An Autobiography by Miriam Hirschfield Frees.
This is in a file in the Hirschfield families at the Austin History Center and I made a copy and I am reading it. This is Jeanine Plumer.
Many years ago, I was young and charming.
So young, in fact, that my very usefulness proved my charm, for my journey through. This veil of tears was just beginning. The journey began most auspiciously, and I was warmly welcomed, it being July at the time of my arrival. Also, I was acknowledged to be a most remarkable child, the maker of this statement being none other than my grandfather, who was backed by an unusual number of aunts and uncles, to say nothing of a grandmother and my proud parents. For I was an only child and grandchild, The former position is mine to this day, and the latter I relinquished but a year ago. So it was I came, I saw, I conquered.
One of the strangest things about my infancy is the vividness with which few incidents are recalled. Whether this can be accountable to the innumerable times Mother has kept me quiet by telling me these tales over and over, I am sure, but I do know they are as vivid as happening yesterday. In particular, is the time I saw Buffalo Bill. Though only two years old, I, even then, showed that fondness for bloodthirsty adventure that was afterwards to characterize my reading. Not for a second was I frightened, and upon reaching home, gave a full recital, ending with the dramatic climax of. Shufflo Bill Bing bing Bing.
During these younger years of my life, we traveled about quite a bit, living mostly in hotels, But a stay of any length in a place was always punctuated by frequent trips to Texas.
It might have been this continual moving about that sharpened my curiosity, for that was, Surely, my most notable trait. On one of their numerous journeys to and fro, I gave such a rapid fire list of questions that a priest sitting behind us leaned over and said ‘’little girl you can ask more questions in a minute than your mother can answer in an hour.’’ Whether this had the desired effect on my Insatiable knowledge is not on record. I have my doubts.
The pleasantest memories I have all center around RACINE.
Situated in a horseshoe bend of Lake Michigan, it is a marvelously beautiful spot. That was not its charm for me though, for not until recently have I realized its beauties, and it may be a somewhat idealist picture. But the gem of that memory collection is a playroom after. Years of boarding. We at last lived in a house! To me, there was an immeasurable difference between roofs. The playroom was a large, airy, room on the first floor, and had kindergarten circles painted on the floor, while about ranged my desk, swing, play box, and every treasured thing. And there every child in the neighborhood congregated, but that might have been due to the attractiveness of a barrel of apples, for I do not flatter myself.
Then there was Dorothy. She was the little girl next door, and we were inseparable. Every morning, hand in hand, we went to school. We looked like two little red birds in our red reefers, leggings, and stocking caps, with our bobbed hair, it was a conjuncture whether we were boys or girls. It was fun going to school and having to wade through waist deep drifts of hard packed snow. Many the time a particularly stubborn drift held us prisoner, and the combined efforts of two or three fellows was required to liberate us. This occurrence was common, but we were wildly excited the day we saw the sidewalk in April. That was worth racing all the way home to tell. But it was worthwhile wading through waist high drifts to get to school. We loved it, for had it not been the height of our ambition for four years. The afternoons were occupied with rehearsals of the days doing, and the playroom saw many wondrous events. When anyone asked me who were the brightest in our class, promptly would come the answer, Me and Dorothy. Of only one thing. Was I jealous: Dorothy could carry a tomb. We had the most peculiar musicals she’s singing, and I sang the words for. Though the gift of song was hers, the gift of memory was not. That was the test of true love, that never runs quite smooth. But we had good times. Dorothy and I. But, RACINE too became only another of the many stopping places, though we lived there for years. An unusually long time. After a year’s sojourn in Texas, we moved to Scranton, and I became used to routine ways.
