Stuff I Learned As A Kid--Chapter One

This is one of the posters I recall seeing in merchant's windows. I didn't have full comprehension of how rationing worked, but since my uncle was a Navy medic, I understood that if I went without, he would have enough of whatever he needed to make it home safe. My childish logic worked. He came home safe and sound. 

If you're a kid during WWII, you learn things by osmosis. I know I did. The lessons taught weren't meant to be lessons. They were just part of everyday life in a nation where everything was rationed, all the better to supply our troops first and we citizens last. It was a time of ration stamps and wooden tokens, mended clothes, and unusual foods on the dinner table. I was young enough to know no better. For me, going without wasn't a big thing. Everybody went without--and I personally never saw anyone pouting or ranting about it, for it was an era when every American I knew stood shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy.

In the small farm community where I grew up, farmers and city dwellers alike bartered and traded, especially when the month's ration stamps were gone. Because we had pigs and chickens, with a ready supply of eggs, dad traded our supplies with the farmers who raised beef or who had milk cows. Oddly enough, I grew up strong and healthy, even though I filled my tummy with unpasteurized milk straight from the cow. The one thing I remember is how creamy the milk was. Not at all like today's offerings. I also vividly recall how good that milk was cold rather than straight out of Old Bossy. But maybe that was just my personal taste. At any rate, I not only lived but flourished. Selling unpasteurized milk these days is illegal. Maybe drinking it is illegal too. Do you suppose this belated confession will land me in jail?

We ate strange things. Weeds were a big favorite--especially since they were readily available long before the garden vegetables were fit for the table. Actually, dandelion greens were fought over when mom cooked them. Dad showed me and my sister how to look for the youngest ones. The empty lot behind our house was always green with some weed or another, and once my sister and I knew what to look for, we went at it with gusto. There was such a small window where they were tasty, so we grabbed all we could so mom could cook them up, sprinkle them with vinegar, salt and pepper. We didn't know people weren't supposed to eat weeds. If neighbors today saw me on my hands and knees in the empty lot down the street gathering up dandelions, do you suppose they'd have me committed?

Duck is tasty; rabbit is downright good; doves and quail are so small you have to eat a lot of them; venison is delicious; pheasant is dry unless loaded up with lots of mom's onion gravy. Oddly enough, I thought nothing about eating whatever dad brought home from his hunting forays. My sister and I were told to eat it so we did. And even though we liked chicken the most, we knew dad sold all he could to the local grocery stores and restaurants, so there wasn't always chicken left for ourselves. Besides, we needed to keep the eggs a coming, so there were always a lot of hens clucking around the chicken coop and barnyard. I do not remember one time when any of us complained about the food. We kids were taught to be grateful that we had enough to eat. According to today's guidelines for health, we were most likely over-proteined youngsters. Do you suppose anything bad would happen if the USDA found out about my overly carnivorous past?

Mended clothes can be uncomfortable. Most of the time, the mending was inconsequential. Unless the torn seam had frayed and mom had to take bigger seams to repair the damage. It was worse with blouses than skirts. Underarm seams chaffed the skin when sewn too tight and Lord knows, I put up with some chaffed skin in my day. Socks were the worst. Mom had a small light bulb she stored in a little basket where she kept darning needles, assorted colored floss, and a mixture of holey socks awaiting surgery. My sister and I hated darned socks. As thorough as mom was, making small lattices of embroidery floss across the hole, the sock never laid smooth, and since most of the holes were in the heel....well, you can imagine how comfy they were to wear. One day I got up nerve enough to tell her what I thought about darned socks and why couldn't we just go buy new ones? That was the day I learned that socks for soldiers came first and there were no ration coupons left to buy socks, even if they could be found. Do you suppose I could sue the government for my having to grow up wearing darned socks that blistered my heels?

To be continued....

Author's note: Seems I learned more than I realized for as I was putting this story together, it dawned on me it was far too long for a single blog. I've broken it into chapters. You can read more next week. Blessings to all my followers. Thank you for being so faithful to my blog.

My Feedsack Childhood

So you wish to create a quilt that reminds you of your childhood on the farm. Well, unless you have a grandma or great grandma with a bulging quilt stash she's willing to pass on, you'll have to use the reproduction fabrics available at any quilt shop. They are called feed sack prints, but I argue with that--having worn the real thing for what seemed like forever.

I've read that during the 1930s, quilt making had a huge resurgence as women hoarded every fabric scrap available in order to keep their family warm. Those bits and pieces of cloth became the stuff of today's greatly prized heirloom quilts which have been long hidden from sight or usefulness simply because they are considered a family legacy.

Both my maternal and paternal grandmothers made quilts. Grandma Wood created colorful blankets filled with flannel. They weren't warm, but they were fun to sleep under. Grandma Legler cast her quilts of worn out coats, woolen trousers, flannel shirts and tattered dresses. The colorful quilts smelled like fresh laundry and sunshine; the ugly ones smelled of an old barn. Foolish child that I was, I preferred the pretty ones--even though I froze beneath them come Minnesota winters.

My mom didn't quilt. She was barely even a seamstress. Yet she gave it her best. It was the time of WWII and with everything needed for life rationed, she looked for fabric anywhere she could find it. The white muslin sugar and flour sacks became washcloths and kitchen towels. Her largest supply of free fabric came from our chicken hatchery where it arrived in 100 pound bags filled with chicken feed. Yes. Chicken feed.

Because my folks owned a hatchery in a small town on the southern Minnesota plains, I grew up surrounded by chickens, eggs, feed, and all the other products geared toward helping the farmers raise healthy hens that would produce eggs aplenty until they grew so old they were strictly stew pot offerings. In the meantime, chicken feed deliveries arrived every two weeks and I tried to be there when the sacks came in. My reason was always the same: to scout out multiple prints. I always hoped there wouldn't be any. To my dismay, there were usually three or four of the same design. When that happened, I knew I was doomed.

Mom always grabbed up the matching sacks. She always told the same story of how the feed was for our own chickens, to make sure they grew plump and meaty so the restaurants and food stores in town would order our chickens rather than someone EElse's. Young as I was, I knew that tale made no sense. If it was strictly the feed she wanted, what would it matter if the printed sacks matched?

She had plans for that fabric. And I knew what they were. Empty sacks were unsewn, washed till every hint of feed smell was gone, and then pinned to the backyard clothesline to flap in the wind. So there they waved, announcing to anyone passing by that one of the Legler girls was about to get new clothes. How embarrassing. That feed sack muslin, with its loose warp and weft weave would soon become a sun top or slacks or shorts or worse yet, if mom had three patching sacks, a dress for church or school.

My two younger sisters, whom I labeled as having no taste in clothes, thought they were cute. To me, anything sewn of  feed sacks was the bottom of the clothing world. Yet with textiles so difficult to obtain, I was forced to wear what was in the closet. Then came the day I put on the light blue sundress with the tiny yellow flowers printed on it and dutifully skipped off to school. That was the day it happened.

It entire school was at recess and I was going about minding my own business when I heard someone call my name. Who would it be but Peggy Gunderson. Now Peggy and I were acquaintances, but not what you'd call close friends. Nevertheless, there she came, running toward me with a big smile. As she grew closer, I heard her bullhorn mouth say "Sandy, we have on the same feed sack dress." I wanted to melt into the grass. As luck would have it, a lot of my friends were standing around close enough to hear and then began the questioning. "What's a feed sack? What do you do with it? Did you buy it at the store?" While I remained mute, Peggy filled in all the details and then more. Do you get the picture?

During the 1970s, quilting had another great resurgence and unwilling to let another generation of non-quilters pass by, I was nearly the first one in line for classes. Since I had no stash of quilt fabric, I asked my mom and grandma if they could spare some scraps. Mom gave me a huge box filled with bits and pieces of raggedy remains, but it was Grandma Wood who had the real treasure. Boxes and boxes of pieces came into my sewing room. I began weeding out, tossing fabric here and there. Then I stopped cold. On the bottom of one box lay the remnants of leftover feed sacks. I recognized an apron grandma had long ago sewn for me. And there was a skirt I'd once had. And there were the leftovers of a blouse she'd made.

With such a memorable stash on hand and quilt class moving at a snail's pace, I decided to teach myself to make a Double Wedding Ring quilt. It was the era of trace, cut, and sew--one tiny piece at a time. I spent nearly a year creating the quilt, which I decided had become a twin-sized masterpiece. I took it to be professionally quilted then brought it home and gently placed it across the back of my couch--the better to admire.

Then came the day my daughter and grandkids dropped by and the next thing I knew, Christie was holding the quilt, pointing to a piece here or there and saying aloud how each piece was part of her own life. "Look, mom, there's the dress Grandma Wood made me and there's the apron I had when I was seven and there's the doll clothes you made for my Barbie Doll.

The entire quilt was a combination of three generations. I deemed it a treasure to be passed down so I held it till my daughter's birthday and gave it to her along with instructions to pass on to her children the history of each scrap she recognized. "Be sure your kids know it's a family legacy," I told her, "and not something for the Goodwill Box when it's no longer useful.

Over the years, I've made many quilts yet have none to show for it. All a family member has to do is admire the quilt and it somehow finds its way to them. I figure I had the fun of creating it and that was enough. The joy of passing them on to a son or daughter-in-law or grandchild fulfills my joy. Yet what amazes me the most is how my mind has changed toward the feed sacks. Now that I'm past 70, I look at the years of history I've lived through and the fabrics that accompanied them and I realize I no longer dismay over my feed sack years. In fact, I'm proud of them. I lived in an era when things were kept, just in case someone else could use them. I lived in the time of feed sacks. Few are we who know what I'm talking about and for those of us who walked in those shoes, let it be known that we are the last of a whole breed.

Times like those will never come again. And while it is possible to enter any of today's quilt shops and find feed sack reproductions, few are truly accurate. Today's colors are too bright; the prints too big. My two sisters and I agree that what is passed off as reproductions do not fulfill the true feed sack product. Even so, those chicken feed sacks fabrics remain popular with quilters--most of whom I believe must have been city kids. Farm kids know better. We remember what we wore in those early days and although we know the colors and prints aren't right, we purchase them anyway, cut them into tiny pieces, and then meticulously sew them back together.

I've often thought of forming a club which only those of us who wore genuine feed sack clothes could join. Our goal would be to pass on the history of those years before it is completely forgotten. We can always count on school books to teach our children and grandchildren the history and politics of our nation. But nowhere else will they hear true feed sack stories but from those of us who were there.Now who's with me?

The first quilt I ever made was the Double Wedding Ring. Look closely and you'll find some of the feed sack prints along with other fabrics of the 1940s. Had I kept the quilt, I would have stored it but my daughter chose to use it. I dare say had the electric heating pad not been so toasty, her Persian kitten would probably have been curled up in the quilt. 

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L. Keith, All rights reserved
Photos are the authors and may not be reproduced without permission

Grandkids Are So Much Fun I Should Have Had Them First

Our oldest grandson revelled in helping gramps anytime he could. When the new backyard sidewalk needed to be built, it was Donny to the rescue. Notice he even has his own toolbelt. He worked alongside Jim for hours and finally got the hang of measuring and laying the stone. When Jim announced that he'd like to take a rest, Donny just kept going. Young as he was, he came through with a perfect job. Today, Donny is 25, a mechanical engineer, and that sidewalk is still perfect. Honest.

My husband Jim and I thoroughly enjoyed raising our two children. I was a stay at home mom and for me, it was perfect. Then one day I blinked and they were grown, married, and had children of their own. Oh my gosh, I was a 40 year-old grandma who didn't feel grandmotherly. Little did I know that the fun was just beginning. You know what made the difference? I wasn't responsible for how they turned out. I didn't care if they ate their vegetables. No big deal if they got to bed a little late. What would it hurt if they ate dessert first? Would the stars fall from the sky if they went to bed without a bath?

Grandkids are relaxing, soothing, and just plain fun. Because all their parents worked full time, who taught the girls to knit, sew, and make biscuits? Me. Who taught our oldest grandson to build a birdhouse? Jim. When our oldest granddaughter was five, she and I went off to Zoo School at the San Diego Zoo. When our oldest grandson was eight, we took the Amtrack to Oceanside, just because he wanted to ride on a train. Another granddaughter's first plane trip was a short hop we took to a fancy Arizona waterpark and its adjoining hotel. Another granddaughter's first glimpse of the Grand Canyon came while she trailered the Southwest with us.

It seemed that while we raised our own kids, money was so tight that we were thankful just to have an old tent to camp in and in order to vacation at all, Jim sold his holidays at work so we'd have the funds. But once our kids were out on their own, we discovered something wonderful. We now had the money to take off and travel. And even better, the grandkids could come with us.

Even though they enjoyed seeing new places, each one still loved coming to our home and just hanging out.  When our backyard needed a new brick sidewalk, who wanted to help lay it? The oldest grandson. When he wanted to learn to play golf, who taught him? Jim. Years of intertwined love and togetherness have reaped their own rewards. We are rich in that our own children love and respect us; richer still because all seven grandkids do the same. And all it took was time. A little here, a little there. A nail to pound; a brick to lay; a stitch to sew; a biscuit to drool over.

The backyard as it is today. I do wish I'd moved the hose before snapping the shutter, but you can still see how well the sidewalk has held up over all these years.

Today, the grandkids ages range from 29 to 13. They are all still fun. Still relaxing. Still soothing to be around. And you know what? I still don't care if they clean their plates--although it would be nice if the minute they entered my home their cell phones somehow managed to bite the dust.


Copyright 2011 by Sandra L. Keith, All Rights Reserved
Photos are the property of the author and may not be reproduced without permission