An Invasion of an Unusual Hut
I have just discovered a treasure trove of handwritten stories done by my mother when she was transitioning from high school to College. These are stories on lined paper, written in ink in very neat cursive writing and in this first story’s case, written on Thursday, October 26, 1933 by Millie (Ludmilla) A. Uher. Given that she wrote this when she was just seventeen, presumably a Freshman at Cornell and given that it was 87 years ago, I think it is worth reproducing here. I have left it as is and unedited so as to give it full allegiance to my mother’s seventeen-year-old self. Whoever read this did note some corrections needed to faulty grammar and “diction” but noted that it was a fair description that needed more emphasis on reactions.
One clear beautiful afternoon in late summer, I set out to scale the woods adjacent to our house. Although I expected to find nothing but the usual thing, I had a sudden craving to do some exploring. I decided to follow some definite course, for as yet I was not very familiar with these woods. I chose a path, obviously a cow path, which guided me to a brook near the heart of the woods. For some time, the strange things about me held my interest, but soon that interest began to wane, and I craved for something different. Consequently, I clamored through the blackberry bushes and over barbed wire fences, attaining a few more scratches and bruises, which was about the most exciting occurrence. I was becoming disgusted and tired, so I decided to turn around and head for home. However, it did not take me long to realize that I had wandered off further than I had planned to, and consequently I was lost. Knowing that worry would not help, I commenced to look for a way out of this wood.
After having walked a short distance, I spied a hut in the center of a clearing. It could hardly be called a hut, for it was more of a bungalow with a ground floor and one above that, consisting of approximately four rooms.
I could not resist the temptation to take a glimpse into the interior. Since no one seemed to be around, I did that very thing. I expected to find nothing but a mess of furniture and rooms in a general dilapidated condition. Fortunately, the doors were not locked, so I took advantage of that and ventured forth. Never was I so surprised as that moment when I opened the door. The room could not have been more cozy and neat than that room appeared to be at that instant. Whether it was the decidedly antique furniture, the neatness, or just the contrast formed with the actual picture and the picture I had in mind previously, I do not know. I can say that every curve and twist in every piece of furniture seemed to blend with one another and even the walls seemed to fit into the atmosphere. As I stepped inside the door, raising my head slightly, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror directly opposite the door. Carved below this mirror was the sort of thing a person wishes to be when he enters any home, “Welcome.” This is the only piece of furniture I remember distinctly, but the general effect still remains.
I stepped into the next room, and it was a full moment before I realized that I was in the kitchen. Evidently who ever lived there did not possess a modern stove, for the only prevalent device for heating or cooking was an open fireplace with a black kettle stretched across the upper portion of it. The rest of the room, or you might say the general appearance of the whole room, was that of a cozy, living room. It was composed of three old-fashioned rockers, a few extraordinary chairs set around a small table in an obscure corner, and an old-fashioned china closet. The dishes in the closet were the most beautiful and delicate dishes I have ever seen. I was really afraid to handle them for fear that they would collapse as I held them. A certain demitasse set held my attention even as that one piece of furniture had done. I hardly believe that one would hold two teaspoons of tea, so tiny were they. No machine ever made that set, for it expressed the tedious labor of some patient skillful craftsman.
By the time I had looked through the closet I became aware of the fast-coming dusk, and the fact that I was still lost. However, I had no trouble getting home, for I followed a path out of the clearing and soon struck a familiar spot.
Later after some investigations, I learned that some Mexicans had been occupying the house, but without any notice whatsoever, they cleared out of town. From further information I found out that they were being hunted by the law, guilty of theft and smuggling. In other words, all the things that I had so admired were either stolen or smuggled goods. I can say though, that the woman of the house certainly had a keen sense of making a home a home.
I find this a fascinating story from my mother for many reasons. It confirms my belief that she was inherently an adventurous and curious soul (perhaps more so than she should have been), which is why I refer to her in her biography as a Gladiatrix. It also reminds me of her very rural upbringing. The house, the cow path, the woods and the stream are all places I have seen in the town of Lansing, New York amidst the seventeen acres there still owned by my sisters and occasionally hunted on by my cousins. I also find the reference in depression-era rural upstate New York to illegal Mexican aliens to be fascinating. My cousin rents small apartments in Ithaca to this day to Mexican immigrants that he describes as excellent and trustworthy tenants. The assumption that these Mexican hut-dwellers were thieving smugglers says more about the ongoing and historically existent image of Mexican immigrants as bad people (presumably heard by Millie and believed by Millie). But then there is that final twinge of doubt suggesting that perhaps they had more refined sensibilities than we imagine.
My mother went on in another dozen years to work for a dozen years more for the Rockefeller Foundation in Venezuela working with indigenous poor people to help them improve their lives. Maybe this story gives us a glimpse of her first leaning to the left on the value of all immigrants as people and not just the sum of our own fears.
I have more of her stories I may share here, but this one provides me with so many links between the ages that I chose to start with this unusual hut.
Neat story. You are right, it does tell you a lot about your mother, a women I got to know through you book about her, which remains on my shelf, here.