Home and the Range
By Blue Turtle
No, this isn’t a mistake. It’s home and the range. This is not about that place where the deer and antelope play or where the buffalo rove. It’s about that big cast iron, wood-eating monster in Grandma’s kitchen that she called her cooking stove.
It is strange how something like this will jog your memories after nearly sixty years. But I recently watched a movie on T.V. that had range just like Grandma’s and it triggered a fond memory of a special day in my life that I would like to share with you. This event took place on my Grandparent’s farm in Northeast Ohio near a place called Bristolville back in January of 1943.
It was during the war, and my stepfather and Mother were working at two separate places. My stepfather was fire chief at Lordstown army depot, living on base, and my Mother worked at Ravenna arsenal nearly fifty miles away, living there, while I was sent to my Grandparent’s farm to live.
I guess I in my own way was also sharing in the war efforts, for my uncles were all in service and I alone was there to help with the farm work. I guess what makes this day stand out in my memory was up until this day, for nearly a year, I had shared in the chores with my younger Uncle who was seven years older than I, but now he too had enlisted in the army. This is a story of my first day of handling all those chores alone.
My day started in the pre-dawn darkness in my bedroom in the loft of the old house. As I lay buried in the warm cocoon of goose down feather ticks with my little wool hand knitted night cap pulled down over my ears to keep them from freezing. The upstairs window facing the Northwest would have nearly a quarter inch of ice on it if there had been any light to see it. But lamp oil was at a premium around the farm and wasn’t wasted for such investigating, and my grandparents, like their Amish neighbors had no electricity in those days. The only heat that came into the loft was from the cast iron pipe that ran up through the floor from the pot-bellied stove in the living room below. This pipe served a dual purpose, it was also an alarm clock, for the first thing one heard was the clanging of the opening of the stove door below and Grandma shaking down the ashes and rekindling it’s fire.
Then just to make sure I was awake, she’d hit the pipe a whack and its noise would be enough to wake the dead in that morning stillness.
I remember laying there wishing for the luxury of a little time for the heat from below to make things easier, but time was of a premium and there were a lot of chores to be done. So with a groan, shivering at the prospect, I snaked my foot from under that wonderful warmth and tried to find my warm flannel shirt and overalls, using those wonderful prehensile toes of youth, I finally drew them into my heated haven to put on, but when I searched for my woolen socks, I could only find one. Muttering under my breath such epithets that would earn me the swift reprisal of my elders, I cursed those unseen little people who hide things in the night and got up to search for the hidden sock in the dark, only to find it exactly where I had taken it off. And donning my indoor moccasins, I groped my way to the stairwell and walked down its creaky steps.
The only light below was from the single oil lamp my grandma had set on the kitchen table, as I made my way to the washbasin on one side of the kitchen. Grabbing a ladle I broke through the thin layer of ice in the nearby bucket of water and filled the basin and proceeded to wash my face and slick down my hair. If I hadn’t been awake already, the touch of that water sure got my attention to the fact.
Then came my first chore of the day, Grandma’s range. Opening one of its doors I poked about hopefully for some small ember in which to rekindle the fire. I guess that on this particular morning the spirits of fire were with me, for some embers remained and I was able to add kindling and restart the fire at both sides of that old stove. Not that building a fire from scratch would have been much of a chore, but it would involve keeping the doors open longer and taking the chance that the room would get smoky, thus having to undergo the swift reprisals of my Grandma. She was a little peculiar in that way, you just did not smoke up her house. My next chore was to remove the ashes from the range and potbellied stove. Now this doesn’t sound like much, but it took all the expertise of a brain surgeon, for lord help you should any dust be allowed to fly about or any ash touch that that old wooden floor that had been polished white and shiny by Grandma’s daily bath of lye soap and lemon concoction. I have often heard people remark about floors being clean enough to eat off of, and Grandma’s were that way, she took a lot of pride in her home and made it quite plain that it was her domain. Outdoor shoes were never allowed beyond her kitchen door, even if they belonged to the preacher. She always kept an ample amount of moccasins on a rack in the foyer for visitors.
But then back to the chores, after filling two pails with ashes, I took them to the foyer outside the kitchen. Along one side of the foyer stood the boot box. This box was like a chest about two foot wide and five foot long. It’s hinged top had a cushion of grass filled burlap to sit on and in front of it were wooden bootjacks for removing your boots. The box was filled with a sweet smelling grass which we usually gathered in the fall, it is the grass we use to call tangle foot, that light grass that tangles itself about your feet when walking through the meadows. This grass was used to fill our work boots, it provided good insulation and as those boots were of only two sizes, large and larger, made them fit to wear. After donning my boots and putting on my heavy mackinaw, wool knitted mittens and stocking cap, I took the ash cans outside and started spreading them along the long narrow path that led out to that little necessity house out back, which by the way by this time, in the darkness, seemed to be at least two miles away.
Hurriedly scattering the ashes by feel, I made my way to that two-holed refuge. Upon closing its door, I stood in its rancid darkness, damning the fact that my bib overalls necessitated removing my mackinaw. Weighing the circumstances, I decided that a few minutes of cold was a small price compared to the alternatives.
So I removed the mackinaw and after fumbling with futility in the darkness for a hook, dropped it on the floor and groped my way to the remembered smaller hole in the cold shelf. My hands recoiled as they touched the frost rimmed hole, and with a warriors courage, I dropped my bib overalls and loosened the flap of my long johns and attempted a balancing act for which my short ten year old legs were purely incapable. No calf undergoing its first branding has ever suffered more then I from that excruciating pain brought on by that frosty seat. And I guarantee that no act of nature was ever accomplished in a shorter time, for I left that building feeling that I had been permanently marked for life.
On my way back to the house I stopped by the woodpile and loaded the wheelbarrow full of wood, and after several vane attempts of trying to move it, hurriedly unloaded over half of it, decided that three trips would not take that long after all. Piling the wood beside the wood box in the foyer to allow the frost to melt, I removed my boots, donned my indoor moccasins and went in to continue my morning chores. Emptying what remained of the drinking and wash water buckets into the large reservoir in back of the range, I refilled the buckets with the now warm water. These I carried out to the barn, leaving one in the barn, I carried the other and an empty pail to the water pump, hoping that the one would be enough to prime it. Good fortune was again with me that morning, for one bucket was enough to prime it. Then came the chore of carrying water back to the house to fill that big reservoir on the range and a bucket each of drinking and wash water. It is a wonder that my arms aren’t as long as Apes, thinking back on this, for it usually took four trips with two buckets each trip to accomplish this.
Next came the chore of bringing in the milk cows, fortunately it was cold and they were all gathered behind the barn around the cattle shed, so that all I had to do was open the back barn door. The cows were well trained, and each knew its own stall. All I had to do is go up into the loft and fork down hay to them, then go down and fastened them into their stocks. Afterwards I got the bucket of warm water and washed down their udders and prepared to milk them. It was then that Grandpa came in and started milking with me. This was really one time I missed my Uncle. I missed the milk fights and the joking. Grandpa was one of those no nonsense types that never went in for such foolishness. He always went at the work as if there was nothing more important in the world then to get it done then and now. Try as I might, he still out milked me, there were only twenty cows, but before I could get to my sixth, he was done with the ten on his side and was starting on those on my side.
After the milking, we took the milk to the milk house and while Grandpa processed the milk, my job was to sled the two cans of milk from the night before down to the end of the drive. This wasn’t too hard for it was down hill, but I had to be careful none got spilled. I remember that there were two different cans. One had a yellow lid; this was the butter rich one which went to the cheese factory. The other was a plain lid, which went to the dairy. At the end of the drive was an enclosure or milk house made of baled hay where the cans were stored. The job of half carrying, half dragging those full milk cans was a chore that I well remember to this day. But even that paled by comparison to the trip back uphill with the empty milk cans, that sledge was heavy.
Then came the best time of the whole morning. As the sky was just graying in the east, it was time for breakfast. As Grandpa and I removed our outer clothes and boots, the warmth and wonderful aroma’s of fresh bread and biscuits filled the foyer, and when we entered the kitchen to wash up, the heat was like a physical force, causing our faces and hands to tingle. But this small discomfort faded quickly when we saw that kitchen table. It always seemed like some kind of miracle that only Grandma could perform, for the on that table was a large platter of fried eggs, hash browned potatoes, side meat of pork or beef, fresh buns, fresh bread, a cold pitcher of milk, fresh churned butter and a large jar of her famous plum preserves. It always seemed that she went out of her way just to reward us for our hard work or something. I know that this was true this morning, for she had made me a large bowl of rolled oats. Not just any rolled oats, but one with dried apples and raisins in it and sweetened with maple sugar. As I think back upon that morning, I can’t help to marvel at the appetite that I displayed back then, perhaps it was from the healthy atmosphere and the hard work, but I remember finishing off that bowl of oatmeal quickly and digging in on that platter. But best of all was that plum jam on fresh bread. Nothing in the world tasted as good as that jam. It had the same consistency as apple butter but with a tart taste that was out of this world. Grandma would gather small, purple, wild plums from her own private little orchard way back in the woods to make it. It was her secret place. I always called it burnt apple butter.
After breakfast Grandpa would go out into the sun porch and sit smoking his pipe as he watched the sun rise, while Grandma sat in her rocker either tatting or knitting and I worked on my schoolwork, for I still had to go to school.
Fortunately school was no great problem for me, for adjacent to the farm was one of the few remaining one room schoolhouses of that time. This schoolhouse was my next chore in the morning.
After a half hour or so rest after breakfast, I bundled up again and went over to the schoolhouse to kindle the fires in the two small stoves. After getting them fired up I then went out to the woodshed and brought in some wood. This done, I headed for the little stable to spread fresh hay, but it was then that the first sleigh full of Amish children came up the drive and I knew that the rest of the chores would be in other hands. All in all there were about twenty of us going to school there at that time, both Amish and Yankee alike. I like that word Yankee, it was a word that the Amish used for anybody who wasn’t Amish. Our teacher was a kindly old woman by the name of Mrs. Fansler. God must have smiled when he made her, for I have never met such a devoted teacher. She had a car that she drove in the fall and spring, but in the winter she had a horse drawn sleigh that she drove to school. She lived about six or seven miles away and had a small farm where she raised horses. Anyway school only lasted from the time she got there until about 2:00 P.M., with a half hour for lunch.
After school it was back to the farm work. From splitting wood to feeding stock and generally keeping busy until almost dark, when it was milking time again.
Then as the sun set it was time for supper. Supper was not as large as breakfast; it consisted of soup, usually chicken noodle, fried potatoes and meat and of course fresh bread and butter.
After supper we would go into the living room to sit for a while. Grandpa would sit reading his bible and grandma would be doing her mending, while I tried to do my schoolwork in the light of the oil lamp. After a while Grandma would get up and start fussing with the fire in the pot-bellied stove, banking the fire for the night, and this was the sign for me to go up to bed.
This was the life on that farm back then. It was a life where no time was kept except for the light and darkness. Compared to many others at that time I guess you can say we lived pretty high on the hog. For it was a time of rationing and sacrifice for many people. I really came to appreciate my life there one day when on a Sunday one of my Aunts came and took me to her house to play with my cousins. I watched her as she prepared a meal, she mixed up powdered milk to drink and then had this package of what for all the world looked like a bag of lard and started to mix some coloring into it that turned it yellow, when I asked her what it was she said it was a butter substitute. Boy did I get homesick for the farm right there and then. By the way, I wouldn’t touch that stuff. In fact even after the war when my family was reunited it took me an awful long time to even eat store brought butter. There is a lot of difference between fresh churned butter and store brought. Store butter taste too salty.
One other thing I should mention about the farm life. Grandma had a pantry behind the kitchen that was loaded with all kinds of good stuff. Along one whole wall was big crocks filled with all kinds of things. One was filled with sour dough from which my Grandma made all her bread and biscuits. One was filled with homemade noodles that she kept making for soups. Others were filled with dried fruit, flour, maple sugar and syrup, and there was even one filled with some lemon concentrate that she used in her soap and to make teas. The pantry was filled with canned food and dried herbs of all kinds that she gathered. It was a treasure trove that few today have ever known. Grandma made her own lye soap, and I was really something. I think it burned the dirt off a person, at least it felt like it. Believe me I spent just about every Saturday night behind that old range, bathing in that old washtub in the stuff, and it felt like it skinned you.
Life there was a life of richness even though we never saw much more then a few dollars. Most everything we needed there was bartered or homemade, yet it sufficed to make a healthy and happy life. Those days are long gone now, only happy memories. Memories that I gladly share with you now so that you might see beyond that green dollar and realize that there is much more to living.
May each of you live in beauty and harmony, with my love;
Muxumsa Blue Turtle
