Harry Phillips, 1893

My dad's parents were William and Margaret Phillips. They were farmers right out of Whitland, South Wales. They raised sheep and cattle. My dad grew up on the farm. He used to talk about his dogs that herded sheep. He would also talk about the stone fences that separated the fields.

My dad had 3 brothers and 3 sisters. He was the 3rd child and 2nd son. He lived on the farm until he was big enough to work in the mines (there in the South Wales area). He also worked on the docks, possibly in Cardiff. He used to talk about carrying huge, heavy sacks of sugar.

When he was 17 or 18, in 1889 or 1890, he had enough money saved up to come to this country. I think he landed at Ellis Island, in New York. He then rode the train across country to Sprague, WA, with a man named Howell Isaac. They got off the train and asked where Almira (WA) was. The person they asked pointed northwest and said "50 miles that way." They then asked what time the train was. "There's no train - you'll have to ride." So they rented or purchased 2 horses and headed out, not having any clear idea where they were heading.

Somehow, they did find Almira, and my dad homesteaded 320 acres there. 160 acres (a quarter section) was in timber culture and the other quarter section was homestead. The place is now the Morris Hyde place. I am not sure what timber culture meant, except that they were probably supposed to plant it to timber to conserve it or something. The country there doesn't really have trees. It's not desert but more plains in nature.

During his first year in Almira, my dad worked for another farmer to make some money. The farmer gave him room and board and was to pay him $50 at the end of the year. However, when year-end came, the farmer couldn't pay him.

My dad had to "prove up" on the homestead, which included building a cabin. I don't know if the farmers traded work or what, but somehow my dad was able to buy a team of horses. To make a little money he went to work in Kellogg in the mines, since there was very little money in farming. He would go to the mines in the winter months when there wasn't much work to do on the wheat ranch. I don't know how many months that would entail, but probably three or four months. December, January, February, March, something like that.

Harry Phillips, 1902

After he worked a short time in the mines--and I'm not sure, one or two or three winters--he got gassed in a mining accident. They brought him up to the surface and carried him off the mine property-no medical care or benefits or anything. This had the effect of "curing him" of the desire to work in the mines. It also made him a strong supporter of miners' unions, and especially of John L. Lewis, who was a very important person in building up the United Mine Workers union.

I don't know if my dad quit mining exactly or was laid-off for having been gassed. But somehow he got a job in the stockroom of the Spokane Hotel, which he liked much better. There, he got his room and board and a small wage. At the mines they had charged so much for the room and board that he probably ended up with the same amount of money and it was a lot less hazardous work.

The Spokane Hotel was located at First and Howard, near where the Ridpath hotel is now. (when you go to that skywalk to the other side of the Ridpath, that's where the old Spokane Hotel was, in that area). I'm not sure how many winters he worked there: one, two, three or possibly four.

He and Griff Hughes Number 1, who was one of his close neighbors, bought one of the first "headers" out in Almira. A header was a machine that cut the ripe wheat and put it into the header boxes, which could then be taken directly to the threshing machine.

The header box was on a wagon, with one side lower than the other. I think a team of horses would pull the header box along side the header. When that box was full, another would take its place. The header box would then be taken to the threshing machine, or, more commonly, to the stack, where the wheat was piled until the threshing machine came.

Before headers, wheat was cut by binders, which wrapped so much wheat in a shock. The shocks then had to be gathered into stacks, and, when gathered, pitched into a wagon by hand and taken to the threshing machine. The ungathered shocks were subject to be scattered by the wind, which could cause a lot of the wheat to be lost in the field. The header saved a lot of work and eliminated the risk of the shocks being blown around.

There were only a few threshing machines in the country so the farmers had to wait their turn. One threshing machine would do several farmers. I'm not sure in what year, but my dad and Griff Hughes Number 1 bought a horse-drawn combine. The combine eliminated the header box and the need for men to stack the wheat, because the combine took the wheat direct and put it into 130-pound sacks. On a good day, they could combine 20 acres.

Thomas Brothers harvesting in the Big Bend Country. Photo taken Aug 3, 1918 by W.C. Alexander, Almira, Wash.

The combine took 20 or more horses to pull it and 4 or 5 men to operate it. There was the driver, who guided the horses. The header puncher was the person who kept the header at the right height. Then, there was the machine man, who walked around oiling bearings and monitoring all the mechanical workings. The final man was the sack-sewer. The sack-sewer sat on a platform right where the bulk-tank would go in a modern combine. The wheat would come into a sack, which the sack-sewer would sew up when full, and put it in a chute on the side of the combine. The chute would hold three sacks, then the sack-sewer would trip a lever and drop the sacks onto the ground. The sacks would lie in rows, just like bales of hay. Other men with horses and wagons would come and gather up the sacks. When the wagon was full, they would haul the wheat to their farm or to the warehouse along the dirt roads. There were no paved or even gravel roads in those days. The dust would get mid-calf deep.

Harry and Lizzie's wedding photo Henry Phillips (left), Elizabeth Thomas (left) November 1905

It took iron men to gather 130-pound wheat sacks all day. My uncle Will did it by himself for 10 cents a sack. He had bought a 1929 Chevrolet truck, when everyone else was still using horses and wagons. The round trip to the warehouse could be 10 or 12 miles for some of the farmers, which was quite a ways by horse. With the truck, he could haul in 1 day the amount of wheat it would take 2 days to haul by horse.

My dad never cared for the big country down there. He didn't like all the horses and that kind of farming. He used to talk about how he'd harvest all summer, then watch the horses eat up his profits all winter. So, in 1904 or 1905, he sold out to Fred Hyde. My dad put 320 acres down on the deed when he sold the land. Hyde had the land surveyed and sued my dad because there were a few acres less than 320. After that experience, my dad always made sure to write any further land sales as "____ acres more or less".

My dad then went back to Wales to visit. (He might have gone back right before selling out. I'm not sure if dad sold out before or after he and mother were married.).

He came back to Almira and began courting my mother. She was 15 or 16 and he was 31 or 32. Kate Thomas, my grandmother, did not approve. My mother, Elizabeth Thomas, was very headstrong, though, and despite Kate's disapproval, my parents were married on November 8, 1905, in Almira. My dad was 33 and my mother was 17. Kate Thomas was so opposed to the marriage, at least initially, that on the day of the wedding, she locked herself in the woodshed and wouldn't come out all day.

Hugh & Kate Thomas and the Almira Farm
maternal grandparents

Hugh and Kate Thomas family Sherbrooke, Quebec, circa 1889

Hugh Richard Thomas, Richard Hugh "Dick" Thomas, Arthur Sprague Thomas, Kate Thomas, Elizabeth Ann "Lizzie" Thomas

Kate Ffoulkes was born in Ysgoldy, Bethel, North Wales, January 3, 1853. She came to New York as an indentured servant sometime in the 1870s. Being an indentured servant meant that she had to work for a family for 7 years without reimbursement to pay off the cost of her passage.

She wound up in San Francisco in the early 1880s, where she met my grandfather, Hugh Richard Thomas. Mr. Thomas was also from North Wales. He had been born in Gwernydd, Besthesda, N. Wales, on December 4, 1846. Bethesda and Bethel were only 7 miles apart, but as far as I know, Hugh and Kate had not known each other prior to meeting in San Francisco.

Hugh and Kate were married in San Francisco and moved up to the California Gold Country, where Richard Hugh (Dick) Thomas was born in Placerville on February 15, 1882. Hugh and Kate moved around quite a bit. Hugh had mining experience and I think that they were moving from mining job to mining job. Arthur Sprague Thomas was then born in July 22, 1883 in Sprague, Washington Territory. (I don't know why they were in Sprague at this time.) Elizabeth Ann Thomas (my mother) was born May 27, 1888 in New Rockland, Quebec, Canada. Hugh Thomas was managing a slate quarry there when my mother was born.

Kate Thomas' home in Almira, May 27, 1903 far left: Dick Thomas, Mary Ellen Jones. center back: Lizzie Thomas, Harry Phillips. center front: Johnnie Hughes, Will Thomas. right: Mrs. Kate Thomas (Dick, Lizzie and Will's mother.) Where was 19 year old Arthur? This picture was taken 2 1/2 years before Lizzie and Harry were married.

It was about then that Hugh and Kate decided to move to Almira, Washington Territory, to homestead. They settled on 160 acres. During the winter months, Hugh Thomas would go to the mines in Coeur d'Alene to make extra money. He wrote the nicest letters home to the children - "be good to your mom and I love you very much." The letters were in Welsh, of course.

1893 was a big year for the Thomases. In February, on the 12th, William Henry (Will) Thomas was born. Then, on March 27, 1893, they secured a homestead grant on a second 160 acres, officially for "timber culture".

Hugh and Kate's last child, Laura, was born on August 31, 1895. Hugh was not well. He died on January 17, 1896, at age 49, from the black lung. Laura would die within 5 months, on May 12, 1896. Kate Thomas, who had just lost her husband and her baby, was left with 4 children to raise and the farm to run. My uncle Dick, who was just 14, had to grow up in a hurry. He took over many of the responsibilities of the farm. Kate added an additional 80 acres to the farm, on September 28, 1898.

Arthur Sprague Thomas and Ori Leisure with "George" the buggy horse.

Arthur helped on the farm, but Arthur was more of a playboy. Arthur made a trip back to Wales. He met a woman named Sarah Williams. They were married in Pennsylvania on June 13, 1919. They had two little girls: Wyn, born in 1920, and Helen, born in 1921. Arthur had contracted syphilis and both girls died of it in infancy. Arthur himself died of the disease in 1923. Sarah, heartbroken, returned to Wales.

Will came up to Spokane and tried farming my parents' place for a year. This was when my Dad was running the transfer business. Will didn't like that kind of farming, though, with the livestock, hay, and only so much wheat. He wanted to farm wheat only, on a bigger scale, like in Almira. He went to business college for a year, but then returned to Almira in 1920 to help Dick with the farm.

Will and Lizzie Thomas circas 1903

Arthur had quit Dick, and Dick was having a heck of a time. Dick had terrible asthma. He could plow and such, but he wasn't able to harvest . Johnny Hughes did the harvesting for him. When I was at the farm in 1927, at that late of date, Johnny Hughes was still harvesting for him.

Will married Mary Ann Hughes on December 9, 1923. Mary's father was known as "Griff Hughes #2". Mary's family had been homesteaders, also. Mary's mother, Jane Hughes, bought land after her husband died. Will, Mary and Dick on lived on the Thomas place. Mary didn't like Dick's ways, though: Dick had been a bachelor for a long time and was pretty rough. Also, Will was a perfectionist and Dick was pretty easy-going. He would do things any old way. Will and Dick would quarrel and since Dick was older, he would get his way. In 1928 or so, the Blackwell place came up for lease and Will and Mary took it over, leaving Dick to farm the Thomas place by himself, which made everybody happy.

Mr. Will Thomas (right) E. 1515 Second Ave., Spokane, WA September 23, 1913 @ N.P. Station

In 1930 or 1931, Dick sold his horses and equipment to Llewyllen Hughes, Mary's brother, and leased the Thomas place to him. Llewyllen farmed the Thomas place and the Hughes place but Jane Hughes, their mother, did not like Lew's wife, Dorothy. Also, Lew, although young, had heart trouble. In 1934 or 1935, Will and Lew swapped. Lew took over the Blackwell place, which was a half-section, and Will took over both the Thomas place and the Hughes place, which all total was about 1,000 acres.

It was about this time that Will took the old Thomas home site down. He and Mary were living elsewhere and the buildings were beginning to deteriorate. The county was also taxing them on the value of the buildings, even though they were not being used. When Alan Cochran took over the farm in the '50s, Will forgot to tell Alan about this and poor Alan got his tractor stuck where the old well was.

Will & Mary, like a lot of farmers, went through hard times during the 1930s. There weren't such things as fertilizer or herbicides so yields were 20 bushels per acre or so and wheat was only 80 cents per bushel or so. For a time, they were so poor that the Red Cross had to feed their work horses for them.

The war changed all that for farmers. In 1940, right before the war started for America, Uncle Will wanted to buy a new Chevy truck for $800. The down payment was $80, which Uncle Will didn't have. We had to harvest some wheat that he could sell to get the down payment. Wheat was 80 cents a bushel at that time. Then, with the war, came the Office of Price Administration (OPA). The OPA, to encourage production, froze the cost of gasoline and other inputs for the farmer, but let the price of wheat rise. It was about this time that farmers starting using fertilizer and the first herbicides. After the war, wheat was $3.50 to $4 per bushel and Will and Mary were making 40 bushels to the acre.

Will Thomas

In 1940, when I was 16 and could drive, they asked if I wanted to come down and help work for them that summer for a dollar a day. Boy, did I ever! I helped them for 3 summers: '40, '41, and '42. I worked summer fallow and such. I did the chores twice a day for my room and board. I milked 2 cows, fed the pig, and the cats.

I drove an old cat without a cab to work the summer fallow. I'd get so sleepy out there in the hot sun. One time I fell asleep and took out a whole row of fence with the cultivator. For several days after that, I'd go out after supper to fix the fence. I think my uncle knew what I was doing, but he never said anything.

I also helped out with the wheat harvest. The first year I drove the truck. It took 3 men: a cat driver (the cat pulled the combine), a combine operator, and a truck driver. That was quite a change from the 10 men (including the men to pick up the wheat sacks) it took to operate the first horse-drawn combines.

The cat driver was known as a "cat-skinner" (like a mule-skinner). The first year, the cat-skinner was a man in his mid twenties named Pendle. He was the son of a blacksmith. He was an excellent cat-skinner and a great storyteller.

Miss Leona Beetle, Will Thomas and his Dodge car

Will was always very particular about greasing, checking the belts and such to get the machinery ready every day. We harvested from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Sometimes, at night, if we were close to the house and it wasn't quite 7, we'd stop and grease and gas up, ready for the next day.

Will always bought a new straw hat at the beginning of harvest. By the end of harvest, it would be all beat up and dirty. Aunt Mary used to call him "Mahatma Gandhi" when he would come in wearing that hat. It was a ritual that as the last wheat was going into the combine, Will would toss the straw hat in, too.

When we were done after the first year, I had a $100 coming. Uncle Will was going to trade in his 1935 Plymouth that fall. I asked him if I could have the Plymouth, instead. He wanted $300 for it. I talked with my folks and they agreed to put up the other $200. Mother was hesitant, initially because she didn't know how to drive a stick shift. So I had to teach her. My dad never learned - mother chauffeured him around. I was very happy to get the Plymouth - I was so embarrassed of the Model T we had. [This is the Plymouth that I still have]

One year, after we finished harvesting, my uncle asked me if I wanted to work in the warehouse, for $5 a day. That was big money in those days. They were still using sacks at that time. I'd unload those 130-pound sacks all day long, truck after truck after truck. Some days I'd work up on the stack, taking sacks off the conveyor. One day, I fell asleep on top of the stack. The conveyor came around and caught my hands and tipped them back. It didn't break my wrists but it sure strained them. I could hardly shift the truck to drive back to Will & Mary's. To make matters worse, when I finally got home, there was a note on the table saying that Uncle Will and Aunt Mary were gone to Spokane. I had milk those 2 cows, sore wrists and all, so I soaked my hands in the bathtub. I had to quit the warehouse job. I couldn't open a car door for months afterwards.

They'd gone to Spokane to do some shopping, see the dentist and the like. Almira had a little general store, but not much selection. So every so often, Will and Mary would go up to Spokane.

During my second summer in Almira, the cat-skinner was a good looking, smooth talking Irish boy named Pat Flynn. His folks had a farm next to the Blackwell place. They lost the farm during the Depression and Pat's dad, Walt, went to work at Grand Coulee Dam. They lived in Electric City.

Pat had a way with the girls. One time we went over to Emrys Hughes house. Emrys had a pretty housekeeper named Jean Brown. We talked with Emrys for a while but I was too shy to say anything. Finally, Pat said, "Let's tell them why we're here...". I was a little shocked but Pat came right out and said," We want to take your hired girl out."

Pat and I double dated sometimes. Pat was a daredevil. Joanne Kline was a pretty girl he was sweet on. Her dad, Henry, was quite active in the German-American Bund, which was more or a less a front for the Nazis. He was known as "Der Fuehrer" behind his back. He had a temper and was known for running boys off. His sons were terrific fighters, too. I can remember double dating with Pat and Joanne. They were in the front seat. Pat was driving and necking with Joanne like crazy.

Another time, Pat and I went out with Bruce Krieger, the barber's son. He had a Model A Ford Coupe. We went out to the cemetery for some reason. On the way back, Bruce wouldn't let us into the car. Pat jumped on 1 running board and I jumped on the other. We hung on while Bruce went roaring back to town at 40-50 miles per hour.

In 1954 or 1955, Uncle Will leased the farm out to Alan Cochran, a local man, and retired. This was a big disappointment to me. I had always thought that I would get the farm. Despite this, Alan and I always got along fine.

When Uncle Dick died in 1956, my mother, my uncle Will and myself each got 1/3rd of his 1/3 share of the farm (or 1/9th). When my mother died, Uncle Will and I each got half of her share. When Uncle Will died, Aunt Mary got the income off the farm but didn't inherit Will's share of the farm, because Kate Thomas wanted the farm only to pass down through the bloodline. We have set up the Thomas Place partnership to honor her wishes. You kids are all partners. Your spouses can share in the income from the farm if you pass before they do, but they can't inherit the partnership interest. Only your children can. No outsider can force their way into the partnership, either. Any attempt to do so (like, for example, a creditor trying to seize someone's interest) triggers certain protections. I would like to see the farm stay in the family, but if you decide to sell it, well, that's fine, too.

Spokane, 1908 to 1942

Henry "Harry" Phillips in 1915 with his 2 Morgan colts, Waney and Hindus, that would become his buggy team. zoom wide

In 1908, my parents started building the farmhouse here in Spokane. I'm not sure if my dad bought the farm before he and my mother were married or whether they bought if after. They lived for a while in a house on Second Avenue owned by Kate Thomas. They then rented a house in Chester while they were building the farm buildings. The house in Chester was right by where the Chester Church is today, next to the golf course.

Chester was a thriving little community in those days. There was a hotel and a big pottery factory (where the trailer park is now.) The train went into Spokane from Chester 2 or 3 times a day. There was a place there where people could sit and wait for the train. They would put out a flag or something and the train would stop.

My dad had some money from selling out in Almira so he invested it in property in Spokane because Spokane was growing. He owned lots where the Beamis school was built and in Hillyard and around Spokane.

Lizzie and Harry Phillips' Jersey dairy herd (circa 1914-1920). Lizzie delivered milk in their Model T. Touring car.

My parents actually built the barns first: the horse barn, the hay barn, and the cow barn. They lived in the hay barn while they were finishing the house. My dad hauled the material for the house and barns with his team of horses. He had a carpenter help him finish the house. (He told me a million times the name of the carpenter, but I can't remember it). My mother wanted a window above the kitchen sink so she could look out while washing the dishes, but my dad put the stairs there. She was always disappointed about that .

I think that it took several months to a year to build the house. It cost $800 to build. They didn't use concrete foundations at that time. Instead, they used rock for the foundation. They carried the rock in from the farm. Rock foundations were very common back then. You can still see the rock foundations from the Buobs' house in the second pasture and the Gormans' house in the third pasture.

Harry and Lizzie Phillips (front), with Davy Jones (left), Uncle Dick Thomas (middle) and cousin Tom Morris (right). zoom

Davy Jones was a nice young man who lived at the farm for a while back then and helped my dad clear the east part of the original 40 acres. My dad cleared a lot of trees and later, I cleared even more. I cleared the trees off the ground where Sundown road is, and where Ericksons used to live. Now, of course, the homeowners buy a house and the first thing they do is put trees back up.

My folks had Jersey cows and they shipped milk into town on the train until 1917 when they bought a Model T Ford. My mother delivered the milk in the Model T after that.

Sometime between 1916 and 1919, my parents decided the farm was too much work so they sold the farm to the Sanfords and moved into town. They lived on Second Avenue just west of Napa.

My dad started a transfer (moving) company. He had 1 Model T Ford truck and then added another. He'd move a pig here and a sofa there. He either was in a partnership with someone or had employees, I'm not sure.

Those Ford trucks were interesting. They had 3 pedals: 1 brake, 1 forward (half-way was 1st and all the way down was 2nd.) and reverse. They had a hand throttle and a spark lever. To start them, the driver had to retard the spark then advance it as they started.

Front room of the farmhouse looking east (the front door is just out of the picture to the right). Most of the furniture shown is still in the family.

My folks lived in town a few years. The Sanfords couldn't make the payments on the farm, though, so my parents got it back. (My dad was like Dominick Presta - he could make a living farming off a rock.) They sold the transfer company to the Hugo brothers and moved back to the farm. Dad brought the Model T Ford truck with him - it's still in the shed at the farm.

There was no electricity, central heating or piped water at the farm back then. Light came from coal oil lamps, heat from a wood stove and water from the tank house. The tank house is right next to the farmhouse. They put a big tank in there and pumped water up from the well. The water flowed into the house by gravity then.

My dad had a one-cylinder stationary gas engine to run a wood saw and the water pump. The woodshed was that part of the tank house where I kept the big barrels of lubricating oil. Dad dug the well right there by the tank house in 1908 - he bricked it in as he dug down. Prior to that, they had to haul water from a well near the log cabin. The water tank was 8 feet high by 8 feet wide and would hold 2000 gallons. He would fill the tank every couple of days. One of my first jobs was to keep a bucket in the pantry full for drinking water. The water was so cold when it came up from the bottom of the well. It was a good well, although it would get a little dry in the summer.

They had originally put in a carbide system to pump carbide to all the buildings to light carbide lights, but carbide was too expensive so they went to coal oil lamps.

They also didn't have indoor plumbing. I can remember my dad taking a bath in the middle of the kitchen. He'd bring the tub in, heat the water on the stove, and put it in the tub.

Growing up, we had two wood stoves to keep the house warm. We never lit the stove in the front room unless we had company coming. I can remember it being so cold in my room that my bottle of hair oil froze. I also remember lying in bed, listening to my parents good naturedly argue about who was going get up first and light the fire. When I started grade school, it became my job to keep the wood box in the kitchen always full.

Lizzie Phillips and her sons Lloyd and Ifor. (circa 1927) (Elizabeth Ann Phillips, Henry Lloyd Phillips (left), Thomas Ifor Phillips).

My brother, Thomas Ifor Phillips, was born in May of 1922, when my mother was 34 and my dad was not quite 50. (I'm not sure why they waited so long to have children.) My brother was known as Ifor. My early memories are of my dad taking us both in the truck down to the end of the farm lane at Schafer road. He would let us out (he'd be heading in to town or such) and we'd walk home. I can remember having to hold Ifor's hand. I can also remember fighting over a toy wagon with Ifor and my mother having to get after us.

Ifor was quite a singer from an early age. Music was very important to my parents. It was part of their Welsh heritage. They'd love to get together with friends and have sing-a-longs. My mother would play the piano. My Dad was an excellent tenor. He sang with the Mendelson Choir before I was born . I can remember walking with my folks down to the Nelsons. The Nelsons lived where 28th avenue and University are now. Mrs. Nelson, my mother, my dad and my uncle Dick would sing a quartet. Dick sang a strong bass and mother sang alto.

Ladies from Chester Church, 1912. zoom Mrs. McKnight & baby, Mrs. Sunvold, Lizzie Phillips, Mrs. McMillian, Mrs. DeCamp

My parents were very proud of their Welsh heritage. They spoke Welsh at home and were active in the St. David's Day society. My middle name, Lloyd, is in honor of David Lloyd George, the first Welsh prime minister of Great Britain. (He was prime minister during World War I, just before I was born.) My parents even went to Church twice on Sundays, once to the Chester Church (since that was their community church) and then, in the afternoons, to the Welsh church downtown. I can remember stories about the Welsh ministers preaching stirring sermons about the evils of strong drink and then the men after church going down to the tavern for a beer.

In the summer of 1927, Ifor came down with rheumatic fever . These days, nobody gets rheumatic fever, thanks to antibiotics. However, back then, rheumatic fever was very common. Lots of kids got it. Most got over it, but Ifor didn't. The rheumatic fever got to his heart. He died in August of 1927 at age 5, from leakage of the heart.

Henry Lloyd and Thomas Ifor circa 1927

My parents were devastated. I was sent down to Almira for a short time to stay with Uncle Will, Aunt Mary and Uncle Dick. They were in the middle of the wheat harvest. In those days, they still had a big threshing crew. It was exciting for a little kid to be around all those good-natured rough necks. I would try talking to them, but they thought I was talking gibberish since I only spoke Welsh. In fact, I didn't speak English until I went to school. When I was older, I would be so embarrassed to have friends over. My parents would be talking Welsh and my friends would be giggling and laughing at them. (I did this, too, when I went over to my friend, Isaac Gorman's house, and his parents would talk German.) My parents would talk to me in Welsh and I would answer them in English. I deliberately wouldn't speak Welsh. Now, of course, I wish that I had kept it up.

Lizzy and Harry Phillips

My parents had been doing all right financially on the farm. Then the Great Depression came in the fall of 1929, with the stock market crash. My parents were down to living off the money they earned from selling milk, cream and eggs, $8 per week. They had to sell calves to pay the $100 annual property taxes on the farm. My dad couldn't pay the taxes on the lots that he owned around Spokane and he lost them all. The local governments never gave an inch on tax payments during the Depression.

Gas was only 13 cents per gallon or so, but my parents could only afford to put in 50 cents worth per week, so we walked everywhere. We had horses, but they were for working and not for riding. One of my chores was walking down to Schafer Road twice per day to get the mail and the paper. We'd walk to Chester to get groceries. My parents loved to visit their friends at night. Our closest neighbors were probably a quarter of a mile away. No matter. We'd take the lantern and walk wherever. Like I said earlier, we'd walk as far as where 28th Avenue and University are today.

Mother knew how to make the food last. She never bought bread-she'd always make it. She'd make beans for a week for 25 cents or so. We had no refrigerator but we had a smoke house. We ate pork and chicken, but hardly ever any beef because there was no way to keep it. We had a smoke house where we smoked pork but no refrigerator, since we had no electricity.

If we had beef, we used every part of the cow: ox-tail soup, kidney stew. (I can remember the house smelling like urine when she made the kidney stew.) We used to say that we used every part of the pig except for the squeal. We'd only kill a pig for ourselves once or twice a year. My folks made sausage. My mom made cracklins - what Southerners call chitlins. They were so good, mixed with potatoes.

Lloyd and Lizzie Phillips on Riverside Ave. July 1938

One of the ways my parents earned extra money was by taking in boarders every now and then. They would get $20 or $30 per month for room and board. The boarders stayed upstairs in our spare room. My room was up there also and my parents' room was down stairs. I remember one of the boarders particularly. His name was Zack Humprheys. He was an old pipe-smoking Welshman. He'd read Westerns and go for long walks on the hill. Sometimes I'd join him. One day, on one of those walks, he let me smoke his pipe. I came back to the house green at the gills and could hardly eat supper. My mother gave us disapproving looks, but she didn't say anything.

In 1930 or 1931, my Uncle Dick sold his horses and equipment to Llewyllen Hughes, and leased the Thomas place to him. Dick took things easy after selling out. He had his money from his share of the farm and he had his beer and his tobacco and his whisky. Every so often, he'd come out and stay with my folks. He'd help my Dad out with the farm. Dick was very handy. He was a good carpenter and a good stonemason but he just didn't care. Dad had high standards: everything had to be nice and clean. His haystacks had to be just so. Dad never complained about Dick too much, but after Dick had been out at the farm for a while, I could tell Dad would get a little tired of him.

Dick was very generous. He'd always buy treats for me when I was a kid. Later, when I bought the grocery, he loaned me $4,000 to get it going. I think Uncle Will would have been generous, too, but Mary held him back. My mom would get so upset with them when they'd come to visit her in the '50s. They'd expect dinner, after she'd been working in our little grocery store all day.

In 1932, my mother had a mastectomy for breast cancer . My mother was in the hospital for 10 days. Her room cost something like $3 per day. Her hospital bill was $90 or so. The doctor charged $35 for doing the operation. This wasn't much, unless, like my parents, a family was trying to get by on $8 per week. They couldn't pay the bills so they canned cherries from the hill to sell. Mother had a terribly sore arm from the operation but she very gamely canned cherries for days and days . They also took any eggs that they didn't sell during the week down to the hospital to work off the bill

I stayed with Uncle Will and Aunt Mary in Almira while she was recovering. Some people named Wilkins let me borrow their horse, Dash. I kept track of the "Dash" miles I'd ride in a day. Everything was on a section line at the time and a section was a mile, so I'd keep track of the number of section lines. One time, by the Grange hall, something scared Dash and he threw me. I was afraid the horse would run away and possibly get hurt, so I tiptoed up to him very quietly and caught him. I was very proud of myself for catching Dash before he could get hurt.

I would ride Dash 2 miles to get the mail. Will & Mary would turn cows out in the lane and, with Dash and my cowboy hat, I'd herd them.

1922 Model T Touring car

In 1932 or 1933, my parents bought a 1923 Model T Touring car from Mr. Moore, who lived up on top of the hill above Betlachs. By the time I got to high school, Model Ts were considered relics. My mother would drive right up in front of the school and I would be so embarrassed. After we bought Will's 1935 Plymouth, in 1941, I decided to make a body for a saw out of the old Model T. At that time, my dad was still using the old buzz saw on skids. It ran off of the same gasoline engine we used for the water pump. He would drag it behind a horse, up on the hill to cut wood. He'd also have to drag up the gasoline engine, which was difficult since it was on steel wheels. My idea was to mount the saw on the model T's chassis and run the saw off the Model T's engine.

I took the Model T up on the hill and smashed the hell out of the body. I broke the windows and everything. We never did get that saw put on the chassis, but that was okay with me. I'd been embarrassed enough by that car.

My uncle Dick taught me to drive in his 1929 Model A. He had a heck of a time at first, because at night, I always wanted to steer towards the on-coming headlights. After I got my license, I asked a girl out, thinking that I could borrow Uncle Dick's car. (No way was I going to take the old Model T.) My uncle Dick said no and I was terribly embarrassed when I had to call the date off.

Our little area got the phone around 1930. We formed a phone company: The Schafer Mineral Springs Phone line. Bill Schafer was the president and Mrs. Nelson was the secretary. My folks paid $2/month for access to a party line. There were 4 or 5 families on 1 line. Each family had a special ring. The operator would connect the calls. Long distance calls were for emergencies only because they were very expensive.

Each family had the responsibility for maintaining the poles and wires across their land. During the winter, the phone lines would get tangled and we'd have to walk along the line, untangling the wires with a long stick. There were always some families that didn't keep their part of the lines untangled. The glass insulators would go out and the voice on the other end would get all crackly and faint. The phone company lasted for several years after the war. I used to have Harold Hanson go and out and repair the lines with me. He was so strong that he could hang steady with one arm from the pole and replace the insulators and such with his other arm.

We would take messages for families, like the Gormans. We'd either keep the message until we saw them again, or, if it was an emergency, I'd run a message up. Mr. Coffee lived in the log cabin at that time. He'd always give me 25 cents when I brought him a message.

My folks were always interested in getting electricity to the farm. My dad and some of our neighbors had approached Washington Water Power, the local utility, about getting electricity into the area, but WWP wanted $100 per pole from their main line at Edgecliff. It would have been several thousand dollars and there was no way my parents or our neighbors could afford that. Thankfully, president Franklin Delano Roosevelt had started the Rural Electrification Administration, a program to bring electricity out to rural areas. In 1937, the REA brought electricity out to our area. My parents had to go into debt to have the farmhouse rewired, but at least they didn't have to pay for the line.

In 1936, an earthquake caused the well by the pump house to fill in. The Buobs had 360 acres on the hill. They had a half-section of ground (320 acres) going from where the Ponderosa 9th addition is up to the very top of the hill. They also had 40 acres where the rock foundation is in what you call the 2nd pasture. My dad was renting the whole 360 acres, when our well caved in. For 5 years, we hauled water from a spring near where their house had been. We hauled it in 10-gallon cans in Uncle Dick's Model A Ford or in a "stone boat". This was a heavy sled 6 inches off the ground, which we used to haul rocks out of the field. It was ok in the winter, when the runners would slide on the snow, but tough when there was no snow. The spring never froze.

We were very careful with water in those days. We'd take the livestock down to the creek to drink. The chickens were the only stock that drank at the house. We only used water to bathe and cook. The bath and dishwater got thrown out on the garden.

The Seaman family bought the log cabin place from Mr. Coffee. Mr. Seaman was a bastard. Our fence was 2 feet on to his property so he pushed it over. My dad wouldn't build a fenced trail up to the Buob place so I had to walk them up there. I would close Seaman's gate so the cows would go up to the Buob place. Then I was supposed to open the gate again, but I got fed up with that so I didn't bother. Seaman got tired of opening his gate and finally denied everyone permission to cross his land. I came down one day with the cows and he told me he wouldn't let me cross. "Piss on that", I thought, and took the cows up anyway. Seaman cursed and yelled, and finally my Dad had to come down and talk with him.

Seaman wouldn't give in, though, so we had to take the cows up by a different route. We had to get our water from somewhere else, too. (We'd been hauling it from the Buob place, as noted previously.) The Gormans had to leave their car at our place and walk up. They had to carry their milk can by hand, as well as the strawberry flats. Finally, we took Seaman to court and got an easement to cross enforced. I got my revenge later when I was the local Air Raid Warden.

In 1941, my folks bought the 40 acres to get access to another spring (the spring at the end of what you call graveyard hill). My dad wanted to buy the entire 360 acres but Mary Buob wanted $20 per acre, which my dad thought was too much. That fall, my Dad, a hired man and myself began digging a water line down to the farmhouse from the spring, where a springhouse already stood. The hired man was a nice man in his 30s, who worked for his room, board and $2 - $3 per day. We dug all winter with picks and shovels. We used dynamite in the rockiest parts. I'd hold the stone drill and the boarder would pound it in with a sledge hammer to make a hole 2 or 3 feet deep. He never missed the top of the hammer. We'd put a couple of sticks of dynamite in the hole and hide behind a rock. We laid galvanized steel pipe all the way from the spring to the farm house. We finally got the water done in the early Spring of 1942. Unlike the well, the water was good year round. Dad and Dick built a 1000-gallon cistern at the springhouse in 1942.

Mr. Schultz bought the Buob's 320 acres. Later, when I was dairying I bought some of the Schultz place in 1963. Just before I left for the army in 1943, my folks had an opportunity to buy the Croonquist place for $10,000. This would have been several hundred acres extending over the hill down to the flat where the horse farm is now, by the Dishman-Mica road. It would have been a nice addition, but my Dad, who was 70 or 71 at the time, turned it down since I was leaving.

My parents started out with 40 acres and, over the years, added 240 acres. They bought the Holmes place for $7 per acre. The Holmes' place was 200 acres including where Ridgeview is now and the flat where Sundown is. Holmes had subdivided it into 10 acres plots, but, this being during the Depression, he didn't sell many.

Of the 280 acres, about 80 acres or so was tillable. My Dad usually had 40 acres of wheat and the rest would have been in hay. He was an old-fashioned farmer. We farmed with 4 horses, mostly Perchons or crosses. Tom and Dick were one team. There also were Blackie, Maude and Roan. Shorry was a little horse that worked alone. Shorry pulled the stone boat and such. I rode a lot as a kid, but never with a saddle. My dad was terribly afraid my foot would get caught in the saddle and I'd be drug to my death. I would ride up on the hill and bring the cows down.

My dad was pretty easy going but he would get mad at me. I was pretty lazy - I didn't want to do any more that I had to. There was so much work to be done on the farm. My folks raised potatoes, carrots, apples, cherries and had a big garden. They had chickens and eggs. Milk cows. The work never ended.

I was so embarrassed by my parents. We had pigs when I was in high school. We'd go to the Brischley's at Pleasant Prairie to get their cull potatoes for the pigs. Helen Brischley was the prettiest girl in our school . We had the old Model T truck. I was so ashamed. I'd ask my dad why couldn't we get a newer truck. Of course, now I realize that he just didn't have the money.

I raised weaner pigs when I was in high school. I had quite a few pigs at one time - I had the whole side hill across the creek full of pig pens. I would sell the weaner pigs for $10-$12.

I did not have a bicycle until I was 11 or 12. My dad bought me a new Elgin bicycle from Montgomery Ward for $29. (He had to make payments on it.) At the time, Sears, Roebuck carried the Hawthorne bicycle but I liked the Elgin better. I still have that Elgin bicycle.

I graduated from West Valley High School in June, 1941. After working in Almira for the summer and helping put water in at home that winter, I went to work at Northwest Supply in the spring of 1942. Northwest Supply was a Farmer's Co-op located at Havermale Island, down where Riverfront Park is now. I worked as a clerk 6 days per week for $12 per week. People would come up to the counter, tell me what they wanted and I'd get it for them. I then moved up to "kitchen man" making $15 per week. I made up the ketchup, salad dressings, and such and put them in containers for people to buy. In those days, the average wage was 50 cents per hour. A loaf of bread might cost 9 cents. Even after the war, a night out might only cost a few bucks.

While I was working at NW Supply, I would help my dad around the farm. I could have helped a lot more, but he couldn't pay me anything and I wanted the money. In the summer of 1942, he got sick with jaundice and I had to come home to help with the farm.

In the fall of 1942, I started at Kinman Business University. I would go to class from 9-4. I worked at the YMCA from 4-6, keeping records and such. One of my jobs was selling beds to servicemen, for 50 cents per night. At Christmas time, I quit the Y and became a waiter at the Elks club. I worked on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and special occasions. I was a piss poor waiter - I was too ornery. The Elks sold books of drink tickets for $5. The customer would hand me the book and I'd take it up to the bartender, with the order. If the book was full and the bartender didn't ask for, I'd keep the book and sell it to someone else for $5.

While at the Y, I'd work out with punching bag and such. I joined their boxing team, boxing in the 135-pound weight class. I only lasted 2 or 3 meets. The end for me came when we were boxing against the Gonzaga team. My opponent beat the heck out of me for 3 rounds. Finally, he broke my nose and that was enough.

I enjoyed my time at Kinmans. I used to go to their dances. There were 2 sisters from Appleway - Jean and Arlene Widaman. They used to keep mistletoe in their car. Arlene was a better kisser but I liked Jean better. After the war, I finished a Bachelor of Commercial Science degree at Kinman's, going 2 nights per week from 1946 to 1949.

WWII And the Army

Right after Pearl Harbor, I tried to join the Army Air Corps with my buddy, Francis Schenk. I was rejected though, because I'd been hit with a baseball in my scrotum and then fallen off my bike and had a lump there. Francis had to join up I think because he'd been caught downtown wearing someone else's uniform. There were lots of uniformed servicemen around and the girls found the uniforms impressive. I think the judge had mandated that he join up.

Francis went on to do quite well in the Air Corps. During WWII, he was a tail-gunner on a B-17. He later fought in Korea and Vietnam. He retired from active duty in the late '70s or early '80s.

After that, I decided to wait until I got drafted to join up. I became one of two air raid wardens for Chester. I had to go around and check all the houses in the area that is now called the Ponderosa. People had to have their blackout curtains up and they had to have bucket of sand and such to put fires out. I would do spot checks at night to make sure no light was showing. This was my chance to get back at Seaman. He didn't want me to go upstairs in his house, but as air raid warden, I had the right to.

I got my draft notice in the winter of '42-43. I remember it vividly. The Williams were good friends of my parents. Eleanor Williams, who was about 10 years older than me, was sitting at our kitchen table chatting with my mother when I opened the notice. She made some smart comment about it.

I had to report in March. I could have gotten an agricultural worker deferment but I didn't want to. Everyone was joining up - it was the thing to do. In many ways I think it was a mistake that I went. We could have bought the Croonquist place and other land. I would have been farther ahead.

The other reason I think it was a mistake because the Army training made us so ornery. The training made it so that I didn't give a shit about anything. I think this is what screwed me up in my marriage to Molly. They tell you to sit down, you sit down. They tell you to stand up, you stand up. When you first go in, you're "why, why are we sitting down" or "what are we waiting for?" [After that] you didn't ask questions. You just did what you were told. And I think you just...they know they had at the Vietnam syndrome and all that stuff, well I think it's just that they make you so damn ornery. And then they taught you kill or be killed and bayonet fighting and all that stuff. It's just basically mean. Nobody'd dare to cross you, you know. You don't like the way I look? Want to change it? [Fights all the time.]

On the other hand, in a way, I believe that joining up was the right thing to do. America had been attacked and we weren't going to sit back and take it. There was a lot of stigma attached to not going. The guys that stayed at home were called 4-F'rs or draft dodgers. And then the thing was that what I saw and what happened and the things I've seen, no amount of money would ever buy that. But still, the things that I saw…guys shot, guys beat up, guys down, …friends shot, killed.