Lynne's Lens
Uncle Bert
Uncle Bert was my mom's mother's uncle, and aside from being an extremely handsome fella (as is evidenced in this 20's-era photo), he was quite a funny guy and a very entertaining writer.
I have excerpts of a letter that Uncle Bert wrote to my mom in the late 1960's about growing up on a farm in rural Illinois at the turn of the century with eight siblings and his parents. Here's the letter:
"This was taken in 1938 but looks exactly like it did when we lived there. The large tree which you can just see a part of is one of four hard maples which Dad (Charles Albert Griffin) planted about 65 years ago, and which are still thriving.
A part of the summer kitchen can be seen at the left, while beyond at a discreet distance and out of sight stood the four-holer. Dad had started out early with a modest one-holer, later replacing it with a two-holer. Finally, in desperation, he constructed a mammouth four-holer that was an architectural triumph. The structure was not a thing of beauty, but what it lacked in decor and design, it made up for in size. Holes number two, three and four were of varied sizes which sometimes caused visitors unfamiliar with their surroundings to hesitate almost too long in making a selection. Number one was about the size of the head-end of a vinegar barrel to accommodate Mother (Ida Keath Griffin), she being a person of most ample proportions. Number one, incidentally, was never used by the rank and file as a matter of choice. It was only when traffic was heavy and disaster threatened that any of the small fry would venture to avail themselves of its services, clinging fearfully to its edge like a fledgling about to be pushed from the nest.
As the family continued to grow, it became necessary to lengthen the table at regular intervals to assure everyone an even break at mealtime. Consequently, our table finally became so long that only on clear days could you stand at one end and distinguish objects at the other with any degree of accuracy.
Bess and I used to have our differences, usually prompted by a conflict of opinions as to whose turn it was to bring in a bucket of water or feed the chickens. This sometimes led to physical combat, and as she was about four years older, and a lot bigger, common sense dictated that I fight at long range, depending on speed and fancy footwork, knowing full well that if she manuevered me into a corner, I was a dead duck.
Now with the younger girls, it was different. They always seemed to resent such innocent little pranks as having cold water poured down their back -- or having their braids tied into a knot -- or having a few cockle burrs put in their hair. This always prompted them ot squall like a frustrated cat, whereupon Mother would barge in and I would barge out -- if I was lucky.
Even to this day, to hear Eunice talk, you would think I had been a Jesse James, Jack the Ripper, and Little Red Ridinghood's wolf rolled into one. This I resent, and even though the older ones coarsely referred to me as 'Satan,' I still believe I was a good little boy. After all, a boy who helpfuly puts apple peelings into his sister's shoes can't be all bad."
Uncle Bert
Uncle Bert was my mom's mother's uncle, and aside from being an extremely handsome fella (as is evidenced in this 20's-era photo), he was quite a funny guy and a very entertaining writer.
I have excerpts of a letter that Uncle Bert wrote to my mom in the late 1960's about growing up on a farm in rural Illinois at the turn of the century with eight siblings and his parents. Here's the letter:
"This was taken in 1938 but looks exactly like it did when we lived there. The large tree which you can just see a part of is one of four hard maples which Dad (Charles Albert Griffin) planted about 65 years ago, and which are still thriving.
A part of the summer kitchen can be seen at the left, while beyond at a discreet distance and out of sight stood the four-holer. Dad had started out early with a modest one-holer, later replacing it with a two-holer. Finally, in desperation, he constructed a mammouth four-holer that was an architectural triumph. The structure was not a thing of beauty, but what it lacked in decor and design, it made up for in size. Holes number two, three and four were of varied sizes which sometimes caused visitors unfamiliar with their surroundings to hesitate almost too long in making a selection. Number one was about the size of the head-end of a vinegar barrel to accommodate Mother (Ida Keath Griffin), she being a person of most ample proportions. Number one, incidentally, was never used by the rank and file as a matter of choice. It was only when traffic was heavy and disaster threatened that any of the small fry would venture to avail themselves of its services, clinging fearfully to its edge like a fledgling about to be pushed from the nest.
As the family continued to grow, it became necessary to lengthen the table at regular intervals to assure everyone an even break at mealtime. Consequently, our table finally became so long that only on clear days could you stand at one end and distinguish objects at the other with any degree of accuracy.
Bess and I used to have our differences, usually prompted by a conflict of opinions as to whose turn it was to bring in a bucket of water or feed the chickens. This sometimes led to physical combat, and as she was about four years older, and a lot bigger, common sense dictated that I fight at long range, depending on speed and fancy footwork, knowing full well that if she manuevered me into a corner, I was a dead duck.
Now with the younger girls, it was different. They always seemed to resent such innocent little pranks as having cold water poured down their back -- or having their braids tied into a knot -- or having a few cockle burrs put in their hair. This always prompted them ot squall like a frustrated cat, whereupon Mother would barge in and I would barge out -- if I was lucky.
Even to this day, to hear Eunice talk, you would think I had been a Jesse James, Jack the Ripper, and Little Red Ridinghood's wolf rolled into one. This I resent, and even though the older ones coarsely referred to me as 'Satan,' I still believe I was a good little boy. After all, a boy who helpfuly puts apple peelings into his sister's shoes can't be all bad."