I wasn’t able to work on my 52 Ancestors story this week, so instead, I’m sharing something different with you.
I started writing “Sunday Stories” years ago. This is my way of sharing history with my family and descendants, the kind of history I wish I knew about my ancestors. The daily, “what was my life like” kind of history.
I’ve been rather lax lately. My family doesn’t know it, but the 52 Ancestors articles ARE their Sunday stories for right now. Still, from time to time, I write a separate Sunday story when something strikes my fancy. This week, I’m sharing my Sunday Story with you in the hopes it will inspire you to do the same.
Years ago, a man named Mickey used to write Sunday Stories about his life in Italy before he immigrated. He faithfully took the hand-written letter to a copy machine every Monday and mailed a copy to each of his children. Many didn’t even bother to open the envelopes – too busy – just threw them in a drawer. Some even lost them. But when Mickey died, all of a sudden those letters became precious, to the point that the kids had to make a list to see who had which letters and if any, God forbid, were entirely missing.
Mickey would have smiled. I don’t know if he had a father’s intuition and knew that’s exactly what would happen – but he told me he knew they weren’t being read when he sent them. That made my heart sad for him, because I knew how neglected and unappreciated he must have felt.
I saw what happened in Mickey’s family after his death. It was actually kind of humorous in a sad way – all the frantic scrambling. I know they all wished they had paid more attention to Mickey when they had the opportunity.
I decided that Sunday stories were a wonderful idea – and it really doesn’t matter that they aren’t read today, even though I hope they are, because I’m writing them for posterity too. Someday they’ll be read, maybe….and if not…it wasn’t for lack of trying on my part.
Please join me today for “Just One More Summer Sunday” and a peek into life on the farm in the Midwest with my Mom and step-Dad, who I have forever called my Dad.
Just One More Summer Sunday
What I wouldn’t give for just one more summer Sunday.
Not that Sunday’s were particularly special on the farm, it’s just that we were all home on Sunday. Even if we had moved to town, everyone came home on Sunday afternoon. We talked and joked, sometimes played games like gin rummy, aggravation, dominoes and Yahtzee, and did whatever needed to be done. And we ate, of course. Life on the farm revolved around eating.
No one ever talked about coming home on Sundays, or planned it particularly, it’s just what we did. It evolved. Everyone looked forward to Sunday family time to catch up with what everyone else in the family was doing. It was Facebook face to face.
Sunday afternoons in the summer in Indiana were hot and sticky and uncomfortable. Fans were involved. Sometimes a completely ineffective electrical fan for the entire house, and always, personal fans being waved back and forth made up of anything that moved air. Magazines, cardboard, whatever.
So we sweat together. Sweat bonds people, ya know.
We also cleaned green beans together and shucked corn together, sitting on the metal glider under the old maple tree out back, with the corn silk sticking to our hands and arms because we were “moist,” as my mother used to say. Women didn’t sweat, for Heaven’s sake.
We took the kids along and picked out the best watermelon or musk melon from the melon patch that we had planted one Sunday afternoon in the springtime and brought it to the house. If it was particularly large, the child rode in the red wagon to the garden and the child got to pull the wagon back to the house with the melon in tow. Often, we cut the melon outside to keep the mess out of the kitchen – plus – it was cooler out there in the shade.
We always had a “slop bucket” where any food waste, like melon seeds and rinds, got deposited with a splat. After dinner, we got to go out and feed the hogs who had been looking forward to the slop bucket “treat” since we began the food preparation process. Hogs are a lot smarter than people give them credit for. They knew.
Dad had an old red barbeque grill with the paint peeling off from years of cumulative heat. He put charcoal in the bottom and lit it using lighter fluid with enough time left before “dinner time,” which was lunch on the farm, or “supper time” which was late afternoon, about 5, for the charcoal to ignite, burn bright, then burn down to grey ash with the heat inside. Dad somehow magically knew when the coals were “about right.” Then he put the burgers on the grill. It was a long, involved process and you could easily die of hunger waiting! It didn’t make any sense to me that the coals were better for cooking than the fire, but I’ve learned a lot since then about cooking heat and the fires of life as well.
Before Dad had the red barbeque grill that we got him for one Father’s Day, he had an old barrel cut in half with some kind of grill or wire thing that he had rigged up that sat across the top. Sometimes food fell through the rigged mesh into the charcoal, and you just picked it back up with the tongs and put it back on the grill, after brushing it off of course. If it was too bad, it went in the slop bucket. Nothing was ever wasted.
Much of our life on the farm was “rigged up,” but we never viewed it that way. Today I look back at all of those things Dad made personally and cherish them along with the time he took to make them. Then, they were just life, the way it was and what we did. Nothing special.
Mom and I made the hamburger patties inside and put them on plates and took them outside to Dad to grill. Yes, we used the same plates to bring the grilled burgers back inside, and no one died or even got sick. We made potato or macaroni salad and cut up whatever vegetables were ripe in the garden. By August, we had fresh corn to shuck and together, at the table, after one of the children said Grace, we ate buttered corn on the cob, grilled hamburgers and fresh warm tomatoes from the garden. Life couldn’t have been better. To us, then, it was just normal. Nothing unusual or special.
We chatted about what happened during the week, plans for the next week, school, teachers and oh yes, about the crops, what was ripening next, or was wilting in the heat…and rain, always rain, or lack thereof. It was a farm, after all.
The women discussed who was dating whom, who was potty trained, who was sick, what was on sale this week in town, and church doings of course.
Everyone talked about funerals, births, who bought a new car, or far more exciting, a new tractor, and who was going broke – and in farm country, someone was always going broke.
Oh, and pass me another burger and some of that “mater” too please…
There is absolutely nothing like a plump bright red tomato, fresh picked from the vine, warmed by the sun and sliced, its flavor exploding with the juicy hamburger and a slice of sweet onion too.
Sometimes we had buns, sometimes not – depended on how much we could get at the grocery that week for our $20 bill. Sometimes the choice came down to chocolate or Oreos or buns….and let’s just say that we often ate without buns.
And speaking of chocolate, the best was yet to come. Dad planned ahead and sometimes, on particularly hot Sundays, he would make homemade ice cream for dessert. He churned it by hand, the churn sitting on the back step. Actually, we all took turns since it was no small task and your arms got tired really quickly. He always helped the kids and absorbed way more than his share of the work without anyone noticing and without saying one word.
Because making ice cream was a slow process requiring patience, dessert usually happened about mid-afternoon.
We always made banana ice cream. It was Dad’s favorite, so somehow it became the entire family favorite. No one even suggested any other flavor – ever. That would have been heresy…and besides that…no one even thought of it.
I remember company one time asked about chocolate ice cream and we all just stared at them like they were speaking a foreign tongue we couldn’t comprehend. They said they didn’t like banana ice cream. Mom told them they would like this banana ice cream, because it was “special,” and that was that. I don’t know if they liked it or not, but nary another word was spoken about other flavors!
It seemed like it took FOREVER for that ice cream to set up. And the more you had to crank, the hotter you became, and the more you wanted some of that ice cold ice cream. Sort of seems self-defeating doesn’t it – but ironically – no one ever tried to get out of their turn at the crank. Everyone thought it was fun – a novelty – at least for a little bit – until your arm got tired. Then Dad would come over and “spell you for a bit,” because that’s just the kind of man he was. In reality, we were all “spelling” Dad for a bit, giving him a little break, but we though we were really doing something special!
After what seemed like an eternity, the ice cream would be declared “done,” Dad would crack open the churn and we would finally get to eat the ice cream, whether it was done, meaning set up, or not. Sometimes it was nice and hard. Sometimes it was more like soft serve and I distinctly remember once when it was almost runny, more like pudding, and Dad suggested we put the lid back on and crank some more. He got soundly outvoted and we ate the ice cream just the way it was…with one important addition of course…chocolate topping.
But not just any chocolate topping. Nosireeeee…special hot fudge topping.
You know those buns we sacrificed? Well, instead we bought chocolate fudge topping and then we “doctored it up” by heating it and adding both bittersweet dark chocolate and fresh percolated hot coffee until the fudge topping was thick and rich, but not too sweet. I know, that doesn’t seem to make sense, but it was TO. DIE. FOR.
I wish I had taken some pictures of those days, but back then, picture developing was an expensive luxury and photos were saved for “special occasions,” like when my grandmother’s last living sister, great-aunt Eloise, visited.
Note that by this time, the walkway to the outhouse, visible behind the garage, was semi-paved and Mom and Dad were wearing “good” summer clothes – translated to mean not threadbare and no holes or large stains – at least not that my mother spotted or my Dad would have been sent to change:)
Even though film and developing was expensive, we did of course take photos at Christmas, birthdays and when we had “special” company, but Sunday afternoon on the hottest day of the summer, sweating, eating burgers and cranking ice cream on the farm was nothing special, so not one picture.
Nothing special at all.
Oh, what I would give for just one more summer Sunday afternoon at home with Mom and Dad on the farm….
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Wonderful, Roberta.
Terrific! What a great idea. We used to make ice cream too. I remember as I got older thinking there had to be an easier way to crank that thing. I looked closely and realized the handle was attached to what looked like something the ratchet wrench would fit on. It worked! Because of the torque it created the cranking was so easy, even the really little kids could take a turn and know they contributed. We didn’t have a special flavor….we used whatever fresh fruit was in season and could be picked from the trees. Great memories.
Hope your back is better! Sunday stories – wonderful wonderful
I’m getting there😊
What a wonderful story with such sweet memories! Joan
What a beautiful story! Thanks so much for sharing it with us.
We must be of the same era. I remember those days only instead of shucking corn we either snapped beans or shelled peas . Usually it was beans. But the family. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, and their Aunts, Uncles, and cousins, and anyone who dropped by. Those Sundays can never be beat. Best in the world!
We had a lot of snap beans but our peas never amounted to much.
Reminds me of many Sundays at my grandma’s house in the Mountains of east Tennessee. My most vivid memory ,Grandma would say kids catch me a chicken. She would ring its neck and toss it on the ground ,the flapping and running and squawking until death of the chicken was quite a show for us kids. She usually made ,chicken and dumplings,served with fried okra,corn-ears,taters,maters,and killed lettuce.,of course a big pone of cornbread.
Beautiful story. Thank you for sharing it.
How wonderful I think we should all tell our family stories of what it was like when we were young and people had time to talk to each other even though they worked long and hard. Sharing chores also meant sharing information and gossip where would the world have been without it?
I have some very good memories of working with my dad at the barn.
My grandparents ranch was on Hwy 19 near Athens TX. I wish I had been smart enough to write down some of the stories I heard and ask some important questions. Mostly I just rocked in the glider, swatted flies and watched the highway traffic go by.
I think that counts as a story. If you start to write it, you’ll remember more.
Love your Sunday Stories. When I first moved to the Masonic Home in 2010, I started writing an oral history of my life, entitled: “The Way It Was”. I still work on it when I am caught up with a genealogy project, or am waiting for some new genealogy information to arrive. I began with my earliest memory of my maternal grandmother at age four. I lost a red mitten at her home that I had just gotten for Christmas. It slid off the top of an old camel back trunk and no one thought to look there. I remember crying and that grandmother hugged me and told me she would find it and save it for me. It was the last time I saw her;she died soon after, but not before she found my mitten.
Grandmother Wells was the only one of my four grandparents I remember. Grandfather Wells died the previous January in the “flu epidemic” and my two Bivin grandparents died many years before, both in the same year when my father was 9 years old. So this is a precious memory to me. It is all mine, since no one else in the family remembers it.
I recently found a reason for my great memory of almost everything that has happened in my life. Thanks to a feature article I read, I learned I have an AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL MEMORY. Roberta, I suspect you and I inherited that same memory from our kindred family tree.
Since I have no children to read my account of The Way It Was, I am leaving it to my wonderful nephew, Bill and his wife, whose loving care have made my last days special. Bill’s mother was my sister, so it will tell him and his children much about his mother and their grandmother’s life too.
God’s gift to me of a long life that covers a span of all the great world changes from just after World War !, through the Great Depression. World War II, rationing,and the Atomic Bomb, the housing and population explosion when the “Greatest Generation” came home, the Cold War, travel to the moon, Martin Luther King’s Marches seeking racial equality at the cost of his life, Presidential and political assassinations, changing population identities, election of President Barac Obama, our first president with both white and black racial identity, and the age of Congressional obstructionism. But all those world changes dim in interest compared to the changes in my life from the “Way It Was”.
Keep the Sunday Stories coming. It is good to remember those days. I was not raised on a farm, but spent several of my married years on a farm. I do remember the “slop bucket” for the hogs .It is not my favorite thing to remember, but it was a necessity and the hogs loved it. as much as the corn.
Oh Helen, thank you so very much for sharing the red mitten story. How previous. Maybe a gift to you so you would remember her.
If it would not be too presumptuous, I would very, very much like a copy of “The Way it Was.”
I’m always so pleased to see your comments on the blog.
Roberta I would be pleased to share “The Way It Was” with you. It is not finished. I think I have just started on my married years. However, If I don’t finish it soon, I will send what I have written, just in case my demise comes before I finish it. I am sure you will understand that trying to get my genealogy prepared for the archives comes first. I can’t work as long as I would like because I have to keep my feet up to prevent excessive swelling. Like your back problem, I have found no way to sit at my computer and keep them up
Be assured I will send a copy of “The Way It was The early years are more fun !
Loved your Sunday story.
What wonderful memories. I think my dad was much like your dad. We didn’t live on a farm but in a suburb of Detroit. I always thought my dad could build or fix anything. Money was always in short supply so my folks had to be creative and many times just “make do.” I was just 20 years old when my much loved father died at age 44. What I wouldn’t give to have known him adult to adult.
I so appreciate the wonderful childhood my folks provided. We had a good group of neighbors that would have corn roasts always in our backyard. My dad and the man next door would go early on a Saturday or Sunday morning to a farm a few miles from our house (it’s long gone) to get a burlap sack of fresh picked corn. Once home they’d load the corn into tubs to soak in water. The women would be busy making whatever dish they’d bring to dinner. My dad would get the rotisserie set up for the chicken and get the charcoal going. There were usually hot dogs for the kids, too. Nothing can beat peeling the husks back from the corn to use as a handle, getting it all buttered and salted and then walk around eating it so you didn’t get butter dripped on you. Then came the other food followed by nice cold watermelon which was eaten while walking around. So much fun to spit the seeds into the grass. After our lengthy meal the men would move to the alley behind the house for their rousing games of horseshoes. The man next door had a pole and light placed so they could play after dark. Many times as we were finishing dinner we’d hear someone out back clanging a couple of horseshoes together.
Any way, thanks so much for your Sunday Story. It’s made me realize that I have a few stories inside me, too. I’ve been wondering what to do with these kinds of memories that keep popping up. Like Ms. Rutledge I have no children to leave my memories to but do have a nephew and two nieces I could share with. Their mother is my baby sister who was only 18 months old when our dad died. She could very well be my child age-wise. She has no memory of our dad but my mom and the other three of my siblings told her everything we could about him and how much he loved her. My memories would maybe provide her with more details about the dad she never knew and her kids about their grandpa who would have been a wonderful grandpa.
Maybe I should copy this long comment and use it as my first Sunday Story. Thanks again.
Karen Krumbach
You brought back a memory I had forgotten. I remember my Mom talking about making ice cream as a child. We lived in the city when I was growing up and it was never a far walk to a store for ice cream. We also had a car and it was just a few minutes to get to the store. We could also walk a half mile to the drugstore to get some at the counter. I have never made it and now I should figure out how to and do it with my grandchildren so they have something to remember.
Thank you for your memories. I grew up within walking distance to my paternal grandparents and almost every Sunday that we weren’t visiting some of my mother’s relatives I was at my grandparents house. My Mom and Dad might not go, but I would walk to visit and like you we would have ther watermelon outside. I’m guessing you and I might be close in age because our lives sound similar. Now all of my aunts and uncles except one, the youngest are gone. But the youngest uncle who is 89 today lives where he grew up, in my grandparents house. I visit him often, but it is a bit melancholy because all the activity that went on there has changed even though he and his son still farm. I should do as you and write down the memories but I procrastinate and keep them to myself unless I just happen to think of something and tell it, not write it.
I sometimes wonder if my grandchildren’s memories will be as good as mine were because their memories will certainly be nothing like mine.
Patricia Norman
Such a great story – thanks for sharing! As our folks would say it was a simpler time but those memories are forever priceless.
What a good idea, Roberta!
This sounds just like our treasured family Weekends,that I have been writing down for my Sons and Granddaughter.You described it so perfectly.It brought tears to my eyes when You wrote/I read that after his dealth they w
Roberta, for the last twenty two years, I’ve written my grand daughter a poem about the events of her year just past. The first one was actually written for my wife, “Grandma’s First Christmas”. I read them to the family right after a Christmas dinner and it has become a precious tradition. I’ve had them printed each ten years and spiral bound with copies for all. Looking back over them is such a joy!!! Write stuff down folks!!! You will never regret it.