Daddy

Bumps in the Road Part 16

Update: Kathleen and Bill have just arrived at her parents to inform them of their marriage.

Kathleen felt a sudden pang of guilt about marrying without Mama’s and Daddy’s blessing but Mama had broken up an earlier engagement. She hadn’t wanted to risk that again.

“I know this is sudden but we didn’t want to wait or put you to any trouble “ she babbled. Mama had a stern look, pursing her lips. Was she about to denounce her? Daddy stepped forward and extended his hand to Bill. “Welcome to the family. We’ll be counting on you to take good care of our little girl.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holdaway. I sure will. I have a good job making good money. She won’t go without, I promise you. I know I’m lucky to get a girl like her,” replied Bill.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Daddy replied. “She has always been such a good girl.”

Mama thawed a little. “Can you stay for supper? I’ve got a fryer shut up to kill.”

Kathleen looked to Bill to answer. “ No, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee,” he answered.

Kathleen was relieved. She hadn’t looked forward to a long evening with them after announcing their uncomfortable news. Bill seemed to have read her mind.

“Come on in,” Mama directed. I’ve got a cake ready to frost. Roscoe, will you bring me in a bucket of water?” Kathleen followed Mama in the house while Bill went to the well with Roscoe. Bill looked so tall and healthy compared to Daddy’s frail frame.

Dreading questions, Kathleen volunteered, “Mama, we didn’t have to get married. We just didn’t see any point in waiting.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you that,” Mama returned, still pursing her lips. “I raised you better than that. How long have you known him?”

“Almost a month,” Kathleen answered, thinking it sounded better than three weeks.

“That long?” Mama scoffed. “Well, good luck. I hope you haven’t made a mistake. Here they are with the water, “ signaling the awkward conversation was done. She filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and poked up the fire. “Now, let me get this cake frosted. That’s a beautiful dress, Kathleen. Is it new?”

“Yes, Bill bought it for me this morning. It cost sixteen dollars!” She bragged, proudly, then suddenly felt ashamed, fearing she’d hurt Mama’s feelings, Mama who’d painstakingly sewn almost every dress Kathleen ever owned.

Happily, Mama’s expression softened. “Bill, I’m proud you can give Katleen nice things. We always wanted the best for her.”

The atmosphere warmed up after that.

Pass the Chicken Please or Fowl Friends

Art by Kathleen Swain, my mother

We went places and saw people that normal people never encountered.  I think he just need a “trash fix” from time to time.  He’d heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had something he might be interested in buying.  He had to check it out, driving forever down muddy roads that looked like they might peter off into nothing.  Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack.  The old man was wearing unbuttoned overalls and nothing else. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, dead washing machines and other refuse behind the house, Mother and the kids sat in the car.  It was hot.  Daddy was gone.  It got hotter.  Daddy was still gone.  We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze. It got hotter and hotter. The baby was squalling.  Mrs. Tucker, a big woman in overalls came out in the front yard and started a fire, never even looking our way, probably thinking our car was just another junk car in the yard.  As the sun blazed overhead, we begged Mother to ask Mrs. Tucker for a drink of water.  Somewhere in the wilderness, Daddy was still admiring Mr. Tucker’s junk collection.  He could talk for hours, unconcerned that his family was waiting in misery.  It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the people he had imposed himself on.  We spent many a miserable hour waiting in the car while he “talked,” usually on the way to visit some of his relatives.

Finally, in desperation, Mother got out of the car, introduced herself to Mrs. Tucker, and asked if we could have a drink of water.  Turning without speaking, she disappeared into the house, returning with some cloudy snuff glasses.  Calling us over to the well, she drew a bucket of water, and let us drink till we were satisfied. That was the best water I ever had.  Mrs. Tucker pulled a couple of chairs under a shade tree and Mother sat down.  We all sat down in the dirt in the cool of the shade and played.  Daddy was still gone but things looked a lot better after we cooled off and had a drink.  Mrs. Tucker was interesting to look at, but didn’t have a lot to say.  She had a couple of teeth missing, greasy red hair in a bowl cut, and long scratches down both arms.

Mother tried to converse, but Mrs. Tucker didn’t have a lot to say.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the missing teeth and long scratches down her arm.  I started talking to her.  She didn’t have any kids. It didn’t take long to figure out she “wasn’t right.” I was fascinated and wanted to ask about what happened to the teeth, but knew what that would get me, so I asked instead about her scratched arms.  Mother hushed me up but that topic inspired Mrs. Tucker. It seem, she was going to put a rooster in the big pot in the front yard to scald before plucking. He scratched her and escaped before she could get the lid on.  Apparently she didn’t know she was supposed to kill him first.  Just at the point where things were getting interesting, Daddy came back and I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story.

Mrs. Tucker sent us home with a turkey that day, teaching me a valuable lesson. Don’t ever accept the gift of a turkey.  Ol’ Tom was to be the guest of honor at our Thanksgiving Dinner.  Daddy put him in the chicken yard and Tom took over, whipping the roosters, terrorizing the hens, and jumping on any kid sent to feed poultry. We hated him.  Mother brandished a stick to threaten him when she had to visit to the chicken yard.  He even flew over the fence and chased us as we played in the back yard till Daddy clipped his wings.

Before too long, we saw the Nickerson kids, the meanest kids in the neighborhood, headed for the chicken yard.  Mother couldn’t wait to see Tom get them.  Sure enough, Ol’ Devil Tom jumped out from behind a shed on jumped on the biggest boy, Clarence.  Clarence yelped and ran at Ol’ Tom, his mean brothers close on his heels, flogging Ol’ Tom mercilessly.  Unlike us, they didn’t run out with their tails tucked between their legs.  They launched an all-out attack on Tom, beating him with their jackets, sticks, and whatever they could grab.  They chased him till they tired of the game.  Tom never chased any of us again, but Mother never got around to thanking the Nickersons.

Campy Camper

th3EKZ50VW bus 2

See this great old school bus.  It is so much nicer than the one Daddy acquired for the unbelievable sum of fifty dollars. He purchased it from his brother-in-law, who’d gotten stuck with it as payment body work.  Daddy was ahead of his time In acquiring this Tiny House.  Mother was furious.  Fifty dollars would have bought more than two week’s supply of groceries.  Though he gave Mother no end of grief about her extravagant spending at the grocery store, he wasn’t short-sighted and saw the great potential in this bus-camper.  It would be a wonderful shelter when he and his buddies went deer hunting, and oh yes, the family could use it for camping, too!  Now our camper wasn’t nearly so nice as the one pictured above.  It had been partially hand-painted bright silver and lacked a motor. The good news was, we could finish it up any color we liked and motors take up a lot of unnecessary space better used for storage.  In that special storage area, items were stored in boxes on one deep shelf or in  boxes on the floor beneath the shelf.  While the rest of us were out fishing, swimming, or just running wild in general, Mother drug boxes out and dug through them for dishes, pots and pans, and food, all this with two babies in diapers.  She complained about her back constantly.  What a whiner! .

nice inside

See how comfortable and well-appointed the camper pictured above is.  Ours was nothing like this.  There was no refrigerator, lighting, water, bathroom, hard-wood floors, or Benjamin Franklin wood burning stove.  There was, however, an ancient gas range Daddy hooked to a propane bottle.  It had two functioning burners and a defunct oven.  That was okay, since Mother insisted it had a propane leak and she was scared to use it longer than it took to heat a can of beans or cook eggs.  She cooked with all the windows open and made Daddy cut the fuel off every time she got through.  In fact, it did have a propane leak in the line, but that’s a story for another day. Two full-size bunk beds filled the rear of the camper.  Two sets of old army bunks were stacked along either side.  Of course, we fought over the top bunks.  The lower bunks served as seating.  A lantern and flash lights served when light was needed. It was perfect.  I remember one wonderful camping trip when Daddy pulled it to a creek bank.  We swam, fished, swatted mosquitoes, cooked outdoors, only going in to sleep, so exhausted we hardly moved till morning.  Mother got up several times every night to spray to camper with bug killer and spray the covers and any exposed skin with mosquito repellent.  We scratched bug bites and poison ivy for days after we got home. That was our only family camping trip.  Daddy used it a time or two for hunting, then gave it up as too much trouble.  It had a couple of other incarnations as a home for a farm laborer who confirmed the stove fuel line leak before it descended so far down the social scale it ended life as a junk shed on Daddy’s farm. To me, that camper was worth every cent!

Louie Figures It Out

One proud day, Louie acquired a bedraggled, old gray mule. The poor beast had obviously been”rode hard and put up wet.” It was tormented by flies, particularly in spots where harness had rubbed. Nonetheless, Louie was enamored of the sad beast pastured in his brother Don’s empty cow lot adjacent to our barn. The lot had gnawed down to the last blade of grass by its previous occupants. The only amenity available to the mule was a half barrel of water. Don and Louie spent some time spraying the mule for flies, which had to be a relief. Don went about his business assuring Louie they’d get old gray some hay tomorrow. A seed was planted.

Old Gray ate all the grass he could reach through the fence. Louie spent the rest of the afternoon pulling grass and delivering it by the handful to the grateful mule. Even Boogereater and Jamie got caught up in the exercise for a while.

About dusk, Daddy came home and scattered out hay for his stock and went on his busy way. Remembering Don’s intentions, Louie opened his cow pen gate and turned Old Gray into Daddy’s feed lot to get at the hay. Delighted at the opportunity to chow down, Old Gray kicked at Daddy’s cows to get them out of his way. Daddy heard the ruckus and came hurrying back, only to find his cows scattered and Old Gray munching happily.

Daddy shouted at Louie.” Get that mule out of here. He’s gonna hurt my cows!” He handed Louie a block of hay to toll the mule out and waved a stick at Old Gray. Reluctantly, Old Gray allowed himself to be led back into Don’s cow lot. Glad to have settled that problem, Daddy secured his own gate and went about his business

Louie was not to be denied that easily. He scooped up a generous portion of Daddy’s hay and tossed it over the fence to Old Gray. The happy mule tore into it with enthusiasm. It had probably been a long time since he’d such a rich meal. Satisfied with his day’s work, Louie went home for his own supper.

The next day when Daddy went out to throw hay to his cows, he found Louie and Old Gray waiting for him. The scattered remains of yesterday’s hay lay about them on the ground. Daddy warned Louie not to let Old Gray in his pasture.

Louie waited patiently for Daddy to put out the hay before climbing over the fence. “Louie, don’t be climbing my fence. You’ll tear it up. What in the hell are you doing?”

Louie scooped up a few blocks of hay and tossed them over the fence to Old Gray. “Old Gray ain’t got no hay. You don’t care Old Gray have hay?”

Daddy knew he wasn’t going to win this round. “Oh hell no, man! That’s what I bought it for.”

Setting Louie Straight

Louie lived with his mother, an ancient crone.  It must have been a hard  life for both.  From outward appearances, they seemed very poor.  Their  decrepit home cried out for paint.  Windows needed screens. Old Lady Rick often hung in the crooked doorway shrieking at Louie.  “Louie, get me some taters out o’ the tater house!  Pour a bucket of water on them tomaters!” Louie generally plodded wordlessly to do Mama’s bidding. 

Mama had another son who lived across the street, Don Ricks, the proud father of Boogereater and Jamie, the suspected cigarette thief.  Don plowed and maintained Mama’s poor garden, except for what Louie could be pushed into doing.  The Rolling Store, a converted school bus pulled in next to her house weekly so Louie could fetch the scant  groceries on her list.

Following Boogereater’s gasoline sniffing episode, Daddy was extremely critical of Mother’s handling of the situation.  If Mother had been attending her children instead of trying to sneak a nap, Connie would never have slid off the bed.  Mother should have stood up to to Mrs. Rick and not left her children to take “that kid” to the doctor.  If she’d kept the screen locked like she was supposed to, Louie would never have gotten in to scare her. I guess if she hadn’t put gas in the car, Boogereater wouldn’t have sniffed it.  The bill from the doctor put the icing on the cake. The point of this was, Daddy knew how to handle things.

Thanksgiving was a’coming.  The rooster to have the place of honor at the festivities was shut in a coop fattening.  The accomodations were nothing special but the menu was excellent.  In his neighborhood ramblings, Louie apparently noted the incarcerated rooster, stirring a memory.  Mother noted Louie headed across our yard with the squawking rooster under his arm.  Mother rushed out to rescue her bird.  “Louie, bring back my rooster!  We are fattening him for Thanksgiving!

“I ‘mon eat him.  I ‘mon eat dis rooster.” He replied complacently as he headed home with his new rooster.”

“Louie!  Bring him back!  That’s my rooster!”. This wasn’t the first time Louie got the best of her. 

She was fuming when Daddy got home.  “Louie got my rooster! I saw him cutting across the  front yard with the rooster under his arm.  I hollered at him, but he wouldn’t bring him back!”

“Well, if you’re gonna deal with him, you’re gonna have to be smarter than he is!”This was a generous paraphrase of Daddy’s response.  He’s d never heard of political correctness.  “I’ll go get your damned rooster!”. He strode confidently across the dusty road.

He found Louie out back of the house shutting the rooster in a crate, “Louie, I came to get my rooster.  Don’t be going out on my place no more.”

Louie met the challenge, totally unperturbed.  “I ‘mon eat him.”

Tolerating no nonsense, Daddy glared at him. “I’m taking my rooster.”

“I’ll get me ‘nother one.” Replied Louie steadily, knowing right was on his side.

Bested, Daddy stomped back to his own yard.  Where’s my rooster?” Mother queried.

“Let’im keep the damned thing!” Daddy spouted.  “He ain’t got enough sense to talk to!”

Dining With Mr. Floyd

Daddy had always wanted a place in the country, but was overwhelmed at the magnitude of work facing him on that totally undeveloped acreage.  It had been homesteaded and farmed shortly after the Civil War, but hadn’t been under production for many years, long enough that most of it was covered in mature timber.  A tangle of locust trees was matted  over the old homeplace beneath three huge oaks.  Though we worked hard at clearing  and burning the growth, locust thorns worked up through the ground and pierced our feet for years to come, even through our shoes.

There was more work than one man could do, so Daddy hired Mr. Floyd to help harvest the timber and clear the land for pasture..  All that timber would finance the payments on the place and make improvements.  Mr. Floyd lived on the fringes of society getting by on odd jobs.  Mr. Floyd was unkempt, rarely bathed, and kept to himself, but had a reputation as a hard worker, He lived in a shack in the woods with his brother, who didn’t manage quite so well.  Daddy couldn’t afford to pay Mr. Floyd much, so they worked out a deal on a small wage, meals, and lodging in our fine school bus camper. When Mother got a whiff of Mr. Floyd, she told Daddy the camper was dead to her after that.

So, Daddy set the camper up on the far edge of his place.  Mr. Floyd moved in with instructions  to leave propane off since there might be a leak.  There shouldn’t be a problem anyway, since he’d be taking his meals with us.  Mother put some old bedding in the camper and Mr. Floyd moved in.  The next morning, he showed up for breakfast before daylight.  He didn’t was his hands, just dove in to the biscuits, grits, and eggs.  His manners served as lessons, thereafter.  “You’re eating like Mr. Floyd.”  He didn’t hog the conversation.  He was too busy with biscuits.

The men went to work right after breakfast.  It was early summer, but hot as blazes.  When they came in for lunch, Daddy pointed out the bathroom so Mr. Floyd could wash up.  He wasn’t worried about that.  He took the the chair Mother had offered him for breakfast nearest the window.  Daddy always sat at the opposite end of the table that got the best breeze from the attic fan.  He sat downwind of Mr. Floyd just long enough to get a whiff of seasoned body odor marinated with the piquant aroma of fresh morning sweat the fan pulled over our guest before jumping up.  “Here Floyd.  Sit here.  It’s the coolest spot.”

Mr. Floyd also taught Mother to cut the cornbread before putting it on the table when he reached for the plate and broke off a big piece before passing it. Phyllis and I both declined cornbread and passed it right along.  I didn’t keep up with who else was feeling picky, but there was a lot left after lunch.  None of us kids ever learned to enjoy Mr. Floyd’s company, but he was a necessary evil.

One night, over in the winter, long after work was finished, we heard what sounded like a sonic boom, which was surprising to hear at night.  A few minutes later, Mr. Floyd knocked on the door.  The boom had come from the camper.  Mr. Floyd had run low on wood for the heater and opted to use the propane stove, instead, the very same stove Daddy had warned him not to use because he suspected a leak.  Mr. Floyd had lit up a cigarette before bed and came near burning himself up.  It’s bad he got some burns, but good he didn’t gas himself. He was done with the camper after that, so that’s when Daddy let him work out a deal for a 1953 Chevy Sedan Daddy could spare.

The camper was deemed unfit, not only because Mr. Floyd blew it up, but because his strong smell lingered.  You can’t get rid of a fifty dollar just because of that.  A farm can always use storage.  Daddy pulled the camper up behind the house to use for feed storage and a place for the dogs to sleep. Mother was furious to have it so near her new house.  From that time on, whenever Daddy had no particular place to store something, it went in the camper.  It wasn’t long before the dogs were crowded out of the nice smelly bunks.  Whenever they could, the chickens slipped in and helped themselves to the chicken feed and tried to set up housekeeping.  Rats also liked chicken feed.  Black snakes love eggs, so between the smell, spooked chickens, rats, and snakes it was fairly unappealing.

Miracle Healer

Daddy had a knee that troubled him from the time he’d left the Navy. It swelled and pained him in bad weather, likely osteoarthritis. He felt human bodies were like automobiles, if something wasn’t running just right, you fixed it. Unfortunately, as a few of us have noticed, wear and tear is normal with some things best left alone. Daddy visited numerous doctors, thinking knee surgery would fix him as good as new. He was disappointed when every one suggested conservative treatment, not surgery. Finally, he found a doctor at the Veterans Hospital who agreed to fix the knee, though he assured Daddy it wasn’t likely to make him better.

He lay in the hospital more than two months, casted from ankle to thigh. Getting up on crutches and ambulating was a nightmare. He was not a stoic man. This surgery business was not turning out to be a simple tune up like he’d envisioned.   Upon discharge, he was still casted and hobbling on crutches from bed to chair, not a good outcome.  He was still in a lot of pain, disappointed, depressed, and miserable. When Daddy was in pain, everybody was in pain. He spent his days stretched out in a recliner in the middle of the living room, watching TV, loud! From that point, he could supervise all goings on. He critiqued every move the family made. We were all most imperfect. He listened in on all phone conversations, insisting on knowing who it was. What did they want? It was not a good time to be a Swain.

Eventually, he got his cast off. The staff attempted to help him bend his leg. It was excruciating, of course. He was instructed to exercise every day and increase the movement daily, the extent of his therapy. He didn’t deal with the pain well, so he was left with a stiff leg.

All the family vehicles had standard transmissions. Daddy couldn’t work the clutch, so he couldn’t drive. He was so critical, no one would drive him if they could get out of it. It was common for farm kids to drive early then, long before they got a license. Connie and Marilyn were eager to drive, so eventually, they were driving him about the countryside. If they went to town, Mother was stuck driving him, much to her disgust. Mother was barely five feet and Daddy six foot three inches. He slid the seat as far back as possible and stretched out on the front seat. When Mother tried to slide the seat forward, it jammed. When she put some muscle behind it and gave another try, the stuck seat broke loose and flew forward, bending his knee and simultaneously banging it into the dash. He screamed, shoved the seat back, and jumped nimbly from the car. When he finished his dance of agony, he found his stiff knee healed, though I don’t believe he ever thanked Mother

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 2

Daddy should have been a polygamist the way he laid out work for Mother.  His list might start, “Take the power saw by the shop in Springhill (22 miles away) on your way to the tractor place in Magnolia (24 miles beyond Springhill) pick up a magneto.  It ought to look like this.  (He’d dangle two broken pieces)  Mother wouldn’t have known a magneto from a mosquito.  On your way home, stop at Rusty’s and get some  catfish to fry tonight.  Eric is coming over after work to help me and I told him you’d fry him up some catfish.  Oh yeah, don’t forget to stop at the feed store in Cotton Valley and get a hundred pounds of grain.  That red cow is looking poor and I want to fatten her up.”

The entire round of errands was more than one hundred miles. Mother would do what she had to at the house, grab her two preschoolers and start her day.  Of course, she still had to “fry fish for Eric” at the end of this little jaunt.  Mother was a “good wife” and would never told Daddy to take care of his own business.  He was completely demanding and thought she was lucky to be married to him.  Add Mother’s regular routine to this and it was a mess.

Well, on the proud occasion of my brother Bill’s high school graduation, he was miraculously gifted with a suit. The whole family was thrilled.  My parents had been worried for months how they would come up with the necessary graduation suit.  A regular suit would have really stretched their budget, but Bill was tall, more than six feet-four inches.  West Brothers wasn’t going to be much help.  About two weeks before graduation, a box came in the mail, a beautiful blue suit.  It came with long, long unhemmed pants.  All the pants needed was hemming to make them perfect-the answer to a prayer.  Immediately, Daddy pronounced, “Kathleen, you’ve got to get busy right now and get those pants hemmed.”

“I’ll get it done, but not right now. I’m cooking supper.”  Daddy liked his food.  He couldn’t argue with that.

The next night at exactly the same time, “Kathleen, did you get those pants hemmed today?”

“No. Connie was sick and I had to take her to the doctor.  She threw up the rest of the day.  I didn’t get anything done.”

Now he was clearly not pleased. “Well, you better get it done tomorrow.  Graduation is only a week and a half off.”

Mother was mad now. “I know that as well as you do.  And I know he has to have a suit.  I would have done it today if Connie hadn’t gotten sick!”

Disaster fell that night. Granny Long died.  Mother had to help at the house and cook food for the funeral.  Mother and Daddy had to “sit” a shift with the body at the home that night, when they were asked if Billy could be a pall bearer.  “Of course,” said Daddy.  “It would be an honor.”

”Oh no! He’ll have to have a suit and I didn’t get it hemmed!”  thought Mother. It was after 2:00 A.M. when they got home.  The funeral was at 10:00 A.M. It never even occurred to Daddy the suit was not hemmed and pressed just like he’d delegated days ago.

“Come Hell or High Water” breakfast was the first order of the day.  Mother wasn’t about to mention the suit before she had to.   By the time Daddy was out of the way, Bill learned he’d been pressed into service as a pall-bearer. With a yet-to-be hemmed suit, tensions were high.  Every minute counted.  Mother told him to try the pants on so she could measure them for a hem.  Furious as only a hormone-ridden seventeen-year-old pantsless pall-bearer can be, he held them in front of himself and snarled, “Just cut them here.”

Sick of the attitude, Mother didn’t notice he was bending as he pointed. She cut.  He ran for the shower while she hemmed and pressed faster than I’d ever seen her move, glad to have dodged a bullet.

Minutes later, he strode down to hall where we all were waiting, Daddy included. Complete with jacket, tie, cufflinks, and beautifully shined dress shoes he made an entrance.  His new suit pants ended four inches below his knees, revealing six inches of hairy, white leg above his black socks.  He looked like Tom Sawyer whitewashing the fence.  His expression was unreadable.  There would be no saving his beautiful suit.  I was sure somebody would have to die!  Mother looked from him to Daddy and pronounced, “Well, it couldn’t be helped!”  We all exploded and laughed so long and hard a tragedy was averted.  Billy went back and put on his old black dress pants to do his pall bearer duty.  I don’t remember what happened to the graduation suit.  I guess it didn’t matter that much after all.

Washday Blues

Image courtesy of The People’s History

Mother had some bad luck, then some good.  She was a  passenger in a car hit by a drunk driver and sustained a cut over her eye.  The good news was, she wasn’t badly scarred and got a two-thousand dollar settlement from the driver’s insurance.  Daddy and Mother were rich!  (He was the man and what was hers was his.) That was a lot of money in 1956.  She said the first thing she wanted was an automatic washing machine. She and Daddy made for the local furniture store.  When Daddy saw what a new Maytag cost, he balked. The set pictured above retailed at $494!  Of course, purchase of a dryer would have been ridiculous, since she had a clothesline and nothing but time, but the price of a new washer alone was outrageous!  They had a lot of better places for that money!  The upshot was, the salesman finally admitted he had taken a used Maytag in trade.  That was more like it.  Daddy always went for used.   That fine, used washer came home with them, for only fifty dollars.  It took place of pride on the screened-in back porch and Mother’s old wringer washer became a trade-in.

It worked okay for a few weeks and Mother dealt with her disappointment at not getting a new Maytag.  Soon, it revealed its true nature.  Apparently, the switch was moody.  It began to protest moving between cycles.  Sometimes it made a grinding nose, sometimes it meditated.  Eventually, it died.  Mother was livid.  They had wasted fifty dollars on a piece of trash.  At least her old wringer washer was dependable.  Of course, by now, the two-thousand dollars was history.  They’d paid some bills, and Daddy had purchased a small sawmill so he could go in the cross-tie business.  It looked like a great deal till the bottom fell out of the cross-tie business.  Money was tight as always.  Daddy had heard that a neighbor, J. D. Offut, worked on appliances, so he sent a kid over to ask Mr. Offut to stop by when he got off his day job.  This was before we enjoyed the luxury of a telephone.

I have no idea what Mr. Offut’s day job was,  but his hobby was soon performing CPR on Mother’s chronically ailing Maytag washer.  He always tinkered long enough to revive it for a few days.  Invariably he’d leave Mother with a handful of small unnecessary parts.  “I bypassed the such and such, so I didn’t need these.  You might want to keep them, just in case.  I don’t know how long it will hold up.”  His confidence in his work was well-grounded.  It rarely ran more than a few days, leaving Mother to  fish out a heavy load of cold, soggy laundry in anticipation of Mr. Offut ‘s call.  Sometimes, he had a previous commitment, so she’d have to finish the load by hand.  It was unfortunate she didn’t swear.  I believe it would have helped her feelings as she truminated on Daddy, the washer, and Mr. Offut.

Mother never did learn to appreciate that washer.