The Storm

Bertha Freeman Simpson: She was a marvelous combination of strength, courage, kindness, sensitivity, and intelligence. At the same time, she was reserved and rather shy.

One of the keenest and most traumatic memories of my childhood was the tornado. On April 4, 1928 (two days after Mayme and I had reached our sixth birthday), a devastating tornado stuck, destroying our home and causing the later death of Katie Pearl, our 17-year-old sister. The house we lived in (all 12 of us) was a temporary structure which Daddy had built to be used later as a chicken house. He had purchased 40 acres of land and moved the family to Arkansas from Texas in 1920. His plan was to build a permanent home on the place, but for those 7 or 8 years until this was accomplished, the family lived in the 4-room "chicken house." There were three partitions one right after the other, creating four rooms all in a row.On this particular afternoon (April 4), all members of the family were home except Irene who was married and living in Oklahoma, Byron who was on his way home from school that day (he stopped at a neighbor's home to get out of the storm), and Victor and Daddy who were building a house in Tontitown. About 5:00 p.m., ominous looking clouds began to move in rapidly. Although there may have been some, I don't recall thunder and lightning. I do remember greenish dark clouds, vicious wind and a heavy downpour of rain once the storm had moved on. On this fateful evening, Lois, who was teaching school at Salem then, had gotten home and was sitting at a table grading papers or preparing lesson plans for the next day. She had lit a kerosene lamp to work by but extinguished it when the winds began to blow. Mayme had developed an earache earlier in the afternoon, and Mama was holding her trying to ease her pain. We were all gathered at the foot of a bed in one of the rooms, except for Katie Pearl who had gone into an adjoining room, the kitchen, to check on the evening meal which was cooking on the wood stove. As the winds blew stronger it was necessary for Upton and Lois to hold the doors shut. I recall seeing through a window, barrels, etc., flying through the air - then next waking up lying on the bed and seeing sparks from the embers in a wood-burning heater which was also in that room. Mayme lay beside me. Mama and Genevieve were lying across the iron bedstead and one wall of the house was atop us all. I think we all lost consciousness for a few minutes. Lois and Newton had been blown clear of the structure into an apple orchard several yards away. Upton was freed somehow and able to lift the wall off Mama and Genevieve's backs. Miraculously, they suffered only minor injuries. Mama had some problem with her side, probably broken ribs, and Genevieve apparently bit the enameled bedstead with her mouth. There were bits of enamel embedded in her lips and other areas of her mouth. Her teeth were also damaged. Katie Pearl was pinned beneath the hot cook stove. All of her clothes were burned off and she suffered severe burns over most of her body. When they finally freed her, Mama sent Upton to Claypool's, our nearest neighbor, to telephone for an ambulance. In her intensively pain-crazed state, Katie Pearl ran after him and collapsed when she reached their house. The rain fell in torrents, which may have been a blessing. The ambulance transported her to the City Hospital in Fayetteville, where she remained for six months. The doctors repeatedly took skin from Mama's thighs and tried to graft it onto her body, but all those efforts failed and so she was brought home to the new spacious 4-bedroom home our Daddy had built during those months. She spent a few weeks at home, then died on November 14, 1928. Excerpt from 'A Tribute to my Mother, Bertha Freeman Simpson', Mable Brown, April 1989

In the Shadow of the Pines

Let me now get back to Papa. I felt Mama was getting homesick for him and I was sure of it when she received a letter from him one day. Part of the letter she read to us, but I knew there was something else in it just for her. She had that certain look on her face that told me. I had seen that look before and wondered because it was always connected to something Papa said or did. Maybe I was too inquisitive - even nosey. But I slipped the letter out of Mama's purse and read it. Papa told her how he missed her, and re-told the words he had spoken when he asked her to be his wife as they sat on the grass under a tree. A pine tree I think he said.
Papa loved to sing and often sang as he worked. There was one song which always seemed to be just for Mama, and Mama would get that certain look on her face when he sang it. Through the years, I have listened for that song -the tune and words - whenever folk music or mountain music was being sung, but I have never heard it again. And I have become more and more certain it was Papa's own song - composed and sung just for Mama. This is the way the words of the chorus go:
"Come back to' me, sweetheart
And leave me never more.
Come back to me, sweetheart,
I love you as before.
On life's dark pathway
The sun no longer shines.
Come back to me, sweetheart
In the shadow of the pines." Excerpt from "I Remember Papa", Irene Rountree, 1982

Prairie Dogs

But farmers then had a prairie-dog problem - sometimes those little dogs would claim a pasture and all but take possession. Papa battled them for a few years. I don't really know who won. But I do know Papa was never able to capture one of the creature's though he tried various methods. He tried twisting them out of their holes with barb-wire. No good. It rained hard once. Papa put on his yellow slicker and out in the rain dug trenches to turn the water into a dog-town, expecting anytime to see some little dogs come out and surrender. But no. Papa didn't yet know they had miles of tunnels underground and were well prepared for floods. Grandma Freeman was coming soon for a visit and Papa was determined he'd have a prairie-dog in a cage for her, but he failed.

I liked to go to the pasture with Papa and see the prairie-dogs sit up on the mounds of earth and bark and bark, then scamper to their holes. Just one movement toward them, or a rock thrown, and down into the holes they went quicker than one could blink an eye. The prairie-dog towns were pretty but a big nuisance. A cow or horse stepping in a hole could very easily break a leg.
- Excerpt from 'I Remember Papa', Irene Rountree, Oct 1981

Rest-in-Peace

Papa had heard about West Texas. The lure of the West must have been getting to everybody. Soon Papa was enticed to move his little family out there. But not until he first made a trip himself to see. And he liked what he saw. He took Uncle Jim Ed’s son, Charlie, with him to investigate the West.
He returned from this trip sooner than Mama had anticipated. Mama was very careful while Papa was gone. keeping a loaded shot-gun beside her bed at night. Vera and I were sleeping together and Mama had the two little ones in bed with her. I woke up one night because of a sound at the window – someone trying to open it. Mama heard it, too, and reached for the gun. Just as she was aiming toward the figure at the window, he spoke. Papa !! Of course, Papa deserved and received a real scolding. He liked to play tricks and joke, but Mama insisted that was not the time or place or way to joke. She meant it, too.
I remember seeing my Grandfather Simpson only one time and it must have been just before Papa moved us west. Papa took all of us to Simpson Springs, he called the homestead, to see Grandpa, which happened to be Papa’s last visit with his father. I have a distinct mental picture of Grandpa although it was the only time I recall seeing him. He was white-haired and smooth-shaven, not a large man, just average size. Grandpa Simpson had a short mustache, but no beard. On the other hand, Grandpa Freeman had a long white chin beard reaching to his waist. Uncle Anderson resembled Grandpa Simpson very much when I saw him at about the age of 60. Grandpa had a second wife whom the sons disliked very much. Aunt Julia, they called her. Papa said they liked to tease her. One day when they came in from work, they could not find her anywhere in the house. So they searched the barn and other buildings. They found her in the smokehouse. She had got into the big chest where the slabs of bacon were put in salt to cure. It was empty and she had crawled in, no doubt thinking she could hide there from the boys who teased her so severely. Papa told us Uncle Will said, "Well, boys, we've found her - but it's too late. She's dead." Then he said , You know boys, this box would make a good coffin. One of you bring me the hammer and I’ll just nail this lid down, and we’ll bury her." Of course, she came to life quickly. I can almost hear those Simpson sons laughing. -Excerpt from 'I Remember Papa', by Irene Rountree (eldest daughter), Oct 1981

The Dairy

We moved again - to a red-top house on a hilltop half-mile from town. There was a big red barn too, with enough stalls to take care of the extra cows Papa had bought. There was nothing on that hill to stop the wind but barb-wire fences. And it sure got cold that winter. Papa asked me if I could help him milk. So at five every morning he and I went out to milk in that cold barn. Mama helped in the afternoons. Papa milked around 20 cows then by hand and there were 3 or 4 of the 20 gentle enough that Mama and I could milk them. Milk at that time sold for 10c a quart! Papa sold the morning milk to cafes in bulk but the evening milk was bottled and that meant lots of bottle-washing. Most of the bottles came back clean and required little washing, but there were always a few customers who never washed their bottles. I dreaded washing and scalding those.

Papa called his dairy Sweetwater Dairy and his dairy had a good reputation. We still had Nellie, our chestnut mare. Papa delivered milk in his clean, enclosed milk-wagon called a hack. He had painted it pale green with the name Sweetwater Dairy in black lettering across it. And, of course, the hack was pulled by Nellie who seemed to have almost human understanding of her job. Once late in the evening Nellie came in home pulling the milk wagon, and some of the bottles of milk, but no Papa. Mama was upset. She began calling some of the customers along the route asking about Papa - if he had been there with the bottled milk. At first the answers were "yes", then a lady said she had seen Nellie and the hack at the curb for a few minutes but she didn’t find any bottled milk at the door. After Mama got this same answer from several others, she knew something was wrong. Before long, after dark, Papa came in - walking. He was angry that Nellie came home without him. But he admitted he lingered to talk with a customer - evidently too long, so Nellie thought. Next day different ones along his route told him Nellie had stopped at every house on his milk route and waited long enough for him to take the milk to the door, then she pulled on to her next stop. She didn't miss a customer, not one! Mama said Nellie was smart and had taught Papa a lesson. -Excerpt from, 'I Remember Papa', Irene Rountree (eldest daughter) in remembrance of Albert N Simpson (1874-1928), Oct 1981