Snowy, cloudy, windy, and cold. Winter in Nebraska. I put a load of clothes in the washer and remember what winter washday meant for my mom. Dad was a little help. He hauled the water from the windmill to fill the big copper boiler on the coal range that was used for heat, cooking, and drying out mittens and shoes on the backside. He filled the galvanized tubs that were used for rinsing, and then got gone. When the water in the boiler was almost boiling, Mom added soap and clothing, whites first. Her sawed off broomstick went round and round, stirring the clothing until she fished out a garment and wrung it out by hand and put it into a rinse tub. There was an old saying that a girl wasn’t ready to marry until she could wring out garments from the boiler. When the water was cooler, she used a washboard. On days like this one, she hung everything on a wooden rack by the stove, on chair backs and hangers on door backs. If the sun shone, they went on the clothesline to freeze dry. By early dark, it was all brought in; things that still contained moisture would stand up by themselves next to the stove.
My friend recently mentioned penny loafers. If you don’t know what kind of shoes they are, ask Granny. I had shared that my shoes were bought two sizes too big, in order to last for a year. I wasn’t allowed penny loafers until my feet stopped growing. Joyceann said she’d felt sorry for herself because her shoes were one size too big; the shame of her existence in junior high. She guesses she could have been worse off.
My mom wasn’t a seamstress, so I got new clothing, unless a neighbor passed on hand-me-downs. I loved getting those, but I suppose my friends envied my new dresses. Mom did darn socks and turn collars and cuffs on Dad’s shirts. Her thimble got a workout because we didn’t have a sewing machine.
I got a sewing machine for high school graduation and spent that summer creating a college wardrobe. After marrying, I sewed maternity tops, my husband’s western shirts, and my children’s clothing from flour sacks. A family member worked at the flour mill in Chadron, so my sister-in-law and I had many choices of pretty prints to clothe our families. I don’t recall any of us feeling poor, after all, most people we knew were in similar circumstances. We used it up, wore it out, and were pretty proud of ourselves.
My mom had been raised in the city so these customs were foreign to her. She loved to shop but it was many years before she got a chance to do much of that. I didn’t love to shop, and still don’t, but when I need to, I hit the second time around shops. The quality of clothing there is much better than that in discount chain stores. The better off crowd gets tired of a garment, passes it along, and so brand names I could never afford end up in my closet, some hardly worn, or with the original tags still in place.
I’m glad not to have to freeze dry my laundry today, but I still recall how fresh the house smelled as those frozen clothes were drying out. One of the lessons learned in those “good old days” was not to feel sorry for myself or envious of others. My parents wanted a good education for me, and I got it.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile, do your best. Somebody might like it.