The simple life: Birth in a log cabin

The Simple Life… Which was anything but. Back to the earth. Homesteading. The Simple Life. It was the hardest years of my life. We romanticized it. No TV coming in to brainwash our children. Grow your own food. Sit by the fire place and read stories every night by candle light from the candles you made with the kids, squeaky water pump, and chickens. No electricity, no running water. But, hey, most of the 3^rd world lives this way already, right?

photo: C. Slattery, 1988, La Crosse Catholic Times

Wrong! We decided that before we took the plunge, maybe we should practice for a while in our apartment before we took on something we couldn’t manage. So we packed up the radio cord and bought batteries instead, stocked up on kerosene lamps, candles, and matches, and got a big cooler chest. We took all the bulbs out of all the lamps, turned the heat off and turned on the kerosene space heater. We didn’t tell the landlord, either. We just took the cooler chest outside every night to keep the milk and cheese cold. If it was below 45 degrees F we were in luck. Above that, and I was just growing various cultures out there. Colder than that and the contents would freeze, which was OK too.

We had no choice but to keep the propane stove and the telephone on. The property we had our hearts set on in Colfax, Wisconsin had both. We eased into our first couple of weeks holding our breaths. I bought a tall laundry rack and washed clothes in the bath tub and hung them to dry. I found an antique iron, the kind you set on a wood stove to heat while you cook and touched up David’s work shirts with that. So far so good. 

Then we thought we were ready for the final, decisive step. With our four kids gathered around our feet, we pulled the plug on the refrigerator. I held my breath. I don’t know what I thought might happen, but the sky didn’t fall. We had crossed the line! We were now bona fide pioneers! We even read Little House on the Prairie to the kids by candle light every night.

My birthday fell on about our 3^rd week of the experiment. David gave me a copy of The New Complete Book of Self-Sufficiency: The Classic Guide for Realists and Dreamers--all 8 pounds of it. I read the thing cover-to-cover in a week. Then I decided it might be time for the next step: learn how to butcher a chicken. So, early one morning (so the neighbors wouldn’t see anything) on the back steps of our apartment building, with Chicken Little tightly tucked under one arm and Self-Sufficiency in the other, opened to the step-by-step how-to guide; I was ready. David was very chicken and refused to come out and help me. He excused himself saying we shouldn’t leave the kids alone in the house in case they woke up. But he did peek out from behind the curtain to watch.

I leaned toward the instructions in the book to see better in the semi-dawn light and at the same time, Chicken Little also craned her neck to see what I was looking at. David wished he had a camera at that moment – it was in the mid-1980s before cell phones came out.

OK, I told myself. If I want to eat it, I should be willing to kill it, too, right? I had everything ready according to the book: A pile of newspapers, a kettle of boiling water, a clay pipe about 8 inches in diameter standing upright on the paper, and my chicken, compliments of one of our Hmong friends. Well, it wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. Quite tidy, actually. The most Kosher, or painless way to kill a chicken is by wringing its neck with one swift crack. Then you step on the head, holding back the neck, with a firm grip on the body, and pull … and the head is off. You immediately fold the wings in and pop it, neck down, into the clay pipe. That insures you don’t have a chicken running around without a head, splattering blood all over the place. After 10 minutes you take out the chicken which has been bled, put the clay pipe aside, put the bird into the boiling water for 3 or 4 minutes, or until a wing pin feather comes out easily when plucked. You set the hot bird on the newspaper and pluck it. Then gut it, much like a fish and bring it inside. We didn’t have a refrigerator you remember, so we would have to cook or can it immediately. We tested our well water when we did move out to the log cabin. The well was 150 feet deep and the water was a constant 42 degrees, which meant we could pump water up and submerge a bagged chicken in a bucket for a while to cool it, or leave a jar of milk in a pail overnight and it would still be cool in the morning. In the winter all we needed was an ice chest that was raccoon and bear-proof. We learned that a large rock on the lid of the cooler doesn’t work. We had our share of raccoons and bears that first year, and a coyote, a bob cat and bull snakes. 

Our chicken and dumplings that night for supper was quite a revelation. It didn’t taste like any chicken we had ever bought from a store. It was amazing. Who would have thought? During the following year, while we were snug in our log cabin, we also got a little pig to fatten up. His name was Bacon. When fall came that year I learned how to pickle ham in brine, smoke bacon, render my own lard, and make head cheese. 

Our first winter was upon us. Imagine rows of hunky eye hooks screwed into the log walls of the cabin about 1 foot below the ceiling (the ceiling was only 6 feet high) and about 10 inches apart to string up clothes lines in the winter. I still had 2 babies in diapers, and now a newborn on the way.

First I piled dirty laundry, one basket full at a time into hot sudsy water in a washing tub by the wood stove in the basement. Then I beat the wash with a dasher – you can order them from the Amish non-electric catalog called Gohn Brothers. Up and down, just like a butter churn, except I had the clothes in a galvanized tub instead of a wooden butter churn. When I couldn’t agitate it any longer, I’d run the wash through the rollers, also hand cranked, until all the soapy water was squeezed out. A tub of clean water caught the clothes as they dropped off the rollers. Then you swish the clothes or diapers in the rinse water, dump your soapy water, rinse and fill the soapy tub with fresh cold water and crank your laundry through the runners once more into the 2^nd rinse. Dash it a while and then run it all through the rollers for a final “spin” cycle. Bring your clean wash upstairs. In the spring and summer I could hang it all on lines run between the scrub oak trees in our woods to dry and then pick off the wood ticks before I brought it all back inside. Diapers were easy: they were white and ticks are black or dark brown. The jeans were harder.

But in winter, the clothes had to dry inside, thus the rows of lines throughout the house. This wasn’t a tiny log cabin: it was a three story log palace. But the diapers and heavy things like jeans could take up to 2 days to dry, to the delight of our kids who would play hide and go seek among the vertical walls of sheets, diapers and everything else.

Winter was the hardest. Now I know what true cabin fever is. At one point, for an entire week it was minus 70 degrees Fahrenheit below with the wind chill and all. I couldn’t let the kids tromp out to the outhouse in that. I found a couple of chamber pots, complete with lids at an antique barn sale that week. As soon as one was even half full I’d take it out to the loo and dump it, wash it with a Lysol solution I’d mixed and a toilet brush and we’d be ready to go. Literally.

But the worst part was visiting Grandma, over the river and through the woods in St. Paul, that winter. The heavy rains that Autumn had washed out our driveway the last quarter mile up to the top of our mountain and the house. The gullies and ruts would have torn our car to bits. So we got a long toboggan and piled the kids into that. They were so togged up in their snowsuits and scarves that they couldn’t have walked even if they’d wanted to. David and I would pull it down the hill to the car parked at the bottom on the rural route. When we got back home later that night we would go back up the mountain pulling the sleepy the kids in the sled. Then we’d undress them one by one and put them to bed in the bedroom loft, stoke up the wood furnace again and crawl into bed ourselves.

I found a treadle (non-electric) sewing machine at a flea market and after cleaning and oiling it, figured out which parts I would need to get it into working order. Again Gohn Brothers, an Amish catalog from Indiana came to the rescue. They don't use computers, so you will have to call them or write. 105 So. Main St., Middlebury, Indiana, 46540 or call 574-825-2400.  I got a new leather wheel belt, a new bobbin winder washer and an assortment of bobbins. I ordered a bolt of birds's eye diaper material from them, too, and voilà! We also found Lehman's Non-Electric Catalog very handy those years.

Before Christmas one year I discovered that peanut brittle can be made in a jiffy on a wood stove. Mine heated up to hard crack in a matter of minutes. We made batch after batch and gave peanut brittle to all our friends that year. I could also make perfect yogurt by placing jars of milk with starter in the warming oven above the wood stove just before going to bed, as the last coals simmered down for the night. Baked beans were a constant presence in a crock on the back of the stove, bubbling away for days at a time. All I had to do was add more water and molasses every few days. Sour dough starter was also very happy and productive in the warming shelf above the hot plates. 

September 27th, 4:00 a.m.
I just couldn't sleep. I wasn't sure why, at least until contractions started at 4 a.m. I paced around for about 10 minutes and then called David who joined me downstairs by the wood stove. I knew from past experience that things were revving up quite fast so I had him call our midwife Roberta and our friend Nancy. She only had to come over the hill to our cabin from hers but Roberta had a 15 minute drive. We had not fixed the driveway yet that September, so visitors still parked on the road below and hiked the last 1/4 mile up our mountain to the house.

4:15 a.m. Nancy got there in 10 minutes and put on the tea kettle while David stoked up the stoves. In five more minutes I was huffing and puffing, keeping as quiet as I could so as not to wake the hordes upstairs in the loft. 

4:30 a.m. I rummaged through my birth box and laid out towels, sheets, and an assortment of other things we'd need before going back to breathing and pacing.

4:35 a.m. I started squatting while holding onto the wood stove. David knew instinctively by now that squatting meant we'd see a baby real soon.

4:40 a.m. Hannah was born. Nancy didn't even realize I was pushing. I kept that quiet too. When the cord stopped pulsing I had David find the cord clamps and cut the cord. Then he lifted Hannah up and held her close to his chest. She didn't make a sound either. She just kept looking up at him, blinking. He had not gotten the stoves going yet, and it was still rather chilly, so we watched as steam rose from her fat hot little body into the air, much like a turkey right out of the oven.

5:15 a.m. Roberta came into the kitchen grinning, not at all surprised that Hannah was here. She asked where the placenta was. We had forgotten all about it. She grabbed the bowl we had ready and had me stand up. It slid out in one perfect piece. The children started tip-toeing down from the loft, all wide-eyed, wondering who we had visiting so early. They all were instantly in love with our baby and never got enough time holding her. 

A day later I called the county offices and asked them to mail me a birth certificate.
The lady chuckled and said, "Oh, dear, the hospital takes care of all of that."

I explained that she'd been born at home. The lady was speechless. I said, "Let me give you our address to send it to." About 3 hours later that same day two child protection social workers came trudging up the driveway, eyes wide as saucers, mouths gawking as they took in the 3-story log cabin.
They tapped on the door, not sure what they would find inside. I was happily nursing my 11-pound newborn on the couch in the living room while my friend Georgianna was busy preparing supper on the wood stove. The house was quite tidy and the kids all actually had clothes on. (Occasionally they would disrobe as the spirit moved them, and wander out to the raspberry patch to graze there for awhile.) 

The ladies kept looking at each other and sort of stuttering. They were quite stunned. They commented then that Hannah looked so well, and I did too. Obviously this was not what they had expected. Georgianna served them tea and cookies and then they left, but not before leaving a birth certificate on the dining room table.

And now they are all grown up and scattered to the four corners of the earth, though the wind does bring them back throughout the year. I am so very proud of each one of them.

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Birth plans - Do we need them? Do we want them? Do they work?

But first:

Amy Poehler’s Over-The-Top ‘Birth Plan’

American actress, comedian, director, producer, and writer.

Borrowed here without permission.

By ParentsCanada on April 21, 2015

We are looking forward to the birth of our child and ask that the following wishes be respected during our birth process.

We have chosen to give birth in a hospital because of the outstanding facilities it makes available to us. We would also like to deliver our baby in a hospital since we spent most of our twenties getting stoned and watching episodes of ER, and so we know that delivering a baby is the best way to cheer up an attractive but beleaguered doctor. Please make sure our doctor is handsome and “cares too much.” We considered a home birth, but we just got our hardwood floors redone.
We also considered a birthing tub, but the mother is concerned the water won’t be warm enough. Is it too late to flood the hospital room? Or turn it into a really fun foam party? We are sorry for asking. The mother is very pregnant and would like to remind everyone her brain has turned into spaghetti...
The birth environment is very important to us. For that reason we ask that the lights be kept dim, noise be avoided, and the door be closed for privacy. We would also like people to stay “chill” and not “bring their own s#!t” into the room with them. It’s really important we feel “cool.” Please decorate the room with Nan Goldin prints and leather beanbag chairs. We would love it if you could bring in a silk Persian rug for us to destroy. Think Chateau Marmont if it was closed for repairs. Or the set of MTV Unplugged.

Speaking of music, we will arrive with our own. We plan on delivering our baby to the soundtrack of Pink Floyd’s The Wall while simultaneously watching The Wizard of Oz. If this kid works with us, we guarantee your minds will be blown!
We plan on handling pain in a variety of natural ways. Please have a birthing ball and back massager available upon request. An annoying nurse with an unfunny and teasing manner on whom we can focus our anger would be a welcome addition.

The mother would also like a punching bag, a screaming pillow, a mirror to smash, and a small handgun. The father would like a George Foreman grill, just to have.

We ask for vaginal exams only upon request. The mother requires at least a minute or two of chitchat before cold fingers are introduced. The mother would like to remind the staff that her vagina is the absolute last thing that she wants to have touched right now. The mother can think of a thousand things that she would rather have presently poked at than her vagina. Honestly, the mother doesn't know how the hell that baby is going to get out of there. The mother also would like to request that the handsome doctor maintain eye contact at all times during said poking.

If induction becomes necessary, we are aware of the nonchemical methods and would like to try them in this order: breast stimulation, sexual intercourse, and cervical cream. That’s right, you heard us. If this baby isn't coming out, we are going to start doing it and make you all watch. So, let’s get cracking.

We will use the squatting or semi-squatting position for pushing. Preferably the mother would like to “drop it like it’s hot.”

The mother would like to push at her own pace. The father would like to add that he hopes it doesn't “take all day.” We would like to feel our son’s head as he descends with the option to stick him back up in there if we don't feel ready. The mother should be given the freedom to walk around during labour. Light choreography is expected.
If drugs become necessary, we would like to go all in. We are talking epidural, helium and roofies. The mother would like to ask one last time why no one is taking seriously her request for nitrous oxide. The mother heard about women in England and Sweden and Canada being offered this at birth and apparently it works wonderfully to calm nerves and help with delivery...

If delivery assistance is needed, we prefer “suction” over “forceps.” If episiotomy is needed, we prefer “buttonhole” over “backstitch.” If Cesarean is needed, please inform us early so we don't have to go through the above first.
In the event of a Cesarean, the mother would like to be conscious. The mother would also not mind if you tweaked her abs while you’re down there. The father would like to be present and totally freaked out when he accidentally looks past the curtain and sees his wife’s organs stacked next to her like laundry.

The father would like to be involved in the “catching” of the baby and the “cutting” of the cord. At least that’s what he is saying right now. We'll see. Please don’t cut the cord until it stops pulsing. Please immediately let the cord blood guy in with his titanium suitcase so he can put the cord blood in a vault and keep it fresh. It will help us during the robot apocalypse.
After birth we wish to nurse immediately. Please do not introduce formula or bottles or pacifiers or water, unless those things stop this baby from crying. Why won’t he stop crying? Wait, where is everybody going?

We prefer our stay in the hospital to be extended to the longest period our insurance will allow. We need time for our heads to catch up with our bodies. We also need to catch up on some Judge Judy. Please know we are grateful and sore and happy and scared. We will hear our baby down the hall and recognize his cry and we will realize this truly is a sci-fi miracle sent to us from G-O-D.
That being said, if people buy gifts that aren't on the registry the mother will lose her s#!t.

The mother would like to take this moment to admit a few things. She thinks natural childbirth is amazing but she also likes drugs. She didn't put baby oil on her perineum and try to stretch it because she just never felt like it. She lied when she said she completely stayed away from lunch meat. She also skipped Lamaze because sometimes she can't stand being around other people.

That’s all. We good? Thank you in advance for your support of our choices. We look forward to a wonderful birth. We are excited but mostly scared. Have you SEEN the mother? She is TINY! How is this going to WORK exactly? Please advise.

**********

Yes, she is hysterically funny, but there is also that tiny voice that wonders if she will be able to keep it together while traversing this unknown territory we call birth. 

Now you can Google "birth plans" and print out entire 25-page doula documents to cover all your wishes. On the one hand, a birth plan alone tells me as your midwife, doctor or doula that you have done your homework and know most of your options. It also tells me you are willing to take control here and work hard to achieve your goal. (Now cast in stone, perhaps.)

In my childbirth classes I would have couples bring in their birth plans and read them out loud. Most were quite detailed and covered just about every eventuality they might encounter. These couples' birth plans were thoughtful and intelligent. 

Then I would ask them to cross out one item on their list that they would be willing to forego should the need arise. This was a surprise. It made them think: "Maybe this won't all go exactly according to plan." It was not easy to give up anything on those lists. 

Next I would ask them to cross off one more item that they might have to give up, and so on until my last question is, "What one thing here is the most important to you?"

Many moms and dads think they are a complete failure if they haven't succeeded in performing up to their expectations for this birth. Many mothers feel that their birth was a failure if it wasn't completely natural or they needed to consider interventions for any number of reasons.

Well, people, welcome to Parenthood. So what good are the birth plans, then? They definitely get you to learn a whole new planet here. There is nothing else like it. Birth plans help you map out what you think you can do and challenge others to do more than they ever thought possible. They force you to look at what is happening here and remove any wool that is still covering your eyes. Yes, it can be scary. No, you can never be prepared enough, or learn enough or research enough. You will have to look deeply into your soul and find strength to face this next new chapter. You can do it. I remind mothers during labor that they are now joining all the mothers and grandmothers from all the ages past and in a way they are all here with you, rooting you on.

The birth plan is not cast in stone. Some couples find that really hard when they need to explore options with their providers during birth. Some say that the birth plan sets people up for disappointment. I think it is a good first step but we must remain open to change, a more fluid option here. We know babies have a mind of their own, often excersizing their independence as early as at their imminent liberation from the womb.

Here is a short video of my very favorite liberated feminist at 5 weeks old. She certainly had a mind of her own at her birth. She is also my newest grandbaby. Welcome to the world, Maraki!

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