A Tough Old Bird – One

It is said that we are a nation of immigrants.  Except, of course, the indigence peoples.  And, there is some question from some circles that the indigenous peoples came to this continent across the Bering Strait.  We will never know for sure.

My mother Hazel Tatman Bundy’s heritage was English, primarily.  I know this because DNA shows both sister Clara and my heritage is from England and Germany – and Ireland from our dad.  She came from pioneer stock; her family traveled in a covered wagon from Denver to Saguache County in Colorado before she was born.  Her parents Robert and Carrie (Allen) Tatman were from families that emigrated from our U.S. plains (probably Missouri); they ended up in Colorado.  Robert and Carrie had twelve children, six boy and six girls (two sets of twins).  Hazel (one of twins) was, of course, born at home.  Most children were born at home  in December of 1901, especially those born in the country.  And, Saguache County was definitely mountain country.  I remember asking Mom why she had only one first name.  She said that probably her mother had chosen the name Amy Hazel or Hazel Amy for the new baby and, when two girls were born, she split the names, one for each.

 My parents met in Cotopaxi, Colorado.  She was one of the employees of a boarding house.  I know that one of her jobs was to wash the clothing of the men who stayed there.  I can imagine her washing their heavy overalls and jeans with a washboard.  Mom was not a very large woman, shorter than my five feet five inches as an adult.  But, she was strong.  Physically strong.  And, mentally strong.

The first daughter born to my parents did not live, a sorrow that she must have lived with all of her life.  Our family consisted of five additional girls.  All girls.  Sometimes, we said my father was a king in a woman’s world!  When my eldest sister Ethel was born, they were living in Pueblo, Colorado.  I can only assume that this was because my father was a big machine operator and had work there.  They had moved to Cañon City, Colorado, when my second sister Jacqueline (Jackie) was born; named Jackie because it is said that my father wanted a boy, and he could call her Jack.  Then back to Cotopaxi where Marie was born.  Cañon City where I was born, and Pueblo where Clara was born.  All girls – my father never got his boy with my mother – more about that later.

 When Ethel was a baby, my mother and her twin drove horses from somewhere in New Mexico to somewhere in Colorado.  Our father drove a car with Ethel to a place each night where he made camp.  When the horses were taken care of, they slept overnight and started out the next day.  It is not easy to drive a bunch of horses from one place to another.  Yes, my mother was tough.

She only seemed to be afraid of one thing.  And, she was really afraid of Indians.  Why?  She never explained why – only that the word “Indian” could make her feel fear.

She had disappointments in her life, but in that age, they were not usually discussed with others.  She apparently did tell my sister Jackie about a big disappointment in her life.  She lived with a man who had left his second family in California, came to Colorado, and married her – without any apparent divorce from the second wife.  At that time of life in our world, this leaving a family as my father did was not an uncommon occurrence.  I never really made my peace with that aspect of my life, but as a nephew said – if Grandpa had not done what he did, I would not be here, today.

She dealt with another extreme disappointment at the time my sister Marie was expected.  My parents and my two eldest sisters were living in Florence, Colorado, at that time.    Aunt Amy was living there, as well.  Years and years later (about twenty-five, actually), I was in Aunt Amy’s house in LaJunta, Colorado; she was married to Ralston by then.  There on the wall was a photograph that looked like my father at a younger age.  Why, I wondered, would my Aunt Amy have a photograph of my father on her walls?  And, so, sister Jackie explained.  That was not a photograph of our father.  Rather, it was a picture of our cousin, but not our cousin.  Rather, it was our half-brother Ervin, born to Amy at the same time sister Marie had been born.

How does one get over that kind of hurt?  At the time Ervin was born to my mother’s twin sister, there were few options open for my mother.  She had three children, one newborn.  Her only work skills were that of boarding house worker; but, there weren’t many boarding houses in business at that time.  She was a mother and home maker.  How would she have kept body and soul together?  Where would she and her children live?  Did she forgive him that indiscretion?  I will never know, but Clara and I were born to them, after that.

My mother could make something out of nothing.  She made heavy “quilts” from used-up coveralls.  I remember “helping” make some of those quilts.  They were more comforter than quilt.  Big and fluffy and heavy.  After she sewed the pieces of coverall material together on her treadle sewing machine and put cotton batting between the top and bottom, she would baste long lengths of yarns across them, cut the lengths, and, then, we would tie the yarn into knots. She made dresses for me (and, probably, Clara) using feed sacks which were of various prints a that time.  And, she never used a store-bought pattern.

In the house where the seven of us lived, we had two sources of heat.  Both fired by wood and coal, we had a pot-bellied stove in the living room and a cook stove in the kitchen.  The five daughters slept upstairs with the only heat coming up the stairs and into our two bedrooms from those stoves.  Those heavy comforters kept us warm in the winter nights.

My mother lived in houses that, today, would probably be condemned as unfit for human occupancy.  We did not have indoor plumbing until about 1947.  The State had decided to build a new highway from Pueblo to Denver and, with eminent domain, took the house we lived in.  The house where we had water at the back stoop (it froze every winter requiring thawing by pouring hot water over it) and an outhouse at the back of the property.  A housing shortage made it difficult for Mom to find another place; but, she did. Across the street and only for two or three months.  I’m sure that we kids all thought we’d died and gone to heaven.  Not only did it have a bathroom IN the house, it had HOT water.

At the old house, having hot water meant heating up the kitchen stove that had an attached water reservoir.  So, it was heat the stove, heat the water, dip the water from the reservoir, wash the body in a tin tub or clothes in a wringer washing machine.  In the “new house,” all we had to do was open the faucet.  And, it drained away through a pipe.  We didn’t have to carry it outside and pitch it onto the ground.

Unfortunately, we lived in that wonderful situation for only a short time.  It was then to Cañon City to what may be my favorite house, ever.  It had an indoor bath (with a claw-foot tub), toilet and sink, and a floor furnace.  The kitchen stove was still wood fired, though.  In back of the house was a bunch of black walnut trees.  Mom loved black walnuts.  She would crack them against the shoe last, pick out the meats, and use them to make divinity at Christmas.

Every time we moved, Mom would take it in stride, pack up our belongings, and make sure the move happened.  I think as kids, we never really understood what hardships she endured, every time this occurred.

Continued Next Week

This post was created with the help of sister Clara.

 Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
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