Sifoddling Along

By Marilyn Carnell

I prefer to be surrounded by things that have a story to tell. New things are nice, but I prefer knowing the history of an object to be reminded of stories about the past.

I have and love some interesting things in my home. One is a small, mule eared, cane-bottom chair that belonged to my grandfather Bunch.

The chair has a story to tell. My Grandpa Bunch (all titles required an additional descriptor to keep all of my many relatives sorted) was a farmer in the Ozarks. He and his bachelor brother, Uncle Sam, managed 80 acres of mostly bottom land in the Big Sugar Creek Valley.

The farm was largely self-sufficient and outside the money economy. It was called the Scots style of farming. Each place was a small kingdom unto itself. They made, raised or found food and materials needed to support an extended family of eleven people – my great-grandmother Bunch, Uncle Sam, Grandpa and Grandma Bunch and their seven children. They had cattle and sheep, horses and mules, chickens and guineas, raised a big garden, grew corn and wheat, even tobacco. From the land they hunted and fished and found nuts and berries and sassafras for a spring tonic. They traded milk, cream and eggs for small items like spices, sugar and coffee.

One day about 1940,Grandpa was driving a team of mules home from Southwest City on the Oklahoma/Arkansas border with a load of cornmeal ground at the local mill. As he began the steep descent down Pine Hill Road into the valley, something spooked the mules, and they ran away. He was tangled in the reins and when the wagon finally came to a stop, he was severely injured, including a broken pelvis. When he was found by nearby neighbors, they carried him to their cabin, probably making the injuries worse. After three days of pain and misery, a doctor was located, but he had to be sobered up to give Grandpa Bunch any medical care. His cuts and bruises healed, but the broken bones were not set properly, and he walked painfully with a cane the rest of his life.

In addition, he was unable to sit comfortably. As a resourceful farmer, he sawed off the legs to the little wood chair constructed by a neighbor to a height he could tolerate sitting on. One of my memories is seeing him sitting in the chair in the front yard, reading the Kansas City Star. The bright sunshine helped him read the small type with his failing eyesight,

After he passed away, my Aunt Etta inherited the chair. Aunt Etta was also resourceful in making things useful. She also had an innate artistic ability. She liked to paint anything that stood still for more than 5 minutes, so the chair was coated with light blue paint and used as a plant stand for many years.

I was given it by my Aunt Etta more than 40 years ago when I returned to live in the Ozarks once again. I used it for a stack of extra towels in the guest bathroom. The chair has an honored spot in my new apartment and continues to remind me of the dear people who are no longer with me and brings history alive to me once again.