Morgan Pioneer History Binds Us Together before summer was over, we had our vines all spotted. There was an element of competition in it, too, which added to the excitement. All the other children in the village were doing the same thing, and you knew you'd be lucky if you got to your vines first. Mother always packed a lunch and started us out early so we would pick in the cool. The first day how disappointed we were to reach the vine and find it stripped. We began to speculate which mean kid had beat us to our hops. Two hours later the sun was up and blistering hot. We were wilted and weary. We sat down in the shade and ate our lunch, waded in the cool stream and hoped some of those good kids had found more of our vines. We kept at this job for days and it took a great deal of persuading to keep us at it. The hops were dried and hung in the attic. If you happened to use a little too much, the bread tasted of them, but you had to take that chance because you couldn't make the yeast without the hops. They were also used for hot baths and hot foot baths if you had a cold. Sagebrush was steeped and used for the same purpose; the more severe the cold, the more herb used. Catnip was used for new babies. Then there was the spearmint that grew along the ditch banks, and yarrow, tansy and horehound. Each seemed to have its special purpose. When the rafters in the attic were all filled with bundles of herbs hung on nails, we were ready for winter. Grandmother said even the chickens were good pioneers. She told me this story of the big hearted, understanding rooster. An old hen had come off with a brood of eight or ten chicks late in the summer. Grandmother was hoping they would get their feathers before winter set in. One day it was decided to have chicken for dinner. Grandma pointed out the doomed chicken and asked one of the boys to catch it for her. Instead of running it down, he got his gun, took aim and fired. But just as he did, so the old mother hen stepped out from behind the house and got the shot. The poor frightened little chicks scattered in every direction. And while the family discussed the plight of the poor little brood, and had about decided that to kill them would be the kind thing to do, an old rooster that had been near and had witnessed the tragedy, started making queer clucking sounds. He soon called the frightened chicks around him. Then he stooped down, spread his big clumsy wings, and gathered the chick under them. Nor was it just a passing whim. He scratched for them in the days and covered them at night, until their naked bodies were well feathered. Then he returned to his own quarters and resumed his normal rooster activities. When my grandparents grew older, my father moved his family into the back part of their home, and Grandpa and Grandma had the front part. Being so closely associated with them, we learned to love them dearly. I remember the steep silvery steps that led up to Grandma's front door. What a refuge those steps became to me as a child. It was there I took all my childhood sorrow and troubles. It was there I went the night burning and sick in the first stages of scarlet fever. My mother was away from home. It was Grandmother who heard me crying in the dark on her front steps and came out and took me in and tucked me into a warm bed, and stayed with me until Mother returned the next day. But not until Grandmother had passed away, did I realize that it was her kind, gentle arms and loving council, and not the steps that always drew me there. Grandmother died on June 18,1896. She had been a quiet, gentle, home-loving soul and she was cherished and loved by her family and friends. The Charles Graves Porter family (mother, hack standing) Bessie Amelia Wlute Porter: (fatiier, sitting) Charles Graves Porter; (son, standing) Charles Walter Porter; (children, sitting, left to right) Bessie Porter Brough, Clara Porter Carter, Ralph Orlando Porter. (Photo courtesy of Bessie Brough Collection) (Mchsj 1 is