, Julia made the 100 mile trip, alone and on foot, to Osage, Iowa to obtain the land patent for a 120 acre parcel that was, eventually, home to me.

My family lived in a log home until, approximately, a month before I was born when the house was destroyed by fire.  Over and over while I was growing up I heard stories about the night of the fire.  I heard how my mother, pregnant and feeling ill just happened to be awake to hear Marion's cry for help....

    how the four girls sleeping in the upper bedroom awoke to the heat of fire and smoke and were unable         to get the door open.  The china knob had fallen off and the metal shaft of the knob was too hot to turn.

    how my father went into the burning room to scoop up the two youngest of the girls and guided Marion         to safety.  Then he returned to search for the fourth child.  Not finding her in the bed or under it he was         driven by the heat and smoke.  His hair singed and face blistered, he was about to enter the room again         when Leota was discovered, safe, outside the house.  She had broken the window and escaped to the             porch roof where she was able to drop to the ground.

     how badly burned the other three girls were.  Milly and Edna's arms were burned and their nightgowns          singed.  Marion's face and arms were critically burned.  My brothers, sleeping on the main floor, were          unharmed.

    how the doctor said that Marion should be in the University Hospital but would be unable to stand the         trip in the sub-zero cold so her did his best to handle the burns.  He warned my parents that she would         need extensive skin grafts.  And how, miraculously, she was healed....all of them healed, without a scar.

This was the tragedy facing the family when I was born the night of December 22, 1924.  

In the weeks since the fire neighbors and family had pitched in to finish the walls of the garage and the workshop near it and build a connecting link between them.  The family was back together in the temporary quarters, most of the household possessions and clothing destroyed.

My mother was hurried off to my Uncle's home where the doctor met her and I was delivered safe and sound.  Dr. Eischeid was already in his buggy, leaving the farm when it was discovered that mother had hemorrhaged and the doctor was called back to save her life.

I was named after the two beautiful little girls that had died just three days apart as World War 1 ended in 1918.  Alice Laurayne was 8 and Anna Evelyn was 7 years old.

My earliest memories are of being "dandled" on Papa's knee.  Papa would bounce his heel up and down while singing "Tan tiddle ann tiddle ann tan tiddeo."  Papa was smiling and it was such fun.  The big kitchen was warm and cozy.

I remember the new house, of course, with its white plaster walls and new wood floors.  Lucille was there....she is 2 years and 4 months younger than I so for me she was always there.

And Mama.  I think Papa played with me while he waited for meals to be served. I seem to remember the time after meals with Mama.  She always found that little pocket of time after meals to relax, play stack hands, catch a snooze.

The bigger kids were sent off to do their chores.  Marion, of course, was 15 when I was born so in my first memories of her she was going to get married.  And when I was four she did marry Matt.  He was tall and dark and handsome and I thought that maybe I could marry him too and be their little girl.  Matt was the young neighbor that drove the girls to Uncle Leonard's the night the house burned and never lost interest in the "oldest girl that was burned so badly."

Leota was12 years older than I, Ray 10 years older, Mildred 8 and Edna 7.  Harold was just 4 when I was born.  These were the little tyrants that presided over my growing up.  And there was never a dull moment.

We seemed to be paired.  Marion and Leota seemed to already have achieved individual status.  They were the big girls.  Milly and Edna were the little girls and Lucille and I were The Kids.   There were also THE BOYS.  They were special because they were so outnumbered.  As children the girls worked along side of them and when we were old enough to care we pressed their clothes, shined their shoes and curled their hair.  They escorted us to dances and we loved to dance with them.

But as The Kids we were the sheltered ones, Lu and I.  Back in the warm kitchen we were cuddled and loved.  I think that in Mama's busy world that much was delegated.  If my memory serves me right the girls always got us ready for bed, and brought us back to the kitchen for goodnight hugs.  Then off went for prayers and stories.  The prayer went:

    God bless Mama and Papa.  And God bless Marion and Leota and Ray and Harold and Mildred and Edna and Lucille (and any other relative we wanted to remember.). God bless me, make me a good girl and bring me up in the love and fear of God.  Amen

The stories were endless, fairy tales, family exploits, and often when they were tired of the telling and we begged for more we got the story of the ant that was carrying grains of wheat to the rest of the ants.

    The pile of wheat was enormous and the ant would travel to the pile of wheat, pick up one grain of wheat and take it away to the other ants, then the ant would come back and take another grain of wheat, carry it away to the other ants and then the ant would come back and do it over and over again until our eyes were heavy with sleep.  If that failed the last resort was to stand ofer us one foot on each side of the bed and order our eyes to remain closed.  It always worked.