Story Time XVII

Soaped

This story can be included or left out. I leave that decision to the three of you. I’m writing it down because it happened and I can confirm that getting ones mouth washed out with Fels Naptha yellow laundry soap is not a pleasant experience. Shannon can also verify the tendency of older siblings to instigate and urge the younger, more innocent, and naïve person to commit acts that go beyond the “normal” patterns of genteel behavior.

This incident occurred after we had been at the farm for about a year. I was still very easily manipulated at the age of 4½ - 5 years old. It was summertime and we - mom and all six children, Jack, Dick, Dugal, Me, Sally and Alex - were in the summer kitchen where mom was doing laundry. I assume Jack and Dick were there to carry water from the well, to the stove and thence to the laundry tubs. The rest of us were there because that was where everybody else was.

There was also one other person there. For lack of a better name and to protect anyone from being embarrassed I will call him “Mr. Dofuss.” All of us kids were playing on the floor with clothespins and other odds and ends and not paying much attention to what was going on around us. With the exception of Jack and Dick who because of their advanced years had a suspicion of what was happening.

In retrospect, I now understand what prompted their action. Jack and Dick started taking turns whispering in my ear.

“Hey Rod, Tell him to go away.”

“Call him a fatso.”

"Tell him to stay away from mom!”

“Tell him he stinks.”

All of this prompting drew my attention to what was happening by the laundry tub. It seemed to me that mom and Mr. Dofuss were playing tag, back and forth around the tub. Dofuss doing a lot of reaching and grabbing but mom being quicker with very good reflexes succeeded in evading his grasp. This was beginning to really annoy Jack and Dick so they increased the urgings for me to intervene.

Jack finally whispered to me, “You’re yellow, you don’t dare call him a lard ass and tell him he should go away”.

Well this was the ultimate challenge. There was no alternative. Rising to my feet I walked the two or three steps to place myself in front of Dofuss, looked him in the eye and loudly spoke my lines.

“Hey, lard ass, why don’t you go home!”

Such a flurry of activity ensued. Dick was hollering, ”He did it, he did it” Jack was laughing, Dugal was shocked into silence and Sally giggled.

Mom grabbed the laundry soap and not too gently inserted it into my mouth.

“Maybe this will clean up your filthy mouth.” (I could tell she was trying VERY hard not to smile).

In the meantime Mr. Dofuss was trying to get his belt off while mumbling on about taking the young brat out behind the woodshed for a lesson in manners. This activity caused mom to smile at me, turn and pick up the heavy wooden laundry paddle. Facing Mr. Dofuss, in a voice that was like cast iron she simply stated, ”I agree with my son, Go away, and don’t ever come back, LARD ASS!”

He left. We cheered. He never came back.

Story Hour XVI

Story Hour is a collection of short, autobiographical stories written by my father about growing up on a farm in rural Upstate New York.

The School

SAGE DISTRICT NO. 6. The neat, white, one room school sat on the crest of the hill between Sawmill Road and Upton Road. In addition to the classroom there was a boy’s cloak room with a toilet and a girl’s cloak room and toilet.

There was no running water, but a washstand with a basin and a pail of water provided the means to wash your hands. The toilets were the conventional farm type except they had a cement pit for cleaning out the waste material instead of moving the building. The clean out job was hired out to a local farmer or student willing to earn a dollar or two.

Strategically located was a wood burning heater. If the teacher was female, arrangements were made during cold weather to have one of the older boys come to school a little early to start the fire and get the school warmed up. Some years we had a man for a teacher and he would perform this task. The well and pump were located by the front steps on a concrete pad. I had a rather traumatic experience with that concrete pad at a later date.

Off to one side of the yard was the recess area consisting of a swing set with four swings and a trapeze bar. The yard was large and maintained for the usual games of tag, foot races and other physical activities.

Multiple windows provided adequate light as there was no electricity and I don’t recall seeing any lamps there during the seven years I attended the school. I do not remember there ever being an evening social event.

The desks were neatly arranged in rows, with the black cast iron frames and seats secured to the floor with screws. The tops of the desks did not lift up but had a shelf beneath for storage of books and papers. The top surfaces were invariably ink-stained and marked up with more than a few initials carved into the wood.

The teacher’s desk was of modest size and was, of course the focus of all attention. There was also a work table for projects and a world globe on an iron stand for geography lessons. A rack of pull-down maps gave an enlarged view of various countries and continents.

The library consisted of a few well-worn primers, some classic chapter books, a large dictionary and various arithmetic books. Other books that were needed could be obtained from Sandy Creek central school by the teacher. Ball point pens did not exist so each desk was furnished with an ink well. We were considered modern so we didn’t use turkey quills, but steel nibs on the scratchy pens. Penmanship was very important and many hours were spent doing the “Palmer Method” practice. Somehow I fell through the cracks on that deal.

The official school day started with a “Good morning students,” from the teacher. The reply was a resounding,”Good morning Mr. or Mrs. Blank,” in unison.

“We will start as usual with the younger classes and their reading lessons.”

Each student would stand and read from the assigned pages or report on an event. Sometimes the teacher would ask for a definition of a word or a personal reaction to a bit of dialogue. The rest of the pupils were expected to behave in a much disciplined manner and concentrate on their own lessons.

Of course there were whispers and giggles as the enthusiasms of young people exceeded the rules. A sharp rap on the desk with a long wooden pointer and a stern look at the offender usually restored order allowing the classes to continue.

As the school day progressed, the teacher would, after the allocated time with an age group or class, move on up to the next higher grade. The lessons got a little more involved; arithmetic reared its ugly head and demanded recitation of multiplication tables.

Quite a bit of the learning process at that time was having a good memory. Practice and recitation was the best route to good grades. Having been exposed to the one room system and then going to a centralized system where you stayed with your own class and changed classrooms several times a day. I have ambivalent feelings as which system is best.

I have to confess I do not recall if we carried our lunch or went home to lunch. I suspect that when there was good sledding we went home and made sure not to overshoot the driveway or we would be late getting back. If we carried our lunch it would have been bread and jam.

At one time the U.S. Department of Agriculture instituted a “Hot Lunch Program.” Mr. Butterworth brought in a couple of sauce pans from his kitchen and us kids each brought in a spoon and a cup or mug. At lunch time the can opener was put into operation and three cans of red kidney beans (surplus foods) and a can of evaporated milk (also surplus) with an additional can of water were mixed together and heated on the stove. This then, was the government’s idea of what a hot lunch should consist of. Mom generously contributed a loaf of bread occasionally. For some reason the delivery of the food was rather sporadic for a while, then stopped completely.

By late afternoon the teaching day reached its pinnacle - seventh and eighth grade. That was as high as one could go. From this point on it was up and out to high school. Something mysterious called “Algebra” and another creature called “Geometry” entered the vocabulary.

My own children have seen many changes in teaching methods with the “New Math”, Number lines and a general deterioration of standards. Unfortunately, many of our students are emerging from school as functional illiterates. Many cannot figure out what their pay checks should be. Simple basic arithmetic is beyond their comprehension.

As I told all of my kids, "The most important thing you can learn is to read and understand what you are reading. If you can do this then you can LEARN ANYTHING.”

A Different Kind Of Story

OK, don't forget that Sunday is my first Technology Free Day! So I'm gonna post a little story for you tonight to give you something to read with your morning java. This is a short little fable written by my Dad. Here's his introduction:

Long before the advent of the great Iroquois Confederacy, even before the founding of the major tribes of the Mohawk, Oneida and Onondaga there did exist the beginnings of what we now call civilization. In the remote wilderness bordering Lake Ontario there lived several small clans of Native People. Each of these groups, as separate entities, had their own customs and beliefs as to their origins. Stories of the Earth’s creation and the establishment of the various forms of flora and fauna were told to each succeeding generation to provide a living history, as well as for the entertainment value. This, then, is a compilation of legends, lore and possibly some lies, that might have been told by the members of one of those clans. I do not claim originality of these tales as I may have read or heard of something in the distant past that has been nearly forgotten until now. I do hope, however, that these stories will provide some entertainment value, especially for the younger members of the audience.

Naoki-Ha

It was summer time. Naoki-Ha, the first tree sparrow was very happy. His days were spent flitting about, checking on all the new and wondrous things in this warm, sunny meadow. The wigwams of the Great Spirit’s people were arranged so that the fire stones which kept the cooking fires under control were in the center.

Wild flowers grew in profusion and pretty, colorful butterflies lazily drifted amongst them. A small stream meandered by and on its banks grew cat tails and other reeds. These were the home of the red-winged black bird or sentinel.

Food was not a problem. Seeds and insects were in abundance, and Naoki-Ha frequently visited the area around the cooking fires. Here he found bits and pieces of food dropped by the humans. Sometimes he would find a very small handful of cracked grain, left for him by Shanewa, a young Indian girl, who took great delight in watching as he flitted about.

Shanewa and her sisters Hudewa and Erinewa were the youngest females in the clan and as such were everyone’s favorites, including Naoki-Ha’s.

So progressed the summer. Seemingly a continuous succession of warm sunny days with an occasional rain shower to freshen and nourish the Earth. The flowers bloomed, the birds sang. Small, furry creatures, such as rabbits and squirrels cavorted in the grass.

Naoki-Ha’s joy with his existence was unlimited. Though he was small and inconspicuous, with brown back and wings, and a soft gray breast, he was not the least bit envious of the more colorful birds, such as the robin, blue jay and the sentinel, with his scarlet wing patches.

Quick darting movements and a soft twittering with chirps had given him his name, Naoki-Ha, meaning “twitter-chirp”. It seemed his purpose for being was to constantly be busy and to bring a smile to all who saw him. His nights were spent sheltered and secure in the branches of a thick, fat pine tree.

And so it was that one morning when he emerged from his shelter, he noticed that his World had changed. Frost glistened on the foliage and flower blooms. The leaves on many of the trees were turning color and the grasses were turning from vibrant green to a dull, withered brown.

Quickly he flew to the “People Place”. The three young girls were huddled by the cooking fire, wrapped in robes of animal skins. While they would normally be giggling and chattering, this day they were somber and talking about MANTA NE-WA-DO (Creator, Spirit Mother/Father) who lived deep in the forest.

This confused Naoki-Ha. The changes in the weather and the behavior of the girls led him to believe that something was happening. He did not fully comprehend, but was not happy about the changes that were occurring.

He flew to the creek bank. The sentinel was gone. The cat tails and reeds standing mutely offered no explanation. Tiny silken parachutes floated away from a cat tail that had ripened and was fulfilling its destiny.

To the meadow...even though the morning sun had melted the frost, there were no butterflies to be seen. Except for the scolding of a blue jay in the distance, it was very quiet. There were no robins hopping about looking for worms, and even the yellow flash of the wild canary was not to be seen.

“Manta Newado! I must go o the deep forest and speak with the Creator. He will be able to make things right again. He will make it warm and bring back my friends and the flowers and the butterflies. I must do this, or surely everything will die!” So thought the little bird.

With feelings of apprehension, he flew into the constant twilight of the deep forest. The trees grew so tall, and so mightily, they all but blocked the sun. Towering pines, spreading oaks, and the regal maples grew in profusion. Other trees, such as beech, hickory, chestnut, and hemlock were interspersed to provide a natural balance.

On he flew, through the entire day and as night approached, it grew colder and darker.

On he flew, determination making his little wings keep moving. On and on through the night, guided by a sixth sense, through trees, branches and falling leaves... through the cold, still air...through the silence of the forest.

As dawn was breaking, he at last came to a small clearing in the forest. A wigwam stood at the far edge and in front of it was a fire ring of stones. A faint wisp of smoke rose from the last glowing ember. Frost covered the brown grass and the carpet of leaves.

“The fire! The fire is going out! That is why it is so cold and everything is dying!” thought Naoki-Ha. “The fire of the Great Creator must burn brightly to keep the world warm! I must keep the fire going until Manta Newado gets up to put more fuel on it!”

And so, in spite of his fear of fire, he started flitting about, gathering bits of dry moss and twigs to place on the glowing ember. Each time he flew up to the coal with a bit of grass, or a twig, the air from his moving wings stirred up little puffs of ashes and soot. Poor little bird, soon he was covered with dust and a smudge of soot was on his breast.

The fire smoldered, but the fuel did not ignite. “More twigs! I must get more twigs and dry grass!” And away he flew, again and again, he carried his burden to the smoky fire. Still it did not flame. He remembered seeing Shanewa’s mother restart a fire by fanning the embers with a piece of birch-bark. “That I cannot do, but my wings make the air move. Maybe that will help
start the fire.”

Cautiously he hopped through the ashes until he was as close to the pile of twigs, moss, grass, and the glowing ember as he dared to be. Raising his wings, he gently moved them up and down. The coal glows a little brighter, and the smoke grew a bit thicker. He stroked his wings faster and faster until he was almost flying, and suddenly with a soft “poof!” the flames appeared.

As he jumped back to keep from being burned, he heard a soft chuckle. He turned his head and saw Manta Newado, the Creator, standing behind him.

“Silly little Twitter-Chirp,” said the Creator. “I think we need to talk. Come, sit.”

So the small bird rested his weary wings and body as he perched on the Creator’s knee. Manta Newado explained why the seasons change and how life progressed through its various stages. Naoki-Ha listened intently and was greatly relieved to learn that his world was not dying, only resting to be reborn in the spring.

Finally, Manta Newado looked at Naoki-Ha and said, “I wondered when I created you if I gave you too much heart and not enough brain. Now I know that I did right. Go back to your meadow by the forest and stream. When the sun returns from its southern journey, it will be warm again. The flowers and butterflies will reappear and you will find your mate... and from this day forward, you and your hatchlings and all your family’s hatchlings will forever wear soot and ashes on their breasts as a badge of honor, that one so small would try so hard to help his fellow creatures.”

And so it was.

Story Hour XV

Story Hour is a collection of short, auto-biographical stories written by my father, about his boyhood memories of life on a farm in Upstate New York.

Threshing Day Continued

We were all up early the next morning, when I suddenly realized that DG had not come home as scheduled. This was not terribly unusual as he frequently was asked to fill in a vacancy on a shift. Always willing to pick up the extra pay, he would accept the additional assignment. The problem was that without a telephone or other means of communication there was no way to let us know what was going on. We could only wait and see when he would show up. One thing was for sure, he would be very tired.

Morning chores had to be done, the milk had to be taken to Pulaski, chickens had to be killed (increased to four) along with innumerable little side jobs that would crop up. So we went right at it. By the time the cows were let out to pasture Jack and Dick were well on their way with the milk run and the rest of us headed for the house for a quick bite of breakfast. The timing worked out well as the older boys returned in the Studebaker at the same time Jim, the owner/operator, of the threshing machine arrived.

The tractor was, I believe a John Deere with a big side-mounted belt drive pulley. I don’t remember if the tractor was on rubber but the threshing monster was on steel wheels and quite noisy on the black top roads. A short meeting between mom, Jack, Dick and Jim determined where the rig was to be set up, where the straw would be blown to and where the sacks of oats would be placed.

This accomplished, Jim and Jack started positioning the thresher and the tractor so the power belt would be in good alignment so as to prevent run-offs. Dick went to the chicken coop to select four chickens, taking Dugal with him for a helper. Hopefully they would select chickens that were slowing down on the egg production instead of good layers. I went into the barn and brought out the good feed bags that would be filled with the oats and placed them on the bag rack by the grain discharge pipe. Once filled, Jim would quickly tie them off and set them aside.

Each teamster with a load of oats would drive up to the thresher, stopping his wagon in a position so that he could fork the bundles of oats into the feed hopper. This needed to be done in an even distribution to prevent clogging the machine. The feed had to be interrupted to allow Jim to tie off and replace the bags as they filled. The whole job at the machine side was hot, terribly dusty and so noisy it hurt your ears (no OSHA then).

The straw was blown into a pile where it would remain until the first opportunity to transport it to the barn loft. By now the neighbors with their teams and wagons were arriving and getting organized. Dick and Dugal returned from the chicken mission and I reported to mom in the kitchen to help her and Sally with the garden produce, water hauling and any other chores that I could help with. Dick was designated to stay with Jim and tend the machine and Jack would take his place driving Tom and Jerry while Dugal helped as a loader. A couple of farmers had brought hired men with them so we ended up with sufficient manpower to accomplish the job.

Jim decided we were ready to go so he sent the teams to the oat field to start hauling grain. ”Kinda space the loads out a bit, so they don’t jam up,” he said with a grin. “We wantta make ‘er last until after lunch. I hear we’re having chicken ‘n biscuits.”

As the caravan of rigs headed out through the meadow he started tinkering and adjusting various knobs, levers and controls on the tractor. Finally he grasped the flywheel, and with a grunt gave it a mighty twist. He did get a faint pop and a puff of exhaust smoke. Again he repeated the effort with the same results. He adjusted the choke setting and tweaked the throttle and tried again. This time he got two or three half hearted pops and an ALMOST start.

”Once more” he grunted and sure enough with the traditional hit-and-miss firing rhythm of a John Deere it was running. “We’ll let ‘er warm up a bit then smooth ‘er out”, he said to Dick as he increased the throttle setting a little more. Soon the engine seemed to be settling down to a fairly even throbbing beat with no load on it.

“Time to twist ‘er tail”, said Jim as he reached for the big lever that would engage the drive pulley. “Watch that belt don’t run off and hit you. If she let’s go, just get out of the way. We can put ‘er back on quick enough. Just don’t get hurt.” With that said, he started easing the lever forward.

The strain on the engine was immediately noticeable and as the belt started to tremble and creep, the monster seemed to be coming to life. Clanks, groans, slaps jingles and bangs, whirrs and clunks and DUST.

“Smooth as silk”, Jim shouted and grinned. “Guess we’re ready to make oats.”

Just as he said that, the first wagon appeared around the corner of the barn and pulled up to the unloading spot. “Feed ‘em in easy at first, ‘til we get in the swing of it.” Shouted Jim with a nod to the driver.

As the first few bundles passed under the feed flails the noise and dust increased as expected.
“Keep ‘em coming, we are doing OK.”

The first straws started coming out of the straw pipe and the oat bag showed that it was getting the oats. With a nod from Jim the driver increased the speed of his unloading. The machine made more noise and dust but took the strain in stride.

”BAG”, shouted Jim and the driver stopped feeding while the filled bag was tied off and replaced with an empty one.

“OK” and they were running again.

Dick grabbed the full bag of oats and carried it up to the barn floor out of the weather and continued walking around the set up looking for potential problems (mostly the belt wandering on the pulleys). A big iron crowbar had been driven into the ground where the belt crossed itself to reverse direction of the drive. This also lent a stabilizing effect as a belt guide.

Needless to say things were going better than was anticipated. The teams were arriving at decent intervals so there was no time lost waiting for oats. I had been sent out with a couple of jugs of cool switzel for the thirsty, dusty men to refresh themselves. It was hot, dirty repetitious work so I will not bore you with the details.

We eventually made it to lunch time and shut the machine down. The drivers had timed their trips so that we ended up with one load ready for the start up. Each driver looked after his team with water and an oat bag before heading for the well to wash up and cool down. They expected the kitchen to be hot and they were not disappointed.

That old kitchen stove had just been pouring out the BTUs all morning. The table with all the extra chairs and planks on saw horses enabled us to seat the whole crew at once. There wasn’t much extra room but with good natured elbowing and lots of laughing they all fit in.

Mom, Sally and I were the wait staff busily carrying dishes, shuffling pots and pans, bring water or whatever was needed or wanted. Big bowls of chicken and gravy were placed within easy reach and piles of biscuits strategically located, Platters of golden sweet corn, plates of sliced tomatoes, pickles and relishes along with the ever present chili sauce. Two large bowls of mashed potatoes were there for those who wanted them and piles of home made bread and preserves were not lacking. Setting on the pantry broad shelf cooling off were several fruit pies made from yellow transparent apples, blueberries and rhubarb.

No one got up from the table feeling hungry, that was for sure. In fact, that was probably the best meal some of them had eaten in several days. Most of them would like to have taken a little nap but that was not on the agenda.

After a few minutes more of joking and conversation Jim stood up and announced, “Back at it, boys” and out they went.

Mom, Sally and I collapsed in the nearest chairs and ruefully surveyed the disaster area that faced us. I never realized we owned this many dishes, pots, pans, tubs and flatware, all in need of washing, rinsing and drying before being put away until Silo-Filling Day in October.

There were no options, so with a sigh mom said, “We might as well get at it and get it over with. Rod you get the slop pail out and start scraping dishes for the pigs. Mind you don’t dump any forks, knives or spoons.”

The dish pan and rinse pan both sat right on the stove with a very low fire a couple of cookie sheets were placed on the cooler side of the stove to stack the dishes until they could be wiped and put away. A small table held the scraped dishes until they went into the dish pan. Mom handled the washing, rinsing and placing on the cookie sheets. Sally was the dryer and stacked the dishes on the wiped down table. I took the buckets of slops out to the pigs and they enjoyed their threshing day dinner. Boy, how they did crunch through those chicken bones and corn cobs.

In the meantime the oat operation was going full blast, things running smoothly when DG’s model “A” pulled into the driveway. He sat there for a minute or two just taking in the sight of the thresher and all the activity. You could tell he was exhausted just from his appearance.

He opened the car door and got out, slowly walking towards the house a deep yawn attesting to his condition. Mom opened the door and said,”Welcome stranger, come, sit, there is a bit left if you are hungry.”

“I might just do that. Then I have to see what I can do to help out there.”

Mom smiled and said, “I think you will be surprised. I talked with Jim at lunch and he assured me things would be all done by three or three thirty. Oats are yielding fair to middling. We should have enough for the horses, chickens and ourselves, if need be. You might want to stop out and say hello to Jim and then I would suggest you get a couple hours of sleep. I’m sure he will agree with me.”

She placed a plate of food in front of him and urged him to “Dig in.” He did.

Finishing his lunch, he arose from the table and made his way out the door. As he approached the machine he noticed Jim motion for Dick to come over where he was to take over for him. Dick had been observing and filling in on occasion so he was capable of handling the job. Together Jim and DG walked a few steps away so they could talk without shouting.

”Man, you look like death warmed over”, said Jim with a smile. “I think you better get a little shut-eye before you go down in a heap.”

“I’d really like to help out here if I could, gotta get these oats in,” DG said.

“Don’t you worry none. With this crew and those boys of yours we will have them all taken care of real soon. That Jack is handy with those wild horses of yours. They were pretty skittish first time up to the machine but he held them real close until Dick went up, held their bridles and calmed them down while Jack off loaded the oats. After that they were ok. You go on in now, we will settle up in a couple of days, OK?”

DG nodded and said ”OK, I guess you’re the boss on this crew, see you later.”

Back in the house we were just finishing up the dishes, pots and pans and sweeping the floor. The kitchen looked fairly presentable considering what it had looked like an hour ago. DG headed through his bedroom door and asked to be awakened for supper. Sally and I eagerly stepped out the door into the relative coolness of the fresh air.

“Busy day, huh?"

"Yeah, I’m beat.”

We walked slowly out towards the machinery and clouds of dust.

“Ugh” said Sally, "that hot kitchen was almost better than this.”

We stood as much up wind as we could to avoid most of the dust. The pile of straw looked like gold in the sun with a little green from the ragweed mixed in. The timing was good - the last three wagon loads were coming up through the meadow and as each was emptied the drivers waved and started down the road for their home farms. They knew that Jim would keep them informed of the next threshing event on the schedule.

As soon as Jack finished unloading the wagon he drove it around to where it was usually parked. He unhitched Tom and Jerry and drove them to their stalls. Cool fresh water was the first order of business along with a few oats as a reward. Off came the harnesses which were properly hung on pegs.

Grabbing an old feed bag, he briskly rubbed both horses down and climbed to the hay loft to dump some fresh hay into the mangers. Proper care of the horses was one of the most important jobs a man could do on the farm at that time.

Jim had shut the machine off and was breaking down the rig for transport. Dick was rolling up the belt and Dugal was securing blow pipes and beater bars. The boys were hurrying a little because in the back of their heads they were figuring on a quick trip to the swimming hole on Deer Creek before chores. Poor Sally was not to be invited as this was a boys' swimming hole (skinny dipping only).

Restarting the tractor, Jim jockeyed it around until it was in position to hook up the thresher. Dick coupled the units together and reached out to shake hands with Jim.

“Thanks for the training session”, he said with a grin.

Jim grinned right back at him and said, “If you ever want a job, come see me.”

With a wave to the rest of us he let out the clutch and the noisy, dusty monster started on the road to home. We headed for the Studebaker and the swimming hole. We knew Sally would tell mom where we were headed (grudgingly, of course).

This was basically what oat threshing day consisted of. More often than not, it was a day filled with frustration, broken equipment, sprains and bruises, run away teams, broken belts and the threat of rain.

After the quick swim, chores were done a bite of supper was eaten. A little relaxation and a general review of the day’s events brought the day to an early close. Several times in the past few days I had heard the word “School” mentioned. September was almost upon us. Time to think about wearing shoes again, also shirts.

My usual attire in the summer was a pair of raggedy shorts. I did truly hate the thought of corduroy knickers that whistled when you walked. Maybe I had outgrown them and they would get passed down to Alex. I could only hope!

Story Hour XIV

Story Hour is a collection of autobiographical short stories, written by my father, about growing up in rural Upstate New York.

Threshing Day

Monday morning dawned clear and cool. The clearness would hopefully stay with us but the coolness would be replaced by the heat of the sun as it rose higher in the sky. Morning chores done, Jack and Dick, after tow starting the Studebaker, loaded the milk and immediately left on the milk run. Dugal, Sally, Alex and I headed for the garden to pick corn and tomatoes for canning.

At this point I must interrupt my story and plead a memory glitch. I will tell this part of the story as I recall it as a nine or ten year old boy. While looking up some facts pertaining to oat harvesting, I started remembering more of the procedure that I had neglected to include. The reaper had cut the oats about a week before threshing day. This allowed the oat grains to dry and ripen to facilitate the threshing process. The bundles of oats were gathered and stacked in bundles of three with one bundle laid across the top to act as a water shed in the event of rain. After the passage of three or four days everyone would gather for threshing day.

So, as it were: Our oats were cut and stooked and ready to be threshed, tomorrow was the big day when the local farmers would come with their teams and wagons and all work together to git ‘er done. We didn’t have a very large oat field so we figured to be done well before night chores. For today there were the usual activities, principally canning. Whatever was in the garden that would provide nourishment through the winter went into a jar and was processed on the wood burning kitchen stove. The hottest day of summer was no deterrent to the canning job.

It didn’t take too long for Dugal, Alex and I to slip off to the shady side of the barn in search of a breeze. I felt a little guilty thinking about Mom, Sally, and Thelma still in the kitchen (but not too much). After all, in those days ‘women’s work’ was women’s work and we men folks had other things to do. Believe me - we would all three, pay for that philosophical outlook many times over during our lifetimes. Times have changed.

Eventually we had cooled off enough to wander back toward the house. Dick and Jack had returned from the milk run and were busy inspecting the oats and the water level down in Sage Creek, along with a few other things that would keep them away from that hot box of a kitchen. The big problem was that we were all getting kinda hungry and the only place we knew of where there was food was in the garden or in the kitchen. Mom looked at us when we walked in.

“Did you get lost between here and the garden?” she asked sweetly. “I’m glad you’re back and just in time too. You boys have got to make four dozen biscuits and four loaves of bread as long as the stove is hot. That will save us a lot of time tomorrow when the men are here. Sally has made bread and biscuits before so you will do as she tells you. I will be right here to so there better not be any problems”.

Three rather crestfallen young men looked pleadingly at their mother and one of them softly said, “Please mom, we’re hungry”. With just a touch of sarcasm she said, “Eat a tomato and get to work.”

Well, yes indeed, Sally knew the fundamentals of bread and biscuit making so with a little supervision from Mom and a lot of superior bossiness from Sally, we sweated our way through measuring and mixing flour, lard, salt, baking soda to produce the required number of biscuits.
As the first pan of golden brown fluffy biscuits came out of the oven mom relented a little, “You may each have one.”

“With strawberry jam?” we shouted.

“Yes,” She replied with a smile.

Bread making was a different matter than simple biscuits. Mom took a much more active part in this effort. In an attempt to prepare us for adulthood, even though we were “MEN” she wisely explained what and why things were done in a certain way: mix and set the sponge (Yeast, sugar salt, flour and warm water) and let it set until the yeast started making bubbles and filling the kitchen with the unmistakable aroma of home made bread.

I seem to recall something about saving the water the potatoes had been cooked in for bread making. This time though we did not have any potato water so we used the well water. At the proper time it seemed like half a barrel of flour was dumped into the biggest bowl we had and an awful lot of mixing took place for a few minutes.

”Take a break,” and out the door we all went. It must have been at least 90 degrees outside but it actually felt cool after being in that kitchen. We all walked down to the end of the driveway to the well and pump, under the big yard maple.

Taking turns with the dipper we all enjoyed a cool drink of water and then the boys took turns holding their heads under the water spout while someone else pumped the water…Oh, did, that, ever, feel, good!

Somewhat refreshed, back to the house we trooped. More work to be done. The canning was pretty much done for the day so Dugal, Alex and I were told to take all the tomato peels, corn husks and cobs along with any other food scraps out to the pigs. Mom and Sally would finish the bread baking while we cleaned up the canning mess. After that we “MEN” would be excused to go swimming at the creek and bring the cows up from the pasture on the way home.

Little did we know of the activity that Jack and Dick had been up to. A few miles away to the west was a larger stream called Deer Creek, and just off the road was an abandoned gravel pit that was now part of Deer Creek. It had been a hot and dry summer so the creeks were quite low. This caused the fish to congregate in the deeper pools and that gravel pit certainly qualified as a “deeper pool”.

Dick always made sure to have survival gear near at hand so he was able to rig a couple of fish poles with the line and hooks he had in the truck. By flipping over stones on the stream bank where the soil was damp he procured fish worms and crickets for bait.

The fish evidently had been trapped in this pool for a few days and were ravenous. Each cast with the smallest piece of bait on the hook produced an instant strike and up would come a very nice seven to nine inch bullhead. Just the right size for the big black iron skillet.

“Supper comin’ up” yelled Dick as he pulled in one. Jack whooped, ”I’ve got another one too.” A quick count showed an even dozen on the grass.

“Let’s not over do it, said Dick, we might want to come back next week for some more”.

“Good thinking,” replied Jack. “We will stop at twenty which will be plenty for everyone, including mom.”

It’s funny but an almost exact repeat of this fish story happened just about a year later to Dugal and I. We, of course didn’t drive but we did walk to the Deer Creek gravel pit with our fish poles. The results were very similar.

The water was low the fish were hungry and biting. We had bait with us and soon had all the fish we wanted. As we started to leave I noticed, sitting on the edge of the water the biggest bull frog I had ever seen.

Quickly I put a very small piece of worm on the tip of my hook and dangled it directly in front of “Jeremiah”. WHACK, went his tongue and he was mine. I quickly gave him a resounding whack on the head to prevent his suffering and into the feed sack he went. That was a special treat for mom that night. She did dearly love frog legs and fish.

Anyhow, Dick and Jack gathered up their gear and fish, jumped into the truck and headed home to clean the fish before chore time. When they arrived home the bread was just coming out of the oven and it was a little too hot to cut so they cleaned the fish first. Mom was tickled pink to see that mess of fish.

“Sweet corn, sliced tomatoes and fried bullhead, you can’t beat that for supper,” said Mom.

“Don’t forget the fresh bread.” added Dick as he reached for the bread knife to cut a slab.”

I always thought it peculiar that we liked to visit our cousins in Pulaski because they had store-bought, sliced bread and they used to like to come to our house because we always had home made bread. They had many other food items that we did not have - peanut butter was a rarity at our house. Mayonnaise, sliced bologna, cheese and even butter were unknowns to us. Soda (Coke, Hires, Seven-up) were nothing but words that had no meaning or identification to us. Lack of that, which we did not know about, did not bother us. The term that comes to mind was, “Fat, dumb and happy”, but we weren’t fat or dumb...

Slab of bread in hand, Dick looked out the window to see the cows coming up the lane with the three musketeers with stick swords battling along behind. “Chore time,” he announced and headed out the door.

Once again mom excused herself a little early from chores with the suggestion that the three youngsters could help finish up. I have to admit that Alec was an unusual worker. I do believe that if we had wanted to we, could have sat down and watched him do all the work by himself. He was usually quiet, serious and dedicated to whatever the task at hand.

When all was done, we headed for the house. Quickly we washed up and sat down at the table. There was a veritable feast laid out before us. A heaping platter of fried fish still smoking hot from the pan, nicely steamed ears of corn, a plate of sliced red ripe tomatoes, a plate of fresh slabs of bread with a jar of strawberry preserves A jar of home made chili sauce replaced the bottle of ketchup that we never had (or missed).

All in all, it had been quite a day. Much had been accomplished and we were in good shape for the big day tomorrow. Dishes out of the way and the kitchen neatened up, it was time for the radio and a little relaxation. I had read everything in the house that had print on it so I had to be content to listen to the Lone Ranger with the rest of them. I asked Dick and Jack if they could get some old “Street and Smith” paperback books from their friends that liked to read the pulpers (dime novels). I received an affirmative grunt and a “yeah” as the program had started and there were to be no more interruptions.

After the show ended, even though it was not yet real dark, I headed up the stairs to bed. It had been a long day and I was tired out. There were no left over fish as mom ate the last one and smiled. Life was good.

Story Hour XIII

Story Hour is a collection of autobiographical short stories written by my father, about growing up in rural Upstate New York.

Everyone was up early the next morning. It was Sunday, but on a farm with animals it is just like any other day. A cold breakfast was eaten and Dick and Jack got the Studebaker running and went to check the road block. They were back very shortly to tell us that the road block was not there. A brief discussion with mom and they headed for the milk house to get the milk from the previous evening and the milk from the morning milking.

Covering the milk cans with the tarp and, hearing a few words of caution from mom, they headed up the hill towards Pulaski. They encountered no difficulties and found they didn’t have to wait in line at the milk plant.

“I guess you boys got the word early, eh?” queried the milk tester as he knocked the can covers loose. Not waiting for an answer he sniffed each can for odors, then stirred the milk with a long metal paddle and dippered a small sample to test for butterfat content.

These procedures out of the way, he dumped the milk which had been weighed into the refrigerated holding tank and placed the cans and covers upside down on the can washer conveyor. In the meantime, the tester had done the butterfat test and gave the receipt to Jack.
The receipt had all the information on it: date, time, farmer’s name, weight of milk and butterfat content. Moving the truck to the washer can discharge, there was a short wait until the cans came out. It was advisable to wait a few minutes before grabbing the cans as they had just come out of a sterilizing steam bath and were very hot. Cans loaded and covered with the tied down tarp they were on their way back home.

Arriving at the farm they went right to the milk house and unloaded the cans and then went back to the house. “Strike’s over!” they shouted as they walked into the kitchen.

Mom and Sally were canning tomatoes again, so of course the kitchen was very hot. Extra pans held water heating on the stove for cleaning the kitchen. “Well I’m certainly glad to hear that,” exclaimed mom. “Now we can clean the kitchen and get ready for the threshing crew on Tuesday. We will, however, have cake and cream one more time on Monday night when your father comes home. I think the cream I have in the pantry will hold another day if we keep changing the water so it stays cold.”

Everyone grabbed a rag and, using yellow laundry soap, proceeded to wipe down the table, chairs, the wall behind the table, and the door casing leading into DG’s room. That was the last place you would want to leave a sticky gob of whipped cream. Dick picked up a mop and dunked it in a pan of hot soapy water and started sloshing it around on the floor. No need to worry about finished hardwood flooring in this old house. Plain old yellow pine boards, tightly nailed, served the purpose quite nicely, thank you. It wasn’t long before mom looked around with a pleased look on her face and allowed as how we had done a good job.

Alex picked up a damp cloth and carefully removing the chimney from the lamp, wiped off a smear of cream and cake crumbs and handed it to mom to put it back on the lamp. For a little guy he was pretty smart. Mom looked at the lamp chimney and, taking a small piece of newspaper from the kindling box, proceeded to wipe the inside of the glass. For some reason everyone said that newspaper was the very best for cleaning soot from lamp chimneys. There was usually a newspaper that DG brought home with him by the wood stove, to be used for starting a fire.

Dick told mom that he was going up to the woodlot to look for trees for the winter’s firewood. He would prefer to find standing dead hardwood trees that had not started getting punky yet, but we kept them culled out on a regular basis. The next best was a split crotch or half broken trunk, or a blown down tree with most of its roots in the air.

What we were actually doing was housekeeping in the wood lot and keeping our woods in good order. When one uses wood for fuel it warms you many times over, when you cut and split it, stacked it in the wood shed, carried it in to the stove and when you took the ashes out. An added plus was the fact that it cooked your food too.

Dick had brought along his 22 rifle with the idea that maybe we would have something besides pork belly and milk gravy for supper. Silently moving deeper into the woods, he knew where there was a group of beech trees that would be heavily laden with beech nuts. As he approached the gray trees he could see several fat gray squirrels scampering from branch to branch. Their cheeks bulging with the nuts they were hiding in various crevices and holes in the trees. Some they buried in the leaves covering the ground. These locations were frequently forgotten about and after the snow and cold of winter, the return of the spring sun shining through the leafless trees warmed the earth. The small seeds would sprout and ensure the beech trees would continue the cycle as nature intended.

The squirrel activity ceased as they noticed the stranger in their midst. Sitting quietly on a stump, Dick waited. He knew that it wouldn’t take long for the creatures to ignore him and resort to their previous activity, which they soon did.

As Dick sat there waiting for the opportunity to make a “one shot clean kill” he thought about the squirrels as a family group, hard at work, laying in their winter’s supply of food (much as we were). Plus the fact that one, two or even three squirrels would not be enough meat for our hungry family. Taking more than that from this group would mean the others might have a hard time making it through the winter.

As an added inducement not to shoot he thought about the costs of the ammunition in relation to the meat provided per shot. It seems he had a bit of Scots frugality in his blood too. This decided, he stood up, the squirrels froze momentarily and he quietly moved away from the beech grove.
At the edge of the woods he paused and looked out over the meadow where the hay had recently been mowed, raked and transported to the barn. Woodchucks were a different matter than squirrels. They were bigger - meaning more meat per shot - and what was worse they dug burrows in the hay fields, thus they were considered varmints or undesirable.

The problem came about if a horse stepped into a chuck hole and broke a leg. This was indeed a disaster as it usually meant the horse had to be destroyed. Standing in the shade looking out into the bright sunlight made it easy to spot a dark shape in the stubble of the field.

Holding his rifle in the ready position he gave a short sharp whistle. Immediately the chuck sat up and looked around for just a split second. That’s all it took. Dick had his “one shot clean kill.”
He knew without even walking over to look the chuck was dead from a bullet in its brain. After replacing the spent shell, he waited for a couple of minutes to see if another curious chuck would pop up. Sure enough about 3o feet beyond the first chuck hole was a slight movement in the stubble.

Dick stood with nothing moving but his eyes, calculating the distance, no wind to allow for, no appreciable drop because of distance. These thoughts went through his head automatically. After a moment the chuck lifted its head for a quick peek. Dick was still standing in the shade of the woods and the chuck being in bright sunshine could not see him. Seeing no reason for alarm the chuck stood up on his hind legs, which proved fatal. “two for two,” thought Dick…..”Not bad", as he replaced the spent shell.

Quickly he walked to the nearer animal, laid his rifle on the ground and pulled out his jack-knife which he always kept sharp. With one quick slice he opened the animal and removed the viscera. From another pocket came a short length of baler twine which he used to tie the hind legs together.

Picking up his rifle and the chuck, he headed towards the other one to repeat the evisceration. The offal was left on the stubble as a treat for a bird of prey or a hungry fox prowling the night. Now that he had something to show for his time he hurried back towards the house.

Hanging the chucks by the back door of the woodshed he went into the house to wash his hands and jack-knife. The kitchen was hot as the canning session was still going full blast. “I’ve got supper, two young chucks” Dick told mom. “That’s great”, said mom. “Get them skinned out real quick so I can par-boil them a bit, and be sure to get the glands out from under the legs.”

Dick of course knew about the glands but said nothing as he headed out to skin the animals. Having done this job many times before it did not take long to prepare them to mom’s orders and deliver them to her in the kitchen. She had already sent Sally to the garden for three nice onions which would go into the pot with a little salt to parboil the meat. The parboiling tenderized the meat and the onions added a little flavor.

Jack had, in the meantime, carefully mowed around the house, along the sides of the road for a distance on both sides of the house, the front lawn and around the barn buildings to reduce the danger of fire. This had made the farm look a little neater and also took some of the energy out of Tom and Jerry. If they were idle too many days in a row they got a little edgy and more apt to run away. He wanted them to be not too frisky on Tuesday so we would find some more “Look busy” work for Monday.

They had been unharnessed and put back in their stalls with a handful of oats and a bucket of water. Dugal and I had gone down the lane “exploring” with the idea that we would drive the cows up for milking when it was time. This also kept us out of trouble and avoided work assignments.

Next to the cow’s lane to the pasture, this year we had planted field corn. This needed to be checked out. Neither one of us could reach the top of the corn plants and the ears were forming up fat and heavy. By the time we had gone in four or five rows there was nothing to be seen in any direction but CORN.

“A guy could get lost in here,” allowed Dugal, “and wander around in circles forever.”

I had a suspicion he was leading me on so I replied, "If he had any sense at all he would know that if he stayed in one row and kept walking he would either come out by the house or on the other end he would be at the pasture. If he kept walking across the rows he would be at the far meadow or at the cow’s lane."

I was walking ahead of Dugal as this exchange took place and I suddenly felt a corn stalk thump me over the head. “CORN WAR!"

Grabbing a large ear of corn I snapped it off the stalk and whooping like a wild Indian I charged at Dugal swinging that ear of corn like a war club. I think this took him by surprise because usually I would have started bawling and headed for the house. He immediately started running away with me in hot pursuit.

All of a sudden I dropped the corn and started laughing. He stopped running and started laughing too. It was a good thing I hadn’t hit him with that ear of corn as I would have knocked him sillier than he already was.

By now I could hear a cow bell clanging in the distance which meant the cows were smarter than us and were headed towards the barn on their own. We fell in behind them, after taking a quick count to make sure they were all there.

Once the cows were locked in their stanchions and the milking started, Dugal and I quickly started our chores. Grain hay and water for all the cows, calves, horses, chickens and pigs. The sour milk would be coming to an end in a day or so but we didn’t tell them that.

When we finished we went into the milking barn where mom instructed us to help Jack and Dick finish up on the chores as she had some stuff to do in the house. We scattered some fresh bedding for the cows and did a couple more odd jobs and headed for the house. Dick drove the Studebaker up to the house so the battery would be handy later on.

When we walked into the kitchen it was hot but it smelled different too. The big black iron skillet was on the stove and the smell of hot lard was noticeable. Potatoes were boiling and corn ears were steaming in their pot. Sliced tomatoes and cucumbers were already on the table. Mom was busily dusting the parboiled pieces of wood-chuck with salt, pepper and flour. Carefully she placed the pieces of meat into the hot lard where they sizzled and popped. OH, did that smell good. When the last piece reached the proper degree of doneness and was the right crisp brown color she announced,”Let’s eat”. And so we did.

It was good! After too many days of side pork and milk gravy we were all ready for a change of diet. These chucks were young and tender and the parboiling with the onions didn’t hurt at all. In fact the beef-like taste of the meat was complimented by the oniony flavor. This was by far the best meal we shared in a long time.

”Three cheers for dead-eye Dick,” said Jack as he reached for another piece of meat. Six year old Alex immediately jumped up from his chair, raised his arm in the air and shouted (quite loudly), “YAY! YAY! YAY!” Everyone laughed and Dick turned bright red and smiled, obviously proud of his accomplishment.

There was no whipped cream cake for dessert that night.

Story Hour XII

Story Hour is a collection of short, auto-biographical stories written by my father, about his childhood memories growing up on a farm in Upstate New York.

The Milk Strike - Part IV

Saturday morning dawned cool, dry and clear. Milking and other chores were done in the usual manner and Dick and Jack left on the “milk run” to check the strike status.

The pigs' milk barrel had reached the proper degree of sourness and had the customary cloud of flies buzzing around it. The combination of weeds, sour milk and corn meal certainly agreed with the pigs and they were content to snooze in the shade of the cherry trees during most of the day.
The chickens were free to wander and scratch where ever they wanted. They enjoyed the concept of “free range” long before it became a fashionable term. They generally returned to the coop for their egg-laying duty but occasionally a hen would get “broody” and start a nest in some secluded corner or under a building. It was not too unusual to discover a new momma hen strutting around the barn yard with a flock of fuzz ball chicks trailing along behind her. This was good as it allowed us to cull the older, nonproductive birds for our consumption.

I do recall that on one occasion someone discovered a long forgotten nest under the corner of the old cider barn. It happened to be on a day that one of Dick’s school friends was visiting for the day. It stands to reason that a group of teenage boys and rotten eggs was a disastrous combination. After a brief but intense exchange of stinking egg missiles it was obvious that a trip to Sage creek swimming hole was mandatory. For a change this would not be a skinny-dipping swim but a washing of clothes as well. A bar of yellow laundry soap was provided by mom with the advice to not come back until they smelled a little better.

Jack and Dick pulled in around 8:30 and after reporting that it looked like the strike would be ending “soon.” We headed to the garden to pick some sweet corn for Sandy Pond. Mom had figured that if we were to sell 15 dozen it would be a good trip.

Once the corn was picked and loaded in the truck, Dugal and I with our baskets jumped into the back of the truck and away we went. We didn’t take any tomatoes as mom wanted to can as many as she possibly could. Her thinking was that a jar of tomatoes in February would be worth a lot more than a few nickels in August.

Arriving at the Wigwam, we followed the same routine that had proven itself previously and we found the people more than ready for fresh corn.

Relating this story reminds me of one of the most devastating moments in my life. It was on a corn-selling trip with DG. I had my basket with a dozen ears of corn and was acting as the delivery man for DG. He was proceeding up the road and talking with people as we went along. We sold a dozen and I went back to the truck to replenish my supply. As I started walking to catch up with him I heard a young girls voice LOUDLY calling “RODDY”, pause, "RODDY", pause, "RODDY”……… I thought I would literally die.

A nine year old BOY being called by name by a GIRL, IN PUBLIC. Embarrassed almost to tears I hurried up the road, mainly to shut her up. She was still calling as I approached her.

“Your father told me that you would bring us a dozen ears of very good fresh sweet corn, did you? My name is Joan and my father owns the Wigwam Hotel and we spend all summer here at the pond and we have a house in Pulaski where we live in the winter,” She said without stopping.

“Yes, I have your corn”, I replied, where would you like me to put it?”

“In the sink please I’ll show you where” which she did.

Trying not to be too obvious I quickly headed for the door. “Gotta go get more corn, Thank you” and I was gone.

Strangely enough, in a few more years our paths would cross again. When we moved back to Pulaski and I started school in the seventh grade I found my desk in close proximity to a girl that looked familiar. It was she, Joan Hadley, who would be my classmate for the next 5/6 years.

I never mentioned our previous meeting as I’m sure she had immediately forgotten about it. I couldn’t forget it for quite some time as my older brothers wouldn’t allow it, ”Roddy's got a girl friend” was a term I grew to hate! We were never close friends but I felt sad when I read her obituary fifty years later.

Anyhow, by two o’clock we were sold out and on our way home. Possibly we could have sold a few more dozen but there weren’t very many cottages that we didn’t call on. We were content that we had done well and mom agreed as Jack gave her the three dollars and seventy five cents.
While we had been gone mom had fired up the kitchen stove and, with Sally’s help, picked some tomatoes and proceeded to can them. The blue enamel canner held 7 Quarts per batch and there were 14 jars of tomatoes cooling on the table with seven more in the canner. While the oven was hot she had also made a cake and gathered the cream from the milk house. No surprise that night.

There was one other incident pertaining to the sweet corn selling project that had an impact on my life. I vaguely recall, slowly becoming aware that I had been sleeping or dreaming. Something was wrong. I was confused. I heard someone softly playing a guitar and a voice singing to me. My head hurt.

I was in DG’s bed. I opened my eyes and the pain intensified. My head felt as though it was wrapped in cloth and the skin was sore. Sitting in the chair, playing the guitar and singing was Ken Nicholson, our hired man. I moved and my body hurt all over. I raised my hand to my head and found that it was indeed wrapped in cloth. Ken rose and went to the kitchen door and softly said, "He’s awake.”

Ken left the room and mom, followed by all my siblings came in. They tell me, the first thing I said was, "Why did Dugal hit me?”

Mom said, "As far as we know he didn’t. Don’t you remember falling out of the truck?”

“No, I answered, what happened?”

Mom then explained that earlier that day my brothers and I had started for Sandy Pond with some corn to sell. When we reached the “Y” to Sandy Pond, either Dick didn’t slow down enough or, more likely, I was standing up without hanging on to anything and took off like a rag doll, landing on my head on the pavement. I had been unconscious for more than three hours.

They had picked me up and taken me home and Jack had immediately gone to Pulaski to get Dr. Crocker. He came right out to the farm and attended me. He cleansed my wounds and put several stitches in my left eyebrow, advised mom to keep me quiet when I woke up and left. There wasn’t much more that he could do at that time.

I still, to this day don’t remember getting up that morning or any of the events up to my regaining consciousness. I sometimes wonder if perhaps I suffered a little brain damage considering some of the stupid things I have done in my life. It took a week or two for the stitches to fall out and for all the scabs to fall off. From then on I was as “normal” as could be expected.

"As long as you boys are back early, why don’t two of you grab a couple of hoes and hill up the potatoes and the other two pull some weeds out of the rest of the garden for the pigs." suggested Mom. We figured real quick that the next time we sold corn we wouldn’t be in as big a hurry to get home.

Chore time was soon upon us and we abandoned the garden work and headed for the barn. Milking was done, the animals fed and the cows let out for night pasture. We were content that we had done a good days work as we headed in for supper.

Mom quickly prepared the usual fare and mentioned that she would be glad to see Tuesday come - in spite of all the extra work. She obviously was looking ahead to the chicken and biscuits for a change of diet. We all were too, but didn’t say anything.

Supper quietly progressed and soon it was time for mom to bring in the cake and whipped cream. No one said anything and you could almost feel the tension in the air. Milk strike, oat threshing, hot, monotonous diet, flies, endless chores and a multitude of annoyances were pushing to the surface.

The cake and cream were passed around until everyone had their serving in front of them. Thelma stuck her finger into the cream, then into her mouth and squealed with delight. It still tasted good to her. Jack, ever the instigator, took up a spoonful of whipped cream and with quick aim flipped it in Dick’s direction. His aim was good and it hit Dick right on the side of his nose.

There was, of course, instant retaliation with much shouting and flailing of arms as cake and whipped cream flew in all directions. Shrieks of laughter and shouts of joy resounded over mom’s pleas to stop. Her pleas went unheard so with no recourse she took up a handful of cake and cream and hit Jack full in the face. “So there mister, just remember, you started it,” she said with a laugh. This brought a cheer from around the table.

“I’m glad you all had fun because tomorrow you will all have to help clean up the kitchen. And I don’t want to hear any talking about this in the future.”

The worst of the mess and the dishes were taken care of and everyone washed the stickiness off their hands and faces. The tension had been broken and a feeling of relaxation and ease settled over the group. “Time for the radio” said Dick as he headed out to get the battery.

Story Hour XI

Story Hour is a collection of short, auto-biographical stories written by my father, about his childhood memories growing up on a farm in Upstate New York.

The Milk Strike - Part III

The next morning after chores and breakfast and prior to DG’s departure we had a gathering in the kitchen. A general discussion touched on the milk strike, the oat crop, selling sweet corn at Sandy Pond getting in the fire wood for winter, possibly getting a tractor, digging a new pit and moving the out-house. No decisions were made as everything kinda depended on the settling of the milk strike problem.

Jack and Dick left first as they didn’t have to horse-start the Studebaker truck. For some reason the battery was not run down. Dugal and I managed to slide out the side porch door hoping to avoid the usual words of caution and advice that came with this type of farewell. We succeeded, and went on our way looking for mischief.

The smaller kids, of course said their fare-thee-wells and received the customary orders to “Behave, and do as your mother tells you”. A quick, “Be back in three days” and he was in his car and driving out the driveway. Sally and Alex disappeared, leaving Thelma with mom to enjoy a moments silence and reflection on what needed doing first.

Dishes out of the way, mom and Thelma headed for the sweet corn patch to check the quantity and quality of the crop. There was no question but what it was time for a sweet corn selling expedition to Sandy Pond.

As soon as Jack and Dick came back to report the road blocks were still in place, they were put to work picking corn and putting it into feed bags. Mom suggested they stop at ten dozen with a couple extra ears for this first trip. Dugal and I were enlisted to each grab a basket (1/2 bu. for carrying) and get into the back of the truck. We were off!

Down the road to the Y, bearing left, across Rte.3 and heading down the road towards “The Wigwam Hotel”, the social center of Sandy pond. This was not our destination but it was the hub from which radiated the roads that the camps were built on.

Dugal and I each put a dozen ears of corn in our baskets while Jack and Dick each grabbed a half dozen ears in their hands and we started heading towards separate camps. Knocking on the doors quite frequently produced no results as many people were enjoying the water, swimming, boating or other activities.

“Hey Rod” I heard from Jack across the street, “Bring a dozen over here.”

I quickly complied as he collected the 25 cents. Returning to the truck I placed another dozen ears in my basket and went to the next camp. The lady answering the door appeared glad to see me and allowed as how she was just wishing for some nice fresh corn for supper. Collecting the quarter and putting the corn carefully in the sink I thanked her profusely and headed back to the truck.

We all arrived about the same time and determined that we were doing OK and would move the truck further up the road to the intersection. From there we took off in different directions. It took a couple of hours and several moves before we ran out of corn. Jack, as the oldest, took charge of the money, after all, $2.50 was an enormous fortune to us and we excitedly discussed the possibility of coming back the next day and maybe bringing some tomatoes too. With that thought in mind we headed for home.

We walked into the kitchen where everyone was and with a flourish, Jack presented mom with the money.

“Well, you boys did pretty good, didn’t you?” asked mom. “Tomorrow being Saturday you should do very well.” She continued, “The oat thresher was here and he is planning on threshing here on Tuesday. Your father will be back Monday so he will be here to help with the work too. Dick, I will need you to cull two hens the first thing Tuesday morning so that I can cook them for chicken and biscuits for the crew’s dinner."

"I will need you two to get stuff from the garden as I need it on Tuesday morning,” she said to Sally and Alex. “We will need a lot of food for that bunch of workers. There will be four farmers and two hired men, the thresher man and his driver, plus all of us. That adds up to about fourteen adults and two or three kids. Dick, better make that three hens. Let’s hope the weather holds good.”

Dugal and I were sent on a feedbag round up. Around the feed bins, the chicken coop, the calf pen, in front of the horse stalls, in the tool shed, by the cider press in the old barn. Any place that might have a feed bag that was cast aside and forgotten about was checked closely. We ended up with a pretty good pile on the main floor of the barn between the hay mows. Now came the dirty, dusty part of shaking then out and checking for holes.

The good sound bags were neatly placed in one pile, ready for use the ones with small holes and tears were not so neatly piled to one side. The ones that were beyond repair went into a heap for salvage. The pile of good bags was moved over by the door where they would be handy. The salvage bags were placed into one of the bags to keep them together and the bags beyond repair were stuffed into one bag and put over by the chicken coop door.

This accomplished, we wandered over to the horse stalls where Jack and Dick were checking harnesses. A broken tug strap was more than an inconvenience on thrashing day. It was down time that cost money. Tom and Jerry would be the main team on Tuesday with Babe and Elmer as back up.

The owner of the threshing rig would drive his tractor over on Monday, towing the machine and the reaper behind. Quite a parade. Once parked, the tractor was unhooked from the thresher and hooked up to the reaper and headed for the oat field. At that time, anyone that wasn’t busy doing something was expected to go to the oat field and stack the little bundles of oats into bigger bundles of oats in small pyramids to keep the seed heads off the ground and make it easier and quicker for the loaders to get loaded and headed for the machine.

The straw bay, as I recall, was to the right of the barn main floor, over the chicken coop, between the ice house and the cow barn. This arrangement gave the chickens considerable protection from the cold temperatures of our winters.

The straw was used for bedding - mixed in with the weedier hay that the cows would not eat and kept pushing aside. It was also used to mulch the strawberry plants over the winter to protect them from the winter sun during periods of thawing weather and temperature variations. This prevented premature growth which could kill the plants when the wintry weather returned. It also delayed the spring bloom which could be damaged by late frosts and make for a very short crop.

The bags for the oats were ready, the harnesses had been checked and the hay wagon was ready to go as the wheel bearings had been greased before haying season started. This brought us near to milking time so we decided to check in at the house to see what was going on there.

Mom had, of course, been to the milk house and gathered some more cream. Now I knew why she wanted 2 milk pails as she had been putting the cream into pint and quart jars and setting the jars in the milk pails which she then filled with water fresh from the well. (Ground water temperature will run around 42/44 degrees). She also had a fire going in the cook stove and you could smell vanilla as though someone were making a white cake.

Three nights in a row? Oh well, "enjoy it while you can" was the thought that seemed to pass unspoken around the room. The pails of cream and cold water were in the cool pantry of course with the door shut to keep out the heat from the stove. It was very hot in the kitchen but nothing compared to what it would be like on Tuesday, threshing day. Sally was told to keep her eyes on Alex and Thelma as mom was going to the barn to help with milking. Dugal and I had our chores to do also so away we all went.

Milking and chores went very smoothly and were done in minimal time, including dumping the skim milk into the pig’s barrel, so we drifted back towards the house. None of us were really anxious to go back into the heat but we were hungry so there wasn’t much choice.

Mom quickly cooked some potatoes and gravy, sweet corn, sliced tomatoes and cukes (not much variety but lots of it) and let the stove die down and go out. By morning it would almost be cool in the kitchen. As long as no one wanted oatmeal, eggs or coffee the stove would stay cold for a while. When we were almost through eating mom got up and went to the pantry.

We all knew what was coming so it was no surprise to see her coming out with a cake and a big bowl of whipped cream. "Dessert?” she inquired. There were two or three half hearted, yeahs, so she proceeded to dish it up. It didn’t disappear as fast this time as it had in the past couple of nights, in fact there was a small dab that was destined for the pig slop pail, Boy would they squeal for that!

There was enough hot water left in the reservoir on the stove to do dishes so they were quickly dispensed with by mom and Sally. The battery was brought in from the Studebaker truck and hooked up to the radio in time for some favorite programs “Don’t stay up too late. You all have a busy day tomorrow”, said Mom as she headed for her room with Alex and Thelma in tow.

Story Hour X

The Milk Strike - Part 2

Story Hour is a collection of short, auto-biographical stories written by my father, about his childhood memories growing up on a farm in Upstate New York.

The next morning was business as usual. Jack, Dick and mom went about the business of milking and doing the other chores while Dugal and I did the chores that had been assigned to us. We also went to the ice house and dug into the cold wet sawdust until we hit a piece of ice. There wasn’t much ice left buried in the sawdust but soon the weather would be changing and turning cooler. Dugal placed the ice on a burlap feed sack and, grasping the top corners while I grabbed the bottom corners, we were able to carry the cold, slippery ice to the milk house where we placed it in the vat of water where the full milk cans were.

With the milk from this morning we would now have six cans (60 gallons) of milk. Mom came into the milk house at that point and suggested we give the hogs a treat. Pulling the can that she had taken the cream from she shrugged and told us to feed it to the pigs. “Look around and see if you can find an empty barrel with the end out. Putting the milk in the barrel will let us feed it out without wasting so much, besides we will need the space in the milk vat.”

Chores finished, we headed to the house for breakfast. During the summer we frequently had sliced bread and jam for breakfast. Hot oatmeal came with the change of seasons. Eggs were an anytime breakfast but they did require a fire in the stove and August was not the best time to light up the range. We were hoping that maybe later mom would make another whip cream cake for supper.

“Time to check things out,” exclaimed Jack. He and Dick toward the door. “Oh, by the way, isn’t DG due today?” Dick asked. Mom replied, “Yes and he won’t be very happy about this strike. Better be on our best behavior. I think he has to go right back out tomorrow so you won’t see much of him.” The radio reception had been real good last night so we knew they would have to harness Babe and Elmer to get the truck running. The screen door banged shut behind them.

“OK you guys, time to get some work done.” said mom. “First off, Dugal and Rod, I want you to bring to the house a couple of spare milk pails make sure they are clean and don’t leak. While you are in the milk house, pump some more fresh water into the milk can vat. Make sure to let it run over a little so it is as cool as can be. Later on I will get some more cream and you can dump the skim milk into the pig’s barrel. On your way back and forth, pull a few weeds out of the garden and give them to the pigs, the slops bucket has been running a little low lately. Now that we are getting new potatoes the poor piggies don’t even get potato peelings.”

With that being said she turned to Sally and informed her that she was part of the house cleaning crew, and this was window day. Alex was told to pick up any of the few toys we had and put them away also to check the porches and make sure things were neat and orderly. The older boys returned from the observation run to report no change in the strike status. Tom and Jerry were harnessed and hitched up to the riding mower for Jack while Babe and Elmer were put into service pulling Dick on the dump rake to gather scatterings around the edges of the fields.

Haying season was just about over and the oats were turning a nice golden color as they ripened under the hot summer sun. Soon it would be threshing day. As usual, Dick had his .22 caliber rifle with him just in case he spotted a woodchuck, pheasant or some other edible critter while he was up and about outdoors. DG arrived home around 2:00 in the afternoon and, after hearing the report from mom, he proceeded to bed. He had come directly home after an extended shift and had not slept in about twenty hours. It was unusually quiet around the house as it always was when DG was sleeping.

Later in the afternoon mom went to the milk house with her dipper and one of the clean pails we had found for her. Banging one of the older cans of milk open she proceeded to ladle the cream into the pail. When she had all of the easily obtained cream removed she went on to the next oldest can. When she had finished skimming the cream off that can, her pail was nearly filled with good heavy cream.

Dugal and I were nearby - engaged in some childish prank, as usual - so she called us over to where she was and instructed us to take the two cans of skim milk to the pig’s barrel and dump the milk into the barrel, being careful not to get hurt or spill the milk. We were also instructed to find an old water pail to leave by the pig pen to facilitate transferring milk to the pig’s trough. She was making sure we stayed busy that day for some reason, probably so we didn’t get into trouble. Our solution to this problem was to ask if we could go fishing down the road to the creek. She allowed that maybe that was a good idea and we could drive the cows up from the pasture on our way back at chore time. Of course we didn’t have watches but every farm boy instinctively had built-in clocks, and automatically knew meal and chore times.

Well, the fish weren’t biting but the deer flies were. There happened to be a nice pool where we were fishing so it quickly became a private swimming pool. It wasn’t very deep. It was, however, cool, wet and refreshing. By then it was time to head the cows towards the barn so we herded them together and the old lead cows knew where they were headed. The others followed along and we tagged along behind them.

The teams of horses had been unharnessed, given some oats, hay and water; they were set for the night. The cows came into the barn and most of them knew where their stanchions were. The ones that didn’t were guided by a swat on the flank and a little shove in the right direction. Once locked in their stanchions Dugal and I proceeded to give them their dipper of grain, an adequate amount of hay and each cow got as much water as she wanted. This of course entailed many trips to the milk house for water and holding the pail until each cow was satisfied. The calves were fed a mixture of milk and water and fresh hay, while the chickens gat a scattering of oats from the horse bin.

This horse oat bin contained the oats that we grew and harvested each year. Threshing day was coming up pretty quick so our supply of oats was getting low. There had been a time or two that we had run out of rolled oats in the house and had tried cooking whole oats for breakfast. Believe me, it was not an even exchange. I personally was glad to leave the oats for the horses and chickens.

It was, however, a different story with the corn meal that we fed the pigs. As far as I knew it was just ground corn, maybe a little corn cob and weed seed mixed in but when it was cooked up into corn meal mush or Johnny cake, it WAS EDIBLE and we did eat it.

Mom had outdone herself for supper. The abundance of the late summer garden was visibly displayed on the table. Boiled new potatoes with the traditional milk gravy with fried, salted pork graced the center of the table. Surrounding this was a plate of fresh sweet corn wrapped in a dish towel to keep it hot. A dish of sliced cucumbers in vinegar And a large plate of sliced tomatoes added variety. A side dish contained the tail end of the green and yellow beans. If the frosts held off they would bear another small crop.

DG was awake and grumpily joined us. He was obviously still exhausted from his long working shift. He queried Jack and Dick as to the status of the haying, asked if the oats were ripe, wanted to know the status of the milk strike. He then gave us instructions regarding the farmer who owned the threshing machine and suggested that we locate all the burlap feed sacks that we could find to hold the oats that we threshed.

Supper progressed pleasantly until everyone seemed to be content. Then mom stood up and asked if we wanted to have dessert. Silent nods answered her query in the positive. DG raised an eyebrow and gruffly asked, “Dessert, what’s this?” We all laughed as we new what was coming. “Surprise!”, said mom as she brought in the cake and whipped cream. Quietly we watched as she cut and served the cake and cream.

All eyes were on DG as he looked at his dessert and finally took a large forkful and placed it in his mouth. The unusual smile that spread across his face immediately brought cheers and laughter from all around the table. After supper was over, Sally and I helped mom do the dishes while the others pursued personal interests. There would be no radio that night so it would be an early bedtime for all. As it grew dark the kerosene lamps were lit in strategic locations. One was on the kitchen table. This was a very special lamp, an Aladdin mantel lamp. Everyone was cautioned not to look directly at the mantle as it glowed so brightly that it could hurt your eyes permanently (so they said).

Story Hour IX

The Milk Strike (Part I)

Story Hour is a collection of short, auto-biographical stories written by my father, about his childhood memories growing up on a farm in Upstate New York.

In 1939 in New York State there were several ongoing milk strikes. Small farms such as ours were being forced out of business by the low price of raw milk. The D.F.U. (Dairy Farmers Union) had tried bargaining with the likes of Sheffield, Dairyman’s league and others to no avail. The alternative? The Milk Strike.

It was not a pretty picture. Daily confrontations occurred between striking dairymen and non-union farmers trying to get their milk to the processor. The ditches beside the roads were filled with milk as it was unloaded from the trucks and unceremoniously dumped. This was accompanied by much shouting and swearing along with threats of violence and gave birth to long-lasting feuds between formerly friendly neighbors.

I happened to be with Jack and Dick one morning on the milk run. This was after we had acquired the Studebaker truck and we would haul our own milk to the milk plant in Pulaski. This came about because Jack and Dick obviously enjoyed the morning ride.

Once the truck was horse-started (a dead battery for some reason or another), the milk cans were loaded onto the truck and covered with a tarp to keep the direct sun from heating up the milk. We were then on our way.

About three miles from Pulaski is the intersection of Maltby Road and North Road. As we approached, it was obvious from the number of cars and trucks that we had run into a milk strike road block. There was no place to turn around so we were kinda trapped with no other option but to let it play out as it would.

When we could move ahead we did, until we were faced by several grim faced, angry, union member farmers. When asked if we were DFU members our answer was no. Although DG was a staunch member of the “Brotherhood” (Railroad Union) he had not joined the DFU.

“Stay where you are, boys”, the man on the driver’s side admonished as he nodded to 3 or 4 other farmers who immediately went onto action. The tarp was not too carefully removed from our load and cast aside. The 4 cans of milk were passed over the side of the truck and set upon the road side. The covers were knocked loose and the cans pushed over by a farmers work shoe.

Now, four cans of milk is not a real big deal; but when it represents many long hours of hard work invested to produce it, well, a person gets feeling pretty sick to watch it dumped on the ground. The cans were drained, the covers put back on and loaded back on the truck. The tarp was tossed on top of the milk cans.

“I hope we don’t see you boys tomorrow”, said the farmer as he walked away. “You just might see us anyhow”, said Dick with a certain tone of defiance in his voice.

When we got turned around and headed back home we pulled over to the side of the road to reposition and secure the cans and tarp. This accomplished, we continued our trip home via alternate routes to check on road blocks. They were there. Every road leading to Pulaski was covered. We would not be shipping any milk while they were there.

Our arrival home was a non-event until we ended up in the kitchen for a war council meeting with mom. In DG’s absence she was the one to make whatever decision we were forced to make. We were faced with several facts that had to be considered.

The cows had to be milked night and morning. We had very limited storage space with only a little ice remaining in the ice house. Without shipping the milk, our small income would be seriously diminished. There was no doubt that a protracted strike would be disastrous for us. There were no other routes that were not also blocked. It appeared that our decision was made for us. Do the chores and milking in the normal manner. Keep the milk in the cooling vat (it would hold 6 cans of milk) After chores in the morning Jack and Dick would make a quick run up to Maltby road to see if the DFU was active. If they were there it was assumed that the other roads were covered too.

The next morning, chores were done and it was Dugal’s turn to ride along on the milk run (minus the milk).

After a quick breakfast the three boys got the truck started (dead battery again) and left on the reconnaissance run. Sure enough from a distance they could see the cluster of vehicles and people. The activity was much more subdued as many farmers were employing the same tactics we were. After a few howdys and exchanges of short conversations the boys turned around and headed for home and a day to be spent in the hay field.

At some point during the late afternoon mom went out towards the milk house with a long dipper and a large glass jar. She knew, of course, which can had been there the longest time. Grabbing a spare can cover she proceeded to bang the cover on the full can in an upward manner, thus loosening it for easy removal. Once the cover was out of the way, she could reach in with the dipper and bring out dippers full of sweet cream that had risen to the top over night. She quickly filled the large glass jar and replaced the milk can cover, giving it a couple of whacks with the spare cover to ensure it was sealed. This done, she headed back to the house with her treasure.

She had already baked a plain white cake from scratch ingredients (no mixes available back then) which was now cooling in the pantry. Supper that night consisted of boiled potatoes, milk gravy, canned tomatoes and homemade white bread. The gravy was liberally filled with pieces of salted side pork which had been freshened and browned in the skillet before the gravy ingredients were added. All in all, a very filling and satisfying supper.

“Before you all go running off, I’ve got a treat for you”, said mom as she headed for the pantry and returned with the cake and a huge bowl of whipped cream (real, hand beaten, fresh cream). There was a moment or two of silence as the picture was absorbed by seven pairs of blue eyes, staring in utter disbelief. Never before had any of them seen such a sight.

“Would anyone like some?” asked mom and the reply was a resounding “ME, I WANT SOME” from seven voices, almost in unison.

As each piece of cake was placed on a plate, a huge dollop of whipped cream was plopped on top. “No starting ‘til we are all served”, said mom so we waited until even Thelma, who was about two, had hers put in front of her and immediately got some in her fingers and thusly to her mouth. After a little squeal of delight from Thelma there was more or less silence except for the sound made by silverware in contact with plates.

There was even enough for small servings of seconds. With no refrigeration it would not keep so as mom said,”You little piggies might better eat it than the pigs out by the barn, and if this strike lasts very long they're going to have all the milk they want.”

Everyone went to bed that night with a full tummy and the thought that maybe this milk strike isn’t as bad as we all thought.