Appalachian Word of the Week -- WORSH

Today is WORSH day at my house.

Thankfully, it's not as difficult as it used to be during my childhood.

Do you remember WORSH Day?

Remember that old wringer WORSHER that sat on the back porch? It was a handy convenience, according to my mother. She remembered the day when they had to use a scrub board to clean the clothes at the river. I wasn't sure if I believed her hard-luck story back then. Now, I realize she described common practice in her day in Appalachia. Our WORSHER had wringers -- two round stick-like things -- on the back, above the WORSHER. You stuck the soppy wet clothes between the rollers, clamped them down, and it fed them through, squeezing most of the water out and back into the tub. It came out a bit flat and stiff.

Of course, my cousin discovered the hard way that those wringers would squeeze an arm and shoulder flat, too. Luckily, my aunt Joyce managed to stop the wringers before they pulled his entire body through. He ended up in a cast for quite a while after his smart little trick. I doubt he got anywhere near a WORSHIN' machine again.

After the WORSH had all been run through the wringers (Hmmm. Wonder if that's where they got that term), and mom stacked it in a laundry basket, she went out in the backyard to hang the WORSH on the line.

Lift the pole to raise the WORSH

Our line sagged across the yard from one pole to another. In the middle of the line, we had a pole with a cut-out on top, that could be adjusted to lower the line or raise it. Since Mom was only five feet tall, she had to lower the line enough to reach and pin the WORSH to the line. Of course, the pole kept it high in the air when not in use. Otherwise, it could decapitate an unobservant runner. In the least, it would smart right good.

Did you have one of those little bags that hung on your clothesline with the clothespins inside?

When I was old enough to help hang the WORSH, my arms ached by the time I had it all pinned up. To keep the WORSH from dragging on the ground, we'd take that pole with the notch in it, lift up the line, and stab the pole into the ground. Certainly didn't want that clean WORSH to end up draggin' the ground--or being low enough for the dog to grab hold of it and run.

After the sunshine spent the day drying the WORSH as the breeze flapped the WORSH around on the line, it was time to unpin it and put it back in the basket. Oh, how heavenly to draw that sun-dried WORSH to your face and breathe it in. Nothing like it. Not even Snuggle dryer sheets.

ARNIN' the WORSH

WORSH day was not complete yet, though. Some laundry could be folded and put away, but a lot of it had to be ARNED. We didn't have steam ARNS in those days, so we had a different method for arnin' the wrinkles out of our WORSH.

Mom had a sprinkler head made of metal. It looked a lot like the end of a watering can, except it had cork around the neck of it and could be inserted into a bottle. We used a Coke bottle. That means it could have been Coke, RC Cola, Sprite, Squirt, or Nehi. We called everything Coke.

We filled the Coke bottle with water and stuck the sprinkler head into the top. Then we sprinkled the dried clothes, one piece at a time, folded and rolled them into a tight roll, and stuck them into a plastic bag with a zipper.

The next day, we ARNED the WORSH and hung it up in a closet or chifferobe.

Now, every WORSH day didn't fall on a warm, sunny day. For rainy, cold, or snowy days, we had a line set up in the house. It stretched from the front room to the kitchen. To keep it from sagging, a hook on the doorframe to each room held it high. Maneuvering through the house was a tad tricky on those days. We had to be careful carrying coal to the stove, or removing ashes from the firebox. We also had to keep the WORSH away from the stove. Mom constantly reminded us, "Don't mess up that WORSH or you'll be WORSHIN' it again yourself." Nobody wanted to re-worsh anything.

Do you remember WORSH day when you were little? Or littler? Are you as thankful for modern washers and dryers as I am? Guess I shouldn't complain anymore about WORSH day, should I?

Tell me your stories. I'd love to hear them. 

Appalachian Word of the Week -- CHIFFEROBE

I'm sure you've heard of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but have you heard of a CHIFFEROBE?

A CHIFFEROBE was commonplace in the homes of Appalachia as I grew up. I remember them being a place of wonder and mystery. They had a key, you see. Only the possessor of that key was allowed to open the CHIFFEROBE.

Oh, the surmises my brain came up with about what was inside. What secrets could possibly be hidden behind that locked door?

I remember the one Granny had. I couldn't imagine what a granny would hide in that CHIFFEROBE. Unfortunately, I never discovered its secrets. I can only imagine.

Did she come from royalty and her jewed crown was hidden inside? Were there amazing ball gowns hidden away from a former life? Had she hidden a stash of money in there?

Key to CHIFFEROBE

It nearly drove me crazy as I stared into the mirror on the door and wondered what lived on the other side of that keyhole. And where did she hide that key?

Daddy had a CHIFFEROBE, too. Many times, I tugged on the door, hoping he had forgotten to lock it. No such luck.

What in the world would a man hide inside a locked CHIFFEROBE? What could he possibly hold so dear that it required a lock to keep everyone else out?

After the huge flood of 1977 swallowed our house and destroyed almost every possession we owned, I finally got to see the inside of Daddy's CHIFFEROBE.

Disappointment. Behind one door, he had a rod hanging with most of his clothes. Apparently, Mom took up all the room in the big closet with her clothes. On the floor of the CHIFFEROBE, he had his shoes stored.

Behind the clothes, in the corners, he had his guns--shotguns and rifles--for hunting. Of course, what I remember most is the day he came into the backyard while Mom was reclining in the sun and shot two HUGE black snakes out of the tree above her. She wasn't happy about that.

The other door of the CHIFFEROBE hid more interesting items. Instead of a rod for clothes, it had shelves and drawers. Papers, family photos, a few books, all his notebooks detailing every penny he ever spent and all family data (births, deaths, full names, some genealogy). I am fortunate enough to have one of those notebooks now. On the bottom shelf, he had some Mason jars of homemade wine he made from the grapes that grew wild on Laden Trail on Pine Mountain where he grew up. I had never seen my dad take a single drink of his wine.

The drawer on the bottom contained all kinds of trinkets and items he deemed necessary to save. Loose coins, screws and bolts, and things I didn't recognize. I did recognize his Greyhound safety awards, though. Each pin had a Greyhound dog (their logo) on it, the year he earned it, and a diamond, ruby, or sapphire under the dog's tummy. A few years after the flood, Mom took those pins to a jeweler and had the stones removed and reset into rings. I got one of the rings. It's my most prized possession.

The CHIFFEROBE Daddy built

When I was born, Daddy built a kid-sized version of a CHIFFEROBE just for me. He crafted it himself, in the apartment he and Mom lived in at the time, with a handsaw, sandpaper, and a hammer.

My CHIFFEROBE survived the flood and then a fire in my first apartment. It has lived in Kentucky, New York City, Ohio, Michigan, Maryland, South Carolina, Tennessee, and now in Georgia. It bears a few scars and smoke stains, but it still has most of its original glass knobs Daddy placed on it over 60 years ago. I still use my CHIFFEROBE every day.

Did you grow up with a CHIFFEROBE in your house? Do you have one now?

I'd love to hear your stories.

*Special thanks to Kay Ball for the top photo of her CHIFFEROBE.