Mrs. Buckett's underwear

Latest project is trying to write an autobiography about my very rural childhood during the “Great Depression.” One of my favorite memories was recalled here in December 1965, and because I’m having trouble with my old computer we are running that account from 45 years ago.

Mrs. Buckett had a set of factory-made underwear just for riding in autos. She and her husband lived across the dirt road from us during the Depression. Mr. Buckett sat in a rickety chair on a sagging porch watching for rattlers, revenuers and buzzards. All sightings were reported by yelling to Mrs. Buckett. After the latest snake report one day Mrs. Buckett hurried over to convey her standard warnings of impending death for us all.

Mom eventually got her calmed down and a discussion arose regarding a much-needed “trip to town.” It was decided they’d borrow Mr. Abells old Model-T truck, mother would drive and Mrs. Buckett would contribute 60 cents for gas. Wooden apple boxes were nailed on the flatbed for my brothers and I to ride in, and listening to the planning is how I learned about the underwear.

“Town” was 13 miles north of our ramshackle unpainted house, up past Grandpa Ostrom’s abandoned homestead overgrown with cheatgrass, on over Mako hill, to alkali flats where a settler family had buried dead babies in the yard, then west to the base of pine-covered hills. Besides a general store, Hot Springs in 1934 had a stable and delivery service, post office, Johny Bucks grocery, creamery, blacksmith shop, two hotels and a clothing store. Also had several bars with front doors open again … after repeal of prohibition.

There were actual hot springs where people took mineral baths or sat gossiping while soaking their corns in a rectangular med hole. Though barely six I found that activity disgusting.

At Hot Springs I saw old Indians with decorations in long braids, wearing big hats, bright kerchiefs, and moccasins. They were always at a distance on the Prairie so a curious kid couldn’t see the facial details like he could in town where they sat on benches along the board sidewalks.

Unless you had the time and money to go halfway around the earth to Kalispell or Missoula, Hot Springs was civilization at its best. That’s why I always got so excited over talk about going to town.

When details of our trip had been figured out, Mrs. Buckett asked my mother straight out, “Hazel, do you have a set of ‘car wreck underwear’?” My mother either didn’t understand the question or pretended she didn’t.

Mrs. Buckett leaned toward my mother and began speaking in the same voice used by God giving Moses the Commandments. “Cars going faster that horse buggies make them more dangerous, so only folks at peace with the Lord and who have nice underwear should ever ride in a gas-propelled vehicle.” Mrs. Buckett said people who worked for hospitals and undertakers looked at auto victim’s underwear and tended to pass along information which became public knowledge. For proof she cited “a well known case” of a socially prominent car victim at Butte whose well worn long johns became the subject of snickering in Silver Bow County “for years.”

Mrs. Buckett ended her revelation by stating she personally could live with meeting her maker but loved her husband too much to have him bear public humiliation.

This was more that a little kid could take. Rushing into the room I asked Mother if my two little brothers and I had any “car wreck underwear.” She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “George, we aren’t going to be in a car wreck.” There was a short silence and Mrs. Buckett was looking down her nose at me.

Talking things over that night at bedtime, Mother patiently explained to me it would be better in the future if I didn’t talk about personal things around Mrs. Buckett. She said, “George, little boys aren’t supposed to ask grown-up ladies about their underclothes and I don’t want you to do that again; and, while we are on the subject, where did you get the idea to ask Mrs. Buckett if she had a set of ‘snake bite underwear’?”

That was a long time ago, but the way I remember it … Mom is the one who laughed first.

G. George Ostrom is a Kalispell resident and a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist.