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.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
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.
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