This particular blog post comes from a 1997 Focus article written by Virginia C. Hopkins.
With winter came a whole new array of activities on the farm, and a new set of problems; how to keep warm when the gas lines froze; how to get to school when the snow was deep; how to get the milk to its destination when the roads were closedwith snow drifts; what to do with the milk when it couldn't be hauled away. Our house was large and high ceilinged and drafty. The one gas furnace was inadequate, and the upstairs was not heated. Each bedroom had a fireplace, but those had been sealed up long since, and were never used in my lifetime. Instead, a line ran into each bedroom carrying gas to a stove and a single gas light. On winter mornings we children would dash downstairs where it was slightly warmer and dress by an open gas fire or over an open register.
Like huge iron sculputures, three oil wells dotted our landscape, and these provided us with "free" gas for heat and lights. In those early years there was an abundance of this natural gas, and at the end of the stonce and concerete steps that lead from the front porch to the mailbox by the road, there stood an open gas jet which when lit threw a warm and friendly glow over the lawn and into the front windows of the house. But sometiems in the winter the gas lines would freeze, and we would be without gas heat until they could be thawed out. I have vivid memories of huddling by the pot-bellied wood stove in the dining room. Sometimes the pump in the kitchen froze.
In a previous chapter I have described our one-room country school. When the snow was deep in the winter, the school might have to be closed for a time. But mostly we just plowed our way through the deep drifts, up the hill, over the fences, until we reached Christie's schoolhouse. There, two large cast iron gas stoves provided warmth and an aroma of drying coats and mittens. The other day I was reading an author's memoirs and was amused by her query. 'Do you remember when your mother stopped making your wear long underwear?' Perhaps I knew I was growing up when I no longer had to wear those ugly things that could never be hidden because of the tall-tale fold at the ankle that not even thick stockings could hide. I don't remember being concerned about the matter in country school, where probably everybody was dressed the same. When I went off to school, I had to continue to wear them because I was "delicate", and I well remember going to the girls' room each morning and tucking them up under my bloomers.
As we reached the sixth grade, my sister and I transferred to the the Canonsburg school system. As the distance was too far for us to walk, our parents had to provide our transportation. One year we rode to school with the milkman, who picked who picked up our milk cans, then those of another farms- a roundabout way to get to school! Other times, we walked the mile to route 19 and caught the Greyhound Bus. In winter it was often too darlk for the walk back home. Nowadays, there are so many dangers for children that we have armies of school buses.
Then, our great dread was of the fierce dog that greeted us with his ferocious barking as we got off the bus. He got loose one dark even and bit my sister. His owner, out of fear of punishment, killed the dog, and not knowing if the dog was rabid, our doctor had no choice but to give her the painful Pasteur treatments.
In order to not miss school when the roads were impassable with snowdrifts, we had to spend nights in town, imposing upon the kindness of relatives or good friends. One particular friend was Mrs. T-, an old lady with a big house and a big heart. She and her unmarried daughter took us in whenever we needed, and Daddy always saw that they recieved some delicious homemade sausage or fresh eggs. Looking back, it seems to me that our education was achieved with some extraordinary effort.
An unwelcome task on a cold winter day would be slaughtering and butchering a hog or two. Pork in many forms composed much of our food all year, and Mother's shelves in the cold cellar were filled with crocks of sausage and spareribs preserved in lard, and jars of canned pork. Memories of the strong smell of pork being rendered into lard on the kitchen stove haunt me still. Pie crust was made with lard (later on Crisco became preferred for pie dough, as we become more health conscious); homemade laundry soap was another important product. All in all, the pig was a useful, versatile animal.
We children never witnessed the actual killing of the pigs, but we often watched as the carcasses were scalded and denuded of bristles, then suspended (out of doors) by their hind legs and- well I'll spare you the goriest details! The actual butchering was carried out in the warm cellar by the big fireplace. Here was the sausage grinder, powered by a gasoline engine. Here both parents worked to reduce that hog to edible parts. In retrospect, an unpleasant procedure, but then, a natural, unquestioned part of life on the farm.
Often we were completely "snowed in" for days, sometimes weeks, and the milk truck couldn't come. Then our parents were faced with the very real problem of what to do with the milk that flowed each morning an devening from the udders of a herd of holstein and guernsey cows. There was a large cream separator in the cellar which was powered by that same gasoline engine. The resulting skim milk became a special treat for the pigs, and from the heavy cream we made the best ice cream that I can ever remember eatign. To freeze the ice cream, we used a hand-cranked freezer packed with well salted ice or snow. Mother's recipe called for a cooked custard base, the result was so delicious that we couldn't wait to lick the paddle clean. Then, finally, came the bliss of sitting down by a warm fire with our large dish of the creamiest of ice creams. Winter could be fun!
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