Chapter One: The House in Thermopolis

The following excerpt is a work in progress and may be subject to change.

Thermopolis, Wyoming
February 21, 1923

I was born in our family home in Thermopolis, Wyoming. In those days, most babies were born at home. The doctor would visit if he was available, or the women were left to their own devices. And so we were fortunate to survive in a time when many others did not.

On February 21, 1923, I joined my 4-year-old sister Wilma and my 2-year-old brother Lowell. My name was a combination of two of my aunts’ names; Alta was the sister of my mother, and Ruth was the sister of my father. And so I was called Alta Ruth.

Although I weighed 8 pounds at birth, I had a rough start in life. Early on, I had yellow jaundice, followed by whooping cough, and then a weak heart. Antibiotics and heart medicines had not yet been discovered, so there was nothing the doctors could do for me. I was not gaining weight because my infant body could not hold down any nutrients.

In desperation, my mother began to pray for me. “Lord, thank You for creating this little one. I not only ask you to heal her little body, but I give her to You. I am willing to accept Your will for her life.” 

Soon after, she received an answer to her prayers. A friend of hers, who was a nurse, suggested that she try feeding me a wheat and milk gruel called “Imperial Granum”. I was able to eat it and began gaining weight properly.  

My mother told me about this numerous times, reminding me that God restored my life for a purpose. She believed that God had provided a miraculous healing for me, and would continue to show His hand in my life.

I slept in a cradle next to my parents’ bed, where I could easily be rocked to sleep. And so I was surrounded by human love, and taught about God’s love, from the very beginning.  

Our house in Thermopolis, Wyoming was a three-room structure made of wood. It stood at the edge of town, past the river and railroad tracks. Beyond it, you could see clear skies and rolling hills dotted with wild buffalo. 

In Greek, Thermopolis means “hot city” because it is home to the world’s largest mineral hot springs. Clean, hot water bubbles up straight from the earth and flows down the Bighorn River, right past our home. We would play in the springs, and I learned to swim in that hot water. You could even take a cup and drink directly from it. I’ve carried a love of hot water throughout my life, and to this day, hot water feels like a nostalgic hug. 

Our three-room home was simple but filled with love. It also contained something special: electricity. My dad took a study course in electricity and learned to install it in our little house. We were privileged to have an electric light in each room. Some other families in our neighborhood had electricity as well, but it wasn’t so common that we took it for granted. Many features of our home were built with my dad’s own hands.

In our living room we had a pot-bellied stove, a daybed where the kids slept, a rocker, some chairs, and a floor model radio. I still remember gathering around that radio to listen to serial programs. We also had a hand crank telephone. My parents would have to crank the handle to ring the operator, who would then connect them to whatever number they needed. 

The middle room of our home contained our parents’ bed, a dresser, and a cabinet for hanging the few clothes that we owned. We each had about a week’s worth of outfits, which we wore until they were truly soiled. 

My mother would scrub them in a wash tub in the kitchen, where we also took baths in water heated on the stove. We had a gas range for cooking, a pantry cupboard for groceries, and a table where we shared meals. 

A small ice box stood in the corner. Once a week, the iceman delivered a huge chunk of ice, which he harvested from the river in the winter time and sold throughout the rest of the year. Each time he visited, we kids would stand behind his truck as he cut the ice, hoping to catch small chips on our tongues.

Our home had no running water except a single indoor pump over the sink, with a bucket underneath to catch the water.  We called it waste water, but none of our water was ever wasted.  Sometimes it was thrown out onto flowers and plants, and sometimes it was used to mop the floors.  Fresh water was pumped from a cistern, and the cistern was filled regularly from a passing water truck. 

Our only bathroom was an outhouse, which was a simple wooden structure built over a pit. Inside, it had a wooden floor and a bench with three holes. Two of the holes were adult-sized, while the third hole was lower down and smaller-sized, for children.

A sidewalk of wooden planks led to the outhouse. On many dark nights, my brother Lowell escorted me down that path and stood guard at the doorway. He never complained; 2 years my senior, Lowell was my valiant protector against the unknown terrors of the night. He enjoyed that role as much as I appreciated his presence, and so we got along just fine.

During the daytime, my older sister Wilma was more likely to accompany me to the outhouse. I was the baby of the family, so she was used to keeping a dutiful eye on me. 

One day when I was three years old, I followed Wilma into the outhouse. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the shed, I was shocked at what I saw. Wilma was using one of the adult-sized holes! She perched on the bench like this was the most natural thing in the world. At seven years old, she had grown enough to handle the full-sized seat.

My eyes slid down to the available seats on either side of her: one big, the other small.

If Wilma could use the big hole, then I could too!

She didn’t discourage me. Perhaps she just didn’t realize the danger lurking below that seat. Either way, Wilma said nothing as I prepared myself and clambered up. I clung to the bench as my bottom hung down over the rim of that hole. 

Suddenly, my balance slipped and I slid straight in!

Down I went, into the gaping dark pit, splashing into rancid sludge. I must have been at least six feet down, surrounded by total blackness and oozing waste that felt like mud, but worse. The only light came from the three holes in the outhouse bench, which looked so small from down here.

Somewhere far above, I heard Wilma run screaming toward the house. 

My heart thundered in the silence. Moments felt like ages. Highlights of my scant three years of life flashed through my mind’s eye. Was this how it ended -- buried in poo-poo? I started to cry.

Finally, I heard a clatter above me as my mother came sprinting into the outhouse. Through the rim of that distant hole, her wide, terrified eyes met mine. Quickly realizing that I was too far down to grab onto, she looked around for something, anything to reach me with.

“Don’t move, Alta-Ruth,” she commanded, “I’ll be right back!”

What choice did I have? I stood paralyzed in the muck with my arms outstretched, reaching upward waiting to be rescued. I could feel wet slop caked all over my body. 

The stench was overpowering. I tried to hold my breath to keep the rancid taste off my tongue, but there was no escaping it.

It felt like forever before Mother finally reappeared over the rim of the hole with a long-handled rake in tow. She lowered the rake and I gripped the metal crossbar with all my might, holding on for my dear young life. Steadily, Mother heaved the rake upward and me along with it, pulling me out of the muck with a revolting squelch.

My poor mother! I don’t know how she managed to cope with a sobbing toddler covered in human waste, but she carried me back to the house (to the detriment of her own dress). She scrubbed me head to toe in that kitchen wash tub until there was no trace left of my unfortunate mishap. My clothes, soiled beyond hope, were tossed on the fire. 

But she was so thankful that I was still alive and had no injuries. What could have been a tragedy became one of the funny stories that I’ve retold many times in my life. 

It wasn’t until we’d moved to our next home that I enjoyed my first flushable toilet. Dad and his brother Myron installed it in a bathroom they built onto the house themselves. Let me tell you, I was so grateful to know that I’d never fall into a toilet again.

But that first house in Thermopolis is the one I’ll always remember as the place where my story began. It was just a small, ordinary house, made special by the lives and memories shared there. And that’s what this book is filled with: small, ordinary experiences made special by the love of God and His mercies on my life.

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