Saturday chores were guaranteed to be a part of my life as they still are today. As kids at home our duties were assigned by mom; Carol and I each had outdoor jobs as well, laid out by dad.
I chopped the wood and then staggered in with armloads to fill the woodbox behind the stove. Each year dad prepared ahead, cutting tree lengths into chunks of a foot or so. Those were stored to age awhile in a dry spot. I selected several pieces, set each on the chopping block and took aim. Each was quartered till I had a sizable pile of split wood. I also chopped some smaller strips for kindling, necessary to encourage the crumpled paper to ignite a fire in the stove. We used the wood-burning kitchen stove for heat, cooking and heating water.
When Warren was big enough, he became the carrier of wood. I still pumped water to fill the reservoir and extra pails for drinking water. On Saturdays I hauled more buckets of water to fill two copper boilers, positioned on the back of the stovetop. It was necessary to provide enough hot water for Saturday night baths.
Dad manhandled the galvanized bathtub into the house to warm a little. It usually sat in the coal shed until Saturday night. The bathroom was often too cold to use so the kitchen became the spa, hidden behind a bed sheet. Sunday morning before we rushed off to church, mom appointed someone to empty the used water from the tub and shimmy the metal monster back outside to storage.
Saturday morning was dedicated to cleaning. I remember when we were teens and the elder brothers were gone, Carol scored the task of cleaning out the barn. I had the chicken house, both essential to the well- being of the animals.
We all helped with housework. There was a never-ending need for vacuuming, dusting and assisting with meal preparation. Somewhere during my childhood I remember we had new linoleum installed in both the kitchen and the living room. One of the ongoing jobs was washing and waxing that floor. We didn’t have a floor polisher; the wax of those days needed to be applied and then polished. Carol and I often used a pair of dad’s old wool socks, those scratchy ones with the red band around the tops. We slid around the kitchen, shining up that lino till it gleamed and glowed.
Mom usually prepared ahead, a huge meal for unexpected Sunday visitors. We didn’t have a telephone yet and she expected the unexpected. She was rarely wrong. Even when it was only our family seated around the sturdy wooden table, we were hearty eaters. We were rewarded with our plates loaded with nutritious meals, dessert and homemade bread. We returned the favour by clearing the table, washing dishes and tidying the kitchen.
I was the fifth child. I had learned to slide into the cleanup role without question. It was expected. I have no idea how diligently mom had to prod to get us to that point.
When I was in Grade 8 or so I began to take home economics class with Mrs. Conway. She taught at the Sundre School for many years. We learned to sew and follow a pattern’s instruction, knit and crochet and to cook and plan meals.
One summer Mrs. Conway hired me to do some cleaning for her. I don’t recall that she asked me; she arranged it with my parents and came to pick me up. I cleaned the bathrooms, vacuumed and dusted and did the floors. She did have a floor polisher. I was envious. No “woolen socks boogie” at her house.
- Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
