Chapter 3: Tiemann Memoir /Genealogy

Linda Welch, the CHS genealogist, sent a copy of Philip Tiemann’s family line, which follows Chapter 3. To read the prelude and other chapters of Tiemann’s Memoirs go to Coming to Vermont (Cavendish): Memoirs ofPhilip Tiemann. 

If you have stories about Mr. Tiemann, we would love to hear them. You can: e-mail them to margoc@tds.net, post them to the CHS Blog or mail them to CHS, PO Box 472, Cavendish, VT 05142

Windy Hill as it appears today. 

The interior arrangement was simple and convenient. The front door opened into a small hall, with the “old” kitchen to the left and the “front parlor” to the right. Boxed stairs led to the second floor, and beside them was a small passage to a long narrow room at the rear. The far end of the kitchen was taken up by quite a large pantry lined with shelves and containing a small hand-crank cream separator together with the odor of a milk-room. A door in the north wall of the kitchen opened to the cellar stairs. So, including an entry from the kitchen to the “back room” there should have been nine inside doors but only six were in place: not until later did two of the others turn up in a barn. The china closet in a corner of the parlor still lacks a door.

On the second floor at the head of the stairs was a room too small for practical use. On either hand was a small bedroom in rear, a large one in front, the ones on the right reached by a hall which also gave access to the attic stairs, boxed as the ones below them.

The big attic room is a fine one, with good flooring, and hand-hewed rafters braced and pinned to the ridge-pole, and two square multi-paned windows at either end. It was not available for use until some clearing out could be done, as the floor was littered with an assortment of tin pans, chipped washbowls, and chamber pots.

Below all was an excellent cellar, consisting of two rooms deep and cool, one with a stone-flagged floor, the other (in which was an old wood-burning furnace) earth. Two apertures high in each room had once held windows but now were only blank eyes. There were bins and shelves and a cabinet, a fine storage place even in summer.

When the van came we put the living room furnishings in the old kitchen, planning, in our innocence of Vermont winters, to use the “summer kitchen” in the shed all year. The parlor would be our bedroom, as most convenient to the barns. (Not too convenient, however; there was no door in the north end of the house and we had to go out the front door and around.) In the long room behind, we stacked boxes and everything else we didn’t know what immediately to do with.

On the second floor, we arranged the large front corner room on the left for the girls, and the small room behind it for Wyeth (this on a sunny day has always been the most pleasant room in the house.) To the right, the front room was to be for guests; the small one in rear became a catchall. The tiny stair-4headroom we decided to use as a "bath room", obtaining for it a chemical toilet (unsatisfactory, but better than going outside on a cold night.) I replaced a windowpane with tin thru which to run the ventilating pipe. This left just room for a small table to hold a basin_s. and a smaller cardboard "chest of drawers" for linen, and on which stood the water pitcher. A few towel bars completed this amenity.

The first overall arrangement was not the final one, nor' was the second. It wasn't very long before we were forced to conclude that the shed kitchen would definitely not be habitable in winter. This then required considerable shifting about: the old kitchen to be the kitchen; the other front room to be the living room; and the room behind it our bed­room. To clear this room, we had to do something about the attic.

Now as I have mentioned, it is a very fine attic. The rather widespread gable roof had doubtless been covered originally with shakes,- the old-fashioned hand-split shingles; but these had long since been replaced by successive layers of roofing paper.

One night not long after our arrival it began to rain. And it really rained. We were upstairs putting the children to bed, when presently we began to hear the sound of water dripping, then splashing, and damp spots appeared on the ceiling.

Up to the attic we rushed, and it was then too evident why the various utensils had been spread around the floor. Some of them already were running over; others which had been moved were not under leaks at all. We hurriedly made adjustments and sent the children scurrying for pails and rags, and did a hasty mopping.up job.

This experience gave us a real chill, because new roofing obviously was needed right away. Yet it was something I could not possibly do myself and so we made a few halfhearted inquiries as to how it might be accomplished. "Then how do we pay for it?" I wondered to Isabel.

Even tho nothing happened immediately, this proved a case of the wind being tempered to the shorn lamb. As is so usual in the country_* word got around and after a while a hardware dealer from Ludlow came to see us. "I’ve had a car of slate come in," he^, told us. "1 can make you a good price for enough to cover your roof," Slate! What could be finer? Still not knowing how to get it laid, as we could just scrape up enough to buy it we did.

Then it wasn't long before a neighbor dropped in. "I know some thing about slate," he announced, "and if I can take my time about it I'll put on your roof over the next several months and you won't have to pay me all at once."

This was the pattern of the times, everybody was hard up and had a fellow feeling for each other. So I said 0. K., swell, and I'll help you all I can. And at periods thru all that bitter and snowbound winter of 1933..34 this man came cross-lots, often on snowshoes. We built a scaffold, and he ^.put on the slate, and it was a grand job, and we haven't had to worry about the roof since . The various "catchers" in the attic then went to the dump.

To satisfy the need there were several areas containing rubbish A-few-steps-and-a.good-heave-downhill from the house (the heave frequent­ly not good enough.) These must have been accumulating for untold years. So we continued the practice, first burning what we could. Vegetable refuse went either to the animals or into a compost heap, The dog and cat cleaned up each little meat leftovers as there happened to be. - But then when I had installed the chemical toilet it had to be emptied period­ically and, especially when the ground was frozen and snow covered, it was next to Impossible to dig disposal pits. (After the first year, I had a big one all ready and covered with boards.) There was a privy in the woodshed and another adjacent to the big barn, which we used when it was not too frigid. As mentioned, when we came there was a seven-holer (graduated in size) off the summer kitchen, but I was under pressure to get rid of that, and did.

Over the years these problems (by no means minor) have been solved,' first by installing a flush toilet (and later, a second) with septic tank, and later, when the town established a dump, by using that for current needs and gradually clearing away the accumulations from our own farm dumps. The latter can go on indefinitely; last summer I pulled about ten bushel baskets full of old rusty cans, shoes, and broken bottles out of the earth on the slope above our lovely flower-garden; supposedly covered, this stuff is uncovered by the deer scrambling up and down (enjoying the green­ery on the way.)

Cavendish Center Rd Cemetery where
Philip Tiemann is buried. 

Tiemann Genealogy: The following information was prepared by Linda Welch, the genealogist of the Cavendish Historical Society.

Colonel Philip Wyeth Tieman, born New York City 13 June 1900, son of William Frank & Frances H. (Throckmorton) Tieman. He m. Isabel Carr (1901-1959). PHIL TIEMANN D. 15 DEC. 1969 (AGE 69). 

He was a Colonel in the U. S. Army. 

1880 Brooklyn, 346 1/2 State Street, NY to William Tiemann (b. NH, age 36, color manufacture; Kate Tieman (b. NY, age 36, wife, both parents b. NY); Louis (b. NY, age 11, son); Julius (b. NY, age 6, son); Hannah Donohue (b. Ireland, age 20, house servant);

1900 Brooklyn, 215 St. John's Place, NY: William F. Tiemann (b. NY, March, 1844, age 56, m. 14 yrs., Color manufacturer); Frances H. (b. NJ, April, 1864, age 36, m. 14 yrs., 2 children, 1 alive); Lois S. (b. NY, Dec., 1868, age 31, single, son, commercial merchant in Chinese and Japanese goods); Kate H. (b. NY, Oct., 1887, age 12, dau.); Edmonia White (b. Virginia, March, 1876, age 24, Widow, 1 child, Black, chambermaid and servant); Ann White (b. Virginia, May, 1865, age 35, widow, 1 child, Cook). Philip Tieman m. 3 May, 1924, Isabel M. Carr.

1910 82 Arlington Ave. E. Orange, NJ: William F. Tieman (b. NY, 1845, age 66, m. 2nd 34 yrs. manufacturer of collars (or colors?); Frances H. (b. NJ, 1864, age 46, m. 1st, 24 yrs., 3 children, 2 alive); Kate Huntington, (b. NY, 21 Oct. 1887,  age 22), Philip W., NY, 1901, age 9); Helen G. Hirschmorton (b. NJ, 1867, age 43, single, sister-in-law, teacher in the state school);  

1920 82 Arlington Avenue; East Orange, NJ: William F. Tiemann (b. NY, 1845, age 75, owns his own home, both parents b. NY, retired); Frances H. (b. NJ, 1865, age 55, wife, father b. Pa., mother NY); Kate H. (b. NY, 1888, age 32, daughter, Philip W. (b. NY, 1901, age 19, son); William Tiemann (Father of Philip) was a soldier of the Civil War. He enlisted at the age of 18 5 Sept., 1862 in Co. "B", 159th NY. He was promoted to full sergeant major 2 Nov., 1862; and promoted to full 2nd Lt. (of Co. "A") 13 Jan., 1863.  He was promoted to full 1st lieutenant 10 June, 1863, and full captain 23 Feb., 1864. He mustered out of Co. "B" on 12 Oct., 1864 at Augusta Georgia. William F. Tieman d. in East Orange, NJ, 2 May, 1926.

 To read the prelude and other chapters of Tiemann’s Memoirs go to Coming to Vermont (Cavendish): Memoirs ofPhilip Tiemann. 

Chapter 2: Memoirs/1930’s Washday

 Following Chapter 2 is an article by the Cavendish Historical Society on what it was like for Mrs. Tiemann, and other rural women in Cavendish, on washday in the 1930’s. To read the prelude and other chapters of Tiemann’s Memoirs go to Coming to Vermont (Cavendish): Memoirs of Philip Tiemann.

I remember that first summer here as being for the most part satisfying but without enough time in the day or in the night. After the long hours of labor I simply had to turn in between eight and nine o’clock and was immediately dead to the world. Rolling out at five in the morning didn’t bother me too much as I enjoyed the freshness of dawn, and fortunately in those days I slept soundly and, tho often not rested, was refreshed. But Isabel never liked early rising and I don’t think ever did get used to it.

Midseason proved a good time to take over. The gardens were far enough along so they required little attention (the children would disagree; they had to weed and pick potato bugs) and it was not yet time to harvest crops other than hay. I arranged with a neighbor to do the haying “on halves” whereby he did the job and put half the hay in my barn, taking the other half himself. This was a practical way to get the work done; it would provide ample for my animals and leave me free for other pressing tasks. Also, while I had the equipment and some experience at haying, I was glad not to have to undertake such a big job immediately.

There was one drawback to this kind of help, as I found both then and later. All the farmers were extremely busy men, with more than enough to attend to on their own places. With the best will in the world they often got behind, and you never could count on just when to expect to help you. This not only made planning difficult but could have an adverse effect on the quality of a crop such as hay.

To have the greatest feed value this should be mowed quite early in the season before it is over-ripe, and then should be cured quickly and gotten into the barn, - not too dry but not too green and, most important, without being rained on. Loose hay (balers were then unknown) could not be put in the mow either green or damp without risking spontaneous combustion (many barns have gone up in smoke because of this) or having it become moldy and unfit to use. So proper curing in the field was important. A farmer had to be a good weather forecaster,-but, as one of my neighbors liked to say, “You can’t wait for it to rain.” On the contrary, once started (hopefully in mid-June but often well into July) you pushed it thru as fast as possible, often taking chances on the weather.

The successive phases were mowing, perhaps shaking out with a fork to hasten the drying, machine raking into windrows, then tumbling with a fork, and hand-raking the scatterings. Then the wagon with a big frame mounted on it to increase capacity came between the rows and the tumbles were lifted on, the driver (on the wagon) helping to place the tumbles and treading them down so they made a firm and even surface for more tumbles to come on. It was quite an art to put on a large, nicely squared load before starting for the barn,-and something of a disgrace if any of it slid off.

At the barn it generally was “mowed away” by hand; but sometimes a big tonged hay-fork was mounted with ropes and pulleys on an overhead track; horse-operated, after the wagon had driven in underneath, this fork could drop down and seize a large bite from the load and transfer it to where it was wanted. Even then, final stowing by hand was required; but it was a big help. “”Mowing away” high up in a hot and airless barn is one of the operations any farmer would gladly dispense with; and of course modern equipment goes far to this end,

Well, after some worry on my part the hay finally was in the barn by mid-August; certainly not in the best condition, nor as much as I expected, as my share came to only five or six tons. Just about enough to see my tow animals thru the winter, with the addition of some chopped corn fodder and grain.

In the meantime, going for the cow was the start of my day. Early mornings were brisk,- very pleasant stepping out of the house into the first rays of sun, but the pasture at that hour was in shade, dipping down to the east across the twin brooks (the third brook runs west and south of the house) and then climbing up a scrub-and wood-covered hill. The knee-deep growth was dew-drenched, -how cold it seemed! Boots were too clumsy. One followed what trails there were as rapidly as possible, hoping Bossy would be behind the next bush but of course she seldom was.

I allowed about twenty minutes for this chore, and as much more to wipe down the cow and milk her. Sometimes this wasn’t enough. Which was no excuse as far as my wife was concerned: having gotten up early to have my breakfast ready, she not unreasonably expected me to be on hand when it was. Despite which she always insisted on my changing my soaked trousers and shows.

Altho they may be hot, summer days here are seldom oppressive before afternoon so I found morning the time to get things done,-except, of course, for haying, which has to wait for sun and breeze to do their work and seldom can be commenced before nine or ten o’clock. Not having this to concern me, I set about improving the place. Everywhere, more things were turning up that needed doing than had at first been apparent. (And looking back, I am astonished at how much got done.)

Early on our second day I asked Isabel, “What do you think should come first?” “Well, I must go to the village for supplies. How much money can we spend?” was her counter-question,- a very delicate one. “How much have you?” “A dollar sixty-three.” I groaned. “I’ll get what I have” and went up-stairs for it. Returning: “Well, here’s a hundred dollars to open an account at the bank in Proctorsville. That leaves twelve to spend. You’ll have to do the best you can. I have about fifteen cents left.” In those days twelve dollars seemed like a lot. At least it would buy a fair amount of stuff like canned salmon and corn meal for mush.

Isabel accepted it without comment. “When I get home, let me know if you need help. Otherwise I’d better go on getting things in shape indoors,” she said. “Certainly there is plenty you can do without me.” She was right about that.

The approach to the house looked rather unkempt, countless horse-drawn conveyances having worn a track thru the front yard from road to door-steps and on out again, taking a large part of the shallow lawn which recently had been uncared-for. Also, despite gay geraniums in boxes, and bushes across the front, the house stood rather high on tis knoll. Something more was needed to compensate.

“Hi, Issy,” I called as she was going out, “If you want a couple of maples here in front let’s decide where to put them. Then they can be growing while we’re doing other things.” She was pleased with this so we measured the area and drove a couple of stakes. “When do you think we could start a terrace?” she asked. “That would make a great improvement.”  “Wel-l,” I replied doubtfully, “That will be a really big job. But if you’d rather, I’ll begin collecting stones instead of getting the trees. Of course, it might better to wait until spring to do that anyway.”

So while my wife started for the village by the back way (”Don’t get lost!” I called after her) I brought old Dan from the pasture and hitched him to the long, narrow “lumber wagon,” a strongly built vehicle which could be put to many uses. Then I mounted to stand precariously on the wagon bed, clutching the reins and hoping Dan was as sedate as he looked. He was,-proving then and later willing to go as slow a pace as I would let him.

It has puzzled me a good many times how hard it is to find stones,- that is, stones suitable for your purpose. If there is something Vermont never will lack, it is stones: how our predecessors must have labored-doubtless using ox teams-to clear the fields, all of which are bordered by stonewalls. So are the roads. Stonewalls wind thru the woods, enclosing large areas of what once must have been cleared land. In a corner of the mowing is a great pile of boulders too large for practical use, while loads of too-small stones have been dumped here-and-there in the edge of the woods bordering the fields. To these we have added a good many more, “picked” after plowing. But find stone for the terrace was to prove quite a problem. Building a sustaining wall to the required level to hold fill required much material, time, and labor; and then it took more hunting to find large flat stones with which to surface it. So it proved a prolonged job on which we worked when there was nothing more pressing; we made a good start that summer, but it was late the next year before it was finished. It has been worth the effort, making the house seem lower, and giving us a nice place to sit outdoors. A semi-dwarf MacIntosh planted in the outer corner gives pleasant shade, as well as fruit.

That first day we had little trouble: a couple of moderate loads were all Dan or I were equal to. And then anyway it began to rain. Not much, but when Isabel asked me to help her in the house I was glad to do so.

WASHDAY 1930s

While much of Tiemann’s Memoirs deal with farm work, what about Mrs. Tiemann’s responsibilities? She had just moved from a suburban neighborhood with electricity to a part of Cavendish that wouldn’t have power for another 14 years. Yet, food needed to be prepared using a wood stove and there was always the dreaded washday to be followed by ironing day.

In 1933, if you lived in one of the areas of town with electricity, and had the funds for an electric washer, you still had to run your clothes through a ringer before you hung them out to dry. It wouldn’t be until 1937 that Bendix introduced what we view today as the automatic washing machine that combined washing, rinsing and spinning.

Dolly Stick

In many households, Monday was washday. Clothes were sorted, pretreated, soaked in large tubs and agitated using a “dolly stick” or something similar. Particularly dirty clothes were then scrubbed on a washboard. Many homes had a system where the washtub would be set in cement or brickwork, with a firebox underneath and chimney to take away the smoke from the burnt wood.

Washing soda (sodium carbonate) was used to clean clothes that had stains or grease or oil on them. Because of the coarse nature of the crystals, they were rather harsh on clothes, to say nothing of being hard on skin.

Wringer or Mangle

Depending on how dirty the clothes were, they may need to go through the washing cycle twice before heading to the rinsing tub. Lifted by a stick, clothes would be rinsed with cold water until clean. Either using their hands or a “wringer,” also called a “mangle,” the clothes were rung out and hung on lines to dry.

Whites would have been done in separate tubs and a bluing solution would have been added to help whiten them. 

If a family could afford it, there were rotating drum devices that could be operated by hand, which were more effective than the dolly stick and scrub board. These initially were wooden drums but as the technology improved, metal drums, that could be heated, replaced the wooden drums. Stop by the Cavendish Historical Society Museum (open Sundays 2-4 pm from Memorial Day to Columbus weekend) to see an example of a drum cleaner and many other laundry devices used throughout the years.

Flatiron

Washing clothes was an all day affair, so clean clothes were often ironed the next day.  Flatirons were filled with hot coals, and when hot, ironed out the wrinkles. Another way was to heat up “irons.” Because these would quickly cool off, the 1930s housewife would have 2-4 irons on their stove or fireplace to help speed the process.

Iron

Household laundry starch was added to the washing process not only to stiffen clothing collars, shirt-cuffs and women’s undergarments, but starch also protected the clothes from stains and sweat. Dirt sticks to the starch, not the fabric and therefore washed off more easily when the clothes went through that exhaustive wash-cycle again.

While large houses would have had a special room for the laundry called the “scullery,” for many homes, the kitchen would do double duty as the laundry room.

Because it took so long to clean them, people wore clothes much longer than people do today. It wasn’t uncommon for men to wear their shirts for one week, two weeks or even up to a month, before having them washed.

To read the prelude and other chapters of Tiemann’s Memoirs go to Coming to Vermont (Cavendish): Memoirs of Philip Tiemann.

Chapter 1: Tiemann Memoirs

Following Chapter 1 is information about the impact of the Rural Electrification Act on Cavendish, as well as a response to the question of “what happened to Joyce, and the other Tiemann children?” Finally, there is a link to the Prelude, which includes links to all chapters of the Coming to Vermont (Cavendish): Memoirs of Philip Tiemann.

Chapter 1

Cavendish I had never heard of. It was not on a highway (at least, not my idea of one) but by following directions and with the aid of a road map, I finally arrived in Proctorsville (one of the two villages in the township.) The agent was waiting for me and, it being pretty hot, hospitably treated me to a bottle of cold beer. Then we got in my car and off we went, leaving a fine dust cloud behind. Proceeding along a bewildering network of narrow back roads bordered by fields and woods-passing, on the way, thru Cavendish village-we ascended quite a steep little pitch and I beheld a brick house. My companion said “Here we are” and we got out.

It was practically love at first sight. This farm seemed so much better than I had hoped for that I could hardly believe it possible, unless there was a mistake in the asking price (there wasn’t). A brick dwelling was beyond our expectations, and careful inspection revealed other advantages. It was a nice size for our family. There was a good cool cellar, stone flagged, under the whole main house. The spacious chimneys at either end appeared sound, and there were four fire-places. A constant flow of cold water spurted from a “reducer” in the end of a lead pipe into a barrel standing next the sink in the summer (shed) kitchen, from a reputedly “never failing” spring, and I was pleased with this: it seemed to insure a pure source (as proved true when it was tested later). On the other hand the interior of the house was in bad condition, and there obviously were many repair jobs to be done before redecorating could be undertaken. The outbuildings-woodshed, hog butchering house, horse barn, and cow barn, to the north of the house, and a carriage house across the road-were more than a little ramshackle; but the hewed log frames were substantial and sound and there seemed no reason to doubt their usefulness and adequacy. A good handy man (as I was not, but became in time the hard way) should be able to cope with these matters.-A nice garden was well along; hay waved in the fields; many wooded acres promised an ample fuel supply, and logs; and – perhaps the clinching feature-there were three brooks! My judgment told me that this was by far the most suitable place we were apt to find, so I was ripe to accept the assurances of the agent on subjects I could only guess at.

“Fine brick building,” he pointed out. “Over a hundred years old and it’ll stand another hundred. There’s a telephone now, and the power line will come thru before long. Just look at that barn, -why they’ve tied up twenty cows in there” (later I discovered there were only twelve stanchions) “and” he continued “it is stuffed full of hay every year. You see the carriage house over there, it’s just right for a garage. And all these other buildings-“ etc.

Well, a certain amount of exaggeration should be expected when a man is trying to make a sale, so if the prospect doesn’t add the grain of salt it’s his own fault. But as this turned out, we were more than lucky. We got much of what we wanted at a most reasonable price, - in fact, a bargain even for that time. We acquired a home which we came to love, with good neighbors, in a countryside, which for peace and charm, can scare be surpassed. Of course there were limitations and difficulties but these were a challenge: granted, there were dark moments, but I believe neither Isabel nor I ever thought of quitting.

I told the agent I liked the place but would have to consult my wife; then did some very sober thinking on the drive home. Buying the farm would really be burning our bridges behind us. Even by taking over an existing first mortgage, and adding a second, we would up practically all our cash. We expected a bit more coming from time to time, but we didn’t know when or how much. And we would have to decide what to do with our suburban house,- a real problem, when real-estate could be sold only at give-away prices.  The further I got from Vermont the vaguer became my mental picture of that farm and its attractive brick house. I was filled with doubts.

But then came the suburban area, every little house elbowing its neighbor for room,- attractive enough in a way, but oh, so crowded!-and my mind was made up. Arriving home I described the farm to Isabel as fairly as I could. She may well have been dubious, but she saw it was what I wanted and tried to share my enthusiasm. After discussing all the pros and cons, we decided to take the plunge. So, I wired the agent a precise offer; it was accepted, and the die was cast.

When the occupants of the farm had had time to secure another place to move, I made quick trip up to better get the lay of the land and to do some cleaning. Meantime Isabel was busy packing so that everything would be ready for us to leave as soon as I got back, which as I recollect, was early one morning, having driven during the night. And the next morning we were up at 4 A.M. after working furiously until late the night before; we left at 8:30. I think it was August 7. The Model A was really loaded down, with hardly room for the children- and the dog and the cat-to move. Some of our good neighbors were to oversee the loading of a moving van later that day.

It was a hot, tedious all-day drive, broken by a marvelous dinner at an old inn in Ashfield, Massachusetts. ....The children all were asleep when, at close to midnight, I drew up before a shadowy building and grunted, “this is it.” I’m afraid by now Isabel’s reflections were not very pleasant. It not only had been a trip into the unknown, but a wrong detour had taken us miles out of the way, we had had a flat, and to make things worse, a bridge on the usual approach from Cavendish was being rebuilt so we had had to come by a roundabout back way, the last mile of which plunged down a steep, rough dirt road thru black woods. But perhaps she felt as I did, just glad to have arrived.

The house having been closed for several warm days, upon throwing open the front door we were greeted by a musty, sour-milk odor which was not inviting. Using our flashlights (there no electricity, of course) we unloaded such things as we needed that night; then got the kids to the privy (a seven-holer) off the shed, and bedded them down on mattresses and pillows on the kitchen floor. (This was the original old kitchen in the house, not the summer kitchen in the shed.) For ourselves, a couple of army cots were very welcome....and that ended a long, long day.

After five or six hours of sound sleep, everyone’s outlook on life was much more cheerful in the light of a brisk, dew-sparking morn. Opened to the breeze, the house soon aired out. While I did the few chores required by a cow and a horse both of which were enjoying abundant pasture, the rest of the family got breakfast, of necessity simple due to scarcity of supplies. We were lucky to have plenty of milk, even tho not used to it warm from the cow. My wife made her first acquaintance with the wood-burning range, for which Wyeth brought in fuel from the wood-shed-inconveniently located at the other end of the house. This was quite a different proposition from cooking with gas, but was mastered in due course and served us well for several years. A tank ___ to the side of the stove supplied hot water, -after a fashion: it had to be dipped out. We depended a good deal on keeles, which heated faster.- Now, the dishes having been washed we had time to plan the arrangement of the furniture (for which was actually was too much space.) Then to our relief-we had wondered if he would be able to find the place-shortly before noon the big moving van containing all our worldly goods came rolling down the hill.

The van driver was most cooperative in helping to put things where we wanted them, even upstairs. His reaction amused us: he was curious to know if we intended to liver year-round. Of course we told him “yes” whereupon he turned to Isabel, almost with a bow and said simply, “Lady, you got guts.”

So we settled down in our new home and called it Windy Hill. I know that our friends did not expect us to stick it out for very long, but we surprised them. Now it is thirty-three summer later, and I am writing at my table by the sunny south window of the living room-what was the old kitchen-in the small embrasure next to the chimney. Apples are commencing to redden, and a chipmunk is very busy securing holly-hick seeds, which he does by leaping up a tall stem, bearing it down with his weight and then biting the pods apart. Sometimes he is thwarted and gets a tumble but he is persistent.-Not but that we found it a struggle. The hard fact is that we never did succeed in producing quite enough from the farm to get by, without some supplementary projects. The uncertainties, even more than the actual needs, were especially difficult for my wife. Farming is by no means the pastoral idly pictured by some back-to-the-earth writers in the early flush of their enthusiasm,-especially those with money. You can do anything if you have money. Never the less, as a way of life, hard as it often is, it is so superior to the existence of suburban dwellers that I never could face the thought of changing back.

I hope the house is pleased with the things done in attempting to make it more livable, while keeping or replacing its original charm. It has witnessed much happiness and also sadness, added to what must have gone before in the cycle of living. It stood vacant and forlorn for most of the five years of the war when first I and then also Wyeth were in the Army and Isabel took the girls so they could be nearer schools and manage better than on a farm with no men-folk... We were very glad to come home.

Electricity Comes to Cavendish

By the 1930’s, 90% of urban dwellers had electricity compared to 10 % of those living rurally. Private utility companies, who supplied electric power to most of the nation’s consumers, argued that it was too expensive to string electric lights to isolated rural farmsteads. The Roosevelt Administration believed that if private enterprise could not supply electric power to the people, then it was the duty of the government to do so. Rural electrification was based on the belief that affordable electricity would improve the standard of living and the economic competitiveness of the family farm. In 1935 the Rural Electric Administration (REA) was created to bring electricity to rural areas. Many groups opposed the federal government's involvement in developing and distributing electric power, especially utility companies, who believed that the government was unfairly competing with private enterprise. Learn about Vermont and Electrification at Turning on the Lights: Electricity Comes to Rural Vermont. 

In 1905, the Claremont Power Company began construction of the Cavendish Hydro Station on the Black River. The dam was built in 1907 and the hydro plant became operational the same year. Electric light poles went up in Cavendish village and Whitesville in December of 1909 and the Town Hall had electric installed in 1910 at a cost of $45.50. The town’s electric bill was $4.50 in 1916, roughly $103 in 2015 dollars. During WWI, the mills in Proctorsville and Cavendish worked long into the night thanks to electricity.

Local farmers, such as Alfred Kingsbury (Chubb Hill) used his own poles and paid for the wiring from Don Belknap’s farm (Route 131 and Chubb Hill), where the Gay Brothers line ended. By January 21, 1922, Ellen was able to write in her diary, “we are enjoying brilliant light this evening. It is perfectly grand!” The wiring cost $340. In today’s dollars, they would have paid $4,614.80

Tiemann installed electric wiring in Windy Hill around 1947, after his return from the war. The power line had finally come to his road. Cavendish Center was the last main section of the town to have electricity. Several people felt felt wartime restrictions on electrical materials had delayed the power lines going through the Center. Most of the houses along the Center Road did not have electricity until 1948.

What happened to Joyce and the other Tiemann Children?

Joyce is in her late 80s and has retired to W. Lebanon, NH. Her brother, referred to as Wyeth in the Memories, goes by Philip and is 90 living in Augusta, ME with his daughter.

Ann Tiemann Farrar lived in Andover, VT and died August 2014. She was 87. Even though Ann worked in New York City for about three years, when she returned to help on the family farm, Windy Hill, she met her future husband Francis Putnam Farrar at the Proctorsville Grange. 

• Prelude: Includes links to all the chapters of the Memoirs that have been published to date.