At Hilrose Dairy Farm in Sherwood back in the 1950s, the Christmas holidays began in earnest the day after Thanksgiving.
I loved that time of year. The harvest was over; life took on a slower pace. The coal and wood room that would keep the furnace going was filled to the brim. Food to carry us through winter was preserved and stored.
The house was clean from top to bottom. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t work to do.
My mother’s philosophy was that as long as the work had to be done, why not try to make it fun? That made sense to me. In fact, that attitude is deeply embedded in my psyche. As a teenager, I tweaked it a little by adding that if you can’t make work fun, you should at least try to learn something from it.
Case in point. It was the Friday after Turkey Day in 1952 when one of those no-fun tasks I was assigned in my seventh year of life on earth became a perfect opportunity to practice my arithmetic and writing skills. On a much-anticipated day off from school, I planned to spend the afternoon reading Little Golden picture books, playing with my nun doll and scanning the Sears catalog toy section to start my Christmas wish list.
I was just settling in when my mother directed me to fetch a pencil and tablet and follow her down to the basement. I moaned and groaned, loathing even the thought of going down there. But I had learned years earlier that saying no to Mom was not an option.
In the winter months, our basement was dark but dry, staying slightly above freezing. In other words, it was the perfect place to store perishable foodstuffs. By the time I reached my teens, I thought it would have been the perfect place to film an Alfred Hitchcock horror film. I’m convinced that basement is the reason why I’m severely claustrophobic.
As I cautiously descended the old cement stairway, I forced my short chubby legs to navigate the steps in order to stay right behind my mother. When we reached the landing, Mom explained our mission. We were going to compile a list of all the food stored down there. She would be the counter; I would be the recorder.
As we tallied the sausages, hams and sides of bacon hanging from hooks in the ceiling, their sweet smokehouse smell conveyed delicious promise. For some reason, it reminded me of a recent visit to Pfund’s Cheese Factory where Dad hauled his milk. But this had been a special trip to check our rented freezer locker. After inspecting the large compartment bursting with freezer-wrapped packages of beef, pork and chicken, Dad locked the frosty door and pocketed his key. I was all smiles when he bought a gallon of butter pecan ice cream before heading home.
My attention was drawn back to the present when my nose puckered. Mom was digging around with a large fork in two crocks that held Dad’s famous sauerkraut. Yuk! How could anybody eat that? Moving on, she checked a nearby medium-size crock that held carrots packed in sand, then several smaller ones containing rendered lard.
Lastly, she examined the burlap sacks of potatoes, rutabagas and apples stacked high on the sidewall. Seeing no signs of spoilage, she paused while I catalogued each entry.
Mom then opened the door to one of two floor-to-ceiling cupboards built along the back wall. Its shelves held rows and rows of vegetables, packed and pressure-cooked in Mason jars. There were green and yellow beans, peas, sweet corn, beets and pickles; all grown in our half-acre garden and preserved over the summer.
The other cupboard contained fruit: strawberries and raspberries picked in our patches; applesauce from fruit grown in our orchard; cherries picked on our annual outing to Door County. I volunteered to count my favorites: peaches and pears purchased in crates at Mueller’s Grocery Store a half-block away. All were beautifully “put up” in a light sugar syrup. After I’d recorded everything, we went back upstairs to start supper.
I’m not sure why that memory lingers. Was it because seeing all that food made me feel safe, that I had what is now called food security? Was it because I’d helped with the gardening, gathering and canning and felt pride in accomplishment? Was it because Mom made me feel grown up by trusting me with an important job?
I think it’s all that, and something more important. Helping her made me feel needed, doing my part to ensure we had enough food to see us through to spring. The satisfaction in knowing that I was contributing was just as important as the satisfaction from eating all the meals Mom would serve that winter. How delicious is that?
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
