People in rural areas are resourceful,
especially mothers with more mouths to feed than money. My mother Lillian was
just such a woman.
My family lived off the land. No, we
weren’t naturalists or hippies…we were Vermonters. In the fall, my
mother harvested her garden and every bit was canned, frozen or dried, from
cucumbers to zucchini squash. The strong, pungent smell of pickling spice
permeated every corner of the house, even at 6AM. Now that’s a wake-up call.
When the freezer was full and all the canning finished, the army of jars
would be marched down cellar and lined up on the shelves my father built,
awaiting the chance to combat hunger over the long winter months ahead. But it
didn't stop there.
Every spring, my mother spent hours
outside, long knife in hand, uprooting dandelion plants. Nowadays, people would
probably think she was out to rid her lawn of a menace, but in truth, she was
harvesting fresh vegetables. The tub would be full of dandelion greens
soaking in water to get the dirt out before they were rinsed again and boiled.
A batch would be on the supper table that night, to be eaten with a splash of
vinegar, while the rest would be put up
for later in the year. My mother would scour the lawn every day until the
yellow blossoms appeared and the plants became bitter.
We ate boiled milkweed leaves and
fiddle heads. We picked wild berries. She made crab apple jelly, chokecherry
jam and even made jelly out of apple peels. Nothing went to waste. The only
family excursion I can remember as a child was fishing. Mud worms could be dug
for free; kids didn’t need licenses, and there was a chance we’d catch some
food. Sign my mother up.
Her flower gardens meant as much to my mother as the vegetable garden. She spent hours tending them. Lack of money
ensured none of my mother’s flowers came from a nursery. But she was
resourceful, remember? Plants were either dug up alongside the road, near old
cellar holes or obtained in a trade with a neighbor. There are still lilac
bushes and various flowers on the front lawn acquired from these trades, some
planted close to 50 years ago. Though her flowers cost nothing, it didn't
detract from their beauty. People often stopped to take pictures of the vast
and wild beauty of lilacs, tiger lilies, honeysuckle, blue flags and wild roses.
My mother raised 7
kids, so we know she worked, just not outside of the home. Despite that, she
figured out a way to make an income. She was resourceful, after all. She took
in other people’s laundry. She'd wash it in a wringer-style washing machine and
hang it on the clothesline to dry. Later, she'd haul it in and iron
it--all of it. Clothes, sheets, pillow cases, an occasional tablecloth--you
name it. It took hours. In the winter, the ironing board would be set up in the
living room and in the summer on the front porch. The smell of a hot steam iron
and spray starch heralded these marathon pressing sessions. When done, all the
pieces were laid in the basket or box it arrived in, with a hand written price
list on top. It was never more than a few dollars, no matter how big the
pile.
She loved to iron. I hated to iron. For
years, I hung clothes up as I took them out of the dryer. That’s changed. I now
iron clothes. I still hate to iron, and I’m no good at it. I burn my fingers or
end up with more creases than when I started, but I don’t care. I’m comforted
by the enveloping scent of hot steam and Niagara spray starch in the familiar
green and yellow can. It soothes the ache of missing my resourceful
mother.
Happy Mother’s Day, Ma.