Eighty-eight Years, as I Remember Them.
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
                           By Christina Herness.
      
      
       Anyone who is familiar with Grandpa Stepler's autobiography
     -"Eighty Years as Lived and Told by John Henry Stepler, VDM "-
     will notice the similarity  in the titles of his autobiography
     and mine. I do not believe that Grandpa, if he were still living,
     would object to my borrowing from the title of his story. I hope
     that some of my descendants will write their own life stories,
     using similar titles; mine would thus become the second in a
     series. Grandpa's autobiography was typewritten by his grandson,
     my cousin Waldo. So far as I know, there were no computers at
     that time. Now I am typing this on a computer, with the help of
     my grandson, Kevin. (I wonder how coming generations will produce
     and store such records?)
       I have been encouraged in this undertaking not only by Kevin
     but by every member of my family with whom I have discussed it -
     and especially by my niece, Miriam (the " family historian").
       Grandpa Stepler was born 150 years ago, in 1841. When some one
     of a younger generation adds his/her story to mine, I wonder how
     many years will be covered by the entire series of biographies?
      
       I was born in the village of Rocky River, a suburb of
     Cleveland, Ohio, on Feb. 5, 1903. My parents were Philip
     Melanchton Stepler and Mary (Lieberknecht) Stepler. They had six
     children; besides myself they were Martha born in 1898, Bertha in
     1899, Harvey in 1901, Dorothy in 1905 and Frieda in 1908.
      
       My mother's parents - Heinrich Lieberknecht and Katrina
     (Morgenstern) Lieberknecht - came to this country from Germany
     sometime between 1848 and 1863. They had four children; Heinrich
     (Henry), Katrina (Kate), Marie (Mary, our mother) and Fred.
       I remember seeing Uncle Henry only once. He had reportedly run
     away from home when he was only fourteen years old because his
     father was abusive. He had changed his name to Fischer; when
     later he married and had children they never knew that he had
     once had a different name.
       He came alone one day to visit our mother some time after
     Grandpa Lieberknecht had died. When he was about to leave I
     (probably about five years old) made the mistake of asking him,
     "Where are you going?" I have never forgotten his stiff, formal
     response, "I have business of importance that requires my
     attention". No one had ever spoken to me in that way before. I
     decided that he didn't like me, so I didn't like him.
       So far as I can recall, I never met Aunt Kate, although she
     came to Mother's funeral in 1920. I was in the house when someone
     told me that she was out in front where people were starting to






     get in the cars for the ride to the cemetery, and that she was
     making a bit of a fuss about which car she was to ride in. Under
     the circumstances, I didn't feel like going out to meet her. I
     was told that she and Dad never got on well together, and that
     she had opposed Mother's marriage to him, but I never learned
     why.
       Uncle Fred, on the other hand, was always friendly and
     sociable. He was the motorman on the inter-urban street car that
     passed about half a mile from our home. He sometimes stopped by
     for a short visit with Mother. Once he asked her to make him some
     "gebrannte Mehl Suppe" (a home remedy for digestive upset). And I
     remember when shortly after he and Aunt Lill were married, he
     brought his new bride to our home. She was standing in front of
     the mirror, adjusting her hat, and smiled at me when she noticed
     that I was watching her. I warmed up to her at once. I have only
     a vague recollection of meeting her a few times in later years.
      
       February 5, 1991    Today I am 88 years old. I am thinking back
     to my very earliest memory. Mama has just put me in Dorothy's
     baby buggy. (I was not aware that it had earlier been mine). She
     and Martha were standing there while Martha fussed with a bright
     ribbon in my hair, trying to arrange it so that I could see it
     out of the corner of my eye. They were telling me that if I would
     stop pulling out my hair (something that I didn't remember ever
     doing) I could wear that ribbon! Martha was especially
     enthusiastic. They were talking about a hair ribbon but what came
     across to me, from the two people who knew everything in the
     world, was the implication that I was in charge of my own
     behavior; this was heady stuff! It struck me as a great
     revelation. I don't recall whether or not I ever earned the right
     to wear the ribbon after that, or whether there was any follow-up
     of any kind; but for the moment at least I felt empowered. I was
     "sitting on top of the world" - in a baby buggy!
       Another very early memory: I was on Grandpa Lieberknecht's lap
     in what was then our "front room." He was giving me candy from a
     colorful striped bag. Dorothy was crawling on the floor, playing
     with clothes-pins (as she often did, since toys were scarce). She
     didn't notice that I had candy and she didn't. Somehow I had the
     feeling that Grandpa would not have wanted me to call her
     attention to it so I said nothing but felt a bit guilty about not
     sharing with her, as I sat licking the candy. (Years later
     someone told me that Grandpa Lieberknecht, in his old age, had
     taken a strong dislike for Dorothy because she put clothes-pins
     in his shoes).
       My only other personal recollection of Grandpa Lieberknecht was
     probably during his last illness. He was heading for the door
     when Mama urged him not to go out because it was raining. But he
     was determined, so she put a blanket around his shoulders and
     stood by the kitchen window with tears in her eyes as she watched
     him walk very slowly out toward the barn. He died soon after
     that, but I remember nothing about his death or funeral.
       I never knew Grandma Lieberknecht - she died about five years
     before I was born.
       Some other incidents that I recall from early childhood: I was
     considerably older but still under school age when one day I






     noticed that some men were digging a ditch in Cramer's garden.
     (Cramers lived next door; a driveway separated their property
     from ours). Having nothing more interesting to do, I went over to
     watch them work. I stepped a little too close and almost fell in;
     some of the dirt fell back in where they had just dug it out. In
     a terrifying, loud voice one of the men said, "If you don't stay
     away from here I'm going to put your head between your ears!" I
     was terribly scared; I ran home as fast as I could, and I heard
     those murderous men laughing as I ran! I hid in a clothes closet
     until I felt that it was safe to come out.
       One Halloween, when I was still too young to get dressed
     without help, Martha decided that it would be fun for me to be
     dressed as a boy and go with her to join the neighborhood
     festivities. So she dressed me in Harvey's clothes that were not
     much too big for me, and led me out to where Mama was hoeing in
     the garden. When she asked if Mama knew who this was, and Mama
     said, "No", my whole world fell apart and I started to bawl!
     Nothing they said could reassure me; I kept on bawling until
     Martha dressed me in my own clothes. Now I could believe it
     when Mama said she knew me, and my world fell back into place.
      
       Realistically, there was no reason for any of us to feel
     insecure in relation to our mother. She was very possessive about
     her children. Once someone (I never found out who) did offer to
     take one or perhaps two of us to rear, and thus ease the burden
     of caring for all of us. Mother was furious! I recall overhearing
     her tell a neighbor woman about it. "Yes", she was saying,"I have
     six children. And I have ten fingers! That doesn't mean that I'm
     willing to give any of them away! My children are mine!"
      
       When Frieda was learning to talk she called me "Kittydeena";
     sugar was "futaguta". One day she, Dorothy and I decided to
     pretend that we were making supper. A large, flat burdock leaf
     was our tablecloth. There were quite a few edible weeds. Some
     small, flattened round seeds we called cheese; Dorothy or I
     suggested that the sour-grass leaves be called cabbage. Frieda
     had been quietly agreeable as usual up to this point, but now she
     became really upset and ready to cry. "No, 'ets not p'ay
     cabadeez!" So we changed the cabbage to lettuce and she was
     satisfied.
      
       During my earliest childhood we lived in a four-room house,
     with two rooms downstairs and two upstairs; as the family grew a
     partition was put in to divide the larger upstairs room into two.
     The kitchen had a wooden floor that had to be frequently
     scrubbed. There was no plumbing, no running water, no
     electricity, no basement. Originally there were no clothes
     closets, but they were put in before my time. Cooking was done on
     a coal stove. Water was brought in from the well in a bucket. We
     had kerosene lamps with wicks that had to be trimmed frequently.
     (Martha usually did that).
       In front of the house winter onions grew where a lawn was put
     in later. There was - and I think still is - a well-shaped,
     healthy maple tree near the road. Some distance behind the house
     was a barn with stalls for the horses, a work area with the






     hay-loft above, and an engine room that contained a gasoline
     engine for pumping the water to irrigate the crops. The engine
     room walls were papered with newspapers - all upside down! When I
     was old enough to question Martha about this she told me that she
     remembered a time before I was born - and before our house was
     built - when she and our parents lived in that one room. Dad had
     covered the walls with newspaper to help keep out the cold, and
     had put them upside down so that he would not be tempted to take
     time for reading them when he should be working!
       Both Dad and Mom worked long and hard under difficult
     conditions and without adequate facilities. When Martha was a
     toddler there was no play-pen to put her in so Mom put her
     wherever she could keep an eye on her. Once when she left Martha
     at the end of the beet-patch while she thinned the beets, she
     turned around and saw Martha coming along behind her, pulling up
     all the beets that she had left standing!
       While they were living in that one room, Dad was sick with
     typhoid fever for practically one whole summer. Martha remembered
     that at his request  she once brought him some water in a dipper,
     while Mom was working outside. The doctor had said that Dad was
     not to drink the water, but of course Martha was not aware of
     that at the time.
       Years later, when Dorothy was a toddler, she became dangerously
     ill with diarrhea. At that time we had a good, productive apple
     tree near the house, and the apples were just getting ripe, so
     our parents thought she might have gotten sick from eating green
     apples. Apparently the doctor agreed; he put her on a diet of
     nothing but malted milk, and she stayed on that diet for a long
      time. I don't remember ever seeing her when she was sick, but I
     do remember the long row of empty malted milk bottles on the
     shelf. The apple tree was cut down, to prevent any of the rest of
     us from developing the same illness, which of course meant that
     we were deprived of a tasty supplement to our diet. From today's
     perspective it seems to me unlikely that the cause of Dorothy's
     illness was green apples which she would more than likely have
     spit out because of the sour taste. I assume that the cause -
     like the cause of Dad's typhoid fever years earlier- could well
     have been the general lack of adequate sanitation. There were
     manure piles near the barn, and it seemed that we were forever
     swatting flies in the house. Sometimes, especially when food was
     being cooked, the flies became too numerous to swat one at a
     time; we would darken the room, open the door and wave aprons or
     towels around to chase them out. The situation improved later
     when screen doors and windows were installed and all of us were
     old enough to close the door when we went in or out.
       The general level of sanitation in the village can be inferred
     from the lyrics of a song we were taught in school -"Baby bye,
     there's a fly. Let us watch him, you and I. How he crawls, up the
     walls, Yet he never falls! I believe with six such legs, You and
     I could walk on eggs. There he goes, on his toes, Tickling baby'
     nose!"
       In spite of everything our parents were able to gradually
     improve our living conditions. I remember when they decided to
     have a basement put under our house. For a few nights we slept in
     the hay-loft while the house was off its foundation and resting






     precariously on wooden beams. Sleeping in the hay-loft was fun,
     but we had to move back into the house when it was ready.
       The new basement added some much-needed storage space, and
     provided room for a coal-fired furnace. A chute was put through
     an opened window and coal was shoveled in until there was a big
     pile of it near the furnace. Later a wash machine was installed
     by the opposite wall; shelves were put in wherever there was room
     for them.
       There was no refrigerator but we had an icebox, with a pan
     underneath to catch the dripping water. About once a week during
     the summer an "ice-man" would come by, with children running
     along behind his wagon, hoping to pick up one of the smaller
     chunks of ice that fell off as he carried a huge block of it into
     someone's house.
       Other delivery men and peddlers came by frequently. Glass
     bottles of milk were left on our back steps every day. Now and
     then a knife sharpener, or a Bible or other book salesman
     appeared. Harvey kept alert for the "rag-man" who called out
     "Rags, Old iron!" as he drove along in his one-horse wagon. If
     any scrap iron or any rags in the rag-bag that hung in the
     stairway had accumulated since his last visit, Harvey would run
     out with it and get perhaps a quarter or a even a half-dollar in
     return.
      
       Where our property ended some distance behind the barn was "the
     woods", and this was our main playground. Here we hunted for wild
     flowers and berries in season, watched the little wild animals,
     listened to birds and improvised a variety of games. We were
     gathering violets one warm day when we heard the "ice-cream man"
     ringing his bell as he drove by in his cart. In the past, Mom had
     sometimes given us enough small change so we could get a penny
     cone for each of the children and a nickel cone for each adult
     present. But now she had gone on some errand, and we had no
     money. I wanted ice cream so I ran out to the driver with a hand
     full of violets, and in turn he gave me a penny ice-cream cone; I
     think both of us were pleased with the bargain. I shared the cone
     with the three or four other children who were with me; we each
     had a lick.
      
       One day the woods caught fire! Men appeared from everywhere
     with pails and in practically no time a bucket brigade reached
     from our well pump to the woods where Dad and a couple of other
     men were throwing the water on the trees as fast as they could.
     No one had time to pay any attention to me as I went up to a tree
     that was no longer burning and touched it to see how hot it was.
     Of course I burned the tip of my finger. When the fire was out
     most of the men disappeared as fast as they had  come; a few
     stayed to talk with Dad. Years later a village water system was
     installed and a Fire Department set up.
      
       We had two gentle work horses. They had to stay in the barn
     most of the time when they were not working but sometimes they
     were let out for exercise. There was no pasture area on our
     property, and no room for one. (We had only two acres).
     Occasionally Dad would lead one of the horses along the road.






     Once when he was doing so, I happened to be playing alongside
     the road as he and the horse came by. He picked me up and put
     me on the horse's back. Both the horse and I were surprised,
     I had never been on horseback before, and I wasn't sure that
     I liked it. The horse definitely did not like it. He put his
     head down almost to the ground, and hard as I tried to hang
     onto his mane, I slid off and lay there with his iron-shod
     foot just inches from my face. He stood still while Dad picked me
     up and put me on my feet. I was thoroughly frightened and have
     never been on a horse since.
      
       Agnes Hanson was a playmate who lived across the road. When she
     and I were both sick with some childhood illness, she "wrote a
     letter" that Mom delivered to me with all the seriousness that
     the occasion called for, and it meant a lot to me. Agness and I
     were under school age, and the letter contained no words, only
     pictures of a house and some people. But it was the first letter
     I ever received. I sent a similar letter back to her.
      
       I don't know how old I was when we had some rabbits in a pen
     close to the barn, but I was not yet old enough to understand
     that paper money comes in different denominations - I knew about
     pennies, nickels and dimes, but to me paper money, no matter what
     its actual value, was simply "dollar bills". One day a man came
     to buy a rabbit. I thought of the rabbits as pets, and would
     never have considered selling any of them. I watched as Dad not
     only gave him a rabbit in exchange for a " dollar bill", but then
     gave him back two different dollar bills and some nickels and
     dimes besides! I was very angry. As I saw it, he was paying the
     man for taking that nice rabbit away from us. I said nothing
     because I never did win an argument with Dad, but if I had told
     him he would have explained that paper money is not all the same.
     I recall the time when he was teaching Harvey to recognize small
     coins by feel, without looking at them. This was a skill that
     would come in handy when he helped Dad to sell vegetables at the
     market before dawn - the lantern on the wagon gave out only a dim
     light.
       Harvey went to market with Dad more often, I think, than any of
     the rest of us, but Dad did try to take each of us in turn when
     we were old enough. I was probably about ten years old when he
     allowed me to go with him. I was fascinated by the lights of the
     city as we drove slowly toward it in the dark with the two-horse
     wagon that was loaded with vegetables. Other wagons were already
     there when we arrived at the market. Dad told me the prices and I
     sold a few items. Sometimes women who lived nearby and who were
     wearing big aprons would ask,"How much, basket back?" This meant
     that they did not want to pay for the container, they would
     carry the vegetables in their aprons. One woman, when almost
     everything was sold, was not wearing an apron but said she had
     only enough money with her to pay the "basket back" price for the
     cull tomatoes; she would bring the basket back after she got
     home. Dad suggested instead that I go with her to her home and
     bring back the basket. He warned me not to depend on wagons as
     landmarks to find my way back because many of them would be
     leaving soon. I noticed a sign high up above the buildings, it






     said "Children Cry For Castoria" and this was the landmark that
     helped me to find my way back to Dad's wagon.
      
       When I was growing up I felt much closer to Mom than to Dad. On
     those infrequent occasions when she went away somewhere and left
     Dad in charge of us children, he was anything but relaxed. He
     seemed to assume that he had to actively entertain us every
     minute of the time. I remember one day when he stood on his head
     and walked on his hands along the gravel driveway to amuse us.
     Another time he cracked black walnuts for us with Mom's
     flatirons; of course she protested about this when she came home
     as it was not easy to get the irons clean again. (There were no
     wash-and-wear garments in those days, almost everything that was
     laundered had to be ironed; the irons were heated on the coal
     stove.)
      
      Our parents were among the first in our immediate neighborhood
     to have a telephone installed; I think this was when Dad was
     supplementing his income by "Teaming, Excavating and Lawn
     Grading", and the telephone was an important link to people
     needing such services. Neighbors who had no telephones often
     asked to use ours for important and (usually) brief
     conversations. None of them ever paid, nor were they expected to,
     although the phone company charged according to the number of
     minutes the phone was in use. I recall one woman who made a
     long-distance call to her son and began each repetitious sentence
     with a drawling, "Ya, Martin, mein lieber Sohn" (Yes, Martin, my
     dear son), over and over again until Dad could hardly restrain
     himself from interrupting to tell her to make it short. She was a
     poor woman and could not have paid for that call; she probably
     never thought of the cost. Another neighbor who had never before
     used a phone said that she needed some meat and couldn't get to
     the butcher shop; a friend had told her that she could get it by
     phone. (Most butchers delivered to homes). After making her call
     she sat for quite a while and finally explained that she was
     waiting for the meat to come over the phone. Mom quietly and
     patiently set her straight.
      
       One of my earlier memories is of walking to Sunday School with
     my older sisters, with a penny in my hand to put in the
     collection plate. Our parents would come later for the church
     service. There were only about eight or ten "German Reformed"
     families in the village but they evidently considered it
     essential that they have their own church. In Sunday School we
     learned to read German - not the modern, simplified German that
     came into use later in the 1920's or so, but the old style. The
     sermons were in a mixture of English and German, so that one
     needed to know something of both languages in order to understand
     what was being said.
       Both of my parents were religious, but I think Dad was more
     ambivalent about his faith. Grandpa had wanted him to become a
     preacher like himself, but Dad resisted the pressure. He used to
     say that he was "vaccinated for the ministry but it didn't take".
     He dropped out of school after the eighth grade and went to work
     for a vegetable grower (truck gardener) to learn the business. He






     especially disliked the constant "begging for money" that he felt
     was part of every preacher's job. (And indeed, as I re-read
     Grandpa's autobiography, it does seem to me that there is a heavy
     emphasis on fund-raising). Sometimes Dad, with a mischievous
     twinkle in his eye, would sing a parody of a church hymn. Mom
     always interrupted if she heard it, and scolded him for letting
     the children hear such stuff. (I quickly learned the lyrics and
     still remember some of them).
       Mom may have been more religious than Dad, but she did not
     hesitate to criticize a preacher when she thought he deserved it.
     Once when Dad's dispute with our local preacher threatened to
     come to blows she said to Dad, "Come, Phil, he's not worth it";
     and  this was not the only time I heard her make a stinging
     comment about a preacher.
       Mom's formal education was even less than Dad's. She went to
     school just until she "could read the catechism" (about three
     years). But she was a capable person who educated herself. She
     was literate in both German and English. She could think in
     either language, and yet I recall her refusal to help Martha
     translate a high school assignment because, as so often happens, a
     literal translation failed to carry the original meaning.
      
       When I was a child our school did not furnish textbooks; this
     meant that the discarded books were brought home. In the year
     before I started school Martha showed me her out-grown First
     Reader with its brightly colored pictures and very short stories
     in large print. She read some of the stories to me, and told me
     that with her help I could learn to read those stories myself. I
     was delighted. She kept her word, and gave me all the help she
     could. As I look back, I am impressed with her patience. Given
     the opportunity, I think she could have had an outstanding career
     as a teacher.
       I carried the book around with me and read aloud to anyone who
     would hold still long enough to listen. I recall one day when Mom
     and a couple of other (hired) women were peeling leeks or onions
     in the kitchen because it was too cold to work in the unheated
     shed. All the "big kids" (Martha, Bertha and Harvey) were in
     school. I wanted an audience, so I took the precious book into
     the kitchen and read aloud to the women who were busy preparing
     the vegetables for the market. In between their comments to each
     other about their work they seemed to give momentary attention to
     my reading. None of them suggested that I was in their way; but
     it seemed to me that they failed to really appreciate the
     marvelous stories about Chicken Little, etc.
       Incidentally, I might mention that the usual rate of pay for
     women who helped prepare vegetables for market was $3.00 per day.
     Mom always worked along with them. Some were friends and
     neighbors. When more help was needed, Dad would take a horse and
     wagon to the end of the street-car line in the early morning,
     where people from Cleveland who wanted such work would be waiting
     during the busy season. The Rocky River area had many truck
     gardeners who also came with their wagons, so most people who
     wanted such work were able to find a place.
      
      






       On my first day of school three or four older girls told me
     that the superintendent had a "thrashing machine" in her office,
     to thrash kids who weren't good. I knew what a grain threshing
     machine looked like, and I wondered how her office could hold
     such a big machine, and how it must have been modified to be
     fitted with paddles for spanking kids. I thought I was a good kid
     most of the time, so I tried to convince myself that I didn't
     need to be concerned. As it turned out, my first teacher, Miss
     Pugsley, was so kind and gentle that I gradually forgot about the
     "thrashing machine".
       Our school had eight rooms - no gymnasium, no lunch room or
     cafeteria, no auditorium. The "library" was a couple of shelves
     with about 20 or 30 titles in the 8th grade classroom. There were
     two outhouses, and in the basement there was a bucket of water
     with a dipper. In front of the building was a well- pump with a
     long handle. A beech tree grew nearby, and a little farther away
     was a wooded area with oaks, maples and other trees; we often
     played there during recess periods.
       I enjoyed school. If there was a problem, it was related to the
     fact that I was naturally more left- than right-handed. The
     school required that whatever we wrote with our left hands had to
     be re-written with the right. (Harvey had more of a problem with
     this than I did, being more strongly left-handed to begin with).
       When I was in 2nd grade Miss Pugsley once came to the door to
     ask our teacher (Miss Jenkins) if Christina could come and read
     to the first-grade children for a short time while Miss Pugsley
     attended to some errand. She handed me a book - I don't recall
     what it was - and the first graders listened quietly while I read
     on and on (for perhaps 10 minutes) until Miss Pugsley returned.
     This was great! Now I was ready to teach school - hadn't I
     already taught first grade for a little while, when their regular
     teacher was away? I half expected to be offered a job as a
     regular teacher, but no one hired me so I gradually gave up the
     idea.
       If that experience gave me a temporary lift in spirits, another
     incident - also in 2nd grade - did just the opposite. Late one
     afternoon Miss Jenkins asked how many of us would like to hear
     her read the story of "Heidi". All the hands went up - except
     mine. She didn't ask me why I disagreed with the others - she
     simply ordered me to go to the cloakroom, and I felt miserable.
     If I had been more articulate I could have told her that I liked
     to read for myself instead of listening to someone else. I could
     have asked if there was a second copy of "Heidi" so that I could
     follow along as she read, and maybe learn some new words. I could
     also have told her that I was willing to abide by the vote of the
     majority even though it was not my first preference. But she
     asked no questions, and I felt unjustly punished but said
     nothing.
       I continued to be very much interested in reading. When I was
     in 3rd grade the school superintendent, Mrs.Cleverdon, suggested
     that I go to the library in the 8th grade classroom to see if
     there was a book there that I might want to borrow (she had been
     a friend of my mother's since childhood, and probably knew that
     we had very little reading matter at home). So one day when the
     "big kids" had left the room, I went to the library and selected






     something called "Timothy's Quest". I didn't know what "quest"
     meant, and I didn't know there was such a thing as a dictionary,
     but as my mother might have said, I had my "nose in the book"
     until I had finished it.
       My downfall came when Mrs. Cleverdon was visiting our class. We
     were reading a story I had not seen before, about a boy who put a
     splint on the broken leg of a bird. I was very pleased to be
     among those whom the teacher called on to read aloud. Now I could
     show Mrs, Cleverdon how fluently I could read - without stopping
     to "sound out " the words. The brief passage I was to read
     included the line, "one leg stiff, but better than none ---" I
     read as rapidly as I could, "one leg stuffed with butter was none
     --" and everybody laughed, even Mrs. Cleverdon. I was so
     embarrassed that I remember it after 80 years!
       I think that was the year when I received a whole set of books
     for Christmas; simple stories about "The Motor Girls" who in some
     unexplained fashion had acquired an automobile (not at all common
     in those days) and drove to the city, to a farm, to the seashore,
     etc.. That was probably also the year when Harvey
      got the "belly-slammer" that he had been asking for - a kind of
     sled that was very popular at the time.
       Speaking of sleds - Bertha (92 years old this October) reminded
     me in a recent letter that we sometimes rode in bob-sleds. The
     few people who had cars put them up on blocks to store them over
     winter; horses could usually get through with a bob-sled. The
     main thing I remember about such a ride was how cold I felt,
     even though I wore a knitted cap, a warm coat, mittens and
     leggings.
       Sometimes we went skating on Morrison's nearby pond. I went
     there alone one very cold day; no one else was there and I soon
     tired of skating by myself. I removed my mittens and put them
     down beside me while I took off my skates. I was halfway home
     when I realized that I had left my mittens at the pond. What if
     someone else had already found and kept them? I knew that if I
     lost them I would not soon get another pair. As I hurried back to
     the pond, I prayed, probably more earnestly  than I ever have
     before or since. When I got to the pond no one was there, and my
     mittens were right where I had left them. I was greatly relieved,
     and my faith in a benevolent  deity was greatly strengthened - at
     least temporarily.
      
       Our school was within walking distance, and we always went home
     for lunch. If mother was busy out in the garden we usually had
     milk and bread with jelly or peanut butter. Sometimes when Harvey
     and I came home at the same time we would each fry an egg for
     ourselves. Once Mom surprised us by having prepared a pot of bean
     soup with ham - quite honestly, the best bean soup I have ever
     tasted!
      
       Our paternal grandparents were living in Cleveland at that
     time. I never felt very close to Grandma Stepler. Once she came
     to our house when I was quite small, but she stayed in the house,
     visiting with Mom and Dad while we were playing outside. When she
     was ready to leave Dad brought out a kitchen chair and Grandma
     wrapped her almost floor-length full skirts about her as she






     stepped onto the chair and from there up to the very high buggy
     seat.
       Once Harvey and I were taken for a visit to our grandparents'
     home in the city. There were several children living close by and
     we were enjoying our play with them when Grandma called us into
     the house. Once inside, she said they were Jewish children and we
     were not to play with them. But she didn't provide anything else
     for us to do. Seeing that she was getting dinner ready I asked if
     she wanted me to help set the table (I often helped with that at
     home). She gave me a pan and asked me to get some potatoes from
     the basement. When I brought up a full pan, she exclaimed in a
     disparaging way, took out exactly four potatoes (there would be
     four people for dinner) and sent me downstairs to put the rest of
     them back. More because of her critical tone than because of her
     words, I decided  that I couldn't please her. I was glad when Dad
     came to take us back home.
       According to Grandpa's biography, it was in October 1911 that
     she suffered the stroke that left her paralyzed. Soon after that
     an addition was built onto our house, including a first-floor
     bedroom for Grandma and study for Grandpa, with bathroom and two
     more bedrooms upstairs. They and Grandma's nurse lived there for
     a while, until Grandpa was able to have a home of their own built
     on the other side of the river, in Lakewood. Grandma died in
     1915.
       For a while Grandma's nurse, Sister Margaret, was very much a
     part of our family. Once she took me and one of my siblings
     (Bertha?) to visit Aunt Meta and her family at their farm near
     Bloomville, Ohio, for about a week. I enjoyed being with my
     cousins, Irma and Vera, but Aunt Meta was so strict that I felt
     uncomfortable and it seemed that something was always going
     wrong. I was running in the house and knocked over a floor lamp.
     I went out to watch Uncle Owen who was sharpening tools on a
     grindstone; in my curiosity I reached out to touch the grindstone
     and injured the tip of my finger. One evening I went with the
     other girls to visit a neighbor; it was dark when we started home
     and of course there were no street lights along the road. We
     walked close to Irma who knew the way.
      Suddenly I stumbled and fell - over a black cow that was lying
     there in the middle of the  road! I was frightened until Irma
     reassured me that the cow was a gentle one.
      
       I liked going places with Mother. I remember going with her to
     the Frauen- verein (a church women's group) and to the Maccabee
     meeting (an insurance group that met socially from time to time),
     I enjoyed the nonsensical entertainment  at the latter meeting
     -and I still recall what passed for poetry there : " Mine mudder
     had two leedle twins, Dey vas me and mine brudder. Ve looked so
     very much alike, No von knew vich from t`udder. And one of us got
     dead -Ya Mein Herr, dot iss so. But vedder Hans or Yacob, Mein
     mudder she dunno. And so I am in troubles, I can't get troo mine
     head Vedder I'm  Hans vot's living Or Yacob vot iss dead."
      
       While I was in 7th grade we were reading about the American
     Revolution when Jack, who had just come from England, joined our
     class. He told us that just before leaving England he had been in






     a class that was also studying the same war, but from a very
     different point of view. He mentioned some specifics which I have
     now forgotten, but I have never forgotten his main point, that
     history, as written, depends on who has written it.
       Near the end of the school year our 7th grade put on a class
     play, "The Courtship of Miles Standish"; my part called for the
     use of a spinning wheel. I was very proud when Mom showed me how
     to use her small one which her mother had brought with her when
     she came to this country some 60 years earlier. I was permitted
     to take it to school for the play which was put on right in our
     classroom as no other place was available. The play went well,
     and of course I was happy to see Mom in the audience. She took
     the precious spinning wheel with her when she went home.
       In the 8th grade we began early to prepare for graduation from
     elementary school. A temporary building had been built in the
     school yard, with the necessary equipment for teaching sewing.
     Someone had decreed that for the graduation ceremonies the girls
     were to wear white middy blouses which they made themselves, with
     big red bow ties; the boys were to wear white shirts and dark
     trousers.
       There was one sewing-class period each week (about 45 minutes,
     as I recall). By the time we or our mothers had purchased the
     material a week or two went by. By the time we all waited for the
     teacher's inspection before cutting the material another week or
     two went by. It seemed to me that we were working forever on
     those middies.
       The graduation ceremonies were simple; a few announcements by
     some official and a few memorized "pieces" by some of the
     graduates. I don't recall any music. But Martha told me afterward
     that we all looked nice in our white outfits with the red bows,
     so I was pleased. There were, as nearly as I can recall, about 20
     graduates; about half went on to high school. One of the girls
     told me that by adding a year or so to her age she could get a
     job at the near- by basket factory, and she would rather be
     earning money there than be sitting in school.
       That fall (1917) Rocky River had no high school building, and
     Lakewood, where Martha and Bertha had gone, was refusing to take
     any more students from Rocky River. So construction was started
     on a new building, but until it was ready we had classes upstairs
     in the village hall. The Mayor's office was on the first floor,
     and the jail was in the basement. There were just two teachers;
     Mr. Pierce, the Principal, taught science and mathematics. Miss
     Willet taught history, English and Latin.
       Before I went to register Martha suggested that I ask about
     signing up for five subjects instead of the usual four, then I
     could probably graduate in three years. When I told Mr.Pierce
     that I wanted to take five subjects, he asked, "What subject did
     you fail in?" I was struck dumb by the question; I hadn't failed
     in any subject but I was literally speechless. I sat there until
     he asked Miss Willet to talk with me, and fortunately she knew
     the right questions to ask. I regained my composure and told her
     that my older sister had suggested five subjects, and I told her
     why. She promptly arranged it. The extra subject was not
     burdensome, since there were no such distractions as athletics,
     music, art or other extra-curricular activities.






       School was going along quite well when one day, to my great
     surprise, Grandpa Stepler walked in the door, accompanied by Mr.
     Pierce! I learned later that he had simply come to ask Mr. Pierce
     how I was getting along in my studies; I had not known that he
     even realized that I was in high school.
       By this time our country had become involved in World War I.
     Some of the girls in my class considered it great fun to skip
     classes in order to go to the nearby railroad tracks and wave to
     the soldiers as they passed by in the trains. I never went
     because even then I took a more serious view of the war. I
     consider it my good fortune that my parents had pacifist
     leanings, although I never heard them use that term. But before
     we entered the war, Mother gave her opinion, with strong feeling;
     "If President Wilson and the Kaiser want to fight each other let
     them go at it, but leave the rest of us out of it!" Dad was not
     so vociferous, but he tacked on the wall a clipping from some
     magazine that said,"If you take sword and draw it,
                And go stick a feller through -
                Gov'ment ain't to answer for it.
                God will send the bill to you!"
       Of course, our relatives and some of our neighbors were German;
     a few of them experienced overt hostility from "110% Americans";
     we also knew some soldier's families that were bereaved. One
     young man from our school enlisted and shortly afterward we
     received word that he had been killed in combat. I knew his
     brother well, and felt a sense of loss at his death.
      Even during the war, in some respects life went on pretty much
     as usual. When the Chautauqua players came to Cleveland, Grandpa
     took me (and Bertha?) to see "The Merchant of Venice" by
     Shakespeare, the first professional acting I had ever seen.
       As we left the playhouse, near the stop where we waited for the
     street car to take us home, a "mock battle" was going on.
     "American soldiers" attacked "German soldiers" who promptly
     surrendered; there was a lot of cheering, and less violence than
     in a typical football game. The whole purpose was obviously to
     build up the war spirit. Grandpa was very quiet and down in
     spirit as he took us home. No doubt he was thinking of his family
     in Germany. Communication with them was interrupted; even
     ordinary letters came with lines blacked out by the censors.
      
      Aside from my parents, Uncle John (Sommerlotte) was one of the
     first persons to set me thinking about issues of social justice
     and peace. When he became the Minister of the church in Lakewood,
     after the German Reformed Church in Rocky River had been
     disbanded, we attended the Lakewood church and I soon developed a
     good deal of respect for his views which reflected progressive
     thinking. At the urging of Norman Thomas one year he ran for
     Governor of Ohio on the Socialist ticket.
       I remember a social studies teacher in high school who seemed
     to know only what the textbook said; when I asked questions she
     simply quoted the text and I felt that, having heard Uncle John's
     views, I knew more than she did about some topics (e.g.,
     socialism). Our Sunday School class once paraded along the
     street, singing, "Peace, peace we sing, When men shall love each
     other; Hosts shall go forth to bless and not destroy - - -".






       Grandpa Stepler was not altogether comfortable with Uncle
     John's emphasis on current issues; Grandpa confined himself in
     his sermons to the theme, as he put it, of "Christ, and Him
     crucified". But I think most of the younger people appreciated
     Uncle John's more wide-ranging talks that were not always based
     on a Biblical text: I recall one very interesting sermon that
     dealt with the meaning of the term "apperception" as applied to
     an understanding of current events.
      
       In the fall of 1918 our new high school building was ready; I
     could get there by a very short walk through he woods. The
     teaching staff was enlarged and exta-curricular activities were
     added. I was able to take part in athletics, music, debate and
     the student council. One summer tutoring in Latin was provided,
     so I gained the credits I needed to graduate in three years.
       I think it was while I was in high school that Bertha decided
     to take her first job away from home; she was a maid for a
     wealthy family in Lakewood. But before long she felt too
     humiliated by the kind of tasks she had to do - such as pulling
     off the muddy boots from the feet of men who had been sloshing
     around outdoors. When she told Mother that she wanted to quit
     Mother encouraged her by saying, in effect, that there was no
     need for her to ever accept humiliating treatment from anybody.
       Bertha eventually went into nurse's training and became a
     registered nurse. Dorothy later followed her example. If Mother
     had still been living I  think she would have been pleased with
     this career choice; she had been the one neighbors called on to
     help when someone in their family was sick, although to my
     knowledge she never had any formal training for such work.
       When Martha graduated from high school she thought about
     college, but Dad told her that if he paid her college expenses he
     would not be able to buy a car for the family. It was obvious
     that he wanted a car, and he made her feel that a family car was
     more important than her college education. My own feeling is that
     he persuaded her to make too great a sacrifice; that not having a
     higher education himself he failed to realize its importance for
     her.
      
       We used the car (a Reo) mainly for Sunday afternoon rides, to
     see the surrounding country. One Sunday we were driving home when
     our car passed a man riding in a one-horse buggy. His horse was
     so frightened by the car that he reared up on his hind legs and
     then began galloping out of control. It seemed that at any moment
     the buggy would be overturned into the ditch. Dad stopped the
     car, went over to where the horse seemed to be headed, and
     grabbed the halter as the horse came by. He calmed the quivering
     beast by patting, stroking and soothing it, until it slowed down
     to a walk and the driver again had control. Then Dad returned to
     the car and waited before starting the engine until the horse and
     buggy had turned off onto a side road.
      
       Martha went to work as a linotypist for the publishers of the
     "Kirchenzeitung", a church paper. She told me something about her
     work and said that sometime she wanted to take me to see how
     linotying was done, but I never got there. I think she stayed






     with that job until her marriage to Joe Borovy.
      
       As my senior year in high school was drawing to a close I was
     looking forward to graduation when suddenly Mother became
     dangerously ill. She was taken to the hospital and died on May
     19, 1920. It was of course a horrible shock to the whole family.
     We were told that the cause of her death was "peritonitis
     following flu" (there was a serious flu epidemic that year). Aunt
     Meta (Dad's older sister) came to take charge of our household
     for a short time. (It was several years before I learned that an
     attempted abortion was the real cause of Mother's death).
       Before her illness Mother had helped me buy a frilly white
     dress for my graduation. Now Aunt Meta insisted that I wear that
     dress to Mother's funeral - and also to the graduation exercises
     which were only a few days later. I'm sure she had no idea that
     doing so would add to my almost unbearable emotional stress, but
     so it was. I had been scheduled to give a short memorized talk as
     a part of the graduation ceremony and I attempted it, but kept
     forgetting and had to be repeatedly prompted.
         
       My plan was to enter college that fall - Heidelberg College had
     earlier offered me a scholarship that would pay tuition, and I
     was assured that there would be available on-campus jobs to earn
     room-and-board. But when the time came I found it impossible; I
     simply had to have more time to recover from the severe shock of
     Mother's sudden death. Partly in order to have something familiar
     to cling to, I returned to high school for graduate work. But so
     many teachers were victims of the flu epidemic and there was such
     a shortage of substitute teachers that I was frequently called on
     to take over classes in various elementary schools for short
     periods of time. 
       By the next fall (1921) I felt ready to enter college, in the
     hope of some day becoming a fully qualified teacher. The
     scholarship offered the year before was still available to me; I
     think Grandpa had been instrumental in arranging it, although he
     never told me so.
       I went, and found the academic work congenial enough, but the
     social rules and regulations seemed to me to be excessively
     restrictive: attendance was compulsory at religious services each
     morning; dancing was forbidden; going to movies was frowned upon.
     For the girls, even going down-town without wearing a hat could
     bring a rebuke from the Dean of Women. I missed the personal
     freedom we had always had at home. I became desperately homesick.
     Going home for the Christmas holidays helped, and in all my life
     I have never again felt as homesick as I did during those first
     few months at Heidelberg.
       I was quite willing and ready to go back for my sophomore year,
     but after that I again took a year off between my sophomore and
     junior year because of recurrent tonsillitis during the summer
     followed by a tonsillectomy at about the time for classes to
     resume in the fall.
       Returning to Heidelberg for my junior year I found college to
     be really enjoyable. There were fewer restrictions on
     upper-classmen. I knew my way around and felt more free to
     express my opinion on campus issues. There was not much official






     encouragement for progressive views but I did come across a copy
     of "New Russia's Primer" in the college library; one student who
     had recently come from Armenia stimulated our thinking as he told
     us about the aggression against his country by Turkey; and one
     Professor invited students who were interested to meet at his
     home at regular intervals to discuss the significance of current
     events. (His teaching contract was not renewed the following
     year).
       One day as I walked through the entrance to the main residence
     hall I saw Grandpa Stepler talking to the Dean! Just as in high
     school, he had come, without any prior notice to me, to find out
     how I was getting along. The Dean was fortunately speaking
     positively about my academic progress. Then I heard her add,"But
     she did go out without her rubbers last week when it was
     raining!" Grandpa's answer, "Well, she grew up in the country,
     not in a steam-heated apartment in the city" really pleased me
     and I wanted to thank him. But he left right after his talk with
     the Dean, apparently without making any effort to see me. He had
     come about seventy miles to check on my progress, and left with
     just a chance word of greeting to me! If the problem had been one
     of meeting a train or bus schedule, I would have supposed that he
     would write a note of explanation, but he never did.
       During my junior year I met Herman Wright, and before long we
     started dating regularly. I remember going with him to the home
     of another student to listen to a radio - the first radio that
     any of us had ever heard. After the end of that academic year he
     borrowed his father's car and drove to my home to visit me and
     meet my family. He graduated the year before I did, and went to
     Indiana University to begin graduate work toward a Ph.D. in
     zoology. After my graduation in 1926, as we had agreed, I went to
     the Biological Station at Winona Lake, Indiana, where Herman was
     teaching and doing research; we were married there during that
     summer. (I wore a plain white dress that I had sewn entirely by
     hand). Grandpa Stepler came from Lakewood, Ohio, where he was
     then living, to perform the simple ceremony. (He was 84 years
     old). The only guests were a few of our graduate student friends.
      
     Meanwhile, time was not standing still for my brother and sisters
     in Rocky River. After Mother's death Dad hired various people to
     help with the gardening and to manage the household. Home no
     longer seemed like home. Dorothy left our local high school to
     attend a boarding school for a while, but became homesick and
     returned. Martha and Joe stayed for a while after they were
     married, but eventually moved away. Bertha and Dorothy, as
     mentioned above, became trained nurses. Frieda was only twelve
     years old when Mother died. She attended Heidelberg college for a
     year or two after I had graduated and left. Harvey stayed on at
     home, married a fine neighbor, Elsie Schneider, who had at one
     time been a classmate at school, and with her help he went into
     the business of heavy machine hauling and related work. He bought
     the "home place" from dad who wanted to retire.
       Dad went to Florida, but evidently he did not feel ready to
     retire completely. He took a series of jobs, such as driving an
     entertainment group on a tour, and then working as yard man and
     handyman for a Florida hotel. At this time our family had a






     round-robin-type letter (called the "Flying Dutchman"). In it,
     Aunt Clara (Sommerlotte) wrote, "Phil, I hear that you are
     working at a hotel. In what capacity  are you working at a
     hotel?" Soon the answer came back "Clara, I'm working full
     capacity!"
      
      
       Herman was making good progress toward a Ph.D. in zoology when
     he began having signs of diabetes. The doctor at Farmersville,
     Ohio where Herman's parents lived, at first made a tentative
     diagnosis of lead poisoning, but when Herman returned to Indiana
     University the doctors there made the correct diagnosis. With
     daily injections of insulin Herman managed to carry on his
     research and the routines of daily living. We spent our vacations
     with his parents at Farmersville.
       In the fall of 1927 I stayed on at Farmersville when Herman
     returned to the University. Theron was born on November 25th,
     while Herman was home for the Thanksgiving holidays. 
       I should have mentioned earlier that in 1926, while still a
     senior in college, I had written to Dad, telling him that Herman
     and I planned to marry soon after I graduated; I wanted his
     approval. He answered promptly, saying that although he had met
     Herman only once he had a good opinion of him. Dad was ready to
     agree with whatever decision I made. Then he added,"But when you
     get married the little fellows come. Look around and see if it
     isn't so".
       And when on Nov. 25, 1927 the "little fellow" (Theron) came,
     Dad took the next train to Dayton and paid an exorbitant price
     for a taxi from there to the Wrights home at Farmersville where
     his new grandson was born. (There was no public transportation
     from Dayton to Farmersville -  ten miles away - at that late
     evening hour). Dad looked at the baby, talked briefly with me
     (still in bed) and a little longer with Herman and his parents.
     Then he left, and returned to Rocky River that same night; he
     must have arrived home at about dawn the next morning. 
       Before long, Herman was able to take me and our baby to
     Bloomington, Indiana, where  the University is situated. On our
     departure his mother provided us with an abundance of fruit,
     canned and fresh vegetables, dishes, linens, home-made soap - and
     a can of baking powder of a brand that was unfamiliar to me. The
     fruit and vegetables were a very welcome addition to our low-cost
     meals, and the dishes, linens, etc. were certainly useful. But
     when I tried - more than once- to use the baking powder I had a
     baking failure every time. When I told Herman that I was
     convinced that the baking powder his mother gave me didn't work,
     his answer was,"That's probably why she gave it to you". I was
     astounded. I had always felt comfortably accepted by his father,
     but my relationship with his mother was more complicated; when
     Herman had first told his parents of our engagement she asked him
     if I could cook; and knowing that my mother had died six years
     earlier she wondered if I had been taught to do housework
     properly. She herself was a meticulous housekeeper. She took
     quiet pride in the fact that no one around hung out a whiter wash
     on the line each Monday than she did, and her meals were always
     very tasty.






       Herman's father also liked to cook; his pies and cakes won
     prizes at the County Fair. Sometimes he would make pies or cake
     while "Mama" made the rest of the meal - or he would make the
     entire meal when she was busy with other chores. And, on the
     other hand, she helped him with even the heaviest of farm work;
     when he started to plow she hitched up the other horse and plowed
     the opposite end of the field, or perhaps the furrow next to his.
     They worked together more than any couple I have ever known.
       Back at Indiana University, when Theron was still a baby, Dr.
     Alfred Kinsey asked if I could work part-time in his laboratory;
     he was doing a taxonomic study of gall-wasps at that time. I
     considered accepting his offer but then Theron became very sick
     with a respiratory infection. I was not willing to leave him in
     the care of a baby-sitter, even for the two hours per day that I
     would be working. Herman telephoned his mother to ask if she
     could come. He knew that she had never in her life been so far
     from home (about 150 miles) so he gave her careful travel
     instructions, of course including the transfer at the
     Indianapolis bus depot; bus travel was the only practical way for
     her to come. When she arrived she told us that she was pleasantly
     surprised and very relieved to find that Herman was right - there
     really was someone at the depot in Indianapolis who told her
     which bus to take to Bloomington.
       The doctor prescribed cocoa-quinine for Theron, and "Mama" gave
     him loving care. He soon recovered from his illness - but
     apparently developed a permanent allergic reaction to quinine; we
     were not aware of that possibility at the time.
       The next year Frieda transferred from Heidelberg to Indiana
     University. She roomed with us, and seemed more than willing to
     function as a live-in baby-sitter occasionally.
       In June 1930 Herman was granted the Ph.D. in Zoology. He was
     promptly taken on as assistant professor at the University of
     Iowa, in Iowa City. (Frieda stayed at Indiana for another year).
     We went directly to the Lakeside Laboratory, where Herman began
     to teach summer courses in limnology, etc. Theron, then
     two-and-a-half years old, loved to play at the lake shore with
     the two little daughters of the botany professor; their mother
     and I took turns watching the three children on alternate days.
     It was a pleasant summer.
       In the fall we moved to Iowa City, rented a small house and
     bought a little furniture. Herman enjoyed teaching. I was told
     that he was very well liked by his students. And at last we felt
     financially comfortable.
       Suddenly, very early one morning - before daylight- Herman
     became very sick. Just as I became aware of that, little Theron
     called to me, saying, "I coughed!" He had thrown up all over his
     bedding and himself. I called the University hospital, they
     agreed to send a doctor. By the time I had washed Theron and
     changed his bedding he seemed to be all right again. But Herman
     continued to be very ill; neither he nor I could think of
     anything I could do to help him. He didn't want the baby toddling
     around in his room while we waited for the doctor. So I took
     Theron out to the porch and put him in his little walker so he
     could ride around while I watched. (The porch had a railing
     around three sides, but none at the far end). Suddenly Herman






     shouted to me. Because I was frightened about him, I did not take
     time to unfasten the strap on the walker and take Theron with me
     as I normally would have done; I assumed that Theron would try to
     follow me and I would get back to him in a few seconds. But he
     did not try to follow me - I heard his loud cry - he had fallen
     off the far end of the porch, walker and all! I carried him in to
     Herman's bedside and learned that Herman's loud shout had not
     signalled any emergency; he had yelled as loudly as he could
     because he didn't know where I was, and wanted me to hear him
     wherever I might be. Theron's nose was bloody; the doctor checked
     it and arranged to have Herman taken to the hospital. He said
     that many students were brought to the emergency rooms that
     morning; the probable cause was contaminated milk, but that was
     still being checked out.
       In the hospital, Herman was failing fast. A nurse asked if he
     had relatives who should be notified that he was not expected to
     live much longer. His parents came by car, and were there when he
     died on November 6,1930.
       The funeral was at Farmersville. I left Theron there with his
     grandparents and returned to Iowa City to settle our affairs and
     to take the one course in Education that I needed in order to
     qualify for a teacher's license. I supported myself by part-time
     work as assistant technician at the hospital.
       When I came back to Farmersville I sent out many letters of
     application. It was a year of high unemployment. I carefully
     explained my situation in my letters, but received such responses
     as, "We do not hire married women." Eventually there was an offer
     from a rural school district near Mansfield, Ohio, where Bertha
     and her family lived. I taught history, social studies, biology
     and home economics. I roomed with a local farm family, and on
     weekends when bad weather or school activities made it
     impractical to drive to Farmersville I stayed with Bertha at her
     home. One day the Superintendent dropped in during social studies
     class, and evidently decided that I was too liberal for his
     taste. My contract was not renewed.
       By this time I had learned that if I could complete a certain
     minor research project that Herman had left unfinished it might
     qualify as meeting part of the requirements for a Master's
     degree. A Fellowship grant was available to cover cost of tuition
     and necessary supplies. I felt at home in Bloomington and soon
     found a place where I could earn room and board by serving as
     part-time companion to an elderly woman; her only son had a
     managerial job in another town and came home only on weekends. Of
     course I had very little cash income but before long I was
     granted a monthly stipend of $30 from the National Youth
     Administration which had been recently set up on President
     Roosevelt's initiative. 
       I was granted the M.A. degree in 1933, but when I applied for a
     teaching position at Indiana University the reply from Dr.
     Fernandus Payne (head of the Zoology Dept.) was," We will hire
     you if no man with equal qualifications applies." Of course, a
     man with equal qualifications did apply.
       By this time I was ready to face up to the fact that Zoology
     was not really my field - it had been Herman's, and I had wanted
     to share his interests in order to help him in his work -as he






     earnestly wanted me to. But now that motivation was gone. I had
     taken several courses in psychology as the opportunity allowed,
     and was increasingly drawn to that field of study. Prof. Jacob
     Kantor told me of a  Fellowship available at the University of
     Chicago and wrote a letter of recommendation for me. Most of my
     work there was with Dr. Helen Koch, Prof. of Child Psychology. It
     was for me a very productive experience. I was able to earn
     expenses by sharing with a psychiatric nurse the daily care of a
     psychotic woman.
       In 1935 I went to Pittsburgh to begin a two-year internship
     with Dr. Marion Monroe at the Pittsburgh Child Guidance Center. I
     recall a very severe flood during my stay there; the down-town
     business area ( the "Golden Triangle") was covered with water;
     street cars could not run; electricity and water supplies were
     cut off; for three or four days there were no newspapers.
     (Newsboys came by, selling candles). Gradually life returned to
     normal.
      
       I had always wanted to have my son with me, and now that my
     income was more nearly adequate to support both of us, the
     feeling became almost irresistible - especially after short
     vacations at Farmersville during which neighbors told me that
     Theron's grandmother was keeping him too closely tied to her; in
     the words of one of them, she was "trying to make him a Mama's
     boy". Of course, I had seen indications of that myself and had
     wondered if I was over-reacting. The neighbors convinced me that
     there really was a problem of over-protection.
       When I wrote to say that I was now at last able to provide for
     my son and wanted to have him with me, I was not prepared for the
     vehement response. From the time of my marriage to Herman, I had
     been accustomed to thinking of his home as my home; I had left
     some of my possessions there from time to time, and whenever I
     asked if they had room for my things they always said "It don't
     eat no hay", assuring me that they always had room for my things.
     Now  they put everything that I had ever left there in a huge
     tobacco-shipping box (they raised tobacco and a variety of other
     farm crops) and sent it to my Pittsburgh address. Since a tobacco
     box can hardly be opened without adequate tools, I had to destroy
     the box to open it; and to say that I was dismayed at what it
     contained is putting it mildly - linens, hiking boots, clothing,
     books - Nothing that ever belonged to me was welcome any longer
     at their home.
       They wrote to me, saying that Theron was at that moment
     standing under the  maple tree in the front yard, crying because
     I was going to come and get him. They did everything they could
     think of to frustrate my plans.
       I was living in one room at the time. I had intended to rent an
     apartment and check with the nearest school before bringing
     Theron to Pittsburgh. But my in-laws were keeping him so upset -
     apparently without realizing that their attitude was largely
     responsible - that I decided to move more quickly than I had
     planned. So I simply rented the empty room next to mine, bought a
     used car, telephoned to the folks at Farmersville, and went there
     to pick up Theron. The folks offered only verbal resistance which
     I put an end to after a while by simply driving away, assuring






     them that I would write frequently and we would come to visit
     real often.
       When we were out of sight of his grandparents Theron seemed
     comfortable enough. He enjoyed the restaurant meals we had along
     the way. I told him about an amusement park in Pittsburgh and he
     expressed an interest in going there. I took him at the first
     opportunity but unfortunately we both picked up some kind of an
     infection there and were sick for several days; the doctor sent a
     nurse to care for both of us.
       I soon found an apartment quite near a public school, and
     Theron started third grade. He made friends readily; before long
     he told me that he was invited to a neighbor boy's home for
     lunch; it was the first time he had ever eaten spaghetti. There
     was one "bully" in the school; the other boys stood together
     against him. (I made one attempt to talk with the "bully's"
     parents, but found them so openly hostile toward their own son
     that further talk seemed useless).
       Coming from a small rural school, it was not easy for Theron to
     adjust at once to the rigid requirements of a school where even
     in 3rd grade each subject was taught by a different teacher. I
     was notified that he was not doing well in spelling. I went to
     the school to talk with his teacher. I started to tell her that
     he had just come from a small, easy-going rural school and in my
     opinion  was making good progress but needed more time to get
     used to a completely new environment. She interrupted me with,
     "I'm interested in SPELLING!" I thought to myself,"How can one
     discuss anything with a teacher like that?" I mentioned the
     incident to Dr.Little, the Director of the Child Guidance Center
     where I worked. He offered to try to arrange a scholarship for
     Theron to attend a private school for one year. But the school he
     spoke of had the reputation of  being completely without
     structure or discipline; I was afraid that if Theron went there
     for a year it would be very hard for him to return to a public
     school afterward; and I certainly would not be able to pay the
     fees for a private school. So I turned down the offer and
     wondered, as I often wondered  while he was growing up, whether
     the decision I made was right for him. Now, after more than half
     a century, it's a little late to worry about it. In any case,
     since adulthood he's been making the right decisions for himself.
       In 1937 (age 34) I was to start my new job as psychologist in
     the Indiana State Dept. of Public Welfare. My old car needed a
     coat of paint, so a few days before we were to start our long
     drive, Theron (nine years old) helped me by painting one side
     while I painted the other. I can't say that it was a professional
     job, but at least the car looked better than before.
       On our way to Indiana we stopped at Farmersville and I was very
     much relieved to find that the attitude of Theron's grandparents
     had mellowed. We had a comfortable visit with them, and from then
     on we returned as often as my schedule allowed. When Theron was
     old enough to drive - and especially when he had his own car - he
     went there alone during school vacations when I had to be at
     work.
       I enjoyed my work, and made friends with co-workers. The school
     system was not as rigid as in Pittsburgh: Theron had some very
     fine teachers. In 7th grade he made a bird chart that lighted up






     with small electric lights when a bird was correctly identified
     with a pointer. A picture of Theron with his bird chart appeared
     in the city newspaper. And I think he was in 8th grade when he
     built a home-made radio; while building it he had some difficulty
     separating the signals from different stations, and at one point
     he made the joking remark, "Well, it's all right if you like your
     music mixed!"
       The main disadvantage of my job was that it required travel
     throughout the State of Indiana. I had to be out of town for
     several days at a time. For this reason I thought it would be
     best to room-and-board with someone who could provide supervision
     for Theron when I was not home.
        We lived for a short time with a widow, Mrs.B. who made a good
     first impression. But it turned out that her idea of supervision
     for Theron was to take him along on her frequent dates to Bingo
     parlors, where there was nothing he could do for the entire
     evening but watch the adults play Bingo.
       We moved to the home of Mrs.T. who had a daughter in high
     school and who told me that she was widowed, but before a year
     was up it became apparent that she was getting phone calls from
     her husband. She then explained that he had left her for another
     woman and now wanted to return to her. She intended to take him
     back because she was Catholic and believed that marriage was for
     life. Her family would now need the rooms we occupied. So we had
     no choice but to move again.
       By this time I had learned the importance of recommendations
     from outside sources. The school principal recommended the home
     of Mrs.Y. whose son was in the army. Her husband had died a few
     years before; she had a daughter a little younger than Theron.
     Mrs. Y. did what she could to make us comfortable in her home; I
     recall sitting with her in the living room, listening to the
     radio, when President Roosevelt made his Pearl Harbor
     announcement on Dec.7, 1941.
      
       One evening at a reception a few years later I met Theodore who
     was about eight years older than I was. He soon became very
     attentive to me; one Sunday he took me to see his home at the
     edge of town where he lived alone with his big, gentle dog (a
     Llewellyn setter). He had a small, well-kept home with a huge
     willow tree in the front yard. Behind the double garage were a
     few rows of grape vines and a large, productive kitchen garden. I
     liked what I saw, and was yearning so much for a home of my own
     that it was easy to imagine Theron and myself as a part of that
     idyllic picture. Theodore told me that he was lonesome since his
     wife died a few years earlier. I was now forty-one years old and
     felt older than that; I was not looking for the kind of youthful
     romance that Herman and I had once shared. It was about fourteen
     years since Herman had died - fourteen years of lonely struggle -
     and I was ready for anything that would provide some measure of
     security and emotional support. When Theodore proposed marriage I
     was ready to accept. My first inkling of his ambivalence was when
     he said to the marriage license clerk, "I hope this works out!"
     The possibility that it might not "work out" had never occurred
     to me. But very soon I learned from personal experience the
     meaning of the term "incompatibility". He was, for example,






     unbearably possessive of everything he owned; he made it very
     clear that I was to ask him before picking any grapes or
     gathering any vegetables for dinner. Theron had been studying
     auto mechanics in high school; he bought an old "jalopy" that he
     took apart and started to put back together in the empty half of
     the garage. Theodore was consumed with quiet fury; that garage
     belonged to him and Theron had no right to use that space.
     Whenever we had guests Theodore tried to tease and humiliate me
     in their presence. And not only me - when a neighbor, Jack, who
     was new at gardening, asked to buy some of Theodore's surplus
     tomato plants, Theodore supplied him instead with weeds that
     somewhat resembled tomato plants when they were small. He laughed
     with great glee as he furtively watched Jack carefully hoeing and
     tending the weeds, expecting to harvest tomatoes from them.
       Worst of all, every attempt that I made to discuss differences
     with Theodore was futile, and left me feeling on the verge of
     tears.
       Of course I soon realized that it would be impossible to live
     in such an atmosphere. I liked my work and had been promoted, but
     I decided that the quickest and simplest way to end the
     predicament that I had gotten myself into would be to give up my
     job and move away from that area.
       So I sent out some applications and soon had three offers - one
     from the Cleveland, Ohio school system, one from the Chicago
     school system, and one from the Wilder Child Guidance Clinic in
     St. Paul. From several standpoints the Clinic position seemed
     best.
       The divorce was simple and uncontested.
       I regretfully had to insist that Theron dispose of his old car;
     he had driven to Farmersville in it a couple of times but I was
     afraid that on the longer trip to Minnesota it might need
     emergency repairs which would delay us and make it impossible for
     me to get to the Clinic at the time scheduled. I softened the
     blow a little bit by telling him that he could use my more
     dependable car after we got to St.Paul.
       As it turned out, our apartment was on a bus line, so Theron
     could use the car almost every day with no inconvenience to me.
     He had very little to occupy his time  until the opening of
     school some weeks later so he drove to the airport almost every
     day and before long he had his solo flying license.
       World War II was now over - there had been celebrations in
     Indiana just before we left -but the military, maybe from sheer
     inertia, was still drafting young men into the service. Theron
     was told that he could choose his branch of service if he would
     volunteer before being called up. So he went to enlist, but was
     rejected after the physical examination because of hilar nodes
     that had probably resulted from some respiratory infection.
       In Indiana he had been in an accelerated high school program,
     completing three-and-a-half years in three years, but St.Paul had
     no half-year program. On the advice of a school counselor, he
     took the college entrance examinations and did well on them, so
     he enrolled at the University of Minnesota. He had barely started
     there and the time limit for a refund of tuition costs had just
     expired when he was called to military service; the physical
     requirements had been changed.






      
       When I joined the Child Guidance Clinic there were five staff
     members; Dr. Lippman, Director, three social workers and myself.
     I had been there for about a year when, at a meeting of the
     Progressive D.F.L. Party, I met Cliff Herness. We were married
     the following year (1947). Right after our marriage Cliff started
     to build our house. He was at that time a Training Officer with
     the Veterans' Administration, and building the house was a second
     job so it went rather slowly. But by Dec. 1st the basement was
     ready; wanting to save on rental costs we moved right in.
       In 1948 Cliff was a candidate for Congress and soon after that
     (perhaps because of that) he lost his job with the Veterans'
     Administration. From that time on he devoted full time to
     building the house.
       When the first floor rooms were ready Cliff's mother lived with
     us for a while. She was a very energetic woman for her age of
     seventy-some years, and she was always eager to help in whatever
     way she could. One year when our kitchen garden was more
     productive than usual, she canned 70  quarts of tomatoes. As
     might be expected she sometimes found modern conveniences
     puzzling; opening or closing a garage door by remote control was
     to her sheer magic. Another of her sons, Irwin, lived next door
     and she divided her time between the two households. She
     continued to be vigorously active until well into her nineties
     when she suffered a massive stroke.
      
       Cliff worked carefully and did better than standard
     construction. When at last the house was finished he faced the
     problem of needing an income. He had been away from teaching too
     long to readily find employment in that field. It happened that a
     lot across the alley was for sale; we bought the lot and Cliff
     built another house there. It was rented shortly before it was
     finished, and has been continuously occupied since then.
     Eventually he built one more house where our garden had been.
      
       Once Cliff and I drove to Florida to visit Dad. We had his
     address and a map, but had never seen a picture of his place or
     heard any description of it. As we drove along, thinking we had
     another ten miles or so to go, I suddenly saw a place with a
     modified "Skinner" (i.e.overhead) irrigation system, well cared
     for rows of vegetables, and a small cabin. I said to Cliff who
     was driving, "Stop here, this is Dad's place" - and of course it
     was. He had created here almost a duplicate of the place where he
     and Mother had lived many years earlier. The cabin was smaller
     than the home of my early childhood but the area around it looked
     familiar although I had never seen it before. 
       In the course of our conversation when I commented about the
     thriving garden Dad said that, at the age of almost eighty years,
     he was still earning enough from the vegetables he raised to pay
     all his expenses. At the time I thought this was a matter of
     pride; it never occurred to me that he might be short of funds,
     because I knew that Harvey had paid him well for the Rocky River
     place.
       A few years later, when Dad's health deteriorated, Martha, who
     was widowed by that time, went to Florida to take care of him for






     a while. She told me later that he had been defrauded by a woman
     who had brought supplies when he was sick and befriended him long
     enough to gain his confidence; she persuaded him to add her name
     to his checking account, then withdrew substantial funds and
     disappeared.
       When the time came that Dad needed constant nursing care Bertha
     (and Dorothy?) went to Florida to accompany him by train to
     Cleveland, Ohio, where he lived in Dorothy's home until his death
     October 17,1955. Harvey made generous financial contributions
     toward his support.
      
      
       At the clinic where I was working the staff gradually expanded
     over the years and the focus of our work gradually shifted from
     school adjustment, as the schools acquired their own
     psychologists, to peer and family inter-relationships. In the
     main I enjoyed my twenty-three years there, but the reactionary
     political position of some of the staff troubled me. The argument
     for supporting the war in Vietnam, for example, was "if we don't
     fight them over there, they will come here to fight us on our own
     territory" - and foolish as that sounds now, at that time some of
     our staff members believed it.
       Still, professionally, those were good years for me. I felt
     that the work was useful, and I gained some recognition. In
     1958-59 and again in 1961-62 my name was listed in "Who's Who of
     American Women."
       But by the year 1969 I wanted a longer summer vacation than the
     clinic allowed, in order to accompany Cliff on his second trip to
     the Soviet Union. He had been there in 1937 and wanted to see for
     himself what changes had come about in the intervening thirty-two
     years. He also wanted me to see the country that was so different
     from the way our government and media portrayed it.
       Pine County had no school psychologist at the time, and was
     considering setting up classes for exceptional children; one of
     several tasks for a psychologist would be to help decide which
     children might benefit from such classes. I was offered the
     position, to begin when school started in the fall. So I retired
     from the clinic and my summer was now free for travel.
       The trip was a highlight in both our lives. Cliff made the
     arrangements; we travelled in our own car, purchased in
     W.Germany, and visited many of the same places where he had been
     as a young teacher in 1937 (long before I knew him). We stayed in
     moderately-priced hotels, and found it surprisingly easy to make
     friends wherever we went. We were more convinced than ever that
     from the stand- point of common people there was no reason for
     hostility toward the Soviet Union. We were determined to do all
     that we could to bring about a better relationship between that
     country and ours, for the sake of peace on earth.
       In Pine County I showed slides from our trip to various school
     and community groups; Cliff showed the same and/or other slides
     to groups in and around St.Paul. I suppose it was inevitable that
     some people who "knew a lot that wasn't so" about the Soviet
     Union would object to our more positive reports. In any case, my
     school contract was not renewed, and when I asked why, I was
     told,"Some people around here didn't like what you said about






     Russia."
       It happened that the Minnetonka school psychologist was about
     to take a one-year sabbatical leave. I filled in for that year,
     and was so busy in the spring getting ready for another trip to
     the Soviet Union that I neglected to search for a job for the
     following school year; when I returned from my trip I had no job
     prospects. I was then 69 years old but did not feel ready to
     retire completely. I applied to the Ramsey County Senior Citizens
     program and was at first offered community organization work
     that would have required frequent  attendance at and
     participation in evening meetings all around the city of St.Paul.
     But because my purse had been snatched one evening on a St. Paul
     street, I was wary of being on the streets in the late evenings.
     I opted instead for the lower paid, part-time job as Site Manager
     in the Congregate Dining program. I thought I would work there
     for a year or two, but I stayed for eleven years, retiring when I
     reached the age of 80.
       Cliff travelled to the Soviet Union eight times; in 1975 he was
     the tour leader. Soon after we returned from that trip Lon McDade
     of St.Paul came to our home accompanied by John Baker of the
     Council of American-Soviet Friendship based in Seattle,
     Washington. John told us about the Washington Council and its
     affiliation with the National Council. He urged Cliff to start a
     similar Council in Minnesota. Cliff liked  the idea; he called
     the people who had been on the tour with us that year, and thus
     the Minnesota Council of American-Soviet Friendship was founded.
     At first there were about 15 members, and we met monthly in our
     living room. Later Cliff finished the basement, with parquet
     floors and knotty pine panelling, and it was only  when
     attendance grew to more than 30 that we started to have our
     meetings in the Whittier Community Center, ( and more recently,
     at Van Cleve.)
       In the early 1980's Cliff's health began to deteriorate. He
     continued to do most of the maintenance work for the three houses
     he had built, and he continued striving for improved
     relationships between the USA and the USSR. He was very
     appreciative when, in October 1983, the council which he had
     founded eight years earlier honored him and me with a banquet at
     which he was awarded a medal from the Soviet Union "for
     Contributions to the Cause of Friendship".  But his illness was
     diagnosed as cancer, and we were told that it was incurable.
     Early in January 1984 he had to be hospitalized; he died on
     January 19th. I had known that death was immanent, yet I was
     stunned when it came. Now I was alone, and desolate. 
       Three years later when my younger grandson, Kevin, graduated
     from the Fayetteville Technical Institute in North Carolina, I
     persuaded him to come here and share my home. He has found
     satisfying work here as an electronics technician, and his
     presence means more to me than any words can express. 
      
       I am glad that it has been possible for each of my five
     grandchildren to visit the Soviet Union at least once. Keith, the
     oldest, went with Cliff and me in 1971. I took Ami in 1974 and
     Beth in 1977. By the time Kevin and then Barbara reached college
     age I no longer felt able to go because of health problems, but






     Ami was willing and able to take them. (I had been there six
     times altogether in the years from 1969 to 1977).
       As I grow older my family takes on added importance for me. It
     has been 39 years since Theron found an ideal wife, and their
     five children, now 27 to 37 years of age, are scattered across
     the country: Keith is working in the field of computer research;
     he and Diane have recently bought a home in Malden, MA which I
     have not seen because I no longer feel able to travel so far.
     Beth is operations manager and master flight instructor for a hot
     air balloon corporation in Albuquerque, NM. Ami is a technical
     writer now living in Somerville, MA. Kevin, who shares my home as
     stated above, is an electronics technician. And Barbara is a
     school counselor; she lives with her husband, Dave, near Siler
     City, N.C.
       For many years Theron has had a hot air balloon repair business
     near Statesville, NC; currently he is teaching part-time in a
     local college.
       I take pride in all of them and I feel lucky to have such
     talented descendants. And now Beth tells me that I also have a
     very delightful great-grand-daughter whom I have not yet seen. I
     am looking forward to meeting my youngest descendant.
       Of the six siblings who grew up together in Rocky River at the
     beginning of this century only three of us are left - Bertha, age
     92, living in her own home in Mansfield, Ohio with her daughter
     Miriam; Frieda, age 83, wasting away with Alzheimer's disease in
     a nursing home; and myself. Dorothy died in 1969, Martha in 1974
     and Harvey in 1975.
       I regret that I did not always keep in close touch with my
     original family. I am grateful to Mary Wahl (Dorothy's daughter)
     and Miriam Schroeder (Bertha's daughter) for coming from Ohio to
     be with me at the time of Cliff's memorial service. I am happy
     that Sue and Wesley Roepke (Dorothy's son and daughter-in-law)
     have come twice in recent years to visit me here in my home.
     And at Bertha's 90th birthday party I was able to renew
     acquaintance with some of the other relatives including Mildred
     James and Arthur Borovy (Martha's daughter and son), Evelyn
     Kirkhart's adult children, and others.
       I do keep in touch by mail with Bertha and her daughters, Elsie
     Stepler and her daughters, and of course with Theron and his
     family. On a less frequent basis I also correspond with Cliff's
     brother Harter and his wife. (Harter is the only one of Cliff's
     four brothers still living).
       I earnestly hope that from now on my family and all families
     will be able to live in peace. The fighting in the Persian Gulf
     area has ceased, but the problems there have not been solved and
     cannot be solved by wholesale murder - which is what war amounts
     to. I think it is critically important for the people of this
     country to find a way to take the authority to make war -
     declared or not - out of the hands of the President.
       And remembering my mother, I look forward to a time when
     governments will stop interfering with women's choices about the
     size of their families, and will attend to the real business of
     government, which is to bring an end to nuclear weapons tests
     which contaminate the very earth itself, and join with other
     governments all around the world in preserving natural resources






     for future generations. This includes protecting the purity of
     air and water. The welfare of people must be given higher
     priority than the making of profit; I am not sure that the
     capitalist system can do this.
       At this point in the world's history we would do well to
     cooperate with the Soviet Union whose President has recently been
     awarded a prestigious Peace Prize. If Cliff were alive now I am
     sure that he would be pleased with the degree of cooperation that
     is starting to come about, and would look forward, as I do, to
     more consistent and broader cooperation between the USA and the
     USSR (by whatever name it will be known) for the benefit of all
     mankind.
      
       To summarize: The most satisfying period of my life was (until
     near the very end when his health was failing) my 37 years with
     Cliff. We travelled together, worked together and shared - in
     broad outlines though not in every detail - the same views of
     world events. Our respect, love and admiration for each other was
     more than adequate to make allowances for the minor differences
     that I think are inevitable between any two people whose earlier
     life experiences have been different.
        Now I am glad to see that some of the goals Cliff worked for
     have been achieved. I hope and believe that my grandchildren and
     their children will live in a more peaceful world than the one I
     have known.