Ink

They lived in what was called “The Little House” on a farm in the middle of nowhere, outside a small farm town west of Indianapolis.  The little house was built for the great grandfather, who came to live with his son on the farm. This was after his (the great grampa’s) second wife had died and the step-kids had taken the farm he lived on for many years. Or, at least that’s what she was told and led to believe. She did not know a lot about him.  She knew that he had once “tried it on” (as the Brits say) with his granddaughter Jane, who firmly rebuffed him, and that he had somehow blown all of the money he inherited, and most of the land.  Not uncommon in those days, but still it caused even the great-grandchildren to wince when they looked at the Big House on the next farm over where the second wife and her kids had lived until she died.  Was her name Bessie? We didn’t know for sure. We only knew that our family, whose patriarch was one of the sons from the first marriage, inherited a small farm with a small house ordered from Sears and a smaller house where she lived until she was five.

A series of family members lived in the house over the years.  Three of the older four children (her mother’s siblings) went off with spouses to live in Indianapolis. One daughter and her husband lived in a small house at the end of the always dusty gravel road that connected it to the Big House Little House farm. This was her Aunt Edna, whose two young daughters were the first role models she had. From early on they took her to play upstairs with BillDings and in the yard outside. There were lilac bushes- didn’t everyone have lilac bushes?- and a small kitchen garden.  She loved those days when she could walk down the gravel road barefoot to her cousins’ house.  They were a lot older than she was (well, three or four years) but they were patient with her and kept her entertained.  In her world, having something to do was a huge event.