Summer was also a time, after work was done, to kick off our shoes and run free. There were days we would play at the nearby creek or make mud pies behind the outhouse. The prairie was never lacking in adventure, and there was plenty of excitement with the various animals on our small farm.
As the summer began to come to an end and the promise of the new school term was with the flip of the calendar, the house was buzzing. Momma was busy making new dresses for Florence and me out of flour sacks. The printed patterns on the sacks could not be disguised and made us stand out even more among the kids at school and folks in town. To this day, material with a pattern makes me think of those awful flour sack dresses.
And then, there was the need for shoes. I never knew for sure how momma made it possible for us to each get a new pair of school shoes, but it always happened. Momma would line us up in the kitchen, like cans on a shelf, and trace our feet on brown paper. The tracings would be marked with our names and mailed to Montgomery Ward.
It was like Christmas, when the boxes arrived with our precious shoes inside. While other children always seemed to have shoes that fit, we each got one pair, and only one pair, for the entire year. It didn’t matter how quickly our feet grew or how tattered the shoes became, it wasn’t until the following school term began, that new shoes would be ordered.
Our shoes lasted through rain, snow, and mud. If they were wet from choring during a downpour, it was not likely they would be dry in time for school the next morning. And so, soggy feet would occupy our mind, instead of the day’s lessons taught by our teachers. They were our shoes for school, work, and play. When our shoes became caked with the manure from cleaning the stalls in the barn, we would carry the smell with us to school the next day, turning up the noses of others and setting us apart even more from the other children.
Once spring arrived, and the days started to warm, our toes were often curled and bent, because the fabric restricted our growing feet. Momma would cut away the ends of our shoes, giving room for our toes to relax and wiggle, and leaving the soles of the shoes in tact, there was protection from the elements. And while there was some relief for cramped toes, the cut away shoes only alienated us even more from the children at school.
We were the Temple kids, who lived on the farm outside of town. And we were more than different, we lived a backward life that no one understood.
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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Life began to fall into a routine during those years spent in the Cheyenne Wells, Colorado. Yes, there was always the possibility of us being discovered in the house we were living, but while we waited mamma did her best to make the house a home. There were always chores to tend to and the days were quickly filled by them.
It has been said that twins have a special bond, and that was always true of Bob and me. Bob and I played together and sometimes we would just . . . . be. Chores that Bob and I did together never seemed to be work, because Bob always made the muldane entertaining. One of the chores that Bob and I took care of at the end of each long day was to gather the few cows we had on the farm. Today, fences would keep a rancher's herd confined, but in the 1930's, cattle ran the vast prairies of eastern Colorado and it was necessary to round them up each night.
And so, Bob and I would set out after dinner, rain or shine, with nothing more than a bucket of grain and a long stick. Sometimes the chore was effortless. When the lush green grass was plentiful, we would quickly find the old milk cows close to home, and they would willingly follow us home, enticed by the promise of the treat the bucket held. I would skip along, playing a game of tag or singing a song with my twin.
Sometimes, the cattle had wandered further from home in search of fresh grass, for in the hot, dry summers, foraging took great effort. Fall and spring temperatures on the prairie would often fall below freezing after the sun set, and we would bundle up in layers and take off quickly, knowing that the hours of daylight would be sparse. On these extreme hot or cold days, there were no games to be played.
It was when the cows had journeyed far from home, that the chore of gathering the cows at the end of a long day was more challenging. There were times that the cattle had crossed a gentle bubbling brook. Bob and I would use large rocks to cross the gentle water. Other times, the herd had crossed a rapid moving stream, and we would act as explorers or pirates on an adventure, looking for a lost treasure. We would forge ahead, using our walking sticks to navigate the treacherous waters. Occasionally, there were stones laid out, a slippery path. But more often than not we would charge across the rough waters, sometimes up to our waists.
There were times that our walking sticks would sink deep into the earth, warning us to steer clear of quicksand that we had been warned would swallow us up whole. We would cautiously walk and tap, until we found safe passage around, still in search of our family’s prized milk cows.
Finding the cows on the other side was always like finding a hidden treasure. However, the adventure was never over until we retraced our steps . . . crossing the water and circling around the quicksand. But this time the sun was setting in the western sky, making our return trip dangerous and long.
I do not ever being afraid on those adventures with Bob. We would sing and keep each other company, often making up games to pass the time. Most children would moan and groan at the enormous task and responsibility, but I honestly do not remember the chore to be a burden.
It wasn't until I had children of my own that I realized how dangerous it was for Bob and I to take out on our own across the vast prairie. The numerous hazards make an adult’s mind spin with the possibilities, but for a child . . .
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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“Each morning we would turn our cattle loose on the open range of western Kansas, since we didn’t own acreage of our own. We would watch which direction they plodded, and when the sun began to fall in the easter sky, Mother would set out on foot to bring the cattle back home. However, in the late 1920’s the laws changed, outlawing free range grazing of cattle in Kansas. We had to fence in our pasture, and with sparse finances, that task was more than enormous, it was impossible. It didn’t take long for my parents to decide to pack up our lives and move their growing family to Eastern Colorado.
Mother stitched a tent made from heavy canvas that was placed over the ‘hedda barge’ (flatbed hayrack). And while the rest of the world journeyed through life in automobiles, our horses were hitched, and all of our worldly possessions were packed into the prairie schooner.
For me the trip was like an adventure. We moved slowly, and I am sure we were quite a sight as we moved along the countryside in our covered wagon with a herd of cattle following along. At night we would stop and Mama would pull the kerosene stove out of the wagon and cook our supper. Florence, Bob, and I would play with our dogs.
We eventually stopped along a creek near the town of Cheyenne Wells, Colorado. It was there we would spend that summer of 193?. Mama took care of the cattle and did her best to make our wagon a comfortable home. Each day dad would take one of the horses to look for a house that we could move into. Night after night he would come back, head hung low, without any news.
It was a day that started like any other. . . Florence and I were helping Mama with chores and Dad had left on horseback to scout the area for a vacant house. But on this particular day, he returned sooner than usual, and his head was held high--he had found a house for us! It didn’t take long for us to pack up our lives and gather our dogs.
We moved into the little one room house, probably left vacant when the previous owner could no longer make payments to the bank. Often folks would mind their own business and look the other way. Times were tough for everyone, and families had enough worries of their own without borrowing the heartaches of others. The shack would be our home, until we were discovered by the bank who owned the property or a lawman patroling the area. Then, our little family would be evicted, and left to roam the vast openness of the Colorado prairie.
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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“Each afternoon my brothers and I would get onto the school bus, for our long ride home. Since we lived far from the little town of Cheyenne Wells, our stop was the last on the route. The trips were often predictable, with nothing significant to make them memorable. But on one particular fall day, a classmate announced that he had been given permission to skip his stop and go home with a friend. For many children, this would arouse excitement and require planning for explorations and mischief. However, for an impoverished family, the thought of having a surprise guest, caused anxiety. As the bus stopped, letting children off along the way, the boy remained, and I began to devise a plan. The charade would require my younger brothers to play the game of pretend with me. We huddled in the back of the bus, talking in hushed whispers about how our creative game would play out. When our house finally came into view, I exited the bus in a cloud of anxiety, praying our family’s secret would not be the subject of school gossip the following day.
I am sure my brothers entertained our guest outside, but my focus was in our small home, making sure all the game pieces were in place. It didn’t take long for me to realize there was only so much I could do to prepare our humble house for the visitor. When it was time for dinner, the game of pretend began. The first move was made when the platter of goat meat was passed around the table. How humiliating to offer goat meat to a guest, but since it was referred to as steak, or at the very least meat, our secret didn’t escape. Following dinner, Mother served green tomato pie, but we bragged about the delicious mincemeat, and dodged another opportunity for humiliation. Following dinner, the boys took their friend to show him their unusual iron beds that were stacked on top of one another. Mother creatively came up with her version of the bunk bed, long before they could be purchased in stores, out of a need to find sleeping space for all of my brothers. Our beds from Paris, as we boasted, were the envy of the neighbor boy. As the sun began to sink low into the sky and the temperature started to dip, I discreetly loaded the stove with cow chips, and hoped our guest wouldn’t notice our source of fuel. The evening finally ended, and our neighbor left. Everyone went inside without hesitation, and I remained on the porch watching the boy meander along the dirt road, until I could no longer see him. Tears lingered, but I refused to let them fall. Tomorrow, I would know if the game of pretend had fooled our guest.
The next day at school, it was difficult for me to make eye contact with anyone, fearing the chuckles that would follow. I walked up the front steps, head dipped low, and then I saw the neighbor boy with a group of other boys. However, the only words spoken about the Temple family on that day were, ‘Mrs. Temple makes the best mincemeat pie!’
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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“The days were long, and I was often tired from the endless chores that filled my days and nights. Mother seemed to always be pregnant or recovering from childbirth, and during those times the work load seemed almost unbearable. But my legs always moved forward, my hands went through the motions, and my heart always complied with ________ obedience. There was nothing special about this particular day. I had spent the morning making bread and the hot afternoon was filled with the endless mountain of laundry that a large family could produce. There were the filthy overalls, soiled cloth diapers, and shirts that were always in the need of a button or a patch. In the midst of the overwhelming task before me, I was overcome with exhaustion. I found refuge in the lonely tree in our yard. I scurried to the top, hoping no one would find me during my few moments of rest. It was during those few quiet moments that I cried out to God, “I am so tired. Please take this away and help me. Please love me.” I had never been introduced to the salvation plan, but I did know about a loving God, and so I prayed.
Eventually, a neighbor offered to take me to church with her. And so, each Sunday morning I would walk the long dirt road to the highway and meet her. There were many Sundays when our paths didn’t cross--I was late. . . she was early, the weather kept her home (never me), or she was ill. But I was always there. . . and so is God.”
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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“It was spring. At school that meant track season was in full swing. But this year, for the opening track meet, many of the star athletes were home sick with mumps or measles. The track coach was nervous as the season’s first meet approached, and still there weren’t students available to run. Who would represent ___________? The teachers all seemed to have the same solution. “I’ve seem Ruby Temple out running, and she is fast!”.
At home, I had been running, but not for the purpose of track training. I ran each morning to help our greyhound catch jack rabbits. My dad had brought home the scroungy dog, but since food was scarce, ________ would have to fend for himself at mealtime. I took it upon myself to make sure he caught a jackrabbit each morning. If I would stop running, the dog would stop right at my heels. But the faster I flew across the fields, the quicker ___________ would snatch his morning meal.
I ran to keep away from the mean duck that always seemed to know when I was headed to the outhouse. I would sneak a peek out the back door, with the duck nowhere in sight, I would leap from the back step and run, as fast as my legs would fly, never taking my eyes off the outhouse door. Without fail, the duck would hear the squeak of the door. With a loud squawk, the duck announced his presence and nipped at my heels the entire way. I would dive into the outhouse, knowing the duck would wait until I emerged once again.
And finally there was the goat that my brothers would tease without ceasing. The game required boys to be stationed at the house and then some more right inside the barn. At the house, the boys would harass the goat, shove me out the door, and I would run to the barn, where my awaiting brothers would pull me to safety inside. At the barn, the boys would begin continue teasing the Billy goat, push me out the door, and I would run as fast as my legs would travel, to the house. Here the entire game would repeat until one of the players would tire, but vow to continue the game the following day.
And so, my track training was in full swing at home, without me knowing that I would soon be asked to represent my school at the opening meet of the season. In the end, that was the only meet that I ran in that year--ever. But I left my legacy until the building was torn down years later. There hanging on the was a plaque displaying the records I set.
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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“The heel of the bread has always been my favorite, for it was a forbidden treat when I was a child.
My family finally settled in the town of _______ and lived in a small house near the railroad. The train station was a busy place, where loved ones would meet and say their tearful goodbyes. However, there was always a bit of mystery that lurked in the shadows. Just as the train blew the whistle announcing its departure and began to roll out of the station, homeless men, dirty and tired, would jump onto the boxcars. Unlike the other travelers, these vagabonds were headed for an unknown destination somewhere down the tracks.
Word spread quickly among the hobos that our household was a safe place to pause for a bit of nourishment before continuing their trip down the line. Mother would slice off both ends of a fresh loaf of bread and put it out of reach, warning us it was off limits. Rarely was there money to buy canned goods at the store, so Mother would send us to dig through the trash cans of a nearby house, looking for discarded cans we could wash and prepare as cups. As the train whistle blared, she would fill the can with cold milk and wrap the treasured heals in newspaper. The children would rush to the window, waiting for a glimpse of the hobos coming up the road to retrieve this gift. And even though Mother was kind and giving, she was always cautious and took great care to protect her children. She would hand the wrapped package and tin can to one of us, and we would present the gift to our traveling guests, as she watched carefully, with the fire poker close to the door.
I clearly remember one evening in late fall when the leaves were falling from the trees and the breeze was turning from warm to a biting cold. Our family was sitting around the table, and Mother dished up the precious food onto plates, making sure everyone was served, and knowing there would be nothing left for seconds. No one else saw Mother quickly tuck her ration of meat into a napkin, and place it on her lap. I knew that night my mother went without food, so the hobos could have a special treat on this bitter fall evening.
It was from watching my mother sacrifice and give, that I learned the power and fulfillment of service.”
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
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“I’m not sure how it all got started. It was an innocent story that I told to the other kids at school. I think perhaps, I wanted for it to be true, and by repeating it over and over, there was the glimmer of hope that no one could take away. Soon the story spread at school, “Ruby is getting a piano,” and I didn’t know how to stop it. Somehow, my mother heard about my Christmas wish, but she never scolded me for telling such an unbelievable tale.
Christmas was right around the corner, and each of my five brothers and sister would have a hand made gift under the tree. Often the girls would receive handmade dollies and clothes fashioned out of the same flour sacks we wore each day. The boys would get sling shots or bean bags. But the Montgomery Ward catalog was for looking and dreaming, and we all knew that there wasn’t any money for toys from store we called ‘Monkey Ward’. The Christmas of 1932 would be different.
I never knew how Mother was able to save the money and order my treasure. Perhaps she sold extra eggs in town or did some sewing to earn money that she secretly tucked away. But on Christmas morning, Mother handed me a small wrapped gift. As I unwrapped the present, she explained, “Ruby, this is like a piano, but it only has 10 keys. And I know you can play it.” I cried as I held my little harmonica, and the noise and chaos of the house faded around me. I took my treasured gift to the corner and put it up to my lips. Without hesitation, I took a deep breath and God’s peaceful spirit came over me. The notes of “Silent Night”, first softly and then with confidence filled our small house. Everyone stopped, and looked at me in amazement, sitting in the corner, playing my precious piano.”
--told by Ruby Lamer (Temple)
