My aunt had nine children. The spring was down below;
they had to carry the water in buckets to the house, and it
was uphill. For a family like that it meant a lot of
walking. The worst thing of all was the flies. The barn was
way down—my uncle had put it there on purpose—but these
blessed flies came from somewhere. We used to get willow
rods, every kid in the family, open the doors, and shush
these flies out. There'd be a black swarm of them. They used
to drive my aunt crazy. Years later they had fly paper all
over the place, in corners, everywhere.
Things got a little better, and she was able to drive to
town when she finally got a horse and buggy. All those years
up to that time I can never remember her going to town or
anywhere else. She used to make about nine loaves of bread a
day, every day of her life. It was set the night before, and
raised all night. In winter, she'd wrap it in blankets to
keep it from freezing. They had no way of keeping the house
warm, just the big, pot-bellied stoves after a while, which
they'd fill full of green wood and it would hold pretty well
all night. She was too busy to go out. She had sewing to do,
and all this cooking, and mending, just everything. I've
often thought about it. It's a wonder she kept her sanity. |