Ardis’s recent post about women’s work and the Kingston United Order cooperative prompted me to look up a poem that my grandmother, Annie Mae Smeath Hunter wrote in 1970.
Grandma Mae, as she was known, was born in 1898 in Montpelier, Idaho, at the north end of Bear Lake. She married Clifford Hunter, who grew up in neighboring Bennington, Idaho, in the Logan LDS temple in 1917. Cliff was a farmer, and owned his own small plot of land in Bennington. Their first home was little more than a log cabin with a dirt floor, but they were happy, and close to family and friends. As they began to have the first of their seven children, Cliff could see that the small farm could provide some food and a little income, but not enough to provide all the necessities of a growing family. So Cliff got a job with the railroad, first in Salt Lake City, and then in a couple of years, as a stationary fireman in Montpelier. A “stationary fireman” meant that he maintained and operated the boiler at the Oregon Short Line (( The Oregon Short Line was a subsidiary of the Union Pacific Railroad, and reached Montpelier in 1892. Eventually, the yards there included a 20 locomotive roundhouse, repair shops, refueling, and watering station. The Union Pacific still maintains freight service to Montpelier. When my grandfather retired, he not only got a small monthly retirement check, but also a lifetime pass to ride the UPRR as a passenger. I once rode the train as a young child with my grandparents from Ogden to Gooding, my only real experience with railroad travel, other than urban light rail. )) yards in Montpelier, providing a minimal cash income to supplement the meager gains from the small farm.
My mother, Doris Hunter, was the fourth of their seven children, three boys and four girls. My mother vividly remembered the dirt floors of her childhood, and when they finally were able to upgrade the cabin with wooden floors and a small addition for added sleeping space. Farm work was, as it always is, hard work. While some of the family took to the chores readily, my mother never seemed to be able to handle some of the work, especially with farm animals. As a young girl, my mother was asked to help with slaughtering a chicken for dinner. Cliff dispatched the chicken, and gave it to my mother to clean and pluck before my grandmother cooked it. Mom put one hand in the body cavity of the chicken, and fainted outright. Needless to say, Mom was not cut out for farming as a long term prospect.
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