# Letters from an Oregon Ranch/Chapter 16

XVI
You must not think that ranch life consists chiefly of trout-fishing and strawberry-picking, with long intervals of rest under blossoming trees. Some friends—judging from their letters—seem to have an idea that living as we do in this out-of-the-way place, free from social duties, our days are days of elegant leisure, and life just one long holiday. Therefore, to prove to you that we are not being “carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease,” I must tell you some thing of the “demnition grind” of this new life.
Be it known, then, that here it is impossible to obtain house-help even for a day,—the few women living in the hills having more work in their own homes than they are able to do.
We were warned of this before coming up here, and were advised to be sure to bring with us a washing-machine. I well remember that dreary purchase! Outside there was a drizzling rain; inside an interested salesman dragging from its dusty lair the ungainly monster, cheerfully extolling its many merits and possibilities,—a panegyric lost upon one at least of his hearers, who, with a feeling of sadness almost akin to pain, looked at the ugly thing, standing on four straddling stilts, seeing ​only a succession of blue Mondays and gray skies through an atmosphere of steaming suds. Prospective wash-days, however, held no terror for Tom; he rose to the occasion grandly, declaring with much animation that he believed he would rather like the novelty of the thing,—that it would be his pride and pleasure “to make the wheels go round.” But after one or two experiences his enthusiasm drifted away like an ebbing tide; and I soon learned that if there was any one day upon which farm-work pressed more heavily than another, that day was Monday; though the gentleman was always very sorry his own work was so crowding,—hoping that the next Monday he would be “able to grasp the helm.” It seems strange, but even at this late day his work continues to “crowd” on Monday, though it always seems to ease up a little toward the middle of the week.
You will remember that the rainy season was on when we came here; consequently the drying of clothes was a problem, and to hang them on the line, stretched across a hillside as steep as the roof of a house, required the dexterity of a mountain climber. The ground, covered with soft decaying leaves, was as slippery as if soaped. To keep one’s feet one must cling to the line with one hand while hanging clothes with the other; and very often they were still swinging there, dripping wet, when the next Monday dawned. I having written to a friend about these difficulties, she wrote back: “Make your laundry-work light; put away ​your table linen, use plate doilies and paper napkins.” Telling Mary of this advice, she said, “The lady has forgotten that we are agriculturists. Now just fancy these men clad in blue-jeans and cowhides, confronting a doily of Mexican drawn work!” It was rather absurd; but still the advice was not quite lost, and the result was that some of our long cloths were cut into luncheon cloths, exactly fitting the top of the table; with a wide hem on the four sides they looked reasonably well, and saved much labor. Emboldened by this success, the Japanese napkin was then introduced,—not without protest, however, as Tom remarked, “I’d much prefer a paper bag to this thing!”
“You would find it harsh, Thomas, and rather unyielding,” replied his determined spouse.
“Now isn’t that a dandy affair for the use of a robust farmer?” he continued, holding out a hand with the delicate paper squeezed into a tight little wad that would scarcely have filled a thimble. It certainly did look small, but there was no relenting in the heart of the washerwoman.
When we visited each other, linen napkins were brought forth—for custom’s sake—though it was tacitly understood that they were not to be used, and we women never forgot. I have often been moved almost to tears to see how promptly and carefully Mary laid hers aside.
Sometimes one or the other of the men, forgetting the unwritten law, would shake out his napkin with the ​old-time flourish, whereupon his hostess was apt suddenly to lose her vivacity, becoming abstracted to the neglect of her duties. In spite of her best efforts, her eyes would fix themselves upon that square of linen, until the offender, hypnotized into consciousness of his breach of etiquette, refolded and laid it far beyond the reach of temptation. The feast over, behold Mary and me, with smiles “childlike and bland,” “gathering our sheaves,” still in their original folds, calmly speculating upon the length of time that, with care and vigilance, they might be safely withheld from the laundry. Free use of them was permitted, however, on holidays and anniversaries. It was really refreshing then to note the reckless abandon with which they were flung to the breeze. As all “habits gather by unseen degrees,” Mary and I have now about persuaded ourselves that the use of linen napkins between the beginning of the rainy season and the singing of the bluebirds is “bad form!”
While discussing our household problems, I must tell you about the care of milk, which is hardly the pleasant pastime once pictured by my imagination,—such a never-ending straining, skimming, and washing of pails and cans!
Unfortunately we had bought cans much too large for our needs,—which is only one among many of the mistakes of our inexperience. Having been told by the books that “deep setting” was desirable, we went in for it,—and we’ve got it; the washing of one of these tall ​tin cans is like reaching into the depths of the great tun of Heidelberg.
There was no milk-house on the place when we came, and no cellar,—they seem not to have cellars in Oregon,—and as the weather grew warm the milk soured, and the heart of Martha was troubled. After worrying along for a time, one morning Tom said, “I’ve an inspiration, Katharine! This day thou shalt behold a milk-house!”
After several hours had passed I was called to come out and view the edifice. I sallied forth and found one of our largest packing-boxes placed under the shade of a big alder, directly over the little spring rivulet, with a wooden trough inside, through which ran the water in which the cans were to stand. Half the top of the box was hinged to fold back; but as it was found that the mistress of the manse was unable to reach the cans, even when standing on a chair, the architect was obliged to hinge the upper half of one side to let down instead of lift up. Four poles driven into the ground supported an old porch-awning which served as a canopy for this masterpiece.
Rather primitive it was, although, as Tom said, “It beats nothing.” It truly did, and I was grateful for it,—though not long before I had visions of a picturesque stone milk-house, overgrown with English ivy, myself walking about in the cool interior, directing my dairy maids, somewhat after the manner of the vigorous Mrs. ​Poyser. When I have an errand at this sylvan shrine, I have only to walk across a long porch, go down three steps, descend a steep little hill, turn a sharp angle, and I am there. Then I lift up the altar cloth, pull hard a leather strap hooked over a nail, turn the side-door down, fold back the upper one, reach in and drag out those monstrous cans, each dripping with water. The thing is not magnificent, but’t will serve; at any rate, it keeps our milk cool and sweet.
You perhaps have read that little story, “Twenty Miles from a Lemon.” Now we are twenty miles from a loaf of bread, which is worse. One can live without lemons, but not without the staff of life; consequently one must bake, though the heavens fall, twice or three times each week. Furthermore, we have learned here that it will not do to buy the roasted and ground coffee, as at home; having to be bought in such large quantities, sufficient to last for weeks, it soon loses both its strength and its aroma. An old coffee-mill nailed to the side of the woodhouse conveyed to us the hint that people living so far from town usually ground their own coffee. Thereupon we bought a new mill and a supply of the green berry, which must be roasted twice each week and ground twice daily.
Having neither electricity nor gas-lights, we had to fall back upon the fragrant kerosene; and dreary enough it seemed at first, Tom declaring a good healthy lightning-bug would be quite as satisfactory. For a time the care ​of those lamps seemed a burden greater than I could bear, but now, though it has not fallen from me, and never will, I fear, I have become resigned to the task as a part of the price one must pay for the “freedom of the hills.” And yet I do feel the revival of the coffee-mill and the lamp as a retrogression.
While I am becoming accustomed to the absence of gas for illuminating purposes, I bitterly deplore the loss of my gas range; the heat of a monstrous wood range in summer time, in a kitchen blessed with but one window, is beyond description. I honestly believe that if one out searching for Hades should about the noon hour poke his head in my kitchen, he would instantly shout, “Eureka! Eureka!” and cease his quest.
This range, to be kept up to the mark of duty, when fed by the light dry fir wood used here, must be crammed unceasingly; it gulps down a half-dozen sticks in as many minutes and immediately sulks for more. To keep the pot boiling with such fuel requires eternal vigilance.
There is no cooling off here by drinking ice-water, for, alas! there is no ice. While spring water is cold, one can’t help longing for the tinkle of ice in the pitcher; and iceless lemonade is, as we have found to our sorrow, “flat, stale, and unprofitable.” Ice-cream and those refreshing water ices!—let me not speak of them, for “that way madness lies.”
​The other day I threw a big gunnysack over our old freezer, just as a veil to hide the past.
The lack of ice of course causes much extra work and trouble in caring for food. Until now I never half appreciated a refrigerator; but, as Tom says, “We never miss the water till the well runs dry.” As our well is a spring, we hope we may be spared that calamity. This spring is near,—just at the end of the kitchen porch,—and yet the water for use must all be carried in. Less convenient, surely, than the turning of a faucet above the kitchen sink!
We have other trials and privations,—and compensations also. At home the vegetables we use are brought us from the markets. Here we must ourselves go to the garden for them; this takes time, but I am always glad to go,—glad to go anywhere, to escape the consuming breath of that life-destroying fiend of the kitchen. There, in the fruit-canning season, the fruit in cases and baskets is delivered at the door; here we must pick it from the trees,—such delightful work that I can’t even pretend to complain of it. To-day, gathering rosy peach-plums under that tent of green leaves, I felt so insufferably proud that had the arrogant “Mrs. Lofty” passed by with her carriage and coachman, I could not but have smiled upon her disdainfully.
Unfortunately for me, Tom has recently learned in some way that corn-bread is a nourishing food for young ​chickens (I knew it long ago—read it in a book—but kept still about it), and I have now to bake about a yard of it daily. As Mrs. Todgers, of boarding-house fame, said of the making of gravy for single gentlemen, “That one item has aged me ten years.”
This tale of woe might be continued indefinitely, but enough has been said to show that our “leisure” is not really burdensome; that we are not quite all the time sitting with folded hands, “rapt in nameless reverie.” And yet, in spite of the toil, the hardships, and the privations of this life, these Oregon scenes are so dear to me that I would not exchange this woodsy old ranch for the finest of city homes, with a retinue of servants and ten thousand a year thrown in. I am far happier here under these dark firs, with the wood pigeons and the owls, the fresh air, and the glorious freedom of the hills.