SOME QUAIFE RECOLLECTIONS AND REFLECTIONS FROM BROWN COUNTY

Written by Rev. Otto A. Quaife, Kenesaw, NE Jan 31, 1968

At the suggestion of my  cousin Cecil M. Goodrich, I am attempting to put into writing a few recollections and reflections that I may have of the early family association in Brown County, Kansas. These will be rather fragmentary as the will be recollections of childhood and early youth.

The farm of my father, Stanton A. Quaife, was a forty acre tract joining the 80 acres belonging to my grandfather, Stephen A. Quaife on the east. This place of my grandfather carried the name “The Walnuts” because of a pair of walnut trees that stood one on either side of the path that led from the house southward through the orchard to the mail box gate. In addition to the 40 acres, on which was located the building site of my father’s place, was an added 40 acres known as the Case forty. Adjoining our place on the east was the farm home of Walter E. Quaife, the eldest brother of my father. This gave a frontage on the road along our places of one full mile – which I sometimes think of as the Quaife mile.

One of my early childhood memories was of the row of hedge trees forming the fence line between our farm and that of my grandfather. From this row of Osage hedge trees my father cut many hedge posts to be used in building fences on other portions of the farm. There was a “gap” in this hedge fence directly west of our house which made an opening for going back and forth from one place to the other. It was from this “gap” that we frequently watched the forming of clouds in the wet when rain was badly need. An impressive memory of this experience is that so very often clouds would seem to divide, a light appear, and the rain showers would go around and we would get the ’hole in the cloud’. This has been the story of my life. Wherever I have lived so often, when rain was badly needed, I have been where the clouds divided, and we got the dry spot.

Recalling the gap in the hedge fence, I recall that the frequent traveling back and forth from one place to the other formed a path through the Timothy and Clover Meadow which we called the field of growing hay. There were numerous times when I traveled this path and as child sometimes does, I became “addicted” to Grandmother Quaife’s bread and apple jelly lunches. How well I recall the special taste of that jelly. Grandmother had a way of adding vanilla to her apple jelly that has been a tradition with me. Well, sometimes I made this trip as a ‘run away’ just to get some of that bread and jelly. This practice came to a sudden and sad terminus, however, one day when at the request of my mother, grandma met me with an apple sprout switch instead of an apple jelly covered slice of bread and sent me home. Of course there were subsequent visits with happier overtones.

One fond recollection of the “Timothy and Clover Meadow” was the evenings spent in building the hay shocks in which the hay cured. After mowing the hay and raking it into windrows, numerous evenings were spent in ‘shocking it up’ into small haycocks. My dad would go through the gap in the hedge fence, and work from our east end of the field. Sometimes mother would take pitchfork and work too. Grandpa, grandma and Charlie, dad’s youngest brother, would be working from the other end of the field. It was quite a thrill when a “short handled fork” (one from which a part of the handle had been broken off) was given o me and I became a part of the ‘haying crew’. I can recall how real progress seemed to be made when we would get our way worked to the top of the hill where we could see the others working from the opposite end of the field.

I have just a very few ‘snap shot memories’ of my Grandfather Quaife. One of those is working in the hayfields as described above. One other stands out vividly. One day after a visit at Grandpa’s, I was read to start home when we saw a coyote trotting across the hay meadow down in the draw. Grandpa went to the house and got his gun and walked home with me as a protection from the wild animal. I can still see that slinking coyote as it made its way across the field, and through the fence to cross the road into a field of tall growing crops.

One other of these brief recollections of Grandfather Quaife comes from the time of his death. Early one morning he was in the farm yard doing morning chores when one of the horses running loose in the lot kicked at him, striking him in the head. This injury proved fatal; and I remember only fragmentary instances of the occasion. I do recall my mother trying to explain to me the fact that this had happened. About the only other memory I have of those days is of the day of his funeral when neighbors and friends gathered at the home for the service. I recall the casket placed in the old parlor. I recall being taken by my father to the side of the casket to ‘see Grandpa’. The greatest impression of this is the memory of seeing him in his casket with his fife lying by his side, and cradled in his arm as he would carry it in patriotic parades. You see, he had been a member of a “Fife and Drum Corps” in the Civil War and as a member of the Grand Army of the Republic had been a proud participant in memorial Day Services, as well as other occasions when the G.A.R. boys would be asked to participate. An all of this recalls to mind memories of moments spent in the old attic at Grandmothers house where were stored many relics of the pioneer days; grandfather’s Civil War uniform and musket as well; and trunks, toys, and especially the old rocking horse on which I delighted to ride. I can almost hear the patter of rain on the roof as the memory of rainy afternoons spent in the old attic are recalled.

One frustrating evening in our home life that still leaves an impressive recollection is the night our barn burned.  We had just returned from a sort of neighborhood party, having driven to the Melott home in our carriage. Mother and we children had gone into the house while dad was unhitching and taking care of the team, a pair of black horses named Prince and Nell. Suddenly we heard dad call for help and I can still see the horrifying sight of flames coming from the stable and hay loft doors. We all worked frantically for a brief time removing the buggy, wagon and some other implements and equipment from the shed side of the barn. Dad had gotten the horses out and thrown the harness sets out of the stable doors. Evidently a chicken roosting somewhere in the barn had become disturbed b t the light of the lantern, and had flown into it – knocking it over on the lantern shelf. Being directly below the hay loft the ensuing flames ignited the hay and in an instant the fire was out of control. I can recall with vividness the coming of numerous neighbors who saw the light of the fire as they were arriving home from the same party and who came to offer help. It was a sad night.

The rebuilding of the barn brings Cecil into this episode. He came to stay with us for a time and I recall riding to Robinson with him to haul lumber for the new barn. Dad had become ill – the fall work was lagging; so we all tried to make up for his absence from the working staff on the farm.

A few nostalgic recollections can be inserted here with just a sentence or two for each of them. There is the daily chore of going to the pasture each evening to bring the mild cows in for milking. The hike to the pasture gate at the foot of the hill, the trailing over the paths that led through hazel brush patches, oak and hickory trees and grass meadows that were highways of imagination to a small boy. There were the more or less regular Saturday afternoon trips to Knabb’s pasture on Wolf Creek for fishing in the summer time. Each early springtime one very special event was anticipated with eagerness. This was the first spring time fishing trip to be coupled with a search through the trees for the wild timber greens which were a much desired table dish. The curly dock, lamb’s quarter, lady finger, and nettle leave and stems made up a dish when seasoned and well cooked that was an annual delicacy.

Then I would speak of the two occasions when the angel of death entered our family to take from us the two baby brothers, Harold and Lawrence. The kindliness of neighbors is a highlight. And outstanding in the boyhood recollections is the night when Lawrence was taken suddenly ill with convulsions, and the call went to Dr. Van Voorhis over our party line. A night-tie call was a signal for anyone on the line to “listen in” to learn what the emergency might be. Among those who heard that call was a neighbor by the name of Lilbert Gamble, who upon hearing the desperation of my dad’s voice in calling for the doctor, dressed and mounted one of his work horses that was in his barn and before the arrival of the doctor, reached our home to offer whatever help he could. And “Lil” Gamble was a negro.

The community doctor who makes home calls is now almost non-existent. Dr. Van was a fixture in the Robinson community. His snappy driving team and classy buggy were recognized by everyone wherever they might be seen. His team was perhaps the fastest trotting team in the community; and when called, they would be given the word and the home was reached in quick time. I recall the World War I epidemic of the ‘flu’ when almost every family had serious cases. Dr. Van hired a driver and traveled day and night to minister to his patients; few had serious consequences. In winter time Dr. Van did much of his calling in his beautiful snow cutter, a shell-shaped sleigh to which he hitched his team. The custom was for everyone driving a sleigh to have a set of sleigh bells on the team. Dr. Van’s set was melodious and clear, and recognizable by sound to all. I recall numerous times when the sound of sleigh bells was heard on clear, cold nights that I have heard my dad remark “There is Dr. Van making a call.” This man was a friend, and professional idol for hundreds.

I could speak of the squirrel hunts in the timbers near home, and of one of dad’s most companionable neighbor hunters – John Clark, another colored man. It used to be my task in squirrel hunting to walk around to the opposite side of the tree to cause the squirrels to move further around the tree – thus to come into view and range of the hunter. This seems now to have been a rather ‘dirty trick’ on the squirrels, but squirrel pie was delicious! Then there were the ‘hog killing’, or butchering bees that took place each winter. Three of four neighbor families would gather at the appointed place early in the forenoon to prepare for the butchering of the family supply of meat. Water was heated in outside huge iron kettles and when boiling hot, poured into a ‘scalding barrel’ into which the hogs were washed up and down to loosen the hair after they had been shot. By the closing hours of the afternoon the butchering had been completed; the carcasses cut up into hams, shoulder, and side meat; the sausage ground and the lard rendered. Lard was rendered by cooking the fat in the same huge iron kettle over an outside fire. As the job was finished each family was giving a ‘mess’ of fresh meat, and then made their way home. In a few days this was repeated at another farm until each family had their meat supply prepared for the season.

I attended school at the Public School in Robinson. The usual means of transportation was walking; and it had to be quite stormy and bad if we were ‘taken to school’. Our cousins, Howard and Herbert, sons of Walter and Belle Quaife; along with other neighbor children, Russell, Donna, and Ward King, and Carl, Viola, and Francis Kopp – would make up the group along our road.

Our family attended the United Brethren Church in Robinson. My first recollection of going to church is of the family riding in the old carriage drawn by Prince and Nell. Sometimes, when all of the family could not go, Molly, a bay horse that drove single, would be hitched to the top buggy for the trip. It was quite a thing when Dad bought a 1918 Ford car and we began to go places in that. Ours was the first ‘sedan’, glass-enclosed car in the community.

In November of 1918 my father journeyed to Hall County, Nebraska, where he completed negotiations to purchase the former home of my mother’s family, the old Cal Goodrich homestead southwest of Cairo. This was somewhile after the death of the grandparents. This trip of Dad’s to Nebraska came at the time of the signing of the Armistice on November 11, 1918. One outstanding recollection of that date is the fact that, when reaching home after school and reporting on the planned Armistice Day celebration for that evening, I asked mother if we could go, and her reply was , “Yes, let’s hurry and get the chores done.” When I inquired as to how we would go, her reply was, “You can drive the car can’t you?” You see ,I had been taught to drive, but had never taken the car without Dad being along. So, one of my first great experiences of being a ‘man’ came on November 11, 1918, when I started up the old Ford Model T and drove to Robinson for the celebration. And what a celebration it was! A huge gunfire was lighted; the Kaiser was burned in effigy; and to climax it all, a Mr. Swift, a deaf-mute, came out of the crowd, and began to take off his clothes and throw them into the fire. It was a dare; and he carried through by burning his overalls, his shirt, shoes, and sox. I can almost see him yet making his departure in his union suit underwear. Needless to say, the townspeople bought Mr. Swift a new outfit.

Upon our purchase of the Goodrich farm in Nebraska, our 80-acre farm was sold to my Uncle Walter through the real estate agency of Mr. Sam Miller of Robinson. On March 1^st, 1919, we moved to Nebraska. Our live stock and household goods, as well as farm machinery, was loaded in a box car at Robinson, and shipped by rail via St. Joseph, Plattsmouth, and Lincoln to Cairo. Mother and we children took the evening passenger train from Robinson to Grand Island, and the next afternoon on to Cairo.

I have revisited the old homesite only a few times since. My last visit was last April when we drove by. The buildings on Grandpa’s place are all gone, and the building site is now in the midst of a field. Only the barn stands on our old home place. Fence rows have been changed; and most of the trees and timber that were familiar are changed.

These are a few of the recollections and reflections that have come to mind. These have all been things that actively took place. TIME MARCHES ON!!

Written by Otto A. Quaife, Kennesaw, Nebraska, February 1, 1968.

MILO MILTON QUAIFE

He was a member of “Who’s Who”. This is a biographical dictionary of noteworthy men and women. This great honor is given to but fifteen in ten thousand. His biography will be found in the issues around the 1940’s and 1950’s. The publisher of “Who’s Who” is Marquis –Who’s Who, Inc., Chicago, IL The “Who’s Who” containing his biography will be found in nearly all of the libraries in the cities of this nation. Dr. Milo Milton Quaife, a great man. He was fatally injured in an auto accident around 1962. A daughter lives, I believe, in the state of New York in 1968 but was unable to get her address.