R. R. 2, Brandon, Wisconsin 53919
Yesterday I started this column for the New Year ahead. Things
did not go too well. Last evening I went to a Writer’s Meeting,
came home about 10:45, and reread what I had written. ICH! IT WAS
AWFUL! The criticisms and comments at our meeting had been sharp
and to the point. There is so much to learn in any trade or
profession.
After making a short trip to Dearborn, Michigan recently, both
Mr. B. and I came home with a renewed appreciation of the craftsmen
of the past. We found our way, without incident, to the modern
wonder of an airport such as Metro. We warmly greeted our son and
his wife from New Jersey. It had been more than a year and a half
since we’d seen them. Therefore the first evening was filled
with catching up on the news as we gathered in one of our adjacent
rooms at a nearby motel.
Tuesday morning found us ready to travel a few blocks to the
Ford Museum. It was cold and windy. The added spurts of light rain
made us welcome the thought of being undercover for the day.
As we entered the imposing front door Phyllis and I were
immediately impressed by the elegnt Highboys, antique chairs,
settees with hand-carved wooden trim, love seats to embellish
anybody’s love making, dishes beautiful enough to grace the
tables of royalty. We were feeling a bit elegant ourselves. We
knew, at once, that our $3.00 admission charge had been well spent.
THIS was going to be a day!
Of course, Mr. B. and son Jim were soon headed toward the steam
engines, old cars, and every other ancient implement which runs,
one way or another.
After Phyllis and I had ‘oohed and aahed’ our way
through the furniture and piano section I found one tool which was
strange and forbidding. ‘What in the world is that?’ I
asked anybody willing to listen. It was almost a work of art,
gruesome looking, to be sure, but nevertheless it had a certain
flair. The note attached called it a Porcupine Thresher. It was
made in the shape of an ice cream cone, lying on its side, and had
heavy wooden spikes running all around it. Somehow or other a horse
or horses were used in pulling the large end in a circle and
thereby threshing the chaff from the grain. I would estimate it was
about 10 ft. long, give or take a few feet. It looked more like a
torture instrument to me. I shuddered.
Have you ever seen these elaborate little parlor stoves? They
were black as midnight and decorated with Corinthian Columns, and
even in Cathedral designs. They were there in a sizable number,
some rather plain, others almost excessively ornate. Mercy! We
never even had a parlor, let alone a parlor stove!
We also were intrigued by a Shaker Stove, plain but very useful.
These were made at a sharp angle against both sides of the stove,
leaving a flat surface for cooking between them. I really took this
all in. I formerly had an Uncle Ben who was a member of a Shaker
Colony. I expect the irons, to do up his shirts, were heated in
this fashion. Oh! How the memories of dear Uncle Ben came flooding
back to warm me.
Another special item was a smokehouse, made from the
hollowed-out trunk of a large Sycamore tree. It had all the
earmarks of an oversized bird house slanting roof and little
drilled holes to take care of excess smoke. I leaned over the
separating ropes to try and detect the homey aroma of
hickory-smoked ham and bacon, but was disappointed. Oh well! You
can’t have everything! But for you men I am throwing in this
bit of info. There is a Corliss stationary engine there which has a
24-ft.-diameter wheel. The wheel is 4 ft. wide, 300 H.P., 65 R.P.M.
I couldn’t believe the size of it. And old cars, well, you just
have to see them.
On Wednesday we took in as much of Greenfield Village as we
could. The high point of that day (between shivers) was seeing the
very chair in which Abraham Lincoln was sitting the night he was
shot to death in the Ford Theater. Even the coverlet which
protected his knees from draughts was there, draped over the worn
arm. It brought me close to tears. I can’t describe my
reaction. History became so vibrantly alive.
As we met on the Village Green our two bragging men declared
that they had seen the very best exhibits there. We women contended
we had surely picked the top layer to view in this remarkable
place. In this kind of mood of friendly controversy we drove Jim
and Phyllis back to Metro, dropped them off and left for home. We
carried many appreciative thoughts with us.
Such outstanding men and ingenious women have shaped our past,
and given us a present, too perplexing (we sometimes feel) to cope
with. But then we remember that the Great Creator of us all is the
One who enables man to think, to plan, to create. Our hearts were
full of deep thankfulness and wonder as we returned home. Yes, it
is a trip well worth making. Summertime is best as so many of the
buildings are closed by October, and the crafts not in
operation.
All my life I have wondered what it means when we sing POP GOES
THE WEASEL. Now I know. When the spinster measured off the yarn she
had spun on a measuring reel she was told by a certain noise on the
wheel that she had her 200 yards for a skein. It was then that the
weasel went POP. AND THE SPINSTER was often an unmarried lady. Thus
that term. Lesson completed. So long for now.
