Elegy to the Farm Where I Grew Up
MARY ALICE HOSTETTER
From the road I can see the wash house between the house and barn. Its chipped and peeling brown shingles matched those on the sprawling farmhouse nearby. In the wash house we boiled lye soap in the big iron kettle, taking turns stirring, careful not to splash. When the soap was finished, my mother grabbed the iron ladle from the hook and dipped the hot liquid into the soap pans to harden. When we butchered, the air in the wash house was filled with smoke and the smell of rendered lard.
From the road I can see the wash house between the house and barn. Its chipped and peeling brown shingles matched those on the sprawling farmhouse nearby. In the wash house we boiled lye soap in the big iron kettle, taking turns stirring, careful not to splash. When the soap was finished, my mother grabbed the iron ladle from the hook and dipped the hot liquid into the soap pans to harden. When we butchered, the air in the wash house was filled with smoke and the smell of rendered lard.
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