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Home!
The wind whistling around the corner of the house was the first clue that the Blue Norther had arrived. From deep in the feather bed covered with three levels of quilts slowly you become aware that the day is beginning. The faint smell of bacon drifts from the kitchen, through the cavernous center hall before making its way to the bedrooms on the south side of the house.
It's pitch dark, not only due to the early hour and the phase of the moon, but also the cloud cover that accompanies the winter storm. No need to look to the clock for time, even if there were one, it would be too dark to see. But obviously, Mom is already at work in the kitchen. How do they do it, awaking each morning at exactly four to begin the day?
Your breath is caught in a frosty cloud assuring you that it is cold. As you walk to the kitchen, you become aware of just how cold it is outside; probably below freezing. Your bare feet on the wooden floors are a sensitive measure; as the floors lack any insulation and the house, on raised field sandstone and lacking a protective foundation, quickly adjusts to the changing temperature. No need to worry about splinters, these "heart of pine" floors are worn smooth by frequent washing with a lye-water solution. If you look to the room corners, you will find a nickel sized hole, smoothly drilled. This is for draining away the lye and rinse water. A plug of cloth may fill the opening to discourage any mouse that might think of entering. There's no stir of the dogs under the house this morning, they're all nestled deep in the wallowed-out dirt next to the front porch where there is some protection from the wind. The chickens have found a better place to spend the night, roosting in the shed, up off the ground to avoid any coons or foxes that might come this way. Yet somehow the guineas still manage to cling to the branches of the elm tree, facing to the wind and maintaining their vigilance against any intruders. This morning they are quiet.
You become aware of sounds; the rattle of the large windows, fitting loosely in their frame have been wedged in place by bits of paper but the first blow caused them to dislodge and now the windows move as if alive and draw deep breaths with each gust of wind. A fleeting thought passes through your mind and you remember Mom's story of having locked herself out of the house one day because the ever-present front door key had been safety pinned to her "good" apron instead of the one she was wearing. She had left the apron hanging on a nail in the back hall; somehow she managed to raise a window from the outside, prop it open then scramble up and over the sill. Try doing that when your seventy plus!
The banging of a door caught by the wind can be heard, but it is not of the house. One sound you don't hear is creaks and moans of the house itself. The wall structures, made entirely of one-by-twelve rough sawn boards, are nailed to the joist and rafters and each nail has been carefully cleated. As many as 6 or 8 nails have been driven into each connecting piece, And, as if for reinforcement, the outer shiplap siding has also been nailed and cleated every foot. Inside, layers and layers of wallpaper glued in place with a flour paste, cover the cleated nails although from time to time an emerging nail point may be found. While portions of the house are over a century old, the carpenter's methods changed little as rooms were added to what is now the kitchen; so that a dining room, living room, central hall and two bedrooms as well as a back porch became one united structure.
You quickly pass through the bathroom making sure that it's vacant, opening the door to be greeted by a blast of hot air the only operating heater in the house. Propane is just too expensive at ten cents a gallon to waste on heat. This is the only warm room in the house and becomes a place to stop and read a book, paper or magazine, sometimes. The bathtub has a yellow orange ring in the bottom, left there from the iron rich water that comes from the deep well. This tub has often been the home of a hundred or so chick purchased in the spring; but it's far too early for even thinking about that at this time of year. A slow drip of water falls from the faucet. The doors are pulled close after passing through to conserve the heat, and you pass on toward the kitchen.
In the kitchen, your eyes slowly adjust to the glare of the 100 watt, bare light bulb suspended from the twisted cord in the center of the room. No wall switches here; the light's turned on by a pull of the cotton string dangling from the metal fitting.
To your left, is the kitchen sink where a thin drip of water splashes in a pan, left there so as not to waste the water which must be left to run to avoid the pipes freezing and bursting. Over the sink is "the" cupboard. It was once a "floor piece", but now is attached to the wall. It represents one of the few possessions left from the Shelton's meager estate. Next, are two metal cabinets bought from railroad salvage in Dallas and moved here in 1947. They have linoleum-type counter tops; the lower section houses most of the pots and pans and other kitchen paraphernalia, while the metal drawers hold the knives, forks, spoons and such other necessities.
Standing in front of the stove in the corner of the room is Mom, a pair of cotton socks cover her feet, a combination dress/dressing gown/robe buttoned down the front and an ever-present apron, made from printed feed sacks protects her from grease splatters and the like. Already she has made the morning biscuits according to her own recipe that can't be duplicated. The dough having been rolled out on the counter has been cut to size with a floured water glass, the very last shards of dough are reformed to make a final biscuit and joins the others on a thin blackened metal sheet before going into the oven. On top the stove sits the enamel pot into which coffee will be added when the water comes to a boil. The bacon which first drew your attention is in the cast iron skillet and is ready to be removed to an old plate resting on an unused back burner. Into the still sizzling grease, she plops the eggs. And where does she put the egg shells? Into the pot for the soon to be ready coffee. Pop! A splatter of grease from the eggs spreads wide, and she quickly uses the corner of her apron to blot up the excess.
A peek into the oven reveals the baking soda biscuits beginning to rise. Once again, it is obvious they are not going to be works of art, but probably hard, dense malformed structures.
You may wonder again what time it is but the only clock is in the dining room and it has been unplugged to save on electricity. The front door bangs shut and Dad returns with the Dallas Morning News. He has been out to "see a man about a dog" and to walk to the mail box for the paper. His corn-cob pipe glows with each puff and he seems indifferent to the cold although he wears only a woolen shirt over his thin pants. On examination, the shirt has numerous small holes, the result of misadventures with lighting the pipe. His hands are cold but he wears no gloves and his fingers yellowed by years of smoking Lucky Strikes, before he gave them up for the economy of the pipe, are knarled. Not a word to Mom is spoken as he settles into his cane-bottomed, ladder-backed chair at the table and begins to read.
The coffee is poured, the eggs, bacon and biscuits arrive almost as if on signal. And into a rather large bowl is placed a grey mush which turns out to be oatmeal. A couple of spoons of sugar and it is ready. In addition to the coffee, this is Mom's breakfast. Having lost her teeth following her child-bearing years and now fitted (or misfitted) with plates, she is selective of what she eats. (Mom probably ate more oats than any other person alive, and this before they were promoted as being good for your heart, intestines, &c. Complements of Quaker Oats, she has outfitted her kitchen with bowls, cups and saucers that were inside the packages. In addition, more than one four place setting of sterling silver has been carefully saved for the children.)
But what of the biscuits? There they are on the stove, not a golden brown on top but sort of a shoe leather brown and the bottoms are black. Nevertheless, when opened and a generous slathering of fresh churned butter is added, topped with blackberry preserves from last years' pickings, they create a taste sensation. Maybe this is the way biscuits are intended to be; to enhance the flavors, textures and appearance of the butter and fruit.
Of course the eggs having been cooked in the bacon fat are flecked with dark spots and aren't what would be called over-easy. The yellow is quite hard and the white anything but runny. However, the taste is something that you will never experience unless you have eggs from yesterdays' nest. Enhanced by the bacon.
You may wonder how one person can eat half-pound of bacon almost every day of his life but, there sits Dad, reading and eating. And in silence Mom eats her oatmeal and drinks her coffee as she reads the paper as well.
Breakfast is finished and now the first murmurs of conversation begin. Each has found articles of interest. It seems that on most ever topic there is some way to related it to a past experience or person to which they are acquainted. If it's politics, they call up the names of congressmen, judges, crooks and other miscreants. On the topic of the economy, the base line of the depression is a constant reminder of how far we have come and how well we are doing. You wonder if in reading the obituaries, it is to see if their name is there. For sure, they will always find the name of someone known to them. Perhaps the sport section would be skipped, but no, there the advertisements are read as if some new meaning could be found from the tire ads and others.
Usually they find some reason to comment about the kids. No vanity here, although the three boys and two girls and their clutches of children hold some 20 plus college degrees in areas as diverse as economics, mathematics, chemistry and education. They constantly worry about how the kids are doing. More than once, a dollar bill has been sent through the mail, carefully sewed to the letter, ensuring that they can obtain the necessities. And a silver dollar is sent to the grandchildren either at Christmas or on a birthday, perhaps in reminder of one of Mom's stories, that during the depression; "they found a silver dollar in the middle of the road and it looked as big as a wagon wheel."
Breakfast finished, the paper well read and finally some warmth having been given to the room by the cookstove; it is time to do the dishes. The plates, pots and pans are scraped and the left over biscuits go into a "slop jar for the pig" which is just a large metal bucket sitting next to the sink. Yesterday's milk, and perhaps some clabber and whey may be added. And you are reminded of dust-to-dust, ashes-to-ashes when the excess bacon fat goes into the bucket as well. A hand full of shorts, a cheap flour-milling residue, is added to thicken the brew and it is set aside to ferment til later in the day.
Through the window which is covered only by a light gauze curtain, and frosted by moisture, they see that it is still dark outside. So, Mom and Dad retire to bed where they can, fully dressed, share some warmth as they await the coming sunrise.
While neither will admit to having gone back to sleep, it is usually well after eight o'clock before they again rise up.
If asked, they would say; "it's great to be home."
Dad always said, "Home is where you hang your hat." (And, he was always wearing his hat, often even when asleep, pipe clenched firmly between his teeth) While an old, trite saying, he said this as a reminder to his new son-in-law that where ever they settled was alright with him and it was the family, not the surroundings that were important. And "the Judge" knew. More times than you can count, he hung his hat, an old sweat stained felt, on the table in the entry for his week-ends at home, before going back to a night job in the "plant" at Grand Prairie.
After Dad died, it seemed too much for Mom to stay on the farm by herself. So the natural thing was for her to move to Houston with Marcie and George. They had plenty of room and an air conditioned house, which in Texas, means a lot. Shortly, Mom became restless, and one morning announced; "Albert told me to stay on the farm, so I'm going home." No discussion, no argument, nope. "I'm going home." Now this may sound a bit out of place, but you have to put it in perspective. Johnny, Mary Beth and the kids "invited" Mom and Dad to go West with them to see Colorado and the rest. The plan was to camp-out, sleep in tents and enjoy the Great Outdoors. This lasted about three days into the trip, when Mom announced that she and Dad were going home. They were either going to fly, drive or walk, but they were going home. And, they did.
Now you may wonder what is this fascination with home. After all it's just a roof over your head, place to eat and sleep and perhaps have your friends visit. In fact, if you ask many people today; "where're you from?" You get a puzzled look. An uncertainty about why a perfect stranger should be interested in where they had last been. From where? In fact it's a hard question to answer for many of us. Consider, our family; all three kids born in Virginia. But are they from Virginia. Course not, they don't even remember the place. New Jersey, wrong again. They may have gone to a bit of school there but that sure doesn't bring back memories, not many at least.
How about Tennessee. There's not a house there with family members dwelling about. But, Tennessee represents the place where they grew up. Where they developed friendships that from time to time may be renewed. Now many years removed, they can still recite pleasurable happenings. Of BoBo, Babe Ruth League, Church happenings (good and bad), farm life, athletic events, the bicycle bandit, &c., they remember them all and then some. Perhaps it's too much to ask; "wher'ya from?" Like all others they will think of the most recent place from which they departed.
But of another generation, the question brings a swift answer. It is ______, born, bred, live, and hope to die there. Mostly, these are our older parents, uncles and aunts. Why them?
This is the group that at least can consider the question; "Can you go home?" And for the most part will answer yes. There has always been an opposing argument that says; "you can't go back." But to them that's foolish.
The new generation has Dad's attitude and maybe that's best, all things considered, but it sure is good to know that you have a "home" amongst friends and family where ever it might be.
Maggie (Margaret Elizabeth Shelton) Wortham, December 24, 1990 - December 13, 1974
Judge (William Albert) Wortham, September 9, 1889 - October 9, 1962.
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NB: Both Mom and Dad were famous for their homilies that told a great deal about their philosophy of life. Money or the lack was foremost and many of their sayings reflected this. To wit;
Don't count your chickens before they are hatched.
Wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which fills first.
Take everything someone offers to give you, even if it's a crooked stick.
A whistling girl and a crowing hen, both come to a bad end.
We saw a silver dollar lying in the road and it looked as big as a wagon wheel.
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