When I was a preschool child of about 4, my grandmother — who we called Maw — taught me some of the delicacies of hygiene. After telling me to take a pan path, I was puzzled. There was no way my lanky, skinny legs would allow me to sit in our little wash pan by the kitchen door.

She gently instructed me to take a clean wash rag, wet and wring out the extra, then soap it up real good with the bar of homemade lye soap next to it. My young mind has never forgotten her “detailed” instructions.

“Take the wash rag and wash your face. Then wash your neck and down as far as possible. Rinse out the rag and soap it up again. This time start with your feet and wash up as far as possible. Then wash possible.”

That’s how we did back in those days. That young girl was genuinely fascinated the first time she saw the running water and bathroom fixtures we take for granted now.

A lot of mountain wisdom was passed down from generation to generation. We take so much for granted now, but my gratitude for clean, running water is something too precious to me almost every time I turn on a faucet.

“Don’t eat pokeberries!”

“Never drink downstream from a creek running down the mountain side.”

“Always say thank you for a meal or the least kindness, including drinking from the household water bucket where the community dipper was held.” Honestly, I’ve never tasted better water.

Whether you’re visiting family or total strangers, be kind and help them with the dishes or any other chore that needs doing, even slopping hogs.

Treat everyone as a special guest and offer them a meal, but also a place to sleep overnight. Most travelers back then walked without many belongings and needed a place to rest. Send them off with a big breakfast

They would likely do some chores, such as carrying in water from the well, making kindling and stack some wood for the cook stove.

Always be kind and gentle, with family, friends and strangers alike.

When the radio was turned on, nobody said a word so that everyone could hear the broadcast.

Often after supper, someone would bring out a guitar, banjo, harmonica or a Jew’s harp to play. Nearly everyone within sound range would hum or sing along. The porch was the best room in the house.

Everyone in the household had chores to do. Kids fed chickens and gathered eggs, weeded and hoed the garden.

At about 3 years old, I recall my mother killing a chicken for Sunday dinner. She grabbed a hen by the head and upper neck, raised it above her head and swung it in a circle over her head as hard as she could.

She then threw it under an overturned galvanized wash tub and, before I could even protest, she scooped me up and emphatically plopped me right in the center of that tub until the chicken quit flopping. Whooee! What a ride that was. It may have killed any joy I might have developed for amusement parks or roller coasters. Actually, it was very difficult to stay on the tub. That hen tossed me around like I was in the rodeo on a bronco. Certain the chicken was going to throw me over and escape, Mom just grinned real big as she carried a big kettle of boiling water out to begin the really dirty job of plucking the feathers and gutting the bird.

It was some time before I could eat chicken after that adventure.

Six days a week, we ate pretty much the same thing, unless we had fresh vegetables from the garden. It consisted of soup (pinto) beans, fried potatoes, cornbread and fresh onion. Sunday was a feast.

Breakfast usually included fried eggs, sausage or bacon; gravy and biscuits. It was a very good day if we had fried apples to go along with it. Of course, there was always fresh honey, homemade butter, apple jelly and sweet or buttermilk.

The coffee pot was kept hot on the stove. Daddy liked his especially strong and wouldn’t drink it if he could see the flower in the bottom of the China cup. Everyone drank it by pouring some in the saucer to cool; then drink from the saucer.

It was a hard life, but none of us knew anything different. We always had food and fresh water. The milk was strained then poured into half-gallon jars and lowered in a bucket into the well to keep it cool.

At 4, I was learning to cook on that big black stove, to milk our cow and churn butter. I wouldn’t change a thing.