W-1923DL-JBOB.doc

Remembrances of Julia Bobbitt and Family by Darrell Landau 1999

Preface

I’m writing this July 1999 following our recent Bobbitt reunion in Oberlin KS. During the days following the reunion Ceceilia Kump brought a segement of Warren Kumps book and photo albums Jack Kump put together shortly before he died. I scanned Warrens segments on Bobbitts, Comstocks, Morgans and Julia (Comstock) Bobbitt. I did so in order to write these and other Bobbitt related material on a CD’s for distribution to family members.

I was quite impressed with what Warren compiled – he is to be commended on its quality and the considerable effort it represents. Warren would be the first to admit he began with the work of others, particularly with work his mother Hazel (Bobbitt) Kump did over many years during which she made contact and cooperated with John Bobbitt, on family origins. John spent years preparing a Bobbitt book. Thanks to Hazels efforts Max Bobbitt and I were able to buy a copy of the Bobbitt book, and were thus acquainted with much of the history Warren had for a start.

We were also acquainted with a Comstock Book obtained by Margaret (Bobbitt) Barclay, which covered that family in great detail.

After Warrens work was scanned and photos entered a copy was printed and daughter Julia (Landau) Richards, who was there for the reunion, read it for content and translation errors. She agreed Warren had done a great job, but being a girl she wanted to know more about her namesake Julia as a person. Her comments prompted me to tell things I recalled about Grandma Julia, as I knew her quite well.

The older of us grand kids had a chance to know Grandmother. Max the oldest, three years older than I, died. Warren three years younger, knew her but not as well. Marba Jean (Bobbitt) Fisher and Charles Barclay also knew her but are also gone. The others were too young to have known her well.

Max lived next door to Grandma’s and we lived 2 1/2 blocks away. The Kump’s lived across town, too far for little kids to walk to play together. Several times a week Max and I would play together, often at his and Grandma’s house. My mother Ila (Bobbitt) Landau would often send me over to “help grandma”. We lived in this near by house until I finished Kindergarten. Dad bought a lot and was having a new house built, the house we were living in was sold, and we moved in with grandma for a few weeks until Dad rented a house near where they were building our new home. Thus I was very well acquainted with grandmother, her house and it’s environs.

I recall grandmother as a quiet, almost studious person. It’s true she seldom smiled or laughed, but as a young kid I didn’t take note of this. She often baby sat me when quite little. I recall sitting with her in the living room at the front of the house with the window open and a small fan blowing air over us to cool us off on very hot summer days. She wore her hair rolled up but at such times she’d let her hair out – using the occasion to dry her hair after having washed it using “soft” rainwater. I was under the impression she never cut or had her hair cut as it came down to her waist. She and her daughters would sometimes talk about; should she or should she not have it cut off – they always agreed it would be best to leave it as is. Her wedding ring was also a topic of debate, it was cutting into her finger but she would not let anyone cut it off – she endured hours of pain finally removing the ring without cutting it. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone it could be cut, reconnected and resized.

To me she was always kind and gentle, we’d sometimes visit and sometimes just share each others company. As I became older I came to know her by listening to her visit with neighbor ladies who would stop by on the way to & from market, or being there during a quilting bee.

The neighbor ladies did not have cars to drive to town and all walked the three plus blocks to the market. Someone frequently stopped for a visit and I enjoyed listening. They always assumed I was too young to understand and spoke freely. Often they would speak of other people’s problems, almost always with a sense of concern, I never thought of such conversations as gossip. Such conversations were these ladies way of keeping up with what was going on in the world about them. I don’t recall that grandmother ever took a paper, she couldn’t afford it, and this was her way of keeping informed. When the ladies came to quilt, it was a big deal. I was told to keep out of their way and did, I was an observer and listener. Grandmother got out her special quilting boards and “C” clamps, both guarded as precious items. The ladies would work almost all day while maintaining constant chatter. It was always cheerful and lively, the ladies obviously enjoyed each others company and reinforced bonds developed over the years. I have no recollection of specifics except for a few repeated phrases as, “It’s always the woman who pays”. Had I been a bit older I’d have known who, but even as a child I comprehended the meaning.

I also recall grandmother and her daughters gathering about the dinning room table, often in the kitchen after things were cleaned up. The men would be in the living room playing Pinochle and sustaining a continuous chatter of bidding, melding, playing and shuffling cards. The women, isolated from that chatter, were most interesting to me, I listened. They usually ignored my being present but I was taking in every word they said. They would take up a topic and then debate the subject, with “momma” being the judge. They were excellent debaters, lively, in depth, energetic statements – a true pursuit, probing the attributes of a topic. Each of them let the other speak, and each of them accepted their mothers summary as the final word – they respected the intellect of their momma. Later when I was a freshman in high school I took up debate, in fact won a letter my freshman year, by debating on our school’s first team in the state contest in Topeka KS. It came natural for me, all I needed to do was emulate those three sisters – I’d learned the art of debate before I started school, it was an inheritance. Telling jokes or pulling pranks were not on the agenda, yet each had a good sense of humor when enjoying a picnic environment. They just didn’t find it necessary to make jokes or be funny to have a good time – and they were having a very good time sharing their bond from youth and as married adults with their own families.

****O****

Continued 08-16-03

Mother would send me to “go help grandma”. I don’t recall how old I was when this first came up. I accepted this as a thing I was to do, and would head west down the spur rail road track then north on the east upper side of the sunken road, then left on the side walk to grandma’s. The south side of the street in front of grandmas was a water drainage ditch that made a right angle down the sunken road to a drainage ditch on the south side of the spur rail road track on it’s way to Sappa Creek. Later that ditch was extended diagonally west and the sunken road filled in to be a useable street. Claude Pettis used his teams of mules or horses to grade this street. His son Ted Pettis was my age and we’d sometimes play together. One day Mr Pettis saw him, apparently Ted was supposed to be at home. I watched, aghast as Mr Pettis slapped and kicked Ted, as punishment. I thought it was terrible of him to treat his son that way and told my Dad of the event. Later Ted and I played side by side in “The Line” on our grade school football team – I knew Ted was tough and could take a beating and felt comfortable having him beside me when engaged in “football combat”. We’d practice football in winter up on a hill, then the “airport” runway. We were using old high school football suits – too big with no knee pads. We’d skin our knees on the frozen ground and the next day at practice get “blooded” when the scabs came off at the first scrimmage. The process seemed more acceptable with Ted beside me also coping with his bloody knees.

I’d report to grandma to see what she needed to have done. My arrival was usually a surprise to her. She was often tending her garden north of the Out House and south of the chicken pen. She had the most luscious Rhubarb plants with large green leaves – she called them “pie plant” and indeed made rhubarb pie of them.

The Out House was a two holler built onto the west side of the garage and north of the coal bin – the garage and additions had been built by Ray and Earl before they left home. There was no car in the garage, grandmother never had or learned to drive a car.

Grandmother usually had me clean the chicken house and sometimes clean up the leaves. At an early age I mastered how to use a rake and bushel basket to collect leaves which I’d dump into a place she used to burn waste. Later when sweeping a floor with broom into a dust pan I used the same method, using my shoulder to hold the handle when using right hand to move stuff into a container held with left hand. There were many little things learned at an early age, like to hold the end of a hammer handle or stick to gain “leverage” and “force”.

Chickens

The chicken house seemed always in need of being cleaned – and I was instructed not to disturb the sitting hens. She always had “sitting hens”, each occupied half of an egg case laid on it’s side. These hens were “shut in” and grandma dutifully attended them to be sure they had food and water. I took note of how those hens would sit on their eggs, seemingly content and determined to stay till their eggs hatched. I marveled at their patience and dedication. This is where I became aware chickens rested on “roosts” at night – wood strips like skinny bleacher perches on which they’d balance as they sleep at night. As soon as the sun went down they would go inside the chicken house, get up on a perch and soon be asleep. I never knew of one falling off it’s perch. For reasons I never understood grandma hung banana stocks – which she said was to collect mites. Bananas used to be shipped in large bunches and grandma would bring the large still green stalks home and hang them up. They would dehydrate and indeed be covered with mites by the time I’d remove them to the burn pile.

There were always various ages of chickens, a necessity to provide “chicken every Sunday” meals. When they reached a certain age it was necessary to clip their wings so they couldn’t fly over the fence. Grandma would clip only one wing, after which they would try and try but not achieve altitude.

I became very observant of chicken behavior. There was always a runt in each crop. The littlest of the chicks would be “picked on” by the others. There was always one with feathers picked – when half grown the runt would develop “pin feathers”, until grown enough to fend the others off at which time the feathers would grow out. It always seemed so mean of the others to pick on the littlest. Perhaps observing the plight of the runts I always had a feeling of compassion for someone being “picked on”. That expression has much meaning if your know the ways of chickens – chickens are instinctively mean.

When grandma would “dress a chicken”, a complete misuse of words, she would first kill then pluck the chicken. Grandma used a hatchet to kill the selected chicken, then dip it in a bucket of hot water prepared in advance. (My father killed chickens, as his father had, by wringing their necks, then tossing them go to hop about until quiet.) Grandmother held their headless body by the legs, letting the blood drain, then she’d dunk and slosh them about, heating and wetting the skin so the feathers would readily pluck out. She would then take the chicken inside and cut it up, that is “dress it”, and dump the leftovers in a pan. Once done she’d bring the leftovers out to the chicken pen and toss them over the fence. As this was a recurring event the chickens would gather for the “goodies”. They would grab a piece and run, chased by anothers trying to take it away. If the runt got hold of a piece it was chased unmercifully until taken from him by others. The chickens seemed oblivious to the fact they were eating the remains of one of their own. Chickens seemed to really be dumb – rude thoughtless human behavior reminded me of chickens.

The rooster would strut about, and was the first to recognize dawn – announcing its arrival to all by crowing. I was always puzzled by this, it seemed to serve no purpose – unless an ego trip to attract hens after a nights sleep. Hen’s communicated by “clucking” using a repertoire of sounds. Ever so often the rooster would jump on top of one of the hens, and in a flurry of feathers pick at the hen’s comb, the bright red segment of skin on the top of their head. At the time I was oblivious as to the purpose of this brief balancing act.

I studied chicken behavior, noting their mannerisms such as scratching the dirt then picking to find goodies. They seemed perpetually hungry. The rooster was full of flurry and flash, only the hens seemed to have a sense of purpose, like laying or sitting on eggs. The young males didn’t last long, they were the ones in line – those expendable for the next chicken dinner.

Prior to WW II all farmers raised chickens as did many living in town. After WW II, raising chickens and milking cows became factory endeavors. Few kids today have the opportunity to learn what chickens have to teach.

The Stove

Grandmother had a kitchen “range” and a living room heating “stove”. The living room stove was only used in wintertime. The house had no insulation, inside was just as cold as outside except for the wind break effect and warmth given off by the stove. In those days before basements and central heating all homes had high ceilings with a central chimney. Stove pipe ran from the top of the stove, upward at an angle to the chimney. Good housecleaning demanded that these “stove pipes” be polished periodically to be clean, shinny and black. At some point above the stove there was a “damper”, this was a round piece pivoted at the middle so the round piece inside could be rotated to block or let air flow by use of a protruding handle. There was also a lower damper, with sliding member that would let air in or block air entering under the fire. These stoves were of a “pot belly” variety, most ornately finished to look nice, as they occupied a dominate position in the living room. Coal was supplied through a front door, and held in place by the “grate”. As the fuel burned ashes would fall through. Grates were designed so that a “shaker”, sometimes called “lifter”, handle could be applied to “shake the grating” causing reluctant ashes to fall through. The “lifter-shaker” was a multi purpose tool. Most stoves had a top lid where the lifter could be inserted to lift the lid. Tea kettles often rested on these lids, giving off steam to moisturize the air. A “coal shovel” served to add coal or remove ashes. Coal buckets kept near by included an open spout section so coal could be poured into the stove and not spill on the floor. The coal shovel and a “poker” resided in the coal bucket when not in use. Stoves rested on legs which were placed on a pad, covered with decorative tin, to protect the floor and rugs from spilled coal, ashes or hot cinders. Some one would set the ”draft”, a cooperative setting of bottom and upper damper, to set the flow of air (oxygen) as needed to burn fuel at a desired rate. At night the stove was filled with adequate coal and “banked”, piled to one side, then the dampers closed down to restrict air flow. The objective was to keep the fire glowing through the night. If successful there would still be glowing embers usable to start a fresh fire the next morning. The term damping was confusing, mother dampened cloths she was going to iron by sprinkling water on them. One could slow down a bond fire by sprinkling water on it. Later I noticed butterfly dampers were place in a carburetor inlet to “throttle” the flow of air in order to “feed” and engine more gas.

The first adult up would add fuel and set dampers to heat up the stove – all family members would gather, pointing their fannies to the stove to warm up. We little kids would bring our cloths from bedrooms to be near the fire to warm up and get dressed. These stoves became the focal point of much family togetherness. Anyone having experience the process of heating with a stove become aware that heat is carried by conduction, convection and radiation long before they are exposed to such terms. All with their faces exposed to a hot stove feel the glow of it’s radiation.

After WW II automated central heating – and later cooling – brought this life style to an end. Central heating with coal still provided the need to empty ashes and periodically remove the “clinkers”. Words common to everyday vocabulary fell into disuse.

Bed Pans and Thunder Mugs

We lived briefly at grandmas before moving to a place across the street from where the folks built a new home. I had the NW corner room. At night I’d go to sleep listening to wind vibrate a loose sliver on the corner of the building. In dead of winter it was very very cold and I wore pajamas with feet. Even so it could be bitter cold, making it necessary to warm up a spot to keep warm. After complaints my folks would warm a brick, wrap it in a towel and take the chill off the bed sheets for my feet. Big folks sometimes place coals in “bedpans” used to warm the bed before climbing in. At the time of WW I, and a period of time after. most homes use Out Houses. This called for the use of “potties” or “thundermugs” placed under the bed so a person did not have to go out in a blizzard at night. I didn’t mind the task of emptying my pottie when I had to use it at night. Most people wore “long johns” at night with a flap in back, which could be dropped for pottie sitting. The feet in these was appreciated when it was necessary to negotiate a cold floor to use the pottie. There was much incentive to have homes attached to the sewer system and running water. Our home was made “modern” when I was about age two, several years before grandmothers.

Grandmothers home was equipped with phone and electricity about the time I was born. By the time I started kindergarten mother and grandmother enjoyed the benefit of electric motors to operate their laundry washing machines. Prior to that I would try to help “pump” the handle used to agitate cloths in the wash tub. Long after that mom still use a hand operated wringer and stand alone tubs for rinsing cloths.

Early light bulbs were bare and dangled on cord dropping from high ceilings. Only later did electric irons come into play – for years the kitchen stove used for heating wash water was also used to heat irons to iron cloths. These were times of “progress”, so many things were becoming available – but I would be half way through grade school before mom felt comfortable using store bought bread

After my grandfather died, leaving grandmother with five little kids to raise, she was fortunate that it was still a good time. It required lots of work, but very little cash to sustain a family if you had a home, cow and chickens to start with. Water came from a well, you could chop wood for a fire, you could tend your own garden, chickens and cow. Kids doing odd jobs could help bring in some cash for needles and thread. If someone got sick “home remedies” would suffice – and the consequences were accepted if they didn’t. People entertained themselves and looked after each other. In fact most people were very happy making the best of what they had.

The City Park

West of grandmothers was the City Park. Cousin Max lived next door to grandmothers at the time and we would go there to play. The west side contained camp sites between rows of large cotton wood trees and the east side newer Box Elder trees. Max taught me what his father Ray taught him of how to make whistles of Box Elder branches. The bark would readily come loose when tapped with a knife and slide off like a straw. Notches in the branch for wind would then be covered by sliding the bark back in place. We’d spend hours searching for a “Y” limb with adequate size for use as a “nigger shooter”. We applied the name with no sense of what the word said. Some things like dressing a chicken we accepted though it didn’t’ make sense. We’d search for an old inter tube, which we’d cut into straps and make shooters. We used these to shoot at birds. Mrs Simonson really lit into us for shooting at Her Bluejay!! Until then shooting at birds was no different than shooting at a tree. Max got a BB gun for Christmas and we’d go out in the park and try it out. We’ve use steel trash can lids as “shields” and take turns shooting at each other, aiming at the “shield”. We eventually stopped doing this, knowing the folks would not approve.

Max’s move to Atwood, we moved to Oak St and later Barclays moved in with grandma. I missed seeing and visiting – often just being with grandmother. We moved out about 1930 and grandmother died in 1935. She influenced the person I am in ways I’m not even aware.

Chuck Barclay, Julia Bobbitt, Don Kump -- the Grandmother I recall

Barton Bobbitt and Dick Barclay

Ray Bobbitt, Max Bobbitt, Darrell Landau, Ruth (Pool) Bobbitt; I believe this was Earl’s car

Earl’s wife Ruth died shortly after this photo was taken at a family Sunday dinner at Rell & Ila’s