Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Trivia Minutiae
Yesterday, because my packaged piecrust fell on the floor at the checkout lane, I learned that Walter makes his own piecrusts. I didn't know anyone did that anymore. (I told him I didn't mind that the edges might have crumbled a bit.)
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Table
I don't know where it came from. It may have been left in a house we moved into, as was a frequent occurrence then. People moved and with only a passenger car and a few relatives to help them out, they frequently abandoned large items that were not necessities. I don't know how long we were in possession of the table either, but I know we owned it in Valley Falls until my mother gave it away. She had little fondness for old pieces of furniture or appliances, as she spent most of her life with old hand-me-down stuff that no one else needed or wanted.
The first house I remember the presence of the table was the Schmidt house we rented in Melrose. I think now the table would be referred to in the antique furniture description as a library table. It was dark wood with a shallow drawer in front and a built-in magazine rack on either side. There was a shelf or narrow platform across the bottom of the table, maybe for additional storage or a place to rest your feet. But to me, at three years old, the table was a secure hiding place, and the bottom shelf a sort of cot. I remember crawling into that space when I felt sad and alone. I think I felt that way because our mother, though always at home, was so busy trying to keep everything together, she didn't have a lot of time to nurture her kids' sensitivities. She was busy dawn to dusk with endless chores that would be unfathomable in today's world.
The house had no electricity, no telephone service, no running water, no central heat. All water for laundry, (done by hand) had to be carried into the house, heated on top of a wood stove, which she needed to replenish by toting the wood into the house, starting the fire, not to mention shaking the stove down and carrying out the ashes. There were tools for that---pokers and ash buckets, scuttles. And used water had to be carried out in buckets also. To say nothing of the toileting facilities, also based outside. Wash days meant pumping and heating water, scrubbing clothing etc. on a washboard in a tub and then discarding the water outside. Almost everything needed to be ironed back then, in the days before wrinkle-free fabrics. The iron had to be heated on top of the stove, handled with great care, and re-heated regularly, unless you owned a second flatiron, which she didn't. Clothes had to be dried on an outside clothesline though in harsh winter weather they were often hung on a line strung around the stove.
There was an icebox, and the drip-pan for the melted water had to be emptied regularly before it overflowed onto the floor. The floors needed sweeping regularly too, remember no electricity, no vacuums. And my mother had to cook for a family of five, with very little access to grocery stores.
In addition, my mother had outside chores to attend to ---chickens, a garden, other animals from time to time, including a milk cow which was bought when she observed the milking on a prosperous dairy farm we once lived on. She saw that the milk was strained for flies, and she couldn't stand to give that milk to her kids.
So we kids were on our own a lot of the time. I would feel sad and sorry for myself, thinking nobody cared about me. And I would crawl into my secret space under the table and cry. Of course I never complained out loud or told anybody; none of us kids ever did. I would cry in private, hidden away from everybody, invisible. Or so I thought.
Then one morning, my sadness was outed. Uncle Joe, passing by, stopped, asked me what was wrong, and without waiting for an answer, handed me a box of Freihofer's chocolate doughnuts, which meant the bread man had just stopped by. I remember running to my mother and giving her the box of doughnuts. She seemed glad to get them, so I was comforted and the day got better.
As I said, my mother got rid of that table; it's long gone, as are Uncle Joe and Freihofer's deliveries, but I don't suppose I could fit in that space now anyway.
The first house I remember the presence of the table was the Schmidt house we rented in Melrose. I think now the table would be referred to in the antique furniture description as a library table. It was dark wood with a shallow drawer in front and a built-in magazine rack on either side. There was a shelf or narrow platform across the bottom of the table, maybe for additional storage or a place to rest your feet. But to me, at three years old, the table was a secure hiding place, and the bottom shelf a sort of cot. I remember crawling into that space when I felt sad and alone. I think I felt that way because our mother, though always at home, was so busy trying to keep everything together, she didn't have a lot of time to nurture her kids' sensitivities. She was busy dawn to dusk with endless chores that would be unfathomable in today's world.
The house had no electricity, no telephone service, no running water, no central heat. All water for laundry, (done by hand) had to be carried into the house, heated on top of a wood stove, which she needed to replenish by toting the wood into the house, starting the fire, not to mention shaking the stove down and carrying out the ashes. There were tools for that---pokers and ash buckets, scuttles. And used water had to be carried out in buckets also. To say nothing of the toileting facilities, also based outside. Wash days meant pumping and heating water, scrubbing clothing etc. on a washboard in a tub and then discarding the water outside. Almost everything needed to be ironed back then, in the days before wrinkle-free fabrics. The iron had to be heated on top of the stove, handled with great care, and re-heated regularly, unless you owned a second flatiron, which she didn't. Clothes had to be dried on an outside clothesline though in harsh winter weather they were often hung on a line strung around the stove.
There was an icebox, and the drip-pan for the melted water had to be emptied regularly before it overflowed onto the floor. The floors needed sweeping regularly too, remember no electricity, no vacuums. And my mother had to cook for a family of five, with very little access to grocery stores.
In addition, my mother had outside chores to attend to ---chickens, a garden, other animals from time to time, including a milk cow which was bought when she observed the milking on a prosperous dairy farm we once lived on. She saw that the milk was strained for flies, and she couldn't stand to give that milk to her kids.
So we kids were on our own a lot of the time. I would feel sad and sorry for myself, thinking nobody cared about me. And I would crawl into my secret space under the table and cry. Of course I never complained out loud or told anybody; none of us kids ever did. I would cry in private, hidden away from everybody, invisible. Or so I thought.
Then one morning, my sadness was outed. Uncle Joe, passing by, stopped, asked me what was wrong, and without waiting for an answer, handed me a box of Freihofer's chocolate doughnuts, which meant the bread man had just stopped by. I remember running to my mother and giving her the box of doughnuts. She seemed glad to get them, so I was comforted and the day got better.
As I said, my mother got rid of that table; it's long gone, as are Uncle Joe and Freihofer's deliveries, but I don't suppose I could fit in that space now anyway.
Monday, November 12, 2018
A Million Little Things
The point is that if someone had been here, I would have said,"Look, Tistrya is wearing my old dress," And then thrown the card away. But having no one to comment to, the card remains a stark reminder of the solitary life.
Not that I ever read the newspaper to anyone in the house, but often there would be a comment or two, on a mutual basis. Same with television--watching TV shows alone is akin to doomsday, with no venue for incidental or frivolous remarks. It is probable that any prospective listener would not be interested anyway, but when you live with someone, there is no choice, is there? Who would have guessed that a reluctant audience still served the purpose.
Humans are social beings, and human interaction a necessity. That is why research is now showing that people can remain healthier if they avoid isolation. And not just through organized and scheduled visits by someone from the outside world. Recent studies showed that it is healthier, for those who are able, to live in a community where there are neighbors and regular occasions for even incidental contacts. Worth thinking about.
Saturday, November 10, 2018
Dinosaur in the Waiting Room
The other day I was in a medical office, having driven patients there for their appointments. Anticipating a wait of more than a few minutes, I found the magazine rack and picked up a copy of one of the selections. There was not a great variety to choose from, but at least the issues were current.
When I resumed my seat in the waiting room, I noticed that I was the only person who was in possession of a magazine. All the others, except for very young children, were occupied with their phones. Every single one. The office was fairly busy, and I, waiting for 2 separate appointments, waited for a considerable length of time. The percentage of phone users remained constant for each and every patient. No one even looked at the magazine rack.
No wonder it's now possible to pay pennies per copy for magazine subscriptions. You just need to assume the risk the publishers may go bankrupt before your subscription runs out.
When I resumed my seat in the waiting room, I noticed that I was the only person who was in possession of a magazine. All the others, except for very young children, were occupied with their phones. Every single one. The office was fairly busy, and I, waiting for 2 separate appointments, waited for a considerable length of time. The percentage of phone users remained constant for each and every patient. No one even looked at the magazine rack.
No wonder it's now possible to pay pennies per copy for magazine subscriptions. You just need to assume the risk the publishers may go bankrupt before your subscription runs out.
Friday, November 9, 2018
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
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