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.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
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).
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Moving the Desk
I learned early about the joys of having a best friend by watching my mama and her best friend. The two women had been the closest of friends since they were little girls. Their mothers had been devoted friends and the little girls (both only children) formed a bond that would last their lifetimes. With no siblings they became closer than many sisters and shared everything with each other, including their children, which is why I am so lucky to have had an extended family.
Any free time they had would usually find them at one home or another. Which is how they found themselves at our home one Saturday afternoon. The two women had been visiting and discussing my mother's plan to rearrange the living room, an event that occurred regularly as my mama tried to make the little room look better. The two women sat on the couch and mentally moved the furniture here and there, trying for the perfect fit. To help them think they both were sipping on a little vodka cocktail. After a while, they would get up and move a chair here and a table there. Then they would sit back down and sip a little longer. Next came the couch, moved from one wall to another. A few more sips and they moved the little washstand from one end of the couch to the opposite end.
This went on for some time but they still weren't satisfied with the results. The problem was a big, antique desk that had been created from poplar lumber. The massive piece had three large drawers at the bottom and a drop down writing surface at the top with lots of cubby holes inside. It stood 44" tall, 44" wide and 22" deep and every inch of it was solid, heavy wood. Now for those of you who aren't familiar with antique poplar pieces, that thing was heavy....really heavy. I know, it's in my sun room right now and it took four big men to put it there. My husband once declared that if we ever sold the house, it was going with it...he wasn't moving it again.
The two women sat on the recently moved couch and studied the offending desk as they sipped on their drinks. It simply had to be moved to the other side of the room to make the room look right. They thought and thought but nothing else would do but for the desk to make the move. First they removed the drawers. Then they tried pushing and pulling. Nothing moved. Then they tried "walking" it (tilting the piece until they could pivot it on one corner than another). Inches were gained. They sat back down and sipped and thought some more.
Finally mama jumped up and ran to the basement returning with a rug. Laying it in front of the desk, they began to "walk" it onto the rug. Eventually, the desk was inched onto the rug. They sat back down and sipped and thought some more. Now they still had to move it across the room. When they were fortified enough for the endeavor, they approached the desk and with one pulling and the other pushing they slid it across the room and into place on the wall. With a little more "walking" and lots of tugging they removed the rug.
Exhausted but exhilarated they sat back down on the couch and viewed their rearranged room. It looked so good they decided they needed another drink to celebrate their success.
Which is why my dad arrived home to find a rearranged living room and two happily tipsy women enjoying it. He never did believe that they moved the desk all by themselves.
Never underestimate the power of two determined women and bottle of vodka.
Any free time they had would usually find them at one home or another. Which is how they found themselves at our home one Saturday afternoon. The two women had been visiting and discussing my mother's plan to rearrange the living room, an event that occurred regularly as my mama tried to make the little room look better. The two women sat on the couch and mentally moved the furniture here and there, trying for the perfect fit. To help them think they both were sipping on a little vodka cocktail. After a while, they would get up and move a chair here and a table there. Then they would sit back down and sip a little longer. Next came the couch, moved from one wall to another. A few more sips and they moved the little washstand from one end of the couch to the opposite end.
This went on for some time but they still weren't satisfied with the results. The problem was a big, antique desk that had been created from poplar lumber. The massive piece had three large drawers at the bottom and a drop down writing surface at the top with lots of cubby holes inside. It stood 44" tall, 44" wide and 22" deep and every inch of it was solid, heavy wood. Now for those of you who aren't familiar with antique poplar pieces, that thing was heavy....really heavy. I know, it's in my sun room right now and it took four big men to put it there. My husband once declared that if we ever sold the house, it was going with it...he wasn't moving it again.
The two women sat on the recently moved couch and studied the offending desk as they sipped on their drinks. It simply had to be moved to the other side of the room to make the room look right. They thought and thought but nothing else would do but for the desk to make the move. First they removed the drawers. Then they tried pushing and pulling. Nothing moved. Then they tried "walking" it (tilting the piece until they could pivot it on one corner than another). Inches were gained. They sat back down and sipped and thought some more.
Finally mama jumped up and ran to the basement returning with a rug. Laying it in front of the desk, they began to "walk" it onto the rug. Eventually, the desk was inched onto the rug. They sat back down and sipped and thought some more. Now they still had to move it across the room. When they were fortified enough for the endeavor, they approached the desk and with one pulling and the other pushing they slid it across the room and into place on the wall. With a little more "walking" and lots of tugging they removed the rug.
Exhausted but exhilarated they sat back down on the couch and viewed their rearranged room. It looked so good they decided they needed another drink to celebrate their success.
Which is why my dad arrived home to find a rearranged living room and two happily tipsy women enjoying it. He never did believe that they moved the desk all by themselves.
Never underestimate the power of two determined women and bottle of vodka.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Time to Talk
Sometimes I am a little overwhelmed by the amount of change that we have seen in our lifetimes. We've seen the advent of cordless phones, cell phones, computers, and tablets that weren't even thought of on Star Trek (although they nearly got the cell phones right). I have just finished setting up my ipad to be able to take it on a trip abroad so I can check the weather, restaurant menus, e-mail, and tourist sites while I am there. Sometimes I find that I am so involved with the technology of living that I forget to look around.
However, there has been a price paid for the convenience of all the technology that we have. Instead of making more time for us it seems to just suck up all the time that we have. Now our lives are so filled with "things" and "things to do" that we often don't have time to listen and talk. In fact talking, real conversation talking, is about to become a thing of the past. Now we e-mail, instant message, forward, social network, and even share pictures without ever having to see or talk to real person.
Back in the "dark ages" when we were growing up things were a little different.
One of the first things that we learned in our house, was that talking was fun. It seemed like there was always a group of adults visiting around the kitchen table, swapping stories on the porch, sharing concerns (gossip) with the neighbors, or telling jokes in the living room. Children learned the art of listening and being invisible. If you got caught looking too interested you got sent outside before you heard the juicy parts. Now, before you start to think my parents didn't do anything but talk, remember that it was a different time. Parents worked long hours but when they came home they didn't sit and watch tv for hours, hole up with the computer for a night of surfing, or spend hours texting. Our entertainment was people.
One of the best parts of growing up in a gregarious family was that you learned to listen as well as talk. Sunday dinners were the best times. We would gather around the big table in the dining room with all the generations represented, from Granddaddy down to the babies (we had a big piece of plastic kept just to put under their chairs for easy clean-up). Conversation was an art with everyone being encouraged to participate. Early during the meal it would be general talk with everyone catching up on the happenings of the day, but later when the dessert was served we got down to serious "yarning". This was when the older ones would loosen their belts and settle in for some real, old time, story telling. They would warm up with stories about escapades that our parents got into growing up, move on to tales of some of their contemporaries, and end up with sagas of their own youthful adventures and tribulations. We would sit enthralled until a general nap time was declared (For the adults not the kids. We went out to play.).
The youth of today are missing out on an important part of life...learning about and from your elders. Without a lot of talking you can't learn that your mom suffered from a broken heart at fourteen and thought her life was over, just like you did. You can't discover that your dad didn't make the high school team his first try either. You can't appreciate the shear hard work that your grandfather put in farming without high tech equipment or the terror your grandparents felt when polio was striking young people down. There is a lot of sharing that can only take place when we take the time to sit down and listen and talk. Even the instant technology of today can't replace that.
However, there has been a price paid for the convenience of all the technology that we have. Instead of making more time for us it seems to just suck up all the time that we have. Now our lives are so filled with "things" and "things to do" that we often don't have time to listen and talk. In fact talking, real conversation talking, is about to become a thing of the past. Now we e-mail, instant message, forward, social network, and even share pictures without ever having to see or talk to real person.
Back in the "dark ages" when we were growing up things were a little different.
One of the first things that we learned in our house, was that talking was fun. It seemed like there was always a group of adults visiting around the kitchen table, swapping stories on the porch, sharing concerns (gossip) with the neighbors, or telling jokes in the living room. Children learned the art of listening and being invisible. If you got caught looking too interested you got sent outside before you heard the juicy parts. Now, before you start to think my parents didn't do anything but talk, remember that it was a different time. Parents worked long hours but when they came home they didn't sit and watch tv for hours, hole up with the computer for a night of surfing, or spend hours texting. Our entertainment was people.
One of the best parts of growing up in a gregarious family was that you learned to listen as well as talk. Sunday dinners were the best times. We would gather around the big table in the dining room with all the generations represented, from Granddaddy down to the babies (we had a big piece of plastic kept just to put under their chairs for easy clean-up). Conversation was an art with everyone being encouraged to participate. Early during the meal it would be general talk with everyone catching up on the happenings of the day, but later when the dessert was served we got down to serious "yarning". This was when the older ones would loosen their belts and settle in for some real, old time, story telling. They would warm up with stories about escapades that our parents got into growing up, move on to tales of some of their contemporaries, and end up with sagas of their own youthful adventures and tribulations. We would sit enthralled until a general nap time was declared (For the adults not the kids. We went out to play.).
The youth of today are missing out on an important part of life...learning about and from your elders. Without a lot of talking you can't learn that your mom suffered from a broken heart at fourteen and thought her life was over, just like you did. You can't discover that your dad didn't make the high school team his first try either. You can't appreciate the shear hard work that your grandfather put in farming without high tech equipment or the terror your grandparents felt when polio was striking young people down. There is a lot of sharing that can only take place when we take the time to sit down and listen and talk. Even the instant technology of today can't replace that.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Teenagers
Hubby just recently moved six young bulls to the field next to the house in hopes of enticing a passing farmer to buy them for their lonely heifers at home. A field full of young bulls is a lot like having a locker room full of teenage boys, there is always some scuffling, shoving, pushing, teasing, and general rough-housing going on. This group was no exception and immediately set about establishing who was the BBIF (big bull in field). If one went to drink another would decide that he needed to drink first, resulting in a head butting contest over the waterer. When the feed was poured into the trough it was like trying to feed a table full of teenage boys, with each grabbing as hard as they could in case the others got more. In fact, teenage bulls and teenage boys are a lot alike.
The first night they were in the field we awoke to bulls standing in the yard. It seems that during the night they had decided to have a scuffling contest next to the fence and pushed a section of planks out into the drive. So, before anything else could be done we had to collect up the truant teens and herd them back into the field. A couple of gates provided a quick patch job for the fence until replacement planks could be obtained. Since our yard and the hay field in front are not fenced we were lucky that they decided to munch on flowers instead of wandering off.
They seemed to have settled down since then and we haven't had further drama, but knowing teenagers, we've still kept a watchful eye on them. Friday night we decided at the last minute to go out to eat with a neighbor. We rolled over the hill to pick them up when hubby commented,"I don't see the bulls." "Oh, they're probably in the trees and you just don't see them.", I airily replied. "Maybe", he grunted but after picking up our neighbors he decided to take another turn up the drive and check on them again. Sure enough, the gate was open and the bulls were gone. (No one admits it but I suspect the last one to feed didn't latch the gate! Guess who?)
As teens everywhere will, they had seized the opportunity for a little extra freedom. We found them in the corner of the hay field looking hopefully at the heifers in the next field. Thank goodness everyone in a rural county usually has some experience with farm animals. We all baled out of the pick-up like circus clowns. The two men took off to collect the bulls, the neighbor's wife climbed into the cab of the truck to turn it around and follow, and I took off running to put the dog up (the fool dog has never figured out that there is a time to shut up and be still) and run to open the gate back up for the bulls.
Like the teenagers they were they came running around the corner of the yard, kicking up their heels, bucking and jumping. We all stood there and watched, knowing that it wasn't their best plan. Sure enough they hit the blacktop and started sliding and scooting. Soon they had all jammed into the gateway in a tangle of legs and bodies and popped through like corks. Picking themselves up they shrugged and nonchalantly strode off as though they had planned the whole thing.
Beware! Accepting an invitation to go out to eat with us is never dull!
The first night they were in the field we awoke to bulls standing in the yard. It seems that during the night they had decided to have a scuffling contest next to the fence and pushed a section of planks out into the drive. So, before anything else could be done we had to collect up the truant teens and herd them back into the field. A couple of gates provided a quick patch job for the fence until replacement planks could be obtained. Since our yard and the hay field in front are not fenced we were lucky that they decided to munch on flowers instead of wandering off.
They seemed to have settled down since then and we haven't had further drama, but knowing teenagers, we've still kept a watchful eye on them. Friday night we decided at the last minute to go out to eat with a neighbor. We rolled over the hill to pick them up when hubby commented,"I don't see the bulls." "Oh, they're probably in the trees and you just don't see them.", I airily replied. "Maybe", he grunted but after picking up our neighbors he decided to take another turn up the drive and check on them again. Sure enough, the gate was open and the bulls were gone. (No one admits it but I suspect the last one to feed didn't latch the gate! Guess who?)
As teens everywhere will, they had seized the opportunity for a little extra freedom. We found them in the corner of the hay field looking hopefully at the heifers in the next field. Thank goodness everyone in a rural county usually has some experience with farm animals. We all baled out of the pick-up like circus clowns. The two men took off to collect the bulls, the neighbor's wife climbed into the cab of the truck to turn it around and follow, and I took off running to put the dog up (the fool dog has never figured out that there is a time to shut up and be still) and run to open the gate back up for the bulls.
Like the teenagers they were they came running around the corner of the yard, kicking up their heels, bucking and jumping. We all stood there and watched, knowing that it wasn't their best plan. Sure enough they hit the blacktop and started sliding and scooting. Soon they had all jammed into the gateway in a tangle of legs and bodies and popped through like corks. Picking themselves up they shrugged and nonchalantly strode off as though they had planned the whole thing.
Beware! Accepting an invitation to go out to eat with us is never dull!
Friday, April 20, 2012
Murphy's Law
If there is one law that every farmer knows it's Murphy's Law, "that if it can go wrong it will".
Hubby loves his half day off on Wednesdays. He hustles home with dozens of things on his mind that he wants to get done. On this particular Wednesday he wanted to disc his garden and as a favor to a neighbor, disc his too. Naturally, he arrived home to discover the disc sitting in the barn in pieces. Literally. Our son had dismantled it to make some repairs and was waiting on parts. First order of business was to jump in the truck and go pick up the parts. Then reassemble the disc.
Shortly after he was hooked up to our son's little tractor and discing the garden in the sunshine. Back and forth he drove, dragging the round blades (discs) through the ground until the big clods were reduced to little clods. All the time he was planning where he wanted to plant the corn, beans, tomatoes, lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, eggplant, squash, pumpkins, cantaloupes, cucumbers, carrots, potatoes, ..... if everything he dreamed up from the back of a tractor was actually planted we could feed the world.
With that job accomplished he decided to go up the road to the neighbors and work on his garden some. He didn't have to go far, just over a mile, but he did have to get on the big road in front of our farm. I hate it when they have to take farm equipment on the highway because of the heavy traffic. Tractor's don't go very fast and traffic can quickly back up. Then drivers get antsy and do stupid things because they are in such a hurry.
As soon as he got on the road he opened it up as fast as he could and took off. He was almost to the turn off when he noticed the tractor sputtering. Just as he managed to pull off on the side of the road it sputtered to a stop. No amount of trying would get it started again. In frustration he realized that he hadn't brought his phone with him (I nag him constantly to carry it with him.) so he couldn't call anyone to help him. In resignation he climbed down and trudged all the way back to the house. Catching our son at the barn they drove back to the tractor and managed to get it started. Since it was running well, he decided to go on to the neighbors.
Everything went well until he started home. As soon as he opened it up on the road it started sputtering and once again he found himself sitting on the side of the road with a dead tractor. This time he had brought his phone with him, so he immediately called our son. No answer. Tried again. No answer. Tried again. Cussed. Looked at the house in the distance and thought about the long walk, again. Decided he just wasn't going to do it. With that he hopped off the tractor and stuck his thumb out in the age old hitchhikers signal for a ride.
Frankly, in today's age, I'm surprised he didn't get run over. Car after car passed to his complete annoyance. In the drivers defense, here was this man standing on the side of the road in dirty blue jeans and shirt, with a cap pulled down over his eyes, looking like he had a mad on against the world. After all, their mothers had spent hours drilling in them the dangers of picking up strangers on the road. Finally, a young man, who obviously didn't listen to his mother, pulled over and gave him a lift to the house. On arrival he discovered son sitting on the tailgate of his truck visiting with a buddy, his cell phone forgotten in the cab of the truck.
Once again they return to the tractor and manage to get it started. This time he drove slowly home with son following in the truck with his flashers going. He was almost home free when he started up the hill to the house and barn. The tractor started sputtering and stalling again. He jammed on the brakes and it sputtered to a halt. Son meanwhile was checking his missed messages and failed to see the catastrophe in front of him. Bam! He ran into the back of the disc.
Fortunately for the peace in the family there was minimal damage to truck or disc. Nothing, as hubby put it, that a sledge hammer and a few good whacks won't fix.
By the time I returned home from a meeting, son had wisely left for his own home and hubby was sitting on the porch getting consolation from his patient collie.
Hubby loves his half day off on Wednesdays. He hustles home with dozens of things on his mind that he wants to get done. On this particular Wednesday he wanted to disc his garden and as a favor to a neighbor, disc his too. Naturally, he arrived home to discover the disc sitting in the barn in pieces. Literally. Our son had dismantled it to make some repairs and was waiting on parts. First order of business was to jump in the truck and go pick up the parts. Then reassemble the disc.
Shortly after he was hooked up to our son's little tractor and discing the garden in the sunshine. Back and forth he drove, dragging the round blades (discs) through the ground until the big clods were reduced to little clods. All the time he was planning where he wanted to plant the corn, beans, tomatoes, lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, eggplant, squash, pumpkins, cantaloupes, cucumbers, carrots, potatoes, ..... if everything he dreamed up from the back of a tractor was actually planted we could feed the world.
With that job accomplished he decided to go up the road to the neighbors and work on his garden some. He didn't have to go far, just over a mile, but he did have to get on the big road in front of our farm. I hate it when they have to take farm equipment on the highway because of the heavy traffic. Tractor's don't go very fast and traffic can quickly back up. Then drivers get antsy and do stupid things because they are in such a hurry.
As soon as he got on the road he opened it up as fast as he could and took off. He was almost to the turn off when he noticed the tractor sputtering. Just as he managed to pull off on the side of the road it sputtered to a stop. No amount of trying would get it started again. In frustration he realized that he hadn't brought his phone with him (I nag him constantly to carry it with him.) so he couldn't call anyone to help him. In resignation he climbed down and trudged all the way back to the house. Catching our son at the barn they drove back to the tractor and managed to get it started. Since it was running well, he decided to go on to the neighbors.
Everything went well until he started home. As soon as he opened it up on the road it started sputtering and once again he found himself sitting on the side of the road with a dead tractor. This time he had brought his phone with him, so he immediately called our son. No answer. Tried again. No answer. Tried again. Cussed. Looked at the house in the distance and thought about the long walk, again. Decided he just wasn't going to do it. With that he hopped off the tractor and stuck his thumb out in the age old hitchhikers signal for a ride.
Frankly, in today's age, I'm surprised he didn't get run over. Car after car passed to his complete annoyance. In the drivers defense, here was this man standing on the side of the road in dirty blue jeans and shirt, with a cap pulled down over his eyes, looking like he had a mad on against the world. After all, their mothers had spent hours drilling in them the dangers of picking up strangers on the road. Finally, a young man, who obviously didn't listen to his mother, pulled over and gave him a lift to the house. On arrival he discovered son sitting on the tailgate of his truck visiting with a buddy, his cell phone forgotten in the cab of the truck.
Once again they return to the tractor and manage to get it started. This time he drove slowly home with son following in the truck with his flashers going. He was almost home free when he started up the hill to the house and barn. The tractor started sputtering and stalling again. He jammed on the brakes and it sputtered to a halt. Son meanwhile was checking his missed messages and failed to see the catastrophe in front of him. Bam! He ran into the back of the disc.
Fortunately for the peace in the family there was minimal damage to truck or disc. Nothing, as hubby put it, that a sledge hammer and a few good whacks won't fix.
By the time I returned home from a meeting, son had wisely left for his own home and hubby was sitting on the porch getting consolation from his patient collie.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Childhood Memories
Even in small rural communities like ours we are affected by the fear that has swept the nation for the safety of our children. Maybe it is the media that has brought all the horrible tragedies that can befall children into our homes, but even in our safe little town I see parents keeping close restraints on their children. They are driven to and from everything, organized into group activities that allow them to play in a controlled, supervised environments, and warned repeatedly not to speak to strangers, leave their yard, answer the door or answer the phone. Parents carefully screen the children theirs associate with and even the parents to be sure they are appropriate for their children.
Nothing brings this home more to me than remembering the unbelievable freedom that we experienced as children. We happily roamed the streets of our town in packs going from house to house with carefree abandonment. Admittedly, times were different then. Most mothers were at home during the day so there usually was a watchful eye scanning the streets and yards. However, they weren't watching for predators but for any pranks that we might be up to. Not much escaped them. It wasn't unusual for a mother to round up the whole group of us and design a punishment for us all on the spot. It might be scrubbing the sidewalk free of the less than desirable design we had lovingly chalked in, raking the yard of the debris we had strewn while making a village for our toys, or pulling weeds in gardens, washing dogs, or whatever jobs she could dream up to keep us occupied and out of trouble. No parent ever objected to their child's punishment, mostly because we weren't about to complain and admit what we had done to deserve it.
We all hit the door early in the morning and disappeared until mealtime. It was an unwritten rule in our house that if you didn't get out from underfoot quickly my mom would find a job for you. Needless to say we left as soon as our cereal was slurped down. We thought nothing of walking for blocks to see a friend or get to an activity. Some of us had bikes but if not we trudged along visiting and wandering along the way. Sometimes we would organize ball games in an empty lot (what has happened to all the empty lots?) or gather under a shady tree to play in the dirt. One of the favorite things for us girls was to tramp down the tall grasses and weeds to make "rooms" with connecting "halls" for our pretend houses. Those lots provided hours and hours of entertainment.
With all this freedom from supervision we learned a lot of valuable lessons. We learned that arguments usually ended when both sides got bored with the topic. Grudges weren't held, because you might need them on your side for Red Rover. Secrets were kept...period! You never abandoned a friend if he was caught and you got away. You went back and shared in the punishment. It was easier to get along with people than to sit on the sidelines and watch others play. Whining usually got you laughed at. Telling tales on people meant no one wanted to be your playmate. We learned that a little dirt wasn't bad but a lot of dirt could get you in trouble when you got home. We also learned that unless the bleeding wouldn't quit, you ignored scrapes and scratches and got back into the game. The lessons were sometimes tough. If you showed poor sportsmanship and cheated, lied, complained constantly about unfairness, took advantage of others, or ignored the rules, you simply weren't chosen for teams.
For all that today's kids have so many things that we did not have; tennis lessons, dance lessons, gymnastics, basketball camps, football camps, craft camps, field trips, movies, video games, toys and toys, I'm sorry they missed out on the long endless days of summer. When each day dawned with long, slow hours to be filled in any way we wanted. When the days ended when the street lights came on and signaled it was time to go home. When time moved at a slower pace.
It was a different world.
Nothing brings this home more to me than remembering the unbelievable freedom that we experienced as children. We happily roamed the streets of our town in packs going from house to house with carefree abandonment. Admittedly, times were different then. Most mothers were at home during the day so there usually was a watchful eye scanning the streets and yards. However, they weren't watching for predators but for any pranks that we might be up to. Not much escaped them. It wasn't unusual for a mother to round up the whole group of us and design a punishment for us all on the spot. It might be scrubbing the sidewalk free of the less than desirable design we had lovingly chalked in, raking the yard of the debris we had strewn while making a village for our toys, or pulling weeds in gardens, washing dogs, or whatever jobs she could dream up to keep us occupied and out of trouble. No parent ever objected to their child's punishment, mostly because we weren't about to complain and admit what we had done to deserve it.
We all hit the door early in the morning and disappeared until mealtime. It was an unwritten rule in our house that if you didn't get out from underfoot quickly my mom would find a job for you. Needless to say we left as soon as our cereal was slurped down. We thought nothing of walking for blocks to see a friend or get to an activity. Some of us had bikes but if not we trudged along visiting and wandering along the way. Sometimes we would organize ball games in an empty lot (what has happened to all the empty lots?) or gather under a shady tree to play in the dirt. One of the favorite things for us girls was to tramp down the tall grasses and weeds to make "rooms" with connecting "halls" for our pretend houses. Those lots provided hours and hours of entertainment.
With all this freedom from supervision we learned a lot of valuable lessons. We learned that arguments usually ended when both sides got bored with the topic. Grudges weren't held, because you might need them on your side for Red Rover. Secrets were kept...period! You never abandoned a friend if he was caught and you got away. You went back and shared in the punishment. It was easier to get along with people than to sit on the sidelines and watch others play. Whining usually got you laughed at. Telling tales on people meant no one wanted to be your playmate. We learned that a little dirt wasn't bad but a lot of dirt could get you in trouble when you got home. We also learned that unless the bleeding wouldn't quit, you ignored scrapes and scratches and got back into the game. The lessons were sometimes tough. If you showed poor sportsmanship and cheated, lied, complained constantly about unfairness, took advantage of others, or ignored the rules, you simply weren't chosen for teams.
For all that today's kids have so many things that we did not have; tennis lessons, dance lessons, gymnastics, basketball camps, football camps, craft camps, field trips, movies, video games, toys and toys, I'm sorry they missed out on the long endless days of summer. When each day dawned with long, slow hours to be filled in any way we wanted. When the days ended when the street lights came on and signaled it was time to go home. When time moved at a slower pace.
It was a different world.
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