Funny how one broken collarbone can bring back a memory you haven’t thought about in years.

When I was trying to wash my hair with one hand and wrestling a slippery shampoo bottle, I remembered the shampoo bars I used to make. The minute I started making them again, I thought about my Mother and her lye soap adventure.

But to tell you that story, I have to go back a little further. Back to Arkansas, before we ever moved to Borger, TX.

I was only three years old or so, but I still remember laundry day.

Laundry day wasn’t a chore you did by yourself. It was something all the ladies did together… outside.

There was a big black cast-iron kettle sitting over an open fire, and someone stood over it with a big wooden “stir” paddle, working those clothes around in the hot, soapy water.

And the soap?

Granny made it herself out of lye and lard.  No fancy bottles, no brand names, and no trip to the store.

I was too little to be of any help, so my job was to stay out of the way… and DEFINITELY stay away from the fire under the pot.

I didn’t mind following that… smoke burned my eyes, so I kept my distance.

Having to do the laundry outdoors all changed when I was 4, and we moved from Arkansas to Borger, Texas

No more black kettle in the yard. No more laundry day with all the ladies.  We actually had running water, a real bathroom and a washing machine.

About 3 years after we moved to Texas, Daddy got sick and died 2 years later.

Suddenly, Mother, at 32, was raising two kids on her own and working a full-time job to support us.

Every penny counted, so Mother decided she was going to save a little money and make her own lye soap… just like Granny.

How hard could it be?

She gathered up everything she remembered from Granny’s recipe, mixed it all together, and started cooking it on our kitchen stove.

All I remember was the horrible smell… and it made the whole house stink!.

Once again, my job was to stay out of the kitchen and out of the way. This time, I didn’t have to be told twice!.

When the cooking was done, the soap had to be poured out so it could set up and harden. Mother spread a big thick stack of newspapers on the kitchen floor, right by the stove, and poured it out and there it sat.

I don’t remember if it was hours, days, or a whole week. But it sat there on that kitchen floor for quite a while.  You are supposed to cut lye soap into bars before it gets too hard. So when the time came, Mother  picked it up to start cutting…

That’s when she found out something had gone terribly wrong. 

• The soap had eaten through every one of those newspapers.
• It had eaten through the linoleum.
• It had eaten through the wood floor underneath the linoleum.
• It went ALL the way through… until you could see daylight through a hole in our kitchen floor!

Evidently, Mother’s measurements weren’t quite what Granny’s had been.

Now, you’d think with a hole in the kitchen floor, you would get someone to fix itand that woud be the end of it.

But not for Mother… she was SO embarrassed!   She didn’t tell the neighbors. She didn’t tell her friends…  and she certainly never told Granny!

But from then on, anytime we had company coming, there was a rug on the kitchen floor- right over that hole.

Out of sight… out of mind and no one was ever the wiser.

But I just knew that if she used that lye soap to wash our clothes,  and it could eat through a floor, then it could probably eat right through our clothes… and then eat US!

To this day, I don’t know what happened to that soap. Maybe she threw it out. Maybe she buried it in the backyard and that was why grass didn’t grow in that corner of the yard.

I never asked, and she never said.  But I can tell you this, Mother NEVER made lye soap again.

As a Realtor… when the house sold… a hole in the kitchen floor would definitely be an issue that would have to be dealt with. 

Looking back, I can’t help but smile. I think about Mother, a young widow with two kids, trying to stretch every dollar any way she could. She didn’t have Granny standing beside her. She just had what she remembered and a lot of determination.

It didn’t work out. Not even close.  But she tried.

There are times, trying is the bravest thing we do. Even when all we have to show for it is a hole in the kitchen floor and a rug to cover it up.

So, Mother… I’m sorry. I guess the secret’s out now.

Have you ever had a kitchen disaster so bad you tried to hide the evidence? Come on… I told you mine. well, my Mother’s disaster. I’d love to hear yours in the comments on my facebook page!

As long as God gives me another sunrise, He isn’t finished writing my story.

And that means He’s not finished with yours either.

Next – First One In The Tub