Spring Fed Water From A Colorado Indian in 1949

Curtis Cline and his children,
 Margaret, Gene, and C. F.

The picture to the left is not very clear, and a bit out of focus.  However, the memory is clear in my mind.  My family had been traveling about a week when this picture was taken.  As I remember it, we had stopped to get something to drink at an interesting looking western-style store. Inside the store, Gene was attracted to some native made musical instruments.  You know, the ones that native American's played.  I remember looking at some small and medium-sized drums that were decorated nicely.  It was a store with all the tourist type items for sale.  I remember buying a Pepsi, and a snack and the others got much the same, but I don't know if we bought anything else or not.  I think my Mom bought a cedar-lined keepsake box.  I remember the store had the large Hunter ceiling fans that made it cool inside the store, so we looked a little longer than usual. 

We did not see the Indian fountain until we came out of the store.  The native American Indian seemed huge to a five-year-old girl.  He was bending on his knees with a large bowl just above the large water basin.  Out of the middle of the container, a fast-moving body of water was gushing out.  First, C. F. was interested in going over to take a good look, then I wanted to see it too.  A local man was standing there and told us the water was from a fresh mountain-fed spring.  When my Dad hear that, he had to try the water.  Then Gene and C. F. tasted the water.  As I was the youngest, I had to wait until they had all tasted the water before I got a drink.  None of them said very much until I started to drink the water.  Then they all started laughing, saying it tasted terrible.  My Dad said it felt like Alka-Seltzer.  I liked the water, so I asked them what they meant because it tasted good to me.  They all three laughed at me and said I was crazy.  Later, I learned it was an artesian well, which is often under pressure between two rock beds.  The pressure makes the water "sparkle" like seltzer water.  I liked it then, and I still drink it today, and from time to time remember the first time I drank sparkling water was in Colorado with my family.

We all crawled back into the station wagon and headed off for the Royal Gorge Bridge.  Between 1929 and 2003, it was the world's highest suspension bridge.  My Dad was always intrigued by the "biggest and the best" of things.  Once we got to the massive bridge, most of us were intimidated by its size and thousand-foot drop from the bridge to get out of the station wagon.  In 1931, a 3 ft narrow gauge incline railway was built to the bottom of the gorge through a narrow cleft just west of the north end of the bridge.  We all thought it was a bit too risky for us to take that railway to the bottom.  My Dad insisted that we drive over the Royal Gorge Bridge.  We then returned over it to the lovely park area to eat our supper.  It was a fantastic sight to see.  I will always remember how it swayed when we drove over it, and I was thrilled to get back to the starting side.  

At one time, my parents had a brown scrapbook full of photographs from the trip.  The photos were inserted into the little black triangular tabs that held them in place.  There were several dozen photos in the album and now all I can find are seven, with this being one of those seven.  This is just another memory of my family trip to Colorado in 1949.   

 

Dreaming Under A Wisteria Covered Arbor in the 1950s

This is one of my paintings.
It is named
"Under the Wisteria Covered Arbor."

The year was 1949 and I was five years old.  My family and I returned from Colorado that July to Sikeston, Missouri.  My Father found Missouri to be very hot after being in Colorado for several weeks.  One summer evening after our return, we all sat outside and talked about our wonderful vacation.  The next day, he built an arbor next to the double windows outside the master bedroom.  He thought it would make the home’s master bedroom cooler in summer.

I watched my father build the arbor.  He planted small wisteria plants at the foot of each post.  He was a man six feet tall with an average build and powerful hands.  My Father’s bald head showed signs of sweat from the summer heat.  His sky blue eyes sparkled with delight as he told me that next year the wisteria plants would bloom with purple flowers.  I enjoyed spending time with my father.  He was usually happy and always in a hurry to get things done.  He enjoyed working and, whenever possible, he took me with him.

After two summers, the wisteria vine grew until it spread to cover the top of the arbor.  The wisteria made a screen from the hot sun above.  The long purple clusters of flowers cascaded down from the top of the arbor.   I loved the sweet smell and pretty sight of the wisteria in bloom each spring.  With time, the soft blooms dropped to the ground to form a beautiful blanket of purple.

Each summer I took delight in sitting under the wisteria-covered arbor.  My parents subscribed to the National Geographic magazine that told in words and pictures of places unfamiliar to me.  I would fantasize about being in far away places and experiencing the glory of learning new things, eating unusual foods and hearing foreign languages.  The wisteria-covered arbor became a haven to escape from hot boring summers.

       I felt stifled in Sikeston.  My mother wanted to take me with her fishing but I found sitting looking at the dirty water anything but interesting.  The weather was hot in the summer and cold in the winter.  I never understood what enjoyment my mother obtained in fishing unless it was her way of escaping from a life in which she appeared to find limited pleasure.  
   Most of the National Geographic magazines showed beautiful photographs of Africa, China, Europe, South America and other foreign countries.  There was one article that wrote about Medieval German states, and it had stunning photographs of men and women dressed in period costumes, standing in front of Medieval structures.  I dreamed of going there someday.  They also published an article on New York City and its many attractions.  Oh my!  I promised myself that someday I would go to New York City and see those sites displayed in the magazine. 

       Einstein said, “Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life's coming attractions.”  I imagined myself in some of those places viewed and read about when under my arbor.  I traveled to New York City twelve or more times on business.  Due to my work schedule, I didn't have a chance to visit all the sites to see, but I did get to see a few.  To me, it is the energy I felt when walking on the streets, or riding in an elevator, or talking with my business associates that stimulated me on my visits there.  I considered writing about the many places I have visited, but thought the focus of this Blog should be on "Imagination."  I am a goal setter.  If you don't plan for the future, you will accomplish much less than you are capable of achieving.  In the fall of my life, I have learned that relationships matter and you should imagine positive things for yourself because it could be the "preview of  life's  coming attractions.”

Arapaho Chief for Hire in 1949

 C. F. Cline with Arapaho Chief in
in Colorado Springs, Colorado - 1949.

My brother C. F. Cline was a Boy Scout and was always an admiring of Native Americans.  On a trip to Colorado in 1949, the family stopped to eat at a restaurant where there were several tourist type exhibits in the same area.  When we came out of the restaurant from eating, C. F. saw a "real live Indian" nearby.  The sign said "Your picture taken with an Arapaho Chief - 50¢."  That was a good bit of money for a photograph in 1949, but C. F. didn't stop until our Dad agreed to let him have his picture taken with the older Arapaho Indian.  We had the old chief's name at one time, but I have no idea where to look for it.  According to C. F., the Boy Scouts had a level called the Order of the Arrow.  Supposedly there were tough requirements to be nominated for the Order of the Arrow, and scouts took it quite seriously.  The best I recall, Boy Scouts used the language and their version of the "Indian culture" in the Order of the Arrow ceremony.  I believe he saw it once while attending summer camp and was always intrigued with Native Americans ever since that summer.  He blessed us by telling us all about it for many miles.  Anytime we stopped to eat or visit a historic site, C. F. showed that photograph to everyone he met, and he talked about Indians and their culture for most of the trip back home.  

Eight people in close quarters with one of the passenger talking about a single subject mile after mile did get on our nerves.  I was sure glad to have the "ViewFinder" and slides we bought at the Garden of the Gods to look at when C. F. was showing his big chief photo.  We did other things to help make the time go by when on the road, such as "count the states license plates"  to see who could come up with twenty-five  different state licenses first.  You had to write them down too.  Since I had not gone to school and couldn't write, I had my Mom writing down the states for me.  My brother Gene said C. F. added plates of cars that did not exist.  The trip taught me the world was a lot bigger than Sikeston, Missouri.  Overall, it was an enjoyable vacation.  

The Arapaho were a tribe of Native Americans historically living on the plains of Colorado and Wyoming. They were close allies of the Cheyenne tribe.  There were two different branches of Arapaho.  When the American government forced them into reservations, the tribe members that primarily lived in Wyoming were sent to a reservation in Montana.  The Southern Arapaho, mostly residing in Colorado, was transferred to an Oklahoma reservation.  Today, the Southern Arapaho live with the Southern Cheyenne in Oklahoma.
From the picture of C. F. and his Indiana friend, you can see that not all Arapaho were captured and forced into a reservation.  We saw twenty or so Arapaho when we traveled around Colorado.  I thought they were very handsome with their high cheekbones and pronounced noses.  I regret that the White man failed to honor its treaties with the Native Americans so they could have remained on the land where they were born.  That is in the past, let us today respect each other for who we are and try to get along with the blessings of diversity.  America is a better country for the diversity of her people.  I wish I could hear C.F. talk about our trip to Colorado one more time, but that is not possible now.

A Family Adventure to Pikes Peak in 1949

Curtis Cline handing his
daughter Margaret a snow
ball on top of Pike's Peak.

My father, Curtis Henry Cline, set a goal to eat a snowball on top of Pikes Peak, Colorado on the 4th of July. The picture to the left was taken on top of Pikes Peak in 1949.  My Dad is handing me a snowball.  At one time, my parents had a picture of Dad standing in front of a large snow bank with the words "July 4, 1948" carved in the snow to mark the moment Dad reached his goal.  Over the years that photo was lost.

My parents purchased a new Willis Jeep "Woodie" station wagon for the trip.  It was called a Woodie because it had real wood on the bottom half of the station wagon.  It was a nine-passenger vehicle with the latest conveniences.  Dad and Mom invited their church friends Floyd, Berry Dillender, and their son Mike to vacation with us to Colorado.  Mike and I were the same age, so that gave me someone to talk with because my older brothers didn't want to bother with me.  My brother Gene was twelve, and C.F. was nine at the time of our trip.

Before the journey, my Dad cleaned the car from top to bottom, even the engine.  He took it to a garage and had everything inspected before we left.  It took us a couple of days to drive to Pikes Peak, and we stopped to visit points of interest along the way.  A few nights we stayed in a motel, and the other nights we camped in tents.  Dad built a medium sized trailer which they pulled behind the car to haul our luggage and camping equipment. My brother Gene reminded me that he remembers before dark, Dad looked for the right place to park and camp for the night.  After we had eaten by the campfire, the adults slept on cots under the stars, and the four children slept in the Jeep station wagon.  Those were kinder days than today; I would not think of sleeping on the side of the road today.

I remember being happy to see the sign "Welcome to Colorado."  The cheering stopped once we started the ascent to reach the top of Pikes Peak.  My parents found the hairpin curves a challenge.  My Dad drove on the way up, and my mother kept screaming he was too close to the edge of the road.  My brothers and I were bored by then, as well as Mike, so we began to argue.  At this point, my Dad stopped the car and got out.  The car was starting to run "hot" on the way up, so Dad stopped the car, walked back to the trailer, and took out a container of coolant.  He insisted on changing the cooling system, or radiator, in an available wide spot in the road about half the way up the mountain.   I was elated that we made it to the top in one piece.  My mother complained about Dad's driving and was not happy about his "cooling" stop, so Dad told her she could drive on the way down. 

My brothers told the story of rolling me in the snow on my fifth July 4th birthday on Pikes Peak.  I don't remember being pleased about that, but they thought it was funny.  When we reached the top, we could see a cable car we could have taken up.  I am sure it would have been much more fun than the hairpin curves.  It was a beautiful view, but it was cold.  
Coming down Pike's Peak was worse than going up.  You had to brake a lot on the hairpin curves on the way down.  At one point, our tires or brakes started smoking.  Again, we had to find a wide spot to pull over, let everyone climbed out of the Willis to let the brakes cool off.  Cars were not air-conditioned back then, so it was cooler outside the car than it was inside.  Once we started down again, my brother Gene said, "look beside us, that trailer looks just like ours."  To our horror, it was ours.  The trailer hitch was not fastened tightly enough to withstand the hairpin curves.  A man who stopped to help us said the constant switching motion on the trailer hitch caused the connection to fail.  I can tell you there was some panic in the car chasing that trailer!  My mother said if it hit someone we would be sued.  That frightened me, and I began to cry, on top of all the other drama in the car.  The Dillender family were much lower key personality types than our family, but even they were concerned with the run-a-way trailer.   In the end, the good Lord was with us because the trailer hit one of the broader places in the road, skidded to the end of the emergency pull-off, turned around and lined itself up perfectly for Dad to reconnect it.

After a good night's stay in a motel, we got up the next morning and visited the sandstone formations known as the Garden of the Gods and the Cave of the Winds near Colorado Spring.  The cave is also near the Manitou Cliff Dwellings. We took the 45-minute walking discovery inside the Cave of the Winds.  It was an educational journey for families and beginning cavers. The visit inside was fascinating.  When we finished the tour, we purchased a "ViewFinder" and a dozen or so "3-D slides" at the gift shop. There was also a nice place to picnic, so we enjoy eating our lunch outside the cave.  The scenic slides help to entertain us for many miles, and I viewed those slide until I was well into my twenties. 
 
Family members talked about that trip for years.  The beautiful vistas and plants along the way also gave my father the idea of starting a nursery a few years later.  I sure wish I could talk with my parents about the trip one more time.  But alas, it shall not be.  

Neighborhood Friends on Lake Street

Neighborhood Friends lined up for a picture by my mother - Janet Loveless, Me, Pam Tope, and in the back, my brothers Gene, C.F. and Pam's brother Butchie.

As we age into our seventies, most of us tend to reflect on earlier times.  We remember our siblings, our childhood with our parents, neighborhood friends, and our school days.  This picture is a bit unusual in the fact I don't remember Gene with a hoe in his hand.   He was usually playing the piano, reading or other chores he was directed to do.  It could have been the age difference that I don't remember him at a younger age.  The girls were all in dresses too.  The Tope family lived two doors down from us. Janet Loveless visited me when she stayed with her grandparents on Lynn Street, behind Lake Street.  I had another friend that is not in this picture.  Her name was Jaretta Sue Seabaugh. They lived across the street from the Topes.  I ran into her twenty years later at a Beta Sigma Phi Convention, and she looked much the same.  She had a beautiful smile.  When my Mom took this picture in 1948, polio was infecting people at an alarming rate.  My mother read somewhere that heat and the sun could bring on the dreaded disease.  From 1948 to the mid-1950s she tried to keep us children in the shade during the mid-day.  I distinctly remember not liking that she restricted my movement and play-space.  I also remember having a classmate, Marsh something, in grade school that had to wear leg braces to walk due to the effects of her contracting polio.

My 55th Class Reunion is being held in Sikeston, Missouri this September.  I am looking forward to attending.  I have fond memories of friends made in the Sikeston High School band, the Red Peppers, the Concert Choir, National Forensic League, and other school activities.  I also remember my English teacher Mrs. Oberg, who gave me encouragement when I needed it.  Mr. Huff was helpful in the library, Miss Mount in History, and Mr. Wright taught History with enthusiasm.  He is responsible for my love of history.  I remember that Mrs. Robinson still had her Virginia accent, even after living in Sikeston for many years.  Band Director Keith Collins was highly respected by both the band members and parents.  When he spoke, we listened and responded as he desired.  Mr. Collins was bigger than life to many of us.  Gordon Beaver was a good choir director, but he asked me to sing the first alto because they needed a strong voice.  I hating singing alto but did so to benefit the choir.  Lastly, I remember Mrs. Helen Reuber.  She taught me voice lessons when I attended grade school, and I remember at that young age I thought she had the prettiest bathroom I had ever seen. The faucet on top of the wash basin had a large fish where the water came out.  The water flowed from the mouth of the fish. On each side, the handles that controlled the temperature were fish tails.  I thought they were made of gold at the time but were more likely made of brass.  It amazes me the little details we remember from our childhood.  Mrs. Reuber was later Counselor in my High School.  Lastly, I remember the school nurse Mrs. Faris, who was in every school from Baily to High School.  She was a pretty woman and a constant figure throughout my school years.

When we are young, we seem to care little for history, for antiques, or for genealogy.   We need to experience life to appreciate the past.  We need to have children and grandchildren to understand and appreciate our genealogy.  I clipped a quote from an unnamed person, and I have tried to live my life by those words.  "If I should live to a ripe old age, may I possess some bit of individuality, wit and charm, that I may not be discarded when I am withered, worn, and weak, but sought after and cherished, like a fine antique."

Boy Scouts Taught C.F. Valuable Skills

"I am  a Boy Scout 
I know what to do!"
- -  C. F. Cline

  

At the age of eleven, I had responsibilities around the house.  The primary duty was washing dishes.  My mother believed in scalding the dishes after you washed them to kill any virus or anything else undesirable.  One day, after finishing the lunch dishes, I turned on the stove, put the teakettle on the burner, and waited for the whistle sound it made to let me know it was ready.  Once I heard the whistle, I put the dish towel on the handle as usual, and I picked up the kettle to rinse the dishes with the water.  I must have forgotten to put the lid on the top of the kettle because hot steam sprayed over my hand and arm.  My natural reflex was to drop the hot kettle.  When I did, the scalding water burned me from the waist down.  It burned the skin off most of my legs.  I must have let out a huge scream because one of my neighbor next door and my brother C. F. both were there to help me within minutes.

My brother C.F. started saying, "I am a Boy Scout, and I know what to do - I am a Boy Scout, and I know what to do!"  The neighbor looked at him and said, "Good because I don't have a clue what to do."  C.F.  then told me I needed to get all my clothes off immediately where the boiling water hit my body.  I did not move, I just screamed it hurts!  So, he took scissors and cut off what I was wearing from my waist and below.  He carried me into my parent’s bedroom and placed me on the bed.  He got two fans and placed them facing me and turned them on.  Then he just stood there with an odd look on his face, as if he were thinking, "now what."   I was still crying, and the pain was still dreadful.  C.F. then went into the bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet.  Whatever he was looking for was not in there.  He asked the neighbor, Mrs. Morris, who had come to help if she could take him to the drug store.  C. F. also asked Mrs. Morris if she knew where our mother was, and she didn't know but thought she left an hour ago.  She agreed to take my brother to the drug store, and they left me alone.  Before leaving C.F. told me not to get up, everything would be alright, and he would be back soon.  I was in pain, I was crying, and I was frightened.  Then I was all alone with my fear.

Our Dad owned a nursery, and you never knew where he was at any given time or when he would drop by the house.  Fortunately, he came home about ten minutes after C. F. left to go to the drug store.  Dad asked what was going on and what happened.  I told him the best that I could, as I was still in a lot of pain, and recalled C. F. telling me that he was a Boy Scout and he knew what to do.  That did not seem to give my Dad much comfort.  He asked where my Mother was while calling the doctor's office.  I told him I didn’t know.  Upon talking with Dr. Chrichlow, my Dad was pleasantly surprised to learn that C. F. did what needed doing.  Dr. Chrichlow called in two prescriptions.  One to ease the pain, and the other to keep the burned area clean and moist.  Dr. Chrichlow advised that I needed to stay on the bed without any clothes on for another day before going to his office.  

My Mom then came home and I went through everything that happened again.  She felt bad that she was not there and tried to make me as comfortable as possible.  I remember the house seemed full of people, at this point.  C. F. returned within minutes after my mother came home.  He brought something to put on my burns.  My Dad told C.F., “The doctor said that you did the exact best thing for Margaret at the onset of the burns.  I appreciate your stepping in to help her.”  Well, C.F.’s head was so big from that comment he could hardly walk through the door opening.  He smiled big and said, "See, being a Boy Scout teaches you valuable skills."  As I look back on that day, C. F. was sixteen at the time of the accident and most likely was a bit self-conscious about stripping me of my clothing.  That is why he kept repeating, “I am a Boy Scout and I know what to do” several times.  I am just glad my brother was there and did what needed doing at the time.  Thank you, C.F.

Siblings and Poison Ivy

This was my brother Gene, a year or two younger in this
photo, who made me a stick and vegetation village.

With little to stimulate our Mom's creative mind, she often escaped to the great outdoors to rid herself from the boredom of hot sweltering summer days in the 1940s and 1950s.  Those were days before air conditioning.  One summer afternoon in Sikeston my brother Gene and I went fishing with our mother out to one of the LRDD[1] ditches on the outskirts of town.  Our mother loved to fish.  Gene and I neither one liked to fish and were not fond of tagging along with our mother to one of her favorite fishing places.  Back then, there were no iPads, cell phones, or the like to entertain us while waiting for her to decide to return home. 

  

We found a shady area along the side of the ditch and settled in for the long wait for our mother to conclude her fishing endeavor.  Like our mother, Gene was a creative person too and envisioned concepts others could not see.  He often drew cars and buildings when nothing was going on at the time.  That day, Gene decided to play big brother and entertain me.  He started to build a small village out of the sticks and vegetation found in the shaded area.  I helped by finding just the right size sticks for his village.  After an hour or so he built an impressive small village of seven or eight buildings, along with a road dug into the sand between the buildings.  He was pleased with his creation, and I was happy to have him along as company for the outing. 

Before long, our mother decided the fish were not taking her bait that day, and it was time to go home.  A few hours after returning home, Gene began to itch.  Once he started scratching his hands and arms, large red, watery, whelps began to surface.  My Mother looked at his itching body and said, “Well Gene, you have a bad case of poison ivy.  What were you two doing while I was fishing?”  He told her that we made a few buildings and a small village out of the sticks and vegetation in the area.  He explained it was the only shaded area we could find to wait on her.  He could not understand why I did not have poison ivy too.  Our Mother explained, “Sticks most likely were not covered in the ivy vine.  Therefore, your sister’s body didn’t touch the poison oil that causing the poison ivy rash.”  Poor Gene suffered from the results of that fun afternoon for about ten days.  He had large weeping whelps on his skin that about drove him crazy.

I remember that the treatments our Father used on Gene to rid him of the poison ivy was about as bad as the ailment itself.  Dad put some paste on him named “Blue Stone” and it burned Gene so bad that he ran outside, then ran in circles in the back yard.  As a little sister, I felt bad that Gene got the itchy rash because he was entertaining me; and that the Blue Stone treatment was painful.  However, I was sure glad I didn’t get it.  Since that day, I am careful when I venture into mother nature.  I look carefully for the dreadful poison ivy vine and avoid it.

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[1]  LRDD = Little River Drainage District