A House to Remember (Memoir, written in October 2023)

 A House to Remember

By Cindy Downes

 

What do you get when you combine a World War II veteran, a 240-acre farm, and a prisoner of war barracks together? A home. That’s right - my childhood home for eighteen years. My dad, recently discharged from the army, purchased the barracks, moved it onto his family farm in Lewes, Delaware, and divided it into three sections. He used one piece for our house, one piece for a shop, and the remaining piece was used for the ends of the buildings and room dividers. 

This home of ours featured crumbly plaster walls, an asbestos roof, and rough-hewn wooden floors. It was rustic for sure, but we did have all the luxuries of life including electricity, water, heat, and an indoor toilet. 

 

When we needed water, we grabbed a bucket or two and carefully navigated down rickety wooden stairs to our basement below. We then headed over to the pitcher pump and gave it a few strokes. Instantly, we delighted with refreshingly cold spring water as it gushed up from our very own personal well. 

 

We were never concerned about cold winter nights in this cozy coastal dwelling. Our home had Big Bertha, a heating system like no other. Big Bertha was a 55-gallon oil drum, stacked horizontally on cement blocks and conveniently located in the corner of our main living area. To keep it spewing out its luxurious heat, we periodically chopped down an old tree from our woods, sawed it into two-foot pieces, opened the fabricated metal door of Big Bertha, and stacked the wood inside. Then, we fired it up, sat back, and got warm and toasty. We even cooked meals in Big Bertha using a sturdy, black, cast-iron pot with a lid. We enjoyed such delicacies as fresh vegetable soup, chicken and dumplings, and chunky beef stew. 

 

Another feature of our house was its indoor outhouse. There was no need for us to venture outside in the freezing snow or in the middle of a hurricane as our outhouse was in the basement. It consisted of a five-gallon bucket carefully placed under a booty-sized hole cut into the top of a red wooden box that sat over the bucket. The women of our house implored the menfolk to aim properly as the top of the bucket did get slimy now and then from inaccurately streamed liquid waste. Lucky for me, the job of emptying this innovative convenience was left to the boys. 

 

My dad was before his time when it came to creating our kitchen as it had a modern, open floor plan like the homes of today rather than the chopped up back kitchens that were common in the 40’s. He custom built a ten-foot-long table, along with matching benches, that he placed down the center of this kitchen. Not only did he create an abundance of space for dining and conversation, but he also enabled the women of the house to prepare the meals and socialize at the same time. We weren't stuck in a "back kitchen." I remember many good times around this table, especially when my relatives from New Jersey came to visit. We dined on Uncle Freddy's fresh caught fish and our own home-grown produce. Afterwards, we ladies would play pinochle for hours, at this table, while the men sat in the living room and smoked. 

 

Gradually, children were added to our household including my brother Randy in 1947; me in 1950, and my brother Keith in 1955. This meant two more bedrooms, one for my brothers and one for me. Neither of these bedrooms had doors; but when I got older, I created my own door from curtains I made. This was another unique aspect of our home. Unlike the women who lived in town, we didn’t have to drive to the nearest city 40 miles away to buy fabric. Instead, we could get all the fabric we needed from our chickens. Chicken feed, at that time, was sold in beautiful, floral-printed sacks. All I had to do was cut the sacks into appropriately sized pieces and then sew away on Grandma Wilson’s treadle sewing machine - a Singer, of course! Not only did I make curtains for my bedroom door from these sacks, but I also made clothes for myself that I wore to school. I may not have been the most fashionable student at school, but I did learn a marketable skill. I later used this skill to help fund my way through college at the University of Delaware. 

 

Our home continued “as is” until I turned twelve. That was the year of the Big Remodel. Gone was the indoor outhouse, gone was the pitcher pump, and gone was Big Bertha. Now, like the rest of the world we had a double sink in the kitchen with running tap water; a full bath with pink and green tile, a tub, sink, and flushing toilet; and an oil heater in the floor that warmed the whole house. And, best of all, no more trekking down rickety stairs to the basement. Everything was located on the main floor. 

I still remember the smell of the coffee I brewed for the men as they worked, the excitement I experienced as I flushed the new toilet, and the comfort I felt as I stood on the heating grate with the warm air billowing out my skirt like an umbrella on the beach. 

 

All these modern conveniences did provide us with a more comfortable home, but they never took away from its uniqueness. Not many people can say they grew up in a POW camp - at least, not by choice!