Woman’s Work
The woman of the mountains has always been as resourceful in her way as the man. She made the sweetening for the family’s use from a sugar tree and as often used sorghum from cane for the same purposes, even pouring the thick molasses into coffee if they were fortunate enough to have coffee. She made her own dyes from barks and herbs. And though she may have had a dozen children of her own she was ready and eager to help a neighbor in time of sickness. Doctors were scarce, so she of necessity turned midwife to help another through childbirth. She shared the tasks of her husband in the field and home. She was as busy at butchering time as the menfolk. Once the hog was killed and cleaned, she helped chop the meat into sausage and helped to case it. She boiled the blood for pudding and looked to the seasoning, with sage and pepper, of the head cheese and liverwurst. Hers was the task of rendering the lard in the great iron kettle near the dooryard. And once the meat was cut into slabs she helped salt it down in the meat log. But only the man felt capable of properly preparing and smoking the ham for the family’s use. She frugally set aside the cracklins, after rendering the lard, for use in soap-making at the hopper.
At sorghum-making time mother and daughter worked as busily as father and son. The men cut the cane and fed it to the mill, while the womenfolk took turns tending the pans in which the syrup boiled, skimming off the greenish foam and scum that gathered on the top. They urged the young boys, who hung around on such occasions, to bring on more wood to keep the fire going under the pans. The owner of the portable sorghum mill sometimes took his pay for its use in sorghum, if there was no money to be had. He was paid too for the use of his team in hauling the mill to the cane patch of the neighbor who had engaged it, and he himself sometimes tarried to help set it up. A small boy was sometimes pressed into service to urge the patient mule on its monotonous course around and around pulling the beam that turned the mill.
Sorghum-making had its lighter side. The young folks especially found fun in seeing a guileless fellow step into the skimming hole concealed by cane stalks. The sport was complete when the bewildered fellow struggled to free himself from the sticky mess. But the woman was quick to help him out of his plight by providing a change of raiment and soap and water and clean towels, “yonder in the kitchen-house.” She knew what to expect at sorghum-making time.
Each season of the year brought its communal activity: corn shucking in the fall, that was ever followed by a frolic. Bean stringing when the womenfolk pitched in to help each other out stringing beans with a long darning needle on long strands of thread. These were hung up to dry and supplied a tasty dish on cold winter days. There was also apple-butter-making in the fall when long hours were spent in peeling and preparing choicest apples which were boiled in the great copper kettle and richly seasoned with sugar and spice. Apple-butter-making was an all-day job in the boiling alone but the rich and tasty product is considered well worth the effort and any mountain woman who cannot display shelves laden with jars of apple-butter would be considered a laggard indeed.
But the mountain woman’s greatest pride and joy was handiwork—quiltmaking, crocheting. Perhaps it is because these crafts have always gone hand-in-hand with courtship and marriage.
At the first call of the robin in the spring, Aunt Emmie on Honey Camp Run, in clean starched apron and calico frock, dragged her rocker to the front stoop of her little house and there she sat for hours rocking contentedly while her nimble fingers moved swiftly with crochet needle and thread. “Aunt Emmie’s crocheting lace for Lulie Bell’s wedding garments.” Folks knew the signs. Hadn’t Lulie Bell ridden muleback from Old Nell Knob just as soon as winter broke to take the day with the old woman. “Make mine prettier than Dessie’s and Flossie’s,” she had said. Or, “I want the seashell pattern for my pillowcases.” Or, “I want you to crochet me a pretty chair back.” “I want a lamberkin all scalloped deep”—another bride-to-be measured a half arm’s length. “I want my edging for the gown and petticoat to match.” Passersby overheard the talk of the young folk. “Wouldn’t you favor the fan pattern?” Aunt Emmie offered a suggestion now and then while the shiny needle darted in and out of scallop and loop. Sometimes she dropped a word of advice to the young, how to live a long and happy married life, how and when to plant, what to take for this ailment and that. There were things that brought bad luck, she warned, and some that brought good.
“If a bride plants cucumber seed the first day of May when the dew is still on the ground, the vines will grow hardy and bear lots of cucumbers and she will bring forth many babes, too,” her words fell on willing ears of the young bride-to-be. “If you sleep under a new quilt that no one has ever slept under, what you dream that night will come true.” Many a young miss declared she had experienced the proof of the saying. There was something else. “Mind, don’t ever sew a ripped seam or patch a garment that’s on your back. There will be lies told on you sure as you do.” That could be proved in most any community in the Blue Ridge.
Yards upon yards of lace Aunt Emmie crocheted, the Clover Leaf pattern, the Sea Shell, Acorn, the Rose, and if a bride-to-be had no silver, the lacemaker was content to take in exchange a pat of butter, eggs, or well-cured ham. Her delight was in the work itself.
The thrifty woman of the mountains takes great pride in her quilts; not only does she strive to excel her neighbor in the variety of patterns but in the number as well. On a bright summer day she brings them out of cupboard and presses, and hangs them on the picket fence to sun. She is pleased when a passerby stops to admire, and especially so if it be a young miss. The older woman recognizes the motive behind the question, “What is this pattern?” “Is this easy to piece?” The older woman knows the young miss has marrying in her head and goes to great lengths to explain. “Now this is Compass and Nine Patch and it’s easiest of any to put together. This is Grandmother’s Flower Garden—it’s a lot of little bitsy pieces, you see, and a heap of different colors and it’s most powerful tejous to put together. This is Double Wedding Ring, this Irish Chain”—she names one after another—“this is Neck Tie, and this in the fair blue and white is Dove in the Window.”
The quiltmaker is even more pleased when the young miss comes to take the day and she has the proud privilege of starting John’s or Tom’s future wife on her very first quilt. It is an occasion of merriment when the quilt is finally finished and taken out of the frames after many a pleasant quilting bee. Then, at the urging of one of the older women, two girls shake a cat on the new quilt. The one toward whom the cat jumps will be married first, they believe. Some brides believe too that by going to the oldest woman in the community to set up the quilt for their marriage bed they will be insured long life and joy. There are lovelorn maidens so eager to peer into the future they will even help a neighbor on wash day. Two girls will wring a dripping quilt by twisting it in rope fashion. The one toward whom the end curls up will be first to rock the cradle.