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Memoirs Of My Life
Author: Sharon Obrigewitch

Memoirs of My Life

Sharon Obrigewitch

Next week, I will turn 90 years old. I remember thinking my mother was old when she was thirty-five. I must have been around twelve or so. Now I wonder what my own children think, especially since I can hardly believe they are sixty or older.

Years ago, one of my sons asked, “Did you have bicycles when you were young?” Yes, Wade, we had bicycles—and even a car, though only one. We still fed the cows with horses, and my grandfather had a horse-drawn buggy. I do not remember him ever owning a car, though he may have.

I was born on July 17, 1936. My mother said it was the hottest day of the year, so I looked it up. In North Dakota that day, the temperature reached 114 degrees. The highest temperature recorded that July was 121 degrees. It was the year of the drought.

We lived on a farm in the middle of North Dakota in a house with three bedrooms upstairs. We had chickens, pigs, cows, hay, and everything we needed to keep going. We did not need to go to the store often. A root cellar kept our vegetables and canned goods through the winter. Since there were no refrigerators or freezers, meat was canned or hung in the shed during the winter to stay frozen. Our well served as our refrigerator.

Grandma and Grandpa lived just half a mile away, which was normal then. Families had parents living close by and they would babysit. Mom did not work outside the home, but she worked hard on the farm. She helped my dad with harvesting and milking the cows. In the country, we had no electricity or running water. Water had to be pumped into a bucket, brought into the house, and shared. We all drank from the same dipper, with no separate cups.

In North Dakota, we used coal stoves because there was little wood. The stove had a water reservoir that heated water for baths and dishes. There were no daily showers. Saturday night was bath night, using a large tin tub in front of the stove so we would be clean for church on Sunday morning. Sunday was truly a day of rest, although the cows still had to be milked and fed. Our family was Polish, so we attended a separate church nearby. The German families drove past it to their own church. When our aunts and uncles came for Mass, they came to our house for dinner afterward.

I have no idea whether it was a potluck or whether my mother cooked it all, though I hope my aunts helped. The women served the men first, then the children, and finally themselves. It was still very much like the old country. In church, the men and women sat separately, with the women sitting with the children. When the boys got older, they sat with the men.

Of course, we cannot forget the outhouse, set away from the house and the well. It usually had two seats, and the toilet paper was the Montgomery Ward catalog. In winter, we may have used a chamber pot. I think of that when I hear my grandchildren complain about toilet paper today.

Years later, my father built a pump house and put a windmill on top. Batteries were charged, and we went from kerosene lamps to a single bare light bulb that turned on by pulling a string.

There are many people in this town who are older than ninety and they would like to add their remembrance. Later, I may reflect on how our world has changed.