Hung up on Laundry

I’m Hung up on Laundry

Pun intended

When I was a child I spent a lot of time at my Gram’s on the farm.  Her kitchen was long and narrow with one window at the end.  The kitchen sink was porcelain with one large basin and single faucets.  Opposite the sink was a Maytag wringer washer; the one with the square tub.

This was the height of luxury to my Gram.  There were many changes within a few years due to the fact that the kids (9 of them) had grown up and moved out except for Aunt Gayle and her family who lived with Gram.  The siblings and siblings-in-law got together and modernized a bit.  Running water was piped in.  Just cold for a while, but eventually a luxurious hot water heater was put in.  There was a glitch in the installation of the hot water and somehow the toilet (wow, an inside toilet) got hooked up with hot instead of cold!  Strange sensation but welcome in the winter.

The kerosene stove was replaced with a large electric stove that stood on legs and had an oven on the end.  It looked kind of like this. 

This stove worked its way into my family many years later. (Another story).

I loved to be there on wash day.  Before the hot water was installed, Gram and Aunt Gayle heated water on the new stove to pour into the Maytag.  Then Gram would take her paring knife and shave a bar of Fels Naptha soap into to washing machine tub.

I remember standing on my tiptoes and watching the flakes fall into the hot steaming water.  The smell of the soap was wonderful. At least it was to me.

I watched the whole process.  They started with the white clothes, sheets towels etc.  Then the colored clothes and last the jeans and coveralls that my uncles wore for work and in the barn.  By that time the water had cooled down so the colors didn’t run.   I helped (“be careful, don’t get your hands too close to the wringer”) catch the clothes and guide them into the rinse tub as they came out of the wringer smashed flat.  There was a special way to feed them in so the buttons wouldn’t pop off.  I helped to hang the clothes on the line by handing the clothespins to Gram or Aunt Gayle.  The lines would be weighed down so much that we had special long poles to lift them up and keep the clothes from touching the grass.  My favorite time was in the spring especially when the lilacs were blooming.  Ahh the fragrance…a bit of breeze, birds tweeting…..

Then, when my Mom tucked me in at night I loved the fresh clean smell of the sheets with just a touch of lilac.  MMMM seems a lot of my memories are triggered by smells.  Am I sparking any memories in you?  Comments welcome.

White Bread, White Beans and White Butter

I love the old fashioned, simple, “comfort foods.”   As a child I loved to go to my Grandma’s house on the Farm.  Mealtimes were the best.  My Aunt Gayle was the cook.  She made bread every day.  The house smelled delicious.  I loved to watch her tip the loaves out of the pans and place them on racks to cool.  She usually made white bread but occasionally she would vary the routine and make whole wheat or sourdough.  Her white bread was beautiful.  The texture was perfect: small bubbles dispersed evenly throughout the loaf, crispy golden brown crust, and that heavenly yeasty smell.

These were the days of oleomargarine.  I am unclear as to the history of margarine, maybe it was a butter substitute developed during the war.  It came in many different forms and packaging.  The one I remember most was a solid brick of white resembling lard.  It came wrapped in paper.  Instructions were included with a small packet of bright orange powder.  We were to sprinkle the powder onto the softened block of margarine and stir until the whole thing was colored yellow.  Another way it came was in a sealed pouch with a blister of orange colored dye.  You had to break the blister and squeeze the bag until the margarine was colored.  Sometimes time was short and demand was high so Aunt Gayle did not have time to “fool around” with coloring the “Oleo”.  In that case we had “White Butter”.  It always amazed me that it tasted good, just like the yellow Oleo.  I loved to white butter on the fresh white bread.  Yum!

Another favorite was White Beans.  Aunt Gayle would make a huge pot of great Northern Beans.  She made them with a bit of ham or bacon, and some onions.  She served them in a bowl with some chopped raw onions sprinkled on the top.   I loved them with lots of black pepper, a thick slice of crusty white bread with white butter melting in.  This is still one of my favorites except White Butter is no more (thank goodness, I guess it was mostly transfats and has proven to be a factor in our health issues of today).  Still, it is a warm, cozy memory that makes me smile.

Crocheting Granny Squares with my Granny

Grannies with Granny

 

I am an avid Crocheter.  I began when I was around 8or 9 years old..  Between my Mom and my Grandma, they taught me s few stitches and I made chains for days.  I braided them, tied them, twisted them, and knotted them.  This proved boring after a time especially as my Gram crocheted beautiful doilies and tablecloths having pineapple and pinwheel patterns.

 

My Mom was more a knitter and produced many sweaters, hats, and scarves.  She made a skirt and jacket set for my younger sister in soft yellow.  It had dancing figures, knit in blue, all around the bottom of the skirt and some on the matching jacket.  I knew I was not yet ready for the mysterious knitting, but I just knew I could do something bigger and more complex in crochet.

I wanted to try to make an afghan using Granny Squares.  I found a pattern in one of my mom’s many books.  It was beautiful.  It was pictured with multicolored squares surrounded by black.  I was hooked (pun intended).  I studied the pattern and Mom helped me figure out the abbreviations.  I begged yarn ends and scraps from Mom and Gram and with my trusty “G” hook I set off.

My first completed square was a triumph!  I was so proud.  I rushed to my Gram’s house to show it off.  She was effusive with her praise and dug into her stash and donated a few more tiny balls and wound up ends of various yarns to give me.  I kept it all in a box and daily I would move it around matching color to color.  Each row of my square was carefully thought out.  Collectively they were very pretty.  I could hardly wait each day to take the box to my Gram’s, sit beside her big chair and take out my latest square to show her.  She was very patient and helped me lay them out trying to decide which one would go with next.  My Aunt Gayle would join in when she could and together we would ooh and ahh over each one..  How encouraging they were..  My Mom too was proud and and pleased with my progress.  I would lay the squares out in varying patterns and she and my sister Gayle would heap on the praise.

One day we got a catalog from Herrschner’s Yarn and Crafts.  Oh what treasures there were in those pages.  The arrival of the catalog still makes my heart race a bit even to this day.  Mom ordered the Granny Afghan kit for me.  I couldn’t believe it.  All those bright colors surrounded with black; it was called Grandmother’s Flower Garden.  I felt like a child at Christmas time.

I don’t remember what happened to the original squares.  They were lumpy and bubbly and varied in size due to the variety of yarns I used.  Maybe they were sewn together for a doll blanket.  I wish I had them.  No matter, to this day, when I see a Granny square, I think of my Gramma Elsie, sitting in her big leather rocker with the wooden arms, crocheting away on some beautiful lacy doily using tiny thread and a tiny hook.  I can see the thread wrapped around her arthritic fingers moving along with amazing speed to be looped into an intricate design.  I can see her pink cheeks and her blue rimmed glasses and her smile as she listened to my enthusiastic description of my crocheting adventure.  Thanks to Gram and Mom for this gift.  Hmmm,  waiting for the mailman isn’t as exciting as it used to be…I can go right to the Herrschner’s website.  Ahh, technology.

My fiber journey has carried me from crochet, to knitting, to tatting, to weaving, and to spinning.  I love it all.  Sometimes when life hits a bump or two, or I am having trouble deciding what project to do next, I return to the basics and get out my “G” hook.  So, like chicken soup is comforting and healing, so is making Granny Squares.

Ice Skating

Down the Hill to the Pond

Winters were different When I was a kid!  At least so it seems to me.  There was more snow.  It stayed cold all winter except for what we called the January thaw.  Seems that we would get a warm spell lasting a few days and melting some of the snow.  Then it would get cold again and the snow would freeze on the top layer forming a crust.  We would try to walk carefully on top of the snow cover trying not to break through.  If we did, our legs would sink  to our butts or our waist.   We were dressed for it.  I had snow pants made of wool.  They had suspenders and covered part of my chest.  I had boots with a fuzzy lining that fit over my shoes.  My handmade mittens could tuck up under the cuffs of my jacket and my hat tied under my chin.  I don’t remember being cold.  My sister and I and the neighbor kids built forts and houses in the snow.  I can see them now…bright pink cheeks, damp hair peeking out from under our hats, noses running.   Wow, I can smell the wet mittens trying to wipe my nose.

One of our favorite things to do was ice skate.  Seems like we always could find a patch of ice down the hill.  we would set out armed with shovels and towing a sled.  We would stomp around between the peat bogs and cat tails making sure the ice was strong enough.  The water wasn’t more than 15-18 inches deep .  After testing the firmness of the ice, we would take turns sitting on the sled to put skates on then also take turns with the shovel. skating along behind it scraping the snow away as we went.  Sometimes the ice would be very rough and bumpy then at other times it would be smooth and clear as glass.  I remember laying down on my stomach and looking into the ice.  It was so clear i could see to the bottom.

One of the tricky parts of skating with the shovel was that you couldn’t always see the tufts of  grass under the snow.  The closer we got to the edges of the bogs and cat tails the thinner the ice was so sometimes you would be skating along and the shovel would hit a dry patch.   Zip, head over heels in a minute!  We usually skated long enough to clear the ice and only quit when it got dark, we could not feel our toes, or someone had to go to the bathroom!

When I was about 5, we had a particularly good patch of ice.  Smooth as glass.  Some of my Aunts and Uncles,( my mom was one of nine children),  my Parents, and some neighbors had a skating party one night.  The weather was at a reasonable temperature, the moon was full and there was no wind.  The uncles gathered  wood and had a fire near the edge of the ice.  My Aunt Gayle made hot chocolate and carried it in a thermos.  I can recall the smell of the chocolate combined with the clear fresh air!  I had a fun sliding around on my boots and was surprised to see my aunts and uncles on skates!  I never thought of them skating.  My uncles lifted me up and swung me around and my aunts held my hands and helped me slide on the ice.  It was wonderful.  That was the only time I remember such a gathering.

In my early grade school days, we could bring skates to school.  The custodians would make a skating pond every year and we were allowed to skate at recess and at lunch time.  I could hardly wait!  My family scrounged up a pair of skates for me.  They were Hockey Skates,  Brown, and worn so thin at the ankles that someone had patched them with black patches.  I didn’t care, my feet were small and it was a wonder that they found a pair to fit me.  These had obviously been around!

Recess came and I struggled to get my skates on and tied.  I didn’t do too bad, ankles wobbled and so did I but I stayed on my feet.  There were rules on the pond.  No crack the whip,  no racing, skate counter clockwise around the pond, be careful of the little kids.  Some of the teachers put skates on and joined us to maintain order.  It worked pretty well and was timed so that the biggest kids were on the ice at different times.  I don’t remember how long recess was, but it seemed like a long enough time to get the skates on, get on the ice, skate a while, get the skates off again and get back to the classroom.  Phew!  I don’t think I skated at lunch time because I was a walker and not a bussed kid and I went home for lunch.    There was one drawback though,  it was on this ice that I became aware of “clicks”.  You wouldn’t think it back then, but it was just as prevalent then as it is now.  The girls in my class would skate two by two and choose their best friends to skate with.  I had lots of friends…I thought.  Then I realized that I was skating alone.  Apparently worn brown Hockey Skates labeled me some kind of outsider!   I looked at the beautiful white figure skates being worn by the “in crowd”. Janice, Sharon, and a few others.  Kind of took the wind out of my sails or my skates as it turned out.

I got my white skates a few years later, and my sister, cousins and neighbor kids had a great time skating on any pond or bit of ice we could find.   I don’t remember when they stopped making the ice pond at school.   I imagine there were some reasons to discontinue it.  Too bad.    I made some good friends to in the second level of the “click”, but that’s another story.

Decrepit

In a recent conversation with my sister, we were discussing our various stages of decrepitness (decreption?  Decrepitation?).  Anyway, I think this seems to be common among Seniors.  We talk about our aches and pains and our medicines and our dietary problems.  This talk usually leads into the inevitable bathroom talk but we won’t go there today.  (lol, a pun).

There are some other challenges that we both have dealt with throughout our lives but are now becoming more difficult.  The fact that we are short ( 5’ ish) has been a cause of some difficulties.  i.e. reaching things on the top two shelves of the cabinets in most kitchens, reaching things on the top shelves in the grocery stores, finding a chair that allows our feet to touch the floor when sitting in them, having to shorten all clothes we buy, (leading to a proficiency in sewing), needing a pillow to drive a car so that we can reach the pedals (this problem fixed itself with the advent of power seats).  Ahh the adaptability of humans.

Evolutionary cooking

Evolutionary Cooking

When I cook, things evolve.  For instance, yesterday I decided to make some easy chicken soup.  I have been laid up with an aching back for a few weeks.  My activity has really been limited.  But, I was tired of sandwiches.  I had three chicken thighs in the freezer that had been there a while.  They were way to fatty to just bake.  These came in a bag of 6 or so, and I had tried them.  The amount of fat was repulsive to me.  So, they lay gathering frost.

I hate to waste food!  This comes from trying to feed five kids with almost no money.  Consequently, I have a weight problem as I have a tendency to eat all the leftovers.  That’s another story and I digress as usual.

The Sprat’s

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,

His wife could eat no lean.

So betwixt the two of them

They licked the platter clean.

We are the living images of the Sprats.  I just keep getting rounder and softer and my husband gets thinner and leaner.

How did this happen? When we got married some twenty years ago we were both round and comfy.  We loved to eat and I loved to cook.  Having been raised in the fifties, We were of the meat and potatoes generation.  Dessert each meal was the norm.  Gravy was ladled over our roasts and potatoes.  All vegetable were cooked to the soft and mushy stage and slathered with butter.  Salt was freely sprinkled thither and yon (not to mention over the shoulder), and sugar was stirred into the liquid in our babies’ bottles.  It was wonderful!

Farm Debris

Farm Debris

I have noticed over the years that farms, especially those that are smaller operations, with older buildings have a collection of machinery, old cars, and trucks etc., left along fence lines.  These things are parked at angles, obviously no longer used or usable, and have been left to rust away.

Some are no longer working farms, or just the house and buildings are used and maybe the majority of the property has been rented or sold. Each place seems to have a particular “graveyard, usually along a creek or tree line, or in a far corner of an unused farmyard or pasture.

The Fragrance of the Roses

When I was small, my Mother and I spent a lot of time at her family home “the Farm”.  My Dad was in the Navy, aboard an Aircraft Carrier during WWII.   Sometimes we stayed with my Paternal Grandparents, but more often we were with my Mom’s folks.  She was one of nine children many of whom still lived at home at the time.  This was a wondrous time for me.   There were only four other grandchildren at the time and they lived elsewhere so, needless to say I was the “Star”.  My young uncles teased me mercilessly but also taught me much and were patient with my many questions and lively imagination.

Three Score and Seven

Surely that sounds better than 67!!  How did I get here?  I have recently realized that I have lots more time to look back than to look forward.  Not that its really a surprise, I always knew that I would arrive here at some time, but it seems to have happened very quickly.