20. Harvesting, Canning, and Older Kid's Games
A few drenching rain showers helped the surviving plants in our garden recover, although they never reached their full potential. Our biggest saving grace turned out to be the ridiculous quantities we'd planted. By August we were beginning to feel the impact of our inexperience and underestimating - not only of the projected crop yields, but how much produce we could consume. Even with our summer growth spurt and new farmer appetites, we could not keep up with the almost alarming bounty from our previously draught-plagued garden.
John and I loved the fresh sweet corn - and especially the fact that we had no limits on the number of ears per meal. Mother began drying the extra to use during the winter. She husked the overripe ears, removed the silk, and lined them up on dish towels stretched over cookie sheets to dry outside during the long searing days - in the same sun that had baked our crops earlier. As the cobs dried, the kernels shriveled and became as hard as pebbles. Then, while we listened to Mother read our current novel, John and I used the back of a spoon or knife blade to scrape the kernels into muslin sacks, which we stored up in the attic. Mother experimented with fixing the dried corn, but our favorite method was easy and delicious. She soaked it overnight like dried beans, then simmered it until tender. With the addition of milk and a little butter, it had a nutty sweet flavor and chewier texture than cooked fresh corn.
We came back from a trip to town loaded with crates of Mother's favorite variety of peaches for canning - Colorado Elberta freestones - and the next day we all went to work. After she scalded the peaches in hot water, John and I slipped off the skins. Then Mother cut them in half, packed them in quart jars, and ladled syrup over the fruit to fill each one. John and I placed rust colored rubbers on the jar rims; Mother screwed on zinc caps, and processed them in the copper boiler she used for washing white clothes. A trick she'd learned was adding one or two peach stones to each quart which turned them a luscious rosy-peach color - the more beautiful to line up on our cellar shelves.
Our next project was using the Concord grapes we'd also purchased in town. Mother's jam recipe called for cooking the skins and pulp separately, and John and I welcomed the task of slipping off the skins. Our motivation, however, was not entirely altruistic. It was a messy, purpley job but John and I skimmed a fair number of the tangy-sweet skins before they made it to the pot - our un-negotiated compensation. With the obvious stains on our lips, it was never much of a secret, but Mother didn't seem to mind. She cooked the green pulp, and then removed the seeds in a big cone-shaped sieve.
Once the strained pulp, skins and sugar were combined in the big kettle the contents began to look like jam. The simmering process seemed interminable, as John and I kept watch, but our patience was rewarded. When Mother had poured the finished product into jars and glasses, there was always some extra jam left over. John and I agreed that no combination could ever be more exquisite than a thick slice of Mother's home baked bread still warm from the oven, slathered with melting butter and a generous layer of that rich ambrosial grape jam that we had helped make. By the time we had swallowed our first bite, all the hours we'd endured in sweltering heat from the wood stove were a distant memory.
Mother was in command of our larder and kept up the brutal pace of preserving everything she could harvest from our garden, pick in the forest, trade with neighbors, or buy in town. By time the canning season was over that year we had 93 quarts of fruit and vegetables safely stored in our little cellar, plus rows of brightly colored jam and jelly glasses. In addition, Mother had put up 22 quarts of canned beef - some of the meat was ground and formed into meatballs and sausages, the rest canned in chunks for stew.
The meat came from a hind quarter of beef weighing 72 pounds that Mother bought from Henry Vokes for $4.35. She wrote, "I paid him $2.00 and will pay the balance later .... I got 5 gal. of gas at 99 cents and a few groceries and have 7 cents left. The money just seemed to go. I don't know how you get along with the little you have."
She finished the letter to Daddy while timing the final batch of beef in the pressure cooker. It was after midnight when she took the last jar out of the canner, screwed the lid tight, and turned it upside down beside the others to cool. She had already donned her nightgown, so the only remaining task was to blow out the kerosene lamp and tumble, gratefully, into bed. The fire in the wood cook stove gradually died out on its own....
She described herself around this time as "thin as a rail but strong," and would "probably fatten up a little when there isn't so much to do." She was not clear about when that time might come. Deciding that her activities around the farm were not sufficient, she started her own fitness program of "sitting up exercises night and morning." Although she'd never had back trouble, she told Daddy that it was, "to limber up my back." He approved. "I think they are helpful and I want you to keep looking young."
Mother told Daddy that she was glad he was a moderate eater - for a man - but reminded him to "watch your waistline." He wrote, "I am tempted to go into training to reduce more, so you will like me even better. Keep on with your exercises for they are making you look younger all the time and don't forget to have your hair cut oftener for that helps too. Let's see if we can't reach the 50 mark in as good shape as we are now. I believe we can if we try."
Never one to drop a topic prematurely, she soon mentioned weight again. "Something you and I must be careful about is adding on any extra weight as it may cause trouble later on. We must keep on our toes all the time. I'll make folks step to keep up with my work here. We mustn't let ourselves slow up as we have years of useful life ahead of us,"
Galvanized tub with washboard
That second summer John and I played at many of the same games and activities we had the previous year. On hot days we still sought refuge by filling the old galvanized tub with water early in the morning and leaving to warm in the sun for hot afternoons. Then we waited for the right moment when we needed respite from the heat - and ran and jumped into the tub repeatedly until we'd splashed out all of the water. For a more dramatic water sport, one of us would block the pump spout with our hands while the other pumped - until the icy water sprayed out the top, soaking us both, shrieking and laughing from the bone chilling shock.
For drier, more sedate diversions, there were some modifications and new layers of complexity to our play that summer. In addition to the past year of classes - both at school and home - we had read an impressive number of books, including many classics and historical novels. John in particular was at a stage where one year made a considerable difference. For instance, we re-fought World War I. I opened one letter to daddy: "Well I am writing this letter while I have a few minutes to spare out of my job dispatching to Captain John D. Linsley. You see I am the Captain's dispatcher in a war between the Germans and the Americans."
Another time we set up "offices" in the house, each with a table and chair. We then built a system of "telegraph wires" consisting of a string from which we suspended a little basket we could pull back and forth between us to exchange messages, an arrangement Daddy had shown us earlier.
Daddy managed to make another trip up to visit us before school started. During his stay he used new wood to make a pine cupboard that filled in space between the kitchen cabinet and the front room wall. A hinged drop-down door, held secure by chains on either side, provided us with more work surface, and folded up neatly when not in use.
The first time Mother baked bread and set it on the new drop-down to cool, the hot bread drew pitch from the unfinished wood, giving the bottom crusts a distinctive pine flavor. Although it was not inedible - by her standards that would take a lot - from then on she went back to using her limited counter space for cooling fresh loaves.
John and I made makeshift airplanes - big enough to hold us - out of old barn boards and peach crates left over from our massive canning operation. Seeing that our creations were incomplete, Daddy took time out from his cupboard project to carve and mount propellers for our airplanes. They actually spun in the wind, greatly increasing our sense of realism during flights.
His last Project was a doghouse, 4X5 feet and about 4 feet high with a shed roof, a window in the back for light, and a door held shut by a turn button on the outside. Mitzi had become accustomed, however, to her soft bed and constant companionship in the house, and did not appreciate her new isolated mansion. When Daddy proudly showed her the home - after politely walking through and sniffing it - she wandered off and refused to use it. But after some creative and time-consuming refinements, John and I found it made a splendid playhouse.
By now Mitzi was running as fast as ever, but prudently reacted to cars with nothing more than a low growl. Daddy checked her tail and concluded that it must have been broken, severing the nerves controlling her wag. We talked about having her now-useless tail clipped, but none of us had the heart to cause her more pain.
During this visit, our parents had the longest, most severe argument John and I could remember. We were too young to understand fully, but too observant not to notice the daily signs of building tension. Mother withdrew and became uncommunicative; Daddy left her alone and spent his time helping with our projects, thereby keeping us out of her way. But we had no idea about what had caused the problem.
The climax came after Mother decided to wash clothes so that Daddy could have clean clothing to take back with him. He volunteered to pump the water and help her, leaving us free to play in the woods.
Galvanized tub, hand-crank clothes wringer, and washboard
John and I headed back toward the house at lunchtime, but just as we came in sight of our cabin, the clothes wringer came flying out past the open screen door and landed in the yard. We couldn't see which one of them had thrown it, but it was so heavy and went so far we thought it must have been Daddy. We had never seen him act in a violent way before, and were so shocked by the flying laundry equipment that we forgot our stomachs and retreated back into the grove. Our only comfort was sharing our feelings and fears as we wandered around the woods - unable to think about anything except the war going on at home.
Later in the afternoon we were relieved to hear Daddy calling for us, and went back to the house, where he fixed us some lunch - but our relief was short-lived as he suggested we eat it outside and stay away from the house a while longer. By the next day, things seemed somewhat back to normal.
We never learned the specific cause of their quarrel, and maybe there wasn't one. Most likely, it was the result of frustrations that accumulated during their long separation. Daddy's visits had been less frequent than the first year, and as time for his departure approached, Mother was facing, once again, a lonely isolated life with responsibilities she could never have imagined when they were married.
They were distinctly different personalities, and the supreme irony was that they were living each others preferred lifestyle. He hated the city and she hated the isolation of living in the country. They were both doing extra tasks they would not have if they were living together, but hers - which included hoeing the garden, cutting and splitting wood, hauling water, and doing the laundry by hand - were far more onerous.
Certainly, Mother was more isolated than Daddy. She could have walked over to visit neighbor families, but did not feel comfortable with them. Her years in the orphanage left her feeling different from other people, even those having a somewhat similar way of life. The gulf was much wider with the farm wives she met. They did not understand each other because they had so little common ground. Her manner of speaking - soft, formal, and restrained, and always with proper pronunciation - did not lead to easy camaraderie with anyone. She never swore, or said "ain't." She didn't tell jokes. She spoke something like Eleanor Roosevelt, or those who have portrayed her, like Greer Garson in Sunrise at Campobello.
None of this was an affectation, but the natural consequence of her formative years at the orphanage. The matrons and teachers suppressed emotion and used formal English, quickly indoctrinating new children who might contaminate the others with colloquial expressions. High school and her years at the University reinforced these patterns. Unaware of Mother's history, our farm neighbors might have thought she felt above them and was deliberately acting superior.
Forty years later, Mother finally told us that she was the one who threw the clothes wringer out the window....
