What's a whing?
Unless you're a child of the Depression era, now termed "the greatest generation," you probably never heard of a whing.
Following the crash of '29 young people had to "make do" with what they had: hand-me-downs with patches. Old folks and children alike also "made do" for their entertainment.
There was no money for "picture shows," concerts, or vacations. Community meetings featured those who could sing, recite poetry, or talk about their collection of pencils, buttons, stamps, or something else equally exciting. Sometimes the crowd would be treated to a "magic lantern show."
School lunch came in a brown paper bag or a tin box. Kids became gifted in business skills by swapping apples, oranges, or store-bought bread and sweet rolls for fresh homemade items. There was no school milk program but nearly every family had a cow.
Air conditioning came from opening windows, heat came from a coal stoked round circulating heater that was the pride of the district. It was the closest thing to high tech equipment and required skill to bank the fire.
Toilets were two small buildings about 25 yards from the school; on the other side from the well which produced cool water for thirsty throats. There was but one chipped enamel dipper in the porcelain clad water bucket.
Carrying in coal or a bucket of water were chores reserved for the strongest lads, who relished their exalted position. Smaller students, and girls, cleaned erasers by pounding them on the concrete front porch. Only the high achievers were selected for that chore.
The most honored of all duties was putting up the flag. A trusted leader always had that chore, one who wouldn't think of letting Old Glory touch the ground. Kids lived for the day when they might get to put up the flag. That was a holy rite.
As the kids got older, they went on whings. They'd pick an evening with star studded sky, comfortable temperature, and little wind. They gathered, helped by a party line ring, bringing hot dogs and other delicacies to the creek bank where whings were held. Youngsters at a whing didn't need paid counselors, leaders, expensive equipment, nor a mill levy.
A couple of weeks from now your former editor will go to Cassoday along with a half-dozen cowboys from the good old days. They'll talk about old times, the editor's "growin' up years" on the lush Bluestem prairies of the undulating Flint Hills: catching calves, trick roping, breaking broncs, fixing fence, barn dances, and whings.
— BILL MEYER, former editor
