Hardscrabble Farm Life<\/a><\/p>\nCurrent mood: talkative<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 BOYZ\u2018L BE BOYZ<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 For the first 15 years of my life, my brother Lloye and I lived, pretty much, in each others pockets.\u00a0 He being slightly the older was able to shoulder the blame for our many misadventures, while I was able to escape most, but not all, of the responsibility.\u00a0 After all, our parents weren\u2019t stupid.\u00a0 If that wasn\u2019t enough, they both were cursed with an incurable work ethic, and thought we should have it also.\u00a0 Sometimes we both believed they couldn\u2019t possibly be our real parents.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Fun and excitement on two hundred acres of farm, isolated in the middle of the mountains, was all home-made and untested by the Product Safety Commission.\u00a0 We experienced our share of dangerous adventures while Mother worried herself sick that we were inadvertently suicidal.\u00a0 Dad was equally concerned, but it seemed to me in his case, that he just didn\u2019t want us to escape these mortal coils while there was still work to do.\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It began in earnest when I was about seven years old.\u00a0 Our motives were separate, but the goals were similar.\u00a0 Lloye wanted to learn some skill or trick that would be useful in impressing whomever his dream girl happened to be at the time. He was my fearless leader in all things until he discovered that a guitar was more effective and less risky than my company for the purpose.\u00a0 I dreamt of building a Tom Sawyer sort of raft and escaping the farm during spring floods.\u00a0 The Miller Run Crick (that\u2019s what I said, \u201cCrick\u201d) went all the way to Endicott.\u00a0 From there it traveled to Rockport, The Forks, and people said, eventually, the Ohio River.\u00a0 Even I knew that the Ohio went to the Mississippi and then met the Gulf of Mexico in New Orleans. That was MY goal.\u00a0 In New Orleans I could lie about my age, get a job, and maybe even an older woman. Someone matronly and mature, about ten or even twelve years of age, who could teach me all about life and not beat me up like the big girls in school did.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 While waiting for our dreams to materialize, we busied ourselves with a variety of experiments.\u00a0 One evening, while milking the cows, Lloye wondered what would happen if he clipped a suspender snap on one of his cow\u2019s teats.\u00a0 She was a large Ayrshire-Durham cross named Patsy, which we kept for her milk, not her disposition.\u00a0 He would have suffered less had he taken off his suspenders before trying it.\u00a0 I saw \u201cpaddle ball\u201d invented that day by a cow named Patsy, and my brother was its\u2019 first ball.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Dad\u2019s home grown poultry of choice were Rhode Island Red and Dominiker, plus whatever feral fowl wandered in from the woods.\u00a0 They were not far removed from their ancestral gamecock heritage and the roosters of the flock bullied me without mercy.\u00a0\u00a0 In desperation one day, I discovered that with a strong stick and a bad attitude I could best one in a fight to the finish. It was the day I learned that striking any chicken on the side of its neck, with force, would make it fall to the ground in spasms for a minute or two, after which it would stand up none the wiser.\u00a0 If he went down fighting, he would come up the same way.\u00a0 My vengeance was sweet, swift and terrible.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There was always a generous supply of corn cobs in the barnyard; wet, dirty and heavy, they were the country equivalent to today\u2019s paintball, almost as painful and twice as dirty.\u00a0 Ask my cousins, Ron and Jerome Morris about some of the wars we had with them.\u00a0 As our throwing arms developed, we found that we could take out a rooster from some distance by means of the cob.\u00a0 It did no permanent harm and was jolly good sport when Dad and Mom weren\u2019t looking.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 One summer day, just as Lloye scored a direct hit on one of the mean old barnyard roosters, Dad walked out of the tool shed in time to see the whole sordid affair.\u00a0 Pa exploded at him.\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019ve killed that dumb animal.\u00a0 Now we\u2019ll have to cook him for dinner.\u201d\u00a0 It was a dilemma for Lloye, who wanted to say, \u201cNo! No! Dad, just give him a minute and he\u2019ll get back up.\u201d\u00a0 He wanted to say that, but couldn\u2019t without confessing to experience in the matter.\u00a0 He babbled a string of silly excuses for no good reason other than to stall for time.\u00a0 He and I both knew the Dominecker would soon stand up and walk away thereby mitigating, although not alleviating his offence.\u00a0 It seemed like forever and we both silently reasoned the wily old thing was just playing dead just for spite. All our hopes were dashed when Dad picked up the bird along with an axe, decapitating it in a single stroke.\u00a0 He then told Mom what had happened and ask her to cook it for dinner that night.\u00a0 She opined that this rooster was so old and tough; we would have trouble sticking a fork in the gravy, but cooked him anyway.\u00a0 I don\u2019t remember the punishment nor how the rooster tasted, just the look on poor Lloyes\u2019 face when that old birds\u2019 head hit the ground.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Among the list of animals we didn\u2019t keep on the farm were bulls.\u00a0 Dad didn\u2019t want to feed and care for something we needed so sparingly, besides, Mother considered them somewhat dangerous.\u00a0 When a cow needed to be serviced he would decide which neighbor had the desired blood line sending us boys along with the cow in heat to go have her bred.\u00a0 This time, it was 1 \u00bd miles up the road to Sant and Ona Crane\u2019s (1st comment) at the junction of Fairview and Postle Ridge. Sant looked more fragile than he probably was.\u00a0 Nearly died of tick fever some years before and was known for thrift.\u00a0 Folks said that on their wedding day, he took Ona to a restaurant in town ordering them a dish of ice cream with two spoons for her wedding treat.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The procedure was simple enough.\u00a0 A rope halter for the cow, one of us would walk ahead and lead, the other would follow with a small stick to prod her as necessary.\u00a0 When approaching the subject bull, pheromones in the air would notify the intended of our presence and purpose, all we had to do was open the gate allowing the cow access to the pasture.\u00a0 The rest was nature.\u00a0 After the calf was born, Dad would pay the bull\u2019s owner for service, usually about $2.\u00a0 Once out of sight of our own farm, we took turns riding the cow.\u00a0 If you pull hard enough on her tail while sitting on her back, she would run full gallop and it became a contest which of us could hold on the longest while twisting the \u201cthrottle\u201d.\u00a0 By the time we arrived at Sant and Ona\u2019s, my brother and I were both worse for wear.\u00a0 The cow fared better that we did, and was still in mating mode.\u00a0 So far, it was a normal breeding day.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The bull du jour was a Hereford with the shortest legs I have ever seen.\u00a0 I cannot imagine, for the life of me, how an animal with those stubby pins could have ever mated without serious help.\u00a0 Each time he tried to mount the cow, he fell with a loud bellow squarely on his \u00be ton ass.\u00a0 The second time it happened, this writer lost all sense of composure and usefulness to galloping hilarity.\u00a0 Lloye was on his own to try maneuvering the cow downhill enough that \u201cShorty\u201d could reach her.\u00a0 The only thing he could accomplish with these efforts was to diminish the distance from the bulls\u2019 posterior to the hard packed clay soil.\u00a0 Hearing the commotion, Sant came from the barn with a mattock.\u00a0 He dug a hole and told Lloye to get the cow\u2019s back feet in it. (Try doing that, I dare you).\u00a0 Although the theme to Looney Tunes was still unwritten, whenever I hear it, to this day, I think about Sant, Lloye and Shorty.\u00a0 At one point Sant screamed at the bull, \u201cI could do better than that myself and I\u2019m out of practice\u201d.\u00a0 After several tries, the job was finally done, no thanks to me.\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Upon returning home with the bit roughed up, but newly pregnant cow, Dad wondered what took so long.\u00a0 I still couldn\u2019t talk about it without laughing, so Lloye told him the whole story.\u00a0 When he came to the part about Sant telling the bull he could have done better himself, Dad also lost it.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I learned more about people by being around animals than from books and school.\u00a0 Don\u2019t be too hard on us for what you perceive as mistreatment of animals.\u00a0 Sheep were innocent, except those big Marino Rams.\u00a0 Pigs were evilly intelligent.\u00a0 Horses were good, but dangerously awkward.\u00a0 Roosters had it coming\u2014I still hate them.\u00a0\u00a0 Besides, think how brave a little boy has to be, climbing up on a cow, reaching back to grab her tail for the express purpose of twisting it, never doubting for a minute this can only end one way.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
of freedom…..I promised not to get a motorcycle until the kiddos are grown:( Reply(1) \u00b7 333 days ago Jerry Riter Grace’ll be all grown up in 18 more yrs.\u00a0 We’ll get a couple of Harleys and terrorize a town.\u00a0 If we get caught, you can blame it on hormones and I’ll claim senility. Reply \u00a0 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[19],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-29754","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-lifestyles"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29754","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=29754"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29754\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29754"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=29754"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/friendburst.com\/blog-new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=29754"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}