Although I was born in Detroit my earliest recollections are of Cheyenne, Wyoming. We had moved there in 1913 after my father, a clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church, had accepted a call to be rector of St. Mark's Episcopal Church in that city. “We” included my parents, my grandmother, Matilda (Tillie to her friends), and me, less than a year old.
In later years my mother would say that when she told her family of the proposed move her brothers would regale her with a song from a popular musical playing in Detroit at that time which included the line “but there are no roses in Wyoming.” After she got there, she wondered whether the song might be right when she read in the paper about a Boy Scout troop in Lander that was having a contest. The prize for the winner was to be a trip to Cheyenne, to see a tree (!).
As I remember Cheyenne, it was a city of broad, mostly unpaved streets. The fire department was equipped with a wood-fired pumper, which produced clouds of dust and black smoke as it, with the other fire apparatus, was drawn down the unpaved streets by galloping teams of excited horses. We lived in the rectory, a four-bedroom house provided by the church for their rector. It was located on a large grassy lot, which in spring and summer was liberally covered with bright yellow dandelions against which my father waged a continuous, and largely unsuccessful, battle. Grandmother did her part by mobilizing me and neighborhood children to pick the dandelions to make dandelion wine. The dandelion wine was an annual effort by my grandmother. I am not sure whether she had ever made it before Cheyenne, or was merely following ill-remembered methods of her mother, but she never seemed to be satisfied with the results. Despite disappointments the next year the routine was repeated.
About a year after our arrival in Cheyenne my sister Dorothea was born. I don't remember the baby, but have vivid recollections of a playmate and of a companion at many sessions of reading by “Grandma.” Grandma spent a lot of time with the children and helped Mother in the kitchen. She also kept an eye on the outdoor play and often participated. In those days the only source of news of the war was the morning newspaper. If there were some event of importance the paper would print an afternoon extra edition, which was hawked throughout the city by the carriers. “Extree, read all about it!” they would cry. I remember one special edition for which the cry was “War at sea.” We were playing in the yard, and I remember Grandma saying, “Soon they'll be on our beaches. You mark my words.” Happily, she was wrong. But the war did have its effects in Wyoming. Cheyenne was a railroad town where engines were changed and the many troop trains made long stops. My mother organized the ladies of the church in an effort to assure that no soldier stopped in Cheyenne without an opportunity for coffee and a doughnut. This operation was around the clock, and Grandma filled in for Mother on many occasions.
I was a very curious little boy. I remember disassembling a lamp that had somehow ceased operation. I removed the socket, took it apart, identified the purpose of the internal plastic liner of the brass lamp holder, found and replaced a loose wire and reassembled the lamp. Mother, I thought, paid her five-year-old a high compliment. She plugged the lamp in and turned it on.
At about this time I discovered a person known as “Grandfather.” He appeared one day laden with books for me. It was explained that he was Mother's father, that he was on a business trip, that he would be spending the night, that he had a business in a place called Detroit, and that I was his oldest grandchild. This pattern of an annual visit from Grandfather was to continue for many years, and was always accompanied by more books.
Railroad trains with their huffing, puffing engines plus their bells and whistles had always been a source of fascination. When I was four or five, I had my first train ride that I remember. Mother, Dorothea, and I got on a Pullman car, one of many, on a train bound for Chicago, then on to Detroit. There was a man who turned our daytime seats into a nighttime bed. There were other men in a dining car that served our meals and lots of windows to look out of and watch the passing scene. When we arrived in Chicago, we had to take the Parmelee Transfer to another railroad station to catch a train for Detroit. The Parmelee Transfer Company provided horse-drawn “buses,” enclosed wagons that held twenty or thirty persons and took care of passengers changing stations. I can still, in imagination, hear the clop-clop-clop of the horse's hooves on Chicago's cobblestone streets.
Detroit was just a waypoint for the real purpose of the trip, which was visit to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Grandfather, who was in charge of production for a large seed company (Jerome B. Rice), was also personally involved in the development of new and improved varieties of flowers, fruits, and vegetables. He owned a large working farm, complete with resident farmer, near McMillan on the edge of Lake Manistique where he also tested new seed types and where he had a well, an ice house, a summer home for family, and, yes, boys' and a girls' outhouses. As the family grew and grandchildren proliferated, he bought surplus eight-man Army tents and erected tent platforms for each new family. That trip to the farm became almost an annual affair, eagerly awaited by all concerned, and, as I learned later, was usually funded by Grandfather. That first trip was especially memorable. The train from Detroit to Duluth crossed the Straits of Mackinaw on a ferry, which in winter is also an icebreaker. The idea of being on a train, which, in turn, was on a boat, was almost too exciting to bear. I suspect that these many train trips as a child contributed to my love of travel as an adult.
Cheyenne, named for one of the Indian tribes, was very much a western city. My father in his first days at his new parish noticed a certain coolness between certain members of his congregation. A little discreet inquiry revealed that some members were, or had been, cattle ranchers; others had been sheep farmers. The range wars between the two groups over open versus fenced ranges had left their traces. The annual Frontier Days in July also helped keep old feuds alive. One day shortly after his arrival in town one of his parishioners invited my dad to join him for a coyote hunt. With no idea what was involved my father accepted. The following morning he found himself in the front passenger seat of a Model T Ford automobile with the top down and a shotgun between his legs riding along rough prairie trails with his host driving looking for coyotes. When they spotted one the host-driver turned off the trail onto the much rougher prairie with host shouting to Dad, “Shoot him! Shoot the varmint!” The coyote was heading up a little rise. Just as it was about to disappear behind the hill, with the car bouncing around and the muzzle of the shotgun waving wildly my father pulled the trigger. The coyote folded up instantly and started rolling down the hill toward the car.
The word was all over town the next day: “The new parson is a dead shot.” He never dared to go hunting again. His host had the pelt tanned and made into a little rug, which was a feature of my bedroom, and a very comforting one for a small boy's feet on cold winter mornings. Several years later, when my sister and I were having a tug-of-war, the tail came off. My dad was not amused, but I think that my mother, who had never cared for the rug, was rather pleased. Tailless, it soon disappeared.
Although Cheyenne was not a large city, it was large for Wyoming and the scene of two major events, Frontier Days and The Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus®. I vaguely remember Frontier Days, but there is nothing vague about my recollections of the circus, especially the parade. Fire engines, elephants, clowns, and wild animals in cages were all a great come-on for the performance that afternoon in the big tent. There was another tent, the sideshow with its thin man, fat lady, two-headed calf, and other wonders. I was distressed when my parents wouldn't finance the sideshow. Years later when I was on my own and could go if I wished, I no longer cared.
Another recollection is my first movie, Little Women, I think. I had never heard of motion pictures, but when told that we were going to a motion picture show I never even asked what that was. I knew. It was people sitting in rows and passing pictures (post cards) from one to another. Came the day and we went. I saw some people on a screen up front, they were moving around, and there was some writing stuff on the screen, but I kept waiting for the “motion pictures” which never arrived. When I complained, “Where were the moving pictures?” and explained my preconception, I am afraid it didn't get a very warm reception from the adults.
Six years in Wyoming. It was time to move on. My father received a call to be rector of Christ Church, a large urban parish in downtown Baltimore, and a very different experience from Wyoming. He accepted, and in early June the movers came, and we were all five on the train bound for Baltimore. The Parmelee transfer again.
Copyright © 2002 by
Wilber B. Huston.
All rights reserved.
Inquiries to
Herb Huston
<herb_huston@yahoo.com>.