Ruby Ray Tangreen Zufelt
Anytime Vern and I had a quarrel, or anything went wrong, I was always with Mother, and Vern would always get the benefit. He got to have a 22 rifle and go all over the county shooting, getting acquainted, and I had to stay home and work. We lived there for a few years and never did have a toilet. We did the laundry and hung it on the bushes, and we used the bushes for our backhouse.
When we left I was fourteen. We went to school in Ucola. They finally got a schoolhouse within a couple of miles from our place. The people that had lived in it moved away and went to Washington. The girl that had lived there was my lifelong friend. She died of cancer a few years ago, but I wrote to her all the years in between. They had a two room log house. The guys cut the partition out and that was our schoolhouse, when we finally got a teacher and a school. I was in the seventh grade, Vern was in the fourth, and Ireta was just in the first grade. We had to walk about two miles to school and it snowed real hard. We ended up with about two and a half feet of snow. Ireta didn’t try to go to school that day. Vern and I went and we took our lunch in a gallon syrup bucket. When we got there, there was nobody there. Nobody else had gone to school. The door was locked. So we said there’s no sense carrying this lunch bucket back and have to bring it back tomorrow. We just set it there inside the door. Later in the day, the teacher got over there in a buggy, a horse and wagon outfit, and swept off the porch; made a little trail around, built a fire, and ate our lunch. So we went to school the next day. Dad borrowed a horse from Herm and hooked it on a little pine tree and drug a trail to school so we could walk without having to wade in the snow. So the next day the man teacher was kind enough to give Ireta half of one of his sandwiches. She was the little one.