The Monday that Went Sideways

A Farm Fiasco

It was a sunny Monday morning, and for Mother, it was wash day. Clothes were piled high beside the old wringer washing machine in the small pantry off the kitchen, ready for her chores to begin. Father had already been out to check the hay crop, and once the sun had dried the fallen dew, his day would be spent mowing hay—not with a tractor, but with his horse-drawn mower. My twin brother and I played with our toys on the kitchen floor, where Mother could keep a watchful eye on us as she worked.

Minutes ticked by, and soon it was time for Mother to head out to the outer kitchen, open the back door, and hang the freshly washed clothes on the pulley clothesline. Meanwhile, Father had harnessed the horse, hooked him up to the mower, and was busy in the field. To everyone’s surprise, my brother and I were doing great for a change; no fighting or squabbling, just playing happily with our toys. Once Mother had hung all the clothes, she returned to the pantry to prepare a strawberry rhubarb pie for that evening’s dessert. She brought us a small snack with some juice, careful not to spoil our lunch. After mixing the pastry, she rolled out half of it, lined the pie plate, filled it with the strawberry and rhubarb mixture, then covered it with the remaining dough, pinched the edges, and popped it into the oven.

Unlike most families, we didn’t have a wood stove; instead, we had a sawdust-burning stove. Back then, it was a convenient and inexpensive way to heat our house and for Mother to cook our food. This stove involved dumping a pail full of sawdust into a hopper, which then sifted down into the firebox for burning. We lived close to a sawmill, so getting truckloads of sawdust was never an issue. Beyond the outer kitchen was another large room with a wide, tall door where the sawdust was stored to keep it dry. There was a medium-sized space behind the stove, next to the wall, where our hot water tank sat on four metal posts, with a tap close to the bottom. It was a common design in older homes, raising the tank off the floor for easy access. These tanks were typically made of materials like galvanized iron.

Mother had returned to the pantry to clean the counter area and wash up the mixing bowl, measuring cup, and other utensils. She had just finished putting the dishes back in the small cupboard when she glanced out the pantry window. She was fit to be tied: the clothesline had snapped! Grabbing her clothes basket and clothespin bag, she quickly told us to be good, explaining that the clothesline had broken, and she had to go pick up the clothes off the ground.

Father was having problems too. He noticed some of the hay wasn’t being cut in a couple of spots on the sickle bar. He stopped old Colonel, the horse, to check it out, and sure enough, his hay cutting had come to an end, at least until he could get to town to the machine shop. A couple of knives on the bar had broken. So, he and Colonel started back for the dooryard.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, two little four-year-olds were having a delightful time splashing in the water. How did water get on the floor? Well, you may have guessed the answer: little feet had gone behind the stove, and little fingers had managed to turn on the tap on the water tank. However, the fun time soon came to an abrupt end. Mother came into the outer kitchen with her clothes basket full of muddy clothes. As she got nearer to the kitchen door, she could hear running water. She dropped the basket of clothes, and as she opened the kitchen door, water trickled out into the outer kitchen. Immediately, she knew what had happened. Running around the stove to turn off the tap, she spotted two innocent-looking kids watching her, going as fast as she could go. She was not only fit to be tied, but downright furious. I wish I could remember word for word the scolding we received, but I do remember her fetching the mop and bucket to start cleaning up the mess. Unfortunately for us, Dad appeared at that moment, and let’s just say he wasn’t amused either. “Who turned the tap on?” he snapped. I pointed my little finger towards my brother, and at the same time, he pointed his finger at me. Needless to say, we each got a spanking from Dad, which was rare. He then sat each of us, still sniffling, on the couch while he helped Mother with the clean-up. She was truly upset.

No sooner had the last of the water been removed from the floor than Mother let out a gasp: “Oh my pie!” She grabbed her potholders, and as Dad lowered the oven door, smoke rolled out into the kitchen. She carefully lifted the pie plate out of the oven. Dad had stepped aside, knowing she would be taking it to the outer kitchen to sit it on the table by the screened window to cool. He opened the door for her, and as she started out, he took a glance at the blackened pastry. He never said a word. She caught her foot on the edge of the clothes basket and started to lose her balance. Dad grabbed her in time so she didn’t fall… but that glass pie plate, filled with strawberries and rhubarb, slid forward away from the pot holders, took a flying leap, and landed kerplunk on the floor. The glass pie plate was now in many pieces. That was the last straw. Mother couldn’t contain her emotions any longer, and now father not only had two whimpering kids but a crying wife.

No one was hungry at lunchtime, and the afternoon was spent cleaning up the pie remains and the glass pieces from the outer kitchen floor. Following that, Dad took his time and repaired the clothesline, and Mother, bless her heart, rewashed the clothes. Dad then hung them out for her. It was too late in the day to go to town to get the mower knives fixed, so he took the time to help her. In fact, no one was hungry at suppertime, and hardly a word was spoken. Bath time was early for us that night, and once in clean pyjamas, we were put to bed without the nightly story. Dad had barn chores to do, and Mother set up her ironing board—a cloth-covered board laid across the backs of two chairs. They were both exhausted by the time they finished their chores and were off to bed, hoping that Tuesday would turn out to be far better than this Monday had been.

We all have those stories, don’t we? What kind of disaster happened in your family as a child? Or perhaps your own children or grandchildren had unforgettable moments that still make you shake your head? We’d love to hear about your own disaster days or any hilarious family escapades! Share your memories in the comments below.