I
am writing this as a 55 year old, and the farm was sold when I was
12, so I am not in possession of the details of acreage, price, etc.
All I have are memories of a young girl, and bits and pieces gleaned
from conversations throughout the years. We said hail and farewell to
both of them the year I turned 28, and I beg the forgiveness and
understanding of my relatives for any inaccuracies or inconsistencies
in these remembrances.
MawMaw
and PawPaw married young. They had 4 children, losing their firstborn
as an infant. MawMaw was a farm-wife, multidimensional and adept at
numerous tasks. PawPaw was a farmer who supplemented his income by
various means throughout their life. At times he drove a produce
truck, worked as a school custodian, and drove a school bus.
Early
in the marriage they lived in a small wood frame house on the farm
where he was raised. When their little family outgrew the little
house, opportunity arose to purchase a farm of their own and they
lived there for about 40 years.
For
a young girl, having a farm on which to spend a summer week or two is
akin to heaven. My older sister, my younger brother and me, we had
opportunity to live the stories we read in school. Trees to climb,
rocks to clamber upon, water to splash and fields to explore. There
were dairy cows, mules, pigs, chickens, ducks and sheep. They had an
apple orchard, a plum tree, blackberry canes and wild strawberries.
The
garden was a cornucopia of fresh herbs and vegetables, I shall try to
name all I remember eating. Disclaimer: My father and mother had an
extensive garden at our home “in town” as well, so if it were not
raised on the farm, it was at home. Everything listed I have eaten
straight from the garden.
Tomatoes,
yellow, red, cherry (we called them tommy-toes)
Cucumbers,
pickling and larger ones as well
Bell
peppers, green usually but there may have been red
Dill
Sage
Corn,
sweet yellow and silver queen
Cabbage
Lettuce
Onions,
scallions (though we called them green onions) and regular 'cooking'
onions
Beets
Cauliflower
Yellow
crook-neck squash
Zucchini
Pumpkin
Cushaw
melon
Butternut
squash
Peas,
green ones that you shell and sugar snap
Beans
– green, lima, october
Potatoes
Carrots
Parsnips
Sweet
Potatoes
Eggplant
As
you can see, we ate well. My mother and both grandmothers were
prolific at home canning, and we had jams, jellies and preserves,
relishes and pickled vegetables in addition to the usual canned
tomatoes, beans and such.
So
much to tell, so much to share. I have decided to focus on a typical
early morning as I have reconstructed in my memory to attempt to
share the joy and love, the sweat and tears, the day to day life my
grandparents shared up on their mountainside farm. The beauty and
grit of a life shared for over 50 years.
The
day began early, long before the rooster would herald the rising of
the sun. Roy made his way to the kitchen, where the old cast iron
cook-stove was cold and silent. He used the lid lifter to set aside
the two eyes, then the long rectangular section to access the fire
box of the stove. He laid a fire as he had more mornings than he
could count, using the supply of kindling kept in a pail behind the
stove and adding a few sheets of crumpled up newspaper to catch the
flame from the wooden kitchen match. Once the kindling had caught
fire, he would lay on a few pieces of firewood, or lumps of coal, to
get the stove heating up. If it were a chilly morning he would sit in
a slat back chair by the stove as he pulled on and laced up his
brogans. He wore a pair of bibbed overalls over his short sleeved
work shirt and a t-shirt that is now called a “wife-beater”. In
the front pockets of the overalls were his pipe, a tin of tobacco,
and a box of matches. Examples of what an old cook stove looks like are shown below.
About
the time he was dressed, Ethel came in the kitchen, having gotten
dressed while he was starting the fire. She was wearing a simple
cotton dress she had made from yardage that came in the form of
feed-sacks, a bright cheery floral print in hues of blue with bright
green leaves. Her apron covered most of the front of her dress, also
made by her hand. She always trimmed the generous sized pockets with
lace or rick-rack, and the apron strings were made long enough that
she could tie them in front. It was easier to keep the apron secured
as she went about her day. She was wearing a white slip under the
dress, and her support hose were rolled at the knee rather than being
attached to garters. Her footwear was an old pair of canvas shoes,
slip-on because she disliked the aggravation of tying a pair of
shoes. The rubber soles helped her keep sure footed when she was
going about her housework.
Roy
made his way to the barn to do the morning milking while Ethel set
about preparing breakfast. She put ground coffee in the basket of the
percolator, filled it with water and set it on the stove to brew. An
iron skillet was set on the stove as well, soon to hold either bacon
or ham and sausage. She turned to the Hoosier cabinet to begin making
biscuits after she had set the biscuit pan on the table, ready to
receive the light pillows of dough she would produce.
(At
this point I will attempt to describe in detail the making of the
biscuits. I stood at her elbow, being in her way, so many times as
she did this. She made biscuits every single day, sometimes twice.)
There
was a flour bin built into the cabinet, with a sifter attached. She
held the bowl in one hand as she sifted the flour into the bowl. The
flour (I think) was self-rising. About 8 cups of flour went in, and
then she added a generous tablespoon of baking powder to the flour
and lightly mixed it in with her fingers. Using a serving spoon, she
measured out 2 heaps of solid Crisco shortening onto the flour and
began to work it into the flour with her fingers. Once she had done
this for a bit, she began to add fresh buttermilk, ice cold from the
refrigerator, stirring it into the flour in with a steady and
practiced motion. When all of the flour was wet, and the dough was
formed (wet but not sloppy is the best way to describe the
consistency) it was turned out onto a floured dough board. She would
turn and pat the dough, forming it into a flat disc before using the
heavy wooden rolling pin to quickly roll it out about ½ inch thick.
The biscuit cutter was an old evaporated milk can that the bottom had
been cut off of to make a sharp edge. The top of the can was left
intact, and the two triangular holes that had been made with a can
opener to pour the milk would emit little bursts of flour dust with
each swift cut of dough. She worked in a circular pattern, leaving
little geometric shapes of dough between each round. After placing
the cut biscuits on the waiting pan, she gathered the scraps, cut
another set of biscuits and used the second set of scarps to make one
last biscuit, called the hoecake. I always wanted that one, because
it was bigger, and uneven in texture, I always thought it tasted the
best. I would also nab little bits of raw dough and eat them. She
tried to convince me the raw dough would make my belly swell and
burst but I never believed her. The pan of biscuits (probably at
least 30) was covered with a towel and left to rest while she waited
for the oven to be the right temperature to bake the biscuits. When I
bake biscuits now, I like 425-450 f to get a good color and crust, so
I guess this was about the temperature she was waiting for. I think
there was a thermometer on the oven door but I am not sure.
She
made the gravy in the skillet the sausage and bacon had been frying
in, using the grease from the meat for the roux. I did not know the
term roux when I was young, I just knew you took out the meat,
sprinkled in enough flour to soak up all the grease, added a dash of
salt and a good shake of pepper, stirred it around so it would not
burn or taste raw, added crumbled sausage, and stirred in milk so it
would not lump. When all the milk was added and you had the
consistency you wanted, you let it bubble slow, stirring it
occasionally, while the biscuits baked.
Right
about the same time the biscuits and gravy were ready, the coffee has
finished perking. Roy came in, washed up at the sink, and Ethel
cooked the eggs, fresh eggs from the hens they raised. They had a
successful though modestly sized egg business, and actually sold
fresh eggs, milk, buttermilk, and butter to a regular client base 'in
town'.
I
know this sounds like a lot of food, but before their children were
grown there were 5 mouths to feed, and sometimes more because they
had fostered less advantaged young men in their teens several times.
Once the grandchildren came along, my mother's two oldest sons lived
on the farm full-time, and they had very healthy appetites. Farm
chores build healthy bodies, and healthy appetites. By the time
breakfast was consumed, the cows (upward of 6 or 8 I believe) had
been milked by hand, the cows had been fed, as had the mules and/or
horses.
Hogs
and chickens and other feeding was done after breakfast, but the
milking was done at a regular time, and the milk was brought to the
spring house for Ethel to process. Many chores, hard work, all day.
Every day chores, no weekends or holidays. Seasonal variations, but
irregardless of weather or season the daily responsibilities were
ever present.
Health,
age, and the approaching adulthood of the two grandsons all played a
role in the selling of the farm, and when I was 12 that wonderful
part of my youth went away. I am so grateful to have been able to
experience firsthand those moments, and I have many memories yet to
share of that farm on the side of the mountain at Bluestone. But
those will wait for later days.
