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Where there’s a will, there’s a way! Whether that is a universal truth or not, it appears to have a lot of credibility in view of numerous tasks that have been accomplished against all odds.

Dad needed a method of income during the weeks that school was not in session, and he always seemed to find something to supply that need. Well, when he became aware of the “new-fangled” washing machine, he saw not only something his wife needed, he saw something that all women needed. That meant there would be a wide-open market, once people knew that these machines were the marvel he saw them to be.

Advertising, through any of several types of media, is a good vehicle by which to sell products today, but in rural Alabama in the thirties, only a few, ineffective methods were available. Newspapers and seasonal catalogs, such as Sears and Roebuck and J. C. Penney, provided many people with their information about new products. It would take more motivation than some questionable promises and a pretty picture on paper to cause one to turn loose of enough hard-earned money to make such a major purchase as a washing machine.

Whether Dad initiated the following method of sales or whether the Maytag dealership initiated it, I never knew. Dad attached a homemade platform to the back of our Model A Ford car, and onto this platform he loaded a washing machine. It was in such a manner that he set out to educate the public about this wonderful machine method of washing clothes. He went about the countryside demonstrating this revolutionary way of doing laundry to anyone who would allow him to do so!

There was still the washpot for supplying hot water, and there were the rinse tubs in which the soap was removed from the washed clothes, but forever gone was the metal rub board, and forever gone was the awesome task of hand-wringing the water from the clothes! There was a wringer on the washer that consisted of two hard rubber rollers through which the clothes were put in order to squeeze the water out. I only have a vague memory of the wringers on those first machines, but I suspect that they were turned by hand. The later models, however, were automated and could be quite persistent in pulling fingers and hands through with the clothing, if one were not careful.

The wringers did a tremendous job of removing the excess water from the clothes, and the agitator in the tub of the machine “agitated” the dirt right out of those dirty clothes without scrubbing them on a washboard.

Recently, I was privileged to see an old gasoline powered engine with a pedal on a long metal arm, and I recalled that the washing machine also had such a pedal. When one was ready to start the engine, the pedal was given a hard, strong kick which caused the engine to fire and start its noisy, wonderful work.

Another part of doing laundry in those days was that of starching cotton dress clothes, especially men’s shirts. It caused the material to iron smoother and gave some stiffness to help collars and cuffs look better. In the absence of Faultless or Argo starch, Mother made her own. First, she made a paste of cold water and flour, then slowly, while stirring vigorously, she poured boiling water into it, making a clear thick liquid that worked quite well.

Starch made outer clothing look really great, but it could be irritating in clothes worn next to the skin. Once, when Mother was helping a neighbor lady wash, one of my sisters and the lady’s son thought it would be neat to starch a pair of his mother’s rather large, cotton undergarments. I understand that they made quite a sight as they dried very stiff and full-figured on the clothesline!

I don’t know how many washing machines Dad succeeded in selling, but our washdays were never the same after the summer we experienced the new Maytag washing machine!

The eighth in a series of a grandmother’s recollection of days when life in rural Alabama was full of hard, but satisfying work; a time of few material possessions, but also few wants; a time when families knew their neighbors and interacted with them in common concerns; and when the front porch offered peaceful relaxation at day’s end.

 

 

Washday was a very memorable event before washing machines took over the hard work. Private wells had brought the water supply closer to most families, and the method of bringing water out of the wells went through several improvements making the process easier and more efficient. The method of removing dirt from clothes, however, had advanced very little over that of the days when people washed on the banks of rivers and creeks.

The hand-over-hand method of pulling on a rope to draw water from a well was replaced by the pulley and, or, windlass. The vacuum hand pump was probably the greatest advancement before electricity, but most of our neighbors were still drawing water by hand when the first washing machines appeared. The only tools available for washing, up to that time, consisted of a big black washpot, some tin tubs (which doubled as bathtubs on Saturday nights), a washboard, some homemade lye soap and a lot of muscle power.

The entire family was often engaged in securing firewood to build a fire under the kettle, in drawing up the large quantity of water to fill the kettle and rinse tubs, in scrubbing dirty clothing with the help of the washboard, in wringing water from the clothes, in pinning the clothes on a clothesline or fence, in cleaning up the mess, and in retrieving the fresh, clean clothes after they had dried in the sun-drenched air. A lot of family togetherness made the job less burdensome on any one person and had a great potential for developing healthy work attitudes. As we worked, play and fun were not forgotten. We could get in some joking around as we worked, and there was always a lot of singing….besides, when the washing was done, there was all that warm, sudsy water that could be played in before it was “toted” off to the garden or flower beds.

Washing clothes by this method could be fun to children, but it was recognized as a backbreaking job and one that took adult skills and strength to do well. Fire around the washpot and boiling hot water inside it were fearful things that had to be supervised constantly. A washboard only “did its work” when soap was applied to dirty clothing which was then rubbed up and down over its metal ribs. This process could easily result in bleeding, scuffed up knuckles! Then there was the task of getting as much water from the clothes as possible. It was not so hard to wring water from a washcloth or a pair of socks, but wringing water from a pair of men’s trousers or a bed sheet was not a job for small, weak hands.

An older cousin was once visiting my sisters, and while there, she helped with some hand washing. I was amazed at how strongly she wrung the water from those clothes. My sister explained that Madeline had developed great strength in her hands from taking over many of the responsibilities that had belonged to her mother, who had died some years before. Madeline not only impressed me with her physical strength, but I remember her as having a happy countenance, despite her hardships. I believe that her example of survival made its impact for good in my developing perception of life.

One summer during school vacation, Dad made contact with someone that sold him on the usefulness of a new gasoline-powered Maytag washer. It was similar to the old wringer washers that were later powered by electricity, but this one had a long exhaust hose that took and released the fumes some several feet away from the machine. It made a popping noise so loud that neighbors far and near could hear it releasing its power to wash clothes in a way that would revolutionize family washday. This new gadget was something all housewives would surely demand once they knew what it could do. Our dad knew how much it would mean to his overworked wife, but how could he afford such a luxury??? The salary of a poorly paid school teacher was hardly the answer!

…….Next time: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way!”

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Explanation of a confusing statement last month: In the unedited form of that article, I related that the ice delivery man had performed at school functions by walking across the stage on his hands. My error was in not editing my memory along with my article! Oh, well, my grandchildren already knew I’m not perfect!

Reprinted with permission from Redding Magazine.

When I was between three and seven years old, my dad was the principal of a school that contained all grades from the first through the twelfth. It was a rural community, but there was little, if any, cotton grown in the neighborhood. Everyone did grow most of their own food, however, and they had to work very hard from the breaking of the land in the spring until the canning or storing of the produce in the fall was completed. School teachers were paid rather meager salaries for nine or ten months of the year, so my parents had to be part-time farmers in order to feed family.

I was so young at this point that I did not work in the fields or garden very much, but I was able to help gather in sweet potatoes with their milk-like juice oozing from the ones that suffered a cut from the plow or hoe. Walking barefoot in the soft plowed earth was a spiritual experience to my young being, and my sticky stained hands didn’t make it any less so. I also helped with drying fruit that we could eat or use in deserts when the season for fresh fruit was gone. We prepared peaches and apples for drying by first removing the inedible parts and then cutting the good juicy fruit into slices. Big cloths or bed sheets were laid out on top of a tin-roofed shed, and on these we spread out the fruit and let the sun do the rest. When the rays from the sun hit the tin roof and heated the fruit from beneath as well as from above, it did not take long to have sweet, dried fruit.

Coming next….. modern lights, radios and washing machines!

……..This is the fifth part in a series written by a grandmother about her life as she grew up in the days when most farmers plowed with horses, cotton was weeded and thinned with garden hoes, and mature cotton was picked by hand. Family members and hired hands worked together side by side… a common cause making all persons equally important.

When one works as hard as we worked in the cotton fields to earn money, it becomes of utmost importance how that money will be spent. I don’t remember as much about how I used money earned from chopping cotton as that which I earned later in the year from picking cotton, but you can be sure it was not spent lightly. Once, I lost a one-dollar bill, and I was devastated. After looking everywhere I could think of, I lost all hope of finding it. A few days later as I was putting on a pair of knee-length socks, I found a clean, washed, one dollar bill in the toe of one of them (A long sock is a good place to tuck paper money if you don’t forget where you put it!)

A field of cotton was chopped, or hoed, at least twice before being left to bloom and mature. The second chopping was primarily to clean out the weeds, but sometimes one or two good stalks were definitely stronger than the others in a group. Where there were weak, sickly plants that would draw nourishment that could be put to better use by the healthier ones, the weak ones were sacrificed to the chop of the hoe.

The green, healthy plants, when left to grow undisturbed, put on beautiful pink and white blossoms that matured and fell off to be replaced by little green “packages” that were called squares. These squares became larger and rounder until they looked like green eggs that were scored lengthwise into 5-6 segments. (I wonder if Dr. Seuss was inspired to write one of his famous books while watching a stray pig run through a field of green cotton!) These “eggs” were hard and full of tightly packed greenish-white, damp fiber that would slowly dry out inside the green boll and eventually would burst the boll open along the scored lines. As the fibers inside the boll dried and fluffed out, the green shell also dried out and slowly turned brown. It eventually became so dry that it was brittle, and it had very sharp points at the end of each separated segment. These points often inflicted pain upon the fingers that worked at extracting the fluffy, white cotton from inside the boll.
While we rest and let the cotton mature, I want to inform you about an interesting consideration for the farmer that affected the whole community.

The school terms had been similar to the current school terms of nine months, extending from the beginning of September through May. Because the early part of the school session conflicted with children helping with cotton picking, the county schools rearranged their schedules to accommodate the farmer. A summer session of six weeks beginning in July and extending into August was followed by a six-week “vacation” during which most of the cotton could be harvested.

My parents were both school teachers, with Dad being the principal in most of his assignments, and Mother teaching in the early elementary grades. All of their schools were in rural areas, and although they were sympathetic with the farmer, they were dismayed at the degree to which some students were absent before the change was made in the schedule. It seemed to be a good solution for both schools and farmers!

Except for church, school was the center of family life for us. Wherever Dad served as principal, we were provided with a home adjoining the school property. During my eleven years in public school, I only attended two years in a separate facility than the one in which my parents taught. My mother was never my teacher, but Dad taught me in both the fifth and sixth grades! I remember his Palmer handwriting drills that were so neat, but I also remember having to rewrite a paper at least twice before he would accept it. I thought writing tiny and backhanded was cute, but he didn’t!

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This is the fourth article of this series written by a grandmother born in the thirties. Times were very different than now, but they were good because we worked together as a family to make a modest living. We experienced what it was like to go without, and we learned to be thankful for little things.

We youngsters would be paid by the day, but before I tell you how much, there are some other things you need to know.

Living out in the country was truly a blessing to poor parents who could not afford to have their children longing after the luxuries so readily available in “city” stores. Many communities had their own country store that sold necessities, but it was truly a unique experience to go into town to shop. I remember a “peddling” store making scheduled visits into our neighborhood when I was 5 or 6 years old, and it was from it that we bought many needed items. Mother could buy flour, sugar, salt, etc., and I remember her buying material with which to make dresses. The only nonessential that I recall buying from the peddler was bubble gum. Round, fat pieces of Double Bubble and long cylindrical pieces of “Baloney” (I’m not sure of the spelling) gum cost one penny each. Although we didn’t buy candy bars at that time, I know they were no more than a nickel a piece, and soda pops could also be bought for a nickel.

When I was eleven years old, my dad brought home a brand new beautiful Ford car for which he paid about $800.00. We were extremely proud of that new car, but I was aware of what a hardship it was for Dad to spend that much money, even for a car! So, when I tell you how much money we made for a whole day’s work in the cotton patch, just remember these figures and compare them with the costs of things today.

I seem to recall that I worked for anywhere between $1.50 and $2.75 a day. Farmers had to adjust what they paid their workers based on their predictions for the year and in keeping with the neighboring farmers. When his crops were poor, or some of his other enterprises (chickens, eggs, milk, beef or pork) were not making a good return on his investment, a farmer would not be able to hire help outside the family……he couldn’t afford to pay what his neighbors were paying. Survival for the family depended on everyone pitching in and helping to make it profitable…..

While in the cotton patch, we did much more than just hoe down unneeded cotton stalks and weeds. A lot of socializing went on. The older folks didn’t seem to know that you could keep an interesting conversation going and chop that cotton at the same time! Not a few times they would have to remind us of what they believed it took to do a good job. But, we learned a lot about each other, and I believe we learned to appreciate the differences in people and their various outlooks on life. We learned to disagree with others over religious ideas, moral values, and just plain old every day stuff like what shape that group of white fluffy clouds up there formed!

It was in the cotton patch that I learned not to talk about people! There was a little elderly couple in our neighborhood who was somewhat “odd”. Why the woman (so I was told) even powdered her face with flour, and I found it unbelievable and extremely amusing that anyone would do such a thing. One day in the cotton patch, however, I was discussing this strange behavior with a cousin, who kept acting rather silly. She finally made me understand that I should be quiet. Some of the other workers in the field were related to this poor couple that I had so maligned with my gossip! Needless to say, I have recalled that incident many times over, and the embarrassment and shame that I felt in my young conscience.

Studying our natural surroundings was a constant pastime while we worked. Ours was a beautiful world, and we were out in the open observing so much. There were little critters everywhere, many of them doing their God-given tasks of pollinating the plants, of aerating the soil and increasing the wonder in the children.

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This is the third in a series of articles by a grandmother who wants her grandchildren to know who she really is and why she believes in some things that may seem archaic to them. Hers was a rich life with many merits that only those who experienced such can truly understand.

I have been asked several times where in the world is Redding Mountain? People looking on maps have asked for assistance locating it. Many people have had trouble locating it because it is a place in the heart. It is actually in Scott Depot, WV down a narrow road just off of Scary Creek.

So here is the story as I remember it. Back in the late 80’s or early 90’s I started calling the mountain where Mawmaw and Pawpaw Redding lived, Redding Mountain. We also lived on that mountain. At one time at least 9 of the grandchildren lived there. Several of our children were born on Redding Mountain and a couple buried there.

We have had many many Redding Mountain adventures. Somehow that red West Virginia dirt and the home we call Redding Mountain produces a lot of activity and a lot of creativity. Maybe it is the calmness and time taken to sit under the trees, on the porch, birdwatching, or walking in the woods. Or the busyness of mowing and chopping down trees and working on projects. Anyway, many wonderful ideas and creations had their birth on Redding Mountain. Sawmilling, making tomato stakes, raising chickens, selling eggs, producing a magazine, soap and bread making, running a mini baking business, primitive camping, riding off of the “cliff” on the pulley and cable, learning to drive tractors and fix them or riding around with Pawpaw in his truck and watching the stars from the rooftop! And the snowy winter days! Nothing like them. I loved being “snowed in” on Redding Mountain. Wonderful memories are carried with us from Redding Mountain. Thirteen years ago I started a blog called Redding Mountain. I shared recipes and stories from happenings on Redding Mountain. You can still access it at reddingmountain.com

Now you know how my precious Redding Mountain got its name.

 

 

In 1979 our group traveled to Oregon City, Oregon for our first stop. We stayed in the homes of members of the Oregon City Church of Christ. I stayed with Sam and Mary Lovelace. We spent 3 weeks sharing our faith door to door. We studied the Bible with young and old. We had some amazing times praising God, studying the scriptures, sharing life with those we were staying with and those we met on the streets. We even washed a foot or two. We were impressed with the outpouring of love from this congregation. One thing I remember hearing from some of these wonderful folks was that they were not going to let their campaign stop. They were so full of love and they wanted to continue sharing. I remember our circles of songs and praise and prayer. Several memories stand out in my memory.

• Sweet wild pink roses blooming beside the building.
• Brothers and Sisters praying and waiting for us to return late one night when we were engaged in outreach and hadn’t returned. (This was way before cell phones ).
• Christians stretching themselves to learn to do things they had not done before.
• A special gift of my first NIV Bible which I was able to sit and read for hours. Shreds of this remain tucked away. This summer was when I really poured over the scriptures for the first time.
• The incredible bond Christians share. Whether we have just met or have known each other for years. We share something special indeed because of Christ.  Still true today!
• Meeting those who were truly looking for God and realizing there are people who want to know Christ.

All of these things impressed me. Some of the people I met at Oregon City I never saw again and others I bumped into from time to time and some not until 30 years later.

And the story continues.

If you missed part one :

Campaigns Northwest – Part 1

When the weather is chilly it just feels like soup and chili time! I usually make soup without a recipe. Maybe that is what most of you do when you make soup.  Sunday afternoon I realized I needed to bring soup to our life group. This was around 3:00 pm and our life group meets at 5 pm. So I made Hurry Up Soup!  It was yummy.

Hurry Up Soup!

Two bags of frozen Publix soup mix vegetables

1 jar of Classico pasta sauce

Two  15 ounce cans of beef broth

1.5 lbs. ground chuck

I added 2 Tablespoons of Lundberg Wild Blend rice

About a cup of chopped cabbage I had in the fridge

I started the broth and sauce and veggies cooking while I browned the ground beef. Then I drained it and added it to the broth and veggies. I added salt and pepper and covered it and simmered on low until the grains were soft.

Please feel free to share your Hurry Up recipes with me!