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(Transcribed by Peggy Barriskill Perazzo, December 2005)

"Recollections of A Busy Life,"
By Eli Fayette Ruggles

H. L. Ruggles & Co., Publishers, (published circa 1904)

Chapter IV.

Mother.

I wish you to know more about mother, and as the sheep have been sheared
and the wool washed and she is to begin the making of garments for the
family it will be a good time to see her at work. She is small or of medium
size, weighs 120 pounds. Not pretty, but looks good; hair curls on each
temple - says they are her scolding locks; brown hair, and she has a double
right to that, for her name was Brown before marriage. She takes a chair
and then picks up some cards. What you say? She isn't going to play cards?
Yes, watch her and see if she don't. She takes a card in left hand with
handle from her and covers it evenly with wool, then takes a card in right
hand, cards the wool till both cards are even full, then with a reverse
motion the wool is taken from the cards and made into rolls some two feet
long. It takes some days, besides the housework, to card the wool into
rolls. And it is not uncommon for her to work till midnight, while others
are snoring in bed. Now she brings out her spinning wheel and gives it a
whirl, puts on some coon's oil, tightens the band, picks up a roll, and,
placing one end on the spindle turns the wheel slowly till the wool fastens
to spindle. Then the wheel begins to sing as only a wheel can sing when
driven by a master hand - energy, vim, satisfaction - all expressed in look
and action, for she knew full well that no one could excel her at her work.
When the spindle is full of yarn it is reeled off into skeins, then
spooled, then when the warp is in the loom and the spool placed in the
shuttle the weaving begins, and right and left goes the shuttle and bang,
bang, goes the loom as yard after yard is made - some in square checks of
red and blue for dresses or brown satinette for pants and coats
(roundabouts). So on the farm is produced and in the house is made all the
wearing apparel, for mother does the cutting and making without a sewing
machine, for none are yet made. But each and every last one of us boys have
served our apprenticeship in helping mother indoors.

Many at time have we boys been glad to see company come, for then we could
go out to work with the men on the farm.

But I want you to see her more as she prepares to feed that throng of men
that raise our barn. The great loaves of bread, the Johnny cake bread, the
pies, etc. Then a fatted pig is dressed clean. Then the oven is made ready.
Not a stove oven, for that was nowhere but an oven built outdoors on top of
two short logs made of split pieces of wood and fastened together with a
clay mortar. Size, 4 x 5 feet, 2 feet high, with door at one end and
opening at back end to give draft. The fire is built inside and kept going
till it is a white heat, then the wood and ashes are removed and the oven
swept clear. Then in goes that pig, standing in a large tray, a pan, with a
cob in his mouth (just for fun), and stuffed full of dressing, and the door
is shut. Later in goes the bread, pies and cakes, and when the men sit
around that long board table they have a feast fit for a king.

Our Spring.

The men are at the table this hot day and send me to the spring for a pail
of that pure cold water. A log some five feet long, very hollow, only a
shell, and some two and one-half feet in diameter has been sunk at the
spring with a hole cut in the middle so it is half full, then the water
runs out to the creek. I placed my knee on the edge of the curb and was
just reaching to opposite side when a hawk flew among the hens and their
furor caused me to look to the scene of trouble and my hand failed to reach
the opposite side of the curb, and do you see how nicely I pitched, head
first, into the spring? The next knowledge I had I was standing up in the
spring. I realized the cooling sensation of the water as I took my first
dive, but I did not reason about how to get out; the law of nature went to
work when reason failed. I went to the house like a wet rat and my hair
filled with dirt instead of taking a pail of water.

Martin and the Hard Winters of 1842.

Martin was a runaway boy. Ran away several times in Ohio. This autumn of
1842 he slyly tied up his belongings, went to Waterford, engaged to go up
north with Mr. Moffat, and sailed from St. Joe to Muskegon, Mich. When it
was known where he had gone father and mother wrote him a very affectionate
letter to return home, where a warm welcome awaited him. When Martin
received the letter the last boat of the season had just sailed for St.
Joe. That was just as Mr. Moffat intended, for he wanted to keep Martin all
winter. But Martin was just as determined then to go home as he was to go
from home. He again tied up his belongings, and with food, blanket, flints
and punk started on foot through forests and plains, over and through
rivers alone. At night he clears away the snow in a fallen tree top,
strikes his flints together till the sparks fly into the punk and soon has
a fire. Matches were not yet made. Next day got in with two men that in his
sympathy helped to materially lighten his lunch box. Bade them good-bye and
trudged ahead through the snow that was falling every day, and fast at
that, so it is getting to be hard work to travel. Nearing night, he comes
to three men in a hut, who urge him to stop with them. It's a hard looking
crew, but he stops, and is again relieved of nearly all his lunch, and the
men are near starving. They urge him to stay and trust to luck, but no, we
will all starve and I shall go ahead. That day he sighted a very large bear
not far away. Luckily the wind was right, and Bruin did not see or smell
him; and Martin had a good view of him, but says, "I would feast on his
flesh, but if we should meet I am not sure which would have the feast," and
he is willing the bear should pass on without a knowledge of his presence.

Again he builds his fire, and another night passes with the whistling wind
and the moaning trees for music, but not a mouthful to eat and clothes not
dry, for he has already waded and swam several rivers, and there are two
more yet, but this bitter cold may freeze them over. The snow has now
reached a depth of three feet, and it is slow, hard work. It is getting
dusk and the storm is wild and furious, and he comes to a haystack, so weak
that it is an effort to get ahead in the deep snow. He digs a hole into the
stack, but that is slow work, and he reasons, if I go to sleep will it not
be my last sleep, and it is now dark; but joy, oh joy, in the dim distance
is a light. Starts for the light and it is across a large marsh, and the
storm of wind and snow, and such biting cold; he moves but slowly, and now
he begins to feel warmer. But why do I feel warmer? I'm freezing, I'm
freezing, that's why I do not feel the terrible cold. He stops and stamps
down the snow to make it hard, jumps up and down, wraps his arms around him
with all his might. But now on he goes lest those people go to bed and the
light is put out, and what then? Almost exhausted and reason almost gone,
he comes to the door and falls against it, and reason has fled. The door is
opened and the unconscious boy drawn in and restoratives applied. It was
late in the night before he became conscious, and then told of the men he
left in the woods, that must perish if not rescued. I remember well when
Martin came home and how excited we were to hear of his terrible journey
from Muskegon. That was his last runaway.

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