Brother Joe and the Sledding Hill

Another memory is of my brother Joe showing me a patch of tiny white flowers that we found in the pasture. It was at the bottom of the hill near where we used to sled in the winter. Joe who was two years older than I, was always my great hero and constant companion. He always seemed so wise and strong. In later years, although he had little schooling I always sought his advice and opinion on every decision of importance I had to make. I still miss him greatly.
About that hill where we sledded in the winter, there was a bump at the bottom which gave us a thrill before we leveled off along a stream. I remember following my older brothers and sister to that hill and being so cold and wet that my toes were frozen. One of my toes still shows the result of that frostbite.

Aunt Maggie

One of my first memories was of being punished by my Aunt Maggie for playing at the top of a retaining wall that was just outside the "shed" (an outside kitchen of the lower house on Domino Lane). The wall was about five feet high and I was about three years old. The steps and the path above it led to the privvy which we called the water closet. Of course there was no water anywhere near it. Water for washing or cooking was probably obtained from a shallow well on the other side of the house just outside the kitchen door. I doubt if this was a good source of water, as it was soon abandoned. The springhouse and water at the bottom of the hill may have been used. This is the only memory I have of Aunt Maggie before she went back to Ireland to help care for her mother.

Pop's Passing

Along about 1920, Pop developed asthma and the slightest exertion made him gasp for breath. I guess he consulted a doctor, I don't know, but he seemed to have it for the rest of his life. In April of 1924, we had a heavy snowstorm and he caught a severe cold. The snow had drifted and piled up on the porch roof. Pop was afraid the roof would collapse and he stood on the lawn while he directed me, up on the roof, to shoveling off the snow. I often wondered if that is how he caught the cold. At any rate he died a few days later of heart failure on April 14, 1924. By that time I was in my third year of high school and things never seemed the same after that.

Milk and Butter

The milk was sold mostly in East Falls and that was a long way to drive with a horse and wagon. That was where my father's customers were even before he moved to Domino Lane. Most of the cow feed and other supplies were always bought in "Falls of Schuylkill" as it was properly called. This continued until my mother and older brothers took over the job of managing the business. Sometimes Pop would let me drive the wagon and I would feel very important. On Sundays he would always stop at the candy store of one of his customers and buy a bag full of candy to take home for his children.
All milk that was not sold was skimmed of all cream and that cream was churned at the end of the week to make butter. The butter was sold to certain customers who asked for it. It was churned in a barrel shaped container with paddles that had to be turned by hand. This was usually Joe's or my job and sometimes both, as it sometimes took a long time. Of course there was no electricity or power driven equipment at that time.
After the butter was gathered off the buttermilk Mom would always wash it in the cool water of the springhouse to remove the remaining buttermilk and then weigh it and form it into molds of one pound each. Sometimes during the summer when Mom was working in the springhouse we kids would go and get thick slices of homemade bread and take them down and Mom would smear them with the soft homemade butter, just using her fingers. I can still remember how good that tasted.
Other things were often sold from the milk wagon, too. Eggs, vegetables in season and sometimes a stewing or roasting chicken.

The Dairy Farm in Roxborough

My older brothers are gone. Tom, John, Jim and Joe. Mary is about to move into another retirement home and Rose and Ed still live in Plymouth Township while Betty is in South Carolina.
The younger members of the family, from Joe on down, were all born on the old farmstead at Domino Lane in Roxborough. It was a very hilly farm full of stones and rocks and had many disadvantages as a dairy farm. But it was home and, as children, we all found it was fine, comfortable, warm and homey. My father had bought it with his own hard earned money. Previously all his farms were rented and I am sure it was quite an accomplishment to save the money to buy it while starting a large family.
In those days, almost all farms within driving distance of any number of potential customers kept a few or more milk cows and sold the milk at retail to anyone who was willing to buy it. The customers would bring out their pitchers or other containers and my father would ladle out the milk with different size dippers. Pint, quart or two quart. There were no rules or health inspectors to govern the business, but after about 1905, the board of health made it necessary to sell the milk in bottles. This put a lot of these small farmers out of business but our family decided to continue. They built a larger milk house and some modern equipment to wash and sterilize the bottles.

Introduction

I never thought I would get to eighty two. When I was young I thought that if I lived to be fifty years old I would be an old man and very lucky. Just before Joe died I visited him with Charley Spratt at the sanitarium where he was living and when he spoke of dying I said we would not be far behind. Well, Charley did go in a year or so, but it is now over ten years later and here I am trying to learn to use this old typewriter. A few days ago, Judy bought one of the new electronic typewriters that do everything but wash the dishes, so I have appropriated this old one.
Claire, Judy and I are here living at the Perkiomen Valley Retirement Community where we came just about a year ago from our old home on Gravers Road in Plymouth Township where we had lived for over forty years. When I started using this machine, at first I wrote about the big dog jumping over the lazy cat and the fact that now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party. But I soon got tired of that and decided to write about what I know most. Myself.

A Note From His Niece

The first part of this narrative was written by my uncle, Francis Byrne, in 1990. Frank died in 2003, ready to go, I think. He was 95. At that time, he and his family no longer lived in the Perkiomen Valley Retirement Community he mentions. The place was sold, amenities changed, and they moved to a spacious apartment in East Norriton Township, PA. Later, Frank and Claire lived in an assisted living facility in Ambler, PA, until Frank transferred to the nursing home side, where he died. Aunt Claire lives on in Ambler; she is now 94.
Early on, Uncle Frank's writing tends to move from subject to subject without "topic bridges." This can be disconcerting if the reader thinks material has been dropped, but I assure you, I've recorded it as it stands. Actually, I think the choppiness of the early passages reflects the way our minds work: We move from memory to memory, idea to idea, abruptly and Uncle Frank was such a natural writer he just put it down as he thought of it. Later in the narrative, he dwells more thoroughly on certain subjects.
I did not revise punctuation or modify fragments of sentences. I did divide long blocks of writing into paragraphs and I corrected the occasional misspellings. I'll try to add increments of the 50-page document every day or, at least, every few days.
This work can be followed with interest without the following information, but some may add to the reader's enjoyment: Frank was the seventh of nine children born to Thomas and Elizabeth Byrne between 1885 and 1913 (the youngest died in infancy). Frank notes early on that his older brothers--Tom, John, Jim, and Joe--are gone, but that brother Edmond and sisters Rose, Mary, and Betty, are still living. However, they no longer are. Of my father's generation, all blood-related Byrne's are gone; only Claire, Frank's widow, survives.
Claire had been a Spratt, and "Charley Spratt," who appears in the first paragraph, was her brother. "Aunt Maggie," was Frank's aunt, and my great-aunt, the sister of Frank's mother, my grandmother. "R.C.H.S." stands for "Roman Catholic High School."
My father, Jim, Frank's brother, died in 1950. With joy, I found a ghost of his youthful self in these pages.
I added a short memoir by my Uncle Ed and a longer one by my Aunt Mary. They both add different perspectives to the saga of the Byrne family on Domino Lane.
Rosemary Byrne Molloy
Little Egg Harbor, NJ