Smocking

I have a lot of solutions for sewing. But, there is one beautiful stitch that I would love to learn and that is smocking. What has happened to that art of sewing? So far, I have not come across anybody or any pattern to teach a novice.

When I was young and up until I was nine years old, my Mother made all of my dresses for school, etc. Then I lost her, but I still have a school picture where she had done a lot of smocking. I remember this one little dress she made for me. It had smocking across the shoulders in the front and across the yoke in the back. Then on the long sleeves, she smocked and finished off with rick-rack.

I would put on my beautiful little dress and go out on the sidewalk and twirl around and around and my pretty little dress just floated. It was something special and so was my wonderful Mother.

MaMa June

Solutions for the Seamstress

My family and friends would just about ask me to do anything i.e. mix concrete or mortar, be a carpenter or a gopher than to do a favor of sewing. I do know those jobs were backbreaking but the satisfaction when completed was rewarding.

Now take sewing, I have yet to get that same feeling.

My first experience as a seamstress was when I was in home economics class as a junior in high school. I touched a little on it one summer in 4-H. I think I had a skill, but it definitely wasn’t handwork with a needle and thread. I needed a few more tools to make it interesting such as a staple gun; hammer with steeples, safety pins and scotch tape to mention a few. This was long before Velcro.

In home economics we were to make a skirt with gathers, plain placket on one side and a band with one button and buttonhole. I thought this is going to be a piece of cake. Wrong!!! For my project, I chose a navy and white-stripped material. It would really look neat made up and no ironing. I’m talking years ago when everything had to be ironed. As years passed by, a new fabric was invented – no iron polyester. Tulane University in New Orleans invented this great fabric.

I was in New Orleans visiting my sister a few years after that invention. She was at work so I decided to take a bus tour of the town. As the bus driver drove past Tulane, he announced that this is where polyester was invented. Every woman on the bus let out a giant scream and crossed their hearts.

Now the skirt I was about to make was cotton and the wrinkles of seersucker, which I thought, was a plus. Anyway, I got started on my skirt not knowing what I was getting myself into and I think I still carry those scars. For some reason the teacher thought all those gathers should be the same size. I tried to accommodate her but my hands were a little oversized and so were my stitches. I looked at the other girls in my class and they had dainty hands, but not a one of them milked cows. I was satisfied with my gathers so I stitched them on the treadle sewing machine, but it did not pass inspection. You know I ripped stitches four times out of my blue ribbon skirt. I ripped them so many times it left holes all around the top. Being of a farm background, I suggested threading a piece of binder twine through the holes and finish with a nice knot and bow in the front.

About forty years later, someone heard me. I hated that skirt! Oh now, I don’t like to use the word ‘hate,’ but I sure built up a big dislike for it and never wore it.

I walked out of that class with a perfect ‘B’ and how to thread and operate seven different treadle machines, such as Singer, White and New Home sewing machines. I believe women in the township donated the machines as they acquired electric ones. We did have one electric one, but the more experienced students used it until they had trouble threading it, etc. So, I was the drafted student to keep everyone happy. On the treadle machines, I never saw so many kinds of bobbins and ways of threading them and the old belts were so dried out they were always in need of help. I watched for a classmate to have a problem with that electric one. I would then jump over to it, sit down, press my knee on the pedal and take off, throw it in reverse then forward until I felt it was safe for someone to use.

Now that was fun instructing others on all of those sewing machines. That’s what I got out of that class.
Ma Ma June

Medicine Cure: The Old-Fashion Way Part 2

I remember going to a doctor two times while growing up. Once was for a smallpox vaccination and the other was when my Mother passed away. My Mother’s life was way too short – 44 years old and an aunt visited the doctor on my behalf to get something for me.

After my Mother was taken from us, I was only nine at the time and wondered why I could not go with her and the whole world turned upside down. I’ve heard people talk about change of life, but they knew nothing about the change in life this created. She had so much love and affection for all of us and much I wished I could have learned from her. Such a shock coming in home from school running up the lane and find her lying on the walk in front of the porch.

My Dad was the one with only four years of education who was “House-Doctor” manned with his big doctor book, when I stepped on two nails the summer we tore the old farm house down and built a new one. Every board was saved and used in the new home with piles of wood stacked in the chicken lot. Dr. Dad, no M.D. behind his name, but his orders were to get a clean bucket of extra warm water and put so much of this disinfectant in it and soak your foot in it. This disinfectant was a miracle drug. It was called “CNN” and was brown in color and a liquid that came in a square orange labeled bottle. This CNN was used on everything such as scrapes, scratches, cuts and also on cows utters. It had no limit on uses. It was purchased at the Thompson’s drugstore on the north side of the square in Danville.

Later in years I had a step-mother who was a career nurse, but after putting up such a fuss about it became a believer and the last bottle she purchased was between here and Florida. Then, they stopped making it. Maybe it was because there was a fellow that mixed up a batch of something in his bathtub and called it “Had’d Call,” the miracle drug. If my memory isn’t failing me I think you were supposed to drink this one. I hope he washed his feet after and not before mixing that up. It was advertised for a long time, but I didn’t use any for one thing it had to be bought. The reason for its name is that he didn’t know what to name it so he called it, “Had’d Call.”

Well, I kind of got side-tracked for a little while, but after a good soaking of my foot I was to grate a raw potato and bandage it over the nail hole in my foot. This you changed every few hours as the potato turned black and lost its effectiveness. The potato would draw the infection or puss as we called it out onto the dried potato and this you could see. You did this and soaked foot a lot until your foot was no longer swelled to the size of a baseball bat and back to normal when you could get your shoe on. It was a repeat procedure for the next foot, etc.

That was sixty years ago and so far I haven’t gotten “Lock Jaw.” As some would make a mental note, we can tell.

MaMa June

Medicine: The Old-Fashion Way

I came across my Dad’s medical book the other day. What a book! It’s written by doctors back in the late 1800*s or early 1900’s. I saw a page in the back that you could fill out and send in with a 2 cent stamp to belong to their medical society. I wonder how many years it took before the doctors could sign with M.D. after their name.

This book is four inches thick and there is at the least one inch of items on Castor Oil remedies. Castor Oil was used for all illnesses and diseases. I wished I were the grower of castor beans.

Soybeans are one of the farmers’ major crops and they are finding all kinds of ways to put them to good use in our foods, etc. Wonder why farmers don’t plant every other row in their fields with castor beans? If my Dad was still living, I’m sure he would jump at such a wonderful ideas as he took a lot of pride in spooning this down our throats. We didn’t have a medicine cabinet not even a drawer to hold any. This wonder drug (Castor Oil) sat on the kitchen windowsill. It didn’t need any child safety or as I call them adult safety caps. Where were they when I needed them?

This Castor Oil was also good for exercise. You had the “back door trots” as they were called. We would try to stifle a sneeze when you were within gun shot distance of Dad.

Ma Ma June

Games

We played a lot of games while growing up some of which took a lot of energy, but none of which cost any money.

Our games compared to today’s games would probably sound hokey. Then too, there was not much time for play. Sunday afternoon was our free time before evening chores. We played a lot of baseball. It was really softball as the balls were free taped on the box top of Ovaltine. A good hard hitting batter would smash them lop-sided in no time or they would fall in a fresh cow pile and that ended that day’s play.

We made bean bags out of pieces of burlap sacks or pillow ticking material and filled them with navy beans from the truck patch or used soy beans. We used to throw them over the roof of the hen house. On the first try, if the bean bag didn’t make it and tumbled back to you, the thrower of the bean bag hollered “pig-tails.” When you succeeded getting the bean bag over the roof of the hen house, the player on the other side caught it (honor system) then ran around to tag you.

The games of tag and hide and seek were favorite games to play about dark.


MaMa June

Lugs Prohibited

Putting up hay back in the late 30’s and early 40’s was a big summer job off and on all season.

I remember this one time my Dad bought two fields of hay from another farmer north of New Winchester. This was probably about six miles from home. So, all hay equipment plus manual hands were moved to these fields. The equipment consisted of two tractors (one a Farmall 14 and the other a John Deere D that sounded as if it was about to die on each breath.) To start the John Deer, there was a small tank, which held gasoline attached to a larger tank with fuel oil. You stood beside it and turned a big flywheel that cranked it up then hurriedly turned the gas off and fuel oil on. The Farmall had a crank you inserted in the front being careful to where you set it as it would kick back and your arm would hurt, but not to the extent you got out of holding a pitchfork. One day you would use the Farmall and semi-mounted mower. Usually the following day you raked hay in wind rows. One fellow was on the John Deere and one or gal on the rake. That rake would do in a pair of tennis shoes in a hurry trying to hold pedal down to gather hay into rows then trip it fast to make sure it was back down as tractor driver just kept going. He would turn around to remind you, “Keep those rows straight.” I didn’t understand this, as we weren’t in a beauty contest besides we could still walk and follow crooked rows. Now came the fun part. We selected our favorite three-tine pitchfork. Well, three of the four of us did. We took our rag handkerchief from bib overalls and polished the handles. This cut down on hand callous. With one person on each side of the row, we doodle up the hay, trying to make each stack about the same size until you rant into curves with more hay someone made with that rake. Across the field we would work under bright sunny skies with temperatures and humidity the same – almost 100 degrees but somebody said good haying weather. But if it rained that night and after the sun dried the top of our doodles next morning, guess what? It couldn’t dry bottoms so we got to man our pitchforks and turn each and every one over. When dry this time, as there have been times we had to repeat if another storm came through by then, you lost a lot of good leaves and your cows weren’t happy with you. If I told them once I told them dozens of times, take it to a higher authority and don’t count Dad this time. We pitched hay up to the two on the truck. I wanted to ride, but they told me there is an art to getting a good tight square load on and not to pitch any of those snakes up either. I didn’t hear many sorrys between the laughs when those snakes came back down the handle of fork or when the landed on my straw hat.

We took little brother with us on a few of the trips. He promised to be water boy. The water jug we used that day (we had two) was dark brown with one handle on the side and a corncob for the stopper. No ice just water. The jug was always wrapped in a burlap sack and sat under a shade tree. We had no name cups. We all drank from the same jug. Mmmmmmmmm good.

Little brother wasn’t big enough then to do much work. He just wanted to be one of the guys and he was a lot of fun. I remember coming home with a big load of hay on State Road 75. It had a tar top and was smooth (real nice compared to our gravel road). Along State Road 75, there were signs posted: “Vehicles with Lugs Prohibited.” Little brother couldn’t read that well. He sat in the middle between me and older brother driving and asked what the sign said. Big brother read it to him and told him, “He would have to get out as he was one of those lugs on that sign.” He then stopped the truck abruptly almost throwing our other hay hands, who were riding on the front fenders off. They never rode on top of the load of hay for fear they would get raked off by the utility lines running along the highway. The lines and poles weren’t as high then. And they could sit on the fenders holding on by way of the hood ornament. They would have a tough time riding on the front fenders today and no hood ornament either. Little brother was afraid he might be put out of the truck and walk home. So, he threaded his arm through mine. No way was he going to walk alone. On our next trip back to the hay field we had no water boy – no little Lug – and no cuddles.

The lugs on the sign really referred to those big steel wheels on tractors and some equipment like plows had more cleats on their wheels.

We had a Farmall 112 made by International Harvest Company. It had lugs on the hind wheels and was shaped like triangles growing out of the steel wheels. You could work in the fields in all kinds of weather and never get stuck. But when you rode it on a hard surface where lugs couldn’t dig in, it was rocking and rolling. You kind of felt like a duck, but they still left their mark. Then came the rubber tire wheels. Lug signs disappeared.

Little brother can have the last laugh when he became of age with all the luxuries and almost all of the comforts of home. He made it. He no longer could be called a “lug,” just a fun loving brother. I could use those cuddles now.

Ma Ma June
(Editor’s note: My Uncle Harold and Uncle Raymond loved to tease. Uncle Harold was the oldest brother and Uncle Raymond was the baby brother and even in his seventies was Mother’s ‘baby brother.’ Ma Ma June’s Loving Daughter, Diana)

Next Customer

This next customer reminds me of the story my husband told of a doctor on East Broadway in Danville years ago. My husband had something wrong with one eye, so he came for a visit with the doctor. The doctor’s waiting room was on the front porch with every seat taken. You didn’t check in at the desk or even take a number. It was on the honor system. You looked around at each patient and they looked around and then at you. The first to arrive was the first appointment then as that one came back the next one went in and so forth. Well, it was finally my husband’s turn after watching that entry door and by then he knew who was behind him. The doctor treated his eye and said, “That will be a $1.00.” My husband questioned him about the $1.00 and such a bargain and his trust was beginning to weaken. But the good doctor said, “Don’t worry; I’ll make it up on your uncle.” And my husband was lucky too that my Dad was not the next customer.

Ma Ma June