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On a side street in the township of Clifton Heights
near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in a yard filled with flowers sits an old
black iron pot. It too is filled with flowers now, but in years long past
it played a role in the lives of a Carolina family…
We lived in the country outside Cherryville, North
Carolina in a house that was 126 years old when we moved in. The outhouse
was out back down the hill toward the garden. Tall oaks and boxwoods
surrounded the old place and the yard was hard packed Carolina clay. A fig
bush stood in the corner next to the chimney and there was no underpinning
to stop cold winter wind from whistling beneath the old house.
The house had never been painted and the old
weathered boards were gray with age. The main part of the house was two
stories and the one story kitchen was connected to it by a narrow room and
a porch. The well with its hand crank was on the porch.
The house stood on rock pillars located in strategic
places and it was here beneath the house that a red headed eight year old
boy once spent days playing in the dry red dirt with blocks of wood that
became trucks and cars along imaginary roads. Time here was also spent
trying to coax doodlebugs from their holes with a twig of grass and a
chant of “doodlebug, doodlebug come out, come out your house is on
fire.” By gently rubbing the twig across the funnel shaped hole and
repeating the chant the doodlebug would poke his head up from his hole to
investigate.
The old house was home to Mom, Dad, my brother Ken
and I. My sisters Jeanette, Betty and Louise were already married with
families of their own. Mom and Dad were in their fifties and in poor
health and Ken was fifteen. The only modern conveniences we had were
electricity and an old arched-top wood radio that served as our family
entertainment center.
As a child, living in the country at Cherryville,
life didn’t seem so bad. There was always something to catch the
imagination and energy of an eight year old but looking back those were
hard times for Mom and Dad.
Once a week Dad, Ken and I would gather firewood and
Dad would build a fire beneath the old wash pot while Ken carried water to
fill it and a number 2, galvanized washtub. Mom would carry the dirty
clothes out to the yard and do the laundry.
She started by getting the water almost to a boil in
the wash pot, then adding the clothes and stirring them with a stick while
they soaked in the hot water. After they had been stirred in the heated
pot she would take them out using the stir stick and scrub them, one item
at a time, on a scrub board. The water would be so hot Mom’s hands would
turn red but I can’t remember her ever complaining. After she had boiled
the clothes in the wash pot and scrubbed them on the scrub board she would
rinse them in cold water in the number 2 washtub. She always used bluing
so the colors would stay bright. Washday was a family affair and we all
pitched in to help, but it was Mom who had the hard part.
The wash pot was set on rocks so the fire could be
built beneath the pot. Adding wood to the fire was no simple task, because
if it were just pitched in, ashes would rise and settle in the pot with
the clothes and stain them. Wood had to be added carefully so it didn’t
“raise” any ashes.
After the clothes were washed they were hung up to
dry on a clothesline that was as far from the red dirt road that ran in
front of the house as possible so dust wouldn’t get on them before they
dried.
Today we think nothing about putting another load of
laundry in the washing machine but back then it meant carrying more water,
emptying and cleaning the wash pot and washtub and starting all over.
Washday always started early in the morning and it was really a “wash
day” with the job lasting well into the afternoon.
After the washing was done we’d empty the wash pot
and turn it upside down to keep it from rusting and getting dirty inside.
The washtub would be emptied and carried back to the side porch near the
well where it would be used for baths. The scrub board would be hung on a
nail on the porch ready for the next washday.
After the clothes dried on the clothesline Mom would
carry them in and iron using an old flat iron that she’d heat on the
stove. There were no permanent press clothes back then. Mom ironed
everything from aprons to underwear; if it was washed it would be ironed
and every pair of pants had a cutting edge crease. Our clothes were always
so clean they seemed to sparkle. I never knew my Dad to wear any color
shirt but white and they were always bright white and starched. Mom
starched all our shirts and pants with starch that she mixed from a round
starch cake. The ironing usually didn’t get finished until the following
day.
Years later, after Mom had a washing machine, she
gave the old wash pot to my brother-in-law Bob and today it rests in his
yard in Clifton Heights. Today it’s filled with dirt and planted with
flowers. It will never again be called to duty on washday or feel the heat
of a fire beneath it, but in years long past it served our family well.
One walking along the sidewalk or driving
by Bob and Jean’s home today will see a beautiful yard with an old
black iron pot filled with flowers, but when I visit and sit in the yard
an gaze at that old pot, I can smell wood smoke and soap and hear the
swoosh of clothes across the scrub board in a country yard years ago.
Sitting there in my sister’s garden, even on a hot day, I can still feel
the welcome warmth of the fire beneath the wash pot but more important I
can feel the warmth of a country family on washday long ago.
In Mom’s later years she suffered with arthritis in
her hands that drew her fingers almost into knots. No doubt those washdays
with the old wash pot played a role in her suffering, but I’d not
hesitate to wager that the most modern washing machine available
couldn’t do a better job than that old black iron pot and Mom.
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