Pioneer Family: Life on Florida's Twentieth-Century Frontier
192
Pioneer Family: Life on Florida's Twentieth-Century Frontier
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Overview
Their daughter retells their story from vivid accounts they gave of their childhood, courtship, early years of marriage, and struggles during the Great Depression. In an age bereft of heroes, the story of their courage, their faith, and their commitment provides a fascinating empathy with a time that has passed; a place that has disappeared.
"One can not read these stories without thinking of Marjorie Kinnan Rawling's Cross Creek. Indeed, these stories are just as compelling. There are even Faulknerian qualities to some of the characters....The University of Alabama Press has produced yet another excellent book on Florida. Gracefully written, it offers one of the most compelling images of rural life in early 20th-century Florida that exists in print. It should enjoy wide readership." --James M. Denham, Florida Southern College, in The Florida Historical Quarterly
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780817390778 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Alabama Press |
| Publication date: | 04/15/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Michel Oesterreicher is a retired teacher.
Read an Excerpt
Pioneer Family
Life on Florida's 20th-Century Frontier
By Michel Oesterreicher
The University of Alabama Press
Copyright © 1996 The University of Alabama PressAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8173-9077-8
CHAPTER 1
The Doll
When I was between three and four years old, Papa went off and bought a bunch of cattle. I remember I seen them coming, driving them cattle down the road, bringing them home. ... Up until that time, we had no cattle. Had a horse. Two horses. ... From then on, we had cattle, and we had cowpens, and we would pen our cattle every spring. Gather and bring them all home. ... From that time on, I was a cowboy.
— Hugie, 4 February 1984
In the early fall of 1901, a little boy holding a rag doll and wearing a white cotton dress sat on the cypress planks forming the steps of the Oesterreicher cabin. Hugie was three years old, and his head was filled with dreams of being a cowboy. Through the black fringe of his thick lashes, his clear blue eyes stared deliberately across the clearing down the white sand road in front of him. He listened intently, only moving occasionally to wipe the blond curls away from his damp forehead.
His father, Tom Oesterreicher, and his older brothers had left early that morning on horseback to travel some twenty miles on the old highway past St. Augustine to buy cattle, a big investment for a man who made a scant living out of the northeast Florida woods. The cattle would be turned loose to range the swamps, forests, and marshes of Duval and St. Johns counties. After they had fattened on the grass and Spanish moss, Tom would sell some of them at a profit. The rest he would keep to build a herd.
The boy waited, holding the doll, while vague ideas of cowboys, patched from the conversations of his older brothers, flitted in and out of his mind. "We're going to be cowboys," he said to the rag doll with the black button eyes.
Behind him, beyond the sloping field separating his home from the dark Durbin Swamp, the sun was setting on the northeast Florida woods. The shadows of the tall Durbin cypress reached across the furrows of the field toward the cabin. When the sun had disappeared behind the cypress swamp, his mother stepped quietly out onto the porch behind him. With one small hand, she pushed the wet ringlets from her face and listened for some sound that might indicate the approach of her husband and the cattle. At first, there were only evening sounds of frogs and crickets and birds settling in for the night. Then she straightened her back and said, "Shh, listen. Hugie, come here, son! Your daddy's coming with the cattle."
Clutching the doll, he stood up and saw nothing but the sand road extending in a curve from under the shadow of the oak trees. Then he heard them in the distance, men whooping and whistling and cracking whips, as the lowing cattle complained mournfully of their long hot journey. Hugie stood breathlessly listening while the sounds of men and cattle grew louder and louder out beyond the gathering shadows of dusk. Then with a splash of movement they broke into the clearing in front of the cabin.
Ella, with her daughters and two young sons, stood on the safety of the porch as Tom and the older boys drove the cattle past — a flurry of animals and men, sweat and dust, hot breath and thunder — moving toward the new split-pine pens a quarter of a mile beyond the house. When the herd neared the pens, the children jumped from the porch and ran toward them. Ella followed. Reaching the wooden fence, the little boys and girls climbed to the top and let their arms and heads hang over as they gazed in wonder at the cattle. Tom walked to Ella grinning, beads of sweat streaming from his felt hat down his dusty face and into his red mustache and black beard.
Later that evening, beneath the light of a kerosene lamp, Tom Oesterreicher and his family gathered around the table for supper, eating greens, grits, and fresh biscuits. Tom talked about his plans for the cattle. He would keep them penned for about three months in the spring and early summer. During that time, he and the boys would move the pens every three weeks. That way, the entire ten-acre field to the north of the cabin would be fertilized by July, when it was time to let the cattle loose to range Durbin Swamp and its surrounding forests. Each of Tom and Ella's nine children listened intently, hopeful of more prosperous days ahead.
Little Hugie was the Oesterreichers' youngest son. The boy rested his head on his mother's arm as he strained to stay awake and be a part of the "man talk" in which his father and older brothers were engaged. He gazed with admiration at the menfolk around the table. The golden lamplight flickered on their suntanned faces, and when they talked of deer or cattle, their blue-green eyes sparkled, and Hugie thought the men in his family were very wonderful.
Minutes later, Hugie had fallen asleep, and Dora, his nineteen-year-old sister, gathered him in her arms and carried him to a cot in his parents' room. The handmade mattress stuffed with cornhusks engulfed his little body, and he dreamed of cattle and horses and deer and buckshot and bows and arrows. Outside the open window, the moon was rising, and faintly, from across the field somewhere in the swamp, a whippoorwill was calling.
The next morning, it was still dark when the aroma of coffee boiling on the wood stove in the kitchen drifted through the open bedroom window. Hugie rolled out of bed, still clothed in yesterday's white cotton dress. The little boy wore dresses because Ella had discovered that keeping a young child in dresses was less bother for her and cooler for the child, male or female. And although she had thought several times recently that it was time to make trousers for her young son, she had not yet done so. The child wandered sleepily out the back door, across the raised walkway, and past the cypress curbing of the well to the kitchen, which was built a safe distance from the main house because, in those days, sparks flying from the wood burning in stoves and open hearths often set kitchens on fire.
Tom sat drinking coffee and eating last night's biscuits, which had been fried with bacon grease. He was joined by his oldest sons, eighteen-year-old Jake, sixteen-year-old Clarence, and thirteen-year-old Thomas. Hugie padded in, picked up the rag doll he'd dropped the night before, and climbed to the bench. The dark night had done little to relieve the heat, and the blazing fire in the wood stove made the little kitchen seem like an oven. Tom already had sweat glistening on his brow. Although he said nothing, he noticed his youngest son, who sat clutching that rag doll with the black button eyes, and he thought about it as he rose and left the kitchen. The older boys followed him. There were cattle to tend and fields to plow and plant.
The fire in the wood stove dwindled, and Hugie walked to the front porch and sat quietly on the cypress steps as the morning sun rose above the live oaks and cabbage palms lining the eastern horizon. Sometime later, though, George, Hugie's eleven-year-old brother, came out, and the two boys began their day. They ran to the cow pens and climbed on the new split-pine fence. They chased birds and squirrels through surrounding groves of trees. They pulled thick clusters of dark grapes from vines behind the cabin and ate them. And every place Hugie went, he carried the doll.
The two boys ran to a stretch of palmettos, fell to their knees, and entered paths made through the foliage by the wild hogs that ranged the woods eating the plant's juicy berries. Hugie and George cautiously followed the tunnels through the sharp sawlike stalks that held the thickly matted silver-green fronds over their heads. They crawled around the winding curves and over the knotty roots bulging from the ground. Minutes later, when they heard their sister's voice calling for them across the wide expanse of green fans, they quickly scooted down the winding path beneath the palmettos to the outer world.
Little Ella stood there with her hands on her hips as the boys scrambled from beneath the prickly fronds. She was eight years old and looked like her mother — small with dark curly hair and dancing black eyes. "George, you know better than to go into those palmettos. I ought to tell Papa on you. A rattlesnake will get you." And then to her youngest brother she said, "Hugie, snakes as big as you live in those palmettos." The statement impressed the younger boy. He had seen one of their dogs die from a rattlesnake bite. The dog's death had been quick and horrible. "Come on, you two!" the little girl said, "Let's walk to the north field and see Papa before he comes home for dinner." The girl smiled with secret pleasure when she noticed the rag doll dangling from Hugie's hand. She had made that doll, stitched together those bits of rags and straw for her little brother.
Inside the cabin, Ella made ready to fry squirrel for the noon meal. She reached through the narrow door of the wood stove with an iron poker and stirred the smoldering embers. Then lowering her face to the opening, she took a deep breath and blew gently at the flame. The fire blazed.
Meanwhile, the three children and the rag doll made their way to the north field. Leaving the main road through the Oesterreicher land, they headed across a high scrub of scattered palmettos, low-lying blackberry bushes, and small blackjack oak trees. Beyond the trees, the field stretched before them, and on the far end, their father guided the horse and plow down the furrows. Some distance from him, the older boys were on their hands and knees planting the winter garden. And beyond the boys, Durbin Swamp loomed, crowding the edges of the field the man had carved from its borders.
Hugie put the doll on a stump at the edge of the clearing and followed his brother and sister across the rows of soft black earth toward their father. "Mama's cooking dinner, Papa. When you coming?" the girl asked.
"Right now! I'm getting out of this sun!" her father replied, red-faced beneath the brim of his black felt hat and wringing wet with sweat. He whistled, waving his arm, motioning his sons to follow him. He turned for home.
When Tom reached the cabin, he lowered a bucket into the cypress trunk curbing the well. He heard the bucket splash in the shadowy depths and drew it up. The boys and the little ones trailed up behind him as he splashed his face and beard with water. Suddenly, Hugie grabbed Little Ella's hand and cried, "I left my baby at the field! I gotta get her, she'll be scared." He turned and broke into a run past the main house, down the road, and onto the scrub. The girl ran after the little white-dressed figure heading through the low bushes of the rise, calling to him. Tom watched his young children running in a panic to the north field. Thinking about his youngest son and the rag doll, he cleared his throat, "Uh-hum," and wiped his mouth with his damp hand.
Out on the scrub, Little Ella had caught Hugie by his chubby hand as he screamed to his missing doll, "Don't cry, baby, Mama's coming!" The girl laughed to herself. She would never forget this.
When the children returned to the cabin with the doll, the family had gathered around the table for the noon meal. "I got my doll!" Hugie called brightly. "She was crying 'cause she was afraid an ol' rattlesnake might get her." His sister's warning about snakes was still vivid in his mind.
Tom Oesterreicher had been studying the fried squirrel and grits on his plate, and at the words of his young son, he raised his head and squinted across the table at the boy, who still stood clutching that rag doll with the black button eyes. "Uh-hum." Tom cleared his throat. "Uh-hum." Everyone stopped eating and lifted their eyes to their father. His eyes were glaring at his young son. "What you doin' with a doll, boy? What are you, a sissy?"
The man's words were worse than a slap in the face to the little boy. He stood there, not understanding the derision in his father's voice or his older brothers' laughter. Hugie didn't know the meaning of the word sissy, but the cruelty in his father's sneer and his brothers' laughter filled him with shame. He looked at the doll he held in his hand, and suddenly he hated the bits of rag and straw. Salty tears stung his eyes; his cheeks flushed hot and red. The black button eyes stared. Then, with one hand, Hugie jammed the doll through the open door of the stove and into the fire. Through a blur, he saw the flames envelop the rag doll.
Ella watched, hurting for her little boy and aware of her own failure to help her baby differentiate between himself and his sisters in a world where such distinction was of great importance. And Little Ella sat silently, feeling secret reproach for making the doll for Hugie. Only Dora moved. With her large brown peaceful eyes and her firm jaw, she rose from the table, walked to her little brother and scooped him into her round soft arms. "Come on, my little Cotton, let's wash up for dinner," she said carrying him out into the fresh air.
The next morning, Ella would take down a roll of white canvas and begin making Hugie his first pair of trousers, and Tom would take him on the front of his horse for the boy's first trip into Durbin Swamp. In the years to come, Hugie would know that great dark swamp better than any other man — every alligator hole, every bog and creek. And he would be known by hunters as the best shot in Duval and St. Johns counties. But that morning, he burned inside with a sense of shame that he was too young to understand. From a bucket on the back porch, Dora splashed water onto the hot little face and hands of her brother and ran her damp fingers through his mat of blond curls, pulling them away from the pools of his great deep blue eyes, while inside, in the kitchen, the smell of burning rags filled the air.
CHAPTER 2The Fever
I remember the first piece of ice, official ice, that I ever saw. When I was a kid, Mama was sick.
— Hugie, 16 February 1984
"It's so hot," Ella thought as she kicked the thin blanket off her body. The carved mahogany headboard that had belonged to her mother loomed above her and seemed to box her into the small low room of the cypress cabin. "So hot!" She lay deep in the impression of the mattress peering out the open window, longing for some breeze to drift through it and across her. She turned restlessly and, feeling Tom's back against her own, turned again and moaned quietly. "Water. I'll wash my face. That will cool me off," she thought, swinging her feet to the cool cypress floor. A cold shiver shot through her hot body, and she dizzily lunged toward the back porch, where they kept a bucket of freshly drawn water. But just as she reached the low door leading outside, dark swirling clouds seemed to engulf her.
Later, when Tom rose, the eastern sky was only slightly beginning to lighten with the first indication of morning. "Ella's already starting breakfast," he thought, noticing the empty place beside him in the bed. When he reached the back porch, he realized there was no fire going in the kitchen. Then he turned, and in the dim light, he saw Ella in a limp heap by the water bucket. He ran to his wife, hovering over her, gently touching her. Her arms burned in his calloused hands. He placed his right palm on her forehead and his left on the white thigh that extended from beneath the cotton sleeping gown. She had a raging fever. Putting one hand beneath her head and gingerly lifting it, he dampened the other in the bucket beside her body and washed her burning face. But she remained limp and unconscious.
Tom gathered Ella's tiny frame into his arms and carried her to their room, calling frantically to his sleeping children. "Jake! Ella! Clarence! Wake up! Ma's sick! Come on!" They tumbled from their beds and into their parents' small room and stood staring in the shadows of the early morning at their mother's almost lifeless body in the bed.
Little Ella was the oldest girl at home, for Dora had recently married Benny McCormick. The child lit a kerosene lamp and fetched a pan of water from the back porch and began to bathe her mother's face with a rag. The rag would become hot only seconds after it had reached the woman's face, and Little Ella would dip it again in the cool water, wring it out, and place it folded on her mother's forehead. Little Hugie watched, afraid his mama was dying.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Pioneer Family by Michel Oesterreicher. Copyright © 1996 The University of Alabama Press. Excerpted by permission of The University of Alabama Press.
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