Sometimes I am simply amazed at the things that farmers do. Mostly, I tend to look on in a "wow!" kind of way, but occasionally, it is a head shaking, "Huh???" kind of way. This was a "huh?" kind of day.
We had been super busy with the normal summer chores of clipping pastures, bushhoging pastures, cutting and baling hay,.... Yep. All the rain this summer has kept the guys busy riding around in tractors. While they were riding around they had noticed that one of the old cows had a sore foot. She limped along, looking miserable until they decided they had to do something for her. Not only was she uncomfortable, but a cow that can't walk also doesn't eat or drink. Cows wander the fields continually, munching here and munching there. Then, twice a day, they will go to find water. With a sore foot she didn't want to do all the walking required to maintain her health.
So the morning came when they decided to fix her up.
To make it easier on her, they decided to take the cattle trailer into the field, load her up, and haul her to the barn for treatment. That way she wouldn't have to walk so much. So they hooked up the trailer and bumped their way down into the field to where the cattle were grazing, hoping they would be able to walk her into the low back of the trailer. The cows, realizing that a trailer in their field wasn't normal and probably not a good thing, eased away. Son jumped out and attempted to herd the sore footed cow away from the others and back to the trailer. She just looked at him and stood perfectly still.
He went back to the truck and maneuvered the trailer closer to her. While he was doing that, she moved in another direction. He again tried to herd her and she just looked at him and stayed where she was. He started back to the truck to move lower into the field where he could trap her between the fence and trailer, when the heavens opened up and the rains started.
Aggravated and wet he decided it was time for reinforcements.
So back to the barn for Hubby and a rope halter. By golly, he would just drag her into the trailer. So now, in a steady downpour, they pulled the trailer back down into the field, backing as close to the old cow as they could. They laid their plans. They would converge on the cow and Son would halter her while Hubby attempted to hold her still. (A cow's neck is a mighty muscle!) "I've got her!" shouted Hubby as Son lunged for the head, only to miss when she swung Hubby and head around to the side. Shouts of , "Try again!" "Hold her still!" "What are you doing?", rang over the field.
Finally they had her haltered and Son grabbed the end of the halter and gave a mighty tug. The cow stayed still and son went sliding through the slick, wet grass. With a thud he landed at her front feet. She looked down at the muddy man lying on the ground in mild puzzlement. Rain still pelting down, both Hubby and Son grabbed the halter this time and gave a mighty heave. The old cow's neck stretched out and her front hooves dug into the ground. The men's smooth boot soles lacked her traction and they soon were losing ground sliding toward her, winding up nose to nose with the cow. She blinked and mooed softly. Cow-2. Men-0
Muddy, wet and disgusted they devised another plan. Instead of pulling, they would push. Approaching the other end, they placed their hands on her rump. She raised her tail suggestively and the men promptly decided on another plan! To keep them out of the line of fire, if she decided to use the ultimate weapon (there is nothing like loose manure from a cow on fresh grass!) they would sling a rope around her back end and use that to force her to the trailer. She watched them loop one end around the metal of the trailer, then sling the other around her. Just as they were ready to start applying pressure and pulling with all their might, she blinked, gave a little shake and walked placidly into the open trailer.
With rain running down their faces the two men watched as she gave them a slow cow smile and wink.
Cow-3,
Men sill 0.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
It's Showtime!
Early in the summer our stock barn became home to two new babies. The little grandsons had decided to try their hand at showing pigs. So with great pride they brought home Famous and Cruse, and ensconced them in the stall at the end of the barn. We all trooped down to view these latest additions to our farm family. We were all enchanted with the little fellows with their continual curiousity about everything and anything. With little grunts of excitement they would crowd up to their fence to greet the kids and dogs that wandered into their section of the world. It didn't take long before they had figured out that humans doled out scrumptous food and delightful scratches.
They spent their days contentedly stretched out with fans and a mister blowing cool moist breezes over their pen. When they were bored they occupied their time rooting up the clean, creamy wood shavings in their stall. To prevent them creating a mud hole the kids found a couple of old bowling balls for them to play with. I never figured out what game they were playing (pig soccer, maybe?) but they would spend hours pushing the big balls around their pen.
One afternoon, a friend had stopped by to drop off some supplies. We were standing on the porch when the grandsons arrived for evening chores with their pigs. Soon childish voices drifted up from the barn in excitement. Laughing, I turned to our friend and proclaimed, "You have timed it just right for the evening pig show! Pull up a chair and get ready to be entertained!" Puzzled, he looked at me for enlightment. "Just watch." I smiled as the barn doors creaked open.
Grunting and snorting, a fat, white pig popped out of the open door. Soon he was followed by his black and white pen-mate. With obvious enjoyment, the two pigs trotted out into the sunshine. Following close behind came two little boys each equipped with a small, white whip. The pigs wandered happily into the yard and began exploring the enticing smells emanating from the grass and flower beds. Nose to the ground, emitting happy little grunts they headed for the flower bed in the yard. "Don't let them root up the lilies", I shouted. The boys obediently began tapping the pigs on the rump with their little whips. The pigs snorted and moved on toward the house, leaving the lilies to live another day.
Obviously fascinated, our friend asked, "So, the boys guide the pigs by tapping on them to tell them which way to go?" "Well," I laughed, "that is the theory. The truth is the pigs pretty much go wherever they want to and the boys follow behind. As long as they get some exercise, everyone is happy." The pigs now were wandering around the storage building in the yard, heading for the garden. "Don't let them in the tomatoes!" I yelled, again. The boys obligingly ran between the pigs and the garden and headed them around the house.
"Do they ever run away?" queried the friend. "How do they catch them again?"
Chuckling, I replied, "Not a problem. The pigs are too smart for that. You see they really are smart--like George Orwell and Animal Farm smart. First of all, they lay around all day in the shady barn with a fan blowing cool air on them. They aren't about to leave to suffer in the hot sun with the other animals, so escape is never on their minds. Secondly, these pigs know that they get fed after they take their walk. So they will trot happily around the yard until they decide it's time to have supper. Then they will head for the barn, go to their pen, and put themselves up! Mission accomplished. The boys just follow along behind looking important."
Sure enough, about that time the pigs emerged from around the house heading toward the barn, picking up speed as they passed the porch again. Trotting behind, yelling encouragement, came the two small boys, pausing occasionally to "shoot" each other and imaginary squirrels with the whips. Soon all four had returned through the barn doors.
Still chuckling, the friend stood up and headed for his car. Shaking his head he waved as he drove off, probably thinking that he had just left Animal Farm for real.
Pig show was over.
They spent their days contentedly stretched out with fans and a mister blowing cool moist breezes over their pen. When they were bored they occupied their time rooting up the clean, creamy wood shavings in their stall. To prevent them creating a mud hole the kids found a couple of old bowling balls for them to play with. I never figured out what game they were playing (pig soccer, maybe?) but they would spend hours pushing the big balls around their pen.
One afternoon, a friend had stopped by to drop off some supplies. We were standing on the porch when the grandsons arrived for evening chores with their pigs. Soon childish voices drifted up from the barn in excitement. Laughing, I turned to our friend and proclaimed, "You have timed it just right for the evening pig show! Pull up a chair and get ready to be entertained!" Puzzled, he looked at me for enlightment. "Just watch." I smiled as the barn doors creaked open.
Grunting and snorting, a fat, white pig popped out of the open door. Soon he was followed by his black and white pen-mate. With obvious enjoyment, the two pigs trotted out into the sunshine. Following close behind came two little boys each equipped with a small, white whip. The pigs wandered happily into the yard and began exploring the enticing smells emanating from the grass and flower beds. Nose to the ground, emitting happy little grunts they headed for the flower bed in the yard. "Don't let them root up the lilies", I shouted. The boys obediently began tapping the pigs on the rump with their little whips. The pigs snorted and moved on toward the house, leaving the lilies to live another day.
Obviously fascinated, our friend asked, "So, the boys guide the pigs by tapping on them to tell them which way to go?" "Well," I laughed, "that is the theory. The truth is the pigs pretty much go wherever they want to and the boys follow behind. As long as they get some exercise, everyone is happy." The pigs now were wandering around the storage building in the yard, heading for the garden. "Don't let them in the tomatoes!" I yelled, again. The boys obligingly ran between the pigs and the garden and headed them around the house.
"Do they ever run away?" queried the friend. "How do they catch them again?"
Chuckling, I replied, "Not a problem. The pigs are too smart for that. You see they really are smart--like George Orwell and Animal Farm smart. First of all, they lay around all day in the shady barn with a fan blowing cool air on them. They aren't about to leave to suffer in the hot sun with the other animals, so escape is never on their minds. Secondly, these pigs know that they get fed after they take their walk. So they will trot happily around the yard until they decide it's time to have supper. Then they will head for the barn, go to their pen, and put themselves up! Mission accomplished. The boys just follow along behind looking important."
Sure enough, about that time the pigs emerged from around the house heading toward the barn, picking up speed as they passed the porch again. Trotting behind, yelling encouragement, came the two small boys, pausing occasionally to "shoot" each other and imaginary squirrels with the whips. Soon all four had returned through the barn doors.
Still chuckling, the friend stood up and headed for his car. Shaking his head he waved as he drove off, probably thinking that he had just left Animal Farm for real.
Pig show was over.
It's Showtime!
Early in the summer our stock barn became home to two new babies. The little grandsons had decided to try their hand at showing pigs. So with great pride they brought home Famous and Cruse, and ensconced them in the stall at the end of the barn. We all trooped down to view these latest additions to our farm family. We were all enchanted with the little fellows with their continual curiousity about everything and anything. With little grunts of excitement they would crowd up to their fence to greet the kids and dogs that wandered into their section of the world. It didn't take long before they had figured out that humans doled out scrumptous food and delightful scratches.
They spent their days contentedly stretched out with fans and a mister blowing cool moist breezes over their pen. When they were bored they occupied their time rooting up the clean, creamy wood shavings in their stall. To prevent them creating a mud hole the kids found a couple of old bowling balls for them to play with. I never figured out what game they were playing (pig soccer, maybe?) but they would spend hours pushing the big balls around their pen.
One afternoon, a friend had stopped by to drop off some supplies. We were standing on the porch when the grandsons arrived for evening chores with their pigs. Soon childish voices drifted up from the barn in excitement. Laughing, I turned to our friend and proclaimed, "You have timed it just right for the evening pig show! Pull up a chair and get ready to be entertained!" Puzzled, he looked at me for enlightment. "Just watch." I smiled as the barn doors creaked open.
Grunting and snorting, a fat, white pig popped out of the open door. Soon he was followed by his black and white pen-mate. With obvious enjoyment, the two pigs trotted out into the sunshine. Following close behind came two little boys each equipped with a small, white whip. The pigs wandered happily into the yard and began exploring the enticing smells emanating from the grass and flower beds. Nose to the ground, emitting happy little grunts they headed for the flower bed in the yard. "Don't let them root up the lilies", I shouted. The boys obediently began tapping the pigs on the rump with their little whips. The pigs snorted and moved on toward the house, leaving the lilies to live another day.
Obviously fascinated, our friend asked, "So, the boys guide the pigs by tapping on them to tell them which way to go?" "Well," I laughed, "that is the theory. The truth is the pigs pretty much go wherever they want to and the boys follow behind. As long as they get some exercise, everyone is happy." The pigs now were wandering around the storage building in the yard, heading for the garden. "Don't let them in the tomatoes!" I yelled, again. The boys obligingly ran between the pigs and the garden and headed them around the house.
"Do they ever run away?" queried the friend. "How do they catch them again?"
Chuckling, I replied, "Not a problem. The pigs are too smart for that. You see they really are smart--like George Orwell and Animal Farm smart. First of all, they lay around all day in the shady barn with a fan blowing cool air on them. They aren't about to leave to suffer in the hot sun with the other animals, so escape is never on their minds. Secondly, these pigs know that they get fed after they take their walk. So they will trot happily around the yard until they decide it's time to have supper. Then they will head for the barn, go to their pen, and put themselves up! Mission accomplished. The boys just follow along behind looking important."
Sure enough, about that time the pigs emerged from around the house heading toward the barn, picking up speed as they passed the porch again. Trotting behind, yelling encouragement, came the two small boys, pausing occasionally to "shoot" each other and imaginary squirrels with the whips. Soon all four had returned through the barn doors.
Still chuckling, the friend stood up and headed for his car. Shaking his head he waved as he drove off, probably thinking that he had just left Animal Farm for real.
Pig show was over.
They spent their days contentedly stretched out with fans and a mister blowing cool moist breezes over their pen. When they were bored they occupied their time rooting up the clean, creamy wood shavings in their stall. To prevent them creating a mud hole the kids found a couple of old bowling balls for them to play with. I never figured out what game they were playing (pig soccer, maybe?) but they would spend hours pushing the big balls around their pen.
One afternoon, a friend had stopped by to drop off some supplies. We were standing on the porch when the grandsons arrived for evening chores with their pigs. Soon childish voices drifted up from the barn in excitement. Laughing, I turned to our friend and proclaimed, "You have timed it just right for the evening pig show! Pull up a chair and get ready to be entertained!" Puzzled, he looked at me for enlightment. "Just watch." I smiled as the barn doors creaked open.
Grunting and snorting, a fat, white pig popped out of the open door. Soon he was followed by his black and white pen-mate. With obvious enjoyment, the two pigs trotted out into the sunshine. Following close behind came two little boys each equipped with a small, white whip. The pigs wandered happily into the yard and began exploring the enticing smells emanating from the grass and flower beds. Nose to the ground, emitting happy little grunts they headed for the flower bed in the yard. "Don't let them root up the lilies", I shouted. The boys obediently began tapping the pigs on the rump with their little whips. The pigs snorted and moved on toward the house, leaving the lilies to live another day.
Obviously fascinated, our friend asked, "So, the boys guide the pigs by tapping on them to tell them which way to go?" "Well," I laughed, "that is the theory. The truth is the pigs pretty much go wherever they want to and the boys follow behind. As long as they get some exercise, everyone is happy." The pigs now were wandering around the storage building in the yard, heading for the garden. "Don't let them in the tomatoes!" I yelled, again. The boys obligingly ran between the pigs and the garden and headed them around the house.
"Do they ever run away?" queried the friend. "How do they catch them again?"
Chuckling, I replied, "Not a problem. The pigs are too smart for that. You see they really are smart--like George Orwell and Animal Farm smart. First of all, they lay around all day in the shady barn with a fan blowing cool air on them. They aren't about to leave to suffer in the hot sun with the other animals, so escape is never on their minds. Secondly, these pigs know that they get fed after they take their walk. So they will trot happily around the yard until they decide it's time to have supper. Then they will head for the barn, go to their pen, and put themselves up! Mission accomplished. The boys just follow along behind looking important."
Sure enough, about that time the pigs emerged from around the house heading toward the barn, picking up speed as they passed the porch again. Trotting behind, yelling encouragement, came the two small boys, pausing occasionally to "shoot" each other and imaginary squirrels with the whips. Soon all four had returned through the barn doors.
Still chuckling, the friend stood up and headed for his car. Shaking his head he waved as he drove off, probably thinking that he had just left Animal Farm for real.
Pig show was over.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
MOUSE! Splat!
Early this month hubby stopped by the house to inquire, "You got time to take a ride with me?" It seems that the haybine needed a part and it would be three days if we ordered it. Hubby had found one on-line at a dealer about an hour away. Surprisingly, he didn't ask me to go get it but instead just asked for company on the trip. (I think he must be mellowing in his old age!) It was a lovely June day and I eagerly accepted.
We visited and chatted our way through the beautiful countryside, catching up on things. It was spring on the farm and that meant that time to just visit was in short supply. Days tended to start early and end late.
We soon had our part and were retracing our steps on the way home. As we turned onto a small country road he turned to me and grinned. "Keep your eyes peeled. I think I saw a sign in a farmhouse yard that said 'Strawberries'." It wasn't long before I yelped, "There it is!" We turned into a shady drive that led to the back of a farmhouse, where we did indeed find strawberries for sale. After a visit with the farmer, we soon were settled in the truck again with our fresh gallon of strawberries filling the cab with their fragrance.
They say smell brings back more memories than any other sense.
In moments I was transported back to our strawberry days on the farm.
Soon after we moved to our present farm Hubby and I decided to plant a strawberry bed. For the first time we had the space and the location for such a dream come true event. Off he went to the local farm store, to purchase some plants. I'm convinced that the lovely, old gentleman who ran the store just laid in wait for unsuspecting husbands to wander in. "Well, now. So the missus wants to grow some strawberries." he smiled helpfully. "Does she want just a few to eat on or is she planning on making jam and maybe freezing a pint or two?"
Hubby, with visions of strawberry pie, strawberry jam, and neat packages of frozen strawberries dancing in his head, responded. "Oh, she wants a good sized patch so she can do lots of canning and freezing. Plus, we really like to eat them fresh!"
Smiling, benignly, the old gentleman led Hubby to the crates of strawberry plants and said, "I think four bundles ought to be enough for what you want."
Hubby never thought to ask, how many plants were in a bundle.
By the time we had finished planting, we had about a quarter of an acre of strawberry plants. That was about four times as many strawberry plants as we needed. I'm pretty sure that old gentleman laughed every night about how he put one over on Hubby.
As the plants started producing, it became a nightly routine for the kids and I to gather at the strawberry patch to pick strawberries for a while. Their reward for helping (not that they really had a choice) was a heaping dish of fresh strawberries and ice cream. The kids grumbled and complained but like kids do they found ways to make the chore entertaining.
Along with the luscious, red, plump berries that hung from the clusters of plants were those few that for some reason became covered in a gray fungus-like substance. These fuzzy, gray berries soon become known as "mice" for their color and way of hiding under the dense foliage.
The kids would pick along talking, laughing and complaining until they found a gray "mouse" among the plants. Suddenly the shout of "MOUSE" would ring out over the patch. At that shout, I soon learned to drop quickly, flat to the ground in the row. The kid that had found the "mouse" would rise up and pulling their arm back, throw the "mouse" as hard as they could at their sibling! If it hit, the result was a pinkish gray splat! It was rather like farm kid paintball!
There weren't many rules. 1) You had to keep picking good strawberries. Not just hunting the gray ones. 2) You couldn't aim at mama (which was why I ducked, so I wouldn't be in the line of fire.)
Rule number 2 didn't hold up very well. I have lousy aim so the kids were pretty safe.
My son had big hands so he learned to stockpile a few berries in one hand while he kept picking with the other. Then when his sister would shout out and start firing away, he would return with a bombardment of his own. The berries would fly thick and fast, with a few overripe ones included for good measure.
One evening, Hubby couldn't stand it any longer and came wandering up to the garden to see what all the shouting and laughing was about.
With a gleam in my eye, I motioned him to come over and see our "strawberries"! He walked unsuspectingly along admiring the buckets of ripe strawberries we had picked. Then with a shout of "MOUSE" I rose up and pelted him with a gray berry I had been holding on to for a return attack on the kids. Within seconds the kids had joined in with screams, laughter and flying fuzzy projectiles. Not to be outdone, Hubby was soon grabbing strawberries and firing right back. War was on!!
I guess the old gent was right. Our family did need four bundles of strawberries after all.
We visited and chatted our way through the beautiful countryside, catching up on things. It was spring on the farm and that meant that time to just visit was in short supply. Days tended to start early and end late.
We soon had our part and were retracing our steps on the way home. As we turned onto a small country road he turned to me and grinned. "Keep your eyes peeled. I think I saw a sign in a farmhouse yard that said 'Strawberries'." It wasn't long before I yelped, "There it is!" We turned into a shady drive that led to the back of a farmhouse, where we did indeed find strawberries for sale. After a visit with the farmer, we soon were settled in the truck again with our fresh gallon of strawberries filling the cab with their fragrance.
They say smell brings back more memories than any other sense.
In moments I was transported back to our strawberry days on the farm.
Soon after we moved to our present farm Hubby and I decided to plant a strawberry bed. For the first time we had the space and the location for such a dream come true event. Off he went to the local farm store, to purchase some plants. I'm convinced that the lovely, old gentleman who ran the store just laid in wait for unsuspecting husbands to wander in. "Well, now. So the missus wants to grow some strawberries." he smiled helpfully. "Does she want just a few to eat on or is she planning on making jam and maybe freezing a pint or two?"
Hubby, with visions of strawberry pie, strawberry jam, and neat packages of frozen strawberries dancing in his head, responded. "Oh, she wants a good sized patch so she can do lots of canning and freezing. Plus, we really like to eat them fresh!"
Smiling, benignly, the old gentleman led Hubby to the crates of strawberry plants and said, "I think four bundles ought to be enough for what you want."
Hubby never thought to ask, how many plants were in a bundle.
By the time we had finished planting, we had about a quarter of an acre of strawberry plants. That was about four times as many strawberry plants as we needed. I'm pretty sure that old gentleman laughed every night about how he put one over on Hubby.
As the plants started producing, it became a nightly routine for the kids and I to gather at the strawberry patch to pick strawberries for a while. Their reward for helping (not that they really had a choice) was a heaping dish of fresh strawberries and ice cream. The kids grumbled and complained but like kids do they found ways to make the chore entertaining.
Along with the luscious, red, plump berries that hung from the clusters of plants were those few that for some reason became covered in a gray fungus-like substance. These fuzzy, gray berries soon become known as "mice" for their color and way of hiding under the dense foliage.
The kids would pick along talking, laughing and complaining until they found a gray "mouse" among the plants. Suddenly the shout of "MOUSE" would ring out over the patch. At that shout, I soon learned to drop quickly, flat to the ground in the row. The kid that had found the "mouse" would rise up and pulling their arm back, throw the "mouse" as hard as they could at their sibling! If it hit, the result was a pinkish gray splat! It was rather like farm kid paintball!
There weren't many rules. 1) You had to keep picking good strawberries. Not just hunting the gray ones. 2) You couldn't aim at mama (which was why I ducked, so I wouldn't be in the line of fire.)
Rule number 2 didn't hold up very well. I have lousy aim so the kids were pretty safe.
My son had big hands so he learned to stockpile a few berries in one hand while he kept picking with the other. Then when his sister would shout out and start firing away, he would return with a bombardment of his own. The berries would fly thick and fast, with a few overripe ones included for good measure.
One evening, Hubby couldn't stand it any longer and came wandering up to the garden to see what all the shouting and laughing was about.
With a gleam in my eye, I motioned him to come over and see our "strawberries"! He walked unsuspectingly along admiring the buckets of ripe strawberries we had picked. Then with a shout of "MOUSE" I rose up and pelted him with a gray berry I had been holding on to for a return attack on the kids. Within seconds the kids had joined in with screams, laughter and flying fuzzy projectiles. Not to be outdone, Hubby was soon grabbing strawberries and firing right back. War was on!!
I guess the old gent was right. Our family did need four bundles of strawberries after all.
Friday, June 3, 2016
Visiting Dead Relatives
Hubby's retirement hasn't brought us the quiet, relaxation that I thought it would. It seems that he is still farming like he has to get it all done at the same pace he would have in his two half days off! My dreams of early suppers and quiet evenings watching the fireflies, are dead and gone. (Partially, since it doesn't get dark until I am ready for bed.) We are still working from "get up to go down", especially with summer fast upon us.
However, this spring Hubby endured a little forced leisure from a minor medical issue. Feeling fine, but unable to drive or do any physical work, he was beginning to drive me crazy. (He says it doesn't take long because I don't have far to go!) So, one beautiful morning, I sprang my trap. "Honey", I inquired as I sipped my coffee, "do you remember promising to take me to visit the dead relatives?"
"Ummm ", he mumbled around his toast, eyeing me warily. "Which dead relatives?"
Last fall, in one of my periodic spurts of working on the family tree, I had discovered several dates that I didn't have recorded. Most of them could be found in the old cemeteries in the county we grew up in. Hubby, in a mellow moment, promised to take me to search out the old stones. Fall and winter passed with no "suitable" time to make the journey. (Farmers tend to only take off days that are rainy, snowy, or basically too miserable to be outside. Hardly the days to tromp around in old cemeteries.)
Homing in for the kill, I smiled. "It's a beautiful day and if you stay here on the farm you'll just go nuts wanting to be out doing something. Besides, you are the one who knows where the little VonGruenigen cemetery is. I'd be lost for a week if I tried to find it." Laughing, he agreed, "You'd get lost in a bathtub if you didn't have a road map!"
Soon we were on our way to visit dead relatives.
The fun thing about going back to the place where you grew up are the memories that flood into your mind. Before we even got to town, Hubby was yelling at me to "turn in, turn in here!" He had spied an old schoolmate riding around mowing his front yard. Nothing would do but we stop and visit for a while. He and his wife, graciously interrupted their work to catch up on old times. We left an hour later, feeling warm, refreshed and 18 years old again for a few minutes. The warm fuzzy lasted but we lost the 18 year old feeling pretty quickly!
The first stop was to the Buffalo Springs Cemetery located just outside of Stanford. Originally, it was beside the fort built by Benjamin Logan when he and a group of settlers established the little town of St. Asaph. The old part still contains stones from the late 1700's. The little gravel roads led in neat squares through the neatly mowed rows of stones. Interspersed were statues and large monuments, towering old trees, flowering shrubs, and spring flowers. The feeling was peaceful and friendly. Driving slowly through the graves I caught myself calling out to old friends. "Look! There is Aunt Lucille!" "Here are the Matheny's. What ever happened to their son?" "Do you remember my grandmothers friend, Sara? Here she is!"
Finding the Campbell section, near the front under a shady, old tree, I happily begin scribbling down dates and names. Hubby backed me up by taking pictures of the stones and their location. Chore finished we started wandering and making discoveries.
Just a few stones over we discovered a stone for a gentleman and his two wives. After looking at it for a minute, I realized that he had married sisters! The older sister had died and he had married her younger sister. Convenient. It must have been a happy arrangement since they were all buried in the same plot. Unlike my grandfather's grave, which we found in another section. He was buried with his first wife and her three infants and one grown daughter that they had. His second wife, my grandmother chose to be buried in another cemetery entirely!
After gathering some more dates and pictures we decided to strike out for the little VonGruenigen cemetery. Hubby lost me at the first turn. We wandered down little narrow roads until we were in an area behind his grandfathers original farm. "I think we go this way." he pointed to the right. "I believe it's down a hill and then in a curve." "Slow down. Yes! right here!" Sure enough there was a little group of headstones, surrounded by a neat fence. Finding a place to pull off the narrow road, we walked back only to be confronted by a sturdy gate. Peering into the neatly groomed graveyard we sighed, wondering if we would have to climb the fence. Smiling, Hubby reached through to the latch and with a little jiggle and a shove soon had it open enough for us to squeeze through.
The space held about two dozen graves, surrounded by a few trees, shrubs and clumps of spring blooming flowers. On one side a bench had been placed for family to rest from their tending of the area or just to meditate and remember. These were some of the names from the early Swiss settlers that had come to Lincoln Co. in the late 1800's. Here were Ganders, Camenisches, and VonGruenigens. I spied the stone I was looking for. Lydia VonGruenigen Coleman, Hubby's mother's sister. Dying many years after her husband she had chosen to be buried in this small cemetery. She had moved from Detroit after his death and had spent her last years with her widowed sister in Stanford. Then I saw why.
Nestled down in the grass beside Aunt Lydia's marker was another small stone. Under a carving of a small angel were the words:
Shirley Ann Coleman
B. 9-17-1927
D. 2-21-1928
Aunt Lydia's little girl, who had lived a short five months. Her only child.
I had assumed that she had never had children, but her mother's heart had mourned and yearned for her tiny daughter throughout her life. At the end, she only wanted to be laid to rest next to her.
Cemeteries are far from being gloomy and scary places but rather full of stories of love and devotion....and sometimes even a chuckle.
However, this spring Hubby endured a little forced leisure from a minor medical issue. Feeling fine, but unable to drive or do any physical work, he was beginning to drive me crazy. (He says it doesn't take long because I don't have far to go!) So, one beautiful morning, I sprang my trap. "Honey", I inquired as I sipped my coffee, "do you remember promising to take me to visit the dead relatives?"
"Ummm ", he mumbled around his toast, eyeing me warily. "Which dead relatives?"
Last fall, in one of my periodic spurts of working on the family tree, I had discovered several dates that I didn't have recorded. Most of them could be found in the old cemeteries in the county we grew up in. Hubby, in a mellow moment, promised to take me to search out the old stones. Fall and winter passed with no "suitable" time to make the journey. (Farmers tend to only take off days that are rainy, snowy, or basically too miserable to be outside. Hardly the days to tromp around in old cemeteries.)
Homing in for the kill, I smiled. "It's a beautiful day and if you stay here on the farm you'll just go nuts wanting to be out doing something. Besides, you are the one who knows where the little VonGruenigen cemetery is. I'd be lost for a week if I tried to find it." Laughing, he agreed, "You'd get lost in a bathtub if you didn't have a road map!"
Soon we were on our way to visit dead relatives.
The fun thing about going back to the place where you grew up are the memories that flood into your mind. Before we even got to town, Hubby was yelling at me to "turn in, turn in here!" He had spied an old schoolmate riding around mowing his front yard. Nothing would do but we stop and visit for a while. He and his wife, graciously interrupted their work to catch up on old times. We left an hour later, feeling warm, refreshed and 18 years old again for a few minutes. The warm fuzzy lasted but we lost the 18 year old feeling pretty quickly!
The first stop was to the Buffalo Springs Cemetery located just outside of Stanford. Originally, it was beside the fort built by Benjamin Logan when he and a group of settlers established the little town of St. Asaph. The old part still contains stones from the late 1700's. The little gravel roads led in neat squares through the neatly mowed rows of stones. Interspersed were statues and large monuments, towering old trees, flowering shrubs, and spring flowers. The feeling was peaceful and friendly. Driving slowly through the graves I caught myself calling out to old friends. "Look! There is Aunt Lucille!" "Here are the Matheny's. What ever happened to their son?" "Do you remember my grandmothers friend, Sara? Here she is!"
Finding the Campbell section, near the front under a shady, old tree, I happily begin scribbling down dates and names. Hubby backed me up by taking pictures of the stones and their location. Chore finished we started wandering and making discoveries.
Just a few stones over we discovered a stone for a gentleman and his two wives. After looking at it for a minute, I realized that he had married sisters! The older sister had died and he had married her younger sister. Convenient. It must have been a happy arrangement since they were all buried in the same plot. Unlike my grandfather's grave, which we found in another section. He was buried with his first wife and her three infants and one grown daughter that they had. His second wife, my grandmother chose to be buried in another cemetery entirely!
After gathering some more dates and pictures we decided to strike out for the little VonGruenigen cemetery. Hubby lost me at the first turn. We wandered down little narrow roads until we were in an area behind his grandfathers original farm. "I think we go this way." he pointed to the right. "I believe it's down a hill and then in a curve." "Slow down. Yes! right here!" Sure enough there was a little group of headstones, surrounded by a neat fence. Finding a place to pull off the narrow road, we walked back only to be confronted by a sturdy gate. Peering into the neatly groomed graveyard we sighed, wondering if we would have to climb the fence. Smiling, Hubby reached through to the latch and with a little jiggle and a shove soon had it open enough for us to squeeze through.
The space held about two dozen graves, surrounded by a few trees, shrubs and clumps of spring blooming flowers. On one side a bench had been placed for family to rest from their tending of the area or just to meditate and remember. These were some of the names from the early Swiss settlers that had come to Lincoln Co. in the late 1800's. Here were Ganders, Camenisches, and VonGruenigens. I spied the stone I was looking for. Lydia VonGruenigen Coleman, Hubby's mother's sister. Dying many years after her husband she had chosen to be buried in this small cemetery. She had moved from Detroit after his death and had spent her last years with her widowed sister in Stanford. Then I saw why.
Nestled down in the grass beside Aunt Lydia's marker was another small stone. Under a carving of a small angel were the words:
Shirley Ann Coleman
B. 9-17-1927
D. 2-21-1928
Aunt Lydia's little girl, who had lived a short five months. Her only child.
I had assumed that she had never had children, but her mother's heart had mourned and yearned for her tiny daughter throughout her life. At the end, she only wanted to be laid to rest next to her.
Cemeteries are far from being gloomy and scary places but rather full of stories of love and devotion....and sometimes even a chuckle.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
The Legend of Old Virge
The mix of generations at family get-togethers tend to bring out the best (or worst) of family legends. This was very true at an impromptu gathering of the Campbell clan over the week-end.
The groaning plates of food had been reduced to smears and all the current gossip had been chewed up and spit out, when the talk turned to memories of the family members who weren't with us any more. Having recently been bitten with the genealogy bug, I started quizzing Hubby's cousin about the location of the old Campbell cemetery. That led us to talk about Hubby's grandfather, Virgil.
At the mention of his name, all the women shared a "look" and a little smile. A quick witted teen, catching the glance, demanded. "What was the funny look about? What is the story?" Laughing, a granddaughter replied, "Which one? We can do Granddaddy Campbell stories all day!"
And the stories flowed....
You see, Granddaddy Campbell loved women.
He also loved life and living it to the fullest.
The two often collided, with hilarious results.
Now before you get the wrong idea, he wasn't a rogue or a philanderer, he just liked females. All shapes, sizes, types, or age. To him they were all worthy of his outrageous flirtations and compliments. They, in turn, bloomed and fluttered under his attentions. Old Maids would simper, matrons would preen, young mothers would blush, and little girls would crow with delight at his comments and roving gaze.
He was a handsome man, even when I met him after I started dating Hubby, the middle of his three grandsons. Tall, with a quick smile, laughing bright blue eyes, and thick, pure white hair that fell over his forehead in a Superman curl, he was still dashing. Granny Campbell was a tall, dignified woman. Gracious, but reserved, she seldom reacted to his antics. I often wondered, if inside, she was laughing. I could see her in my imagination, like Grandma on the Walton's TV show, smacking him on the arm, and muttering "old fool". She must have had a hidden twinkle or she would have poisoned his pork chops!
His granddaughter started by telling of her wedding day. Granddaddy, proud as punch of his only granddaughter, placed himself at the end of the receiving line at the reception. (A pause here to explain to the younger family members what a receiving line was.) As each woman proceeded down the line, greeting the bride and groom, the bride's parents, then the groom's parents, they came to Granddaddy. With a roguish smile, he would introduce himself and proceed to give them a warm hug as a welcome. If that went well, he would place a fond, grandfatherly kiss on the smooth cheek. Again, with a tender, grandfatherly look, he would pat her gently. What would have gotten a younger man a sharp reprimand, received only a rueful glance and a giggle. He had a wonderful time welcoming the ladies, as he put it.
Next, a great-granddaughter, retold the family legendary story of Granddaddy and Grandma's trip to California on the train. As evening approached, they retired to the Pullman car of the train to get some rest for the coming day. (A pause here to explain what a Pullman sleeper car was.) During the night, Granddaddy was awakened by a call of nature. Quietly, he slid out of his berth and proceeded down the aisle of the curtained sleeping compartments to the restroom. Finishing his business he then returned to his berth to complete his night's sleep. Feeling chilled by his ramble, he reached over to pull a portion of Granny's dress skirt over his knees....only to discover that the skirt didn't belong to Granny! The report was, that after being promptly banished from the unamused ladies' berth, he crawled back down the aisle to Granny. No one could ever get him to admit whether the mix-up was accidental or intentional!
I laughed and added that the challenge of dating Hubby was the ritual visit to his grandparents. We would drive right through the little town they lived in on our way back to college after a visit home. Naturally, we would be expected to stop and visit. Granddaddy and Granny would be ensconced in their chairs in the little living room. Greeting us warmly, he would throw open his arms and beam, "Come give an old man a hug!" he would command. He would apologize for not getting up, citing an old man's stiffness as an excuse. The result was a dance to bend over in the short skirts of the late sixties, give a hug, and escape before his roaming hands had patted their way down to bare leg. He would look so genuinely happy to see you (or get a pat in) that it was impossible to be irritated with him.
My sister-in-law chimed in that the one thing he couldn't resist was a garter. (Pause here to explain to the youngsters the complexities of a garter belt) (Pause again to realize we lost them at "stockings" much less garter belts!) It seems that her challenge was to get by him without his wandering hands encountering the lump of her garter. If he found it, he would chortle with glee and proceed to grab it through her skirt and snap it resoundingly! He thought this was hilarious!
At this point I threw my hand in the air to be counted, with laughter bubbling up. I, too, had been a victim of the garter snap!!
By now we were all talking and laughing at once. I suspect the youngsters are a little confused by our delight in this old rascal, but once you met him you had to love him. (Besides, apples don't fall far from the tree. I suspect a few of the old man's genes are alive and well in his heirs!)
I also suspect the youngsters are more than a "little" confused by the strange facets of a life gone by, like Pullman cars and garter belts. How did our world change so fast...and how did we wind up the "old" ones?
The groaning plates of food had been reduced to smears and all the current gossip had been chewed up and spit out, when the talk turned to memories of the family members who weren't with us any more. Having recently been bitten with the genealogy bug, I started quizzing Hubby's cousin about the location of the old Campbell cemetery. That led us to talk about Hubby's grandfather, Virgil.
At the mention of his name, all the women shared a "look" and a little smile. A quick witted teen, catching the glance, demanded. "What was the funny look about? What is the story?" Laughing, a granddaughter replied, "Which one? We can do Granddaddy Campbell stories all day!"
And the stories flowed....
You see, Granddaddy Campbell loved women.
He also loved life and living it to the fullest.
The two often collided, with hilarious results.
Now before you get the wrong idea, he wasn't a rogue or a philanderer, he just liked females. All shapes, sizes, types, or age. To him they were all worthy of his outrageous flirtations and compliments. They, in turn, bloomed and fluttered under his attentions. Old Maids would simper, matrons would preen, young mothers would blush, and little girls would crow with delight at his comments and roving gaze.
He was a handsome man, even when I met him after I started dating Hubby, the middle of his three grandsons. Tall, with a quick smile, laughing bright blue eyes, and thick, pure white hair that fell over his forehead in a Superman curl, he was still dashing. Granny Campbell was a tall, dignified woman. Gracious, but reserved, she seldom reacted to his antics. I often wondered, if inside, she was laughing. I could see her in my imagination, like Grandma on the Walton's TV show, smacking him on the arm, and muttering "old fool". She must have had a hidden twinkle or she would have poisoned his pork chops!
His granddaughter started by telling of her wedding day. Granddaddy, proud as punch of his only granddaughter, placed himself at the end of the receiving line at the reception. (A pause here to explain to the younger family members what a receiving line was.) As each woman proceeded down the line, greeting the bride and groom, the bride's parents, then the groom's parents, they came to Granddaddy. With a roguish smile, he would introduce himself and proceed to give them a warm hug as a welcome. If that went well, he would place a fond, grandfatherly kiss on the smooth cheek. Again, with a tender, grandfatherly look, he would pat her gently. What would have gotten a younger man a sharp reprimand, received only a rueful glance and a giggle. He had a wonderful time welcoming the ladies, as he put it.
Next, a great-granddaughter, retold the family legendary story of Granddaddy and Grandma's trip to California on the train. As evening approached, they retired to the Pullman car of the train to get some rest for the coming day. (A pause here to explain what a Pullman sleeper car was.) During the night, Granddaddy was awakened by a call of nature. Quietly, he slid out of his berth and proceeded down the aisle of the curtained sleeping compartments to the restroom. Finishing his business he then returned to his berth to complete his night's sleep. Feeling chilled by his ramble, he reached over to pull a portion of Granny's dress skirt over his knees....only to discover that the skirt didn't belong to Granny! The report was, that after being promptly banished from the unamused ladies' berth, he crawled back down the aisle to Granny. No one could ever get him to admit whether the mix-up was accidental or intentional!
I laughed and added that the challenge of dating Hubby was the ritual visit to his grandparents. We would drive right through the little town they lived in on our way back to college after a visit home. Naturally, we would be expected to stop and visit. Granddaddy and Granny would be ensconced in their chairs in the little living room. Greeting us warmly, he would throw open his arms and beam, "Come give an old man a hug!" he would command. He would apologize for not getting up, citing an old man's stiffness as an excuse. The result was a dance to bend over in the short skirts of the late sixties, give a hug, and escape before his roaming hands had patted their way down to bare leg. He would look so genuinely happy to see you (or get a pat in) that it was impossible to be irritated with him.
My sister-in-law chimed in that the one thing he couldn't resist was a garter. (Pause here to explain to the youngsters the complexities of a garter belt) (Pause again to realize we lost them at "stockings" much less garter belts!) It seems that her challenge was to get by him without his wandering hands encountering the lump of her garter. If he found it, he would chortle with glee and proceed to grab it through her skirt and snap it resoundingly! He thought this was hilarious!
At this point I threw my hand in the air to be counted, with laughter bubbling up. I, too, had been a victim of the garter snap!!
By now we were all talking and laughing at once. I suspect the youngsters are a little confused by our delight in this old rascal, but once you met him you had to love him. (Besides, apples don't fall far from the tree. I suspect a few of the old man's genes are alive and well in his heirs!)
I also suspect the youngsters are more than a "little" confused by the strange facets of a life gone by, like Pullman cars and garter belts. How did our world change so fast...and how did we wind up the "old" ones?
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Little Dog
Early last October we returned home to find that our dog had invited a friend over. Well, not really. What we actually found was a cute, little black, tan and white dog that had obviously become separated from her owners. She looked a little like a corgi that had been crossed with an black and tan shepherd. Short legged and thick tailed, she possessed a sweet face and a gentle disposition.
When all efforts to locate an owner failed, Sadie, aka Little Bit, aka, Little Jump, settled in with the farm dogs. Possessing a playful nature she spent hours playing tug of war with the Aussie and even enticed the neurotic, aloof collie into whirlwind games of tag. The grandkids thought she was cool, but Hubby was less than enthusiastic about another dog. "We're going to have to start getting the feed store to deliver dog food in bulk by the ton", he grumbled, as he headed to chore with Little Bit right behind him.
I knew he was hooked when he stopped by the house one day and mentioned he was going to check cattle but first he had to change from the four-wheeler to the ranger. "Why are you taking the ranger?" I questioned, thinking that maybe he needed to take some tools or equipment in the bed of the ranger. "The little dog gets tired." he mumbled. "Huh?" I queried, "I didn't catch that." "The little dog.", he repeated with a touch of defensiveness in his voice, "She follows me with Ellie (the Aussie) and she gets all worn out with her short legs. With the ranger I can give her a lift." Ducking his head, he headed to the barn. Shortly later, I watched with a smile as he left to check the cattle with the little dog sitting proudly beside him on the ranger's seat. Yep. He was hooked.
Then Christmas morning arrived. We left before daylight to be at the son's house when the kids opened Santa. The little dog escorted us to the garage and watched as we pulled down the drive. Hours later, we returned to the house, full from a big breakfast and exhausted from our early start. We went straight in and to the couch. Our son stopped by that evening after chores and informed us that we were short one little dog.
Over the next day, we looked and looked for the little dog. The farm rang with our calls as we went about our daily chores. Hubby even drove up and down the road searching, with dread, for a small, furry body. The Australian Shepherd moped around, missing her playmate. The grandchildren were as worried as we were, adding their calls to ours. Every outbuilding was searched, hoping she had just accidently gotten locked in. We eventually accepted that the little dog wasn't coming back.
Sunday morning, we drove to town to pick the kids up for church, still automatically checking the roadsides. It was a subdued group that pulled into the parking lot behind the church. I gathered up kids and belongings and started to escort the little ones up the back stairs to their Sunday School class when a small, dark whirlwind appeared across the lawn. "Little Jump!" squealed the granddaughter. Soon, the little dog was the center of an excited, mass of Campbells, all talking at once. "Where did you come from?" "How did you get here?" "We thought you were gone!"
I looked up to see a gentleman approaching us across the lawn. My heart did a little sad lunge, realizing that the little dog had obviously had an owner before us and this could very well be him. "Is that your dog?" we both asked at once. Laughing, I replied, not very helpfully, "Yes. No. Well, sort of. Is she yours?" After a few more false starts we sorted out how he wound up with the little dog. It seems that he had found her on the main highway in front of the farm, where she was hunting on the roadsides. Fearing she would be hit and killed, he picked her up and brought her to town. She had been living the high life in his apartment, eating doggie treats and sleeping on the couch, when he let her out to potty just as we arrived at church.
He said she had been a perfect lady and obviously was housebroken. Watching his gentleness as he petted the little dog, I asked him if he would like to keep her. She really was a stray, not really our dog. He shook his head sadly, "She's a doll, but I live in an apartment and am gone a lot with my work. I just can't have a pet, but I might come see her, if I can." "Anytime!" I assured him, as I gathered up my excited brood and sorted out how we were going to get the dog home before church.
I had mixed emotions while taking her home. It was obvious that the dog was used to being someone's house dog. At the farm, she was an outside, farm dog. Maybe she was miserable being outside all the time. Maybe she would rather be with her rescuer in a comfy house. However, she certainly seemed to enjoy her games with the other dogs and her rides in the ranger.
I guess I wasn't the only one thinking about this. A couple of nights later, our son called from his house after leaving the farm. "I've got the little dog. She's going to spend the night with us." As he was leaving, after calling his dog to the truck, he scooped up the little dog and put her in, too.
So now we are "co-owners" of the little dog. I keep her in the day and she goes home at night with her friend, Ellie, the Aussie.
Maybe living a dog's life isn't all bad.
When all efforts to locate an owner failed, Sadie, aka Little Bit, aka, Little Jump, settled in with the farm dogs. Possessing a playful nature she spent hours playing tug of war with the Aussie and even enticed the neurotic, aloof collie into whirlwind games of tag. The grandkids thought she was cool, but Hubby was less than enthusiastic about another dog. "We're going to have to start getting the feed store to deliver dog food in bulk by the ton", he grumbled, as he headed to chore with Little Bit right behind him.
I knew he was hooked when he stopped by the house one day and mentioned he was going to check cattle but first he had to change from the four-wheeler to the ranger. "Why are you taking the ranger?" I questioned, thinking that maybe he needed to take some tools or equipment in the bed of the ranger. "The little dog gets tired." he mumbled. "Huh?" I queried, "I didn't catch that." "The little dog.", he repeated with a touch of defensiveness in his voice, "She follows me with Ellie (the Aussie) and she gets all worn out with her short legs. With the ranger I can give her a lift." Ducking his head, he headed to the barn. Shortly later, I watched with a smile as he left to check the cattle with the little dog sitting proudly beside him on the ranger's seat. Yep. He was hooked.
Then Christmas morning arrived. We left before daylight to be at the son's house when the kids opened Santa. The little dog escorted us to the garage and watched as we pulled down the drive. Hours later, we returned to the house, full from a big breakfast and exhausted from our early start. We went straight in and to the couch. Our son stopped by that evening after chores and informed us that we were short one little dog.
Over the next day, we looked and looked for the little dog. The farm rang with our calls as we went about our daily chores. Hubby even drove up and down the road searching, with dread, for a small, furry body. The Australian Shepherd moped around, missing her playmate. The grandchildren were as worried as we were, adding their calls to ours. Every outbuilding was searched, hoping she had just accidently gotten locked in. We eventually accepted that the little dog wasn't coming back.
Sunday morning, we drove to town to pick the kids up for church, still automatically checking the roadsides. It was a subdued group that pulled into the parking lot behind the church. I gathered up kids and belongings and started to escort the little ones up the back stairs to their Sunday School class when a small, dark whirlwind appeared across the lawn. "Little Jump!" squealed the granddaughter. Soon, the little dog was the center of an excited, mass of Campbells, all talking at once. "Where did you come from?" "How did you get here?" "We thought you were gone!"
I looked up to see a gentleman approaching us across the lawn. My heart did a little sad lunge, realizing that the little dog had obviously had an owner before us and this could very well be him. "Is that your dog?" we both asked at once. Laughing, I replied, not very helpfully, "Yes. No. Well, sort of. Is she yours?" After a few more false starts we sorted out how he wound up with the little dog. It seems that he had found her on the main highway in front of the farm, where she was hunting on the roadsides. Fearing she would be hit and killed, he picked her up and brought her to town. She had been living the high life in his apartment, eating doggie treats and sleeping on the couch, when he let her out to potty just as we arrived at church.
He said she had been a perfect lady and obviously was housebroken. Watching his gentleness as he petted the little dog, I asked him if he would like to keep her. She really was a stray, not really our dog. He shook his head sadly, "She's a doll, but I live in an apartment and am gone a lot with my work. I just can't have a pet, but I might come see her, if I can." "Anytime!" I assured him, as I gathered up my excited brood and sorted out how we were going to get the dog home before church.
I had mixed emotions while taking her home. It was obvious that the dog was used to being someone's house dog. At the farm, she was an outside, farm dog. Maybe she was miserable being outside all the time. Maybe she would rather be with her rescuer in a comfy house. However, she certainly seemed to enjoy her games with the other dogs and her rides in the ranger.
I guess I wasn't the only one thinking about this. A couple of nights later, our son called from his house after leaving the farm. "I've got the little dog. She's going to spend the night with us." As he was leaving, after calling his dog to the truck, he scooped up the little dog and put her in, too.
So now we are "co-owners" of the little dog. I keep her in the day and she goes home at night with her friend, Ellie, the Aussie.
Maybe living a dog's life isn't all bad.
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