Dad offered multiple times to purchase a brand new Hotpoint Automatic Clothes Washer and Dryer for my mother. I remember the commercials on our black and white television. A very sincere looking man in a gray gabardine suit who had pomaded short hair looked directly at us from the television screen. “Just drop dirty clothes in the open top and all the work is done for you. Your clothes get much cleaner too because Hotpoint’s famous agitator action and over flow rinse combine to remove all the dirt. You can set Hotpoint’s exclusive wonder dialfor your heavy things and you can turn it to low for Orlon, Nylon and Dacron. And when you are finished with the miracle wash simply place the damp clothes in the Hotpoint dryer for a few minutes and they come out dry, fluffy and sweet smelling. What a work saver this dryer is!” I could not understand why Mother never reacted positively to Dad’s offer.

 

Of Mother’s three sisters she was the only one of them who did her own laundry and she did not own a washing machine or a hot air dryer. That chore was taken to my grandmother’s home every Tuesday when Mother was not traveling.

 

Air conditioning was another appliance we did not own and we would not have that luxury until I was in my mid teens. My bedroom was on the second floor of our home in Anchorage, outside of Louisville where summer days were hot and humid there in the Ohio River basin. The heat and humidity was similar to New Orleans summers where you could actually see the heat waves rising from hot cracked blacktop streets.  We lived under a canopy of oak and walnut trees that rose over a hundred feet above our house that had been built in mid-1800. The walls were thick and the ceilings tall and there were high, wide windows that invited in a plentiful cross breeze. Our house was not stiflingly hot but uncomfortable air held us hostage on many occasions and air-conditioning was not yet common in private homes. The way I kept cool at night in my bedroom on the second floor was to put a square floor fan on a table under one window facing air out. I pulled down the shade over my maple twin bed that had a ubiquitous Roy Rogers coverlet. When I opened my window about four inches a cool rush of air pushed the room-darkening shade out over my face keeping me comfortable. I especially loved rainy nights in those summers of my youth. The eaves that overhung from the third floor kept rain off my face while passing on the fragrance of summer rain falling on freshly cut grass and night-blooming jasmine.

 

 

After a light breakfast on these Tuesdays Mother and our housekeeper, Narcissus, gathered all of the soiled clothes, sheets, towels and linen napkins into several wicker laundry baskets.  Once the car was loaded she drove us all out to my grandparent’s summer farm. The farm, Fern Creek, was aptly named after a long meandering stream that diagonally traversed their land. Several species of lush summer ferns and thick covering of Dogwood, Redbud and Lilac trees bordered the shallow creek on both sides.

 

 

Fern Creek was about thirty miles from our home reached by car on narrow country roads.  We left home about ten in the morning but not before I had time to choose a toy or two to take to entertain myself for the day. I had a Dennis the Menace doll, a rubber effigy from the cartoon character from the morning funny papers, a doll meant for boys that I liked to talk to. Sometimes I would take my Davy Crocket Dancing doll. He was a soft cotton-filled lifelike doll who was as tall as me, dressed in authentic Davy Crocket brown cotton western gear. He had a removable fake Coonskin hat with a fluffy tail that I could wear myself when I took the notion. And there were tight elastic bands connected to the insides of his hands and under his feet that could be slipped over my own hands and feet making it easy for me to dance with Davy. When not engaged on my arms and feet he would lie flopped on the floor in a heap because he had no bones. Davy got plenty of use on the porch when no one was watching and I think that is where I developed my love for dance that would become a major part of my life when I grew up.

 

My two brothers and I would all go and play on the farm on these Tuesday excursions. I went every time. My older bother and his friends liked to go to our club to swim and play golf on the kid’s par three course. He was the only one of us who did not participate on a regular basis. It was OK with me when he did not come along because he was really mean to me all the time. He did things like making me touch the low voltage electric wires along the white horse fences that kept cows from eating the flowered border. It did not kill me but it hurt and I still hear the sounds of older-brother laughter as I lay on the grass crying and clutching one or other of my burnt hands. Other times he poked his foot under mine causing me to trip and fall into a fresh cow pie face down. He was never missed.

 

 

My grandparent’s country home was a large formal farmhouse close to the road, comparatively speaking, for such a big amount of land. The L-shaped two-story wood frame home was surrounded on three sides by a screened porch with high ceilings that had been painted sky blue. Four fat white plain columns held up each side of the porch making an even dozen. Six old wood-blade fans with black humming motors propelled warm air to cool off whom ever sat there to read or stitch. Massive gardenia shrubs reached about two feet above the floor level bringing a sweet aromatic fragrance floating across the outdoor living room. Big heavy green metal gliders made up most of the furniture with a few Birdseye maple rockers. There were several walnut side tables that that Granddaddy had fashioned in his wood shop. In early mornings and late afternoons soft golden light streamed in past trees and shrubs throwing pretty shadows across the black varnished floors and danced onto interior walls and windows. Because of the movement of the wind through trees the shadows were ever changing like day ghosts. I loved the solitude of that old porch and spent a lot of my childhood reading there.

 

Granddaddy was a gentleman farmer who enjoyed the action of overlooking the farm events each summer. Several farmers near by who had less land and owned large herds of milk cattle leased land from him for grazing. Sometimes he simply leant it to them. Another few farmers used a large portion of the rest of the property for crops like feed corn, tobacco and soybeans. The farm was worked different seasons by various famers who rotated crops from one to another to keep the soil fertile to produce better future crops. Granddaddy spent a lot of time conversing with his tenants and he thoroughly enjoyed watching their processes. And we all loved the occasional gift jar of milk with heavy cream on top given to him by farmer’s wives.

 

There was an ample the lake that was within a half-mile’s distance of the house that sat on treeless land that resembled a desert. There was a yucky mud bottom where I have seen snakes too many times to entice me to swim. On the other hand there was this genius amphibious contraption that had two old tractor seats welded onto a frame much like that of a bicycle built for two. Granddaddy hired a local metalworker to forge two aluminum pontoons shaped like long air filled bullets.  It had a steel cross frame holding the two silver floats together and supported the bicycle. On the back was a paddle wheel like one on the back of a riverboat and it was equipped to move forward or backwards. When you pedaled the wheels on the bikes, the paddle wheel began to churn the water and off we went. Only two at a time could ride this marvelous water bobber and many times we would argue as to who had the next turn. The older cousins and my brother always misused their allotted time and we younger ones would begin to cry until at long last we got our turn. The water was never blue because of the shallow mud bottom and I was fearful I would fall in the murky water and be consumed by a brown water moccasin. But that did not stop me from enjoying the adventure across and around the lake.

 

The older boys were allowed to go gigging in the small tree-lined shady frog pond. It was visible from the road and the front porch but was partially hidden by the high horse fence and the surrounding trees that kept it cool. I figured that is why there were so many frogs in residence. My brother loved fried frog legs. He was really proficient with the three-pronged gig and he scored a lot of fat croaking frogs. It made me sad to see them piled up in a bucket waiting to be cut up and skinned. I refused to eat them until I was a grown man.

 

Aunt Clarissa had been working for my grandmother most of her life. She had raised my grandmother since before she was orphaned when she was ten years old. The hearty woman resembled the lady on the front of bottles of pancake syrup and a hearty chuckle was ever present. She raised her family along side my grandmother as she raised her own family of six children. Narcissus was Aunt Clarissa’s daughter who was Mother’s age. When Mother married my father Narcissus came to help set up her home and she never left. So you can imagine that these four women had a unique bond. They took turns loading the washing machine and when the clothes were deemed clean one of them ran them through the hand wringer to remove most of the water. The excess water rolled at a fast pace into a big galvanized bucket with handles on each side. I never understood where the dirty water ended up as it got hauled off and dumped into a small concrete pool. When I was older I discovered there was a deep dry well filled with boulders that this water landed in, returning to the ground. A pump and a hose produced water for plants in the yard and along the fences.

 

There was always singing, telling cute jokes and lots of happy laughter when this quartet carried out this work. I still hear the joy in my mind when I remember these Tuesdays. My mother and grandmother did not stay the full time in the small laundry room because they needed to be in the kitchen preparing lunch. When the clothes were ready to hang, however, Grandmother and Mother would come back to join the robust shiny black mother and daughter team to hang the wet clothes. Thick T-shaped galvanized supports, like crosses, held the four long cotton-rope lines where they would hang the clean clothes. The fresh-scent Ivory Snow filled the back yard onto the farm beyond.

 

I loved watching them from a long double rope swing that had a wide wood seat. I peered over the horizon of the height of the swing as they dragged heavy, wet sheets from the wicker baskets.  This wonderful swinging single seat hung from a giant old walnut tree with lots of ominous heavy branches. We played in those branches in the daytime but at night, if we stayed over, my brother would hide in wait to scare the shit out of me. While the women worked I would swing as high as I could go, pumping back and forth until I was swinging way out over them. Sometimes Mother or Grandmother would warn me “Teddy You are swinging too high. Please slow down before you get hurt!” I never did fall although I had a few close calls but I never told anyone. The freedom of swinging high up in the humid summer air was exhilarating. I felt like a free flying bird. The hot air that crossed my face with each back and forth lift kept me happy as the scent of violets, wisteria and lilacs mixed with Ivory Snow rose to meet my nose.

 

When no one was nearby that I knew of I would sing songs of love like ”I’m just a lonely boy” that I heard Paul Anka sing on our one of our recordings. We had a new modern cherry cabinet with a phonograph that held a stack of ten L P phonograph records and I enjoyed all those love songs like “Patches” by Clarence Carter and “See you in September” by The Happenings. I would swing out high above the Bermuda grass that grew under the canopy of the big tree singing at the top of my lungs. I don’t think anyone heard me. I had such a wonderful time all alone imagining myself to be a famous singer all the while swinging high away from the rest of the world.

 

From my high advantage I watched the white sheets and pillowcases clipped together, one corner to another anchored by one spring-loaded wooden clothespin doing the job of two. Tee shirts were hung upside down so they would not end up with ‘angel’ wings on the shoulders. Dad’s briefs were hung by the elastic bands and socks were hung from their toes. Mother’s slips were hand washed since they were pure silk and they were hung on wooden clothes hangers to dry along with the rest of the conjoined clean clothes. I got the giggles seeing her bras each hanging from a lone clothespin. It felt naughty for some reason. When the swing moved forward the smell of Ivory Snow wafted up to fill my nostrils on light breezes leaving me with a longtime memory of that clean aroma and a picture of sheets bound together by adjoining clothespins. I can still envision the sheets flying haphazardly high in the air like kites when a strong gust of pre-storm wind rushed across the fields raising them up. My ten-year old mind saw Superman soaring high in great swoops wearing clean white capes.

 

My absolute love for these Tuesday trips to the country was the sumptuous lunches Grandmother prepared and the show my grandparents put on. Aunt Clarissa was a wonderful cook but Grandmother prided herself on making the mid-day meal. Aunt Clarissa would clean up and she would help serve but it really was Grandmother’s gift to her family every since she married Granddaddy in 1903.

 

Grandmother never prepared breakfast because lunch was her specialty. Aunt Clarissa’s mouth-watering breakfasts were wonderful and aromatic and she made big breakfasts whenever one or more of us would stay over. She scrambled eggs that came every morning from the Miller farm, and we had crispy bacon or fried salty Country ham that had cured in Uncle Henry’s meat house out behind the garage. I loved her homemade biscuits with hand-churned butter served with honey from Uncle Henry’s hives, his pride and joy. Grits were stone ground from dried hominy purchased from the nearby corn farmers. If you have never had them fresh I can tell you there really is nothing like real long cooking grits with butter.

 

Lunches were Grandmother’s domain and they were legendary. Several of them had even been photographed and written about in the society pages of the Louisville Courier Journal over her years as a wife, mother and hostess. And lucky us were treated to them every week.

 

The main meal was served promptly at one PM. This was known to be healthier and made it easier for my elderly grandparents to digest. Having a light evening course helped them get better night’s sleep. No matter the reason, lunch at Grandmother’s house in the country or city, was an event comparable to other family’s big holiday dinners.

 

My grandmother owned exquisite sets of fine bone china, much of it French and old and she used different services everyday.  Many of her beautiful things came from her ancestors or from her wedding. The grand old lady had never owned stainless steel flatware so she used sterling silver on every table. When I became a little older I discovered most of my friends mothers only used their better tableware on special occasions. Grandmother had grown up dining in this fashion and it was all she knew. When we questioned her she told us she thought it was wasteful to keep things you will never use. All of her children and grandchildren did the same thing and so do I.

 

The mahogany four-leaf, three-pedestal Duncan Phyfe table was set on heavy damask table linens lain over thick table pads to protect the fine wood. Once completely set it reminded me of the fine china department at Stewart’s Department Store on the Corner of Third and Chestnut Streets in downtown Louisville. She always put fresh-cut flowers on the table and my favorite were the peonies with their splendid fragrance that let no doubt be made that summer had arrived in full force. Lighted Candles were used and set in heavy ornate silver candelabra that had been handed down from Great-Grandmother Ashcroft.

 

As a young mother, Grandmother set her table with silver condiment bowls and pitchers filled with mustard, catsup, mayonnaise and Hershey’s chocolate syrup. These things were part of her daily routine even though no one used those any of them anymore. After lunch was served Aunt Clarissa replaced the condiments into the jars they came from and returned them to the refrigerator until the next day’s meal. I never understood why these things were always on the table but changing customs as old as this did not come easy to either of these women.

 

Grandmother and Aunt Clarissa were the best soup stock makers on earth. They cooked down masses of bones with vegetables and fresh herbs very slowly for two days to extract every drop of flavor. What ensued was a pure stock that was savory and aromatic. The stock would be moved to an icebox overnight so the fat could congeal and easily skimmed away to be used in sauces. This method rendered  fat-free stock. Excess stock was put in glass Mason jars and frozen, to be used at another time for sauces that still make my mouth water when I remember them. The soups that ended up on the table could not be measured against any top restaurants because she made much better soups. We had rich thick chicken soup with potatoes and vegetables. Sometimes rice was mixed in for additional starch to keep it thick. Her pea soup with ham hocks and vegetable soup and navy-bean soups were enough to become independent meal unto themselves.

 

Everyday an appetizer was served often times consisting of shrimp or crab, with some marvelous chilled sauce. Once the first course was removed a fresh salad from Uncle Henry’s significant gardens arrived to our delight. There was a robust meat or fish course served with delectable vegetables, sometimes cooked in a tall light soufflé, always followed soup. Bread might be cornbread or fresh Semolina or piping hot spoon bread served with butter and pepper.

 

Desserts were homemade and most of us grandchildren loved Grandmother’s rich chocolate pudding with fresh whipped cream that came from the farmer’s cows. In season we would have fresh red ripe strawberries full of earth’s sugar dripping on top of these decadent dishes. My particular favorite was the homemade golden shortbreads filled with strawberries with a big spoonful of whipped cream. That had ‘June’ written all over it.

 

The best part of the afternoon dinner was the interaction between our grandparents. Let me paint a picture of these old-world grandparents of ours.

 

Granddaddy was tall, in excellent shape and had pale English skin and the very whitest perfectly cut hair. I have seen photographs of him with his coal black hair of many years before I was born when I was given the opportunity to peruse their leather embossed photo albums. I only knew him as a white-haired grandfather. He dressed in dark custom-made trousers and he favored white shirts all winter but in the summer he was likely to wear a very pale blue and white check or summery-plaid long-sleeve shirt with the cuffs rolled over two times as neatly as you could imagine. His laced shoes were always perfectly polished like mirrors and his belts were brown or black simple leather with sterling silver plain square buckles. He did not don a coat for lunch unless there were invited guests who were not family.

 

Grandmother who had never had a haircut in her life was a curiosity to me. When I asked he why she never had a haircut her reply was “I have never needed it.” I do know from a very few black and white photographs that she wore her ravishing dark Chestnut brown locks in various forms of chignon. As her hair greyed almost to white she became less formal with her locks and had begun to have Aunt Clarissa make one very long low braid with the top parted in a perfect straight line in the middle. The ensuing braid that had been pomaded to keep the strays at bay was coiled into a beautiful chignon and secured at her neck with a few long silver hairpins.

 

Since she was a young girl in the very early part of the twentieth century long formal gowns were her daily attire. She did not change that look until she was well into her late seventies when she decided to ‘modernize’. At that late time I remember being shocked. However those frocks were hemmed to her ankles and she was still lost in another elegant period of time. We all remember this creature as one from another century, warm, well mannered and elegant.

 

This formality was constant and the only way we knew them and dining was a natural extension of that. Granddaddy was always seated at the end of the long formal table with his back to glass French doors concealing any kitchen activity. All of us, when we visited, were placed according to ages from eldest to youngest down the table away from the grownups. Aunt Clarissa served a first course to everyone visiting, then Granddaddy and lastly Grandmother who sat perpetually next to his left side.

 

This is when the daily show would commence. Grandmother stood behind him as his courses were served to inspect his food and to enjoy his satisfaction with his specially prepared meals. Granddaddy had developed late-in-life diabetes but he never had to take injections so his diabetes was controlled through proper food and a few pills. His meals were meticulously prepared and as different as possible every day for variety. She sat to eat her course and rose for each new course as he was served. There was always a nice full leaf salad and vegetables like cucumber and red heirloom tomatoes with dietetic dressing, an appetizer sans shrimp, and bread from the baker made just for diabetics. Every day Grandmother filled and set a cut glass saltcellar with his daily intake of pills that controlled what the food could not and see to it that he consumed them. Granddaddy was able to manage all of her succulent soups and he heartily enjoyed them everyday. Once the last course was before him and she stood again and placed her hands gently on his shoulders, gave a serene smile and took in a happy breath. We would all become hushed. A long moment would pass and Granddaddy would extend his arms in front of himself placing his palms face down on the tablecloth way out in front. With a deep smile showing no teeth he would say with the utmost of sincerity, “Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm…Mother! You’ve done it AGAIN!” Her entire face would smile a very content, satisfied gesture and gently kiss him on the top of his head. And she took her place at the table. We all silently sighed.

 

Once the lunch had been consumed and the dishes cleared except for dessert, Grandmother would once again stand as his dessert was delivered. We had our chocolate pudding or strawberry pie or whatever divine thing she had created for that particular meal. Then his was brought in on a small round silver tray that had a filigreed raised edge.  My Grandmother who he referred to as “Mother” lovingly prepared all of Granddaddy’s desserts. Most of the times there would be dietetic ice cream double-scooped into in a tall elegant crystal parfait glass. Toppings were dietetic sauces of butterscotch or chocolate and dollop of dietetic whipped cream with a piece of fruit on top. When freshly shredded coconut was available he would be overly delighted to see it on top like Christmas snow. Once again he would take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds and then exhale slowly like one might when smoking a great cigar, repeating once again and every day, “Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm, Mother! YOU have done it again!” She leaned over him and placed another kiss upon his snowy white hair and took her place completely content that she had made him happy. I have never ceased to be thrilled by this genuinely affectionate display and to this day my brothers and cousins all repeat his mantra at family meals.

 

Now you understand why my mother did not want her own washer and dryer.  It was many years, well into my late teens, before Grandmother could no longer manage these tasks. Once that happened Mother agreed to the laundry room and the machines but she never did her own laundry again.