My great-grandfather Thomas Green surrounded by some of his children, with Alice (“Ggma”) on his lap, c. 1914
The following was written by my maternal grandmother, Alice Green Kollenborn. The first part (“Good Old Days”) contains notes she made on some things that disappeared from common experience once “modern inconveniences” became a part of daily life. The second (“Home is Where the Heart Is”) goes into a little more detail about the old family kitchen and what went on there. Caveat emptor: grab a tissue or two before reading it.
GOOD OLD DAYS
No worries about making decisions – every year Mama made us one outfit apiece for school—new pencils, pencil boxes, books were the most important.
1. Garbage disposals: Chickens, hogs, dogs
2. Heating: wood cookstove, heater, fireplace – sassafras wood for kindling, oak wood – apple – sweetest aroma even when burning
3. Groceries: flour, sugar, salt, coffee, lard, oatmeal, rice.
Never had peanut butter, boughten fancy food. Raised meat, eggs, butter, cheese, milk, garden and truck garden wild greens, mushrooms.
4. No fancy toilet articles, toilet tissue, paper towels, plastic items, face creams, powders, etc.
Remember first lipstick – used buttermilk and cream for softening and whitening skin cucumber, lemon juice.
Salt and soda for dentifrice – salt and vinegar or salt and soda for gargle – no eye make-up – used soap for hair shampoo – rinsed with lemon juice or vinegar or beaten egg rubbed into hair for conditioner. Glycerin and rosewater for hand lotion or witch hazel to heal – had talc, sweet-scented, cheap cologne, occasionally deodorant.
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
Our hearts were in the kitchen, especially in the wintertime, since this was the only room in the house that was heated. The huge old fireplace and hearth, both made entirely from white native stone, was the gathering place for the entire family on long winter evenings.
The big wood range, with iron teakettle singing, sat adjacent to the fireplace. A couple of cats, soft paws tucked beneath them, often napped under the warm stove while Shep lay stretched on the hearth.
Most hill people had very roomy kitchens in the early days, probably because all seemed to have large families and spent most of their time in this room. Our kitchen was no exception. There was plenty of room for two adults, 7 children, and often 3 cats and a big shepherd dog.
A huge oak table covered with a bright oilcloth stood in the center of the room with benches and chairs clustered around; there was also a wooden rocker, cook table, dish cupboard, and a built-in cement lavatory where we washed our faces and hands. The bare wood floors were worn smooth and white by 7 pairs of active feet and frequent scrubbing with strong lye soap.
The kitchen is the first place I can remember in my early childhood. The homey atmosphere gave me a feeling of warmth and security as the family gathered. Cuddled on Papa’s lap in front of the open fireplace with the faith that only a child enjoys, I knew that everything was right with the world.
As Papa came in from doing his evening chores, I’d rush over and curl up in his big rocker. He’d wash, pick up the weekly paper or a book, and start for his chair and, without looking, reach down and fumble in the chair, then say, “Dolly, what are these old rags doing in my chair?” I’d sit quietly as a mouse, hardly daring to breathe. When I could stand it no longer, I’d giggle and grab his big hand, shouting, “Papa, Papa, I’m here, Papa!” I’d fooled him again.
Gathering me up in his strong arms, he’d give me a squeeze and throw me high over his head as I squealed with delight. This was a routine game we played each evening.
He died when I was four. The kitchen wasn’t the same after that, but it was the room that I felt most secure in, remembering Papa there. It was the place where Mama still lived.