A hard-working, knowledgeable
farmer, Papa Miller planted, cultivated, and harvested row crops (e.g., corn,
cotton, peanuts), grew watermelons, and his orchards produced apples, apricots,
grapes, mulberries, peaches, pears, persimmons, and pecans ranging in size from
tiny native to giant papershell; Twila says the fruit and nuts he grew won
prizes at fairs, a fact of which I was unaware as a kid (he was past sixty when
I was born, so could have accomplished many things about which I may have been
told but don't recall).
His expertise wasn’t limited to farming. He managed, years before I was born, the acquisition and
installation of the Acton telephone system mentioned in the previous
segment. His personal financial
interest wasn’t large, for I have the evidence of that investment: Acton Telephone Company stock certificate number 77, issued to L.M. Miller on September
24, 1912 for two shares. [I also have
stock certificate number 155, issued to Mrs. William Miller (Papa Miller’s
mother and my great-grandmother) on April 1, 1919 for one share; my granddad,
as president of the company, signed her certificate.]
◊◊◊
Papa Miller ate as heartily as he worked. He wanted hot bread with each meal, which he liberally buttered
(or covered with gravy). Fat content in
his meals had to have been substantial, for the butter and gravy were in
addition to a pork-laden diet; nevertheless, he lived to be 89, and an
abdominal malignancy, not his heart, was the cause of his death.
Each meal
at the Miller house began with his offering thanks to the Lord for the food
before him, but I couldn’t understand most of what he said. For years I wondered what he meant by an
expression near the end of each prayer, when he used a word that sounded like
“false” to me. I finally realized, long
after the last time I heard him ask the blessing before a meal, that he was
probably asking the Lord to “forgive us our faults.” “False” and “faults” can sound alike.
He finished most meals I ever saw him eat with hot bread slathered with
a mixture of molasses and butter. He
began by pouring molasses onto his plate, adding a large knife-load of butter,
then carefully mixing the two. He
“speared” bite-sized chunks of bread with his fork (held upside down in his
left hand), smeared on a portion of the molasses/butter mixture, then carried
each morsel to his mouth to slowly chew and savor.
Papa
Miller always ate with his fork in his left hand, his knife in his right – the
only person I knew who did so. I thought
it a peculiar practice until years later when I worked with people who had been
transferred to the United States from Great Britain and Europe and noted that
most of them handled their eating utensils similarly; then, when I traveled in
Europe, I found myself to be the exception when using both knife and fork with
my right hand.
Papa Miller usually relaxed for a while after lunch with The Fort
Worth Press (received by mail), reading items of particular interest aloud
to my grandmother. If she wasn’t right
at hand, he called out, “Jillie (his pronunciation of “Julia”), listen to
this,” then read the article to her.
Although he might relax in a chair for a while after his midday meal, I
never knew him to nap, or even lie down to rest, in daytime. He did all his sleeping at night, on a
foldaway double bed in the hallway separating the kitchen/living rooms of their
house from the bedrooms; that hallway crossed the house from north to south,
with doors to porches at each end, so it caught the night breezes. I never saw the bed unfolded in daylight
hours until he was bedridden during his final illness.
◊◊◊
He owned only one automobile during his lifetime – a Model T Ford
touring car, which he kept from the time of its purchase in 1915 until shortly
before his death in 1953; it was housed, out of the weather, in his barn. I have its original license plate, bearing
the number “116;” my understanding is that his car was the 116th
licensed in Hood County. I also have
two photos of the car, taken when it was fairly new; my granddad was standing
beside it in one of the pictures.
His Model T wasn’t driven much during the years I recall. He drove it to the Church of Christ in
Granbury on Sunday mornings as long as he was able, but used it little
otherwise.
His Model
T required hand-cranking, which resulted in his sustaining a broken
arm once when the crank “kicked back;” that happened before my time, so I
didn’t see him while he was indisposed.
Cranking
could be made easier by jacking up a rear wheel, which would spin after the
engine fired, until the jack was let down.
The effort necessary to jack up a wheel, crank the engine, then remove
and put away the jack may well have discouraged Papa Miller from using the car
any more than absolutely necessary.
Ë
His car
had passenger entrance doors, but no driver’s door, although the outline of a
door was stamped into the sheet metal.
After cranking/starting the engine, he simply stepped over the sidewall,
from the running board to the driver’s seat.
Ë
Steering
and acceleration were done by hand, gear-shifting by foot. The Model T had three foot-pedals – the left
pedal engaged the two forward gears, the center pedal engaged reverse, and the
right pedal operated the brakes. The forward gear (left) pedal was depressed to
the floorboard to shift the transmission into “low,” then released to shift
into “high.” To back up, one held the left pedal at its neutral mid-point,
between the two forward gears, then depressed the middle pedal all the way to
the floorboard to engage the reverse gear.
Ë
Engaging the
emergency brake (located between the sidewall and the driver’s seat) kept the
transmission in neutral while one cranked the engine. After starting the engine, the driver could get behind the wheel,
depress the left pedal halfway (i.e., to the neutral position), release the
emergency break, then operate the pedals to start the vehicle in the desired
forward or reverse direction.
Ë
The throttle
and spark advance were operated by hand controls on the steering column, just
below the steering wheel; the spark advance lever was on the left, the throttle
lever on the right.
Papa Miller gave his Model T to my cousin Dean’s husband, Curtis Harris,
a year or so before his death. I
thought nothing of his giving the car away back then, but I wish nowadays it
had stayed in the barn, well-preserved, as long as family members lived on the
place (until 1967), for, in addition to its value as an heirloom, it would have
been worth many times its original cost.
I have no idea what Curtis did with the car, and didn’t think to ask him
or Dean about it in later years; both are now dead, so I suppose I’ll never
know.
◊◊◊
I noted in an earlier segment that my granddad was conservative in
dress and spending habits; however, he occasionally did things in contrast
therewith. Perhaps the most outstanding
deviation was his visit to Galveston, by train, after a September, 1900
hurricane and flood destroyed most of the city (estimates of lives lost ran as high as
twelve thousand). I don’t know whether
he went simply to see the destruction, or to help with relief efforts; I didn’t
think to ask about it when anyone who would have known the answer was still
alive. Insofar as I know, the Galveston
trip was his only venture away from Hood County or points nearby after settling
on his Acton farm; he liked to talk about Galveston (he accented the second syllable,
rather than the first), and I suspect that trip was the highlight of his adult
life. (Twila and I enjoyed looking
through his large hardbound book picturing and describing the destruction.)
Though conservative, my granddad was talented, and from time to time
used his talents to entertain Twila and me:
·
We loved his “shadow show,” which could only be done
at night; we didn’t see it often, for we were seldom at his house after
dark. He created shadow images on a bed
sheet hung across a doorway between him and viewers. A lamp behind him provided the light he used to create the
shadows. I never learned how he created
most of the images.
·
He played the harmonica and Jew’s harp. I don’t remember any particular songs he
played, but I’m sure they were either religious or folk music.
·
He sang humorous words to a couple of hymn tunes. His revised version of “The Old Rugged
Cross” was, “On a hill far away/Stood an old
Chevrolet/Its tires all blowed out and worn/When I pulled out the choke/The
steering wheel broke/I’ll trade it some day for a Ford.” Then, to the tune of the chorus of “At the
Cross” he sang, “At the bar, at the bar, where I
smoked my first cigar/And the nickels from my pocket rolled away/It was there
by chance that I tore my Sunday pants/And now I’ll have to wear them every
day.” Never sacrilegious, he only
intended to entertain us; my memory shows he succeeded.
Papa Miller also played cylindrical recordings of other folks’ performances
for us, using an Edison machine he purchased in
1900. The player, its two horns and
their tripod stand, plus his sizable record collection were eventually passed
down to me (because I had enjoyed the music so much as a child); the machine
and horns are now a part of my daughter Vicky’s décor in her San Antonio
condominium.
◊◊◊
Papa Miller owned forty acres of land in what is now Big Bend National Park. He never
saw the property, but paid taxes on it for over twenty years before it was
condemned (as a part of a total package of 691.3 thousand acres of land) by the
state of Texas, then given to the federal government.
He assumed title to the land in 1919 as payment for a debt of two
hundred dollars. Annual taxes on the property, which he paid from 1920 through
1941, ranged from a low of $.47 to a high of $1.85.
He received nothing for his property after its condemnation, although
the state had offered owners from $1 to $2 per acre. Failure to pay him apparently resulted from a mixup in Brewster
County records; his property was confused with that of an L.G. Miller (note the
similarity of initials – L.G. and L.M.).
I knew little about the property as a child; in subsequent years I
heard my parents speak of it, but learned no details. However, during the late ‘80s I came into possession of my
granddad’s file of paperwork regarding the property (from the time he took
title until title was taken from him); I sorted through and reviewed cancelled
notes, tax receipts, attorneys’ correspondence, etc. until I gained a fairly
clear picture of what had happened, then on April 26, 1989 wrote the Brewster
County Tax Assessor and Collector, outlined my findings, and asked why my
granddad had received no payment for his condemned land, even though he had
tried, through his attorney, to obtain compensation.
The October 19, 1989 answer I received from the assistant chief
appraiser of the Brewster County Appraisal District acknowledged the validity
of my findings, but stated that my granddad should have filed a Bill of Review
within two years after the state had assumed title to the land. His attorney was apparently unaware of that
requirement.
I hadn’t expected any action after nearly fifty years had passed, but I
was happy to have unraveled a bit of the mystery.
Had Papa Miller received the $200 loan repayment in cash, instead of
assuming ownership of arid land, and invested it in something returning
annually compounded earnings of 4% per year, the investment would have grown to
$4,609.95 by the end of 1999, eighty years after its acquisition. Instead, only a file of worthless (though
interesting) paper remains.
◊◊◊
Papa Miller lived to be eighty-nine, but wasn’t healthy during the last
few years of his life; he died in 1953, nearly sixteen years after our family
left Acton. During the early stages of
his terminal illness he was taken to a Fort Worth hospital for exploratory
surgery (which revealed an inoperable stomach malignancy); before entering the
hospital he asked my dad to keep his wallet for him, inside of which were
several large-dimensioned bills (approximately four inches by seven inches)
whose use had been discontinued in the ‘20s.
I now have the wallet in which he carried those oversized bills; it is
in very good shape, so I suspect he only carried it when he left home, which,
as I’ve said, wasn’t often.
His funeral was held at the Church of Christ in Granbury. He and his parents had joined the Waples
Church of Christ (the only church in Waples at that time, according to my
mother) when they moved from Indiana some years after the Civil War, and he
continued Church of Christ membership the rest of his life. He was buried in Acton cemetery.
My grandmother Miller had worked
in the fields during her younger days, but didn’t in the years I knew her – yet
her workdays were full. She rose early
each morning to milk the cow(s) before preparing breakfast. She stayed busy all morning with
housekeeping duties and preparation for the noon meal. I saw her many times on her hands and knees,
scrub brush in hand, scouring floors – while keeping an eye on cooking food.
When the noon meal was over
and dishes washed/dried/put away, she might stop to read an Edgar A. Guest poem
in the newspaper (sitting very near a window in order to see the print while
shading her eyes with her left hand to protect them from glare), then lie down
for a short nap. In warm weather she
napped on a hallway floor, lying at its south doorway (to get the benefit of
breezes), using a velvet-covered brick as her pillow; the brick served as a
doorstop at other times.
[My dad,
like his mother, often napped on the floor for a few minutes before returning
to the fields after lunch. Our house,
however, had no cross-hallway to lie in, so he didn’t get cooling breezes, nor
did he use a brick for a pillow.]
Mama Miller’s life wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t one to laugh and joke,
but she thought the world of her grandchildren (Twila, me, and our cousin Dean) and would have done
anything for us. She could amuse Twila
and me by “popping” her dentures from her mouth about an inch, then popping them back in place,
without using her fingers; I thought that to be a neat trick – one not
performed by other oldsters I knew.
She often emphasized the
passage of time since a described event from her early years by prefacing the
tale with, “Back when the world was young and grass
was green…”
·
She, with her parents and
siblings, attended the last hanging in Hood
County, to which they traveled in a wagon and took a basket lunch. (Contrast that with modern America, which
debates whether executions for capital offenses should be televised; public
hangings were accepted “old west” practice.)
·
She often talked about
Falls and Callahan Counties – where she’d lived, in addition to Hood County,
before she and Papa Miller settled (for life) on their farm near Acton. She never mentioned names of towns when talking
about her early-life experiences, but I learned years later that she was born
at Reagan (southeast of Waco and northeast of Temple, in Falls County), moved
to Hood County while still a young girl, then lived in (or near) Putnam (in
Callahan County, just east of Abilene) as a young wife.
·
She recalled Indian
firebrand attacks in Falls County.
I mentioned in the foreword to these writings that my grandmother
Miller was a member of Acton Baptist Church when she was growing up, but
attended the Church of Christ after she married Papa Miller, who, as I’ve noted
earlier, began attending that church when his family moved from Indiana to
Waples. Twila says Mama Miller made the
wine for their church’s weekly communion for many years. I never knew her (or other close relatives)
to consume beverage alcohol; that weekly “thimble-full” of wine undoubtedly
comprised her total alcoholic intake.
◊◊◊
Mama Miller seldom left home as she grew older, but I recall a Saturday
afternoon in the ‘30s when she went to Granbury with our family. She shopped for groceries, then returned to
the car to sit with Twila and me while Mother shopped; her purchases included
several bananas, all of which Twila and I
ate while we waited. Mother was
embarrassed by our greediness, but my grandmother assured her she didn’t mind.
◊◊◊
My grandmother kept geese for a time when Twila and I were small. The geese often nibbled at the tender,
fleshy part of Twila’s thighs, causing her to run to the nearest adult
complaining that “the geese are biting my lard!”
I became the target of Mama Miller’s milk cow one day after I’d visited
the outhouse, which at that time was located down past the barn, next to the
cow lot. Unbeknownst to me, the cow, a
none-too-friendly old girl who had never been dehorned, was out of the lot, saw
me as I exited the little building, and headed toward me with horns lowered. I was neither big nor brave, so I ran toward
the house yelling for help. Mama Miller
heard me, rushed to the yard gate to open it as I arrived just ahead of the
brutal bovine, and shut it behind me
after I ran through; I must have been far enough ahead that my grandmother was
able to avoid being gored when her crazy cow reached the gate.
The
outhouse was later moved, away from the barn and farm livestock, to the orchard
area northwest of the house. I don’t
know whether my race with old Bossy had anything to do with the decision to
move it.
With farm animals and numerous fowl – chickens, ducks, geese, and
guineas – running around the Miller premises, one needed to be careful where he
stepped, particularly if barefooted. I
often sought wash water after I had misstepped and “cut my foot.”
◊◊◊
Mama Miller usually called me “Ken” or “Kenny-boy” when I was young,
but sometimes mistakenly called me “Glenn.”
That error was understandable, for she and Papa Miller had taken in and
reared her young niece and nephew, Dessie and Glenn Ferguson, following the deaths of
their parents, so she had called Glenn’s name many times before I was born; the
similarity of our names led to the mixups.
Bernard Ferguson,
Glenn’s and Dessie’s dad, met a violent and untimely death when returning to
Texas in September, 1901 after working for a time as a logger in southern
Missouri; he was murdered for his money on the 23rd of that month
near Blytheville, Arkansas, as he returned home with his savings. Alice Goodwin Ferguson, my grandmother
Miller’s sister, the mother of Glenn and Dessie, died of tuberculosis about two
years later, at age 32, leaving the two children parentless.
Glenn and Dessie died young themselves, although both grew to
adulthood. Dessie taught at the Acton
school for a time. Both died before I
was born, so I never knew them.
Glenn died
of tuberculosis. Dessie died during a
flu epidemic. A December 30, 1918
invoice, billed to my granddad, for the services of Gordon & Oxford of
Granbury (Dealers in Furniture, Carpets, Matting, Undertakers’ Goods) shows
$86.50 billed for expenses of her December 23 funeral (Casket & Box $65.00;
Hearse $15.00; Lining Grave $3.00; Flowers $3.50).
◊◊◊
I enjoyed watching Mama Miller make hominy and soap. Both processes were a bit involved; each
incorporated the use of lye, and was performed in a large cast iron wash pot. I’ve often wished I had paid more attention
back then, so I could remember just how each job was done; fortunately, the
Internet has enabled me to capture the knowledge I failed to learn as a child:
·
Soap results from the chemical reaction of an acid and a base,
e.g., sodium hydroxide plus water plus grease; sodium hydroxide plus water plus
fat, when boiled, becomes soap plus glycerine.
An Internet recipe submitted by Edith Presley Bastin says to dissolve a
can of lye in two and one-half pints of cold water and pour the mixture into an
iron kettle with six pounds of clean grease (consistency of honey) over a
medium hot fire, stir with a long handled wooden paddle until well mixed and
beginning to thicken, pour into molds or shallow containers, let set overnight,
then cut into squares.
·
A hominy recipe by Brandie
says to place one quart of dry field corn, four quarts of water, and one ounce
of lye in an enameled kettle, boil vigorously for one-half hour, let stand for
20 minutes, rinse several times with hot water, then rinse with cool water
until you can handle the hominy to rub off the dark kernel tips. Float away the tips, add water to cover
hominy one inch, and boil five minutes; drain and repeat four times, then cook
one-half hour or until kernels are tender.
(Brandie’s recipe proceeds with instructions for canning the six pints
of hominy produced.)
The soap recipe comports with my memory. We never lacked for soap-making materials, for we had plenty of
hog lard, water, and firewood; lye cost only ten cents per can (or it could be
leached from wood ashes).
I don’t remember Mama Miller’s hominy-making process being quite as
involved as is Brandie’s above, but hers did require the boiling of the dry corn
in a mixture of lye-water, then repeated rinsings, so was the same in
essence. She made hominy in much larger
quantities, using the same big iron wash pot in which she made soap and boiled laundry.
◊◊◊
I enjoyed my grandmother’s cooking.
Her desserts were particularly good; Twila declares that her fried peach
and apricot pies have never been surpassed.
She usually had “plain cake” on hand, which was very good with either
fresh or canned peaches.
I never saw Mama Miller sit down and eat with the family (and guests)
until after she suffered a disabling stroke; she always stood in the doorway
between the kitchen and the dining area, waiting table while others ate. When everyone else left the table, she
filled her plate, sat down, and ate alone.
I wonder, as I write this, whether she sat at the table with Papa Miller
and my aunt Sue when they had no company; unfortunately, I didn’t ask that
question when any of the three was still alive, so I must continue to wonder.
I haven’t
previously mentioned my aunt Sue (Susan Florence Miller), other
than noting in the foreword that she was my dad’s unmarried sister. Sue worked in Fort Worth (e.g., the Texas
Hotel) for some years as a young adult, but returned to live with Mama and Papa
Miller by about the time she turned forty.
She was with both during their final illnesses; each would probably have
required institutional care had she not been present. Sue continued to live on the old home place until her own death
(in 1967, if I remember correctly).
Mama Miller couldn’t use her left arm or leg after suffering a
paralyzing stroke in the early ‘40s.
Fortunately, she could still talk, and enjoyed having someone read to
her. She died in April, 1949, two weeks
before the 83rd anniversary of her birth. Her funeral was held in Acton Baptist Church, which she had
attended while growing up, and she was buried in the Acton cemetery.