Walking Down Memory Lane

If you've read my messages over the last week, you know I have been walking down Memory Lane while "downsizing." I just found this poem and thought I'd share with you. No date on the old brown newspaper clipping, nor indication of the publication. (Could "Bicentennial" be a clue indicating 1976?)

"Bicentennial Tea on Tuesday at the Community House"

"About sixty people called during the afternoon to see the interesting exhibit of family heirlooms, ranging from crude wooden utensils to an elaborate wedding outfit displayed by Mrs. R.C. Turner. Several women related unusual facts about items they had on display. Miss Nona Slappy acted as a judge. One of the members read an original poem written for the occasion."

Do You Remember?

Do you remember hearing your grandmother tell
How she drew the water from the back yard well;
And how she boiled it in the kettle and big wash pot;
And milked the cows that were kept in the lot?

How she strained the milk in a crockery churn
And set it near the fire to make it turn;
How she made the bread in a big wooden tray;
And served it hot three times a day.

How she made hominy with home-made lye;
For there wasn't any canned she could buy.
How the apples and peaches they carefully dried;
And in their home they felt great pride.

How she put potatoes in hot ashes to bake
And at Christmas time many cakes she'd make.
How she heated the irons by the hot coals, too,
While above them she cooked a pot of stew?

How she pieced many quilts in patterns so rare,
While grandpa fashioned a table or chair,
How she made tea cakes and pulled syrup candy;
And how everyone thought them fine and dandy.

How she scrubbed the floors in every room
With white sand and a corn shuck broom;
How she gathered straw to make her brooms,
And worked long hours at the wheel and loom.

How she spun the thread and the coverlets wove,
And brought in wood for the iron stove;
And how in a two-horse wagon they'd ride,
And how careful she was her ankles to hide.

How she wore a sunbonnet to protect her skin;
For no young lady wanted a sun-tan then.
How she drank water from a gourd with a handle
And wrote on a slate by the light of a candle.

And how her "Pa" made syrup from sorghum cane
And her "Ma" dried lard with the moon on the wane.
How her "Pa" killed hogs and cured his meat;
And hunted rabbits and quail for the family to eat.

How they called the farm hands by ringing the bell;
Or rang it loudly for fire or danger to tell.
How they planted the garden when the moon was right;
And started to work before it was light.

In those days there was little time for play
And no one had heard of an eight-hour day;
I'm sure there are many other things you can recall
But time won't permit us telling them all.

I hope you've enjoyed this glimpse of the past
And that memories of today, long will last.
................. Lucy Clark

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Yes, I remember hearing my Grandmother [Ina Bird (Smith) Showalter] talk about these things. Visiting their farm near Ashland, Oregon, (almost 70 years ago) I remember that food, and fresh milk, was chilled in the creek. They milked the cows, they harvested the apples and pears; they pumped the water from the back yard well, and used oil lamps. Twenty-plus years later I listened to them reveal details about their life.