New Heights in Historic Places

~ by Colette & JoAnn

Like a painting etched in my mind, summers of my childhood were long, hot, and enchanting.  As I had done so many mornings before, I finished my breakfast and immediately skipped outside the door from our short breezeway. As my bare feet pressed onto the warm sidewalk I thought about all my city cousins.  Their sidewalks were a shaded endless playground full of neighborhood friends.  Ours was only about eight feet long, facing east from the side door, ending abruptly opening up into our vast but silent farmstead. This silence was not something I noted as peculiar; all was my playground to enjoy as I pleased. 

This golden summer morning pointed me north in the direction of our old Maple Tree.  It stood lonely and tall in the center of our front yard seemingly ready to tell its story. I stopped pensively studying its features. Though I had seen it a million times, today somehow seemed like the first.   As if inquiring of its history I approached the trunk looking at the deep hollow in its west side.  From the ground up this cut in the stout trunk stood about fifteen feet tall. The hollow at the base was substantial enough for us to hide in during a game of kick-the-can or hide & seek.  With such a deep crevasse, why had the tree not completely rotted out and died?

"This is a question that I must ask about tonight at supper." I thought.

My eyes peered upward toward the first ‘v’ in its branches. I reached toward the heavy knot just above the largest part of the hollow.  With a little bit of a jump, it was just within my grasp.  I used that knot to pull myself up to the first perch.  The gentle wind hit my face and blew my hair while I found the perfect spot on its long broad branch to hide.  From it, I could see into the kitchen window, and had a perfect view of the drive, the large garden my parents had planted, that stoic barn, and tall green cornstalks stretching clear back to the woods. 

Just when I thought I had that grand tree all to myself, my brother found his way up as well. He, however, wasn’t there to ponder and reflect.  He was there to conquer, and seemingly was not going to waste a second on my branch.  Before I knew it I was following his every move. Right hand reaching; left foot firmly in place.  Thrusting our bodies to the next highest branch, we stopped only to catch our breath and survey our progress.  The tree was stronger than steel.  What seemed from the ground view to be as tall as the bottom of the sky, now had an end; a summit of sorts.  Higher and higher we climbed.   Only once did I look straight down.  My mind quickly flooded with thoughts of tumbling to the ground; I chose instead to look upward toward our goal; the top of the tree.   Once to its peak we enjoyed the breathtaking view and the reality of our feat, only then considering our decent.  Fear ran through my spine as we slowly lowered ourselves back to ground level. I tried hard not to let constant thoughts of losing my footing and tumbling to the hard dirt overwhelm me.  How long it took to climb back down, I am not sure. 

*****

“Dad, why is there such a big hole in our old Maple tree?”  I asked at dinner. 

“From the fire.” He said as though I should have already known.   He had likely told my older siblings a hundred times before.  After supper he silently pulled out that old black suitcase and set it on the table.  It would take many such a-journey down memory lane before my mind would grasp the history buried in that old case.  One by one he pulled out photo after photo of aunts and uncles, grandpas and greats, the loggers, the old dude ranch, and that one photo which had always confused me.   It was a photo that had all the out-buildings I recognized, but must have been somewhere else because MY house wasn’t in it. 

“Where is this photo taken, Dad?”  I dared to ask at the risk of proving my stupidity. 

“From the southeast field, just beyond the barn.”  he retorted. 

  “But that isn’t OUR house!  How can that be our farm?” I answered indignantly. 

It was then that I realized these photos were a history book; telling clearly the story of his heritage and the significance of our nearly 100 year old homestead.  It was then he realized his daughter needed more than these snapshots.  He calmly explained that the house I called home was not the original house.  Showing me again the strange photo, he explained that my Great-Grandpa built that home in the photo in 1903 on nearly the same foundation as my house.   It was the home my dad and his two sisters were raised in.  It was the home he came back to in early January of 1950 after serving his time as a draftee in the army.  It was the home that less than one month later his father hollered to awaken him , exclaiming “the house is on fire!” 

At first Grandpa thought the fire was contained in the wood box between the kitchen and the shed.  Grandpa hastily sent my dad to go fetch the milk pail from the milk house.  From that distance my dad could see that the whole roof on the south and west side was on fire.  As he returned with the pail, Grandpa was coming out.  The smoke was filling the house; descending from the ceiling and was already below waist level.  My Dad was unable to retrieve anything else from inside.  With no phone service they could only hope a passer-by would alert the local firemen before it was too late.   Grandpa & Dad knew there would be no saving the house by themselves.  The Maple Tree was so close to the house that its bark began to burn.  All they could do was hose it down in attempts to put out the flames.  They would later learn that it was an electrical fire that had ignited the flames just off the kitchen in the back shed.  The house and all its belongs were lost, yet the tree was saved.

****

With 10 year old eyes in the early ‘70’s I saw that the heart of this living thing was not about to give up living because of its hardship. It is as though that old maple has become a centurion elder, living to tell its stories to my brother’s children who also grew up in its branches. Like the stories it told, this solid Maple tree truly stands stronger than steel and as tall as the bottom of the sky. 

As Sure as the Morning Sun

~ by JoAnn

Five-thirty brought an event that was as predictable as the morning sun.  Supper time was at 5:30 every night regardless.  The table was set, the food was homemade and hot, and we were all to be at the table.  Supper time did not flex around our sports schedules, homework, chores or any other thing.  Family time was as valuable a commodity as a winter jacket in a snowstorm.   Not even a power outage stopped family meal time. With ten of us around the table; Dad sat at the south end, Mom to his side; the rest in our regular spots.  Mom could whip up a meal like nobody’s business. She assigned age-appropriate chores for all of us to do so that when 5:25 hit; supper was being set on the table.  

Spring-time meals seemed especially pleasant.  Maybe it was because we could peer out the window past our big maple tree to see the barn, the blooming buds, and all the black dirt ready for planting.  There was something relaxing and stable about that time of day and the meal we shared together.  I don’t think we ever realized how picturesque it was.  We prayed our mealtime prayer and passed the food pots around the table as we always did.  Conversation was usually shared among the older siblings while the younger ones listened intently trying to get the jist of today’s topic and hoping to have a chance to put in their two cents.   The jokes behind the laughter were often over my head and the seriousness of other topics seemed too boring or intimidating to pay much heed.

There was a time when my older sibling’s tardiness threw the family routine into a minor tizzy.  They had joined the track team and had to succumb to its schedule.  The threats of being grounded for the rest of the school year, or even worse; missing one of Mom’s wonderful meals never materialized. From my regular spot at the table I watched the dust kick up behind the blue Dodge Cornet as the athletes rushed to join the family meal time.  

And there we sat, enjoying the fantastic spread, the farm setting and the simple pleasure of being together.  Truly, nothing changed meal time . . . except when the shrill call of my brother or father came.  That call changed everything. 

“Cow’s out!”  came the sudden screaming voice.

We all knew what that meant.  Like a fire alarm sounding; everyone knew we must stop what we were doing.  As the chairs were pulled back, some attempted to shove as much food in as possible before heading out.  With that verbal bugle call the troops set out in full force.  The men took off bravely in the direction of the rebel cow.  Toggling between a brave female warrior and a fear-struck youngster, I looked to my older siblings for cues as to what to do next.  My mom reached for the broom and stood half way between the barn and the house, as if to keep them from finishing our dinner.  My younger sister tucked in safely behind her.  Those who were closest to me in age headed in the direction of the barn.

 “I sure hope I don’t end up in the barnyard, standing in the manure again.”  My older sister could be heard saying.   I knew what that was like, though not from chasing these silly old cows!  (See story entitled “Oh Brother!) 

Many times the cows headed out into the fields beyond the barn in the direction of the little woods.  What they were seeking was anybody’s guess.  Depending on the time of year, we faced different obstacles as we raced to come up behind these boys.  Autumn fields had a thick layer of corn stalks intruding our path.  Winter snow was deep and crusted with ice.  As we ran the thin ice gave way and we slipped through.  It didn’t seem to slow the cows down nearly as it did us.  Summer chasing events meant tearing up our ankles and feet from the stubble of fresh cut wheat.  But it was springtime fields that were the most challenging to face.  They were wet and sloppy.  The soil gave way as our ankles turned under the deep crevasses of freshly plowed fields.  No matter the season, we had to press on; there was no other choice.  The goal was not only to catch up with the cow, but to come in behind him to woo him back to the barn, eventually back to their pasture or stall.  This task became a very athletic endeavor. It was a race of endurance and speed, and perhaps our peers were right to say our cow-chasing was the secret to our families’ success in track & field.   It was the boys who always seemed to come out the heroes as they raced fearlessly across the road, out into the fields, and around to their back side.  They wasted no time; they knew the area well, and knew where each of these cattle tended to wander.  Once the boys were behind them, the more docile cattle meandered back toward home as if we were making too big a deal about their escape.  The more aggressive ones put up a bigger fight; jerking their heads, snorting and threatening to break through the human barriers we had set up.  Eventually, all gave in.  As the cows got closer to the barn it was the girls turn to do their part.  We stood between the cows, the barn and the wide open spaces, verbally shooing them back to the barn, desperately hoping they believed we meant business and would head home rather than charge at us.  None of dared to say what tremendous fear we really felt inside.  If the cow would sense our fear, he would surely take off in a new direction.   If we did our part correctly; small as it was, the cow gave up his fight, and was soon back out-to-pasture.  It was then that Mom’s broom stick was put down, and my younger sister’s jubilant mood returned.  It was then that most of us headed back toward the house, while Dad and one of the older boys would sure-up the fence where the cow had gotten out.   

Sitting back at the table to finish our now-cold supper we reminisced about the events of the evening.  While again listening to the stories about the news of the day and the interval workout around the track, there was an additional topic to which we ALL could relate.  That stubborn cow brought a sense of gratifying oneness.  Young and old alike had taken on the task of bringing that stubborn boy back home.  As vastly different as we were; in age and personality, the lingering moments slowly passed, like a winter jacket in a snowstorm we valued the time spent together. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMoXhepcU18

Oh Brother!

~ by JoAnn

There was NO WAY I was going to let those boys get away with ignoring me again! I was tired of my brother ditching me when his friends came over.  As they set out on their adventure, I was right on their trail. They didn’t notice me at first, but I kept trudging along following their every move. When they went into the granary filled with cow corn still on its cob, I went in right behind them. If they saw me they acted like I was invisible. They climbed the mound of corn, checked out the antique equipment in the rafters above, and then headed back toward the door.

As I trailed them into the barn, I saw their feet entering the hay-filled loft. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like my fear of heights allow those boys win this one! Up the ladder I went; across the stacks of freshly baled hay into the old side of the barn.  By this time I knew they were aware that I was their shadow. Their pace increased, as they slipped through the recesses of the rafters into the oldest, most rickety part of the loft. On the south side of the barn was a cow feeder. It was built so hay could be taken from the loft & dropped directly into the feeder. The bulls in the pasture could eat at their leisure w/out us ever having to go into their territory. I never minded feeding the bulls this way.

What had started as a determination to be included had turned into a fear-factor type competition. My brother knew my fears all too well. He knew the surest way to get me to head back with the girls up at the house was to go where the bulls dwelt.

That is exactly what he did.  He and his friend slipped from the second story loft down the side of the feeder; directly into the pasture. By this time I was more angry than frightened. I verbally made my presence known; challenging his attempt to leave me in the dust.

“You can’t get away from me!” I stated indignantly!
“Oh yes I can!” was his firm reply.

His friend laughed as they headed toward the shed in the middle of the barn yard. I stared at the bulls as I hung from the feeder’s edge deciding what to do.

“They shouldn’t be allowed to treat me this way!” I thought as I swallowed my fear and chased after them again.

I had never been to the bulls shed. Any work needing to be done in this barnyard was assigned to the boys, and THAT was just fine with me! This is the shed where the cows hung out in a rain storm, or on a hot summer day; covered under its shade and protected from the elements.  My brother and his friend entered the shed with ease. They stepped onto the ledge between the building’s footer and the wooden structure. They began to walk around the edge in an obvious attempt to send me back to the house.  I was determined to follow. As I got closer to the shed I realized the cow manure was getting deeper and deeper. I had to jump to avoid getting stuck in the cow-mud. I was able to make a leap toward the shed.  My foot reached the ledge as I grabbed with my hand for something to steady myself. Nothing. I began to loose my balance. I had no choice but to come off the ledge, into the knee deep cow manure. Both feet sank deep. As I tried to pull them up the vacuum-like swish sound could be heard as I made several attempts to remove my feet from the thick smelly stuff.

Finally I gave a strong heave upward with my one leg; only to loose my balance. Now, not only were my feet in the manure, but my bottom and hands as well. Sinking deep into the manure, I cringed at the sound of the two boys laughter. Covered in manure I had no choice but to end my pursuit.

Of Cats & Cows. Part two.

Of Guernsey’s and Holsteins.
~ by Colette & JoAnn

A self-sustaining farm wouldn’t be that with the good ‘ole milk’n cow.  Ours was no different.  She was a beautiful tan and white Guernsey who was gentle but smart – for a cow.  She was the old reliable queen of the pasture, endowed with enough ‘cow sense’ to stay out of trouble.  Unlike the resident queen, a couple of Holsteins Dad put out to pasture alongside her had an entirely different temperament. 

Of the 80 acres we owned, five of them were dedicated to our milk cow(s).   When it came time to milk, you could hear a slow & steady voice of Dad or one of our brothers calling “Come boss!  Come boss.”  That was all the coxing needed for Ol’ Bossie.  She compliantly meandered into the barn and stood quietly while she selflessly gave us our daily supply of milk.  Then it was back out to pasture. Inside the pasture was a small shed where we kept smaller farm equipment such as the ‘tiller.  It used to be a feeding ground for the pigs, but that was before my time.  Further back in the pasture was the chicken coop.  It was one story, built with the simplest of materials, but warm and sound enough to keep the chickens.  Along the edge of the pasture was an old manure spreader.  Ol’Bossie lived peacefully with it for as long as I can remember without every paying any ‘never-mind’ to its presence.  One spring, Dad put a new Holstein cow out to pasture with Ol’Bossie.  I can’t say these two cows were ever kindred spirits, and judging by the jeers coming from my brothers at milking time, I’d guess this new Holstein was as stubborn-a-cow as I’d ever seen.  Either that or it was the stupidest cow I’d ever seen! Her milk didn’t taste nearly as good after all the running she did while the boys coxed her into the barn. 

Being a farmer’s daughter meant learning life’s harder lessons through the world around us; often from our animals.  One late summer evening after hearing some especially loud jeers coming from the pasture, I ran to find out what was going on.  It was then that I witnessed the high price of stupidity, stubbornness & greed.  While Ol’Bossie was standing amenably in her usual spot by the barn door waiting to be milked, the Holstein was laying down near that old manure spreader.  My brother nudged her with his foot exclaiming “Get Up Boss!” But, there she lay.

 With a sudden wave of reality we realized why she was not moving – not then; not ever.  With five acres of grass on which to feed, this cow evidently preferred the two square feet of grass growing between the hitch and the body of the old manure spreader.  In so doing, this stubborn cow had managed to break its own neck reaching get to the greener grass; astounding all of us into a harsh lesson on greed.

Our next lessons came shortly after.  With the second source of milk gone, Dad knew he needed to salvage its meat. Not able to take the cow to the butcher, we were able to witness, as near as our parents would allow, a complete butchering.  I remember dad’s calm swiftness as he called the neighbor to come down with his pick-up.  Together, they skillfully strung the Holstein up by its heels, attaching it to a plank laid across the two truck toppers some 10’ in the air.  Like a perfect team they silently worked from milking time until dark to salvage what could be on that warm summer evening. Though Mom and Dad tried to keep us ‘shooed away’ from watching we were mesmerized by the butchering process.  Unlike the men, we were not yet hardened to the disgusting smells that arose as they opened up the organs and sliced away its meat.  Life’s hard lessons unfolded before our eyes; financial loss, death, and the new reality of ‘dirty work’.  No one needed to open a text book to teach these lessons.  Neither did we need a sermon about hard work and what it meant to really be a neighbor.  We saw it in action as the two men worked through the setting sun.  There is no more genuine way to learn a lesson of teamwork and diligence than watching the skill of these untrained butchers, doing what needed to be done, working together because life called them to.   

Of Cats & Cows. Part 1

Cats. 
~ by Colette

I never could quite relate to the feline society as a species. Growing up on a farm, we always had anywhere from five to thirty-some cats around.  This reality kinda hardened me to their purposefulness.

With such a large family running around on our eighty acre spread, “The Farm”, as it was called, became a popular place for people to dump off their furry friends.  On more than one occasion I recall finding a young litter of kittens abandoned in our front ditch.  Mind you, people didn’t drive up our long driveway to ask if we wanted them, they just dumped them off, like a “drive-by cattery.”

With so much already for the boys to do, it became our job to care for these critters.  With several milking cows in the barn, we always had leftover milk to share.  I watched a sort of “cat rank” emerge as I carried the table scraps out to the barn.  Though these cats came in many shapes and sizes, they also came with their own personality.  Some were mean, while others docile. The most aggressive ones would jump up on me, attempting to get the tastiest morsel first – Maybe that’s why mom always equipped us with a large spoon or spatula. The others always followed behind single file, as if in some line of protocol.  At the top of the ‘cat rank’ was actually our dog, Spot.  He was smart enough to head straight to the serving area in the barn, well ahead of the cats.  He always got more than his fair share. 

I don’t recall many of these cats as even acquiring names.  By the time we got to know them, they so often disappeared.  There was one grey male cat, however, that I liked named “Raincloud.”  Less rapidly than the rest, Raincloud inevitably met his match during a duel with another feline gang member.  Our efforts to tame kittens usually proved little results as they returned to their call of the wild.

The peak of cat-dom usually came near the end of summer, one particular summer our farm peaked at 32 cats! I often wondered exactly what thoughts Dad had about that many cats around! Certainly there couldn’t have been enough mice to feed that large a brood. After the first frost or so, our cat population diminished to a manageable number.  It was a relief really, to me at the time, to have a few less cats around to feed.

No.  Warm regards and emotional ties for what most consider a pet, wasn’t really instilled in me in.  “Oh, it’s a cat” was more my general muse upon seeing them around our farm. They were more admired in the field of science than they were as pets.  For example, witnessing the wonder of birth and the reality of death.  For the less thoughtful of scientists, cat ‘researchers’ could be seen trying to catch a cat in a net or blanket after throwing it from the haymow, or putting it in a bucket on a rope attached to a pulley, and hoisting it back up to the haymow. Adventure seeking scientists tried a “walk the plank”, attempting to get the cats to walk the high beams in the barn.  At least one cat per year seemed to find itself in the wrong place at the wrong time; deciding to sleep under the hood of the car.  But, I long ago concluded from these experiments that cats do not always “land on their feet,” so I’m careful never to describe myself as such.

Though cats are one animal I never regarded as useful beyond catching an occasional mouse, I expected little more from them but to sit on their haunches and look pensive.  While most of the animals we kept on the farm supplied us with milk, eggs, or meat, the less-than-lovable myriad of cats kept us out of trouble. As we cared for them day after day, our barn yard cats were more like lawn ornaments or fixtures that just came with the farm, like the weeds in the cornfield.

The Homestead

~ by JoAnn

What is it about growing up in rural Midwestern USA in the 60’s and 70’s that set this era, this place, and these people apart?  Our home was not unique at the time.  We lived on the same farm where our Dad was born and raised.  (It would later come to be marked as one of the Midwest’s centennial farms; in the same family for more than 100 years.)  The house was set well back off the road surrounded by 120 acres of fields and wood.  

Like most farms in those parts, it was not a big farm, but rather a self-sustaining one with enough garden, livestock and harvest to feed the immediate family and the ability to be generous to close family and friends.  The barn was an outstanding feature of our homestead.  It stood strong for as long as our family had owned it.  My Dad had stories to tell about it being built and then later added onto.  What made this ordinary farm so special?  It was the history that was born in its dirt, the continuing story that grew on its land, and the people that continue to nurture its memory.  The heritage that stands like the strong beams of the barn, need not be forgotten.  Yes, I am just a farmer’s daughter.  Some may not know my roots, or understand its value in forming the kind of person  the farmer’s daughter’s across American have become.  Come join this simple journey of one miwestern farm.  Find out what it means to be “just a farmer’s daughter.”    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4E7bc149Xe0&feature=related