McMinnville N-R
At the outset, let me assure you that I am not a pyromaniac. That
being said, I admit that matches have a fascination for me, but only
sturdy, dependable wooden matches — the kind that were an integral
part of every day on the ranch.
For me, those wooden matches also were memory makers.
Wooden matches were an Eastern Oregon icon, along with cowboy boots
and hats, sagebrush and junipers.
Every day on the ranch started with the lighting of a match. In those
days before electricity came to our part of Eastern Oregon, it was
used to light the coal oil lamp when daylight was slow in coming.
Then would come the sound of the striking of the match to light the
fire in the wood-burning cookstove. The smell of Mother’s pancakes
soon followed.
On colder days, there would be the sound of the lighting of the fire
in the wood-burning heater in the living room. And next, Lynn lighting
the coil oil lantern to take to the barn in the early mornings and
evenings when darkness held on. Looking down at the barn, we’d see the
light bobbing about as Lynn fed and watered the livestock.
Never did a rancher leave home without a pocketful of wooden matches.
When they rode for cattle or to check fence lines, wooden matches were
a godsend — with the aid of nature in the form of rabbitbrush.
Rabbitbrush was prevalent in our part of Grant County. It was about
the size and shape of a small tumbleweed, and although neither
livestock nor wildlife seemed to eat it, man discovered its apparent
purpose.
When a rider, cold and stiff from riding, came upon such a shrub, one
wooden match flamed it into a torch that warmed hands and feet and
could even provide a tin cup of hot coffee.
Many ranchers smoked cigarettes, requiring matches for lighting — and
many ranchers rolled their own.
Some ranchers made quite a ceremonial process of this. From a shirt
pocket came a packet of cigarette papers, one of which was folded a
bit down the middle to hold a trough of tobacco. From a tin of Prince
Albert tobacco or a sack of Bull Durham, a precise amount of tobacco
was poured into the trough, an edge of the paper then licked to effect
a seal and the cigarette rolled into a firm, smoothly rounded product.
With the help of a wooden match, the rancher now had his smoke.
Paper matches had not then come into popularity, at least on ranches,
and perhaps some stalwart ranchers would have been contemptuous of the
idea. Paper match covers even slightly moist could make any rancher
swear. An entire packet of paper matches might be used trying to light
one on the friction strip at the bottom of the cover. Even if the
lighting were successful, one’s fingers often were singed.
The dependable Diamond wooden matches provided handles long enough to
start the blaze before heat seared the fingers.
True, they required a firm surface for friction when lighting, but
ranchers found a ready answer for that: the leg of a pair of durable
denim Levi’s. With a somewhat dramatic swoop of the match down the
side of the pant leg, a match could be lighted. True, this usually
took practice, but the resulting whitish streak on his leg was
evidence of a rancher’s prowess with a match.
Even after leaving the ranch, wooden matches provided memories.
At our Devil’s Lake cabin, when we had been away for several weeks,
the blowdown and growth of ferns, salal and blackberries necessitated
bonfires — accomplished readily in that damp setting with wooden
matches.
And poignant memories of fall hunting trips to Eastern Oregon, when
wooden matches lit butane stoves and lanterns. At night, we sat around
a bonfire and counted satellites there where no street lights
interfered.
Memories, too, of our Albany College sorority spending a weekend at
the beach and around a bonfire, started with wooden matches, toasting
marshmallows on long sticks and making s’mores.
But paper matches changed the match world.
This is the story of how that happened: Joshua Pusey, a Philadelphia
lawyer who smoked cigars, was invited to a party by Philadelphia’s
mayor. Pusey wanted to look his best. He dressed in his finest. He
looked in the mirror to admire himself and noted in his vest pocket an
unsightly bulge: his box of wooden matches for lighting cigars. He
wondered why it was necessary to use anything as bulky as that — and
why matches could not be made of paper.
He experimented. In 1889, he patented his method. News of paper
matches quickly spread when a New York opera planned a grand opening.
Wanting to make the event known, promoters printed the information on
paper match folders — and the world took notice, For $4,000, Pusey
sold the rights to Diamond Match Co.
Restaurants and other businesses began placing near the cash register
large glass jars filled with paper match folders advertising the
company’s name, address and phone number. They were free for the
taking. Everywhere, followers began to “close cover before striking.”
And electrification came even to remote corners of Eastern Oregon.
Cigarette lighters in diverse shapes and sizes came on the market.
Then came specialty lighters for everything from fireplaces to
candles. Humans forgot how to strike a match.
The growing popularity of paper matches and lighters provided a new
interest for collectors: match paraphernalia. A new word was coined to
identify this new craze: phillumeny. You who collect matchbook folders
or anything else pertaining to matches are phillumentists.
I am neither pyromaniac nor phillumentist. And nowadays, there are no
wooden matches in my house, But always, I remember how dependable, how
serviceable, how sturdy were those wooden matches. But even more, I
remember how wooden matches were memory makers for me.
Elaine Rohse can be reached at
rohse5257@comcast.net.
