Blue Jay Soup, part 3: Made do

Recently, I had the pleasure to visit with Mrs. Mable Hoar, born in 1929 of Elk Creek, and her cousin, local historian, Mrs. Carol Boykin of Cabool.

A feisty lady with no qualms, Mable shared, “People didn’t have much money back then, and I was still wearing feed sack dresses after I was married!”

She and Carol both vividly remember sewing dresses, underclothes and sheets made from feed sacks, and other scraps of material. Carol shared that the sheets had seams in various places, but with a gentle smile, and shrug of the shoulder, she said, “Oh, well.”

I asked what their meals consisted of during that time, Mable responded without hesitation: “Beans and cornbread!”

She also shared what happened when they got a hole in the sole of their shoe. A new pair?  Not hardly!

“We cut out cardboard for insoles to make do until summer, and then we went barefoot!” she said.

My ear quickly caught those two words from Mable: “make do.” A phrase I often heard repeated growing up, especially among the elderly. It is a much forgotten Biblical principle that is archived throughout the Scriptures. I strongly argue the point that “making do” is merely an old fashioned term of being content.  Contentment like that heard in Mrs. Boykin’s comment.  Did you catch it?

“Oh, well.”

Oh, well?  Would that be the sentiment among present day? Would we be content sleeping under sheets that had seams resembling a jigsaw puzzle? Would our ladies today be content wearing dresses made from used feed sacks? If not, why not?

A man once compared a person’s faith in Christ Jesus to a bridge; one doesn’t know what it is made of, until you put a load on it.

The week following my visit with Mable and Carol, I hopped in the pickup and headed a few miles further south. Ninety-two years of age this October, John Coddington of Cabool has the same routine every weekday morning. He turns the key on his old ’71 Chevy tow truck, and idles up the road to his office. A memory like spring steel, John is a historical link to the past; a living book with a publishing date older than most. And I count it a blessing to know him.

“Michael, it was seven miles to town, and we walked it,” he said. “Everyone walked back then.”

Presenting his finger and thumb as a measurement, he proceeded.

“We carried our lunches to school; 5-inch soda crackers with peanut butter,” John said. “And we didn’t have electricity, we heated our bath water – when we took a bath – in a big ol’ copper pot on top of the wood cook stove.”

John remembers well of his mother standing over a wood cook stove preparing the staples: “taters and gravy.”  Also, true to many ladies of that era, she sewed his “feed sack shirts” on a Singer treadle sewing machine.

Often barefoot, if they ever received an injury, John’s mother administered an old fashioned remedy: coal oil.

“Ah, if it was minor, she treated it with wool fat,” he said, “or we just simply toughed it out.”

On one occasion, when John was trying to put the chickens to roost, he encountered a huge copperhead.  “Mom got the single shot .22, and politely shot his head off!” he said.

Cook, nurse, seamstress and crack-shot! Treasured qualifications for a family waist deep in hard times.

In his youth, John farmed with horses, saying, “I thought it was something when we finally got a 16 inch riding plow.”

That is, until the old mare gave him a wild ride one day, when his grandpa taught her to go!

Shaking his head with a smile, John recalled saying, “Grandpa, please don’t ever do that again.”

He continued.

“You know, we had livestock, but we never went to the veterinarian for anything, we just made do.”

There it was again, “made do.”

“We had dogs,” he said, “but they had never seen a bag of dog food in their life. They ate table scraps, and carcasses from wild game we had taken!”

John and I talked a lot about the times he grew up in; about his ride on the back of their old truck when they moved to Kansas, his grandpa sitting right beside him.

When John went off to the war in Korea, his grandpa – well off in years – said “I just hope I can stay alive until John makes it home.”

John was discharged in January of 1953; and, oh, was his grandpa glad to see him!  He had held on for John’s sake, passing just nine months later.

John concluded by holding his hands out with palms facing up, uttering profound words, as if making a humble plea.

“Times were hard,” he said, “but they were better times.  A man’s word was his bond.”

In closing, I remember many country folk as John spoke of; most are gone now. And like trying to grip a greased lariat with a Belgian stud colt on the other end, a way of life has slipped into memory. I think of them often, the tough times they endured, learning to be content (Philippians 4:11) and living a quiet life (1 Timothy 2:1-3).  And I softly whisper to myself, and the chaotic world that is not listening…I choose them.

I am standing and pointing, pointing to a time long ago,

when there were no locks on doors, and parents would say no.

Straightening nails with a hammer, making homemade stew, content with food and raiment – a people who “made do.”

When men loved the Lord, and talked about the weather;

when there was no divorce, because families prayed together.

When dairy farms were scattered, on every valley and hill; when people sat on porches, and lived the Bible still.

Oh, to return to that land, of a people of meager means;

I would sit by their side, smiling, while we snapped beans.

With tears flowing freely, my weary eyes would glisten;

and, I would say with all sincerity: “Please, you talk, I will listen.”

Lord willing, to be continued.

Michael Everett Jones is a Texas County native, old fashioned historian and purveyor of traditional Christian values. Email ozarksgrandpajones@gmail.com.

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