By Kim Mack
This story was told to me by my grandmother, Sylva Beaumont Coonley, before she died in 1995.
My parents, Harry F. Beaumont and Pearl B. Beaumont nee Halleck, lived in a nice little white house on a corner, on Lake Street, in Pontiac, Michigan, where I was born, February 20, 1912. My earliest recollection is waiting on the steps every day for my father to come home from the Spring Works. He worked very hard hammering red-hot steel into springs. When I’d see him coming, I would run down the sidewalk and throw myself into his open arms for his usual hug and kiss. My father then was a very muscular man.
I remember that my Grandfather Beaumont was Pa’s helper on his fire. I was about three-years old at this time. In the living room against one wall and about in the center, was a big pot-bellied stove which was fed coal and wood that glowed red through the isinglass (mica) windows in the door. Beside it was a large coal scuttle, usually full of large chunks of coal. The kitchen, off the living room, had a huge black cooking stove, also fed coal or wood, with an oven at the bottom. My mother ironed with two irons that had removable handles, which were used interchangeably to transfer the irons from the stove to the ironing board and back to the stove.
Many nights before going to bed, I remember laying across my fathers lap while he scratched my back. I also remember him rubbing Arnica salve on my chapped legs and wrapping them in torn strips of sheeting in the winter time. My skin has always been very dry and in winter would literally crack open and bleed. Dorothy was born there on June 19, 1914, which makes us two years and four months apart.
About this same time my father and mother attended dances and card games where they played a game called Pedro. They must have always taken me with them as I remember climbing on the coats thrown on the bed and going to sleep. At other times I remember slipping and sliding on the dance floor with the other kids. All her life, my mother loved to dance, but Pa didn’t care about it much.
One clear winter night on the way home from some social function, my father was carrying me. It was so quiet, so white, only the sound of my parents footsteps squeaking on the snow. I remember a feeling of comfort, coziness, and inner warmth, although it must have been very cold.
A lamp-lighter came by at dusk every evening to light the gas street lights with his long pole. I suppose he came by at first light to snuff them out. We must have lived near town, because we had no transportation in those days; wherever we went, we walked. However, grass and trees abounded with a lot of empty space surrounding our immediate area.
The only other house nearby was Clark’s large white house on the left hand corner from ours. William Clark was a farmer who always seemed busy with hay and stuff, although I recall no animals, farm or otherwise. He seemed always to smell like a farm yard. His wife, Leone, was the midwife at my birth, however, there was always a doctor in attendance, because I remember my mother saying later that the doctor used large forceps and she thought he was going to pull my head off. Leone and my mother remained friends all their lives. I suspect she must have also attended my mother when Dorothy was born.
The Clarks had an abandoned chicken coop about one hundred yards from their back door and there hangs a tale. I must have been under six-years old and Stanley Clark, who was a little older, mischievously locked our younger sisters in the chicken coop. Then one of us dropped a lighted match in the straw outside. Instantly we were terror-stricken and ran and hid under his back porch. Mrs. Clark and Mamma came running at the smoke and all the screaming, broke the window and pulled the kids out. There was more smoke than fire, but I have often wondered what my life might have been had I had to carry the guilt for my sisters death or maiming the rest of my life.
My punishment? Well, there was a tree just outside our back door. Mother tore off a long switch, pulled it through her hand to peel off the leaves, and laid it, not too gently, on my bare legs. She used that form of punishment quite frequently, I might add. No matter where we lived, we must have had a handy tree for my mothers exclusive use.
When my father came home, he took me aside and pointed out the possible consequences of my act. I think that did far more to make me realize the terrible, thoughtless thing I had done than the welts on my legs.
On a shopping trip with my mother, I walked out of the store with a whistle. My mother told me I had to take it back and apologize. I put up a fuss and begged her to take it back for me. She said, No, you stole it, I didn’t, so you must take it back. All this time she is pulling me back into the store. The grocer said, Oh, that’s all right, let her have it. But mother won out. I had to confess I stole it and that I was sorry and promised never to steal anything again.
My first recollection of school leads me to believe I must have been a dreadful dreamer. While sitting at my desk one morning, the sun streaming in the windows, I sat gazing out, almost mesmerized. What a beautiful day it was, early in the morning, blue skies, and the green and gold of the great outdoors. I remember this as if it were only yesterday.
At a later date, I must have put into action my longing for the outdoors by skipping school. I was meandering down the railroad track, going nowhere in particular, when my mother caught up to me. The specifics of this escapade could not have made much of an impression on me as I do not remember. My mother related this episode and we were still living in Pontiac. Therefore, I would have been not over six years old.
I remember playing with my Uncle Ervin, who was my fathers youngest brother, but whose age I do not know. We were chasing each other around the living room and I fell and struck the pointed edge of the rocker just above my left eyebrow and it left quite a scar.
The following tragedy was told to me by my mother. Gramma Beaumont had just set a pail of hot water on the kitchen floor in preparation of washing it when Ervin backed into it. He was so severely burned he later died. There is no way for me to check on Ervin’s age, because most certainly his birth certificate was destroyed when the courthouse burned, as was mine.
I remember milk was delivered to the house in quart bottles by a milkman.
Uncle Frank, my fathers next younger brother, was some years older than I. He would take me bobsledding in the wintertime. Mamma didn’t like the idea as I recall. She thought it was too dangerous. It was a real racing bobsled with four separate runners about four inches wide and 26 inches long, two on each side. The two front runners moved independently from the two back runners and the front man steered. Boy, could that thing travel! And I just loved it!
One time when visiting Aunt Mable in Detroit, there was a fire some place and when we heard the clang clang of the fire bell, Buster and I rushed outside just in time to see four huge horses, two abreast, come pounding down the street, pulling the hook and ladder and the large water tank which was shiny brass. Pandemonium! Kids running and screaming, dogs barking and running alongside, and all the while that loud clang clang. Golly! That was exciting!
I received a beautiful doll for Christmas, made of fine white kid leather sewn at the knees to form joints. It had a china head and was stuffed with sawdust. I know because I crawled behind the sofa and tore it all apart, I suppose to see what it was made of. Is it surprising I was never given another one?
All I ever asked for were books and paints. One of my most cherished possessions was a book of Bible stories. The cover was read leather with gold lettering and the first page was a colored picture of Lucifer descending from Heaven with his host of angels. Some other books which enchanted me when I was very young were the Wizard of Oz and other books by Baum.
We must have had a well when we lived in Pontiac, and the water must have been piped in because we did not have an outhouse. Also, I remember Clark’s had a pretty bathroom, but its strange because I don’t recall one in our house. In fact, I don’t remember how we took a bath.
There is one outing that stands out in my memory of Pa and I fishing from a boat on a lake. It was a cool day and no sun, so it was probably late in the afternoon. I can still conjure up the feel of the boat rocking gently and the sound of the waves lapping on the sides. Suddenly it became dark and a strong wind came up and Pa said, Get down in the boat, and he started to row as fast and as hard as he could, but I could tell the boat was not going where he wanted it to go. Eventually the boat ended up in a vast swamp-like expanse of tall grass. By this time, it had been raining quite a while. I just knew Pa was lost as he picked me up and started wading in the knee-high water and hip-high saw grass, leaving his rod and reel behind. By this time, it was raining very hard. The rest of the adventure escapes me.
Mamma and Dorothy and I took the train to Duluth, Minn, where Gramma and Grampa Halleck lived at this time. The berths in the train were made up in smashing white linens and the colored porter in a white jacket, white shirt and black bow tie walked my crying sister, Dorothy, so my mother could get some rest. I think she cried all the way there. She was a babe in arms. I recall the clickety-clack of the wheels on the track, the swaying and the moaning of the train whistle from time to time. To me it was a great romantic trip.
The flu epidemic of 1918 killed 20 million people worldwide and million in the United States. Hardly anyone was untouched rich or poor. It was called The Great Plague, the worst epidemic the modern world had ever experienced. It started in the trenches and was spread from there into prisoner-of-war camps and hospitals and eventually into the United States by returning troops and the returning European troops infected the whole of Europe. The authorities and doctors were at first slow in reporting the seriousness of the disease for fear of causing a panic. Hospitals were overwhelmed. They ran out of some drugs and others were in short supply, as was linens and other hospital necessities while one out of four people died.
Uncle Roy, Uncle Percy, and Uncle Jimmy all served in the First World War. Uncle Roy lost all his hair and Jimmy was gassed and burned on the bottom part of his face and neck by mustard gas.
There were several home remedies my mother used often. Croupy coughs were relieved by a mixture of goose grease and turpentine, rubbed on the chest and then covered by a warmed flannel cloth. Every spring, Mother mixed up a cup of sulfur and molasses and gave each of us a big tablespoon full, something to do with the blood. She also made a paste of powdered mustard spread on a warmed flannel cloth and applied to the chest to break up pneumonia.
There were several things used to draw out infection or bring boils to a head. One I especially remember was a poultice of bread soaked in milk spread on a cloth and applied to the site of the infection. For a toothache, a piece of cotton was soaked with oil of cloves and packed into the cavity in the offending tooth. Mamma had the pharmacist mix up a mixture of rose water and glycerin, which was used for dry, chapped hands. Much later this same remedy appeared on the shelves of every drug store. Salt water was used as a gargle for sore throats and we drank black pepper in boiled milk for diarrhea. Baking soda was used as a toothpaste.
The Spring Works closed down and my father went to Detroit, Michigan and joined the police department October 2, 1918. The war was over, it ended officially November 1918. The flu then was abating, the worst was over. Mamma wasn’t too happy about Pa going on the police force and I know she worried all her life. But as it turned out, he loved police work and was happy in it until his retirement.
The first place we lived in Detroit was upstairs above a Jewish family. A flat, I suppose you would call it. We had our own entrance, three bedrooms, a large living room, and a nice kitchen. The people were very friendly, but I can’t remember their names or even if they had kids. There were some weird odors emanating from downstairs at meal times.
Once a month this kindly Jewish lady brought up a bowl of Gefilte Fish. So who wouldn’t like Gefilte Fish? Well, we didn’t. It was chopped fish, mashed potatoes, onions, garlic and whatever rolled together into balls and boiled in water. Mamma always graciously accepted them, one couldn’t hurt her feelings, but what we did with them I don’t know. I just know we didn’t eat them.
I remember the ice cream wagons with their clanging bells and the kids on the block running with their small, large, and larger bowls for as many scoops as mommy said. Now that was real ice cream!
One afternoon, my mother was sitting in a rocking chair, sewing or knitting. For some reason, whether for meanness or because I was simply bored, I went into one of the bedrooms and proceeded to light kitchen matches in a corner of the window. They kept piling up because they wouldn’t stay lit. Suddenly the curtain caught fire and I calmly walked out, closed the door, and sat in the bay window waiting, as I recall, for the fire department. My mother sniffed and asked me if I smelled anything, got up and went down the hall opening doors. The fire had burned up the curtain on one side, across the top and down the other side, setting fire to the mattress. My mother opened the window wide and stuffed the mattress out the window. The fire department never did arrive and that is all I remember about the fire or this house.
We didn’t live here long because Pa got a transfer to another precinct. However, we still lived here when the armistice was signed. Mamma and I were out among the crowd and the celebration was tumultuous. We were squeezed, pushed, crushed and otherwise manhandled. It was all in good fun, but along with the horns and other noisemakers, the screaming and shouting was sometimes accompanied by weeping. It was intimidating and frightening. Everybody was kissing and hugging perfect strangers. Suddenly we saw Pa in his uniform and Mamma fought the crowd to get to him. When he boosted me up over the crowd, I then felt more secure. He continued to carry me along on his shoulders, as the crowd was not unruly, just boisterous.
Kim Mack is a freelance writer from Ogden, Utah
Published U. S. Legacies Sep 2003
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