Welcome to 1870 where Violet Spinrad finds something needs to change.
Alice Hopkins showed up at my door. She was out of salt. Can you imagine? That’s like
being out of air. We’re so poor the only thing on our kitchen table is elbows—but we’ve got salt. She warned her husband, the Colonel, they were almost out of salt, but he said it could wait.
Honestly, if the Colonel hadn’t hired some men to bring them across the Oregon Trail, he’d be tramping through South America right now, wondering where he’d made a wrong turn.
Alice was proud of her little salt throne. It sits on her table with a tablespoon of salt in it. Said it was a family treasure, passed from mother to
daughter since the old folks left Russia.
My big salt box hangs on the wall right next to the stove so the salt won’t clump. I have my hand in it at least twenty times a day.
- Perspiration stains: Dampen with a mix of saltwater. They fade right out. Of course, I doubt if the Colonel does enough work to sweat.
- Insect Bites: At times mosquitoes were so thick on the Trail, we’d eat them when our mouths opened to talk. A paste of salt and lard ends the itching.
- Candles: After a quick soak in saltwater, they smoke less and burn longer. I soak my clothespins, too (but I don’t burn them).
- Wash Day: A final rinse in salt water keeps the clothes from freezing on the line.
- From rinsing a sore eye to descaling fish—I use salt.
When a person says “You’re the salt of the earth,” it means you make yourself useful in any situation. Bricker hasn’t been around in a while. I believe he’s abandoned me and the 6 kids for the gold fields of California. The best I can say of the man is—his salt has lost its flavor.