My Vacations at Grandma Breault's

-I  am fortunate to have grown up with the last of Grandma Gertrude Breault’s Family. When it was my turn to be a grandchild, Grandma was still in good health and still able to do the nice things she had been doing all of her life. Grandpa was tall and handsome, and the farm was always a nice place to come to. There was never much friction there, and I sensed an orderliness and a calm that my home will probably never quite possess. Clothes were hung up just so, the garden was planted in careful rows, socks were mended, meals were on time and eaten together. Grown ups always talked to and listened to children. If you’ve never sat and visited with grandparents, aunts and uncles like them, you really should.


A nice thing about the Breaults is that you don’t have to be born into the family to be an esteemed member. Marrying a Breault will work.  If you are the child of the person marrying a Breault, bingo!  Adoption is a shoo-in, and being a neighbor under twelve or so, perfect.  Just elbowing your way up to the table and smiling will probably give you a great start. Once you’re in, nobody remembers that you might not have a drop of Breault blood in your veins, its all about your heart.


My three day “vacation” every summer with Grandma, Grandpa, and the young Breaults was always a great pleasure, and I just loved every minute. My Aunts were always very nice to me, and I hope I have passed down that tradition.


Grandma cooked and baked on a big wood  fired cook stove. Her kitchen was very clean and very plain. Her dishes were plain white, but at mealtime, the dining room table was always nicely set, with glasses of water for all, a cup and a saucer for grandma and Grandpa’s tea. Grandma sat on the end by the front windows, Grandpa sat on the end by the back door, with children down both sides.


I never heard Grandma Breault raise her voice.  Once, when Uncle Ralph didn’t get up and go to the barn for chores, Grandpa walked back to the house from the barn. Everyone held their breath and looked shocked. Grandpa walked to the upstairs door, opened it, and called “Ralph”. Then he turned, never said another word, and went back to the barn. Uncle Ralph was minutes behind him, buttoning his shirt as he hurried for the barn.
I guess uncle Ralph never did that again!!   Whew!!


My cooking career started by  helping grandma cook. She never seemed to mind my questions, and the gentle heat of the wood stove was not too dangerous, so I got to stir the “wagon grease” gravy that grandma made almost every day. I still make it and I always think of Grandma when I do.. There’s no recipe, you have to see it made.


The little room off the kitchen, until the advent of water and plumbing in the house, was the pantry. In it was the big bread crock with a lid, where grandma stored her bread. As each loaf was served, the crusts were put back in the crock. I couldn’t believe my eyes since crusts were my favorite part of the loaf. I asked grandma why the crusts were left in the crock and she said the  kids didn’t like them. I asked her if she would save them all for me, and she did!


Grandma canned in canning jars holding two quarts when her family was at home, and we grandkids discovered the gourmet delight of bread and home made butter, and dill pickles. This was our favorite Sunday afternoon treat. We always asked her permission, and we always got it! Every one of us loved those pickles in their big blue or crystal jars. Nice memories.

Depending on the day, there was always something going on at Grandma's. Monday was clothes washing day, and she literally washed and hung and took in clothes all day long. Did this mean that the mealtimes were neglected? Nope! Not once. There was always helpers, Vivian and Donna Lee, and I'm guessing "the boys" helped to pump water and fill the washing machine and tubs, but this seemed to have been done before I got up. When the weather was nice, the washing machine and the two big tubs full of rinse water  were out on the back porch, and the girls helped to sort, soak, rinse, and carry the baskets of clothes to the clothes line where they were hung to dry, a good shake first, colors hung with like colors, and the lines hoisted like a multi- colored sail to flutter in the prairie skies, hopefully sunny and breezy. "Bringing in" and folding followed along with sprinkling the items to be ironed with water, and rolling them and putting them in the basket designated for the ironing. That either began shortly, or would be done in the morning. When I first knew Grandma, they were ironing with flat irons. These were literally big chunks of iron, shaped pointed at each end, with a detachable handle. They were set on the cook stove, and when they were hot, the handle was clamped on and the clothes carefully ironed. Scorching and burning often happened but in skilled hands, beautiful clothing appeared. As an iron cooled, it was taken back to the stove, the handle detached, another attached and the ironing continued. I skipped right over starching clothes like white shirts and good blouses because well, it would take a long time to tell, and longer to cook, strain, dip, wring, shake, hang, dry, sprinkle, and iron each item. It was a long day, and a lot of work, and chores did not stop, nor mealtime for 7 or so people, nor washing and drying dishes after each and every meal by hand. No, Grandma was not typing on her laptop nor chatting with her sisters. Her day started with work, and ended with tending the fires before bed. And she loved it.

Many days were a little slower, and most summer days included working in the big gardens that the family depended on for food. The one nearest the house produced vegetables of all sorts, and one down toward the river was the potato patch. Both needed weeding and hoeing, and that's what kids did in the summer. They all kept busy at their chore, singing and grousing at each other, repeating rhymes and just being silly, until Grandma called them for lunch. And they loved it.

Fall days could be filled with harvesting and canning a certain fruit or vegetable, and everything was done carefully to Grandma's standards. Scrubbing big tubs of pickles after you have picked them all morning might seem like a hard task, but with lots of hands, and some singing and talking, it seemed to me that everyone was enjoying their job. And part of the fun of canning blackberries was getting in the car and going off to pick them somewhere for half a day, which might include a picnic lunch!

Fall days were also the days when the wheat was threshed, and the Thresher's came, but that's a whole story by itself. Many families also had butchering days, when neighbors came to help to harvest pigs or cattle to be processed for winter use, others loaded up their animals and took them to a slaughter house, they came back either hanging or all cut up and wrapped. I am not sure that the Breault's butchered or not, but I know they raised their own meat. Every farmer did I think.