Cracks between the Floor Boards

There was a time, a time I think back to, more than a half century in the past; as a child of 6 years or so, on any one of what, at the time, seemed to be an endless succession of cold winter evenings, lying on the floor by the fire place feeling too hot on the side facing the fire and too cold on the side away from the fire. The fireplace was the only source of heat in the old shotgun house. There were cracks between the floor boards. Now these cracks served useful purposes. The boy had seen his mother utilize the cracks to her advantage on many occasions. When she swept the floor, if she swept in a direction perpendicular to the direction the floor boards ran, she did not have to move the dust and dirt she collected, very far before it simply disappeared. If the Preacher or some other dignitary was expected, the lady would scrub the floor. She would pour a lot of soapy water on the floor and move it around with a broom. And again the dirty water would disappear into oblivion through some unseen fourth spacial dimension, or maybe it was the cracks between the floor boards again. In any case, the VIP would be welcomed by a clean, well-scrubbed floor. If the child lay on the floor on one of these cold winter evenings and kind of rolled around, the cold wind blowing up through the cracks between the floor boards would mitigate the heat radiating from the fire and result in  something one might interpret as comfort. Cracks between the floor boards are very good things.

From his position on the floor the boy would see a number of things, depending on the direction the endless battle between the fire and the cracks required him to face. If the boy found himself facing away from the fire he would see the legs of straight back chairs and the feet of adults siting on them. In a slightly different direction he might see the legs of table or two. If he rolled so that he looked up at some small angle, he might see the underside of the quilting frame his mother may have hung from the celling by four ropes, each suspending a corner of the rectangle made up four strips of wood and of a size suitable for holding a bed sized quilt in place while any number of women worked on its construction by the fireside. If there was a quilt to be made at the time, the boy, from his position, could see the lining but, the cotton and the work of country art which would be the top, would be out of his field of view from the place of bliss he would have been enjoying after a long day in the cold. Looking off to a slightly different angle he could see the hand-turned legs of a small table. Standing in the place of prominence at the center of the table he could see an oil lamp. The lamp would be made of decorated cut glass. The base would be heavy with a substantial oil reservoir. A metal burner with a cotton wick would be screwed on the lamp base. A glass globe would be mounted on the burner. He might see a glowing flame burning on the wick. Next year it would be possible to look underneath the house and see bright lines projected on the ground, through the cracks between floor boards, from electric lights.  But electricity was a year in the future.  For now the grand oil lamp was the only light source. If the boy could see the flame on the wick he would see the legs of straight back wooden chairs around the table. He could also see the feet and lower legs of adults sitting on the chairs reading or doing some close work which required better light. From his position of affection for the cracks between the floor boards, he would be unable to see the King James Bible which would surely be open on the table by the oil lamp, but he knew it was always there. If the feet were not there, there would be no flame burning on the wick. It would have been extinguished, or maybe never ignited, to save oil. The fire light was good enough for conversation or dozing or most other things which might be going on a winter night.   He could sometimes see other children rolling around to find their own perfect comfort zone. All the sights might change from evening to evening as people came and went, but he took comfort  in the knowledge that if he looked toward the fire, the scene would never change. On any evening there would be a stick of firewood, they only call them logs in the movies, lying across the dog irons.  Some of the less well educated people who came along from time to time called them fire dogs, but this boy knew they were dog irons. The fire would always be made by placing a large back stick on dog irons at the rear of the fire place. This was supposed to throw the heat out. Smaller sticks of fire wood were placed on the dog irons in front of the back stick. This provided the fuel source for the fire. As the fire burned, it consumed the little sticks first and they would be replenished several times before the back stick was reduced to a point where it was pulled forward and forced to join the ranks of the subordinate fuel to be replaced by a new back stick. Now the dog irons were made of brittle cast iron. This set of dog irons had been the victim of the accidental dropping of an unusually large back stick which had broken the upper right side of front part. Its repair had required a 2 inch diagonal weld across the damaged area. The boy could always be sure to see this example of the blacksmith’s skill. 

And of course the ever present black cast iron kettle steamed on a bed of coals in front. Every fireplace in every farmhouse in the world had one of these, but this one had been a wedding gift to his parents from some well-wisher on their happy day.

That Very Kettle

 If he rolled to a slightly different position, he would see the churn placed to the left of the hearth and at just the right distance from the fire. The right distance was determined by the size of the flame at any given time. A churn is a ceramic container used to make butter and buttermilk. Raw cow’s milk is put in the churn and left to curdle. The milk had to be kept warm to sour and this was the only warm place in the house in winter.

This is the churn he saw.

The boy’s mother was diligent in her duties regarding the churn. She would move it closer to or away from the fire as may be needed to keep at the right temperature. She would   dutifully turn the churn on a regular basis to be sure the contents were warmed on all sides. But the usually faithful old churn would sometimes renege on its promise of new butter and buttermilk to refill the one gallon bale jar which held one of the family staples. When this happened the boy might see mom lift the kettle from its resting place on the bed of coals. The churn was equipped with a lid which had a hole in the center to accommodate the dasher handle. When a little water from the kettle was poured through the hole and allowed to run down the dasher into the reluctant milk it would usually stimulate the fermentation process and achieve the desired result. But if this did not work, a little buttermilk from a bale jar which retained some of the last churning’s product would follow the water along the dasher handle. This was sure to make things right and few nights later the boy would be able to look up from that sweet spot over the cracks between the floor boards and see the legs of another straight back chair next to the churn. He knew he would see mom’s feet, one on either side of the churn, and hear the splashing sound of the milk and the bump of the dasher hitting to the bottom of the churn. The dasher was a simple but effective device consisting of wooden handle of a length to reach from the level of a seated person’s hands to the bottom of the churn. The end of the dasher which was inside the churn would feature a pair of crossed wooden blocks which would strike the milk as the dasher was moved up and down during the churning process. This would break up the fermented milk fat. After several minutes of this the boy could see the dasher propped with its handle on the floor, its business end and the churn lid resting over the churn to allow residual liquid to drain back to its proper place.

The churn would be allowed to set for a time so the butter would rise to the surface. It would then be scooped off and placed in some container. Maybe this would be a mold of some sort if butter was to be sold. If it was intended for home use it would likely be just a bowl or cut. But in whatever form it would be put aside to cool and harden. The buttermilk which remained in the churn would be poured into the one gallon bale jars. And, of course, the churn would soon be refilled with raw cow’s milk and placed back by the fire side.

A decade more than a half century has passed, and that place of perfect bliss were the forces of the fire and the cracks between the floors boards come into balance, and all that is right with the world is only a distant memory, but the kettle and the churn can still be found.