Késsinnimek - Roots - RacinesLIFE ON THE FARM
by Louise Dubrule
by Louise Dubrule
When my grandparents emigrated from La Beauce in Quebec to Berkshire, Vermont, they settled on a farm with six of their 10 children. One was left behind, buried near Megantic, and three were already married. The new place seemed to have been made for a large family, and the land was fertile and relatively flat. It was blessed with a natural cold spring, a stand of maple trees, and a view of soft mountains. In my mother’s later years, we took a ride to visit the old homestead, and Mama was awestruck at how pretty the surrounding area was. She remembered working from dark of morning to dark of night and had never noticed the view.
The house, even today, is large and imposing. At the beginning, the house served the whole family. One by one, the girls grew up, married and moved away from the farm. Later, when Emile married and brought his bride to the farm, the house was somewhat divided to give them their own space. The half that I grew up in had one great room that served as living and dining room, as well as a large kitchen. There was also a “buttery” or pantry for storage.
Bisecting the house was a great staircase that led to the door for the attic, and the bedrooms opened out from the landing. The stairs were an ideal place to play games or to spy on what the grownups were doing or saying. Upstairs was rather scary, especially after dusk, when shadows deepened and “bon homme sept heur” (old man seven o’clock) was known to roam.
If the kitchen was the core of the house, the big cast iron wood stove was its heart. Its top had two rounds that could be lifted to adjust the wood, and the oven could hold six loaves of bread at a time. There was a section on the right for several gallons of water that would heat as the fire burned. A panel opened, revealing a little faucet that folded down so hot water could be drained for dishes or other chores. Above the cooking surface, there were two warming ovens that kept meals that had to wait, and they were handy, too, for drying mittens and wool socks. One little oven held the pot holders and the turkey wing that brushed the crumbs off the stove top. The stove sat on stout legs, and there was room under and behind the stove for the cat and her kittens. Periodically, someone would rap on the fat stove pipe to loosen the soot and creosote in an effort to prevent a chimney fire that could have spelled disaster.
There was no running water in the house, and it still amazes me that my grandmother raised those six children (and my mother her own three) when every drop of water had to be brought in from the spring. Preparing meals for a large family and washing dishes necessitated a lot of water. The logistics of bathing that many people boggles the mind. There were clothes to wash on a scrub board, and later there was a wringer washing machine with a gas motor, and that must have seemed like a miracle. The ironing was done with heavy iron plates that were heated on the stove top, and the removable handles slid into grooves on top of the plates. One plate would be heating while the other was being used. I learned how to iron with those, as Mama brought them to Richford, and it was a long time before she bought an electric replacement.
The house was not wired for electricity so there were kerosene lamps to tend: the wicks needed trimming, the chimneys had to be cleaned, and the bases filled. I remember the curling iron with green handles that could be inserted into the chimneys when the lamps were lit, and after a time the iron was hot enough to make curls in the latest fashion. Indeed, the only electric lights I saw before we moved to Richford were in the church. In my mind, those chandeliers looked like giant spiders hanging from the vaulted ceilings.
The spring that provided all the water also served as the cooler. In the little wooden springhouse there were large jugs that held the milk, cream, butter, and other provisions that had to be kept chilled. The horses were led to the spring after coming in from the fields. There were tiger lilies growing along the edges of the spring, and those became dolls in fancy dresses in the hands of little girls. The family made and bottled root beer, and those sat in the icy water until they were brought into the house for consumption. Once in the house, especially during hot summer weather, the bottles were known to pop their tops and spew their contents.
The nearest doctor was about five miles away and Dr. Lawliss made the occasional housecall. However, most minor ailments were handled with home remedies and potions. There was honey and lemon (with a bit of whiskey) for sore throats and coughs, bread and milk poultices for infected sores, borax water for eye irritations, ginger tea to break a fever, catnip tea for indigestion, and flannel chest plasters filled with mustard or heated onions to open congested lungs and sinuses. The family laughed about Papa going for the priest instead of the doctor when Mama was in labor with their firstborn.
The consolidated school was in Richford, so when my brother and sister were of school age, they rode a bus of sorts called a barge to Berkshire Center. There, Miss Westman presided over all classes from first through eighth grades. The younger children did their own lessons and then listened to the older students, absorbing information without being aware of it.
When did our grandmothers sleep? There were the meals, the dishes, the laundry, the mending, the cleaning, and the children. There was a large garden that provided an abundance of vegetables and apple trees for fruit. The major portion of the bounty was canned for later use. Grandmother, in her striped apron and straw hat, was the first one in the barn for chores or the field during haying season, and she was the last to leave.
Baking bread was a weekly affair, and a couple of loaves were allowed to become very brown and crusty. These were grated down to the white “meat” and the crumbs were used for ersatz coffee, much like the Postum that can be bought today. Doughnuts were made by the dozen and kept in a big blue and white pail that had once held lard. Meals were hearty affairs. Early breakfast, before going to milk the cows, was just coffee and a doughnut. After the chores, there was oatmeal, fried potatoes, great slabs of bread toasted on the wood stove top, slices of ham, and even apple pie. When times were lean, a meal could be carrots in a white cream sauce over boiled potatoes. One chicken, cooked slowly and for a long time, could feed the whole family when the meat was folded into gravy.
The family kept a couple of dozen chickens. There were white ones and red ones, and the trick was to get the biddy hens to incubate eggs so there would be more little chicks. I remember the pale blue glass egg that was a decoy to encourage nesting; I thought for sure that I had found a rooster egg.
The mainstay of the farm was the dairy cows. They kept about 60, milking 45 or 50 at any given time. There were Guernseys, Ayrshires, Holsteins, and my favorite gentle Jerseys. Everyone turned out to milk by hand, and it took about two hours to do a good job morning and night. When I was a baby, my sister pushed me in her doll carriage in the barn during milking time. On one occasion, the carriage tipped over, dumping me into the gutter behind the cows. Mama joked that she stopped to think whether she wanted to clean me up or simply have another baby. Later, as I got older, my sister and I hunted for the barn cats and played in the sweet-smelling hay.
The horses were in another barn, and there were three draft horses. Two were a team, and the other served solo duty on lighter equipment or filled in when one of the pair was lame. The dappled Percherons tended to be flighty, and one day they took off, dragging the plow behind them, over stone walls and low fences. I remember when one solo horse was out in the field and he stepped into a hole, breaking a leg. They had no choice except to put him down, and I can still see the great carcass in the barn yard while the men discussed the best place to bury it.
Every year the family raised two pigs, and they grew fat by the time deep frosts announced butchering time. Then came steaming pans of meat, blood to be made into boudin, (sausage redolent with onion and spices), fat to turn into soap, and hams and bacon that were sent out to be smoked. Much of the meat was canned for later use.
Work followed the seasons. In the spring, there were fields to be plowed and harrowed, and crops to be sown. The kitchen garden was started then, too. Summer meant berry picking and jars of jam. The hay fields turned golden and long days were spent cutting and turning the hay to dry evenly, and finally the tall hay wagon was loaded and brought to the barn to fill the lofts. After the corn was picked, the corn stalks were allowed to dry a bit before being chopped and stored in the silo. When the days turned shorter and colder, it was time to settle things down for the coming winter. Canning was finished, wood was chopped and stacked into neat cords, and the handmade quilts were taken from the deep cedar box to air out for use.
Then came butchering season. Winter meant keeping the path to the barn open, and there was always equipment to repair or harnesses to mend. Temperatures fell steeply, and I remember 30 below zero as a matter of course. The windows frosted over with lacy patterns and in the morning there was fine snow on the inside window sills. At long last, the thaws came and the sugaring season arrived. All labor was done by hand. The trees were tapped with little spouts and buckets hung from them. When sap was running, the Percherons were hitched to the sledge and driven between the trees so the buckets of sweet water could be emptied into the wooden barrels.
It took 40 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup. The sugar house became a sauna of fragrant steam and the wood smoke rose into the air. Fires were tended around the clock, and the boiling sap in large metal pans was stirred with long wooden paddles until just the right consistency was attained. The golden syrup was stored in 55 gallon drums to take to market, and a good year meant 20 to 25 of those drums.
The syrup was graded from A Fancy (first runs of the season) down to the dark, intense grade that signaled the end of the season. Mama brought some of the syrup into the house to boil down even farther. This was poured into bread loaf pans to harden into solid blocks that were grated as needed for cooking or table use. And through all the seasons and their respective chores, there were the animals to tend and keep healthy.
While the farm meant hard work that never seemed to be finished, there were also many festivities dictated by the seasons. I remember family gatherings when ice cream was made in the hand-cranked machine. Sugaring season meant “sugar on snow” parties when the syrup was boiled to the soft ball stage and drizzled onto platters that were packed with fresh, clean snow. The cold turned the syrup into a kind of taffy that we wound around forks and ate with great gusto. So much sweetness needed a pickle and a donut to counteract it, and then you could start over. Thanksgiving was an American tradition that our family embraced, and one aunt insisted on being the hostess every year. It was not necessarily turkey that was served; sometimes it was fresh venison. Christmas was celebrated more as a religious holiday and there were only token gifts. After Midnight Mass, everyone would gather at our house for reveillons until nearly dawn. That meant a great meal, wine, much laughter, and of course the favorite tourtieres. New Years was another cause for celebration, and we asked our father for his blessing. Weddings and birthdays were well attended, as were wakes and funerals. Aunts, uncles and cousins traveled long distances for important occasions, and they often stayed a week or two.
When I tell our grandchildren tales of life on a family farm they say “Mémère, that sounds like ‘Little House on the Prairie’ on TV.” Well, maybe so. But if you remember that program, or if you have read the books on which the series was based, you will know that the lifestyle meant close-knit families, loyalty, and warmth of heart and spirit. Life is much easier today with all the modern conveniences, and we have to admit that the latest developments in science and medicine have added years to our lives. Still, the past is as close as memories that need to be shared.
Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
Copyright © 2003 & 2004 & 2005 Norm Léveillée
©Tous droits réservés