by Florence Richardson Street
The old idea of family records was merely to record the
birth, marriage, and death of each member; but I think we can only understand
ourselves and our children by knowing something of the personality of our
forebears.
Father has written his autobiography, but there are other
things quite important he never touched upon. Why is it, when a man writes his
autobiography, he tells almost nothing about his family?
Father had planned to be a physician, and had studied was
old Dr. Schofield at Northfield until a long siege of typhoid had made and give
that up. He would have made an able physician, and I doubt not but that Bernard
has inherited some of his inclination in that direction through his grandfather
Richardson.
However, he married and settled down in Northfield as a
furniture dealer. He was an able salesman and soon built up a thriving
business. The delivery of furniture was always in the “high” wagon with the
current frisky team. Father was not what was known as a good driver. He was
small and energetic intense, and seemed to inject into his horses and irritable
state of mind. His runaways were frequent and sometimes disastrous.
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| Father and his high wagon |
Once when I was a small child, his horses became frightened
at the freight depot. In the fracas they ran over Father, hauling the
heavily-loaded high-wagon over him. He was wearing red flannel underwear, and
one woman who saw all that expensive red thought it was blood!
Sometimes when Father wanted to deliver a big country
purchase in person, took the three little children with him for the ride. It
was always my job to go along to look after the children. The farmers’ wives
would treat us all to pie or doughnuts and buttermilk and make quite an
occasion of our call. Once, just as father lifted Ruth down, a big dog leapt at
her barking, and she ran under both
horses, coming out unscathed. I remember that in his relief, father spanked
her!
There was a constant undercurrent of strife between my
parents over the spending of money. Mother thought of it in terms of family
comfort or advancement, and father of expanding his business. Men of that
period seldom consulted their wives in business matters. They tried not to let
on when they were doing real well, so they could gamble a little in wildland or
apple orchards.
Mother was a remarkable manager. Father didn’t care how much
she economized out of sight, but he didn’t want her or us to look shabby. “You
think I want Lee (his competitor) to know my business is rotten this year?” “Do
you mean you want me to go out and buy a new coat because your business is bad?” Mother asked incredulously.
Mother was almost never well. I think now that many of her
headaches could’ve been avoided if she had not had so many anxieties.
She enjoyed her children and was determined they should have
a happy childhood she herself had missed. Her mother died when she was three.
She had the Englishwoman’s attitude toward the holidays, that they were to be
properly celebrated. Never a Thanksgiving or Christmas for Fourth of July came
around but what mother managed to instigate some family festivity. The maid
always went home at these times, but somehow they were pulled off successfully.
Father was always the life of the party on these occasions. Aunt Emma would be
there, trying to be helpful, but she was always so slow that she was more in
the way than anything.
Where Aunt Emma excelled was at entertaining the three
youngest children. Her visits were greatly anticipated by us all. Mother
inveigled even Father into doing all sorts of renovating and repairs “before
Emma comes.”
No matter what time of year Aunt Emma arrived she brought
little gifts for us all, down to the current Annie in the kitchen. The children
never asked for their gifts, but they accompanied her upstairs and watched
expectantly while she unpacked.
Aunt Emma shocked Mother by her extravagant clothes. I’ll
never forget Mother’s expression when Aunt Emma showed her some beautiful
changeable tan and blue taffeta she had purchased for the lining of her new suit.
I have thought of her Mother’s life a great deal in the year
since her death, and have wished that she had received more spoken
appreciation. You see, she played to a very small audience – her husband, her
children, and Aunt Emma – and none of us realized how much she needed praise.
In fact, praise even in my generation was measured out very
sparingly for fear we would become “conceited.” Conceited child was a terrible
disgrace.
I can remember only once in my life that Aunt Emma praised
me and it made me cry. Mother would praise things we made, like doilies or
slashers, but not us.
So much has been written about how wonderful big families
are, but in a big family children don’t get very close to their parents. About
the time I had led up to a confidence with my Mother, one of the younger
children cut his toe, or fell out of a tree, and the moment was gone. I was as
fond of them as though I had been their Mother – took great pride in dressing
them up and taking them with me where they would be noticed.
Father was too busy with the store to pay much attention to
us children. If we crave to favor from him, we seldom approached him directly,
but got Mother to ask him. His natural response to his sudden request was “no!”
Mother had developed a fine philosophy for handling these. “Even though it
seems crazy or unnecessary, if doing it would do no harm, I would say yes.”
During the last few years, Father and I got acquainted
through letters. He was such a charming person I wish I had known him better
when I was at home.
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| David Fay Richardson |
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