Mother

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.

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.”

 

 

 

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.

I Don’t Have the Money Right Now

Sally Cronin was kind enough to let me blog sit and publish this post on her site, Smorgasbard today.  I had difficulty reposting so I am doing it today.  Thanks, Sally.

Mother prides herself on being frugal, but loves nice things. Should she win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes today and be guaranteed five-thousand dollars every week for life, it wouldn’t change anything. She’d live in the same house and drive the same car because, “I don’t have the money right now.” She’s been the same size and worn the same styles since she married, so she never has to buy anything that’s not on clearance. In fact, when shopping, she’s not above placing the size eight she has her eye on among the size eighteens and then coming back to see if it’s marked down a few weeks later. You’d think God was looking out for her. “Would you look at this? They’ve marked it down. I don’t mind paying fifteen dollars, but there’s no way it’s worth eighty-five to me.’

The one great exception is her pursuit of the perfect shoe. Domestic abuse early in her marriage messed up Mother’s ability to easily find shoes on the bargain rack. Just so you know, she’s the one who committed the abuse, though Daddy never even noticed. As a young man, Daddy worked shift work and put off going to bed as long as possible. He felt sleeping was a waste of time when there were better things to do. As a result, when he finally hit the bed, he slept like the dead. One night, he rolled over on Mother’s long hair and she couldn’t wake him. She poked, elbowed, and yelled, to no effect. In desperation, she kicked him till he finally roused enough for her to get her hair loose. In agony, she got up and soaked the toe till it calmed enough for her to sleep. The next morning, it was bruised and so swollen she couldn’t even get her shoe on. This was back when doctors made house calls. Daddy fetched Dr. Pike who diagnosed the big toe broken, pushed the battered toe back in place, and wrapped it to her second toe to act as a splint. She hobbled around in just a sock till the swelling went down enough to endure a shoe. Afterwards, she required a half size larger and needed more supportive shoes, which are of course, more expensive.

As a result, Mother fixated on good shoes. Should she find her heart’s desire, particularly at a marked-down price, a terrible dilemma ensues. Torn between her desire, for that particular pair of shoes, the battle of shoe desire versus frugality begins. It’s a trial to witness. “Do I really need these shoes? I don’t have any nice (brown, blue, white, green, yellow) ones. I won’t ever find any more this color, style, price, etc. again. You know I have a hard time finding shoes that feel good after I hurt my toe.”

She always makes it sound like the toe incident was an Act of God, not an attack of my poor, innocent father, so I feel obligated to remind her. “You know, you wouldn’t have all this trouble if you hadn’t kicked my poor daddy.” Just as I hoped it would, this remark always catches the attention of store clerks and nearby shoppers, who no doubt envision her kicking a poor, incapacitated invalid, not the snoring behemoth she kicked seventy years ago. They do seem a bit disappointed when they turn to stare and see only a tiny eighty-nine-year-old lady standing there, clutching a pair of red shoes.

After they’ve all had a good look, I remind her. “Those do look good. You’d probably enjoy them. If you change your mind, we can bring them back.”

“You don’t think it would be foolish of me to get these? I don’t really have the money right now, but I have a hard time finding good shoes. These were originally $169 and they’re marked down to $59. That’s more than I want to spend, but I’m not going to find them any cheaper? What do you think?”

“I think you won’t get a better deal unless you throw a brick through a window, so get them if you want them. Besides, if they were just a dollar, they’d be more than you want to spend.” She is just warming up. We both know she’s getting the shoes, but there’s still work to do.

“I know. I have a couple of new pairs I haven’t worn yet, but blah, blah, blah. Do you really think I should get them? I still have two-hundred dollars left from the money I got for Christmas.” This was in April. She’d rake in a fresh bankroll for her birthday in May, but this discussion is going to go on a while, anyway. I was almost, but not quite, ready to kick in on the shoes to get out of the store. She asked two customers and a clerk for opinions. They were divided. That didn’t help a bit!

“Mother, if you want them, get them. You don’t have to consider anyone but yourself. I’m going to look around while you make up your mind.” I head for the hills, returning with the hope she’s reached a decision. When I came back, she was in line with two shoeboxes, three customers behind her. She wasn’t budging.

“Look, I found the same shoe in yellow. Yellow is my favorite color. Which ones do you think I should get?” At least she’s made the decision to purchase something. There’s no way she was leaving that store without shoes.

I took a huge gamble. “I think you should get the red. You can wear them with more.”
Clearly offended, she made for the counter. “I’m getting the yellow! I might never find yellow shoes again.” She still looked torn about the red ones.

At this point things could still go horribly wrong. I know Mother wants me to recommend one over the other, but I don’t know which. It’s very important that I validate her reasoning on this matter. My psychic abilities failed me. Impulsively, I tossed caution to the wind, knowing the wrong answer could put us back at square one. “Get them both. You wear lots of red AND yellow. You may never find any more just that color and you do need shoes! When we get through here, let’s go to the Chinese Buffet for lunch. My treat!”

Thank Goodness, it worked. “I think I will.” She happily pulled out her money and made her purchase. Everyone in the store clapped. Mother hadn’t been that happy since her last shoe purchase.

Though we had eaten at a Chinese Buffet, she charmed the staff into a carry-out container and free coffee. “I have all this left on my plate and just hate to waste it.” Her shoe-high lasted all the way home all through the time I helped her in with her two shoeboxes, fanny pack, (which she usually wears instead of strapping on) and carry-out from lunch. Just as I started my car, she ran out to get her cell-phone she’d tucked in the glove box. I hadn’t been home ten minutes when my phone rang. “I’m so glad I got these shoes. I looked in my closet and I don’t have a single pair either color. I do have some tomato red ones and a yellow-greenish pair, but I didn’t have any in exactly these colors. I really needed these.”

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken Part 3

When I left you,  Ollie had just found out we were arriving a day earlier than she thought.  “Yikes!   I was going to clean house tomorrow.” She exclaimed.

I reassured her.  “Go ahead, but I’m not helping.  I’m on vacation.” None of us cleaned house.  Instead, we drank coffee and told wild stories till time to go out to lunch every day, then shopped a little in the afternoons.   I haven’t shopped since I retired, so I really enjoyed it.  I even bought red pajamas.  Next time I take a trip, my host can sing  “She’ll Be Wearing Red Pajamas When She comes.”

We visited my uncle’s grave in the National Cemetery at Elgin, Oklahoma,  a very reverent and fitting place for our service members and their spouses. (Pictured above.  Shirley Martin and  Ollie Johnson)

Regrettably, we had to leave after a short three days.   I would have loved to stay a month, but Ollie got lucky.  We had to get home for Christmas.   I love travelling with women.   dawdling over lunch and drinking all the tea I want.  No  one complains about stopping for the bathroom or worries about “making good  time.”  You can even stop at fruit stands or resale shops.

The last thing Mother said as she got off the train was, “Now I want to ride the train to San Antonio to see Ann.”  So much for clearing her bucket list!  I guess that’s how she made it to eighty-nine!

Homeward Bound.

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken Part 2

This battered beauty makes  every mile with Mother.  I will never forgive my daughter-in-law, Carissa, for gifting Mother with it when Mother complained  her old one had worn out.  I’d been looking forward to its demise for a while.   Except for that betrayal,  Carissa is a perfect DIL.  Please note the frayed seams and the deluxe cat collar fortifying its temperamental zipper.  Though lots of folks think it’s a fanny pack, Mother wears it prominently displayed in front where no one will catch her by surprise.

While we’re on the subject of money, when Mother told my brother she couldn’t afford her ticket, he put one hundred dollars in her account.  One concerned sister gave her two hundred, enough for the trip and spending money.  Lest you think that money went on her trip, it disappeared deep into the bowels of her savings account.  Financially, that trip worked out really well for her.

The three of us caught the train in Marshall, Texas, unaware the price of the shuttle from the Shreveport Airport seven miles from home was included in the ticket.  You can be sure we caught the shuttle on the way home, sparing Bud the return drive for pickup. Mother was as excited as a kid at Christmas as we boarded Amtrak.  We found seats on the second floor of the coach.  They were spacious and comfortable, a delight after air travel.  Mother made fast friends with the conductor.  We spent a great portion of our ride in the lounge car.  I highly recommend it.

During our four-hour layover in Fort Worth, we had time for a leisurely lunch downtown When the eager waiter whisked her leftover chicken salad back to the kitchen without asking if she was done, he had to come up with a replacement for take out. Mother always gets at least two meals out of a restaurant meal, especially after she gleans the leftovers off her dining partner’s plates. Back at the waiting room in the depot, Shirley and I made a quick trip to the bathroom, leaving Mother alone for just a few minutes.  We should have known better.  On our return, Mother was deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman who’d moved to the seat next to her.  I warned him she’d already buried seven husbands and he ran like a rabbit.  I told Mother a long time ago I didn’t want any more mean brothers and sisters, but still have to remind her occasionally. I guess that poor man didn’t want a mean daughter, either. I didn’t get a chance to tell him I was kidding.

An hour or so before we got to Oklahoma City, our host called to see if we were still coming the next day.  “No, we’ll be there in an hour.” Fortunately, she picked us up anyway.

More to come……

Bucket List for a Spring Chicken

Mother will be ninety in May.  A few weeks ago, my youngest sister asked if she had a bucket list.

“Not really,” she answered.  “I’ve seen London, Dublin, New York City, and San Francisco.  I’ve been to Canada, Mexico, and lots of the United States.  I’ve worked as a teacher and in a cemetery.  I’ve seen my name and art on the cover of a book.  I’ve been married and had five children, then had lots of years on my own since your daddy died.  I’ve been lucky and gotten to do so many things I only dreamed of growing up in The Depression in Cuthand, Texas.  I guess the only thing I’ve been thinking about is taking a trip on Amtrak.”

That didn’t sound like much of a hill to climb.  I called a very dear family member we’d both been wanting to visit for a while and wangled an invitation. We invited my sister-in-law, Shirley, which ensured a great time.  After checking the dates with everybody, I got the tickets.  About a week before we were to leave, Mother called.

“Have you already bought those tickets?  It’s really not a good time for me to go before Christmas.  I’d rather not spend the money right now and I haven’t done any shopping.  Can you get your money back?   Could we schedule it sometime later?”

I didn’t remind her she’s never once, in her whole life has ever felt it’s the best time to spend some money.  I also didn’t remind her she always gives everyone cash, so there’s no gift shopping.  “You don’t have to decide today.  Think about it a day or two.  Your ticket is your Christmas gift, so that won’t cost you anything.”

That sealed it.  “Oh, in that case, I’m ready to  go.” She was as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.

More to come …..

Uh Oh!

I used to moonlight at an urgent care clinic. Mother called me at my regular RN job one day to complain of an earache. Like I always do when people ask advice, I recommended she see a doctor. She decided to go to the urgent care clinic where I sometimes worked. I called to speak to my friend, Judy, who was working that day. I asked her to surprise Mother by telling her she had to have a full internal pelvic exam. She knew Mother, and was delighted to pull a little trick on her. Sure enough, she showed Mother to the OB/GYN exam room, telling her to prepare for a full exam. Naturally, Mother was stunned, protesting she only had an earache. Of course, my friend quickly gave the joke up.

They turned the tables on me. Judy, the nurse called me. “Linda, your mom was so shocked she fell and her head. She’s gonna have to have stitches. You are gonna have to come see about her.”

“Oh my God, I never dreamed that would happen! Let me get someone to cover for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can. At that, They started laughing. The last laugh was on me.

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Mother thinks my kitchen is a deli.  She always checks my kitchen counter for a biscuit to go with her coffee when she comes in the back door.  At the end of every visit, she snags another to take home for a snack as well as raiding  the fridge before leaving.  I caught this picture of her leaving yesterday.  You see the eggs in her hand.  In her hobo’s bundle, she has a container of fruit salad, another of turkey salad, and a piece of pound cake.  Last week she had a surprise lunch guest and couldn’t wait to tell me what a fine lunch she’d whipped up: turkey and dressing, canned fruit, and cake. It was my home-canned turkey, my home-made dressing, and sour cream pound cake.  I do believe she had to spring for the peas.  I’ll bet she never breathed a word of where all that food came from.  Of course, she had a plate of my pickled veggies on the side.

Anyway, that is not the story I set out to tell.  For Mother, leaving is a process.  First, she announces she’s leaving and gathers her gleanings from my kitchen.  Then, I go out to turn her car around and take the first load of stuff.  She follows to watch.  She has a little trouble backing out around our vehicles and camper trailer.  She keeps an eagle eye on me, then heads back to use the bathroom one last time before heading that long seven miles home, or wherever is next on her agenda.  She has to pet Buzzy a bit and hunt Bud up from wherever he’s escaped to say “Goodbye,” because she might not see him for a day or two.  Then she has two get a drink of water and talks a minute on the way out.  Sometimes she gets all the way to the car before remembering she’s left her jacket, phone, or maybe an obituary or newspaper article she brought to show me.  That necessitates a little more visiting.  Eventually, she makes it all the way to her car.  It’s not over yet!  Finally settled in, she makes a phone call or two before hitting the road, unless she’s forgotten to tell me something and has to come back in for a minute.  Her average leaving time is eleven minutes, though it’s not unusual to take thirteen.  She’s so little she has to sit on three cushions!

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