Pragmatist
Pragmatist

A little background before I get into The Farm.

My mother Frieda was the eldest child, then three children died in the 1918 flu epidemic.

Nettie was about 10 years younger than mother, and she married Everett. These are the people I'll be talking about.

After Nettie comes Frank; he married Mildred (there may be a brief comment about them at a later time).

After Frank came Harry; he married Pearl (and she was a rare Pearl).  More about them at another time.  There is a story here.

Then Estella, the baby, and the last one; married Dick.  They're the ones who raised me from the time I was 8 years old.

Now to The Farm:

Everett's father owned the land, and he still lived in a house on the property.  I vaguely remember him.  When he died Uncle Everett became the sole owner of the land.  He also leased some other land where he grew the most incredible melons.

Nettie was a schoolteacher when they met.  But she gladly became a farmer's wife.  The farm is what we call a "truck garden," meaning vegetables mostly, and there was an orchard, too.

The land was in a valley surrounded all around by low hills.  The approach to the farm was rather curvy, and great for hotshot bicycling (but that's another story). A creek bounded one side of the farm, and it was icy cold all year round.  

Going back to the entry road, across the road and a small way across another property was a path to where the creek was dammed.  But that's a fancy name for what it really was. It was maybe three feet high. But it backed up enough water that it was summertime bathroom.  We'd take our soap, shampoo and towels with us, then we'd swim.  Um-hum. In the buff.

Later on the men would come and complete their ablutions.  But sometimes we just went for the swim.  All of us.

One of the women discovered the boys peeking down from one of the cliffs.  Uncle Everett took care of that little matter.  I imagine a few strips of hide were lying around.  Now, this was a man of sweet, even temperament, but there were limits!

There was no such thing as a visitor to The Farm.  Oh, friends and relatives might drop in for an hour or so, but if stayed any longer you were put to work.  Dug into the side of the hill opposite the house was what was called the cooler.  This is where the produce was taken to be washed and prepared for market.  And sometimes it was the only respite from the summer heat.

I tried working in the garden one summer, but I ended up with heat prostration.  So, in order to pull my load, I was given the choice of working at the cooler or keeping house and cooking.  I chose the house.  Aunt Nettie did the breakfast because everybody was up before the sun, and she let me sleep in.  However, dinner (the noon meal) was up to me, as was the supper (the evening meal).  All I had to do was go out the front door and dig up or pick whatever veggies I wanted, and there was always meat from their own butchering.  Can you imagine walking out the front door, picking a warm, ripe tomato from the vine, and eating it right there?  My mouth waters at the remembrance.  And the strawberries!

I also baked bread twice a week and churned (yes CHURNED) butter once a week.  Uncle Everett had cows, and most of the milk went to market, but some stayed for family use.  I drink two percent milk now, but believe me, it was a difficult change from whole milk, fresh from the cow.

Oh, yes, the barn cats would line up for their twice-daily squirt of milk.  Uncle Everett had an unerring aim.  Once the cats got their squirts, they went off to wash up and enjoy full tummies.

I tried to learn to milk, but I just couldn't get the hang of it.

I don't exactly remember the frequency, but I think it was something like every two weeks during the summer.  Early in the morning, Aunt Nettie would load her truck with fresh veggies and fruit, and take off for the back country.  Women would be waiting to buy the fresh produce.  They knew her schedule and were waiting for her at each of the stops.  I went with her once, and I was surprised at how many small farms there were along the back roads.

Aunt Nettie also had chickens and turkeys, and fresh eggs may have been part of her offerings, although I suspect most of those women also had chickens.

Cousin Keith was less than a year younger than I, and we were best buddies.  He was so much fun.  Now Keith was a "fair haired child."  Everybody liked him.  Teachers, peers, relatives, everybody.  But I knew some things they didn't.  There were some plants growing at the edge of the creek that Keith called tobacco plants.  He taught me how to smoke.  They're a kind of reed plant with clusters of brown seeds.  I don't know what else to call them.  But, anyway, I was puffing away, and worm crawled out of the reed.  YEEEUUK!!!  That was the last time.

Past the orchard at the back of the property was a rather larger hill called Old Baldy.  Keith and I used to climb around and play hide and seek, and then tumble down the hill.  Once Keith started running and couldn't stop, so he just simply jumped into a clump of sagebrush.  I laughed so hard I hurt.

Oh, I forgot to mention Archie.  He was the "hired man."  He lived with the family, but I think "sharecropper" probably was a more descriptive name for his position with the family.  He had married, but divorced for quite a long time.  He had a daughter, and I met her quite a few years later.

I remember evenings when we would gather around the piano and sing old timey songs.  I played the piano and sang alto harmony, Aunt Nettie sang soprano, Uncle Everett was bass/baritone, and Archie was tenor.  So what do we do now? We go to karaoke bars.  I like the old fashioned way better.

One more memory of the farm, then I think I'll shut this down.  It was Memorial Day, and the extended family had come and gone.  All of a sudden the sky turned pitch black and sheet lightning crackled.  Thunder boomed like to knock the house down.  Sheet lightning lit up the whole valley, and the thunder was almost constant.  Then the rain.  Sheets.  Buckets.  Torrents or rain.  I mention this because this kind of storm was very unusual that time of year.  In fact it's the only one I remember, although there were probably others.

Oh, there's more to write about.  But I'll save some for later.

Shalom