My mother and father were raised on farms. On Mom’s side, there were seven daughters doing what I presume to be sharecropping (a word Mom never used) near Greenbush, Wisconsin. When the farmhouse burned down, 1928 or so as near as I can tell, none were harmed but they were homeless. My grandfather, George Leonard, contacted his brother Mike, who was dryland farming near Ekalaka, Montana. Mike, of course, offered to have him come out and work the farm. As the story goes, George did not tell Mike he was bringing his wife and seven daughters. Mike had a three-room house with an outdoor privy. Mom said Mike was usually in a bad mood, and reflectively said she could see why, having nine people move in on you. Mom said that when Grandma got off the train onto the platform after the long journey, she said “This is it?”

That lasted for a couple of years, I gather, before George and Marie moved their family to nearby Baker, to the spacious house, the front porch of which is seen above. That’s my two older brothers, and in case you lack detective skills I will tell you the day of the week … Saturday. The following day all would ride off to church. Saturday was bath day. (Thanks to my cousin, Eileen, who took photo negatives we found in Mom and Dad’s house after they moved to assisted living, and developed them. My towhead brother Steve has no genitals, so I can run this photo. Early Photoshop, that is.)