During the duration of the Christmas holidays the house would be bustling – more so than during summer holidays when we were often outdoors
Mother would take advantage of the extra hands no matter their size. She was at the knitting machine much of the time catching up with the knitting for her own family but also for neighbors who brought their homespun wool for her to convert into socks and mitts.
Older sisters looked after the cooking, dishes and housecleaning. They did the laundry with a washboard and tub. Younger children brought water from the well or snow to melt for washday
Working with wool occupied much of the holidays. Even though we played a lot, now and then our job was to unravel old socks, mitts and sweaters. The short strings were then tied and rolled into balls. After enough balls of string were done, Mother put four strands together and crocheted blankets that resembled knotty/textured throws. By this method all wool was used regardless of its age or condition.
During the eveings mowt members of the family sat in a semicircle and pulled the washed wool to loosen the fibers. Fluffy mounds of soft wool accumulated by each chair. That wool was then combed, using special combs designed by Dad, for spinning.
The left over poor quality wool that came off the special was carded for quilts. Because our arms were not strong enough to hold one carder in one hand and comb with the other, Mother had a hook on a small table where one of the carders was hooked and then we could use both hands to pull the other carder on top.
fibers. .
On extremely cold days, when everyone wished to stay indoors, Mother had a project that would require many hands, but especially Dad’s. She would bring out a quilt that she wanted completed. The carded wool had already been layered between two sheets of light cotton and the quilt was loosely basted to keep it together. Then while she ran the Singer sewing machine and guided the thick quilt, Dad, stood behind the needle, pulled the quilt gently while other hands kept the floppy quilt level.
The boys cleaned the barn, chicken coop and pig- pen and layered fresh bedding of straw. If temperatures were mild Dad made chop. One of the boys was in the big granary filling pails with grain. Another carried the grain to the chopper room and handed it to Dad who emptied it into the chopper bin. As well, during mild days, Dad and the older boys cut trees for firewood.
I remember well an incident in woodcutting. When older family members were serving in the RCAF or got married, George, 14 and I, 17 helped Dad fell trees for firewood. The area we worked on would also create a road between two fields.
It was one of those beautiful and mild winter days. The landscape was overwhelming. I enjoyed working in the woods.
We worked well all morning. Dad and I used axes to fell the trees while George struggled through the fallen trees to remove the branches. He used a hatchet. It was a messy job. After lunch George quickly grabbed the axe. I would have to use the hatchet. I did not like the idea of lobbing off branches. I complained but George held on to the axe and began chopping down trees. That made me angry. To vent my anger, I swung the short tool at a branch but instead it landed on my foot. I knew it was a bad cut but did not let anyone know. After a few minutes of work I decided to investigate. I made my way down the side of a ravine, sat on a fallen log and removed my footwear. There was a one-inch cut right on the bone above the arch. I folded a handkerchief and layered it on the wound. The sock would keep it in place. However, I decided not to say anything about it. I worked on, limping over a tangle of fallen trees and branches as if nothing had happened. Darkness falls early at Christmas. I was glad when Dad said it was time to quit but that one of us should go to the straw-pile and get the cows home for milking. Because I did not want anyone to see me limp, I said that I would go. The extra walking became so painful that I was forced to limp and drag my injured foot as I made may way home through the darkness..
At home I tried to curtail my movements to hide my injury but the truth eventually came out. Thankfully, Dad was less critical than I had expected.
The moral of this story? Never strike when angry. Avoid yielding to anger. Accept. Accept. Accept
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