5. Papa’s Young Protégé

Now we would take an inventory of our newly acquired blessings. If the minister and his family were fond of smoked ham, smoked bacon and smoked sausage, they wouldn’t have to buy any meat for many months. We would find large tin buckets of lard, stone jars of butter put down in salt, dozens of eggs put down in a loathsome solution of some slippery stuff, dozens of tin cans containing tomatoes, and more dozens of canned corn, though Mama was always suspicious of tinned corn after a can had exploded one night about 3 a.m., waking everybody up and requiring the walls and ceiling of the pantry to be repainted.

We had glass jars of cherries, plums, peaches, currants, gooseberries, blackberries, raspberries (the black ones; there were no red raspberries at that time), bags of large potatoes and apples, bags of hickory nuts and walnuts, dozens of glasses of jellies, jams, and other fruit preserves, sweet and sour cucumber pickles, sauerkraut, and pickled crab apples, very good and very pretty.

The job of disposing of these gifts was by no means a simple task. We were not at liberty to sell any of these things, even if there had been a market for them; and it was risky business to give them away, for if some woman discovered that we had given one of her glass jars of plums away, it might hurt her feelings. Mama did give away many highly perishable food products, under promise of a cross-your-heart, hope-to-die secrecy; but it was more blessed to receive than give such presents.

Now we had to clean house from top to bottom, for the day’s entertainment of that many people, half of them small children, was almost enough of a disaster to have alerted the Red Cross (had that useful institution been available). Yes; and all this had to be repeated in March or early April, when it was too muddy for the farmers to get into their fields; for the three-churches nearest us would come then with their donations.

It usually happened that when some particular fruit was had in great abundance, we would be literally smothered with it on these occasions. Once, when there had been an exceptionally large crop of apples, we were given apples in every conceivable manner in which an apple might be preserved.

At the end of this eventful day, Papa was seated in his favorite rocking chair, placidly rocking when Mama, weary beyond any words to sing of it, came in and announced almost tearfully, “Papa, we have eighteen gallons of apple butter!”

Papa chuckled a little; and, reaching for her hand, fondled it.

“But it isn’t funny,” Mama said, soberly. “What on earth will we do with this much apple butter?”

“We’ll paint the barn!” said Papa.

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