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The Soul of The Land
“Soul of the Land” paints a
portrait of early Idaho. Chan Atchley set out to write down a family
history, but in time, it grew to become a much bigger story.
An engrossing story of
two brothers who make very different choices with very different
endings. It grew to be a story of homesteaders trying to eek out a
living for themselves and their families in an Idaho frequented by the
extremes of blizzard and drought. And, above all, it grew to be a story
of the land - a land whose beauty and power strengthens some and leaves
others crying “Uncle.” |
Excerpt From
"Soul of The Land"
MY PARENTS
AND I lived in a log house five miles east of Ashton. I
say house because it had replaced the original Glover
family’s one-room log homestead cabin that sat in ruins
a short distance east of us. Unlike a homesteader’s
cabin, the ribbons of gray sealing the cracks between
each log were chinked with a mixture of sand and cement
instead of mud. It also had a peaked roof covered with
cedar shingles instead of sod or pine shakes.
Our house consisted of one large room built of logs that
functioned as the kitchen, living room, and spare
bedroom for overnight visitors. Heat came from a wood
burning potbellied stove on the side considered the
living room. A wood-burning cook stove heated the
kitchen area on the opposite side.
On the east side of the house a clapboard addition was
the only bedroom, and I shared it with my parents. The
bedroom had no stove, but to keep the living room warm
my parents insisted on keeping the door closed. During
the colder winter months I slept in heavy flannel
pajamas with mittens and booties that my mother sewed on
to keep my fingers and toes from getting frost bitten.
Indoor plumbing consisted of a large porcelain “thunder
pot” beside the bed that was used only during the winter
or emergencies during the summer.
Unlike most homesteader cabins, our house had the luxury
of a large lean-to porch on the north side opposite the
road. It also doubled as our ice box during the colder
months of the year.
I was still asleep when my father left that morning to
bring Grandma and Grandpa home. Our house had two
eight-pane glass windows facing the road. I spent most
of the morning annoying my mother by pulling on the
white lace curtains while looking out the windows, or,
as the day warmed, running outside and peering down the
road to the west, hoping to catch a glimpse of them
coming over the hill a quarter mile away.
The sixty-mile trip to and from Idaho Falls over a
narrow, poorly maintained road was an ordeal. When
traveling to Idaho Falls, most people made it a two-day
trip. For a couple of months in the spring the trip took
even longer. As the frozen road bed thawed, potholes
appeared as if by magic. There were stretches where they
ran together and the road resembled a war zone with
chunks of asphalt and softball-size rock scattered
helter skelter across it. Dust hung in the air like a
heavy fog.
My father had learned to drive dodging roadway
obstacles. With no time to spare, he made the trip to
Idaho Falls in a record three hours. Returning took much
longer as he worked to skirt the potholes and find the
smoothest way.
Inevitably the car bounced and swayed. Grandpa leaned
against Grandma in the back seat and gritted his teeth.
His son was doing the best he could and crying out in
pain would only prolong his ordeal. He hardly remembered
the last two miles after leaving the main road. What a
blessed relief when the car stopped in front of his
house–a place he feared he would never see again.
