A Day with Maddie McCloud

It was a freezing cold February day in 1922 when Maddie gave birth to her seventh child in the back bedroom of a small shotgun house in Indianapolis.  My mother wasn't thriving, and it looked as if she would become the third child of Maddie and Tommie's eleven children to not survive childhood.  But a distant relative visiting the McClouds took the baby on as a project and saved little Harriett Louise. (Mother turned ninety-one this year.)

It was a different time. Nothing like today. So many of the luxuries we take for granted didn't exist back then or were just coming on the scene and reserved for the rich.  For the majority of people, life was hard work, and to suffer in one way or another was common.

Let's you and I go back to 1922 and spend a day with Maddie McCloud.

What?  We've only been here five minutes and you're a little chilly already?  You want Maddie to turn up the thermostat on the furnace? Well, okay, I'll ask but I know what she's going to say.  Grandmother said, "Go outside to where the firewood is stacked, carry it in, and start a fire in the fireplace, or put on a sweater."

Huh? Now you're hot!  You want her to turn on the air-conditioning?  All right, I'll ask her.  Whoa!  That wasn't very nice, Grandmother.  I can't tell her that.

Now?  We just got here.  Didn't you go before we left home?  I'll ask where the bathroom is, but I think I know the answer.  My grandmother said, "See that little bitty buildin' way, way back there?  That's the privy. And since you're headin' that way, how 'bout carrying these two chamber pots with you and dumpin'em while you're at it."  What do you mean, you think you're going to throw up?

But you've only worn them for one day; they're not dirty.  I know back in 2013 you wore your jeans only one time before putting them in the washing machine, but this is 1922.  Well, if you insist, I'll ask.  She said, "Out on the back porch you'll find a warshtub with a warshboard inside.  Around to the side of the house is a pump that you have to prime for about ten minutes before the water finally comes out.  It takes about fifteen buckets to fill the tub for one warsh.  And since you're headin' that way, how 'bout taking these dirty diapers and warshin'em while you're at it."  Excuse me?  Your jeans aren't that dirty, after all.

What do you mean, you're uncomfortable and you want to go back to 2013?  We've only been here thirty minutes. Let's stick around a little longer.

Starbucks?  Oh, I forgot you always start your day with Starbucks.  Will water do? I didn't think so, and I forgot about your headache without your morning coffee.  Okay, when she slows down for a moment, I'll ask her. "We barely have enough food. Coffee is for the rich. But around the side of the house is a water pump if you'd like somethin' to drink," she said.

Oh, no!  You have a headache, already?  Advil?  She's busy right now but I'll ask her. "Pain is our daily companion," she said. "Just get to workin', girl, and you'll forget all 'bout it."

You want to borrow the car so you can drive to CVS four blocks away? I'll ask but I have a feeling I know her answer.  "Get off your lazy fat butt and walk!" My goodness! That was harsh. Oh, don't cry. She's just overworked and overwhelmed.  Kleenex?  I'd better not ask. Just use your sleeve.

Your cell phone isn't working?  Well, of course not. It's 1922. Having a phone in the home is possible if you can afford it, but you have to share it with other homes as well (they call it party-lines), so don't talk long.  In this house and every other house in this neighborhood, there are no washers and dryers or microwaves or refrigerators or coffee makers or televisions or computers or vacuums.  Outside the house, sitting along the curb are cars but none of them belong to my grandparents.

My grandfather is temporarily out of work but "I'm lookin'," he says, as he stumbles past us and out the back door on the way to the privy.  "Seems he is always lookin'," my grandmother says right back at him as she starts her morning with two women from the future standing in her kitchen and in her way.

Two children start to cry at the same time: month-old Harriett Louise (my mother) and two-year-old Gracie.  Both need their diapers changed and then fed, so off to the back of the house my twenty-something grandmother runs. A four-year-old boy peaks around a corner, sees strangers and quickly disappears. Another child appears. It's difficult to tell if it's a boy or a girl because of a badly burned face, but I know who it is; it's my aunt, Luedna, who stumbled into the fireplace when she was two. She runs away, as well. My grandfather is back now and smiling big. He wants to know "What are two pretty women doing in my kitchen this early in the mornin'?" Grandmother is back as fast as she left, "Stop charmin' and start workin'!" she tells him but he ignores her and heads back to bed.

Pedicure and tanning salon?  Really?  You want me to ask my poor, exhausted grandmother where you can go to pamper yourself while she struggles to keep her family of nine fed, sheltered, and clothed? No! I'm not doing it!  You can't make me.  Okay, I'll ask but I know what she is going to do.

What?  It's too cold outside to leave just yet?  But my grandmother is holding the door open for our exit.  We have to go now. You've outworn our welcome. What do you mean, can she call us a taxi?  Oh, look!  She's holding a butcher knife in her hand.  Bye, Bye.