Midwest Romance with a Twist

After interviewing my eighty-seven-year old grandmother, I found her stories inspirational. Although this story is not written totally in my voice, it is a wonderful keepsake of her life …

Life in the Midwest during the 1930s was challenging. Graduating from eighth grade was quite an achievement, as most children were removed from school to tend the farm or take odd jobs. Money was tight, but each family in the small town of Labette, Kansas rallied around those who were failing. Mother Nature was insensitive to her farming community. Vast acres of corn and wheat that once stood tall on fertile land demised due to months of drought. It was not uncommon for a farmer to transplant himself into the city in prospect of a better life. So it was for my grandfather Wilbur Treadway.

Wilbur, like most kids hearing the news, was stunned when his dad announced that the family would be moving into town. The farmhouse, tractors, plows, thrashers, balers, chickens, and livestock would be sold at auction. Mr. Treadway looked into Wilbur’s soft brown eyes and said, “I’m sorry son, but even your Pinto pony will be sold!” Wilbur was crushed by the news. He and his pony were a team! All the townsfolk had come to love watching Wilbur ride his black and white pony. Inspired by cowboy movies, he had mastered many trick-riding moves. With a wave of a paddle from the highest bidder, Wilbur’s dreams of becoming the next “Tom Mix” were destroyed. Story has it that Wilbur never forgave his Dad for auctioning off his prized procession. The family bought the only service station in town. Big brother Vernie was in charge of the mechanical work while Wilbur minded the purchases and cash register. It was a profitable business, though at times seemed more like a hangout for the local loafers enthralled in a game of dominos.

It wasn’t long after the Treadways adjusted to city life that my grandmother Margaret Page moved into town. Unlike Wilbur’s early years on the farm, Margaret’s family had made their living by digging for mussel shells on the Neosho River. Bucket after bucket was carried to a vat and steamed open. Every once in a while a freshwater pearl was harvested. The empty shells were loaded onto the bed of a truck and dumped into piles at the railroad. Weighed and paid by the ton, the shells were shipped by boxcar to a button factory in Iowa.