Apple I phone.
iphone.com

Using this modern iphone is a far cry from the old telephone we had when I was growing up. John’s great uncle — a blind man — owned the telephone exchange. John’s grandfather built the switchboard for his blind brother. Now I know little about switch boards, but this one had little holes where the line had to be plugged into and the carpenter put a device above each hole so when that line rung the device would fall and by feeling, the operator would know the location to plug into. He had a rig just outside so that when a thunder cloud came up he could literally knock the wires loose from the house. Relatives of the blind men kept the lines in operation. This man was not know for paying his bills and when he died his sister stopped at a relatives house and told him they were settling the affairs and would pay the people he owed. The relative said, “And when you do, there’ll be a piano jump up in the middle of the road and play,Who in the Hell Would have ever Thought it.” They were never paid.

The old wall telephone.

Anyway if this blind operator had ever talked to you he would remember your voice and would call your name when you called next. Of course, several people were on the same line and when anybody’s phone rang others would listen in to hear the news. One afternoon he was trying to reach the doctor and got no answer, but a lady picked up and Uncle said, “Mattie, do you know were the doctor is?” She answered, “No, I don’t believe I do.” Another time a local girl who was away in college tried to call her mother and he said, “Sara, your mother is over at Mrs. King’s right now — but she’ll be back in a few minutes.” What service!!!!

I well remember our ring was two shorts and a long. Today we have such a telephone hanging on the sun porch and can talk on it. Visiting children get a kick out of using that old phone and they have to be reminded to speak into the mouth piece. It rings so loud you could hear it if you were at the barn. Western Electric changed it out and the front has to be opened so the dial can be used, but I seldom use it because I can’t hear on it. It’s reminder of how it was back when with country living.

 

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Grandmother’s Pitcher

This could be called the mystery pitcher as I’ve showed it to numerous so-called pottery experts and no two agree on where it was made or how old it is.

In the 1990’s a rep from the Birmingham Museum of Art came here to photograph things made in Alabama prior to 1930 and she told me this pitcher was the oldest one I have and that it was made in Randolph County.  She also said the glaze was salt glaze.  Okay, so much for that.

In 1902 I took the pitcher to Gadsden to a Sand Mountain Pottery show and the man there said in no way was that salt glaze — it was Bristol Glaze.  He did not dispute that it was made in Randolph County.  I felt maybe that was right because my ancestors came to the mountain through Cleburne County and Randolph is a neighbor.

This past Saturday we went to the Sand Mountain Pottery Show in Albertville and  took the pitcher.  I’m right back to square one, as far as knowing anything more about the pitcher.  The man there showing Randolph County pottery said in no way was the pitcher made in Randolph.  The pottery he had that was Randolph Pottery was a dark color and had a shiny glaze.  He did agree that the glaze was Bristol.  As I handed him the pitcher and told him what the B’ham lady said, he said, “She didn’t know what she was talking about.”  Duh.  It takes one to know one.  He didn’t know either.  He said the pitcher was made in the 1930’s or ’40’s.  I disagreed quickly — it belonged to my grandmother McDaniel and she died in 1924.  No way was it made in the 30’s or 40’s.

Maybe it came from Georgia — my ancestors came to Cleburne County from Georgia.  This makes me even more curious about where this piece of pottery came from and when it was made.  Searching for answers if just another facet of country living.

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Kitchen Clock

Years ago (I don’t know about now) a cat would sit on the front porch (or any other surface with spaces between the boards) and get his tail hung in the crack.  Well, that’s how the old saying came about “got my tail in a crack.”  That’s exactly where I am today  — I’ve got  my tail in a crack.  This is not the first time I’ve opened my mouth at the wrong time.

As you already know, we live in a rural area and I do mean rural.  We have to drive 15 miles to Walmart or McDonalds.  As you might imagine we have no jewelry store — we stopped in Boaz to ask if they repair clocks and we were given the name of a person in yet another town — some 30 miles away.  Our beautiful clock that hangs in the kitchen is ailing — the hands won’t stay on (for one thing).

I finally got around to calling the repairman and he wants to pick up the wall clocks, as well as deliver and hang them.  He wants to be sure they’re running right — he said.  When I asked about the pickup and delivery charge and he said, “Oh, no I don’t charge for that.” Now if you believe that — I have some beach front property in Montana I’d like to sell you.  I don’t believe the vehicle he drives runs on air.  Oh well, we’ll see.

Here’s what got me in trouble.  I was giving him directions on how to get here and then told him we were the second house on the left after he left the paved road.  I went on to tell him it was an old house — Duh!  He said, “Oh, I like old houses.”  More mistake on my part, “I’m 85 years old was born in this house.”  And that was all it took.  “Oh, my wife loves old houses, too, and I’ll bring her with me.”  Now that means I have to do some straightening up.  I used to keep the house straight because we’ve had many people come by to see what the house looked like after it had been renovated — but no more.  Today we live in the house and not only that, but it’s the home of old people and you see things around that you probably would not see in the home of a younger couple.

Now the jig’s up — they are to come here on Monday.  I told John I thought we were going to get the clock repaired — not host a tour.  So this is how it is at the Windy Knoll with this style of country living.

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Following my mother’s death, unfortunately there was a new wife who cleaned out the trunks and  did away with what was in there.  I did manage to get two empty trunks; however, they no longer have trays.  The trunks have been refinished and I put new wallpaper inside to freshen them up a bit.  Needless to say they are full of quilts.

The Camel Back Trunk

Each trunk we own I’m sure would have a story all its own to tell and wouldn’t I like to hear them.  What treasures do you suppose they have held? Love letters, maybe. One of the trunks was bought by my mother when she was a telephone operator, living in Chattanooga in the early 1900’s.  She and her two brothers lived there together and oh how I wish I had asked more questions while she was still here. She was 34 when she married and had lived not only in Chattanooga, but Tucson, Arizona.  It seems some members of her large family suffered from lung problems and several of them went to the West.  Another thing I wish I had asked about was women’s suffrage.  She married in 1919 and it was about then that women were allowed to vote.  I wonder if she might have been one of the women marching in favor of such.  Her family was Republican and my dad was a staunch Democrat which generated some lively conversation in this house – more times than one.

The camel-back trunk belonged to Mother’s old-maid sister, who lived with and worked for families in Beverly Hills.  It was always a thrill to get a package from her when I was little – it had outgrown clothes from Beverly Hills children for me to wear.

When John’s parents’ house was being cleaned out, of course, we were there.  As we were going home John said, “There’s an old trunk in that backroom closet but it’s in pieces and I just left it.” “Whoa – let’s go back”, was my reply.  He put the little trunk together and it’s precious even with the rat hole gnawed in a front corner.  At present it holds a myriad of things, including knitted Christmas stockings and some special yarn just in case I want to make another.  A well used, but special, baby blanket is there as well and even a few quilt blocks.

Auntie’s Trunk

Another trunk is one our daughter bought at an action her church had a few years ago.  It has had extensive work done on it, but it has a tray.  This trunk holds yarn and a large number of knitting needles of various sizes and shapes, stitch holders, counters, etc.  Some years ago a niece of John’s died and I was the only family member who knitted.  She was an RN, wanted for nothing, had no children and had recently moved to Montana.  Needless to say I got quite a collection of “stuff” including weaving materials.

Antiques – one of the best parts of country living.

The Crumly Trunk

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Several years ago we attended a most interesting auction in Fort Payne and saw such a churn sell for $950 and later a pitcher sold for $750.  The pottery has a runny look to it and the auctioneer called it “tobacco spit finish.”  Daddy chewed tobacco, so I’m familiar with what tobacco spit looks like. Mother called it ambeer.  We would whitewash the area around the fireplace and, much to Mother’s dismay, when Daddy spit that “juice” it splattered on the whitewash.  I remember how we dug the clay used for the whitewash. There was/is a high bank on the side of  a ditch down the road from our house where we used to dig; however,  I don’t believe the clay is still there or at least I haven’t had the need to look for it.

Small Jug

Back to the subject — in reading about Sand Mountain Pottery, it seems the finish is called Edgefield.  The potters who came to Sand Mountain in the late 1800’s, apparently, came from or through Edgefield, S. C.; and possibly had learned the trade there.  It’s a brownish – greenish look — somewhat mottled and runny looking.  Some of the pottery has a design on it called “combed.”  It looks as though the potter took an object such as a comb and dragged it around the jug/pitcher while it was still wet leaving a curvy design.  Another distinguishing mark of the pottery is said to be a thumb print where the handle is fastened onto the piece. Very few pieces are signed and/or dated — but, of course, the ones that are are much more valuable.

Yesterday when I visited a friend who had suffered a fall (to deliver sourdough bread), I was being shown some lovely pottery pieces such as Hull and Roseville and I happened to ask if she owned Sand Mountain Pottery.  Of course, she did and it was signed by T. J. Henry.  How lucky can one be?

For several years John and I hosted a quilt show here on the Windy Knoll.  It was called Quilt Show on the Farm and was very lucrative fund-raiser on behalf of The Geraldine Library.  One year we featured Sand Mountain Pottery, which turned out to be a real highlight of the show. We borrowed pottery pieces for the display, which was in our bay room and closely guarded.  Today I wouldn’t do that because of security reasons.

Around the turn of the century (1900) there was a “jug factory” in the community called Belchers — this is in south DeKalb County at the top of the mountain very near the Etowah County line.  Names such as Davidson, McPherson and Henry are said to have been the potters there and they hauled the pottery to Limestone County and even as far away as Rome, GA   — on steer-drawn wagons.  Kaolin, the clay used to make pottery, was found on the side of Sand Mountain near Belchers making this a prime spot for such a factory.  I’m told a few shards can still be found in the area.

Two Gallon Church

In years gone by we had no idea the ugly-looking pottery would be so valuable some day. Mother kept her lye soap in a two-gallon churn and it was pushed back under the bench that held the washtubs in the well shelter. I’ve heard others say they fed their dogs out of these pieces because they were so ugly.

Some eight or ten yeas ago the Birmingham Museum of Art sent a rep here to photograph Alabama-made items made prior to 1930. Here again I had borrowed a number of Sand Mountain Pottery pieces for them to photograph.  We had churns of various sizes, pitchers, jugs and bowls.  I don’t know why I didn’t make some pictures for myself.

Keep your eyes and ears open.  Who knows, you may discover a piece of Sand Mountain Pottery in an old barn, shed or wherever.  The quest for such gives a special interest to country living.

The post About Sand Mountain Pottery 2001 appeared first on Billie Crumly | Country Living with Aunt Bill.

First our conversation covered the weather as we wondered if this could actually be spring.  John had seen the first butterfly, the purple martin scouts have already been visiting and we expect their flock just any day now.  Our conversation also covered the blooming of flowers, etc., but quickly turned to things of the past.  We talked about how times have changed and how young people just don’t cook like older people.

The Wood Cook Stove

How the use of wood cook stoves came into the conversation I don’t know, but here’s the gist of our rather lengthy discussion.  When we would come home from school something to eat was always first on our minds – just like it is today I suppose – and we would head for that old wood stove with its warming closet.  Always there was something to be found there that we could eat.  Sausage and biscuit, baked potatoes or maybe a leftover piece of fried chicken could be found.  One sought-after goodie was fried pies.  My, my how exciting it was to find a fried pie in the warming closet; however, I found it more exciting to find apple pies than peach.  Occasionally, today John and I get in the fried-pie business—he handles the frying while I struggle with the crust and making of the pie.  The method of drying apples is somewhat different today as well.  Today we use a dehydrator.  Back then the apples were peeled and sliced then placed on a piece of tin and put out in the hot sun.  When a shower would suddenly come up, we always had to run “get the fruit in.”

Lots of wood stoves had a reservoir on one end for heating water; this water was used for many things – washing dishes, mopping, bathing or whatever hot water was needed for.  On winter Sunday mornings somebody would bring in a washtub and we would set it on spread-out newspaper in the warm kitchen, fill it with warm water and, in our case, the whole family bathed in the same water.  Me first (I was the only child at home at the time), then Mother and poor Daddy was the final bath-taker.

Featherbeds was another  topic we covered.   Well, there isn’t enough space to cover all we talked about, but this is how we spend our Sunday afternoons with our style of country living.

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Quilts back then were filled with cotton batt that had been carded by hand and then quilted with ball thread.  When one of them was full of water, it was some more job to handle. Mother tried to schedule the quilt-washing job on a day when Daddy or my brother would be around.

Black Wash Pot and Battlin’ Stick

The quilt was taken from the soaking tub and put in the pot to boil.  It had to be stirred often using the battling stick.  The fire had to be “chunked” up (wood pushed up close to the pot) to keep the water boiling and then more wood had to be fetched.  Wash day was a busy time.

After the quilt had been in the pot for some time, it was removed to the rinse water.  At our house there were always two tubs for rinsing, but it was pronounced “wrench” water.  John still wrenches off his hands!! (I say to him, “Looks like that would hurt”.)  Bucket after bucket of water had to be hand drawn for these big jobs.  The quilt was finally readied for the clothesline and we would wring what water we could from the quilt.  Everything we hear today about the washing of quilts says not to wring — wonder how quilts managed to stay together during the washings of old.

If possible, the quilt was draped over two clotheslines.  This would keep it from being stretched by the weight, but it also kept the line from sagging so that the wet quilt didn’t touch the ground.  We had a propping stick handy to “prop up”: the line when the sagging occurred.

Tobacco Sack Quilt

I enjoyed seeing the quilts hanging on the line.  I would stand, study the pattern and pick out scraps of my dresses.  About mid-day, the quilt was turned over to help it dry faster and also to protect that side from the sun.  When the wash was taken in at the end of the day it had that sweet, fresh smell.  There’s nothing better than sleeping between sheets dried on a line.  It’s a smell like no other.  My girls do not have that “luxury” today.  They have to dry theirs in the dryer and hurry on to the next job.  I guess their memories will be of how the lint smelled when removed from the dryer.  How times change the way we do things.

The quilt in the picture is called Brick Work.  Some lady saved her husband’s tobacco sacks, ripped them open, dyed them and then pieced and quilted a quilt. It’s an example of using whatever was available to make a quilt.  I paid $15 for the quilt a few years ago.  The wash pot was my mother’s and the battlin’ stick came from John’s family.

Airing quilts was another matter and another heavy job.  It’s also another column for the writer.  The washing of winter bedding is just another happening of country living.

The post Washing Quilts 1991 appeared first on Billie Crumly | Country Living with Aunt Bill.

An old ice box is one thing I remember and I let it slip through my hands.  We had no electricity and, therefore, no ice.  Now and then somebody would pass by the ice house located about 12 miles from the farm and bring a 50 lb. chunk of the wonderful cold stuff and we protected it as best we could to keep it from melting.  We put it in the icebox and wrapped it with tow sacks, an ole worn out oil cloth from the kitchen table and anything else to help save it.  There was a pan underneath to catch the water as the ice melted and it had to be emptied periodically or it would run over in the floor.  We would have milk we could enjoy as long as we had ice, but many days without ice the milk would ruin and we couldn’t drink it —  we’d even try to draw fresh water from the well to set a pitcher of milk in and still lose it.

Daddy sold Mother’s treadle sewing machine for $10 and it was done before I knew it!  Grieve, I have.  She made all my clothes on it when I was growing up.  Oh my!

I did manage to get the iron bedstead I slept on when I was growing up; however, there was a beautiful dresser in that room that I lost.  It was a very low dresser with a large mirror.. My daddy married again after Mother died and that’s where much of our belongings went.  One Sunday afternoon, we came by here after Daddy died and nobody was home.  The bottom part of that dresser was sitting in the car shed.  Why didn’t I manage to get that when I had a chance?  My sister had the large mirror and she gave it to me. Then we had it re-silvered when we still lived in Georgia and it’s hangs over a chest that belonged to my grandfather McDaniel.  The chest is one of my prized possessions.  Early on there was a small mirror with a drawer under that stood on the left corner — it was here that he stood to shave — or so I’m told.   I vaguely remember seeing the mirror/drawer and I wonder what happened to it.  The legs of this piece of furniture are one piece from top to floor.

My mother was a telephone operator in Chattanooga in the early 1900’s, living there with her two brothers, and I have the iron bedstead and trunk she bought during that time.  How I wish I had asked more questions!! (and saved more belongings).

Antiques are very much a part of our style of country living.

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In the conversation John mentioned how he used to “frail” stove wood.  It seemed to me that I remember that word being “flail;” however, when I looked it up the definition is an instrument used in the harvest of wheat.  Duh!  So much for that.  Now about the splitting of stove wood —  First the trunk of the tree has to be sawed in whatever length was needed for the old wood stove.  These pieces were hauled to the house (in our case) where the splitting took place.  The chunk standing on end was halved, and then quartered using a double-bitted axe.  Now a larger and longer piece of log was standing on end with a double-bitted axe driven into the end so it was stationary and it was here that the quarter piece of wood was “flailed” (?) against the axe blade to make smaller pieces of wood that would go in the stove.

Farmers had to wear many hats in their profession and lots of different tools were required.  Sharpening tools was a big job and grindstones were quite common.  We have two here now – one is hand turned and one can be turned by peddling with the feet.  Daddy sharpened axe blades, hoes and such on the grindstone.  It could be used to smooth rough edges of metal and such, too.

Other old tools:

Treadle sewing machine – this was a necessary item for the farm wife.  Clothes were homemade for the most part – men’s shorts were made from feed sacks and sometimes underwear, too.  All women’s clothes were made at home as well.

Churn dash – all farm families had and used such as they milked cows and made their own butter.

Butter paddle and mold – these items were regularly used right along with the churn and churn dash.  Men who whittled oft times made paddles.  Molds came in different sizes – usually one pound or half-pound size.

Fro – this was used in making shingles for roofing and they were quite dull.  Perhaps you’ve heard the term “dull as a fro.”

Foot adz  — this cutting tool was used to size timbers,  John believes the floor joists under the oldest part of this house were hewn by use of an adz.  House built in 1895.

Grubbin’ hoe  — This hoe was stronger and larger than a regular hoe and was used for heavy-duty work.  Many times such a hoe was used to cut roots when a new ground was being cleared.

Glut  — The glut was made from dogwood and was wedge shaped.  It was used when splitting rails for fencing.   It held the first cut of the log open so splitting could continue on down the length of the log.  When the back of this house was torn down, in the renovation process, John found several wedges such as this.  The glut was used as a shim in the rock pillars for leveling and steadying.  The builder back then had to know what kind of wood to use for shims that would be lasting.  They have lasted, huh?

Anvil  — This tool was used at the blacksmith shop. My uncle (and my grandfather – so I’m told) were blacksmiths and the anvil was used in hammering and shaping hot steel.  Making horse shoes, rims for wagon wheels and such.

The list could go and on, but this is a few of the many tools farm families of yore needed with their style of country living.

The post Old Tools and Old Terms February 2008 appeared first on Billie Crumly | Country Living with Aunt Bill.

First our conversation covered the weather as we wondered if this could actually be spring.  John had seen the first butterfly and the purple martin scouts have already been visiting and we expect their flock just any day now.  Our conversation also covered the blooming of flowers, etc., but quickly turned to things of the past.  We talked about how times have changed and how young people just don’t cook like older people do.

How the use of wood cook stoves came into the conversation I don’t know, but here’s the gist of our rather lengthy discussion.  When we would come home from school something to eat was always first on our minds – just like it is today I suppose – and we would head for that old wood stove with its warming closet.  Always there was something to be found there that we could eat.  Sausage and biscuit, baked potatoes or maybe a leftover piece of fried chicken could be found.  One sought-after goodie was friend pies.  My, my how exciting it was to find fried pie in the warming closet; however, I found it more exciting to find apple pies than peach.  Occasionally today John and I get in the fried-pie business—he handles the frying while I struggle with the crust and making of the pie.  The method of drying apples is somewhat different today as well.  Today we use a dehydrator.  Back then the apples were peeled and sliced then placed on a piece of tin and put out in the hot sun.  When a shower would suddenly come up, we always had to run “get the fruit in.”

Lots of wood stoves had a reservoir on one end for heating water; this water was used for many things – washing dishes, mopping, bathing or whatever hot water was needed for.  On winter Sunday mornings somebody would bring in a washtub and we would set it on spread-out newspaper in the warm kitchen, fill it with warm water and, in our case, the whole family bathed in the same water.  Me first (I was the only child at home at the time), then Mother and poor Daddy was the final bath-taker.

Featherbeds was another antique topic we covered.  We own two featherbeds here at the Windy Knoll and I keep threatening to make pillows from one of them.  As I remember it, one yard of ticking makes a pair of pillows (half yard per pillow).  It’s not the sewing up of the tick that’s the main problem; it’s the transfer of feathers from one place to another.  I’ve heard several methods discussed.  Probably sewing the two openings to each other would be the easiest way.  And another thing nobody picks chickens anymore and saves the feathers for pillows or beds. Mother used to pick the hens and fryers, and then hold them over an open fire to singe the pin feathers prior to being cooked, and, of course, she saved the picked feathers.  John tells about his grandmother picking the down from her live geese to be used for feathers.  Poor geese, imagine being held for somebody to pluck your feathers!  Well, there is not enough space to cover all we talked about, but this is how we spend our Sunday afternoons in our style of country living.

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