Tag Archives: 50’s big family

Aah! The Smell Of Actinomycetes In The Morning

It was faster to take a bike from the house to the barn past the long greenhouse.

Biking from house to barn past the 150 foot green house saved a lot of time

More and more people have no connection to, or pleasant sensory memories associated with the farming experience at all. The smell of soil, with its inherent potential for abundant and luxurious growth, may only have been experienced, if at all, if they opened a bag of top soil for their patio planter out on their apartment balcony on the twenty-fifth floor. If a person has never left the confines of the city, the smell of soil may be at best unfamiliar, and at worst unpleasant.

The smell of a green house in the spring, right after you water it— is a memory that I treasure from my childhood, from the hours and hours of taking my turn behind a hand held water sprinkler. The heavy brass sprinkler head was at the end of a seventy five foot hose that could be dragged in either direction from the tap in the middle of the centre aisle of the green house. When we were available in the spring, either before or after school and on weekends, one of my siblings or I would take turns swishing it back and forth, back and forth over one and then the other of the two 150 foot by ten foot beds of growing tobacco seedlings on either side of us. The plants would later be yanked gently out by women Dad had hired or by members of our family for planting out in the fields.The task was usually done while resting the butt on one board and the feet on another as one moved along a foot above the damp planting beds.I never minded the job of watering the greenhouse very much. It was always warm and bright under all that glass, and it was never too hot or too cold either, as we were always raising or lowering the glass windows at the greenhouse peak throughout the day to keep the temperature as close to tropical as possible.

My Aunt Wilma, my Grandma "Mum" and me at age 9

Aunt Wilma, my Grandma , & me

Unless plant pulling was going on the greenhouse was very quiet too—a place where I could get away from all the noise and hubbub that living in a busy household with seven siblings generated. The only sound in the green house when watering was the gentle “Swish, Swish, Swish” of the water which had to be carefully applied until the beginnings of a puddle were visible on the surface of the black muck in the band being watered before moving on.

The relative silence was so different from inside the house where the sounds of doing laundry, cooking, and vacuuming, and various motors and fans on fridges and freezers emitted their constant hums. Add to this the sounds of the latest baby crying in the earlier years, or siblings occasionally arguing, and there was never a quiet moment. That is, of course, until an hour or so after curfew in my late teen years when it was as deathly still as that moment before a judge’s gavel drops. That was how I perceived it anyhow whenever I tried to sneak past my parents open bedroom door and up the squeaky stairs to my room. (But that’s another story.)

Jimmy, Janice, Donny and Kathy, the little helpers

Jimmy, Janice, Donny and Kathy, the youngest four

Watering the greenhouse was my mother’s job when we were in school. She relied a great deal upon our grandfather, who lived next door to us then, to come over and look after the little ones while they were napping, or when it was raining and Mom couldn’t take them outside with her. There was nowhere for them to play inside the greenhouse but in the nice weather Jimmy and Donny from toddlers on up, spent a lot of time playing with their shovels and buckets, and their trucks and bulldozers forming muddy motes and “lakes” just under the water tower beside the greenhouse door. That was when they weren’t off making mud pies with Kathy and Janice, before they too were old enough to help with the outside work.We older ones— Marsha and I, and Keith and Jeannie also had our own soul satisfying exposure to the smell of good damp earth. A heavy rain always granted us a day off from hoeing tobacco, a day to do our own thing.

After doing some investigation to try to better understand better what it is about soil that makes it smell so great, frankly, I was a little surprised. Apparently we owe a lot to Actinomycetes, a type of soil bacteria which grow in soil when it is warm and damp. When the soil dries out it produces spores, and when the wetness and force of rainfall hit them (or water from water sprinklers or crazy kids at taps) the tiny spores are kicked up into the air, the moist spore-laden air acting as an aerosol— the antithesis of a can of Lysol, actually.

It is ironic that a bacteria and spores are, in fact, the cause of that sweet after-the-rain smell of newly watered earth. I suppose it is ironic only to this generation, in our sanitized, germ exterminating, spore abhorring society. Who knew germs and spores were our friends? I wonder if there is a conspiracy between the makers of Lysol which promises to kills 99.9 per cent of them and the makers of Glade which promises that “After the Rain” scent in so many of its products? Supply and demand folks! Supply and demand!

Siver Skates And Pixie Dust

Me,Keith,Kathy,,Jeannie,&Marsha in our first house. We traded it for our grandparents big house next door soon after.

Me, Keith, Kathy, Jeannie, & Marsha in our first house. We traded it for our grandparents big house next door,before the next 3 siblings arrived.

While other kids were learning to skate my mom was using me and  my sister Marsha,in old white cotton socks, as floor wax buffers. No accusation of any type of abuse is to be construed here. We were happy to be of use. It was thrilling, it was exciting, and if it was work we certainly didn’t think so. While other young girls started their first figure skating lessons, in what we believed must most likely be freezing cold arenas with cranky old ex-hockey players ordering them around, we enjoyed the privilege of pirouetting and attempting our figure eights sans skates. We had all the adrenaline surging thrills and spine jarring spills a kid could ever want on a slippery surface. It just happened to be the new oak flooring that graced our living room, bedrooms, and hallway in that first little white bungalow that my father built. It had only two bedrooms and he built it for $3000. in 1949, just after he and Mom married.Mom was just eighteen at the time, and as all of us kids came along

The 2 bedroom house my Dad built in 1949 for $3000. Marsha is in Dad's arms.

The 2 bedroom house my Dad built in 1949 for $3000. Marsha is in Dad’s arms.

one right after the other in a great big hurry, she was still very much a child at heart. She was constantly thinking up ways to keep us occupied as children as there was really not a whole lot of room in that little house. We would pretend that the couch was a big canoe and that the floor was a big lake during the time it took for Mom to apply all the paste wax on to it. It stayed a lake for awhile afterwards until it dried enough to buff it. That lake was full of hungry crocodiles, so we would have to stay up there with our dollies and blankies and wait until Mom climbed up into the canoe with us. Then she would tell us stories or sing us songs. We never questioned how it was alright for her to be down there on her hands and knees in the middle of the lake with all the crocodiles while she applied the wax. Our mother had some kind of special magic I guess, something that made her safe as she worked in the middle of all that danger.

That same pixie dust  made us believe that once the wax had dried it  now had suddenly become a skating rink. This had to be the warmest skating rink in all the world, and the only one that had a big boxy propane stove at one end of it. Because the basement floor wasn’t  cemented yet, a step that was skipped earlier to save money, there wasn’t any other place for it to be. So we got to come down off the couch and skate around in our socks, in our 90° arena, laughing and running, and sliding and falling, and getting up and sliding some more. Mom told us we were Olympic Gold medalist skaters like Barbara Ann Scott. We didn’t know who she was, but one Christmas we had been given some chocolate coins wrapped up in gold foil in our stockings, and if the prize she won was really like a big one of those glued onto a ribbon then she must have been pretty special.

After we finished with our figure skating practice it was time for speed skating. We would each hang on to one of  the big rolled arms of the couch and push, push, push with our feet, pumping back and forth a  mile a minute just like Hans Brinker trying to win those silver skates, in the  the big race on the frozen canal in Holland. We knew how badly he must have wanted those skates because in the story he and his sister only had skates made out of wood. That was just about the same as having skates made out of old cotton socks. When we had done all the hard work of polishing the floor with our sock feet, with all of our sliding around from one side of the room to the other, Mummy said she was proud of us for all our hard work. She wasn’t even sure she needed to do anything else at all, except maybe just where the silver airplane ash tray holder was sitting, and maybe under the little cherry wood telephone table where we couldn’t slide, because the top of it was just about at our middles. The only way  we could ever get the wax off there would be to slide back and forth on our bums, but then our pants might get so slippy we could fall off our chairs at supper, so we didn’t.

Then Mom she sent us off to bed to have a little rest for awhile. For once we didn’t mind at all, because by then were so tired we didn’t even feel like talking or even waking up Keith or Baby Jeannie, who were still having their naps. Then we heard Mummy start up  the electric floor polisher that she kept in the hall closet, but just to do the spots we couldn’t reach, because we had done such a good job!