Saturday Chores.

In the mid 50’s, children in 5^th and 6^th class Primary School had school on Saturday mornings from 9.30am to 12.30pm, at least we did in the County Kerry town in which I grew up.

 

If there was no school on a particular Saturday morning, for example, if it was a holy day, or the teacher’s Feast Day, or if we were on school holidays, certain chores would be allotted to each child in the household by Mammy.

 

These little jobs varied according to the age of each child. Older children were asked to wash up after breakfast, because they could be safely trusted not to drop the delph, and also to see that each item was dried carefully and returned to its position on the kitchen dresser.

 

The youngest children, babies and toddlers, were also entrusted to the older children, and taken out in their prams or pushchairs to the local park. This allowed Mammy to get on with cleaning the house from top to bottom or “stem to stern”, as she used to say, and also to change, wash and iron all the bedding, replace the dirty bathroom towels with fragrant clean ones, and get all the floors washed too. When Mammy had successfully completed all her chores, she took five minutes out for herself to have a strong cup of tea, and relax with a quick glance through ‘Woman's Weekly’, before getting started on dinner.

 

For us children of ‘inbetween’ ages, there was an array of small jobs to be completed by early afternoon. These included polishing all the shoes in the household ready for 8am Mass next morning, or perhaps running to the shop for some necessity forgotten by Mammy when she did her weekly shopping the day before.

 

We all went about our individual chores silently, but with a great sense of happiness, feeling privileged to be allowed to help out and with a desire to do the very best job we could. There was no monetary reward, but parental praise was the only reward we craved. It brought a big, broad beaming smile to our faces, making them glow like shining silver stars studding a black velvet sky.

 

My favourite Saturday chore was one which I eagerly looked forward to on each ‘free’ Saturday I had from school. When I had all the windows in the house washed and sparkling clean, they glistened like diamonds when the caught the rays of the sun and I would wait patiently on our door step, with a  large jug in one hand and a shiny sixpence in the other, for the old lady who sold sour milk weekly, to make her appearance round the corner at the end of our street, together with her little donkey.

 

In the donkey’s cart stood a large timber barrel, filled to the brim with sour milk, and fastened with strong ropes to each side of the cart to hold it steady and prevent any spillage. She usually rounded the corner at 11.00am. A local boy had the honourous task of leading the little donkey up the street, coaxing him along and telling him where to stop, so the old lady could delve into the sour milk with her immaculately clean white enamel mug and fill the outstretched cans and jugs just off overflowing, for the princely sum of sixpence per jug/can, which was payable to the little boy.

 

The little boy’s name was Oliver, and the donkey’s name was Neddy, but I never could discover what the old lady’s name was, nobody seemed to know, not even her trusted companion Oliver.

 

Mother made the most delectable soda bread from the sour milk, baked in the oven of our Stanley range, the aroma wafting through the house, assailing our nostrils and giving us gnawing pangs of hunger in our empty tummies. We truly looked forward to teatime on Saturdays, as we had our fill of beautifully baked fresh bread and scones loaded with butter and Chivers’ Strawberry Jam, which dripped down our jaws, ‘til we could eat no more.

 

After our baths in a large zinc tub in front of a blazing fire, we were tired and anxious to go to bed, to slip between the sweet smelling, freshly laundered crisp cotton sheets, in our brushed cotton pajamas, feeling very happy, safe, secure and loved, and also very full - almost to bursting point. We said our prayers and surrendered our souls to God, before drifting off into the magic night to sail on ‘The Sea of Dreams’.

Reviews

[Betty Hermelee]

To me it seems like a well run, happy family, where the chores were praised by the mammy…. It was a well fed family and all pitched in to make it work….yes those were the days of yesteryear…. When children cooperated with their parent’s requests and the family was much more cohesive than today…a love,y write about your beautiful family Marie….lots of love and caring….warmly
B🌷

[Marie]

Thank you for reading and your kind review, Betty. As an only child, I had my own chores to do on a Saturday, but what I have written is what I observed with regard to the other children I grew up with. They belonged to very large families, ten to thirteen in number and it was very interesting to see how each one had their own little job to take care of on a free Saturday before being allowed to go out to play. Thank you again, Betty... SO happy to be back to my old account at last, the new one has been deleted...

[Arundass TP]

Good writing on pre schoolers and your suggestions. Enjoyed reading

[Marie]

Thank you for very kindly reading and for your encouraging comment, T. P...

[Samuel Dickens]

My heart is warmed by this lovely tale from kinder, simpler times. Even though some things are a little different, I believe some children over here (the lucky ones) knew a similar existence, and were so much better off for it. I echo Delmar's thoughts on delph and sour milk. When young, we'd often let milk that had gone sour (some would say "blinkey") to sit without refrigeration for a few days until it became "buttermilk". At that point, then, it was put back in the fridge and used for bread, biscuits, pancakes, and a few other things.
I enjoyed this lovely story very much.

[Marie]

Thank you for so very kindly reading, Sam. I am so pleased you liked the little story of how life was many years ago. Yes, delph was ware/crockery. You have the perfect recipe for creating sour milk, though it can be created also by adding vinegar and lemon juice to regular milk to make it sour. My Mam used to make the buttermilk as you have described, but it was considered authentic only if it was the leftover milk after making cheese and it too, can be artificially created by adding a lactic acid bacteria to regular pasteurised milk. I am so v-e-r-y pleased you enjoyed reading the story, Sam and I am indebted to you for reading and for your very kind and encouraging comment. Thank you! again, dear friend...

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for a charming visit to a place I know not of. And just because I am ignorant is not proof against being Charmed, or spell bound or whatever happened during the reading.
I supposed delph to be crockery and sour milk akin to buttermilk but if they are something else entirely it matters not at all.
Thank you for sharing

[Marie]

Hello Delmar and a very grateful Thank you! for reading my story and for your delightful comment. Yes, delph is ware/crockery. Sour milk is milk which has 'gone off' but it can be made by adding vinegar and lemon juice to regular milk to make it go sour and is used for baking with yeast wheat flour. Buttermilk is the milk which is left after the making of cheese and can be artificially made by adding a lactic acid bacteria to regular pasteurised milk. Many people in Ireland used to drink this milk when I was growing up. Just seeing it made me feel nauseous! I am so pleased you enjoyed reading the story, Delmar. Thank you again...

[Delmar Cooper]

My Dad made "buttermilk" by adding a cup the soured milk we had left to a gallon "sweet" milk and letting it sit un-refrigerated for a day or two. We made biscuits and cornbread with this homemade buttermilk.

[Marie]

Thank you for sharing this wonderful recipe, Delmar. I too, saw "buttermilk" made this way! Thank you again, dear poetess...