memoir

Laundry in the Old Days

Images from Smithsonian collection

When she first married in 1946, Mother washed on a rub board. By the time I was born, they’d come up enough in the world to acquire a second wringer-washing machine. It cut her work tremendously. Wash days were so much more pleasant and relaxing. All she had to do was sort the laundry into whites, colors, towels, and work clothes.

She  manually filled the machine with hot water from a connection on the back porch as well as several pans of water boiled on the stove for her whites. Adding plenty of Clorox and laundry soap, she turned on the agitator and loaded her whites. The machine agitated the wash vigorously till she turned it off. When she was satisfied the whites were clean, the water was was usually still steaming hot. She’d turn the agitator off. While the clothes were washing, she’d fill two big galvanized tubs with rinse water, using the hose

After  switching the wringer on, she’d fish the whites out of the scalding water with a stick and carefully run them through the wringer, allowing the wash water to drain back into the washing machine tank. The flattened clothes fed from the wringer into the first rinse tub. She worked them up and down with a plunger to rinse, then swiveled the wringer into position between the galvanized tubs, to wring the wash before the second rinse, plunging and wringing again and winding into a basket for the line.

Water had to be added to the the washer and tubs after each load, since a great deal of water remained in the clothes and ended up on the floor. Between loading, agitating, and rinsing, the laundry not requiring starch had to go on the line. The washer had to be manually switched into drain. Since the washer was on wheels many times the drain hose ended up on the floor, instead of the drain, ensuring plenty of excitement and extra mop up.

Now the good part, starching. Using powdered starch, Mother cooked up a thick batch of starch on the stove. Refilling the washing machine with hot water, she mixed the cooked starch in, making sure to stir till the mixture was absolutely smooth Our good cotton dresses, pants, shirts, and Daddy’s work clothes went back in to agitate, then were run through the wringer, into the laundry basket for the line. Of course, they were very hot. As the family got bigger, Mother had to starch two or three loads.

The floors were a dirty, sloppy mess by the end of laundry day, necessitating a thorough scrubbing. The greatest hazard was getting caught in the wringer, hence the phrase, putting you through the wringer.”

Tuesday was ironing day, another treat.

My Dirty Laundry

Bud says I am stubborn.  It’s true.  Once an idea occurs to me, I can’t get rid of it! Since the kids are long gone, I decided to treat myself to some white fluffy towels a couple of years ago. No problem since I would be totally in control.  These towels would never languish on the floor, under the bed, or touch mascara or muddy shoes.  They’d never wash a car or wipe spaghetti sauce off the sofa.  Time passed.  They got dingy.  I didn’t like them anymore.  I started sneaking into Bud’s bathroom to get his luscious green ones, but  I couldn’t get the white ones off my mind.  Surely, I could fix them. They couldn’t be bleached, so I tried non-chlorine bleach.  That didn’t brighten them at all, so I decided to bleach them, anyway.  What did I have to lose?

So I bleached them. They went from dingy gray to a dull hen poo poo muffledy dun.  Those towels were disgusting, sort of like they had been wiping shoes, smearing mascara, washing the car, and wiping up dog vomit with.  I tolerated them for a while, then checked the internet for a solution.  I needed to boil them in a solution of dishwasher detergent, vinegar, borax and detergent.  Sounded like a lot of trouble, but I really wanted them white again. I mixed the concoction right up and put my towels on to boil.  I boiled them for about thirty minutes, frequently punching them down.  I believe this was the high-tech method used up until folks got washing machines.  The water turned an ugly brown.  It must be working!

 

                 

Eventually, I finished them up in the washer.  Meanwhile, I’d made a real mess of the kitchen.  The sink was full of pots, the stove a sloppy mess, and the floor tracked up.  It didn’t look like I’d done a deep cleaning just yesterday.  It only took an hour to get back to where it was.  My back still hurts.

            

In the picture on the right, you can see the result of all my hard work.  Aren’t those colors bizarre?  Some of the towels remained plain dingy gray.  Others took on an ugly, rusty hue.  The big surprise was, some turned a pale pink. I am partial to dingy gray, but that’s just me.  Does anybody out there need some ugly towels?  They’ll be perfect to  wash the car and wipe mud off the dog.

Wait!  I just saw two more things to try.  Laundry bluing is supposed to brighten dingy clothes up.  Sunshine bleaches!  Bud is going to have to put up a clothes line!

 

 

Miss Tillie Tittilates the Heathen

imageMiss Tillie, my Sunday School Teacher held my attention like no other before or since, giving the class candy, bubble gum, and tiny little paper umbrellas if we learned our Bible verses. Mother thought she ought not to bribe us to do our lessons. I thought Mother ought to mind her own business. Miss Tillie had already taught Sunday School for thirty years by the time I had her in 1956. She still wore lacy dresses left over from her daughter’s high school days when she didn’t opt for gabardine suits with oversize shoulder pads from the forties. She showed up once a month with robin’s egg blue hair that faded over the next three weeks to a pale lavender. We always complimented her when it was at its brightest and she’d shyly say, “Can you believe I don’t even have to color it?” I couldn’t. She still wore seamed stockings long after the other ladies wore seamless. I always looked forward to seeing a special one with a mended run she wore every third Sunday. I got to know Miss Tillie before I was old enough to know she was a little wacko, so I admired all her differences.

Miss Tillie was so sweet I wouldn’t have wanted to misbehave. The naughty words in the Bible caused her a big problem. She couldn’t bring herself to say the bad words like lie, sin, Hell, and ass, so she made modest substitutions such as fibbing, doing wrong, the bad place, and donkeys. The lesson of Samson versus the Philistines was a challenge for her. Starting out fine, she described Samson’s great strength and glorious hair, reminding us of his obedience to God. Things were going well until the battle reached its zenith. With her modesty, she couldn’t possibly say, “Samson slew ten-thousand Philistines with the jawbone of an ass,” so after a great deal of obvious preparation and practice, she concluded the lesson with a flourish, “and so Samson picked up the assbone of a donkey and slew ten-thousand Philistines.” That lesson is still burned in my brain.

I Didn’t Do Nothing!

Connie and Marilyn, my younger sisters were great friends with Ralphie, the neighbor boy.  They never fought, playing happily for hours.  Most often, they shared a seat on the school bus, since his stop was right after theirs.  A skinny little guy, Ralphie’s nose dominated his face, causing him to endure taunts on a regular basis.

One afternoon, Connie flew in crying to Mother the instant she got off the bus.  “Ralphie hit me in the stomach!”

Mother was shocked.  They’d always been such good friends.  “Why did he do that?  He never hits.  What did you do to him?”

”Nothing!  I didn’t do nothing to him!”  Marilyn was right behind her, backing her up.

”Are you sure you didn’t  do anything to him?”  she queried.

”No!” Connie insisted.

”Come on then.  I guess we’d better go talk to his mama.  I can’t have him hitting y’all.”  She got her purse and herded Connie and Marilyn into the car, determined to put a stop to Ralphie’s bad behavior before it got out of hand.  The girls were delighted, knowing Ralphie anticipating Ralphie’s big trouble.

Miss Betty invited Mother in, though she did seem a little cool.  Ralphie and the girls settled to play, as they always did.

Miss Betty brought Mother a cup of coffee and took a seat at the kitchen table with Mother.  “ I need to talk to you, Betty.  Connie said Ralphie hit her in the stomach for no reason.”

”I know.” Betty answered. “Did Connie tell you she called him Banana Nose?  His daddy told him to do that when kids call him that. He has to stick up for himself.”

Mother was mortified.  “Connie, did you call Ralphie Banana Nose?  You know better than that!  No wonder he hit you!  You tell hm you’re sorry, right now.”

Connie was in it, deep. “I’m sorry, Ralphie.”

Hastily, Mother made her goodbyes, heading home to eat crow.

Connie learned not to call names that day.  Mother learned not to believe a kid who “didn’t do nothing.”

 

 

 

Tea with Ralphie and Barbie

Connie’s first grade class picture.  Connie sits directly in front of the teacher.  Mother made her dress.

Ralphie’s mom had coffee with Mother several mornings a week.  A quirky little guy, he played happily with Connie and Marilyn in their bedroom.  Mother never let them shut the bedroom door.  She still hadn’t gotten over my brother poking holes in Barbie’s nipples with a straight pin.  One morning, Mother heard the door shut.  She left her coffee and opened the door.  “Leave the door open.  It’ll get too hot in here.”  Ralphie was digging happily in the toy box, obviously in pursuit of some prize.  In just a minute, Mother heard the door shut again.  Leaving her coffee, she opened the bedroom  again.  Barbie dolls, clothes, and accessories were spread all around.  Hurriedly, Ralphie hid a half-dressed Barbie behind his back.  “Leave the door open.  It’s hot in here.”

”I want the door shut,” said Ralphie.  “I’m cold.”

Realizing Ralphie hadn’t wanted to be seen playing Barbie, Mother answered.  “Tell you what, kids.  Bring your Barbies and tea set in the living room and I’ll make you some KoolAid.  We’ll all have a tea party.”  The kids gathered up their toys and set up in the living room at their mama’s feet.  Ever after, when Ralphie came to play Barbie, they all had a tea party in the living room with the ladies.

The Sad Saga of Door to Door Sales Part 3

IMAGE COURTESY OF PIXABAY

Reading is as essential as breathing to me.  Imagine my joy when a salesman knocked on the door selling books!  The Book of Knowlege to be exact!  He even involved us children in the act, demonstrating its beauty and seducing us further by reading us “The Tale of Rumplestilskin.” The kids were sold, but alas, we had no buying power.  I would have gladly traded one of my siblings for that set of books, but the salesman wasn’t interested.  Daddy was not a reader, but the image of smart children hooked him, coupled with his proclivity for buying in that manner.  He did want his children to succeed.  Guess what!   This entire compendium only cost three-hundred dollars!  That must have been the going rate for door to door sales back in the fifties.  Daddy went for the whole deal:  The Book of Knowlege, Grolier’s Encyclopedia, Lands and Peoples and the dictionaries.  One fine day, box after box of books arrived.  We were giddy with joy, but Mother made us wait till Daddy got in so he could open them.  Solemnly, he took each volume out and stacked the sets on the floor beside the empty boxes.  He thumbed through a few volumes, before handing each one on to Mother to peruse.  It was like church.

Then we got the talk.  We were never to touch the books without washing our hands.  Volumes were to be returned to the shelf, IN ORDER, immediately after use.  Volumes were no to leave the living room.  Never eat or drink with a book.  These books were not to be treated as toys.  The books belonged to the whole family and treated with respect.  We were not to behave in our usual heathenish manner around these books, very good advice, indeed.

I loved those books and spent endless hours emmersed in their pages.  I particularly loved the stories they told.  I was disappointed to learn “The World Book” was preferred by my teachers, but “Grolier’s Encyclopdia” sufficed.  I particularly enjoyed the images of the naked people in “Lands and Peoples” when I could be sure of privacy.  Equally pleasurable were the classical nude statues portrayed in “Groliers,” though the fig leaves confused me.  I’d sneaked a peek at a few naked baby boys who didn’t look anything like that.

I was sharing all this with a family acquaintance and he added his own sad story.  His father sold insurance door to door.  When the encyclopedia man came calling, they worked out a deal.  Each purchased from the other, so both would benefit.  My friend and his brothers enjoyed their books, just as we had.  Sadly, neither man was able to make payments. The insurance policy was dropped and one sad day, someone came to repossess the lovely books.  I can only imagine the heartbreak those children endured.

 

 

The Sad Saga of Door to Door Sales Part 2

The purchase of waterless cookware deserves more attention in view of the problems it caused.  The actual door the salesman knocked on was not ours.  It was my Uncle Parnell’s where we’d spent a couple of days .  That morning, we were to journey on to my maternal grandmother’s, a trip Daddy had put off as long as possible.  While he would have never given in to his impulse to shoot Grandma, I don’t think Daddy would’ve grieved too deeply had he backed over her.  At any rate, I’m sure that salesman was thrilled.  The spiel went on for hours.  Daddy would talk to anyone who’d listen, determined to ferret out a shared acquaintance.  Eventually, the salesman caught on and acknowledged a nebulous connection, realizing the sale hung on it.  Daddy bought that damned cookware, a three-hundred -seventy-five dollar purchase, at a time when his net pay was a bit over a hundred a week.  Mother was furious, first at the delay in leaving for Grandma’s, then at the outrageous purchase, not knowing the full disaster that was about to befall.

The salesman, who we forever afterward referred to as Mr. Pots, told Daddy Mother should launch a career selling waterless cookware, an idea Daddy quickly seconded.  He’d always felt Mother could contribute more if she’d just “get organized.”  She had nothing but leisure with five children, house and farm chores which included milking a cow, gardening, and food preservation.  In her spare time, she sewed everything she and the girls wore.  I don’t know why he’d put up with her laziness that long.

Mother hit the ceiling.  “I am not selling that mess!”  Her rotten attitude dashed no one’s hopes.  The upshot was, Daddy invited Mr. Pots to come stay with us for a week or so and induct Mother into sales.  Mr. Pots eagerly accepted, glad to find a man who could bully his wife  lining his own pockets.

A week later, Mr. Pots showed up, laden with Daddy’s cookware.  Daddy was appalled and embarrassed that Mother stuck to her guns, after he’d set this up for her benefit.  Mr. Pots moved into my unfortunate brother’s room.  Daddy gave Mr. Pots a list of possible victims and Mr. Pots was off, without Mother as his protege.  There wasn’t a lot of warmth in our home that week.  Daddy was furious he hadn’t been able to force Mother into sales.  She’d failed him.  Mother was was enraged that Daddy had once again proved himself an insensitive ass.

Everyone was glad to see the last of Mr. Pots.  Eventually, the cookware was paid off.

The Sad Saga of Door to Door Sales

Daddy would buy anything sold door to door.  He probably would have bought a helicopter had a salesman shown up and offered one on a no-money-down, three-year-payment plan.  He bought waterless cookware.  It was supposed to cut cooking time, save money and increase Mother’s effiency. He was all for anything that made Mother more organized. I guess it never occurred to him a string of babies and unending farm and house work might be a factor.

When the vacuum salesman came around, Daddy didn’t feel he could afford the new model, so he bargained for the used model the salesman had taken in trade on his rounds that morning.  The purchase probably saved the guy a trip to the dump. The salesman jimmied with it enough to get it running that day, but it never started again.  I don’t believe that helped Mother’s organization or her attitude a bit.  The good news was, the salesman took five dollars cash, and Mother was to send payments afterwards.  The good news was, Mother never sent a payment, which meant the guy only beat them out of five bucks.

We also had the only house distinguished by lightning rods on the roof.  The theory was, the lightning would strike the rod, rather than the roof.  The charge was to follow  a metal cable downward, where it would be grounded.  The lightning rods might have been an the answer to a prayer had Daddy not bought a remote-controlled television antenna which  was probably twenty feet taller than the model that came with the TV from the next guy who knocked on the door.  He enjoyed trying to find the best reception for a month or two until the antenna was struck by lightening.  The charge ran down the wire, melted a hole in metal TV case and fried the vacuum tubes.  Sadly, it also blew out the works in the beautiful ship lamp that came with the TV and melted its lovely red cellophane windows.  I was kind of glad when the antenna motor blew out since Daddy spent a lot of time adjusting it, limiting our viewing pleasure. We were frequently sent outdoors a lot to let him know if it was moving while he adjusted.  I never could tell when it moved, so I just gave random answers.  I don’t know why it gave him so much trouble.

 

to be continued

Icy Showers and Rotten Sausage

Cousin Kat was tight. We always took plenty of food when we went to visit her in her Appalachian Paradise knowing how “conservative” she was. She thought three rolls, three scrambled eggs, a little jam and a dab of butter was plenty for any number of guests there might be for breakfast. “I just don’t think there’s any point in folks being hoggish,” was her favorite phrase as she set out a meal. She was a devout believer and had probably heard that story about Jesus feeding the multitudes on five loves and three fishes one too many times.

A few days before our last visit, someone had given Cousin Kat some fresh homemade sausage. She’d eaten a bit and saved some for us. That sounded fine till I opened her tiny 1940 model refrigerator to get some water. The rank smell of bad meat nearly knocked me down. “Ooh, Cousin Kat, I think something’s gone bad in here!”

“Oh, it’s not bad. It’s just that sausage Barney gave me. It’s real spicy!” She answered, totally unconcerned. “I’m gonna cook it up for supper.”

I made up my mind then and there to eat popcorn. I’ve never smelled a spice that mimicked the smell of rancid meat so closely. Mother and Phyllis both found other options. Count Kat cooked that sausage and ate up all by herself, since she was determined not to let it go to waste. It stunk the whole house up with its nauseating odor as it cooked. We all told her it smelled like it might have “gone to the bad.” She disagreed.

We planned a road trip for the four of us to go into Amish Country and packed a nice picnic …no sausage. Phyllis and Cousin Kat decided to take their showers the evening before so The four of us wouldn’t be competing in the morning. Cousin Kat told her how she could run a bit of water in the tub, sit on the edge, wash her face, ears, neck, then her body before washing the best parts and her feet. That way, she could get by with just a little of that expensive hot water. Well, I do believe I heard the shower running while Phyllis was in there, despite her lesson. Cousin Kat perked up her ears, too. When Phyllis came out, Cousin Kat said, “I hope you stopped up the tub and saved your water for me. Just one person don’t mess up bath water none.” Shamefaced, Phyllis had to admit she run it all down the drain. Cousin Kat gave her a look.

We went on to bed. I snore and talk in my sleep, so no one would bunk in with me. I am always early to bed, so I took the small bedroom. Cousin Kat gave Mother an inflatable mattress her son had left there to put on the living floor. Unfortunately, he had taken the pump home with him, so they sent a great deal of time trying to inflate it with a small hand-held hairdryer, the wrong tool for the job. Eventually, it approximated a mattress, though it flattened out the minute Mother reclined on it. They hadn’t bothered to pad the floor with quilts, so Mother was freezing the minute she lay down that frosty October evening. She got up, dragged her covers to an old-fashioned bi-fold sofa and tried to warm up. It was hard, lumpy, and had a couple of exposed springs but it was better than the icy floor.

Meanwhile, things weren’t going much better for Phyllis in the large, unheated upstairs bedroom. She’d chosen it because she liked to sleep in the cold. She’d dawdled and was the last to get to bed. I was quickly asleep, though I kept up a listen for retching during the night, expecting Cousin Kat to come down with food poisoning, but the next thing I knew, Phyllis was climbing in the small creeky bed with me. “I thought you were too good to sleep with me.” I reminded her.

“I am, but when I got upstairs and switched on that dim overhead light everything looked fine, but when I turned back the quilts, rice scattered all over the place. I couldn’t imagine why rice would be on the bed, like that. I turned on that little flashlight Cousin Kat gave me and saw the bed and floor covered in mouse pellets. Mice were scattering everywhere. I can’t sleep up there with all those mice. She was mad! I was laughing so hard the springs were creeping. We sounded like honeymooners.

As I mentioned earlier, I don’t sleep well, I talk in my sleep. In truth, it’s much worse than that. I curse and hurl epithets, language I’d never use during waking hours. Once I drifted off, Phyllis and I rolled up in that ancient mattress like a couple of hotdogs in a bun. She swears I shoved her and screamed at her to “get the f…. Out of here. I don’t remember a thing about it!

In a huff, she got up in search of a place to sleep. Seeing that Mother had abandoned the perfectly good air mattress, she gave it a try. Of course, it put her right on the floor. Not to be defeated, she folded it in half and stretched out. That was a little better. Just as she drifted off, it gave up the ghost and blew out. Hearing all the racket, Mother and I got up to help. I invited her to share my bed, but she was mad and wouldn’t have any part of it. Mother offered to share the bi-fold sofa, but there was no way that would work. She ended up spendinding the rest of the night wrapped in a blanket trying to sleep in a not-so-easy chair.

We got up early to have breakfast and get ready for our trip. At the kitchen table, We chatted over breakfast and sipped coffee. Mother and Phyllis lied about the extent of their miserable night. Phyllis had to come up with an excuse about abandoning the mousy attic. Cousin Kat polished off the last piece of the rancid sausage with her breakfast.

I got the first shower, keeping it short, since I remembered Cousin Kat’s lesson. It was pleasantly hot, but Mother said Cousin Kat ducked down to the basement to “get something” while I showered. Mother was next in line. When she got in, the water was nice and hot while she soaped up, but in just a minute, an icy blast hit her. Obviously, Cousin Kat’s basement errand was to cut off the water heater. The water came from a mountain spring, so Mother’s hot shower was over. She had to wipe the soap off with a wet washcloth dipped in icy water.

She was furious when she shivered out of her shower, accusing me of using all the hot water.
“Mother, I wasn’t in there but a couple of minutes. I didn’t use that much!”

All the while, Cousin Kat sat humming contentedly, finally offering, “Oh well, that water heater’s old. I guess it just gave out.” Only the day before she’d told us that her son had just put in a new one, over her objections. “I can heat what water I need on the stove and save the heating bill.” She made no mention of turning off the water heater.

Finally, the cold, grouchy bunch was ready to start the trip.

To be continued