“Summer had different delights when Grace was a youngster” from the July 12, 1977 Door County Advocate
By Grace Samuelson
Summer had different delights when Grace was a youngster
By GRACE SAMUELSON
Somewhere around the Fourth, in days before the first World War, the cherries were ripe, or at least ripe enough to pick on the stem, as most were sent via train in 16 quart cases to the cities for special orders.
All of us neighbor children helped pick in nearby orchards. Willis and Harriet Johnson, Annie, Esther and Lucile from the Olaf Johnson family and us started out in Mr. Hutto’s orchard right next to our house on Poplar St.
The Minor boys, of course, worked out at their father’s orchard near the cove. We moved on to other orchards when Mr. Hutto’s was picked. No experts, we — in fact I never succeeded in becoming a fast picker. But it was a way of earning money for the Fair to come in August and for school supplies and clothes.
When the factory began canning cherries we picked “off the stem,” pails tied around our waists. The younger children, and sometimes the Mamas who came after their clothes were on the line or the bread out of the oven, were allowed to “cream” the bottom branches.
We kids were cautioned to set the ladders on level ground and to keep from climbing in the trees. When the mothers came into the orchards they brought lunch, and usually jars of lemonade.
We started out eating the juiciest and ripest cherries but after an hour or so our tongues felt a little sore and we settled down to more picking and less eating. Some orchard owners had the name of being extra strict — making you pick up all the cherries that fell on the ground, and chastising those nervy kids who dared have cherry or cherry pit fights, or broke branches.
Out on the highway, a girls’ camp — Boyce’s — provided pickers for some of the large orchards, and when those girls would string across the road on the way to town, or an evening at the movie, we called them “Cherry Snappers.”
Cherry Snappers were what we called the cedar waxwings, too, and they really did snatch the ripe cherries. The Bordeaux mixture used as a spray discouraged them somewhat.
At the Fairgrounds they maintained a Boy Scout camp for pickers. Stanley says what he remembers most about that was the peanut-butter sandwiches they got for lunch, and he tells of the delicious potato soup he had at Gordon camp.
Some of the older girls got the chance to work in the cherry factory and they earned more than by picking so they could use their money to go camping down at Nicolet Bay. What fun!
The Fourth, of course, was the highlight of the summer. There were often speeches and a band concert at Vendome Park where Peterson pool is now. We’d go as a family, proudly dressed in our Sunday best white embroidered dresses, with wide ribbon sashes and matching hair bows.
There were picnics and family reunions. At home we helped turn the crank on the freezer for the luscious home-made ice cream. We wanted to celebrate with firecrackers but Papa was disapproving. “Why, you could blow your fingers right off, or lose an eye. Those things are dangerous.”
“But couldn’t we just have some of the tiny firecrackers? They won’t hurts us. Some of the big boys even have some giant firecrackers?”
“Well, if someone else jumps in the lake, is it any sign that you have to?”
Coaxing got us nowhere. We were allowed to have sparklers, though, to wave from the front porch like fireflies, and we could see the sky rockets which some of the privileged kids set off.
Between the picking of the Early Richmond and the Montmorency cherries there was opportunity to sit on the front porch, and evenings always brought the grown-ups there, watching while the neighborhood children played “Hide and Seek,” “Auntie, Auntie-Over” or “Pum-Pum-Pullaway.” Mosquitoes were bad but the ladies brought out their fans which did double duty in brushing away the insects and warding off the heat.
Merchants often gave away cardboard fans with colored pictures — roses, pansies, or Gibson girls, and advertising the merits of their trade. Some read: “With the best wishes for your good health use Dr. Dennis’ Catarrh Remedy.” Or, “Brown’s Bitters; the best tonic.”
Some had pictures like Mrs. Langtry, “the Jersey Lily.” And, of course, “Aristos Flous.” Palm leaf fans were popular to as were Japanese fans and some silk-screened ones with lovely oriental pictures and teak handles.
Lacking these we folded paper in pleats and waved that or a fold of newspaper. That served to strike the pesky bugs who liked the outdoors too. Porches were often screened in, or had mosquito netting tacked on.
The L shaped side of our porch had trellises, covered with Virginia creeper, which gave privacy when we slept out in the porch to escape the heat of the upstairs bedrooms. Front porches were a good place to gather when we had a rainy day, and a cool spot while hulling berries, pitting cherries, podding peas or snapping beans.
Grandma rocked in the rocker; Mama brought out her rocker and her darning, and Papa read the Advocate and the “Modern Woodman.” Neighbors stopped by to visit and Mama brought out a pitcher of lemonade, made with cold water freshly pumped. We had no ice except that cut from the bay in winter and Papa wouldn’t let us put that into food or drink. Watermelons were cooled in a tub of water with a big chunk of ice.
We had a cherry pitter — a disc outfit with a handle which ran the cherries through into a bowl, and spit out the pits into another bowl in front. We were always willing to run the pitter as it meant we’d be rewarded with Mama’s flaky cherry pies, or sample the little test dish of jell made from the juice.
Mama told us often of the first cherry pie she made after she was married. They had company — great-aunt Effie and Uncle Nate. Mama’s crust was tender and just the right degree of brown, and exactly the right amount of sugar added. But though she was used to doing a lot of the baking at home there was one thing she forgot — to pit the cherries. And the company got quite a surprise when they bit into cherry stones!
The cherry pitter came in handy, too, for other favorites — cobbler, canned cherries, stored in Mason jars and brought up for sauce or pie for winter treats. We loved the steamed cherry puddings, too, with thickened cherry juice for sauce, like Mama’s cottage pudding, or cornstarch pudding and cherry sauce to top it. Cream, skimmed from the big crocks of milk kept cool in the cellar was whipped to a glossy yellow froth and sweetened with a little honey.
Patching and darning were things quite valid to do while sitting on the front porch. (No self-respecting good housewife would dream of sitting and reading in the daytime.)
Mama gathered the basket of socks and darning cottons in her apron, brought out a comfortable rocker, and putting on her thimble set to work weaving in the jagged spaces worn in heels or toes of socks.
Grandma did beautiful patching, her patches matching the weave of the cloth and becoming almost invisible. But if we got pesky, playing near her chair, her patience was short and we were apt to get a rap with her thimble to remind us to stay clear.
Grandma’s aprons were the long gingham kind, tied at the waist. That’s the kind Mama wore, too, in the kitchen. They came in handy also when she was going outside to shoo the flies away from the screen. She picked up the comers of the hem and filled her apron with kindling, vegetables from the garden, or windfalls from the trees.
Good, too for gathering eggs, and for bringing in clothes from the line when a sudden shower came up. Those gingham aprons lifted lots of hot dishes and pans from the oven and eventually turned up as dish towels for pots and pans when they had served their primary purpose.
Mama had “good” aprons to put on in the afternoon or to whisk on when unexpected company showed up. And fancy ones when helping serve at Ladies Aid or W.C.T.U. She kept some in a kitchen drawer ready for a quick change.
Sewing carpet rags was another thing to do sitting on the front porch, or stitching patchwork quilts. Occasionally Mama would entertain a few ladies. Then they’d sit rocking and visiting, while Mama made the egg-coffee and set out the lunch, then called them inside to eat. We knew some people who played cards on their screened porch but since our card games were limited to Flinch and Old Maid we didn’t take part.
Our idea of convenience foods was potatoes cooked ahead of time, ready for frying, or potato salad. Or a ham, boiled and ready for slicing, eggs hard cooked, and a crumb cake, ready fast, since it needed no frosting. We didn’t know about fish boils, barbeques, never heard of take-outs (except the kind the generous hostess pressed on you as you were leaving after a big meal.)
Col. Sanders hadn’t appeared on the scene, and our fried chicken came from the iron frying pan. Our idea of French fries was something the French people ate. And ethnic foods — spaghetti, pizza, tacos, lasagna, even garlic bread, was beyond our ken. Mixes, too, were unheard of — everything started from scratch.
One thing livened up our summer activities. The year I was eight Mama and Papa took a vacation to upper Michigan and we three older girls were left in the care of Grandma.
For two weeks we got away with a lot that we couldn’t do while our folks were at home. Like climbing on top of the woodshed, walking barefoot through puddles on the road, going down to the library after supper. We brought out our best dolls and games to play on the front porch and badgered Grandma into cooking our favorite dishes. She was very deaf, but good at lip reading. We watched our conversation at the dinner table, or she’d tell us, “That’s no way for a young lady to talk.”
One day a big canvas wagon pulled into the empty lot where the Herb Reynolds house now is. Dumbfounded, we all watched, and spied the sign, “Dog and Pony Show.” We hung around the fence, watching them set up the tent. How we wanted to go, but we had spent all the money Papa had left for treats.
We were desolated until Verna got the idea of telling the man who came to use our pump to fetch water for the animals that we wanted tickets in payment. He asked how many and I flew in to ask Grandma if she wanted to go. “Mercy, no!” she said. So we three dressed in our second-best and sauntered over. We loved watching the dogs and ponies going through their acts and Verna shared with us the popcorn she bought with her remaining dime. We were thrilled beyond words till we came out and saw our friends in the fringe of the crowd. Why hadn’t we asked for seven passes? Shared fun is more fun. A lesson learned.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
Articles about summer
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/summer
Articles relating to Independence Day
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/independence-day
Articles by Grace Samuelson
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/grace-samuelson