{"id":662,"date":"2018-09-03T09:05:58","date_gmt":"2018-09-03T16:05:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/?page_id=662"},"modified":"2025-07-20T13:28:33","modified_gmt":"2025-07-20T20:28:33","slug":"early-days-at-morton-2010","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/early-days-at-morton-2010\/","title":{"rendered":"Early Days at Morton (2010)"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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Morton school, 1912: Alverna is the shortest girl standing on wood<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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These are memories of my aunt Alverna, who died in 2007 at age 101. She was the family storyteller, and through her I have put together an account of her hometown in the Teens and Twenties of the last century. She lived at Morton, Washington, a logging town in the western foothills of the Cascades near Mount Rainier. Alverna\u2019s father, Clyde Smith, brought the family there in 1912 to open Morton Hardware. Alverna was six years old.<\/i><\/p>

It was in a world of few regulations and no welfare state, though there were rules. Some were onerous, though there could be considerable flexibility in their application.<\/i><\/p>

But let her tell the story. Most of it is in her words, from a tape recorder. My work is not as a writer but an editor. This ran in Liberty, May 2010.<\/i><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Around the time of World War I, Morton wasn\u2019t a place where newcomers came to settle. People there were all Anglo-Saxon, many of them pioneer stock. They were the Temples, the Broadbents, the Stiltners and the Crumbs. Most of their fathers and mothers had packed in to claim narrow strips of land. The Crumbs had gotten theirs at the time of Abraham Lincoln. Only the Broadbents had made more than an ordinary amount of money.<\/p>

Everyone seemed to find a place. Everyone knew exactly what was going on, and when a stranger came to town. Everyone was subject to unwritten laws. To break them would cause more attention than it was worth. The community was sure of what was right, though it made no claim that everyone was perfect.<\/p>

We had a town drunk. Every so often he would get bleary-eyed and stagger down the street ripping off fence pickets. Everyone knew that in a day or so he\u2019d be nailing them back up.<\/p>

Most of the time, he\u2019d sit with the older men in front of the pool hall or the barber shop. In winter, they\u2019d move inside my father\u2019s hardware, sit on nail kegs, and spit tobacco juice into the pot-bellied stove. The hardware didn\u2019t have a cracker barrel like the grocery, but it had a more masculine tolerance, and customers kept the flow of information fresh and lively.<\/p>

We had a town prostitute, the oldest girl from a big farm family \u2014 hardworking, not much money. She was discreet. She\u2019d go out to Tacoma for a week, and she\u2019d come back with new clothes. People asked \u2014 where did she get the money? How could you earn all that in one week? She was good-natured, plump and naturally blonde. I remember seeing her, and the comments, \u201cThere she goes on the bus again.\u201d<\/p>

She was still in Morton when I came back to teach there, in 1940. She\u2019d married a war veteran, who was sick and had little money. That was the time that women of my mother\u2019s age, who could remember this woman\u2019s past, argued about whether to let her in the Eastern Star. They finally did.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

When my father had decided to go into the hardware business, he chose Morton by asking hardware salesmen. The salesmen said, \u201cUp at Morton, they don\u2019t have any hardware. There\u2019s a lot of timber, and there\u2019s loggers.\u201d Before he left he hired a clerk he knew, and paid him double what ordinary clerks got, to move to Morton. Later they became partners.<\/p>

Another young man came with Dad to Morton. When Dad built his store, he included a narrow strip for this young man to establish a haberdashery. It was logging country up there; loggers needed shirts and boots and pants. This haberdashery didn\u2019t run the full depth of the building. The back opened right on to Dad\u2019s potbellied stove.<\/p>

The haberdasher did well. He married and had two daughters, and one was named Alverna, after me. Later, he took up with a redheaded woman in town. My mother said that when this redhead came in to look for an umbrella, the haberdasher locked his front door and pulled down the blinds. He didn\u2019t have any business for half an hour or so. Dad and his clerk knew what was going on, but they didn\u2019t presume to say he couldn\u2019t.<\/p>

Well, Morton was a little town. Things like that get around. Everybody could see the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon. And at public dances, the haberdasher would dance with this woman.<\/p>

The haberdasher\u2019s wife responded by making the redhead her best friend, inviting her to Tacoma in their new car. This was to stop all the talk. But it didn\u2019t stop the talk. It didn\u2019t change anything, except to show that his wife wasn\u2019t breaking up her marriage on account of a redheaded woman.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

My dad carried mostly very useful things in the hardware: stoves, simple furniture, plain dishes, ropes, chains, bolts and nuts and things for logging camps. He had a credit business, but he ran it carefully. He knew which men were entitled to credit \u2014 which men would pay. He\u2019d be understanding when a man might be working hard, and living on venison. If that man needed an airtight stove because his other one was falling apart and he had five kids, of course could have credit.<\/p>

Sears & Roebuck would sometimes write and ask my dad a man\u2019s credit standing. He felt it was ridiculous for them to ask, because they were competitors. Why should he tell them? So when a man was poor at paying \u2014 and often, people who had ruined their credit with him would try to get it elsewhere \u2014 Dad would write, \u201cFine. Give the man all the credit he wants.\u201d<\/p>

Dad\u2019s hardware also carried coffins, because nobody else in the community would take care of a death. So he did. He learned how to do embalming, and was licensed. But he tried to dissuade people who couldn\u2019t afford it from buying expensive coffins.<\/p>

One widow insisted on having the most expensive casket he had. He tried to persuade her not to buy it, because he knew she couldn\u2019t pay for it. She shouldn\u2019t even try to pay for it; the money should go to her children. But no, sir, she wept and wailed, and insisted on having the very best. So my dad let her have it, knowing he would never get paid. He was careful not to give too much credit, but in this case, with a woman deep in grief, he just gave in.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Dad loved to play cards. In the early days, he\u2019d play cards with the salesmen who came up to Morton to sell hardware. Sometimes they gambled.<\/span><\/p>

My mother worried about gambling. She always had her ears out. Apparently she heard about it, because one time she went to the pool hall and into the back room. The table was covered with chips and cards and gold. She said, \u201cAha! I knew it!\u201d And she turned the table upside down in front of the men. Dad would occasionally tell this story, and laugh. He\u2019d say, \u201cYou know, I was winning, too.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0I think that ended his gambling for money, but he still loved to play cards at the pool hall two blocks from home. I knew he was up there in the evenings. I guess the chips had to be taken out in merchandise, because he\u2019d come home with candy bars and chips. Marie and I used to be given chips, and we could go back to that pool hall and buy ice cream.<\/span><\/p>

My father played cards with us, too. When we were children, as soon as we could hold cards, my father organized simple games. While he did it, he taught a moral lesson. It was that the cards demanded moral standards. You don\u2019t cheat. You don\u2019t peek at somebody else\u2019s hand. You don\u2019t fidget and give away that you have a bad hand, or say, \u201cWoooo! I’ve got a wonderful hand!\u201d You\u2019re stoic. The game demands this.<\/span><\/p>

If you got a bad hand, you were not to feel downhearted because you lost. If you played all the tricks you could get, you were a success. If you didn\u2019t play them right, Dad didn\u2019t scold you. But afterwards, he told you how you could have done better.<\/span><\/p>

So, while some people felt that cards were sinful because people could gamble with them, my father taught moral lessons with them.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Only about five students a year made it through Morton High School. Girls often married at sixteen, and any strong boy of sixteen would usually rather be out logging than in freshman English. If he did get to high school, it was more schooling than his pa had, and likely more than he\u2019d ever need.<\/p>

I was the fourth of five children. My two older brothers did not finish high school, and my older sister came to graduation and didn\u2019t qualify for it. Well, I think the teacher and the superintendent, who both knew Dad,just made it up between them: if my sister outlined the history book, she could get credit for history. She didn\u2019t get it all done, but they passed her anyway. She didn\u2019t have any ambition to go to college or do anything with it. The next year, she was pregnant.<\/span><\/p>

I was different. I did well in school. Everything was easy. One geography book. Well, I could read down that two-page assignment, and I\u2019d have it memorized. And when it came to reading\u00a0Ivanhoe,<\/i>I wanted to read ahead. The English teacher would say, \u201cNow, Alverna. Don\u2019t read ahead.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>

At eleven, Dad signed me up for violin lessons. Dad had a violin that had come down from his grandfather. There had been three generations of fiddlers who could play by ear, but I was to learn to read music.\u00a0Mother said,\u00a0\u201cMy<\/i>father wouldn\u2019t allow a violin in the house. He felt the devil was in it.\u201d The violin made people dance, and that was wicked. But Mother didn\u2019t feel that way.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

No one at Morton could teach me the violin. My father drove me Saturdays on the new road to Tacoma, about 60 miles away, where I could take lessons and he could place hardware orders. When it came to my senior year in high school, 1923-24, my father sent me to Tacoma to live in a boarding house so I could go to Stadium High School. I went on from there to the University of Washington, where I earned a degree in music.<\/p>

I wasn\u2019t the only one to be sent out. One pioneer farm family, the Crumbs, sent its firstborn son out of town for four years of high school. That was unheard-of. That family couldn\u2019t afford such extravagance. In due course, without the village approval, they sent out the second son, the third and the fourth. The fifth son didn\u2019t want to go, but by that time it was a tradition, and everybody agreed that he had to go, too.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

There weren\u2019t many charity cases in Morton, and the businessmen handled them in a quiet way. There was a Civil War veteran. He was so old that people marveled that he could take care of himself alone in a one-room shack. He\u2019d been a Mason, so the Masonic lodge saw that he had what he needed. But when they offered him better housing, he was too proud to take it. He said, \u201cOh, I don\u2019t need much. A little tobacco. After all, when I was young, I helled around.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

When it got cold, he\u2019d come down to the hardware and join the men telling stories, chewing tobacco and spitting in the stove.<\/span><\/p>

The other charity case was the minister. Morton wasn\u2019t a church-going town. Saturday-night dances drew nearly everyone, but Sunday-morning services in the Methodist church \u2014 the only one in town \u2014 would have about ten people. The minister wasn\u2019t called on often to officiate at marriages, which were usually elopements. Only at funerals did everyone require the minister, who conducted them with lavish formality.<\/p>

My dad would give the minister $50 or $100. He would tell the minister, who looked half-starved, \u201cThis is not to go to the mission in China. This is for you.\u201d Mrs. Broadbent, who was related to one of the pioneer families, arranged for the minister to have one good meal a day at the hotel.<\/p>

People expected the minister to live in genteel poverty. When a minister came who had a little Ford, and he used it to get from the parsonage to town \u2014 only about six blocks \u2014 he was criticized. It wasn\u2019t right that he should have a car and burn up gas for that. He soon left.<\/p>

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\u00a0<\/p>

The village doctor had a Ford, but that was not seen as a luxury. Doc had to be able to get to the logging camps in a hurry.<\/p>

I was twelve and my younger sister Marie was eight when the flu hit Morton in 1918. Both of us had it. I got better, and Marie did, too. It was awhile before we had our first solid food, because in those days when we were sick, we were on a liquid diet. They gave us beef tea, a little milk and a cracker. Then we could have a sliver of turkey and a spoonful of dressing. But we were to stay in bed and keep under the covers.<\/p>

Marie and I had a pillow fight, and she didn\u2019t stay under the covers. The next night she was sick again. I was getting well. The next afternoon the doctor said, \u201cShe\u2019s the sickest patient I have.\u201d<\/p>

Dad had buried many of his friends and business associates. He said, \u201cWhy didn\u2019t the doctor tell me sooner? I could have put her on the train to Tacoma, and got her to a hospital.\u201d But the train had left, and the road didn\u2019t go through to Tacoma then.<\/p>

Dad wired for an engine and a caboose. It cost him $600. When that came out in Morton, people thought it was amazing. Years later, I met a man up at Morton. \u201cYou\u2019re C.B. Smith\u2019s daughter, aren\u2019t you? You know, I was on the caboose that took your little sister to Tacoma.\u201d It was an event spoken of for years.<\/p>

So the tracks were cleared, and Marie rode to Tacoma. Mother and Dad, too. An ambulance picked her up at the station, and whisked her to the hospital, right now. That\u2019s Dad!<\/p>

The doctor in Tacoma said, \u201cFeed her. Give her cream. Give her something rich so she has the strength to fight this.\u201d None of the barley-water the other doctor had suggested.<\/p>

Marie made a good recovery.\u00a0<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Morton had one police officer. Nothing much ever happened except chicken stealing, and who would begrudge a boy a chicken to roast in the woods? Once the cop hit a man over the head because he brought liquor into a Saturday-night dance instead of stashing it in the woodpile. People thought this was unreasonable, and hired a new cop.<\/p>

Another town had a case of a rape. They got a posse and caught the man, and my brother was in on it. He said they debated about castrating the man. They thought they should. But they decided that the man might bleed to death, and it would be murder, so they didn\u2019t do it.\u00a0<\/p>

Dad, being a merchant, wanted fire protection. He contributed the first $500, about all that was needed, to buy a cart that the men could pull and connect to a hydrant. They erected a tower with a bell on it. If you saw a fire, you pulled the bell. Morton didn\u2019t have a fire department. The men were volunteers. Their job wasn\u2019t to put the fire out, but to hose down the buildings not on fire.<\/p>

That didn\u2019t always work. In 1924, the whole business district burned to the ground.\u00a0It started in the hotel at about one in the morning. The two-story hotel was right opposite my father\u2019s store, and the wind blew the flames straight to the hardware. My father opened the building to get his business records. Already people had slipped in and taken some fishing gear. Others were removing things. Dad locked the door. He said he didn\u2019t want any question about insurance claims; he had taken out more coverage about six months before. Somebody said it was a shame for all that hardware to burn up.<\/span><\/p>

The men struggled to get the heavy barber chair out of the hotel and down the street. They stopped. When the fire moved closer, they pulled it a little farther. Finally they left it in a vacant lot, and the fire ruined it.<\/span><\/p>

We got our valuables out of the house. Dad put all his business records in his car. I carried my Persian cat out in the fish basket. Dad drove me down the road a quarter mile to guard these treasures. My cat yowled, and I wondered whether the fire would follow me down the road, because it was timber on both sides.<\/span><\/p>

The fire consumed the business district. I don\u2019t think any homes burned. But the grocery that had only been up six months went down in a heap. The bank had only the vault left standing, and t<\/span>here was nothing left of Dad\u2019s hardware but a chimney sticking up.<\/p>

After the fire, people stood around grinning at the awfulness of it. It made the headlines of the Tacoma paper, and we had a string of tourists.<\/span><\/p>

Other than that, most fires were of a house, or a shed. The wooden houses would go up fast. It was usually at night. You\u2019d hear the bell, get out of bed and run to see the fire. That was the social thing to do. Once when my friend Henrietta was visiting me, the bell rang, and I said, \u201cThere\u2019s a fire. Come on!\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWhy? Are we in danger?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNo, no. We have to go\u00a0see it.\u201d\u00a0<\/i>If it was a shed, everybody looked to see if there were copper coils sticking up through the ashes, because that was a still.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

During Prohibition, bootleggers were going full tilt in the woods around Morton. In the woods, a man might rise up with a gun and tell you to go back. When bootleggers were caught, a lawyer in the county seat would get them off with light sentences. Prohibition didn\u2019t have the sympathy of the public.<\/p>

I saw a still in 1924, when I was 19. One of my boyfriends told me some of the bootleggers were going to move it.He\u2019d asked them if he could bring me to see it, and they\u2019d said, \u201cC.B. Smith\u2019s daughter? Sure. He\u2019d keep his mouth shut. Bring C.B. Smith, too.\u201d Dad didn\u2019t want to know anything about any stills. If he was going to have a drink, he wanted good whiskey, and he would have it only when he had a cold. Well, he was out of town.<\/span><\/p>

The still was in a grove of maples. They had their mash in a tank made of fir planks. I looked in the open tank under the trees and said, \u201cCaterpillars are dropping in it.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOh, that don\u2019t matter,\u201d the man said. A few leaves were O.K., too. And one said, \u201cIt\u2019s good stuff. Look.\u201d He poured some on a stick and lit it, and it burned.<\/p>

He said, \u201cWhen we make a batch, we drive down the road, turn off into the woods, and bury it. You know what some of them Morton kids done? They\u2019ve learnt our tire tracks. They\u2019ve followed the track and dug up the liquor.\u201d He was disgusted.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

\u00a0In Morton, people-watching was important. One of the most absorbing puzzles was to figure out who was having a baby.<\/p>

\u201cShe\u2019s going to have a baby,\u201d someone would say.<\/p>

\u201cNoooooo!\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOh, yes. I can tell by the way she\u2019s wearing that apron. Look at the way she\u2019s pulling it back and forth.\u201d<\/p>

Morton dealt with unwed pregnancy differently than in the silent movies. In the movies, you saw this sweet, young girl who got pregnant \u2014 it wasn\u2019t clear\u00a0how<\/i>\u2014 and her father was ordering her out into the storm.\u00a0Shame! Shame! Shame!<\/i><\/p>

In Morton, unmarried girls often got pregnant. I sometimes knew it by the way Mother whispered: \u201cThe baby came a little too\u00a0soon<\/i>, didn\u2019t it? Seven months.\u201d Sometimes the new couple announced at about the fourth month that the baby was going to be premature. My mother would say: \u201cHow do they\u00a0know<\/i>that?\u201d<\/p>

One of the farm girls never had a boyfriend. She was homely, with straight red hair, freckles, and a skinny, awkward frame. Then she was going with a stranger, a man working on the road. Everybody was glad that she had a boyfriend, but there was always a little suspicion.<\/p>

The man left, because it was a temporary job, and she developed what she said was a \u201ctumor.\u201d It wasn\u2019t a small tumor. It got big, and BIG. She still persisted. Did the women in town believe this? They certainly did not.<\/p>

Her sister asked if she was pregnant. No, no, she said, it was a tumor. Then she came to her sister one morning and said, \u201cIt isn\u2019t a tumor. I\u2019m going to have a baby and I\u2019m having\u00a0pains.\u201d\u00a0<\/i>They got in a car and rushed her down the road. She had the baby in the next town, and came home with it.<\/p>

Some time before, a World War I veteran, a stolid man maybe 20 years older, had wanted to go with her. She had rejected him; she had wanted somebody young and charming. Now he came forward. He went right to her house and offered marriage. She took him up on it. He treated her well, and she became an accepted member of the community.<\/p>

The other case was a woman who was not so young, perhaps 22. This girl was going steady with a fellow, holding hands and dancing too close. People got suspicious. They were pretty knowing about the signs.<\/p>

She went down to Portland to visit somebody. Then her folks said she married down there. She stayed awhile, and came back with the baby \u2014 but no husband. It was printed in the paper that her mother announced that her daughter had married this man. When people asked the editor about it, he said, \u201cI print what they tell me, like any other news I have.\u201d<\/p>

Nobody ever saw the husband. There were stories that he was sent on a job, and he got hurt, and he was delayed. He just never showed up. She raised the child, got a job as a telephone operator, and finally announced she was divorced. Nobody knew how she got the divorce. The town didn\u2019t believe it, but they accepted it. She was married and divorced and had a child. That was respectable.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

Abortion was illegal then, but also available.<\/p>

In 1932 my younger sister met the man she wanted to marry. In two weeks\u2019 time, they were engaged. Being conscientious, she felt she had to confess that she was not a virgin. This made it easy for him to persuade her to have relations. He borrowed our car and got her pregnant in it. They didn\u2019t have money for a motel room. And within the first month, she was pregnant.<\/p>

She went to my older sister first, and from her she got an abortion pill. It didn\u2019t work. She had no money, her fianc\u00e9 had no money, and the sister had no money. And they weren\u2019t going to go to Mother and Dad \u2014 that was the\u00a0last<\/i>thing. They came to me. An abortion done by a doctor cost $50. And it was a good thing she went to a doctor, because the fetus had died, and it hadn\u2019t passed.<\/p>

There was never any regret expressed about the abortion. It was just something that had to be done.<\/p>

Mother found out about it, but she mentioned it to me only once. She disapproved, but she wasn\u2019t going to disown her daughter over it, and Dad wouldn\u2019t have, either. He never said a word about it.<\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

So these girls were not cast out, either by society or by their parents. The movies always showed that sin was punished. In Morton, it was overlooked.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a9 2010 Bruce Ramsey<\/span><\/em><\/p>

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Morton school, 1912: Alverna is the shortest girl standing on wood These are memories of my aunt Alverna, who died in 2007 at age 101. She was the family storyteller, and through her I have put together an account of her hometown in the Teens and Twenties of the last century. She lived at Morton, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-662","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/662","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=662"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/662\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1506,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/662\/revisions\/1506"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=662"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}