Moving to Indiana

By Gerry E. Goode

I don’t know how many trips my dad made with his 1939 International pick-up truck to make the move from the farm in Meade County, Kentucky to Indiana. Mostly, dad hauled the essential furniture pieces that needed to be in place, ready for our final trip.

Dad had sold the hogs that he had raised to add a little extra income on the farm. Having the hogs had given us plenty of pork, in all dietary fashion, for our dinner table. He only kept two hogs to be moved to our new location. I remember he had commented, several times, that you can’t keep hogs when they are selling for ten cents a pound and corn is one dollar per bushel.

There were two ways to travel from Meade County, Kentucky to Southern Indiana. The short way was to cross the Ohio River at Brandenburg on a ferry boat. Mauckport, Indiana was on the north side of the river. The longer way was traveling through Louisville, Kentucky.

A moving van was engaged to transport the rest of the furniture and what little farm equipment dad had at that time. I remember there was only a lane at the edge of the woods that led down to the little house. The move was being made in February of 1942 and it was a time of freezing and thawing weather. The lane area had been washed out and there was no bedrock in place to give it stability. When the van driver saw the road condition, he said, “I’m not driving down that sorry excuse for a road. I could get stuck and be here for hours.” This brought my dad’s temper to a boil. The agreement was to unload the moving van at the house. As the argument continued my dad said, “Just throw the damn stuff on the ground.” The van driver gladly complied. The “stuff” remained over night where it had been deposited on the ground.

The hour was late and it had been a long day. Add to that the travel time of 75 miles from Kentucky to Indiana. Everyone was tired, hungry, and short on patience. I can remember my mother trying to keep peace and shushed me when I began to whine that I was cold and hungry. We made our way down the lane that led to the little house.

My mother donned an apron and busied herself about the kitchen. Kindling had been added to the old Warm Morning kitchen range in readiness for lighting. My mother struck a match to ignite the fire that soon began to warm the humble kitchen area. The kerosene lamp sent out its warm glow as my dad got a fire going in the heating stove in the living room. The little house seemed to embrace and welcome its new family.

With a pot of coffee brewing on the stove and food for nourishment, life seemed to take on a relaxed atmosphere. The long, flickering shadows, cast by the oil lamp, sent me drifting into sleep. I don’t even remember being put to bed.