Appalachian Word of the Week -- DISHRAG

Back home in eastern Kentucky, we didn't use a sponge or cloth to worsh (wash) our dirty dishes. We used a DISHRAG.

They weren't a pretty sight, either. It didn't take long for those iron skillets to do a job on your new DISHRAGS and rub them into mangled, threadbare, remnants of their previous selves. Hmmm... makes me think of how I feel at the end of the day.

I know my dad used a DISHRAG until hardly a thread remained attached to another. I reckon he considered it being frugal. I just know I lost a few fingernails that way. Iron skillets are rough on hands, too.

Stained and holey DISHRAG

I suppose that's one reason why I have a massive supply of DISHRAGS today. I prefer a fluffy DISHRAG that still looks like a DISHRAG instead of what you have to pull out of the drain so the water can flow properly.

Periodically, I go through my exorbitant supply of dishrags and pick out any with stains or holes. Stains can be impossible to remove. I take all the imperfect DISHRAGS I would be embarrassed if anyone saw in my kitchen and use them for truly disgusting jobs. Hopefully, my dad approves of my continued uses.

Ugly DISHRAGS are great for dusting, cleaning, and paint clean-up. They're also handy for dog or cat issues that need something stronger than a paper towel to scrub out of the carpet or off the sofa. For those incidents, you can simply toss them into the trash with no regret.

DISHRAGS are also helpful for baby or husband "oops" too. Again, toss it when the mess is cleaned up and never wonder if that was the DISHRAG you used for ...

A DISHRAG can save a life, too. When my brother was in junior high school, he received a chemistry set for Christmas. As he attempted to get a cork into an open-ended tube, Mom cautioned him, "You're gonna jab that thing right through your hand..."

And he did.

Blood spurted through the tube every time his heart beat. When he saw it, his heart started beating even faster. We could tell. Mom grabbed some DISHRAGS out of the kitchen drawer, yanked the tube from his palm, and used the DISHRAGS to put pressure on the artery. She practically dragged him to the car and Dad drove them to the doctor. He lived through it--thanks to Mom's quick thinking and the DISHRAGS.

She got a couple of new DISHRAGS after that, too. Even Dad didn't want to re-use the hero DISHRAGS.

DISHRAG

Did your family call them a DISHRAG? Or did you call it something else? What do you call them now?

I'd love to hear your unique story of how you or your family used DISHRAGS.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- DECORATION DAY

We just observed Memorial Day in America. The emphasis tends to be for all military personnel who sacrificed their lives for our freedom. I've always loved the small American flags dancing in the winds on the hillsides of a graveyard. I can't help but shed a tear. I love America and our heroes.

Do you remember, though, when it wasn't called Memorial Day? We called it DECORATION DAY.

We didn't, however, only decorate the graves of our military heroes. We celebrated the lives of all of our ancestors by placing flowers on their gravesites.

Decoration Day flowers

When I was young -- much younger -- we didn't have the fancy cloth flowers that looked almost real. We had plastic flowers for DECORATION DAY. Plastic flowers that looked ... well ... plastic. Even the colors were far from realistic in shades of bright red, blue, orange, purple, yellow, and white.

Every year on DECORATION DAY, people flocked to the grocery store, florist, hardware store, dime store, or roadside stand to pick out arrangements, some in wreaths, crosses, or bouquets. Large families covered the gravesite with their plastic flowers.

One of my favorite pastimes on DECORATION DAY was to drive through Resthaven Cemetery in Loyall and look at all the beautiful colors covering the hillsides. We parked the car and took a closer look. I remember running all over and oohing and ahhing at the biggest and prettiest displays of remembrance.

Decoration Day flowers for a hero

Of course, I made special notice of the ones with a little flag stuck in the ground by the headstone or marker. It saddened me when a grave had no decoration at all.

I'm not physically able to climb the hills and place flowers on the graves myself anymore. Especially not my old family graveyard up on Pine Mountain. My cousin, Carol, still climbs the steep hill and takes care of the task for all our Nolan and Shell ancestors buried there.

I have to laugh as she tells about the experience each year, though. It's so steep and slick up there, she usually has at least one slip-and-fall during the process. At least she remembers our family on my behalf. Guess I shouldn't laugh.

Still today, I enjoy driving by a graveyard and noting the beautiful flower arrangements and flags on display. The only thing that has changed about DECORATION DAY is the name of the holiday and that the flowers are now more realistic than ever before. Some you need to touch to determine if they are real or fake.

Looking at flowers on Decoration Day

Do you place flowers or flags on graves for DECORATION DAY? Did you or do you still call it DECORATION DAY? I'd love to hear your stories.

Appalachian Word of the Week -- MERTHIOLATE

Merthiolate

If you grew up in my era and were prone to cuts and scrapes, I'm sure you remember the Appalachian Word of the Week -- MERTHIOLATE.

MERTHIOLATE, not to be confused with the milder mercurochrome, made more children cry than skinned knees, falls from monkey bars, and sliding down an icy street in winter on your nose.

Just the memory of having MERTHIOLATE painted on your cuts and scrapes can make your heart race with terror. I screamed much louder as Mom or my teacher approached me with that tiny bottle of glowing pinkish colored torture than I ever cried in pain from the injury.

Waiting for the MERTHIOLATE

Unfortunately, I fell a lot as a child. It didn't help that our playground at Loyall was covered with gravel or concrete. Every fall resulted in bloody open wounds.

No matter how intensely I begged, pleaded, and cried for them to paint my wound with the basically painless mercurochrome instead, they always grabbed the MERTHIOLATE out of the first aid box and came at me with that glass applicator after dipping it into the toxic glowing liquid.

I remember some kids having to be held down, screaming, as the teacher painted their skin pink. I won't say whether I was a member of that group...

At one point, after enduring a week of multiple doctorings of MERTHIOLATE, I remember deciding it was better to bleed and risk disease than to have one more treatment. I hid from the teacher. Unfortunately, one of my "friends" ratted on me and the teacher came trotting to my hiding place with that tiny bottle. I still don't forgive that "friend."

One of the happiest times in my life was when I reached the age when I didn't come in from recess bleeding. Of course, it could be a result of growing out of my extreme awkwardness.

How about you?

Did you have to endure the pink stain of torture being slathered on your cuts and abrasions?

Do you have a funny story?




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