Columnist John Moore remembers the parlors of the houses of yesterday. Where plastic covered the furniture, fresh flowers adorned the window sills, and you’d better not ever get caught going in there. Courtesy John Moore

There was always one room in every Southern home that was no man’s land – the parlor. Some called it the sitting room, while others called it the drawing room. It contained the nicest furniture, fresh flowers in the window, and it was the most boring room in the house.

I don’t know why it was called either. We weren’t allowed to sit in it, and drawing was definitely out of the question. If we’d gone near the room with crayons, we’d have found ourselves homeless.

But that was the thing about rooms in houses of the mid-20th Century. Every room had its own look and its own purpose, though sometimes the “purpose” depended more on what your momma allowed than on what the room was actually built for.

The furniture in the parlor had clear plastic slipcovers that squeaked when you sat down (don’t ask me how I know), and you weren’t supposed to be in there unless it was Christmas morning or the preacher came calling.

If a kid had any doubt of the status the preacher held, the fact that he was not only allowed in the parlor, but could sit anywhere he wanted brought great clarification.

The carpet in the house was thick and shaggy, and the ceiling was dotted with that popcorn texture that looked like cottage cheese. It wasn’t a room to relax in; it was a room to keep nice.

But the kitchen and dining room were where we actually lived. The harvest gold or avocado-green appliances were there, along with a Formica Dinette set that was trimmed in chrome. The Formica Dinette we had was teal and white, with swirl patterns that I later compared to amoebas when I took biology in school.

Breakfast often started with bacon sliced off a pork belly, the rind cut off with a sharp knife. Biscuits came from flour sifted by hand, and a dented sifter lived in the bottom drawer. Coffee bubbled in the percolator, filling the air with its rich smell, unless someone visiting wanted the “modern” java and had a cup of Sanka—quick, easy, and completely tasteless.

The dining room was equal parts special and every day functional. It held the nice silverware and the “good” dishes that only came out on Sunday or when company came. But the rest of the time, it doubled as a game room for dominoes, Rook, or other cards.

In the corner, under a window, sat the sewing machine. That machine turned out Easter dresses, school clothes, and some Halloween costumes. After Batman debuted on TV, I only wanted the cheap, plastic, super hero costumes from Ben Franklin.

Nothing was permanent press then, so every shirt and dress had to be ironed. A Coke bottle with a sprinkler stopper sat nearby, ready to mist the fabric before the hot iron passed over it. Laundry took all day, and clotheslines in the backyard were the only dryer.

Even the dining room carried its share of work. It wasn’t unusual to see piles of fabric cut out on the table, or homework scattered between stacks of patterns and pins.

Every home had its rules and its shortcuts. You weren’t supposed to use the butter knives as screwdrivers, but I did. You weren’t supposed to run through the parlor, but the temptation of sliding across the shag carpet in socks was too much to resist. Every corner of the house carried these little contradictions. Things you weren’t allowed to do, but did anyway when grown-ups weren’t watching.

Looking back, it’s not just the layout of everything. It’s the way everything was personal. Clothes were sewn at home, biscuits sifted and baked in the kitchen, bacon cut by hand, ironing done with a Coke bottle. Even the rooms had double duty—dining rooms turned into card tables, kitchens into workshops.

Today’s houses may be sleeker, easier, and more comfortable. Many people hire someone else to mow the yard, sew the clothes, or cook the food. Most folks now buy coffee pods instead of waiting for the percolator. And while all of that may be easier, it isn’t the same. The homes of our youth carried the fingerprints of the people who lived in them.

That’s what made those rooms special—they weren’t just decorated in bright colors and filled with the latest trends. They were personal, lived-in, and remembered.

I’ve kept some of those traditions alive. Not the plastic-covered furniture, but I do still use a butter knife as a screwdriver. And I will until I get caught.

By John Moore, author, Puns for Groan People and Write of Passage: A Southerner’s View of Then and Now Vol. 1 and 2, are available on his website TheCountryWriter.com, where you can also send him a message.

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