Catherine gives us a peek of a life in simpler times. She reveals through her descriptions how working with our hands is a deeply enriching experience that nurtures the soul and draws us closer to God. Whether it is kneading dough, tilling the soil, sewing a garment, or carving wood, these simple, tangible labors become acts of worship when done with love and gratitude. In a world that often values speed and convenience, working with our hands calls us back to patience, attentiveness, and reliance on God’s Providence…
by Catherine de Hueck Doherty, My Russian Yesterdays, Madonna House Publications, used with permission
Catherine was brought up in Russia and had many fond memories of her life there….a life that reflected simplicity, family, religion. After fleeing Russia during the Communist Revolution, she eventually came into the Catholic Church. Catherine prayed much that her motherland would be freed from Communist rule so that people could once again openly practice their faith.
The Works of Our Hands
There was warmth and sunshine in the air. Spring was here, and everyone was talking about the coming of the “wool-men,” the shearers of sheep who went from farm to farm, to cut the heavy, woolen, winter coats off the animals before they were led to their distant summer pastures.
To me it was one of the most exciting times of the year. For things began to happen, and fast. The kitchen was a beehive of activity, for the “wool-men” ate even more than a thresher! And so mounds of bread, cheese, and butter had to be made ready.
A cow was slaughtered for the special stew goulash that always made up the main course of any meal. Salted pork was brought out of its barrels and, rinsed and par-boiled, was ready to fill any void that might have been left by the hearty stew.
Pirogies – yeast dough, well rolled out and filled with meat, onion, stewed cabbage, or mushrooms—were baked and set aside. Cooks and maids dashed in and out of cellars, barns, pantries, and the kitchen, vivid skirts flying, their heavily embroidered aprons filled to bursting.
And I? I was in the midst of it all. Daily I would sneak into the big stockade that held the sheep during the winter, and to which they were, at this time of the year, brought back nightly from their nearby pastures.
I spent hours admiring the heavy coats of the sheep and wondering why they did not die from exposure without them. I wondered, too, how it was that this matted, dirty wool could become the fleecy soft, white mass we would soon be spinning.
At long last the “wool-men” came. They heralded their arrival from afar with lusty songs. All was ready for them. The hayloft became their sleeping quarters, the kitchen their dining and living room, the big outdoor pump their bathroom.
On the morning of their arrival, they, and the whole family with them, would go to Mass. This most important part of the farmer’s life had to be started with prayer. And what better prayer is there than the Mass?
After Mass, the priest would journey back with us to bless the sheep in their stockade, and the workers outside it; to bless the wool that it might be good to spin, to weave, and to sell; to bless the workers that they might do their work speedily and well and without harm to themselves or the stock.
Prayers over, breakfast finished, the work began in earnest. Into the big-roofed shed without walls, and onto its heavy, age-old oak floor, the shepherds would bring the sheep, and hold them securely while the wool-men worked on them. In the twinkling of an eye the bleating animals would be coat-less and back in the stockade!
This went on all day with the precision of clockwork. In the meantime other men would take the wool in carts to yet another shed. There, big oak troughs were ready and filled with water. The water was constantly changed. Here the wool would be washed over and over again until it was snowy white.
Then it would be put on a strange contraption to dry—a sort of huge net made out of narrow strips of hide, attached to poles which stood about four feet apart and about four or five feet from the ground.
The making of this “net” was an art in itself. The hides were cured, dried, and cut into narrow strips during the long winter months. Then they were softened with lard and rubbed with lard to a luster. Early in the spring, they were woven and nailed to their big frames, after which the frames were fastened to the poles. There the wool would stay, under a high roof built over the net, until it was soft and thoroughly dry.
At night the wool-men would make a big bonfire and sing Old Russian songs or tell age-old folk tales. There was about these evenings an enchantment that years have not lessened.
Then as suddenly as they had come, the wool-men were gone. The most glamorous part of spring was gone. Even the echoes of their songs were gone!
The sheep would be taken out of their stockade to their summer pastures; and the dry wool would be put into the carding room. How few people today know the joy of handling white, clean-smelling wool and of watching it become a beautiful soft piece of cloth!
How few people can say that any piece of cloth is the work of their own hands, mind, and imagination! How few of us today know the gladness and the joy of creative achievement that comes with turning raw wool into material for a suit of clothes, a dress, or the habit of a nun?
Carding can be fun, and was, in my Russian yesterdays. For it was a party. Girls and women from the village would come, bringing their own carding combs. The big carding room with its wide hand-hewn benches standing along the walls, would be filled with laughter and songs as busy hands carded the tangled white wool. Mountains of it, fine, clean, and ready to spin, would soon form on the clean floor.
Tall tales were told. The latest village news was exchanged. Everyone talked as she worked. But as usual, it began with prayer…and with prayer it ended.
The carding finished, there would be a dance under the stars, outdoor tables loaded with goodies and nice strong tea. The boys had been patiently waiting for the girls to come out. Now the fiddler would strike up a lively tune, and young feet would dance easily the intricate steps of folk or square dances.
It would be almost dawn when the young people went home, leaving behind them yet another step accomplished in the transformation of the gray, matted wool into a work of beauty.
Spinning. The song of the spinning wheel by an open fire or by a cozy, old-fashioned kitchen range—who knows it today? Now slow…now fast…spinning…spinning…threads of this size and that. Heavy threads for heavy useful socks. Light, soft threads for baby things. Firm, narrow thread to weave cloth with.
Spinning in the fall. Leaves falling outside and brushing the windows. The strange pitiful whispers of them as they fell! Spinning…spinning…
The lamentations of cold winter winds. The barely audible song of falling snow, that, like a white fleece, lovingly and protectively covered fields and orchards, giving warmth and life to the kernels of buried winter wheat, to the green grass to come, to the saplings and old trees, to the berries and fruits of the next year.
Then the weaving. I shall always remember the big workroom of our sprawling house, with its big beams, from which hung golden chains of drying onions, bunches of sweet-smelling herbs, and long necklaces of finely cut apples and pears. It was a big room. But the three looms took most of its space.
There was the wool loom, on which woolen cloth was woven; the linen loom, for the fine linen threads, that became, under nimble fingers, sheets, towels, pillowcases, and dress lengths; and the rag loom, on which were made the long and short scatter rugs of many colors, so dear to the Russian housewife’s heart, and for which she saved every scrap of material she handled through the year.
With a big work-cutting-out table, two sewing machines, and a big ikon of the Virgin Mother, the patroness of housewives and housework (before which a vigil light always burned), the room had an air of regal peace, and grave tranquility which I never felt or experienced anywhere else.
It was a busy room. A prayerful room. Today I would say, that its motto most assuredly was Ora et Labora.
I never quite mastered that art of “setting a loom”—of getting all the strands and threads that form the warp of the cloth into a pattern. I still have hopes. I know all about the woof, or crosswise threads that form the body of the cloth, for in my childhood, while Mother or some other experienced woman would “set the warp,” I would be allowed to weave the cross threads with a big wooden shuttle.
Now I would be given a small piece to do, now a bigger one. The day I was allowed to do a whole length of cloth for my own dress was, and still remains, a star-bright day for me.
But before weaving could be started, there was yet the dyeing to do. That meant going back to the herbs, roots, and flowers that we had gathered. It led us to the attic, where, on orderly shelves, Mother kept her herbal treasures, in jars, pots, and linen bags; a collection that, I suspect, would today be envied by collectors of such things.
She would sort out the proper ones, and then off we’d go to the summer kitchen. We did not have to be careful of this kitchen, the floors and walls were forever spattered anyhow, with the weirdest assortments of color dabs ever seen —reminders of preserves and jam-making.
For hours the pounding, grinding, mixing, and boiling of herbs would go on. In the steamy air, with our immense aprons and gay kerchiefs, Mother and I and the women helping us most assuredly looked like a group of Halloween witches who had lost their broomsticks. Oh, but the end result of all this pounding and brewing! I only wish that I could show my sophisticated modern friends the colors that came out of it all.
The blues that I have never since seen duplicated; the delicate tones of it—the deep, glowing tints of it. The reds! From a vivid blood red, they ranged, to the gentle, soft colors of autumn maple leaves. The yellows. They glinted like gold, or spoke of spring and daffodils. The black had a sheen to it. The dark browns absorbed light and gave it back, changed. There were purples that made you think of Lent and penance; soft shades of violet that brought that humble flower right into the room, and lilac shades you could almost smell!
There they all were in the attic. Standing in bottles and flasks. A palette of colors an artist would envy. Ready to give their beauty to soft, white, hand-spun strands of wool, linen, or cotton.
The art of weaving linen is hard to master, the thousand-strand warp, hard to set. The knack of weaving in the woof, yet never missing one of the fine alternate threads—this requires years to get.
I am always fascinated by the miracle of transforming the lovely flax plant, with its blue flower, into yards of wide or narrow linens, that become heirlooms to be cherished from generation to generation and call to every woman to beautify them further with embroidery, lace, or drawn-thread work.
I am fascinated, but, alas, I have never mastered it. I learned many ways of embroidering and enhancing the beauty of linens. My mother taught me. She was a great lover of this Russian art. We would always seek new ways and new patterns from the village women we visited.
Once, I remember, Mother was entranced watching a young woman embroider a linen towel, wide and well woven, with a scene of a rustic field full of flowers. Vainly she looked for a pattern. Finally she asked the woman for it. The latter smiled and pointed to the window before which she was working. There was the pattern, the field, full of summer flowers, waving gently in the breeze…
The Russians may not have had marvelous indoor plumbing, nor thousands of laborsaving devices. But they had something more precious, which can perhaps be defined only as culture.
I wish now I had all Mother’s recipes for making color out of plants, roots, and flowers. I have a few, but not nearly enough. If I had, I think I could brighten our gray, drab, colorless world with them, and bring to many people the knowledge and blessing of working with their hands…to produce beauty…which brings song and laughter…
To weave a piece of cloth from one’s own wool, or a sheet from one’s own grown flax, or a rug from the leftovers of both—and to give the cloth the color that came directly from God! Then to enhance the piece further with the artist’s touch of embroidery or lace! That is to know, in full, the words of the Psalmist: “Let the glorious beauty of the Lord our God be upon us…and direct Thou the works of our hands…Yea, the works of our hands do Thou direct… “
The true Christian, in his spiritual progress, is like Christ carrying His cross. He does not run to the heights; he staggers, he weaves, he falls, he rises, he struggles, he fails, but he never gives up. -Joseph Breig, The Family and the Cross, 1950’s
When we are on our deathbed, it won’t be how much we have accomplished, how clean our house is or how many Christmas cookies we baked…. It will be: Do I go to the door to greet my husband when he comes home? Do I take the time to listen to him? Did I take time out to look and listen when the kids were talking to me? Did I read them a bedtime story? Did I make sure they said their prayers? These are the priorities…
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The Lenten Way of the Cross Picturesque and Prayer-Filled Cards with Coilbinder ~ Family/Children Activity
Help make Lent more meaningful for you and your family with the Lenten Way of the Cross Cards!
Follow along with your family and prepare your hearts for the Passion and Resurrection of Our Lord each year at Lent and Easter using these special picturesque and prayer-filled cards to help keep your mind and heart focused each day There are 41 cards in total.
Keep the cards in a visible spot in your home as a reminder to you and your children.
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Lenten Bundle!
This journal will lay out some simple activities in which your children will be doing their sacrifices and will have a tangible means of “counting” them for Jesus. You, Mom, will have a place to put a check mark if that the activity is remembered and completed for the day. This journal also includes a place for you to check off whether you are fulfilling your own personal resolutions…your Spiritual Reading, your Family Rosary, etc.
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We must do everything we can, to not only return to modesty and purity in dress and behavior, but also to help others return to it through good example and knowledge. This is a guide, designed for girls who would like to please Our Lord more and make reparation for those who do not honor Him.
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Her story always lifts itself off the page, you could totally see it in action in the living room while reading it! To jump into her life seems impossible with all the nuances, but if it was the way of life it would seem just a normal day.
I do hope besides this book she wrote, she did teach her family many of these things from the “old world.” 😇
It’s so beautiful and enjoyable to read Catherine’s descriptions of her early life. So richly Catholic – the sheep shearers going to Mass with the family before starting their work?!
The vibrantly glowing colors she describes, the lovely things handmade with them, make you jealous of the simple, yet rich life of years gone by.
I love her writing.