As a young Home Economics Agent one of my favorite things was visiting the Homemakers clubs during their monthly meetings. This was a great opportunity to visit and enjoy the lively fellowship of the groups. Although you aren't supposed to show favoritism, one club always stands out in my mind. This group of women had mastered the art of living well. They were all rural, country women living in a tiny community out in the county. They had raised their children, helped on the farm, worked for outside income in various jobs, and never lost their ability to see the giggle in it all. This was a group of women that never let life interfere with having fun! Although their lives had held times of sorrow, hardship, trials and frustrations they never failed to find humor and laughter to help them along. Visiting with them was always an adventure.
On one of my early visits the women were sharing the various "joys" of having their husbands retire and hang around the house. There were lots of groans and laughter as they told of husbands being constantly underfoot after years of having the house to themselves. They told of the constant clutter of projects and mess of unfinished repairs. They shared tales of torn up landscaping and do-it-yourself nightmares with emergency calls to plumbers. Each was greeted with laughter, giggles and sympathy.
Finally, one of the ladies, who had been quietly listening, piped up. "Girls, you just don't know how bad it can be. Wendell has finally topped everything!"
She reported that Wendell's retirement from his job as the principal of the local school had not turned out to be the dream that they thought it would. At first she thought that they would adjust to sharing the same space again after all these years. However, it soon became apparent that the two of them just did things differently. If she was running the sweeper he would question why she didn't do it this way. If she was making the beds he would suggest it would work better if she did it this way. If she was washing clothes he would have an idea for better sorting. He organized her grocery lists, rearranged her bookshelf, and set up a new bookkeeping system for her checkbook.
So it was with some feeling of escape that she left one day to get a new perm and some much needed down time at the beauty shop. The process promised her at least several hours of sympathetic understanding. Her husband, left to his own devices, decided that he would attempt to alleviate some of the stress and do something to surprise her. He looked around and thought about all of the work that she did and especially the wonderful meals she prepared. He felt sure that if her kitchen were just a little more efficient then she wouldn't have to work so hard. With that, he set to work, emptying every cabinet and drawer and rearranging each item in what he considered a much more organized and efficient manner. He then wandered off to visit with his friends and tell them how much he had helped his wife.
The perm completed, she arrived home to begin preparing supper. She opened the cabinet to grab a skillet only to discover it filled with dishes. She found the skillet finally in the space under the sink. The spices were now on the canned goods shelf and the canned goods were where the dishes had been. On and on she went trying to find the items she needed for their meal. Finally in frustration she took off her apron and settled in the living room, where she waited for his return. When he came into the room, she eyed him coldly and announced. "You arranged the kitchen to suit you, so start cooking!"
She said they had a lovely meal at the restaurant in town.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
God and the Neighbors
When we first moved to our community 40 years ago, we lived in town, although, even then, we farmed. We were blessed to find a house in a quiet neighborhood that welcomed us and nurtured us through the early years of our marriage. When we arrived we were childless but in a couple of years we increased our family with a son. Within six months of that event, I was hired as the County Extension Agent for Home Economics. Hubby was already in the process of building a business and farming at night, and soon I was busy with the long hours of an extension agent. It was a hectic, frantic life that you could only do while young and ignorant.
Our son was a bright, sunny, busy little boy. He had a cheerful disposition and a busy attitude. He was quick, light and did I say busy? We enclosed the backyard for his safety and he climbed the fence before the last section was finished. We learned that he was impossible to corral into a confined space, so we enlarged his parameters by telling him that he could roam the yards,but not cross a road. Probably, by today's standards, a solution that would have child services on our case today. However, for him it worked, in that he knew not to cross a street and endanger himself in traffic and kept him in a controlled space.
What we didn't figure on was that it opened our neighbors up for a Dennis the Menace type invasion. Our neighbors, like Mr. Wilson in the comic strip, consisted mostly of retired grandparents. Fortunately they were supremely tolerant of the little boy who felt they were all his favorite friends. He soon developed a daily routine that called for visits to each home.
In the morning he shared breakfast with the neighbor behind us. Mr. V., a retired mechanic, soon discovered that the little boy loved doughnuts. Before long the little powdered sugar doughnuts became a staple on his wife's grocery list. After his doughnut, the little Dennis look alike would wander up the street to visit with Mr. G. Mr. G could be found outside at his picnic table during the days, staying out from under Mrs. G's cleaning and cooking. Most days, Mr. G would be having a little orange juice as he sat in the shade. The little boy learned that Mr. G kept his orange juice in a jar in the bushes next to the table. He couldn't have any of that, but if he went to the door and asked politely, Mrs. G would give him a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. Years later he would figure out that Mr. G wouldn't share his juice because there was a little something extra in it.
He usually skipped the next house because the owner was a retired school principal. Years of dealing with little boys of all types had given him little tolerance for the antics of a busy, inquisitive menace. Another house yielded a quick golf lesson from a patient, avid golfer who used his back yard to practice chip shots and puts.
If the day got long and a little pick-me-up was needed, he would head for his favorite neighbor, Mr. P. Mr. and Mrs. P raised five children and were always ready to include a little boy in whatever they were doing. This included helping Mr. P wash his car every Saturday morning. An event anticipated only slightly less than birthdays. Early on Saturday, the little boy would rush through his breakfast and head to Mr. P's house, where he would be supplied with a sponge and bucket. With total disregard for wayward splashes of sudsy water and errant sprays from the hose, Mr. P would encourage the little boy in helping to wash the car. His reward would be a piece of hard candy that Mr. P, a rural mailman, would keep for the kids on his route.
These kindly neighbors provided love and support for a little boy as well as, their slightly overwhelmed parents. When our daughter was born, they opened their hearts, and homes, to the little girl who faithfully followed her brother everywhere. They read stories, comforted hurts, patched up quarrels, mediated playground squabbles, watched for potential dangers, and gave many life lessons.
Someone once asked how on earth we managed during those hectic years. I thought about the long list of sitters who had come and gone with little impact. The truth is that my children were raised by God and the Neighbors.
Thank God for you, Neighbors.
Our son was a bright, sunny, busy little boy. He had a cheerful disposition and a busy attitude. He was quick, light and did I say busy? We enclosed the backyard for his safety and he climbed the fence before the last section was finished. We learned that he was impossible to corral into a confined space, so we enlarged his parameters by telling him that he could roam the yards,but not cross a road. Probably, by today's standards, a solution that would have child services on our case today. However, for him it worked, in that he knew not to cross a street and endanger himself in traffic and kept him in a controlled space.
What we didn't figure on was that it opened our neighbors up for a Dennis the Menace type invasion. Our neighbors, like Mr. Wilson in the comic strip, consisted mostly of retired grandparents. Fortunately they were supremely tolerant of the little boy who felt they were all his favorite friends. He soon developed a daily routine that called for visits to each home.
In the morning he shared breakfast with the neighbor behind us. Mr. V., a retired mechanic, soon discovered that the little boy loved doughnuts. Before long the little powdered sugar doughnuts became a staple on his wife's grocery list. After his doughnut, the little Dennis look alike would wander up the street to visit with Mr. G. Mr. G could be found outside at his picnic table during the days, staying out from under Mrs. G's cleaning and cooking. Most days, Mr. G would be having a little orange juice as he sat in the shade. The little boy learned that Mr. G kept his orange juice in a jar in the bushes next to the table. He couldn't have any of that, but if he went to the door and asked politely, Mrs. G would give him a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. Years later he would figure out that Mr. G wouldn't share his juice because there was a little something extra in it.
He usually skipped the next house because the owner was a retired school principal. Years of dealing with little boys of all types had given him little tolerance for the antics of a busy, inquisitive menace. Another house yielded a quick golf lesson from a patient, avid golfer who used his back yard to practice chip shots and puts.
If the day got long and a little pick-me-up was needed, he would head for his favorite neighbor, Mr. P. Mr. and Mrs. P raised five children and were always ready to include a little boy in whatever they were doing. This included helping Mr. P wash his car every Saturday morning. An event anticipated only slightly less than birthdays. Early on Saturday, the little boy would rush through his breakfast and head to Mr. P's house, where he would be supplied with a sponge and bucket. With total disregard for wayward splashes of sudsy water and errant sprays from the hose, Mr. P would encourage the little boy in helping to wash the car. His reward would be a piece of hard candy that Mr. P, a rural mailman, would keep for the kids on his route.
These kindly neighbors provided love and support for a little boy as well as, their slightly overwhelmed parents. When our daughter was born, they opened their hearts, and homes, to the little girl who faithfully followed her brother everywhere. They read stories, comforted hurts, patched up quarrels, mediated playground squabbles, watched for potential dangers, and gave many life lessons.
Someone once asked how on earth we managed during those hectic years. I thought about the long list of sitters who had come and gone with little impact. The truth is that my children were raised by God and the Neighbors.
Thank God for you, Neighbors.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Rural Living in Iowa
I love the section of Iowa that my daughter and her family live in. We live in a rural area of Kentucky but it's five minutes from the town where hubby works, 7 minutes to the town in the opposite direction, there is a subdivision across the road and one behind us. Admittedly they are small towns and small subdivisions but then we aren't far from the nearest grocery, fast food, Walmart, and stores.
Where my daughter lives, you look out your window and you see fields. There are houses and people out there but they aren't close enough to look back at you. The first thing that strikes me is, that it is dark, I mean really dark, at night. We don't realize how many lights we see from our farm. Looking out at home you will see security lights dotting the landscape like fireflies, marking the other homes in view, the reflected glow of the street lights from the nearby communities, the house lights from across the road, and lots of car lights from the traffic. In Iowa I see stars and velvety darkness.
When we first visited this area I was a little put off by the distances between things. The sparseness of the population was a little strange to a girl raised in the more densely populated areas of the south. My daughter's shop is 12 miles from her home, fortunately it is also where her daughter's school is. Her mother-in-law's home is 10 miles and they are there almost every day since they still farm together. The nearest small grocery is 12 miles, to get to a larger one is 25 miles, and for a Walmart is 50 miles. The gas station is 12 miles--I've learned to watch the gas gauge carefully! She drives 30 miles for horseback lessons, 30 miles for gymnastic classes (in another direction) and 15 miles for pizza from a convenience store.
Which brings up another thing that is fun about the area. There are no fast food restaurants. There isn't a McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC, or Burger King on every corner. Fast food is a treat gotten only in the city. Thanks to this lack, they have kept the small "mom and pop" diners that I remember from my childhood. Every little community or sometimes even crossroads has a little restaurant. The food is good, the service friendly and the customers all friends--or soon will be. Farmers, housewives, and workers gather for breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, and sometimes dinner to eat, greet and share the news about crops, births, weather, deaths, forecasts, predictions, family, equipment, and more crops, crops, crops. Anyone wandering in is immediately recognized as a stranger and quizzed as to their home, family, and connections, then welcomed into the group.
A friend, whose work takes him to various areas of the country, landed in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. His first day's meeting ended early and he was faced with a long evening in a motel room before the next day's agenda. Upon being told that he was only 25 miles from Iowa, a state he had never been in, he decided to drive over the line. Upon crossing the line he felt he still hadn't seen Iowa until he at least visited a community, so he drove on until he reached a small town. He then decided that he wouldn't really experience Iowa until he at least spoke to some people so he stopped at the local bar and restaurant. Once inside he was greeted warmly and soon experienced the quizzing of "where are you from?" and "what brings you here?" Soon he was chatting away like an old member of the group. A short time later he found himself playing pool with a thirteen year old boy who was at the diner having supper with his mom. After an enjoyable evening he drove back to his motel with the cheerful good-by's and well wishes from his new friends ringing in his ears. He still grins when he talks of his evening.
It's good to know there are still places like that left in the world.
Where my daughter lives, you look out your window and you see fields. There are houses and people out there but they aren't close enough to look back at you. The first thing that strikes me is, that it is dark, I mean really dark, at night. We don't realize how many lights we see from our farm. Looking out at home you will see security lights dotting the landscape like fireflies, marking the other homes in view, the reflected glow of the street lights from the nearby communities, the house lights from across the road, and lots of car lights from the traffic. In Iowa I see stars and velvety darkness.
When we first visited this area I was a little put off by the distances between things. The sparseness of the population was a little strange to a girl raised in the more densely populated areas of the south. My daughter's shop is 12 miles from her home, fortunately it is also where her daughter's school is. Her mother-in-law's home is 10 miles and they are there almost every day since they still farm together. The nearest small grocery is 12 miles, to get to a larger one is 25 miles, and for a Walmart is 50 miles. The gas station is 12 miles--I've learned to watch the gas gauge carefully! She drives 30 miles for horseback lessons, 30 miles for gymnastic classes (in another direction) and 15 miles for pizza from a convenience store.
Which brings up another thing that is fun about the area. There are no fast food restaurants. There isn't a McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC, or Burger King on every corner. Fast food is a treat gotten only in the city. Thanks to this lack, they have kept the small "mom and pop" diners that I remember from my childhood. Every little community or sometimes even crossroads has a little restaurant. The food is good, the service friendly and the customers all friends--or soon will be. Farmers, housewives, and workers gather for breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, and sometimes dinner to eat, greet and share the news about crops, births, weather, deaths, forecasts, predictions, family, equipment, and more crops, crops, crops. Anyone wandering in is immediately recognized as a stranger and quizzed as to their home, family, and connections, then welcomed into the group.
A friend, whose work takes him to various areas of the country, landed in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. His first day's meeting ended early and he was faced with a long evening in a motel room before the next day's agenda. Upon being told that he was only 25 miles from Iowa, a state he had never been in, he decided to drive over the line. Upon crossing the line he felt he still hadn't seen Iowa until he at least visited a community, so he drove on until he reached a small town. He then decided that he wouldn't really experience Iowa until he at least spoke to some people so he stopped at the local bar and restaurant. Once inside he was greeted warmly and soon experienced the quizzing of "where are you from?" and "what brings you here?" Soon he was chatting away like an old member of the group. A short time later he found himself playing pool with a thirteen year old boy who was at the diner having supper with his mom. After an enjoyable evening he drove back to his motel with the cheerful good-by's and well wishes from his new friends ringing in his ears. He still grins when he talks of his evening.
It's good to know there are still places like that left in the world.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Raccoons
I don't know if there are any statistics to back it up but I believe Iowa must rank number one in the population of raccoons. It seems that these little masked bandits and the deer benefit greatly from the vast fields of corn and soybeans. During the time that the corn is ripening in the fields these little animals feast on the bounty of fresh corn. However, when the corn is just planted or has been harvested they move into the barns for their corn fix. They come with all their kids, cousins, aunts and uncles to see what they can find. They seems to take great joy in tearing open sacks of mineral, feed, cat food, and dog food . Their little hands are just perfect for opening doors and bin lids and scattering tools and supplies. In short they are not welcome guests.
My son-in-law wages a constant battle with the little invaders. Many a night he and my daughter wait until well after dark and venture out to the barn to surprise their unwanted visitors. They throw open the barn door, switch on the light and watch the various raccoons scamper to escape. They then try to kill them with a small rifle.So far the biggest fatality has been the barn roof, although a few raccoons have gone to their reward.
The other afternoon the whole family was gathered in the yard to greet the newest farm member, a lovely small mare recently bought for the granddaughters. This was her first outing with the little girls on board and we were watching her to see how she behaved. So far she had been a perfect lady, following neck reining easily, being tolerant of the family dog, ignoring the barn cats, and seeming to enjoy the chatter of the little girls.
Suddenly I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. A large raccoon was moving across the road to the back of the barn, arriving early for the nightly festivities. About the time I saw the raccoon so did the dog. She tore off at a dead run for the back of the barn and her enemy. My daughter then tore off after the dog, knowing from experience that while the dog was big on willingness she wasn't much bigger than the raccoons. Dog and Coon met in the weed filled ditch behind the barn. Soon the air was filled with growls, yips, snarls, and shouts, peaking to a crescendo punctuated by squeals of pain. By now both little girls were screaming for their dog while their dad ran to the house for his gun. Returning just in time to see the coon retreat across the road he quickly fired three shots, unfortunately missing.
During all the commotion the little mare remained calm and unconcerned. Seizing the opportunity to snack on the lush lawn, she simply started grazing, while waiting for the excitement to be over and the ride to continue. Looks like she is going to be a perfect kid horse.
My son-in-law wages a constant battle with the little invaders. Many a night he and my daughter wait until well after dark and venture out to the barn to surprise their unwanted visitors. They throw open the barn door, switch on the light and watch the various raccoons scamper to escape. They then try to kill them with a small rifle.So far the biggest fatality has been the barn roof, although a few raccoons have gone to their reward.
The other afternoon the whole family was gathered in the yard to greet the newest farm member, a lovely small mare recently bought for the granddaughters. This was her first outing with the little girls on board and we were watching her to see how she behaved. So far she had been a perfect lady, following neck reining easily, being tolerant of the family dog, ignoring the barn cats, and seeming to enjoy the chatter of the little girls.
Suddenly I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. A large raccoon was moving across the road to the back of the barn, arriving early for the nightly festivities. About the time I saw the raccoon so did the dog. She tore off at a dead run for the back of the barn and her enemy. My daughter then tore off after the dog, knowing from experience that while the dog was big on willingness she wasn't much bigger than the raccoons. Dog and Coon met in the weed filled ditch behind the barn. Soon the air was filled with growls, yips, snarls, and shouts, peaking to a crescendo punctuated by squeals of pain. By now both little girls were screaming for their dog while their dad ran to the house for his gun. Returning just in time to see the coon retreat across the road he quickly fired three shots, unfortunately missing.
During all the commotion the little mare remained calm and unconcerned. Seizing the opportunity to snack on the lush lawn, she simply started grazing, while waiting for the excitement to be over and the ride to continue. Looks like she is going to be a perfect kid horse.
Monday, June 4, 2012
The Haircut
I am visiting my daughter in Iowa for a few days so I had the opportunity to share a family dinner with her in-laws. My daughter has a lot to live up to, if today's dinner was any example. Her mother-in-law is a gracious hostess and a wonderful cook. Today's dinner was grilled rib-eye steaks, baked potatoes, broccoli with cheese sauce, grilled squash, peppers, onions,and mushrooms, corn (in Iowa corn is pretty special, trust me), rolls with homemade strawberry jam and homemade peach pie. My son-in-law's older sister and her husband were there for the week-end to attend a family wedding, so the conversation was filled with laughter and stories.
After dinner Mary brought in a small box and handed it to my daughter. She looked inside and started laughing. Soon everyone had joined in. Mystified I looked in the box and remained mystified. Inside were loops of soft blond curls, some short and some measuring 10-12 inches long. It seems that Mary had been keeping her youngest son's daughters while he helped with the planting. The visiting children and grandkids usually stay in the finished basement rooms. The basement is rather flexible with a full kitchen, a large den with a couch,chairs, pool table and a bed and another bedroom. It also has the small home beauty parlor that Mary used before she quit being a beautician and started work at the local bank. She still uses this space to give all the family haircuts.
The two little girls had gone to the basement to play and naturally decided to play beautician. The older girl, aged 6, decided to fix the younger girl's (age 4) hair. She managed to at least get it wet in the shampoo bowl, although no one is sure if she actually used shampoo. I'm amazed she didn't paint the room with water using the spray nozzle, and she may have. Then she decided to give her a haircut. Realizing that everyone wouldn't appreciate her efforts, she then pulled the remaining hair back in a pony tail. The little girl is gifted with thick, curly hair so Mary, who was busy preparing dinner for the guys, didn't notice anything different.
The parents arrived to take their two sleepy girls back home and quickly bundled them into their car seats for the hour drive to Des Moines. Arriving home they carried the sleeping girls into the house and put them to bed. The next morning the mom went in to get them up and saw her youngest for the first time in the bright light. It evidently wasn't a Hallmark moment. The report was that she had half a mullet. It seems the haircut was mostly in the center of the back of her head. I can only imagine her horror to see her little girl with half a head of curls.
It seems that nearly every one of the grandchildren had done this at some time or another, which is what brought on the giggles and laughter. As one of the older grandchildren had wailed when she had cut her little brother's hair, "It won't stay that way will it!?" It will grow out, but the mother probably won't recover for a while.
Which is also why my daughter spent an hour drilling into her girls that this was a really, really bad thing to do. Probably won't work.
It made me feel better to realize I wasn't the only grandparent that had grandchildren that managed to do the most unbelievable things with me standing right there.
After dinner Mary brought in a small box and handed it to my daughter. She looked inside and started laughing. Soon everyone had joined in. Mystified I looked in the box and remained mystified. Inside were loops of soft blond curls, some short and some measuring 10-12 inches long. It seems that Mary had been keeping her youngest son's daughters while he helped with the planting. The visiting children and grandkids usually stay in the finished basement rooms. The basement is rather flexible with a full kitchen, a large den with a couch,chairs, pool table and a bed and another bedroom. It also has the small home beauty parlor that Mary used before she quit being a beautician and started work at the local bank. She still uses this space to give all the family haircuts.
The two little girls had gone to the basement to play and naturally decided to play beautician. The older girl, aged 6, decided to fix the younger girl's (age 4) hair. She managed to at least get it wet in the shampoo bowl, although no one is sure if she actually used shampoo. I'm amazed she didn't paint the room with water using the spray nozzle, and she may have. Then she decided to give her a haircut. Realizing that everyone wouldn't appreciate her efforts, she then pulled the remaining hair back in a pony tail. The little girl is gifted with thick, curly hair so Mary, who was busy preparing dinner for the guys, didn't notice anything different.
The parents arrived to take their two sleepy girls back home and quickly bundled them into their car seats for the hour drive to Des Moines. Arriving home they carried the sleeping girls into the house and put them to bed. The next morning the mom went in to get them up and saw her youngest for the first time in the bright light. It evidently wasn't a Hallmark moment. The report was that she had half a mullet. It seems the haircut was mostly in the center of the back of her head. I can only imagine her horror to see her little girl with half a head of curls.
It seems that nearly every one of the grandchildren had done this at some time or another, which is what brought on the giggles and laughter. As one of the older grandchildren had wailed when she had cut her little brother's hair, "It won't stay that way will it!?" It will grow out, but the mother probably won't recover for a while.
Which is also why my daughter spent an hour drilling into her girls that this was a really, really bad thing to do. Probably won't work.
It made me feel better to realize I wasn't the only grandparent that had grandchildren that managed to do the most unbelievable things with me standing right there.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Hiking the Knobs
The best memories of my childhood were the days when my dad would take me to the woods. Along about the time I turned nine my dad started worrying that I was spending way too much time with my head stuck in a book. His solution to this was to get me out and exercising. Unlike today, this didn't take the form of enrolling me in a class for this or that, but rather of giving of himself to better my health. Out of this came a period of several years when we spent every available hour hiking in the surrounding knobs. (Knobs for us were the foothills of the Appalachian mountains.)
My father was a great woodsman who had spent a lot of his childhood and adulthood in the woods in our state. As a youngster he spent many hours hunting and fishing in the woods around his farm. As a young man he had worked as a "spotter" for a lumber company. This involved working with the forestry service to "spot" or locate timber that would be suitable for logging. This time spent tramping through the forests of Eastern Kentucky cemented his lifelong love of nature. The days spent with the Forest Rangers allowed him to learn many scientific things from them, while I am sure, they also learned many practical things from him. I was lucky enough to benefit from this store of knowledge.
Whenever possible we would drive to a spot giving us access to a section of the knob land, park the truck, and hike up into the woods. We would then spend a glorious afternoon trekking through the forests while daddy would teach me about the plants, trees and animals that made this their home. I learned to identify trees by their shape and bark, as well as leaves. I learned about plants that were poisonous, shy wildflowers that hide under ledges, mosses and lichens that hug rocks, nuts and berries that were good to eat, and wild grapevines. Grapevines were the best fun. These thick, strong vines wrap from limb to limb and sometimes from tree to tree in ropes sometimes as thick as a man's arm. Daddy seemed to have an ability to find one that could be pulled down and used as a swing. A good one would be on the side of the hill. I would grab on as high as I could reach, and launch myself out from the side of the hill. For endless seconds you would swing out over the trees below then rush back to the safety of the hillside. (Think Tarzan) I'm sure my mother would have cringed if she had known how far out I could swing.
Sometimes we would spend an afternoon trying to track a woodland animal. Most often we saw deer tracks, but would also see the tracks of raccoons, opossums, dogs, rabbits, and once a bobcat. Every muddy spot or creek bank became a classroom on tracks. Even bird tracks became a lesson in identification. Tiny sparrow tracks to huge vulture tracks were laid out before us in the soft mud. As we identified tracks daddy would tell me about their homes, what they ate, where they hunted, where they hid and how they were useful to us.
From late fall to spring we would ramble through the hills and valleys of the county. ( Because timber rattlesnakes and copperhead snakes make their home in our area we didn't do much hiking in the summer months.) The hours of hiking up and down hillsides soon tightened up muscles and slimmed down pockets of baby fat but most of all was the building of confidence in my abilities. I had experiences that none of my friends had and knowledge that few of their parents had. It gave a shy child that little extra boost of self-confidence that carried me on into high school. It also taught me that your body, like a car, will go for many miles if you keep it in good shape.
But better than all the knowledge (I still surprise people by identifying animal tracks or woodland plants) was the companionship with my father that I had. He gave me the greatest gift a parent can give--his total attention and time. It was only as a parent myself that I truly realized just what a sacrifice those hours we spent must have cost him. At the time, all I knew was that he was my confidant, my teacher, and my best friend.
Hopefully, he thought the cost was worth it.
My father was a great woodsman who had spent a lot of his childhood and adulthood in the woods in our state. As a youngster he spent many hours hunting and fishing in the woods around his farm. As a young man he had worked as a "spotter" for a lumber company. This involved working with the forestry service to "spot" or locate timber that would be suitable for logging. This time spent tramping through the forests of Eastern Kentucky cemented his lifelong love of nature. The days spent with the Forest Rangers allowed him to learn many scientific things from them, while I am sure, they also learned many practical things from him. I was lucky enough to benefit from this store of knowledge.
Whenever possible we would drive to a spot giving us access to a section of the knob land, park the truck, and hike up into the woods. We would then spend a glorious afternoon trekking through the forests while daddy would teach me about the plants, trees and animals that made this their home. I learned to identify trees by their shape and bark, as well as leaves. I learned about plants that were poisonous, shy wildflowers that hide under ledges, mosses and lichens that hug rocks, nuts and berries that were good to eat, and wild grapevines. Grapevines were the best fun. These thick, strong vines wrap from limb to limb and sometimes from tree to tree in ropes sometimes as thick as a man's arm. Daddy seemed to have an ability to find one that could be pulled down and used as a swing. A good one would be on the side of the hill. I would grab on as high as I could reach, and launch myself out from the side of the hill. For endless seconds you would swing out over the trees below then rush back to the safety of the hillside. (Think Tarzan) I'm sure my mother would have cringed if she had known how far out I could swing.
Sometimes we would spend an afternoon trying to track a woodland animal. Most often we saw deer tracks, but would also see the tracks of raccoons, opossums, dogs, rabbits, and once a bobcat. Every muddy spot or creek bank became a classroom on tracks. Even bird tracks became a lesson in identification. Tiny sparrow tracks to huge vulture tracks were laid out before us in the soft mud. As we identified tracks daddy would tell me about their homes, what they ate, where they hunted, where they hid and how they were useful to us.
From late fall to spring we would ramble through the hills and valleys of the county. ( Because timber rattlesnakes and copperhead snakes make their home in our area we didn't do much hiking in the summer months.) The hours of hiking up and down hillsides soon tightened up muscles and slimmed down pockets of baby fat but most of all was the building of confidence in my abilities. I had experiences that none of my friends had and knowledge that few of their parents had. It gave a shy child that little extra boost of self-confidence that carried me on into high school. It also taught me that your body, like a car, will go for many miles if you keep it in good shape.
But better than all the knowledge (I still surprise people by identifying animal tracks or woodland plants) was the companionship with my father that I had. He gave me the greatest gift a parent can give--his total attention and time. It was only as a parent myself that I truly realized just what a sacrifice those hours we spent must have cost him. At the time, all I knew was that he was my confidant, my teacher, and my best friend.
Hopefully, he thought the cost was worth it.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Tobacco Float Beds
I am constantly amazed at how much things have changed in my lifetime. It doesn't seem like a long period to see such huge advancements in technology. Farming is no exception. My last writings were on the burning of tobacco beds from my youth, an event so foreign that even my children don't know anything about it. The production of tobacco plants to set in the fields is big business now. Where once each farmer raised his own plants now they are done as a commercial enterprise.
Our plants come from a couple who raised acres and acres of tobacco all their lives. There isn't much they don't know about tobacco. When their children grew up and left home they decided to do something a little less labor intensive. They built a series of greenhouses and put all their years of experience to work raising plants for other farmers to set. We owe them a debt for more than plants since they have become mentors, of sorts, for our son as he continues his adventures in tobacco.
To briefly explain the process: The plants are grown in Styrofoam trays that hold a sterile potting soil. Each little cubical holds a tiny seed, then it is literally floated on a bed of water. The water provides moisture, nutrients and a growth medium for the plants. When they are ready the entire tray is lifted from the water and transferred to the tobacco setter.
Of course, there is a lot more to it than that, involving knowing when to start the seeds so they will be perfect when the farmer is ready for them, knowing which of hundreds of varieties will do well in the area, keeping them just the right size (this involves mowing them off to keep them from getting too large) and knowing how to keep their growing environment perfect. However, you get the idea.
Tobacco plant greenhouses.
The sides can be rolled up for ventilation on warm days or down for insulation on cool days.
The trays float in the long pools of nutrient enriched water.
Trays ready to be delivered.
Plants being pulled and set.
Our plants come from a couple who raised acres and acres of tobacco all their lives. There isn't much they don't know about tobacco. When their children grew up and left home they decided to do something a little less labor intensive. They built a series of greenhouses and put all their years of experience to work raising plants for other farmers to set. We owe them a debt for more than plants since they have become mentors, of sorts, for our son as he continues his adventures in tobacco.
To briefly explain the process: The plants are grown in Styrofoam trays that hold a sterile potting soil. Each little cubical holds a tiny seed, then it is literally floated on a bed of water. The water provides moisture, nutrients and a growth medium for the plants. When they are ready the entire tray is lifted from the water and transferred to the tobacco setter.
Of course, there is a lot more to it than that, involving knowing when to start the seeds so they will be perfect when the farmer is ready for them, knowing which of hundreds of varieties will do well in the area, keeping them just the right size (this involves mowing them off to keep them from getting too large) and knowing how to keep their growing environment perfect. However, you get the idea.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Tobacco Beds
Years ago when Hubby and I were youngsters, growing tobacco plants to set was an entirely different game. Everything was done a little later because first you had to prepare and seed a bed to produce the plants to be transplanted into the fields. Tobacco seeds are incredibly small, so preparing the bed was of utmost importance if these tiny seeds were to germinate and take root. The farmer would find a spot that was good, rich, easily worked soil. Then it had to be worked until it was fine and crumbly, so the little seeds wouldn't be lost under big clumps or have no fine soil to start their little roots in. The next step is to kill any of the weed seeds or roots that might be in the soil.
This process started in the fall before, when the farmer would collect all of the trash wood he could find on his farm. This might be dead limbs that had fallen off of the trees or even whole trees that had blown down in the spring storms. Most of the time the good firewood was saved for the house or stripping room stove, with all the limbs and trash wood piled near the spot for the tobacco bed. Then would be added anything that needed to be burned from cleaning up the farm through the winter. This might be bushes from fence rows, rotting fence posts, scraps of lumber from the barns, broken boards from the fences, worn out gates or anything else that might burn and leave no problem residue. That means anything not burnable removed--like nails, hinges, etc. To this day, Hubby will collect up anything and everything and set it on fire to get rid of it. A practice which has caused a few funny and not so funny stories around our place.
When spring arrived and the soil had begun to warm up, it was time to get started. The beds were worked, then the farmers piled all the wood collected through the fall and winter onto the beds and set them on fire. The heat from the fires that burned all through the night, would kill all the weeds and sterilize the soil, so the tiny tobacco seeds could grow without competition from the weeds. For me, a little townie, it was a magical time. My dad would pile us all in the car and ride up into the knobs around our home. From our vantage point above the fields, we could see the fires lighting up the night for miles. It was a beautiful and haunting sight that years later I would remember vividly when reading about the fires lit in old England to celebrate events across the ancient country. Even at a young age I connected with the feeling of celebration and a rite of spring that these fires kindled among us.
As quickly as the soil cooled, the farmers were in the beds working the soil again and preparing for the tiny seeds. The seeds were then carefully sown by mixing them with some fine, powdery soil and sowing them across the beds. This fine soil acted both as a method of separating the seeds out and covering them with a thin layer without smothering them. Then the beds were covered with a thin, gauzy material, known only as "tobacco canvas", tightly pegged down all around. This material served several functions. It protected the tiny seeds from heavy rain by diffusing it, kept birds and animals from disturbing the little plants, prevented stray weed seeds from blowing in and taking root, shielded the plants from late frosts and cool mornings, kept the moisture from evaporating out of the soil on dry days, and kept them from sunburning on hot days.
When the plants got big enough to transplant, about six inches tall, the real work began. Each plant had to be pulled from the damp soil by hand. This was hot, back breaking work that went on and on as the acres of tobacco were planted. It was a job that usually fell to youngsters and women, since they usually were lighter and smaller. There wasn't anything easy about it. Boards were usually laid across the patch so the workers could kneel on them to reach the plants, which soon became instruments of torture to your knees. Then your back would ache until you couldn't straighten up. To me, the ones on the setters had the easy job.
The years have passed and you no longer see the magical fires light up the spring dusk or see the plant beds tucked into the edges of fields. Now the plants are grown in greenhouses in water in huge float beds. Farmers line up with wagons to buy their plants in trays with each plant in its own little compartment, ready to be placed on the setters. It's faster, more efficient, easier and not near as work intensive, but part of me misses the magic.
This process started in the fall before, when the farmer would collect all of the trash wood he could find on his farm. This might be dead limbs that had fallen off of the trees or even whole trees that had blown down in the spring storms. Most of the time the good firewood was saved for the house or stripping room stove, with all the limbs and trash wood piled near the spot for the tobacco bed. Then would be added anything that needed to be burned from cleaning up the farm through the winter. This might be bushes from fence rows, rotting fence posts, scraps of lumber from the barns, broken boards from the fences, worn out gates or anything else that might burn and leave no problem residue. That means anything not burnable removed--like nails, hinges, etc. To this day, Hubby will collect up anything and everything and set it on fire to get rid of it. A practice which has caused a few funny and not so funny stories around our place.
When spring arrived and the soil had begun to warm up, it was time to get started. The beds were worked, then the farmers piled all the wood collected through the fall and winter onto the beds and set them on fire. The heat from the fires that burned all through the night, would kill all the weeds and sterilize the soil, so the tiny tobacco seeds could grow without competition from the weeds. For me, a little townie, it was a magical time. My dad would pile us all in the car and ride up into the knobs around our home. From our vantage point above the fields, we could see the fires lighting up the night for miles. It was a beautiful and haunting sight that years later I would remember vividly when reading about the fires lit in old England to celebrate events across the ancient country. Even at a young age I connected with the feeling of celebration and a rite of spring that these fires kindled among us.
As quickly as the soil cooled, the farmers were in the beds working the soil again and preparing for the tiny seeds. The seeds were then carefully sown by mixing them with some fine, powdery soil and sowing them across the beds. This fine soil acted both as a method of separating the seeds out and covering them with a thin layer without smothering them. Then the beds were covered with a thin, gauzy material, known only as "tobacco canvas", tightly pegged down all around. This material served several functions. It protected the tiny seeds from heavy rain by diffusing it, kept birds and animals from disturbing the little plants, prevented stray weed seeds from blowing in and taking root, shielded the plants from late frosts and cool mornings, kept the moisture from evaporating out of the soil on dry days, and kept them from sunburning on hot days.
When the plants got big enough to transplant, about six inches tall, the real work began. Each plant had to be pulled from the damp soil by hand. This was hot, back breaking work that went on and on as the acres of tobacco were planted. It was a job that usually fell to youngsters and women, since they usually were lighter and smaller. There wasn't anything easy about it. Boards were usually laid across the patch so the workers could kneel on them to reach the plants, which soon became instruments of torture to your knees. Then your back would ache until you couldn't straighten up. To me, the ones on the setters had the easy job.
The years have passed and you no longer see the magical fires light up the spring dusk or see the plant beds tucked into the edges of fields. Now the plants are grown in greenhouses in water in huge float beds. Farmers line up with wagons to buy their plants in trays with each plant in its own little compartment, ready to be placed on the setters. It's faster, more efficient, easier and not near as work intensive, but part of me misses the magic.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tobacco--Soon?
I have noticed lots of people checking the topic "Tobacco Setting" over the past few weeks. The time is here, but as is usual in a farmer's life, nothing is simple. Our unusually warm spring had everyone in hopes of having our crop out early. However, the danger of a late freeze on tender plants made us hesitate just a little. That hesitation put us in the middle of a cool, rainy spell that has left the ground too wet to work. With the beginning of a spell of dry weather in the forecast, the hopes are to get started setting in the next week.
In the meantime, the cool, wet weather has been great for growing hay, but not for harvesting it. With today's dry, warm weather perfect for curing the hay we have two tractors cutting hay as fast as they can. It's time, too. Hay, like anything else has a peak time to harvest. Too early and the grass isn't mature and at the optimum nutrition level, too late and it goes to seed and loses it's nutrition value. Add to that the fact that it needs to cure on the ground before being baled and you find yourself looking for that perfect window of three days of hot sunshine. We think we have it!
Naturally, there are always a dozen things that come up during the time of hay and tobacco. Our son has been busy trying to get all the equipment serviced and ready for the spring season, including trying to rebuild a high-boy that they bought to spray the tobacco later. Hubby has an auction on Saturday that will probably take all day. Then Saturday night we have a wedding we have to attend. On top of that he is short handed at the office, since one of the girls is out with a new baby. I'm caught with a Board meeting this week and all four grandchildren next week, while our daughter-in-law attends a work related meeting. Yep! It's spring!
In between the chaos that is farm life, I will try to take some pictures and keep you updated on the progress of the tobacco crop. Thanks for the interest.
In the meantime, the cool, wet weather has been great for growing hay, but not for harvesting it. With today's dry, warm weather perfect for curing the hay we have two tractors cutting hay as fast as they can. It's time, too. Hay, like anything else has a peak time to harvest. Too early and the grass isn't mature and at the optimum nutrition level, too late and it goes to seed and loses it's nutrition value. Add to that the fact that it needs to cure on the ground before being baled and you find yourself looking for that perfect window of three days of hot sunshine. We think we have it!
Naturally, there are always a dozen things that come up during the time of hay and tobacco. Our son has been busy trying to get all the equipment serviced and ready for the spring season, including trying to rebuild a high-boy that they bought to spray the tobacco later. Hubby has an auction on Saturday that will probably take all day. Then Saturday night we have a wedding we have to attend. On top of that he is short handed at the office, since one of the girls is out with a new baby. I'm caught with a Board meeting this week and all four grandchildren next week, while our daughter-in-law attends a work related meeting. Yep! It's spring!
In between the chaos that is farm life, I will try to take some pictures and keep you updated on the progress of the tobacco crop. Thanks for the interest.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Ireland
Hubby and I were recently privileged to be able to visit Ireland. This was my first trip abroad and frankly, I wasn't really sure what to expect. What I found was a gracious, gregarious, and humor filled population that made us feel welcome from the first moment. We landed in Dublin after a night of cat-naps in the cramped confines of the airplane, sleep deprived and groggy. The bus driver that picked us up had obviously had instructions to drive us around until our rooms would be ready. (It was 9 am) After a short while he gave up on the commentary as the comparative comfort of the bus lulled everyone into a comatose state. With quiet, good humor he drove us up and down, while we napped.
That set the tone of the trip for us. Everywhere the people welcomed us as they would forgotten cousins, with cheerful acceptance of our weird ways. The first evening, hubby wanted to get out for a while and smoke a cigar, so we ankled down the block. We had noticed some booths set up along the street and decided to explore. We fell in with a crowd of people all heading the in the same direction. Figuring that the safest way to cross a busy corner where the signals are in the wrong places and the traffic going the wrong direction, was to follow the crowd, we fell in with a middle aged couple and their teen-aged children. We soon struck up a conversation and found out that the regional rugby finals were being played across the street between Ulster (Ireland) and Edinburgh (Scotland). The man leaned close and confided to hubby that he had 40 euros on the game, but don't tell the missus! He then urged us to try a Guinness and a sausage before the game. With a wave he hustled off to catch up with his family, leaving us in the middle of the tailgate party taking place on the street.
Rugby we didn't know much about, but tailgating we understand. We wandered happily through the crowd enjoying the display of colors and team paraphernalia. It didn't take long to figure out that Ulster was red and Edinburgh was blue, with both sides insisting that they were going to win. With no animosity they all packed into the Guinness tents and hoisted a few for their team. We felt right at home.
Returning to the room we found the game on television and got a taste of the craziness that is rugby. (Ulster won) A sport that is a cross between soccer and football, played without any protective gear with the ferocity of a hockey match. We never did figure out the rules, although hubby watched devotedly. One thing I know, it's no sport for wimps!
From pubs to cabs, clerks to waiters, guides, drivers, and just pedestrians on the street the Irish people were friendly, talkative and funny. They greeted us as welcome guests in their country and not just a shot in the economy. They were cheerfully willing to discuss our trip, their neighborhood, the history and customs, castles and ruins for as long as we wanted. Surprisingly, the only subjects I never heard mentioned were politics and religion (unless it was an historic site). With great diplomacy they just skirted the topics that keep their country in the news.
It was a wonderful trip and the people will have a warm spot in my heart for years to come (along with a fondness for Guinness and Jameson's whisky).
That set the tone of the trip for us. Everywhere the people welcomed us as they would forgotten cousins, with cheerful acceptance of our weird ways. The first evening, hubby wanted to get out for a while and smoke a cigar, so we ankled down the block. We had noticed some booths set up along the street and decided to explore. We fell in with a crowd of people all heading the in the same direction. Figuring that the safest way to cross a busy corner where the signals are in the wrong places and the traffic going the wrong direction, was to follow the crowd, we fell in with a middle aged couple and their teen-aged children. We soon struck up a conversation and found out that the regional rugby finals were being played across the street between Ulster (Ireland) and Edinburgh (Scotland). The man leaned close and confided to hubby that he had 40 euros on the game, but don't tell the missus! He then urged us to try a Guinness and a sausage before the game. With a wave he hustled off to catch up with his family, leaving us in the middle of the tailgate party taking place on the street.
Rugby we didn't know much about, but tailgating we understand. We wandered happily through the crowd enjoying the display of colors and team paraphernalia. It didn't take long to figure out that Ulster was red and Edinburgh was blue, with both sides insisting that they were going to win. With no animosity they all packed into the Guinness tents and hoisted a few for their team. We felt right at home.
Returning to the room we found the game on television and got a taste of the craziness that is rugby. (Ulster won) A sport that is a cross between soccer and football, played without any protective gear with the ferocity of a hockey match. We never did figure out the rules, although hubby watched devotedly. One thing I know, it's no sport for wimps!
From pubs to cabs, clerks to waiters, guides, drivers, and just pedestrians on the street the Irish people were friendly, talkative and funny. They greeted us as welcome guests in their country and not just a shot in the economy. They were cheerfully willing to discuss our trip, their neighborhood, the history and customs, castles and ruins for as long as we wanted. Surprisingly, the only subjects I never heard mentioned were politics and religion (unless it was an historic site). With great diplomacy they just skirted the topics that keep their country in the news.
It was a wonderful trip and the people will have a warm spot in my heart for years to come (along with a fondness for Guinness and Jameson's whisky).
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