Squak Valley: by Bessie Wilson Craine (page 8-10 from original book)

Chinese driven form the Valley It seemed that we had no more than got settled than things began to happen. A neighbor came in one evening and wanted to borrow Father's .45 Colt revolver. He heard there was going to be some excitement at the Wold's hop fields. Some man got the bright idea of bringing in Chinamen as cheap labor for hop picking. During the afternoon about forty Chinese had marched over the hills and pitched their tents on the Wold farm. That night a mob of the farmers tried to drive them out by threats. The following day another party of about thirty Chinamen were met at the entrance of the Valley by an armed party of white men. They were turned back and made no attempt to enter.

That night five white men and a few Indians attacked the Chinese camp on the Wold farm. After firing a number of shots into the tents they fled, leaving three dead and several wounded Chinese. The survivors fled back over the hills faster than they came in.

Father had told his neighbor that he better stay out of that mess. He had not refused him the loan of the .45, but he found it missing from the hook where it hung. The man returned it the following day with a sheepish grin--said he couldn't miss all of that fun. We had no more Chinese trouble in the Valley. This way of violence was not new to the Valley folks; but to us, having just come from a quiet little town in Missouri, it was very exciting.

As I think back now of those early days in the Valley, it is always with the memory of Mother with her whitewash bucket and brush; or with her long skirts turned up and pinned around her waist on her knees scrubbing the floors. Father used to tell her to let them alone. It didn't do any good. The blood stains had a way of coming through.

Some of the settlers even hinted that the place was haunted. This was the least of Mother and Father's worries. They were too tired by night to care whether or not the bells were ringing in the attic.

Squaws help weed

Father had gotten twenty cows, and there were the crops to put in and cultivate. We were in a country where one's living had to come from the soil, and this by one's own efforts and the sweat of your brow. Father got some of the squaws to agree to weed for him since it took no more effort than to crawl along the ground. They were surely a lazy bunch but Father was grateful for even that much help. He had put in stock beets, carrots and corn. He had gotten a few pigs. In fact he liked pigs and always had some as long as I can remember. At weeding time I was kept pretty busy. The squaws brought their papooses strapped to a board. One end of the board was sharp and was stuck into the ground as the squaw worked down the row. The babies were not taken off the board during the whole day to be changed or fed. Once in a while the mother would squat down by them to nurse them. I took on the job of wandering through the field and keeping the flies brushed off their dirty little faces. I was only four, but flies on the babies bothered me no end.

Aunt Louie

One old Indian woman became very dear to my heart. As I first remember her she had white hair and always walked very stooped and carried a crooked stick for a cane. I called her Aunt Louie. As the years went on I think my whole family came to love her. Every fall she brought Mother wild blackberries, "Olallies," in an Indian basket made of roots and reeds. They were waterproof. She would line the basket with ferns then cover the berries with ferns. I can see her old, withered hands now, uncovering them so carefully to show Mother what she had brought.

The baskets were carried on their backs suspended by thongs that were fastened to a band that fitted across their foreheads. As long as we knew her she never learned to speak English, but she could always make Mother understand what she wanted in return for the berries-a little sugar, a little salt, a little bacon, a little grease, or what have you--until her basket was filled. Then she would trudge back the four miles to the Lake, no doubt feeling that life was good.

The Indian Dialect

There were very few of the older Indians who ever learned English. Even old Chief Seattle, who had many dealings with the whites, always had his interpreter. The original Indian language was a Chinook jargon consisting of about two hundred words, often filled in with grunts and a guttural sound in the throat. When the Hudson's Bay trappers came through they spoke the English language. Then came missionaries and Catholic priests, chiefly French Canadians. Many French and English words were brought into the Indian language, which made it easier for both whites and Indians to converse. Some of the letters were hard for the Indians to pronounce, like the letter R. They couldn't roll their tongues around it. Words like rum and rice were pronounced lum and lice.

Ralph and Bessie share gum

I had a hard time finding someone to play with besides Indian children that I couldn't talk to. Bush's lived about a half mile from our place. They were a big family. One of the girls had married a Mr. Darst. They had several children all living at the Bush home. Ralph was their youngest child, a little older than I. They had an old swayback horse which he was allowed to ride sometimes. Mother would often take me over there for an afternoon. Sometimes I went without being taken.

Ralph would ride the horse up to an old rail fence. I would climb up and slip on behind him. Then we would just ride round and round the field. One thing stands out clearly in my mind--how we used to exchange our gum. It was hard to get in those days, and when we did get any we took good care of it. If Ralph was chewing gum and I didn't have any, he would say, "Want to chew my gum for awhile, Bess?" Of course I did. In due time I would pass it back to him.

How not to get the mumps

Then there was the time they all had mumps. Mother thought it would be a good idea if I would have them while I was young. I stayed all night and slept with some of the Bush children--but no mumps. I didn't have them until I was fourteen. Then I had them plenty hard. It just goes to show there is no use trying to plan your child's life. You might just as well let nature take its course.

Bessie is attacked by raccoons

Bush's had a pet 'coon they kept chained in the front yard. On one of my trips, when I had left home without leave, I must have gotten too close to the 'coon and was attacked from ambush. By the time Mother caught up with me, switch in hand, I was standing in the yard with the whole Bush family grouped around me and blood running down my leg. Mother threw her switch away and grabbed me in her arms. She carried me home--no doubt happy that I had not been scalped by the Indians, only that my wounds were on the wrong end. I still have four little scars on my leg to prove my story if I so wish to verify it.

Thunder Storms

On another of my "sneak away" trips I didn't get very far. A good old thunder storm caught up with me in the hop field. I was always deathly afraid of thunder and lightning. I crawled under a hop vine and that is where Mother found me, all scratched and dirty and crying. The more I rubbed my scratches the more they hurt. They are really wicked things. They smart and sting. The first little verse I can remember reciting is:

The thunder rolls,
The clouds look big.
The lightning flashed
And killed my pig.
Not a very good verse to teach a child who was so afraid of lightning. I think Mother did this for her own amusement. She said I would open my eyes big and round and roll them from side to side and deliver it with great dramatic eloquence.

 

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