I start my story, The Life and Times of One Mildred Hufnagel and Her Intriguing Forbears, without fear of criticism or reprisals. Who, indeed, would dare to face up to an octogenarian and accuse her of misstatements? That is one of the compensations of old age -- one gains in confidence when allowances are made for her mistakes, because, as they say, "Oh, she is old, and her memory fails occasionally." I hope, however, to convey the atmosphere in general of the three-generation picture of our family as I remember it.

My Grandmother Friel, who is the heroine of this story, was not quite sixteen when she married my Grandfather. This fact was always a source of embarrassment to her, along with the fact that she had only two years of formal education. She always apologized for her handwriting and occasional misspelled words in her rare letters to my Mother. There was no lack of intellect there -- there had just been no opportunity available for educating rural children in that part of Iowa in those days.

Her name was Maggie, so familiar to the Irish ear; it seems that every Irish family named its firstborn "Maggie."

I don't think I've ever seen another woman so fiercely loyal, so energetic, and at the same time so tender and vulnerable as my Grandmother.

My Great Grandfather -- Doud -- was a very domineering, harsh, and mirthless man. Born in Ireland, he migrated to America at the time of the oft referred to "Potato Famine" in Ireland. I've never been quite clear as to how the loss of a potato crop could cause such an exodus from a country as happened then. Perhaps there is more there than meets the eye. It could be that the people of that small island were waiting for an excuse to seek an outlet for the adventurous urges that lie in every human heart. Anyway, Grandfather Doud migrated to America with his wife and three daughters, Maggie, Kate, and Mary. Perhaps his disgruntled disposition stemmed from the fact that he was never blessed with a son -- a severe blow to a man's ego in those days.

As is usually the case, the opportunities to be found in the New Country had been greatly oversold. The only job available to him in Ohio, in which they settled, was that of hod carrier, a back-breaking labor with paltry pay. I'm not sure how he came to leave Ohio, but by some turn of fate we find the family in Iowa, in which state they took root and spent the rest of their days.

There the family wrested a living from the soil, which feat was not too impossible, even without the modern tools known today. The land was rich, and much of their living was grown on their own low-priced acres. I've often wondered how they acquired this land -- perhaps by homesteading. There were other Irish Catholic families there, too, and my Grandmother often told of seeing one Barney Friel walking across the field and her mother's remarking, "There is Barney Friel coming home from the war." She referred to the Civil War, and it was a point of great pride to the Friel family that one of their sons was a veteran.

I don't know much about the background of the Friel family except that there were three sons, Barney (Grandfather), Patrick, and John. Suffice it to say that on Barney's return from army duty he met and married Maggie Doud. He was twelve years her senior, and Maggie looked up to him not only as a lover, but also as a deliverer from her tyrannical father.

Soon after their marriage, news came that Civil War veterans were eligible to homestead land in Nebraska, and the young couple moved via covered wagon to a new country and a lifetime commitment to the land they were so grateful to receive.

Those early days in her and Barney's prairie home gave the energetic Maggie many avenues for using her talents. First order of the day was the construction of a home; this they did by breaking the sod into slabs, which were laid one on another to form thick walls, which insulated the house from summer's heat and winter's cold. I'm still at a loss to know where they found timbers to support the thatched roof. Some such material must have been imported, or perhaps the widely scattered cottonwood trees were used. The floors were dirt packed tightly and swept clean. (No waxing chores were needed in those days.)

Maggie was indeed a happy bride. She adored and respected her Barney, who was as much her opposite in disposition as could be imagined. Quiet in temperament and placid in nature, his was a complete foil for her exuberant spirit. He was a kind man and allowed Maggie a free hand in management, a role that pleased her and befitted her talents.

White, Protestant, and English-speaking -- that described the society of the Nebraska of that day. In that environment the Friels were decidedly a minority group -- white they were and English-speaking, but definitely Catholic, with a capital "C". Through all the years, years of many deprivations, Maggie and Barney kept their faith alive and passed it on to their children, who in turn never questioned the simple faith of their fathers.

The first year after Barney and Maggie's arrival, Frank was born, and in the succeeding years, Mary (my Mother), John, Ernie, Katie, Emmet, Leo, and last and much younger than the others, their pride and joy, a girl child named Teresa.

I regret much that I learned so little of what Grandma went through in those days -- giving birth to all those children, where neighbor ladies helped one another in the birthing of children in lieu of doctors, and seeing the children through sieges of measles, chicken pox, diphtheria, scarlet fever -- diseases almost extinct today, but which brought death and sorrow to many, many homes then. I've never heard that the Friels lost any children -- a good record and a credit to the parents' tender care.

Barney was a thinker, whereas Maggie was a doer. Maggie never had time to read the few publications that came on their weekly trips to York, the county seat, five miles to the east of the homestead; but Barney always read aloud to her, and she kept posted on the issues of the day by lending an ear when the men of the neighborhood discussed and argued, sometimes heatedly, on government, religion, and farming policies.

It didn't take much money in those days to set a table for a hungry family. Maggie was a great gardener; they kept a cow or two for milk, butter, and cream; and they raised their own meat and poultry. Fruit was scarce, but somehow they survived without it. There was plenty of vitamin D in the summer months from Old Sol, but the winter months saw the children grow pale and inclined to sore throats and colds. Goose grease and mustard plasters were applied in large doses, and a sock around the throat was the ultimate in curative practice.

When the children reached school age, they walked the few miles to the district school. Snow drifts piled high during the winter months, when the prairie winds swept across the country, so attendance was erratic. Maggie was determined that her children would have better educational opportunities than she had had, so she made every effort to see that they made the most of their chance to acquire book learning.

The school was "segregated", not by race, but by nationality. Near the Friels' home was a Russian (pronounced with a long "u") Settlement. The children were seated in different sections. Even the wraps worn to school were hung in opposite sides of the room. How sad! No one, though, at that time, questioned the propriety of such an arrangement. I wonder if today there are any Russians there, or if they have at last been absorbed into the great melting pot that is America.

Maggie washed, ironed, cooked, kept house, raised chickens, and gardened. She had no washing machine and did the family washing on a washboard, with the soap she had made, herself, from cracklings, a by-product of lard rendering. Monday was the busiest day of all, but after the chore was finished Maggie felt that she deserved a reward; so that was the day she finished by going to see a neighbor. Usually she took a supply of fresh vegetables, picked by her own hands, to some less energetic person. She couldn't bear to see them remain unused when there was an abundance in her garden.

Every summer, when the sun's rays were at their fiercest, Barney and Maggie boarded the spring wagon to attend the Lincoln. In spite of many deprivations, Maggie always managed to keep herself attractively dressed, and Barney was duly proud of her as they drove away together, leaving the children behind for a week. At the Reunion they met and mingled with other Veterans of the Civil War, relaxed, and renewed themselves. The children, left to their own devices, often recalled in later years the pranks and exploits indulged in at this time of relaxed parental restraint. My Mother always carried a scar on her neck, which resulted from a fall while she was cutting her brother's hair. Between a few whacks at the hair she would run around the chair a couple of turns. On one such excursion her smaller brother tripped her, and the scissors plunged into her neck. This is just a sample of what can happen when children are left to their own devices. Always, though, on the return of the parents, refreshed and renewed, the children were all alive and well, and the trip was worthwhile. Psychologists today realize that such a change of pace is a necessary part of keeping a sane and healthy outlook. How wise those early-day people were to recognize that fact.

As the children grew to manhood and womanhood the farm became too small for so many hands, so the three oldest boys began operating a threshing crew, and that is how my father enters the picture.

Robert Higdon, fresh in his first venture from his home in Kentucky, "hired on" as a hand, one of the twelve or thirteen men such a group comprised.

Kentucky and Nebraska were as different in atmosphere as if they were two separate nations. Naturally those from each looked to their own culture as superior. Robert had much to learn of the prairie way of life. Even their religion seemed different, although both families were of the Catholic faith. The Friels were worshipers in a more relaxed and informal way. Mass on Sunday, Easter duty, the feast of Christmas, and morning and night prayers were about the sum and substance of their practice; but Robert was a product of Catholic school, in which the Good News made every day a milestone on the journey toward eternity. Mary, the mother of the Higdon family, was a convert to the faith. Somehow in her teenage years she had come to know and love Catholicism, and after marriage to James, the only son of the Higdon family, she became a most conscientious mother of a large family -- Charles, Robert, Louis, Hilary, and Paul were the boys, and Mattie, Delia, Sr. Lawrence, Genevieve, Lillian, and Elodee were the girls. Three of her children died, two the same day, when a diphtheria epidemic swept the country.

In spite of their divergent backgrounds, romance blossomed when the brothers Friel brought home to Sunday dinners the interesting newcomer in those parts. Maggie, in particular, took a great liking to the lonely boy. In later years, Mary, my Mother, said of Robert, my Father, that he probably married her because he wanted Maggie for a Mother-in-Law. Of course this was said in jest, but it had a hint of truth in it.

Mary and Robert had a spring wedding, May 22, in York, and thereafter took a train to Kentucky. Mary, a timid and frightened girl, entered her new role with many doubts and little self-confidence. She and Robert spent three months with Robert's family -- a much too-prolonged stay and a strain on both sides. To Mary's way of thinking, Nebraska was much more progressive than Kentucky, and she looked with great disdain on the hillbilly life around her. The sultry humidity of the morning air, the nasal twang of the choir's singing, and the scent of alcohol drifting back from the driver's seat (Grandfather always had to have a "nip" of moonshine before leaving for Sunday mass) -- all sent waves of homesickness over Mary, and she longed for an end to this tedious visit.

After three months of living in the Higdon's Kentucky home, the young couple returned to Nebraska.

Barney's brothers John and Patrick had a farm in Iowa that neither was able physically to cultivate, so it was arranged that Robert should rent the farm and share the home with the two older single men. Poor Mary! By this time she was expecting her first child. How pleasant it would have been if she could have had a home unencumbered by two middle-aged men. Patrick was a rollicking fellow, who frequently came home the worse for liquor. This habit Mary abhorred, having grown up without exposure to drinking. John, on the other hand, was very strict and straitlaced -- a country schoolmaster who spent most of his time reading. In his younger days he had lost a leg in a mowing accident. He had been fitted with an artificial limb and walked about quite freely, but was unable to do manual labor. He was a saintly man, very kind, and he loved his niece.

The five years Mary and Rob spent in Iowa were in many ways difficult. The first pregnancy was followed by others until by the end of the fifth year the family had increased to four, namely Margaret, the first born, Lawrence, the only son, Loretta and lastly, Mildred. The rigorous climate and the demands of a family had lowered Mary's resistance and constant colds and a condition known in those days as catorrah had her weight down to a bare 98 lbs. Lured by the prospect of a milder climate and a spirit of adventure Rob and a neighbor made a trip to the newly opened Indian Territory, were impressed by its offerings and each purchased eighty acres of land. They returned and gave glowing descriptions to their receptive wives of their new homes and plans to move immediately were made. Details of this period are sketchy but suffice it to say the move was made. The men came on ahead and made arrangements for the family's transition. After Mary and her four babies visited a short while with her folks in Nebraska she boarded a train (in the dead of winter) accompanied by a cousin, a young lady who helped her with the children. They were met in El Reno, a town, the county seat, eighteen miles from Calumet, where the farm was located. The trip proved that Iowa wasn't the coldest spot in the U.S.A. The bitter cold wind whistled around the children, who were bundled almost to the point of suffocation. By the time they reached the shelter of the new home Loretta's feet were frozen and all were crying from the cold.

The house which Rob had described to the family didn't nearly come up to Mary's expectation and all in all it appeared they had simply jumped from the frying pan into the fire as far as making a better life was concerned. If only Mary had been satisfied Rob would have been seventh heaven for the farm he had purchased was his delight. It was mostly good bottom land bordering on the North Canadian River - had a nice orchard established and bearing delicious apples, peaches and berries and the house from a man's point of view was adequate. But it was built into the side of a hill, all south exposure allowing sunlight to flood the rooms but both the north side was dank and dark and clothing and bedding or anything hung against the wall came out covered with mold or mildew. The children loved the place and the earliest memories I have are of sitting on my father's lap in the evening listening to the songs he had learned in his Kentucky days while the coyotes in the South Forth kept a weird but harmonious accompaniment. Mother wasn't happy but there was little she could do about it so she made the best of it and provided a clean and comfortable home for all of us. In those days there were many Indians about and my mother was deathly afraid of them. They would drive into the yard in their wagons, sometimes covered wagons, and sit there until someone came out. If my father wasn't around Mother would go out accompanied by four little skirt hangers, she, deathly white and almost speechless. The Indians who were issued supplies, such as cooking utensils, blankets, etc., by the government on a regular basis would try to trade these articles for eggs, chickens, or any articles of food the farmers had. Mostly sign language was used in these transactions and the dickering was seemingly endless but finally the deal was made - the Indians would drive off with one of our fat hens and mother was richer by a couple of enameled pie pans or an enameled dipper - anything to see them on their way leaving us with our scalps intact. Really they were quite harmless, a fact we hadn't learned as yet.

After two or three years in the dugout, as our house was called, my father built a neat little house up on "the hill." We had a parlor, dining room, kitchen and 3 bedrooms. The parlor was carpeted (engraved carpet, the last word those days) had a stand table on which was a beautiful global lamp and some nice chairs. This room was strictly for Sunday and company, the rest of the house for everyday living. Large trees shaded the back yard and tall cottonwoods bordered the drive, sharing space with beautiful bow elders. It was a heavenly place for children and fondly I remember the happy days Loretta and I passed playing with our precious dolls and making playhouses in the cool shade. My father took almost childish delight in raising produce, watermelons, sweet corn, tomatos, etc., and comparing his superior products with his less ambitious neighbors. The only drawback to him was that his farm wasn't large enough. He was able to lease a school quarter across the road for a time but when that was finally sold father began looking around for a new location. Luckily for him he learned of an Indian lease which was to be sold soon. Before he could deal for that he had to find a buyer for our home. Our neighbors soon learned that the place was for sale and it wasn't long until we were offered a fair price and the place was sold. My mother always said that was a happy day for her so much so that she feared the buyer would back out on the deal when he saw her relief in being rid of the farm.

But to us children it was a different story. My brother Lawrence, who was about eleven wept bitterly the day we moved. There had been many joys in the years we'd spent there. We were settling in the same community, going to the same church and even the same school the first year but the quarter section of land had never been broken out before and it seemed very unhomelike and barren. After buying the place my father had built a pole barn. Large cedar poles were cut from trees near the South Canadian River, ten or twelve miles to the south and brought by wagon to the site. The siding, stalls and roof were supported by these poles set deeply into the ground. This barn was built in 1907 and stands today (1982). Not a bad recommendation for what was a cheap and makeshift form of architecture. A small one-room shack stood on one corner of the land so in order to be close to the homebuilding project and help with the food for the builders we all crowded into it and made it our home until the house was finished several months later. It must have been very trying for mother to cook and serve hearty meals to the building crew in those close quarters but she was very happy those days with the prospect of a new home in sight. I'll never forget the night I dropped the plates. I'd been asked to dry the supper dishes and in my eagerness to do my part to help out I picked up a stack of plates much beyond my carrying capacity - they happened to be my mother's best dishes - brought into use only because the crowd was too large to be served with the everyday ware. They'd been given to her by her mother as a wedding gift. Imagine her dismay and my chagrin when the whole stack crashed to the floor. Needless to say that ended KP duty for the youngest girl from then on out. My duties as chore girl must have started at that time for I became much more proficient in milking cows and feeding chickens and tending calves and pigs than I ever was at homemaking.

During the years on the river farm we entertained several groups of my mother's relatives but none of my father's relatives ever came to Oklahoma. Maggie and Barney Friel came one summer when the fruit was at its gorgeous best. What a wonderful treat it was for us children to get acquainted with our grandparents. They were delightful and we loved them dearly. When they got ready to go home they decided to pack a trunkful of fruit and ship it home with them. They selected the fairest of the fair and packed them carefully and checked them at the station, expecting them to get to York Nebraska shortly. But sad to say the trunk went astray and when it finally arrived was only a dripping mess of seeds and skins.

Two of my mother's brothers honeymooned at our home at different times. Uncle Ernie brought his charming and gracious bride Mayne Cunningham to see us and a year or two later Uncle John brought his bride Isabel Fryer and mother's youngest brother Lee to our home. Aunt Belle, as we called her won our hearts; she was a city girl with a beautiful wardrobe and soft gentle ways that thrilled our little country girl hearts. Always after Aunt Belle was our favorite relative and always remained so throughout the years.

There was no Catholic church in Calumet when we first came there but missionary priests from neighboring towns came about once a month and said Mass in homes. Mrs. Burns and her Uncle Tom Rasp usually opened their homes for the services. The visiting priests usually came by train and were met and entertained overnight by the various parishioners. This was usually a great event for us for the visiting priest regaled us with stories and accounts of their travels. Father Maurice Furstenburg a very refined and gentlemanly sort, Father Fine, a small French priest, very jovial but with a French accent that made him impossible to understand, Father Isodore from the Indian Mission at Anadarko, Father Monnet who later had a big parish in Oklahoma City but had grown up in the South Canadian area: these were some of the names I remember. Later a church was built by the small and scattered congregation only to be blown away a few years later by one of our infamous tornados. Before we made the move we had all attended a district school called Canadian Valley. All eight grades assembled in the one room to learn the rudiments of the three R's. Surprisingly most of the children did quite well without all the frills that today are thought to be necessary. Many who later made their mark in the world were products of these one room schools. When we moved to our new location we finished the year at Canadian Valley though it was a walk of 1 and 3/4 miles for us. The next year we drove horse and buggy the 3 and 1/2 miles to Calumet. After two years a district school, Lone Star, was built and there we continued our schooling to the eighth grade level.

When I was 5 and before we made the move my mother decided she owed it to her parents to visit them. Margaret, my eldest sister, was then 11 years old and very mature for her years was to take care of the home while I the youngest would accompany mother. How great it was to be the pampered youngest child. We went directly to York and later boarded a train to Iowa to visit Aunt Katie Donohue, mother's youngest sister and her brother Emmet. The homestead at York was a lovely place and my young Uncles and Aunts indulged me in every wish. One of them bought me a beautiful doll and grandma spent the last few days of our visit sewing a wardrobe for a it. I'll never forget how bitterly I wept when we got home and opened the valise in which we'd carefully packed it only to find the doll's head was crushed in dozens of pieces. Mother later bought a head and put it on the body for me but the pain of the moment was unforgettable.

In those days itinerant peddlers and others known only as hobos often came and asked to be fed and kept overnight. Although their general appearance bore evidence of previous occupancy of hay lofts and feeding stalls mother always felt obligated to get out sets of fresh sheets and blankets and cooked extra hearty meals for our guest. Before leaving, if he was a peddler, he would show his wares and leave a token gift to thank us for the accommodations.

School for most country children those days ended with graduation from eighth grade for there was no transportation furnished to high schools. My father made arrangements for my sister Margaret to be boarded by the Sisters of Divine Providence who conducted a school in El Reno and there she finished her high school studies. She later attended summer sessions in a teacher's college and obtained a teachers certificate. Lawrence's education ended at the eighth grade level. For three years after the opening of the grade school my mother boarded the teachers. This livened our otherwise rather dull winters. An occasional pie or box supper, a literary society and occasional neighborhood visiting were our only social outlets. An annual Fourth of July celebration and a Harvest Supper given by the Catholic Church in late summer were highlights of our life. After Loretta finished the grade school she and I (I in the 8th grade) were set up in light housekeeping quarters in El Reno and there we attended parochial school until I was a junior and Loretta a senior. We were given music lessons and when we heard of the Oklahoma College for Women where musical instruction was given without fee we transferred there where Loretta continued on to receive a MA degree in piano and I stayed to finish my high school studies.

By now World War II was being fought. Most of the young men between 21-31 years of age were in the Military Service. In the Spring of 1918 Lawrence was called much to the distress of our parents who were left alone as Loretta and I were away at school and Margaret was teaching. Their sorrow was soon lessened when after barely reaching European soil the Armistice was signed so the danger of combat was over and he merely had to serve out his time in the Army of Occupation in France in the Medical Corp, a pleasant and educational stint for him. In the spring of '21 Margaret and Loretta both married and the following Fall I was married, all to boys from Okarche, Oklahoma Holy Trinity Parish.

Sadness overtook our home in the Fall of '33. My father was killed in an explosion of acitclyne plant. Mother's life was changed and she soon left the farm and moved to Okarche where we girls were all living. Lawrence married the next year and the old farm ties were soon gone forever.