My story begins...on a dirt road enroute to Red Oak, Iowa on September 12, 1918, during one of my families many relocations. As the story goes, when my mother went into labor, my pa stopped the old mule drawn wagon in the shade of a tree beside the road. With my older brother and two older sisters waiting, I came into this world. After a brief rest the journey was continued.
I was the 6th child of 9 children born to my father, James Arthur Donahoo and my mother Myrtle Harper. There was no record of my birth. In fact, the first documentation of my existance was the census taken in 1922 or 23. Only seven children survived as we lost one brother and one sister to cholera before I was born. As I was told later in my life, I was the result of an unwanted and unplanned pregnancy. This was a fact that only confirmed what I learned the hard way during my formulative years.
The times were always hard for my parents because to quote the term of the era, both ma and pa were half-breeds. My dad was half Osage and half Irish. My ma was half Cherokee. I'm not sure what the other half was. They were both descriminated against by society as a whole. They were both uneducated.
My dad had one skill that to the best of my memory he had no equal. This was his ability to mold virtually anything out of iron. He spent many years working in an iron foundry. On one occasion, he molded a cup and saucer with a spoon in the cup. I remember that it was beautiful and no one could figure out how he molded it from iron.
Suddenly, I found we were on the move again. Dad has swapped the house we lived in for a small farm in Missouri. I was close to eight years old. The family piled into the old model T and we drove to Missiouri. There were not any bridges in the hills, so dad drove the old wagon trails. I remember the tires on the Ford had wooden spokes and everytime we crossed a creek, it would swell up the wood and tighten the spokes. It seemed to make for a smoother ride, so...I always looked forward to crossing a creek.
We arrived at our new home in the early summer. The farm consisted of a log cabin house and a barn, The live stock included 2 old mules, 1 cow, 2 goats and a few chickens. One of my daily chores was to take the cow down to the pond for water. I remember that winter when an ice storm struck and everything froze over including the pond. When I got the cow close to the pond, she refused to budge. Apparently she was smart enough to realize that she wanted no part of drinking from solid ice. But to me, a chore was to be completed without question. To do anything less would only bring about reprocussions. So, I got behind the cow and gave her a nudge with all I had. It was enough because down the hill she went, sliding like a toboggan. I recall laughing hysterically at the sight but upon reflection, after these many years, I must be honest and say that I don't believe the cow shared my sense of humor.
Anyways, upon our arrival, we spent several weeks picking up and digging up rocks in the field. We carried them to a small ravine and dumped them over the side. Finally it appeared that the field was ready for plowing. Since we had no way of preparing the field, a neighborly farmer came with his plow and offered his assistance. Once he started working on the field, he began plowing up more rocks, eventually ruining his plow. Turns out that was our only crop of the year: ROCKS.
Winter set in again and we were landlocked until spring but I seemed to have a feeling that things were going to change. Sure enough, dad made up his mind that farming wasn't for him and right after the first thaw we were back in the old model T on our way back to Red Oak. My last memory of the farm was looking at all the rocks we dumped down that ravine.
Our stay in Red Oak was short as we picked up stakes and migrated to Council Bluff, Iowa where dad found work in an iron foundry. I was about 9 years old.
It is around this time that I can first recall starting to realize that things weren't quite right in my life and it turned into the one great mystery that I have never found an answer for. Sitting here, today, and reflecting back, I have to admit to myself that I came from a severely dysfunctional family. But in the mind of a nine year old child, it was times of extreme confusion supported by turmoil and braced by a growing anger that finally reared its ugly head when I was thirteen.
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