Reprint: Published locally 2009 in Lifestyles over 50 and Berks County TV web site 2011; 2014 Country Magazine
Today, except for special occasions, holidays, and family reunions, visiting has become almost obsolete. Coming from a large family —five sisters and four brothers—visits were simply sporadic. In addition, once my children were all in school, I started working outside the home. When the weekends came, I was often too tired to go out again. I even see the same scenario with my own children, now that they are raising kids. The grandkids are involved in sport activities or organizations, such as scouts, and, they too, don’t get to visit as much as my generation did with my parents. It’s kind of sad we don’t do as much of this any more. I’ve had some great and not-so-great visiting with my folks from others and to others homes.
My parents owned a farm. To townspeople, visiting a farm was an adventure. Some people had never seen a cow being milked, eaten food fresh from the garden, or watched a chicken being butchered.
I was the youngest of ten. By the time I was born five siblings had already left home to join the service or marry. We didn’t have a lot of material things, but we always had plenty of food and meat on our table. Cooking Pennsylvania Dutch meals and desserts was one of Mom’s specialties. No matter who stopped by to visit, Mom always insisted, “Stay for supper. We have plenty.” My sisters and I would cringe every time she’d invite people for supper. It meant we had more dishes to wash and dry. It never entered our minds Mom did the hard part—the cooking and the baking.
One of the visitors we dreaded was the pastor and his wife. We had two reasons for this: 1) They didn’t have any children to bring along to play with 2) We had to be on our “very best” behavior because it was the pastor! Mom treated them to a yearly “duck” dinner. We even had selfish hopes Mom would forget to serve the dessert, so they’d leave earlier than usual. She never forgot.
When I was a teen, I’d often bring a friend home from school. Mom always welcomed them. Regardless of having permission to invite someone home, she always gave them a scrumptious meal.
We had one neighbor character, Lute, who stopped by the house periodically. I didn’t know much about him, except that at times, I heard my parents mention he was an auctioneer. What I remembered, as a child, was his general appearance and his incredible “spit.”
Lute was tall and lanky. When approaching our front steps, he tackled each one as if on a conquest. Going up the steps, cane in hand, he seemingly balanced his body in a slanted position. At each step, we thought he’d fall backwards. He never did. Lute was always clad in mattress-stripe bib overalls that covered an open plaid shirt at the neck, with sleeves bunched up to the elbow. He wore a dingy looking hat, seemingly too little due to its scrunched shape. He was known never to take off his hat, even in the presence of women.
After entering the kitchen, he’d sit on the straight back chair, next to the door. I can’t remember him sitting on any other chair in our kitchen. Upon seeing us kids, he would wink his bulging eyes and grin at us. When talking, he gestured, while his elbows often leaned on both knees. It seems an awkward position to us, but it must have been comfortable for him.
Every so often Lute’s mouth opened to rancid, syrupy teeth. As we got older, we learned the syrup was excess juice from “chew tobacco.” Once this syrup ran wild down his chin, you could hear Mom yell, “Fetch the can, quick!” The can, naturally, was the spittoon for the dribbling syrup. This was a spectacle Mom despised, yet we children were in awe of. Lute sat with legs apart; the can sat on the floor inside his ankles. We watched in utter silence as one puffed cheek made quivering movements. We knew, in time, the tongue gathered the excess dark syrup and pushed it to the front of the mouth. Then we’d see his tongue curled, pushing the syrup slowly through the lips, tiny, dime opening. A tremendous loud “spat” was heard, and the spit was in the can. The feat accomplished, we ran to play.
We did enjoy visits from Mom’s older sisters and Pop’s family, even if most of them had grown children. Mom always made sure the women visitors got a tour of the flower beds. The children tagged along and listened to the history of each flower.
My parents also reciprocated visits.
On Mom’s side of the family, I enjoyed visits to her older sisters, Aunt Annie and Aunt Minvera. If it was in season, the sisters always inspected each others flower beds, which was OK for awhile, but then we needed something to do. Aunt Annie had the perfect place for roller skating—a wrap-around porch. We had to wear her now-grown children’s skates, but it was a fun thing to do. And when we were done skating, we’d run in the field behind the house to watch the trains go by, a scene we did not have at our house.
We also liked Aunt Minerva’s home. She had older girls who still lived at home. If we were inside the house, her daughters always sat on the arms of the living room chair with their arms around the mother’s back. We loved being outside best. Our uncle raised peafowl. We were allowed to feed them. We’d love when a peacock spread its gorgeous plumage. My mother was enthralled by the peafowl and eventually raised a number of her own, after which our farm became known as “The Peacock Farm.”
My father did have a younger brother who had two daughters my age.They came from New York City. I remember a particular visit in my rebellious teen years. I had the younger cousin up in my bedroom a long time. I must have whined long and hard enough, about my strict mother, because I convinced her I’d probably die if I’d stay on the farm one more day. She tried desperately to convince her parents to take me home to the city to live with them. Needless to say, I was not allowed to move. Once I was through my teen years, I started loving my mother again.
I would be amiss if I didn’t mention visits to my Grandma, my father’s mother. Every Sunday was Grandmas visiting day. My grandma, a widow, was in her 80s and had a housekeeper living with her. As kids, as long as we were in the house, we had to sit still. Grandma had a button collection—old buttons sewed on cardboard—that we were allowed to look at. She also had something neat in her kitchen, called a dumbwaiter. Upon opening a cupboard door, in an open space, hung a rope with shelves attached. When pulling the rope upwards, one of the shelves held a dish with gingerbread cookies. We were each allowed one.
As usual, it was much more fun outside of the house. Grandma lived in a small town. We were allowed to walk a few blocks up the street to our uncle’s bakery. We were always given penny candy or bubble gum as a treat. One of my favorite remembrances on this street, was having blown my first wad of bubble gum, into a huge bubble, as big as my face. I didn’t care, my “moment of fame” had been accomplished and seen by my whole family.
Even though outside of Grandma’s house was much more fun, I loved going to Grandma—she was the only grandparent I had!
In those days, the 40s, most of the homes had a coal stove in the cellar. Sometimes neighbors we visited only had one room—usually the kitchen—that was kept warm, in order to save on coal. I recall a large black register in one of the neighbor’s kitchen. This is where my playmate, Janet, and I sat to play dolls or whatever game we decided on in winter. It was comfortable to have heat blast up in our faces keeping us cozy warm.
One of our neighbors had only boys, but I loved this place, especially in fall. At home, we had a chestnut tree in the front yard. We played games outside with these nuts. But, as the boy’s home, the children had the chestnuts strewn all over the floor downstairs, in all the rooms. No matter how much I begged, Mom would not allow chestnuts in our house.
I must admit I learned a trick, with Mom and Pop, if I became bored at someone’s house. Most times women sat together in the kitchen; the men sat in the living room. So I was able to go to Pop and say, “Mom said to tell you, she’s ready.” Then I’d go to Mom and say, “Pop said to tell you he’s ready.” Within a short time, both had stood and headed for the door. I didn’t tell them about this trick until I was a mother myself.
These past years, visiting has made a come-back in my life. Since our children were almost raised, the sisters get together for a birthday part and brothers come for breakfast. Since our family is so large, it’s easier to be together in a group. Now that I’m older, I appreciate my aunts and uncles more and have time to visit them again. My sisters and I started visiting the few remaining, during summer months. For our father’s twin brother, we flew to Indiana, at his invitation to all of us to come visit. My own children have busy lives but we get together when we can. I try to have alone times with them by meeting them on their day off, or their birthday. We like to have the grandchildren over for visits without parents, at times. This way we get to know them better.
You know, I’d never even wish to give up those visiting days with my parents. It’s a way one gets to know another better! I’ll have to sign off now. Goin’ visiting!
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.
