I was chatting away with my friend Helen on a warm sunny day in May. It had just rained for 4 days straight over the Memorial Day holiday so this was welcomed warmth.
I have visited with my new 7 month old Granddaughter enjoying every minute of smiles and recognition she gave when I entered the room. She lights up the room with the joy in her soul. Her parents love her dearly and she unconditionally loves them back.
Helen asked me I felt loved when I grew up. She did coming from a large family with bushels of love and shortage of wealth.
I felt cared for and loved in a sense that is difficult to discribe. We lived on a farm in a small community north east of Greeley, Colorado. Going to church was our regular and required routine. As a youngster under five I sat on my Mom’s lap while resting my head on her chest to listen to her voice inside while she sing the hymns during church service.
We always had new dresses and shiny shoes for Easter and Christmas. My dad wanted his children to look their best on Sundays. Even though he lived in work clothes during the week, dirty from hard labor on the farm working the fields, milking cows and caring for the meriade of things that need repair, he always cleaned up on Sunday’s. I could him to this day whistling as he would carefully scrap the weeks dirt from under his fingernails. On Sunday he wore a crispy starched white shirt, suit and tie. Then donned one of those 30’s style fedoras.
One year when I was four or five I noticed my new Easter dress hanging on the corner china closet in the dining room. My Mom and Dad had picked it out for me. It was one of those ruffly gossimer type little girl dresses in grey overlayed on top of yellow. Yellow I love. Grey I don’t. I must have had a real temper tantrum about that dress refusing to wear it because I didn’t like it. I hid in the back room closet crying my eyes out. I’m sure my parents wondered how they raised such a spoiled little brat.
That Easter Sunday I wore the dress and the new shoes, but hated every minute of it.
What I liked was living on the farm and being outdoors. My Mom worked hard keeping the duties of the household and caring for three children. I was the youngest. She pretty much had child raising down to a fine art. She was a very practical person who took her responsibilities seriously, while still allowing herself special time to work on sewing her projects and meet with her friends.
We had a clothesline that ran the length of our two-story farm house. Certain days were alloted for different household chores. I think Monday was washing. It was a chore in itself. Much more labor intensive than sorting colors tossing them in the washing machine with some soap and waiting for half an hour. The water had to be heated up and poured into the tub. Later we must have installed some pipes and a water heater. The clothes were aggetated in probably lie soap (Ick), then picked up soppy wet and ran through the wringer operated by hand. Later units were automatic, but still had the wringer process. I assume the soapy water was drained out and clear water added to the tub to rinse out the soap. More wringing. Then out the door with a big wooden bushel basket as plastic had not been invented yet.
As a very young child I tagged outside with my Mom while she hung up the clothes. My Mom put me in a army green colored harness type thing with a long lead. She snapped the lead to the clothesline and off I ran up and down the wire. I must have been two or so. I’m sure that was a good choice to keep be from running into the yard around the machinry or wonder into the correls with the cows or bull.
I don’t think the harness and lead went with us when we went to town on Saturdays. My car seat had rounded metal that snuggly fit over the bench seat in our old Chrysler. The seat frame had a loose canvas pouch with two holes for my legs. I sat between my Mom as my Dad drove. I’m sure if we had ever had an accident, which we didn’t, the baby seat would have slipped right off the bench seat and I would have gone flying through the car.
We always went to town on Saturdays. The men would wait around their cars and chat with the other farmers who were neighbors and relatives. I held my Mom’s hand as we went around the block stopping at the five and dime to look at the jewelry counter. At the time there was a high luxery tax on jewelry as we had just came out of the war in the late 40’s. People were to pay the price for such extravagance.
Toward the end of the Saturday shopping Mom stopped at the Bakery to by buns that she used for the evenings dinner when she made hamburgers. There was no fast food places as franchises were not even invented yet. These were those extra greasy hamburgers fryed in bacon grease. Even better was when the bun was dipped in the cooking grease just before serving.