The Boxcar Children of 1951

Speaking of sisters (yesterday’s post), I’ve been thinking about my own sisters. I was second youngest in a family with five girls. The summer that I turned eight years old we had a unique experience. My oldest brother, Charles, died when I was five years old. My parents had always wanted to take the family on an extended vacation, but Charles’ health was always a problem. After he passed away, they saved up to buy a new car and then took the remaining eight of us to Oregon for a summer adventure.

My uncle was part-owner in a fruit company. Our family joined the other migrant pickers who worked for Webster Orchards. We lived in this little two-bedroom “shack”, which we called “the cabin.” It was set on a hill that was surrounded by fruit orchards. All five girls shared the same bedroom. The two oldest girls shared one double bed. The three of us “little girls” shared the other double bed. We slept side-ways because it gave us a little more room. Mother spent the first three days scrubbing the cabin from top to bottom with Lysol disinfectant. She cooked on a wood-burning stove. There was a huge blackberry patch at the foot of the hill, and that doggone wood-burning stove (with a little help from mother) baked the most delicious blackberry pies you’ve ever tasted.

We “little girls” weren’t old enough to pick fruit. When we awakened in the morning the others were “long gone.” Looking back, I wonder if mother wasn’t a little worried about leaving an eleven-year-old, an eight-year-old, and a five-year-old alone all day long with no phone and no way to get in touch with our parents (who roamed from orchard to orchard depending on where the fruit was ready to pick). There was a family that lived in a house on the other side of the orchard. I suppose that is where we would have gone in case of an emergency, but pretty much it was the three of us on our own for the day. There was always a pot of cracked wheat cereal waiting for us on the stove. By the time we woke up it was a cold solid block of “mush.” Since that didn’t appeal to us, we usually ate a can of applesauce or some pineapple rings. The rest of the day we ran through the orchards, picked blackberries, swung on the huge tree swing daddy had hung, made plans for a new club, wrote notes to ourselves from imaginary playmates which we hid in tree trunks or under stones. When we “accidentally” stumbled onto one of these notes we read it over and over and diligently tried to persuade each other that there were truly secret playmates watching us from behind this or that cherry tree.

By today’s standards, DCFS would probably have taken us away and put us into protective custody. We never worried for a minute. We were the Three Musketeers. We were never afraid, never had an accident, never were bored, never made a mess, never lacked for ideas about how to use our time, and never complained about being left alone. I occasionally see a fruit box at a grocery store from Webster Orchards. It’s always a reminder of an idyllic summer for three little sisters.