Little Egypt Heritage Articles Stories of Southern Illinois © Bill Oliver 9 July 2006 Vol 5 Issue: #21 ISBN: pending Osiyo, Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen of Little Egypt “Farming is Hard Work” brought out some comments from readers, and a piece of humor or two. In one there was a remark that these articles bring out many memories of childhood and youth. Well, Mark Twain once said, “I conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write so that it will not only interest boys but strongly interest any man who has ever been a boy.” Writing about bygone days in history, like Mr Twain says, “... immensely enlarges the audience” for those folks who had been there, done that or sat at the knees of a family elder storytelling. Though I try to include many feminine sided stories [after all my Mother was one of them], I will only slightly apologize for also telling of things that maybe only men remember. For example, I remember the debate between my Mother and Father over whether I should now shave my face, or NOT. About the peach fuzz below nose level, Dad said that the hairs on my face did not meet Marine Corps inspection. Mom on the other hand would clip the one to three hairs I DID have under my chin with a pair of scissors and say that one could not see the fuzz and that there was plenty of time to shave when I was older. Now that I come to think about it, that peach fuzz was called “down”. I never quite figured that out. Anyway, before I was fourteen, Dad won and I was given a razor with which to “clean” my face. Many men were still using straight razors, but Mom figured she wanted to see me on my fourteenth birthday, so I was given a “safety” razor. As I remember it, the real advantage to “safety” razors was that one didn’t have to grind and diligently hone and strop it for “hours” before shaving. It was truly a “time” saving device. Besides, my experience with razor straps is not for discussion here at this time. There’s been many a time that I wished Mom had won for a longer period of time, for though red and blond mix, my beard grew quite heavy before I was fifteen. During that time, to show off our manhood, we experimented with long [long] sideburns and mustaches. All our national heros in our textbooks sported facial designs. Well, with a few weeks time, and the ridicule of our elders and friends, we ended in shaving the upper lip, but we didn’t scale back the sideburns “too” far. When changing from a child into a teen-ager, girls didn’t use lipstick or rouge or nail polish. I remember they would sort of bite their lips and pinch their cheeks to redden them. Cornstarch was the preferred powder to reduce the “shine” where they though there was one. Long hair was vogue; “a woman’s pride and crowning glory”. Girls washed [shampooed] it carefully, endlessly comb/brushed it. Often it was braided, then coiled around their heads, tied with broad, bright-brocaded ribbons. Grandma Lester, and her sisters, told of their childhood when pompadours were the fashion. They wore “rats” to puff up their hair over the front of their heads. Hour glass figures were considered most attractive and delicate. Whalebone corsets helped the illusion. The aunts used to laugh about how tightly they were worn and how they used to help each other gain that “girlish dainty” look. They would see if they could pull them so tight as to have a sister faint when in company. Don’t we wonder today if they could even swallow enough food to keep their energy up? We didn’t have clothes hampers as a youth. We piled our soiled clothes in a heap in a spot in our room waiting for Monday’s washing. Speaking of washing – do you know where Gramma or Mom got their water to wash clothes. One of my chores was to carry buckets of water from the rain barrels at either corner in the back of our house to be heated on the stove and then into the scrub pan or washing machine. It’s not that we didn’t have tap water in the city; rain water was softer than the water from the “tap”. Do you remember rugs, large and small, made from saved rags? Everything from worn-out suits, shirts, and dresses might or might not be dyed, then made into the desired rugs. Before the vacuum cleaner made an appearance in every home, rugs would be hung over the clothes line and I would be handed a “rug” beater. There in the back yard the rug(s) were beaten free of dust and dirt. [cough-cough] Carpets were for “parlors”. Parlors were the room which a family kept for entertaining and was kept closed until there were guests to entertain. Well, no fresh air reached these rooms, with their shades pulled down to prevent the sun from fading the curtains and rug. The room was usually furnished with black horse-hair covered chairs and sofas. The remembrance of the musty, moldy odor can still flare my nostrils. It was also difficult to keep from sliding off the smooth surfaces until you had grown tall enough to plant your feet firmly on the floor. Off against a wall, maybe in a corner, often stood a foot-pumped organ where the family prospective musical wizard or prodigy would be coaxed to show off their “talents”. My memory does recall kerosene lamps which were pulled down by chain and pulley for filling, wick trimming, glass cleaning, and lighting. However, mostly there were electric lights hanging in the center of rooms which didn’t give off any more illumination than the older kerosene lamps. Thus, we had smaller kerosene chimney lamps which we could move from place to place and close enough for us to read by. The local barber’s shop had mugs lined up on racks for regular customers. Each person had their own private mug and soap. Each person’s mug had their name in gold. Often there was a picture also, such as a bull’s head or an occupational logo such as a crossed pick and shovel. Each customer also had his own shaving brush. Sometimes while waiting my turn for a haircut, the barbers would let me get a customer’s cup, fill it with real hot water from the tap, and with the shaving brush work up a real stiff lather. By this time the customer would have been settled and ready so the cup and brush was then handed to the barber. The County Poor House was something which hung over families like a threat. The aging folk expected the younger ones to give the “assisted living” services that we pay for today. We often heard stories of people going “over the hill to the poor house.” It was said in such a way we thought the police were coming to get us. Old folks disappeared to the other side of the county. The stigma to this was hard to comprehend. “Isn’t it tooo bad about old Mrs. Smith. You’d think her children would not let it happen to her. After all, her late husband supported seven children; now the seven can’t support her.” That’s the way Grandma Oliver felt. Loud and clear, she announced that her children were to take care of her. When finally came the time that Grandma could no longer take care of herself at 102 years, she had four children who already had their own health problems. She refused to come to a grandchild’s house ‘cause it was the duty of her children to care for her. Grandma’s emphatic statement can still be heard, “... ain’t ‘posed to happen this way!” e-la-Di-e-das-Di ha-wi nv-wa-do-hi-ya nv-wa-to-hi-ya-da. (May you walk in peace and harmony) and Wado, Bill -=- PostScript: Other sites worth visiting: PostScript: = = = = http://archiver.rootsweb.com/th/index/SOIL http://archiver.rootsweb.com/th/index/ILMASSAC http://www.usgennet.org/usa/ne/state/BillsArticles/LittleEgypt/intro.html