I took a journey back in time last month to a Farm Museum in Wisconsin. And I was reminded of what my father-in-law used to say: “What good old days? I’d be dead three times over.”
It was quite a journey traveling to the 19th century—farms, barns, sheds and tools that reflected our Midwest beginnings. I’ve made many trips to Detroit’s Greenfield Village and our own Naper Settlement, but that little museum felt rawer and less polished.
It was daunting to see one-room houses with the parents sleeping on a bed stuffed with hay (and bedbugs) on one side, and the kids in a small bed on the other side, with a cradle between. My father-in-law’s family lived in a two-bedroom house with eight kids in North Dakota. The outhouse was, well, OUT.
Women usually had rough, dry hands from washing clothes with soap made from lye and wood ash. The “newer” washing machines required turning a wheel to get the job done. Most women had one, maybe two, dresses, and when wool got wet, it smelled.
The movies and television I saw growing up usually portrayed beautiful women (unless they were supposed to be terrified damsels in distress). Their hair and makeup were perfect, their wardrobes stylish. Think Miss Kitty on Gunsmoke or Grace Kelly in High Noon. The Hollywood Code required it.
The farm’s tools and animals added another dimension of fear and respect. My grandfather always told us kids to stay away from his mules – powerful, mean animals. Pitchforks, scythes and grooming shears were deadly but necessary tools. As a boy, my husband’s father took him to the farm and town he was raised in; and made a point of pointing out men with hooks for hands.
When we left that Museum, my parting words were, “I’m glad I’m living today.”
