MAMA JACK’S BED
Stories About Mama Jack
Written At the Request of Tara Lemoine (Her Great Granddaughter)
When I remember Mama Jack I remember how she smiled with her eyes every time she looked at me. Some people smile with their lips, but not their eyes; some smile with lips and eyes. Mama Jack was the only person I’ve ever known who always smiled with her eyes. My cousin Henry and I often talked about how much she loved her ten grandchildren. She was the only grandparent Henry ever knew, and in his heart her memory burned bright. These stories were written because his children and grandchildren wanted to know more about the woman Henry (and the other nine of us) called Mama Jack. I begin with one of my earliest memories, etched in sight, sound, smell, and touch. With all my senses I can recall Mama Jack’s bed.
Mama Jack’s big bed occupied the place of honor in the back bedroom. It was placed in a corner with just room enough for the person sleeping on the right to edge in between bed and wall. When I was very young, the room was heated by a wood stove, which was replaced by a space heater fueled by butane gas from a big tank that sat just outside the house. On either side of the stove/heater were two wooden rocking chairs, the one on the right for Mama Jack and the one on the left for Daddy Jack.
I have no memory of ever spending the night when Daddy Jack was home; and few memories of summer nights. I’ve given this some thought and believe that I spent nights with Mama Jack when Daddy Jack, and probably my Daddy and Clint, were off hunting or fishing. Mama Jack didn’t like being alone at night, so I had the privilege of keeping her company.
There were three doors opening into the bedroom. One, located across from the foot of the bed, opened onto the back porch, and permitted cross ventilation that cooled the room in the heat of summer. The second opened into the kitchen, and made it convenient for Mama Jack to tend to things there. The third opened into the middle bedroom. There were 4 windows, two south-facing along the right side the bed and two west -facing on the wall to the left of the head of the bed. On the left of the bed where a night stand would be placed today, stood Mama Jack’s sewing machine.
When I was little, there was no bathroom in the house, and no running water. During the day, we all went to the outhouse, which was located far from the well, and out of sight behind the smokehouse. When a bathroom was added to the house, it was built between the front bedroom and the middle bedroom, (where a large linen and storage closet was originally located). It was a long, cold distance from bed to bathroom for a small child, so Mama Jack st kept a “slop jar” (another word for chamber pot) for me. It was actually a very pretty pot, with a tight fitting lid to contain any odors. Every morning Mama Jack emptied the slop jar before I was awake.
During the day, Mama Jack’s bedroom was the center of social activity. Only the kitchen competed as a gathering place (and of course the dining room during meals). The contrast made the nights in the bedroom seem even quieter. During those long winter evenings, I would sit in Mama Jack’s lap or in Daddy Jack’s rocking chair, and we would listen to Jack Benny, or Red Skeleton, or Ozzie and Harriet. My favorite was Baby Snooks, and Mama Jack liked the Southern Gospel Hour.
Before time to go to bed, Mama Jack would warm two bricks on the stove or heater. When the bricks were warm, she wrapped them in flannel cloths and placed them between the sheets on each side of the bed. While she heated the bricks, she also heated a kettle of water, which she poured into a metal pan shaped like a basin. With this warm water and a soft flannel wash cloth, and homemade lye soap she gave me a quick bath and changed me into my pajamas. Then she turned back my side of the big bed. In cold weather the sheets were flannel, and in warmer weather, they were cotton. In either case, they had the fresh scent of linens dried in the sun and wind. The cotton sheets were always smooth because Mama Jack ironed her sheets. The heated brick made the bed warm and welcoming.
Climbing into that big bed wasn’t easy. It was made of iron, and stood well off the floor. I could (and did) crawl under it. From the underside I could look up and see the iron side rails. These rails supported strong boards that ran crosswise to hold up the springs and mattresses. On top of the boards were iron springs. Keeping the dust out of those springs was not easy, but somehow Mama Jack managed. Above the iron springs, was Mama Jack’s cotton mattress.
The only thing “store-bought” about that cotton mattress was the ticking (the cloth that contained the cotton). Mama Jack made the mattress by sewing the ticking and then stuffing it with raw cotton raised on the farm. The top mattress, placed above the cotton mattress was the distinctive feature of Mama Jack’s bed. Like the cotton mattress, it was made by Mama Jack, but it was stuffed, not with cotton, but with down (the soft under-feathers of waterfowl). When flipped and fluffed as Mama Jack did every morning, the feather mattress was 8 to 10 inches high. When compressed under the weight of a body, it was about 4-5 inches thick. It was like sleeping in a cloud.
I’m not certain of the source of the down that filled Mama Jack’s mattress and pillows. My maternal grandmother kept a flock of geese as a source of feathers (and to drive off snakes and other critters). Many farmers, like my Uncle Edward, kept a flock of geese to help pluck the grass growing in the cotton, but I don’t remember Mama Jack ever having more than one or two geese. I suspect that the soft feathers came from the breasts of ducks that Daddy Jack and her sons killed each winter.
To climb into that bed, I pulled myself up, and standing on the iron side rails, I would fall softly into that huge pile of feathers. That dive was an utterly delightful, and mostly forbidden joy. During the day, the bed was sacrosanct. After Mama Jack carefully made it each morning, that feather mattress was never to be touched by a hand (much less a body). NO ONE sat on Mama Jack’s bed. NO ONE climbed on Mama Jack’s bed. NO ONE deposited any object on Mama Jack’s bed. NO ONE even left an indented hand print on Mama Jack’s bed. Only in the case of severe illness or approaching death, can I imagine someone reclining on Mama Jack’s bed during day-light hours.
Sinking deep into the feathers, surrounded by the brick-warmed, soft flannel sheets that smelled of sunshine, I would rest my head on a pillow made just like the feather mattress, and pull the quilts up around me. Mama Jack had an everyday bed spread, that she “spread” over the bed each morning to protect her precious quilts from dust or other contamination. She also had a fancy spread for special occasions and family gatherings. The spread was removed from the bed and carefully folded before bedtime, and replaced each morning when the bed was made.
The covers that I pulled up to keep warm in my feather nest were Mama Jack’s handmade quilts. There were always at least two and sometimes three. The bottom quilt was always cotton, and often old. Old quilts are softer and more cuddly than new. Mama Jack made many cotton quilts. They covered all her beds, and were stored in the top of the linen closet (even after it became a bathroom). The top quilt was usually a wool quilt. Wool quilts, made from scraps of wool fabric, were far less common than cotton quilts, but held heat better. They were also a bit scratchy.
Today you see quilts made with large pieces cut from bolts of cloth with carefully chosen and coordinated colors. Mama Jack’s quilts were made of small pieces, often all that could be salvaged from a well-worn garment. The colors were often muted because worn-out clothes were washed many times before being turned into scraps for quilts. The liners were purchased at the store, and were the most expensive part of the quilt. In later years, Mama Jack made more colorful quilts as wedding gifts, and these demonstrated her art better than the scrap quilts.
Mama Jack had a lot to do before joining me in the warm feather bed. She always checked out the kitchen, setting everything in place for next morning’s coffee and breakfast. Then she would stand by the warm fire and change into her flannel night gown. I never understood how she did it, but she would pull the gown on over her clothes, and with her head through the neck, but her arms inside the gown, she would remove her day clothes without showing a bit of skin or naked body. When her clothes were removed, she thrust her arms through the sleeves of the gown, and then carefully folded and hung up her clothes.
There was no closet, and she hung her dress in a chifforobe, (sometimes called a wardrobe or an armoire ). The chifforobe was the only large piece of furniture in the bedroom, and stood in the northwest corner of the room. After closets were added to the house, the chifforobe was replaced with a dresser.
My Grandmother never wore anything other than a dress. Over her dress, she usually wore an apron. Sunday was the only day she didn’t wear an apron. She also always wore stockings (even in summer heat). Her everyday stockings were cotton, but on Sunday she wore nylon. She dressed up on Sunday, and wore a hat and gloves. Everyone in her little church called her, “Aunt Ida,” and one Mother’s day, she was declared the “official Mother of Union Hall Baptist Church.”
After putting her clothes away Mama Jack removed her shoes and stockings, and put these away. I was always fascinated by Mama Jack’s feet, because I had never seen feet like hers. Today, I can look at my own feet, and see exactly the deformation that so enthralled me as a child. I inherited Mama Jack’s “bunions,” a condition in which our big toes gradually begin to draw sideways toward the little toe (pulled by shortening tendons). As we age the condition worsens and the joint below the big toe protrudes. Mama Jack’s soft everyday shoes became distorted into the shape of her feet. She kept the shoes out of sight.
I often wish I had inherited Mama Jack’s height instead of her feet. She was a tall woman, like her mother and her daughters. At least she was a tall woman for her era. Taking after her Dutch and German ancestors, she stood 5’8 to 5’10’. As she aged, her spine contracted and she grew shorter. I remember her remarking that her three sons had competed to see which one could marry the smallest wife (Clint won). She was right, Myrtis Lee, Paige, and Edith were all small women, dwarfed by their husbands’ larger Mother and sisters.
After removing her shoes and stockings, Mama Jack would carefully wash her feet in the warm water remaining in the basin after my “bath.” Then, sitting in her big rocking chair, Mama Jack would let down her hair. She always wore her long hair in braids, which she kept pinned up on her head. She would unpin the long braids, which dropped over her shoulders. Then she would unbraid each braid, releasing her long hair. In her youth, her hair was a jet black, like her daughters Lorena, Cecile, and Sarah. Only Iola had light hair. However, just like her daughters, silver infiltrated the dark hair in their 30’s.
During this period of my life, Mama Jack was in her 50’s, and her hair was silver and black (salt and pepper some call it). Some of her lighter hair was a pale gold rather than silver, creating a tri-color effect. Her hair was beautiful and spread out over her shoulders. The long tresses were wavy from the plaits. With a brush, she brushed it (100 strokes, I guess, because I couldn’t count that high). She would rock and brush, and when she was satisfied, she carefully plaited her hair leaving the long braids loose on her shoulders. In the morning, she would pin them up again, to repeat the cycle.
Her hair ritual finished, Mama Jack cleaned her teeth. When I was older, she used a toothbrush, but when I was young she brushed her teeth with a twig cut from a tree, then scraped and stripped to form a tuff of stiff fibers for teeth cleaning. Usually she used black gum twigs, but she also used sweet gum, sumac, or dog wood. She used soda for toothpaste. When remembering this, I googled twig tooth brushes, only to learn that you can order them from Amazon. Apparently this “natural” way is popular again.
After her toilette, Mama Jack took up her Bible and settled into her rocker for her evening scripture reading. Mama Jack didn’t have a fancy “Bible study” plan, she simply started at Genesis 1:1, and read each night until her reached Revelation 22:21. Then she began again with Genesis. Her approach so impressed me, that in my late teens I imitated her. I made it through my bible twice before backsliding. I have Mama Jack’s last Bible. Like all her others, it is well-worn.
After reading her Bible, Mama Jack would take off her glasses, carefully clean and put them away, and kneel down on her side of the bed to pray. Sometimes I tried to kneel with her, but my knees began to ache or I got too cold to stay on that floor. One thing I never doubted, Mama Jack’s prayers were powerful. As a child, I felt comforted and protected because I knew she prayed for me. Years later, I realized that nothing really bad happened to our family until after Mama Jack’s prayers were silenced by death. Then we had some hard times.
Mama Jack usually wanted to go to sleep as soon as we were both in bed, but sometimes I could get her to tell a story. I could often get her to talk by asking her about the history of one of the blocks in a quilt. Each block seemed attached to a garment that held memories. This strip was from Daddy Jack’s vest, that he wore to meetings of The Woodsmen of the World. This square was from the dress Iola wore to school on her first day. And tears welled up in he eyes when she identified a block from the gown that her first child wore before his death of SIDS.
Among my treasures are a wool quilt Mama Jack made; one of the pillows she stuffed with down; and her rocking chair that stood by the fire. I should give them to someone for whom they would have meaning, but I have been slow to part with the memories they invoke.
Mama Jack’s bedroom never seemed totally dark. She didn’t pull the shades down before going to bed (after all we were way out in the country with no close neighbors, and a very noisy dog). The moonlight and starlight brightened the sky and the room. In the semi darkness, I still remember Mama Jack’s sleeping features in silhouette.
Her skin was beautiful. Even in her 80’s she had only smile lines, in an otherwise smooth face. She may have had a bit of vanity about her skin, or she just didn’t want the sun to darken it. She never used fancy creams, but she always wore a bonnet with a stiff brim sticking out front and a long tail in the back to protect her face and neck. She made her own bonnets, stiffening the brims by quilting. Her bonnets often matched her aprons (which she also made). I’m not sure if that was a fashion statement or because she could get a better buy on a quantity of fabric.
Sometimes in those nights in Mama Jack's bed I would open my eyes and she would be looking down at me, those smiling eyes radiating love. I loved my Mama Jack for many reasons, but mostly because I always knew how much she loved me.
