Carol Ashworth by Juliette Birch

Carol Ashworth by Juliette Birch

This story has, I believe, a clear and optimistic lesson for our family. Almost four hundred years ago, a young man bartered some years of his life for a dream, sold his independence for the opportunity to earn a better life in a new land, and the new ladn gave hime what he was seeking. He left to his heirs much more than land and livestock - he left a legacy of hope and ambition, which succeeding generations have built on and protected. They are a part not only of our family history, but of our country's history.

My grandmother, Emma Howard Fitch, told stories about life on a pairie farm, difficult but rewarding. The weather was often uncooperative, church and school were some distance away, and chores were unremitting. Adequate medical care was so distant as to be almost nonexistant and when Ella fell in the icy barnyard and drove a sharp cornstalk into her wrist, the common home remedies of soaking and poultices could not prevent gangrene. Her left arm was amputated just below the shoulder. My grandmother used to tell me about how well her mother managed to run her home - cooking, cleaning, and sowing - for the next thirty years, often using tools her clever husband fashioned for her special needs.

I never learned the entire story of how the small alligator appeared in an aquarium in the boys' room. Probably, as that was the room I entered just often enough to keep the Health Department at bay, they decided Fungus, the caiman, was likely to remain unnoticed there for quite a while. And he did, until one day I walked in to gather up the piles of dirty laundry and stacks of dirty dishes left by a crew of dirty boys and was hissed and snapped at by a foot-long dragon-looking creature in an aquarium on the desk. Fungus was named for his appearance - repulsive, and covered with a greenish, moldy-looking armor. In addition, he had mean eyes and rows of needle-sharp teeth. I'll admit I was glad on the day, a year or two later, that I walked into the boys' room to bring some order out of the chaos before the cleaning woman came, and was surprised that Fungus didn't snap or hiss. I'm not sure how long he'd been dead.

Carol Ashworth by Juliette Birch

	This story has, I believe, a clear and optimistic lesson for our family. Almost four hundred years ago, a young man bartered some years of his life for a dream, sold his independence for the opportunity to earn a better life in a new land, and the new ladn gave hime what he was seeking. He left to his heirs much more than land and livestock - he left a legacy of hope and ambition, which succeeding generations have built on and protected. They are a part not only of our family history, but of our country's history.
	My grandmother, Emma Howard Fitch, told stories about life on a pairie farm, difficult but rewarding. The weather was often uncooperative, church and school were some distance away, and chores were unremitting. Adequate medical care was so distant as to be almost nonexistant and when Ella fell in the icy barnyard and drove a sharp cornstalk into her wrist, the common home remedies of soaking and poultices could not prevent gangrene. Her left arm was amputated just below the shoulder. My grandmother used to tell me about how well her mother managed to run her home - cooking, cleaning, and sowing - for the next thirty years, often using tools her clever husband fashioned for her special needs.
	I never learned the entire story of how the small alligator appeared in an aquarium in the boys' room. Probably, as that was the room I entered just often enough to keep the Health Department at bay, they decided Fungus, the caiman, was likely to remain unnoticed there for quite a while. And he did, until one day I walked in to gather up the piles of dirty laundry and stacks of dirty dishes left by a crew of dirty boys and was hissed and snapped at by a foot-long dragon-looking creature in an aquarium on the desk. Fungus was named for his appearance - repulsive, and covered with a greenish, moldy-looking armor. In addition, he had mean eyes and rows of needle-sharp teeth. I'll admit I was glad on the day, a year or two later, that I walked into the boys' room to bring some order out of the chaos before the cleaning woman came, and was surprised that Fungus didn't snap or hiss. I'm not sure how long he'd been dead.