I remember that
first summer here as being for the most part satisfying but without enough time
in the day or in the night. After the long hours of labor I simply had to turn
in between eight and nine o’clock and was immediately dead to the world.
Rolling out at five in the morning didn’t bother me too much as I enjoyed the
freshness of dawn, and fortunately in those days I slept soundly and, tho often
not rested, was refreshed. But Isabel never liked early rising and I don’t
think ever did get used to it.
Midseason proved a
good time to take over. The gardens were far enough along so they required
little attention (the children would disagree; they had to weed and pick potato
bugs) and it was not yet time to harvest crops other than hay. I arranged with
a neighbor to do the haying “on halves” whereby he did the job and put half the
hay in my barn, taking the other half himself. This was a practical way to get
the work done; it would provide ample for my animals and leave me free for other
pressing tasks. Also, while I had the equipment and some experience at haying,
I was glad not to have to undertake such a big job immediately.
There was one
drawback to this kind of help, as I found both then and later. All the farmers
were extremely busy men, with more than enough to attend to on their own
places. With the best will in the world they often got behind, and you never
could count on just when to expect to help you. This not only made
planning difficult but could have an adverse effect on the quality of a crop
such as hay.
To have the greatest
feed value this should be mowed quite early in the season before it is
over-ripe, and then should be cured quickly and gotten into the barn, - not too
dry but not too green and, most important, without being rained on. Loose hay
(balers were then unknown) could not be put in the mow either green or damp
without risking spontaneous combustion (many barns have gone up in smoke
because of this) or having it become moldy and unfit to use. So proper curing
in the field was important. A farmer had to be a good weather forecaster,-but,
as one of my neighbors liked to say, “You can’t wait for it to rain.” On the
contrary, once started (hopefully in mid-June but often well into July) you
pushed it thru as fast as possible, often taking chances on the weather.
The successive
phases were mowing, perhaps shaking out with a fork to hasten the drying,
machine raking into windrows, then tumbling with a fork, and hand-raking the
scatterings. Then the wagon with a big frame mounted on it to increase capacity
came between the rows and the tumbles were lifted on, the driver (on the wagon)
helping to place the tumbles and treading them down so they made a firm and
even surface for more tumbles to come on. It was quite an art to put on a
large, nicely squared load before starting for the barn,-and something of a
disgrace if any of it slid off.
At the barn it
generally was “mowed away” by hand; but sometimes a big tonged hay-fork was
mounted with ropes and pulleys on an overhead track; horse-operated, after the
wagon had driven in underneath, this fork could drop down and seize a large
bite from the load and transfer it to where it was wanted. Even then, final
stowing by hand was required; but it was a big help. “”Mowing away” high up in
a hot and airless barn is one of the operations any farmer would gladly
dispense with; and of course modern equipment goes far to this end,
Well, after some
worry on my part the hay finally was in the barn by mid-August; certainly not in
the best condition, nor as much as I expected, as my share came to only five or
six tons. Just about enough to see my tow animals thru the winter, with the
addition of some chopped corn fodder and grain.
In the meantime,
going for the cow was the start of my day. Early mornings were brisk,- very
pleasant stepping out of the house into the first rays of sun, but the pasture
at that hour was in shade, dipping down to the east across the twin brooks (the
third brook runs west and south of the house) and then climbing up a scrub-and
wood-covered hill. The knee-deep growth was dew-drenched, -how cold it seemed!
Boots were too clumsy. One followed what trails there were as rapidly as
possible, hoping Bossy would be behind the next bush but of course she seldom
was.
I allowed about
twenty minutes for this chore, and as much more to wipe down the cow and milk
her. Sometimes this wasn’t enough. Which was no excuse as far as my wife was
concerned: having gotten up early to have my breakfast ready, she not unreasonably
expected me to be on hand when it was. Despite which she always insisted on my
changing my soaked trousers and shows.
Altho they may be
hot, summer days here are seldom oppressive before afternoon so I found morning
the time to get things done,-except, of course, for haying, which has to wait
for sun and breeze to do their work and seldom can be commenced before nine or
ten o’clock. Not having this to concern me, I set about improving the place.
Everywhere, more things were turning up that needed doing than had at first
been apparent. (And looking back, I am astonished at how much got done.)
Early on our second
day I asked Isabel, “What do you think should come first?” “Well, I must go to
the village for supplies. How much money can we spend?” was her
counter-question,- a very delicate one. “How much have you?” “A dollar
sixty-three.” I groaned. “I’ll get what I have” and went up-stairs for it.
Returning: “Well, here’s a hundred dollars to open an account at the bank in
Proctorsville. That leaves twelve to spend. You’ll have to do the best you can.
I have about fifteen cents left.” In those days twelve dollars seemed like a
lot. At least it would buy a fair amount of stuff like canned salmon and corn
meal for mush.
Isabel accepted it
without comment. “When I get home, let me know if you need help. Otherwise I’d
better go on getting things in shape indoors,” she said. “Certainly there is
plenty you can do without me.” She was right about that.
The approach to the
house looked rather unkempt, countless horse-drawn conveyances having worn a
track thru the front yard from road to door-steps and on out again, taking a
large part of the shallow lawn which recently had been uncared-for. Also,
despite gay geraniums in boxes, and bushes across the front, the house stood
rather high on tis knoll. Something more was needed to compensate.
“Hi, Issy,” I called
as she was going out, “If you want a couple of maples here in front let’s
decide where to put them. Then they can be growing while we’re doing other
things.” She was pleased with this so we measured the area and drove a couple
of stakes. “When do you think we could start a terrace?” she asked. “That would
make a great improvement.” “Wel-l,” I
replied doubtfully, “That will be a really big job. But if you’d rather, I’ll
begin collecting stones instead of getting the trees. Of course, it might
better to wait until spring to do that anyway.”
So while my wife
started for the village by the back way (”Don’t get lost!” I called after her)
I brought old Dan from the pasture and hitched him to the long, narrow “lumber
wagon,” a strongly built vehicle which could be put to many uses. Then I
mounted to stand precariously on the wagon bed, clutching the reins and hoping
Dan was as sedate as he looked. He was,-proving then and later willing to go as
slow a pace as I would let him.
It has puzzled me a
good many times how hard it is to find stones,- that is, stones suitable for
your purpose. If there is something Vermont never will lack, it is stones: how
our predecessors must have labored-doubtless using ox teams-to clear the
fields, all of which are bordered by stonewalls. So are the roads. Stonewalls
wind thru the woods, enclosing large areas of what once must have been cleared
land. In a corner of the mowing is a great pile of boulders too large for
practical use, while loads of too-small stones have been dumped here-and-there
in the edge of the woods bordering the fields. To these we have added a good
many more, “picked” after plowing. But find stone for the terrace was to prove
quite a problem. Building a sustaining wall to the required level to hold fill
required much material, time, and labor; and then it took more hunting to find
large flat stones with which to surface it. So it proved a prolonged job on
which we worked when there was nothing more pressing; we made a good start that
summer, but it was late the next year before it was finished. It has been worth
the effort, making the house seem lower, and giving us a nice place to sit
outdoors. A semi-dwarf MacIntosh planted in the outer corner gives pleasant
shade, as well as fruit.
That first day we
had little trouble: a couple of moderate loads were all Dan or I were equal to.
And then anyway it began to rain. Not much, but when Isabel asked me to help
her in the house I was glad to do so.
WASHDAY 1930s
While
much of Tiemann’s Memoirs deal with farm work, what about Mrs. Tiemann’s
responsibilities? She had just moved from a suburban neighborhood with
electricity to a part of Cavendish that wouldn’t have power for another 14 years.
Yet, food needed to be prepared using a wood stove and there was always the
dreaded washday to be followed by ironing day.
In 1933, if you
lived in one of the areas of town with electricity, and had the funds for an
electric washer, you still had to run your clothes through a ringer before you
hung them out to dry. It wouldn’t be until 1937 that Bendix introduced what we
view today as the automatic washing machine that combined washing, rinsing and
spinning.
 |
| Dolly Stick |
In many households,
Monday was washday. Clothes were sorted, pretreated, soaked in large tubs and
agitated using a “dolly stick” or something similar. Particularly dirty clothes
were then scrubbed on a washboard. Many homes had a system where the washtub
would be set in cement or brickwork, with a firebox underneath and chimney to
take away the smoke from the burnt wood.
Washing soda (sodium
carbonate) was used to clean clothes that had stains or grease or
oil on them. Because of the coarse nature of the crystals, they were rather
harsh on clothes, to say nothing of being hard on skin.
 |
| Wringer or Mangle |
Depending on how dirty the clothes were, they may need
to go through the washing cycle twice before heading to the rinsing tub. Lifted by a stick, clothes would be rinsed
with cold water until clean. Either using their hands or a “wringer,” also
called a “mangle,” the clothes were rung out and hung on lines to dry.
Whites would have
been done in separate tubs and a bluing solution would have been added to help
whiten them.
If a family could
afford it, there were rotating drum devices that could be operated by hand,
which were more effective than the dolly stick and scrub board. These initially
were wooden drums but as the technology improved, metal drums, that could be
heated, replaced the wooden drums. Stop by the Cavendish Historical Society
Museum (open Sundays 2-4 pm from Memorial Day to Columbus weekend) to see an
example of a drum cleaner and many other laundry devices used throughout the
years.
 |
| Flatiron |
Washing clothes was
an all day affair, so clean clothes were often ironed the next day. Flatirons were filled with hot coals, and
when hot, ironed out the wrinkles. Another way was to heat up “irons.” Because
these would quickly cool off, the 1930s housewife would have 2-4 irons on their
stove or fireplace to help speed the process.
 |
| Iron |
Household laundry starch was added to the washing
process not only to stiffen clothing collars, shirt-cuffs and women’s
undergarments, but starch also protected the clothes from stains and sweat. Dirt
sticks to the starch, not the fabric and therefore washed off more easily when
the clothes went through that exhaustive wash-cycle again.
While large houses would have had a special room for
the laundry called the “scullery,” for many homes, the kitchen would do double
duty as the laundry room.
Because it took so long to clean them, people wore
clothes much longer than people do today. It wasn’t uncommon for men to wear
their shirts for one week, two weeks or even up to a month, before having them
washed.
To read the prelude
and other chapters of Tiemann’s Memoirs go to Coming to Vermont (Cavendish): Memoirs of Philip Tiemann.
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