Country stores were few and far between. Every family made and kept on hand their own supplies, loaning and borrowing in time of need; exchanging spare-ribs, roasts of beef and lamb; arranging their “butchering” in rotation, to accommodate each other. Fresh meat was a luxury, salted meat, the main reliance. In the smokehouse hung hams, shoulders, beef, tongue and sausage. Under these it was my task to pile green hickory chips, pine sawdust and corncobs, which made a smoke of a peculiar, pungent, spicy quality and odor.
Tallow candles, the only light in the long evenings, were to be dipped; dozens and dozens, the whole year’s supply. To run out of candles was “shiftless.” A few, partly wax, for the tall silver and brass candlesticks on the mantels in parlor and keeping-room, were run in moulds and hung to bleach.
Soap was to be made, hard and soft. An empty soap barrel was thriftless. A cake of scented soap, brought from a distant city, was highly prized. Of spinning and weaving there was no end. The mother and daughters, instead of going to clubs and lectures, after the housework was done had their stents, so many knots of yarn to spin. No need to walk for exercise; back and forth they briskly stepped, as the wheel swiftly whirled, the rolls stretching into miles of yarn, “single twisted” for cloth, “double and twisted” for stockings and carpet warp. Then, the yarn must be scoured and dyed, not with “Diamond Dyes” from the drug store, but with vegetable dyes from fields and woods—white oak roots, butternut bark, chestnut burrs, sumach “bobs,” onion skins, and the wonderful indigo “dye pot blue.” Every good housewife was past master in the art of dyeing, and looked with pride on the line and fence draped with skeins of yarn of bright, unfading hues and shades. Flax wheels, not then strictly ornamental, hummed evenings by the fireside, while deft fingers drew from the flax-covered distaff fine linen thread for sewing, and for sheets, pillow-cases, towels, and all the underclothing of the family. The loom in the garret was never without its web of cloth in process of weaving—wool, linen, or wool and linen mixed (called linsey-woolsey). The linen was spread on the grass, bleached snowy white, then laid away in oaken chests, ready for the wedding “setting out” of the daughters, who made it up by hand, stitching “two threads over, two under,” the rule of the good seamstress.
From “homespun fulled cloth” the “every day” suits of men and boys were made, with the help of the tailoress who came spring and fall with press-board, goose, tailor-shears, and rolls of patterns supposed to fit all figures. What wonder if these home-made garments looked their name! Bedquilts were pieced in intricate patterns—baskets of flowers, butterflies, peonies, chariot wheels, log-cabin, goose chase, double and single Irish chain—and quilted in shells, circles, squares, diamonds, sawteeth and herringbone. The quilt frames in the “spare bed room” usually had one of these marvelous constructions on, ready for a “Quilting Bee,” after which the company gossipped over their cup of tea as we over ours after a card party.
The shoemaker came with work-bench, kit of tools, lap-stone and boot-trees to make the common boots and shoes for the family (strictly common sense, no French heels). A smell of leather and “black wax” pervaded the room where he hammered merrily away at the heavy shoe soles on the lap-stone, singing of “Captain Kidd as he sailed, as he sailed,” and telling stories of haunted houses. One blood-curdling tale of a ghost in a cellar, seizing the feet of everyone who went upstairs after dark, still lingers in my mind—uncomfortably, if the truth be told.
The schoolmaster came, a welcome guest, “boarding around,” a week for each scholar, and perhaps an extra week for the child of some poor widow needing kindly help.
There came homeless wanderers silently claiming lodging and food. Under the low sloping roof was the “Old Shack’s Room,” where a bed was always kept in readiness.
One whom we knew only as “Old Shiver-to-bits” had been “crossed in love” and his mind unbalanced. He never spoke, except to himself as he looked up to the sky, muttering, “The air is full of women, all shiver-de-bits.” Another would sleep only on the floor by the kitchen fire, wrapped in a blanket, cooking his own food for fear of being poisoned. He was an astrologer and philosopher. A woman came, who wore a quilted hood, never taken off and kept drawn over her face, which was always averted when she was spoken to. None of these unfortunates was ever turned away from the open doors of those hospitable homes.
The Schaghticoke Indians, who came from the Reservation with squaws and hounds on their fishing expeditions to the “Eel Rocks” at the Great Falls, always expected the privilege of sleeping in the barn. Their desire for cider was greater than their desire for food. They willingly paid for both with splint baskets. Sometimes they became quarrelsome and noisy, and then the “riot act” was read to them, whip in hand.
The visits of the parson were prized events. An atmosphere of dignity and solemnity seemed to emanate from his black clothes, high stock and white cravat. A reverence now unknown was felt for him, and he was looked up to as the fountain head of theology and religion. The doctrines of election, predestination and eternal punishment were talked of, filling my childish mind with dire forebodings of literal fire and brimstone. After a “season of prayer,” and dinner (always an extra good one), he drove away, to my great relief.