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Ranting
of an Old Man We were poor and did not have our own farm, but
we worked another mans farm and paid him a fee for the use. The people
who owned the old farm were too old to work the land themselves and my
father loved to farm. This is what the family had done before the
depression that forced them from their farm in My dad of course worked the farm every day but
we boys would go with him in the evenings or during the summer. We would
get into the old car and drive across town to the farm in anticipation
to the fun activities we would have there. The ride would usually be
uneventful, and we would play, talk and just look at the sights out of
the back seat of the old car we had. The first car I remember was an old
model-A coupe with red wheels and a rumble seat. The car I remember most
in those days was a Lincoln Zephyr. This car was not in very good
condition and had a hole in the floor boards that you could see the road
streaking by through. It was where my mom usually rode but we could see
it by standing up and looking into the front seat area of the car. Dad
had it covered with a board and old rug but it would always get pushed
aside. The car had a flat
head 12 cylinder engine in it and would go very fast for its day, but
the throttle would stick open ever so often and that would mean that dad
would have to quickly shut the engine off take it out of gear and work
under the hood to get it fixed again. Sometimes it would backfire and
scare people along the way. My dad for some reason loved that old car
and it made our trips to the farm exciting. When we got to the farm, we would usually park
close to the farm house and the old shacks that the farm workers used
when they were there harvesting the crops my dad would grow. Mostly the
farm was for the producing of berries of all kinds, but we did raise
some livestock like chickens and pigs. We had a cow for milk as well. I
do not remember ever butchering any of the farm animals, but we must
have as I can remember many a pig lying on our kitchen table. Dad and my
grandparents would cut the pig up and use just about ever part of it for
something or another. My uncle Al had a chicken ranch and my
grandparents had chickens and we boys participated in the butchering of
these animals, so we knew all about it. My mom was sure we would end up
being murders as we would play with the severed heads of the chickens
and get all bloody ever butcher day. After we parked the car, and dad checked in the
owners, we would walk down the road to the barn first to check on the
animals in there. It seems
that that old road was always dusty gray with little rocks all along the
way that my brother and I would kick ahead of us. There were always
dandelions both sides of the road but they seemed like pretty flowers to
us and we would usually pick a few just to take along.
On the right side of the old road dad parked the various farm
machinery. Things like a plow, a disk, and many other devices that I do
not remember the name of now that I am an old man. There were also some
fruit trees on the right side of the road mostly cherries as I remember
now. On the left side of the road dad had some of the more exotic types
of berries planted. That part of the farm was more like a hobby to him
and he did not intend to make much of a profit from the sale of these
berries. We could smell the barn before we got into it.
If you have never been in a barn, you have missed one of the pleasures
of life. The smell consisted of a combination of the smell of hay,
animals and animal excrements. There was also a hard to identify smell
of the old wood in the barn itself. Over the years the wood had cured in
some ways and had a pleasant smell and feel to it. Things felt kind and
worm in the barn. Dad would start to work cleaning up the animal mess
and see to the needs of the animals. There were a lot of collars and
harnesses for the horse. The cow had to be milked by hand. Dad usually
did that but sometimes mom would as well. He tried to teach us boys, but
our hands were too small at that time. There were barrels to put the
milk into to take home in and others to store the feed for the cow,
horse and other animals. Mice would get trapped in the feed barrels
sometimes and dad would give us a BB gun to kill the mice in the barrel.
I guess that is where the term shooting rats in a barrel comes from.
Again this reaffirmed mom’s fears that dad was training us to be
killers. We really liked being in the barn in around the stalls there.
It was a peaceful worm places that I always have found feeling toward. After dad saw to the needs of the animals this
including the chickens in the chicken house that was just to the right
of the main barn, he would harness up old Molly, which was the name of
our horse. She was a big plow house and was as gentle as could be but
very easy to scare. It seemed like anything would get here upset and
ready to bolt. Dad would connect her to one of the farm machines like
the plow, put us up on her back and off the road we would go to the
fields. As we traveled down the path of the farm to the fields we ran
past the back side of homes there along the way. Many times other
children and adults would see us going buy and wave. We felt that the
kids were envious of us getting to ride on such a fine horse and go to
work in such a nice farm field. Little did I know how hard the work was
or how poor we were in those days? When we got to the fields they were either in
one of two conditions. Just open fields or with berry posts already in
place. In the early part of the year dad had to plow the complete field
getting it ready for rows that would have the berry polls in place. The
field had to be plowed well and then the posts had to be put in place
all of this was of course back breaking work for my dad, but he did it
without complaint. Our job was just to stay out of the way and get him
and the horse something to drink from time to time. Sometimes dad would
put the harness straps around our neck as if we were driving the Molly,
walk behind us as he plowed. We felt like we were doing something, but
of course we were not. It was fun for us, but I guess not so much fun
for dad. After the posts were in place, dad had to run wires between the
posts to have the berry bushes grow upon. All along the season weeds had
to be taken out between the bushes. The fields had to be watered as
well. My dad did all this without much help from anyone else. He did
this on top of his regular job, what ever that was at the time. No
wonder he died at an early age. He worked himself to death for us. God
give him a comfortable place in heaven for what he did for us while he
was here taking care of his family. I loved being in my dads fields. Not only were
there great berries to eat, there where other boys to play with during
the harvest. In those days the Indian families would come off the
reservations to work in the fields. They worked very hard to make money
for their families. This was before much subsidy from the government or
casinos. My brother and I were expected to pick as much as an Indian boy
of our age. Believe me they could really pick, so we had to work real
hard to keep up. We needed every cent to help keep the family going and
pay for the farm and animal upkeep. After the work was done for the day
we could play with the Indian boys for some time and this was fun, to
know a real Indian, They had other kinds of toys and games that they
played, which I can not remember anymore, but I know I liked to play
with them and they seemed to like us as well. One of my grandmothers served as what was called
the field boss. She was stationed at a little shack in the center of the
field were the pickers would take their berries to be collected to be
taken latter to the canneries. You would walk each row with a little
basket like device we called a carrier. You could have 6 or so berry
boxes in the carrier. As you filled the carrier you would take it and
the boxes to the shed where they were put in a flat that had you name on
it. At the end of the day, each picker had a card and the card would
have the proper punches put in it to give you credit for the amount you
picked each day. At the end of the week, you would be given cash for
what you picked. I think it was something like $.75 for a crate of
berries. A grate was 24 boxes. If I worked very hard I could pick up to
6 crates a day. The money
went to my parents, but they did give me some to save to buy something I
really wanted like a new baseball glove. All summer we would pick one
crop or another starting with strawberries, raspberries, and then to
blackberries. We also had other jobs to do, like mowing laws for our
neighbors. Most of the time this work was just expected of a young boy
in those days and you did not get paid for it, but sometimes some of the
neighbors would give us fifty cents or so, which was quickly spent at
the old Holman’s store in the neighborhood. The berries were loaded into a truck and taken
to one of the local canneries. There they were trucked in and dumped on
a line where ladies in white uniforms would sort through them to take
any rotten berries or anything else that was found in the berries that
should not been there. From there, the berries were packed into small
containers and shipped all over the world. They were put in containers
from all the major brands. For the most parts, the berries were the same
just different labels on the containers. This made me suspicious about
name brands all my life. I hesitate to buy a name brand when I know that
probably the lesser priced
product probably comes off the same assembly line with just a different
label on it. Dad and mom worked the farm for years but it was
a loosing proposition. Mom worked in the canneries to help, but even
with everything they did, they could not make a go of it. Dad’s dream
of having his own farm was not to be. The cost of paying for the use of
the land, the upkeep of the equipment and feed for the animals, were
just too much to handle. Dad finally sold all his equipment and moved
Molly from the barn to our garage for a little while. We were probably
the only family in the neighborhood that had a horse in their garage.
Dad finally found a place where he could board her, but he fell behind
in the payments and gave her to the boarder for back payments. She was
the same age as my brother and we later found that she lived well into
her 20’s. We did not have the farm very long but the experience really
made an impression on me. I appreciate the work that farmers do and wish
I had the ability to grow things myself, but I have a brown thumb. Until my dad’s death in 1969 he always dreamed
of having his own farm. He loved to tell the stories of his home in
Galva North Dakota and working on ranches in the area and in These people like my dad and grandparents lived
through a time of the great depression. They did things because of
necessity during those times and carried those habits throughout their
lives. My grandmothers always saved bacon grease, string, rubber bands,
jars, and many other things that we just through away today. They ate
things that seem strange today as well. My dad would take raw oats and
boil them and eat them with salt and butter like potatoes. They ate
fried bread and bread, sugar and milk. They ate pig’s feet, and heads.
Many of these people thought smoking was good for the digestion. They
saved and then bought things, very seldom using credit for anything. My
dad had all the money he needed to buy the only new truck he would have
ever had, when he died. These people ate close to the land. My
grandmothers never bought a cake mix or pie mix in their lives. They
never had store bought jams or jellies. Most of the time the bread was
home made. The women seldom worked out of the home. Most women wore
hats, when they went out and wore aprons when they were in the house. My
grandparents went out trading, that is what they called it, when they
went shopping. There were no real supper markets in those days’ just
little shops in the town that specialized in something like meat and it
was called the meat market. They had sawdust on the floor in the meat
market. Some times they would really do trading, by going to farmers and
trading what they grew for something they needed. Most everyone had at
least a chicken for eggs. These were the same people who went to war to
protect our way of life and to save the world from a mad man. Everyone
knew we were the only ones who could stop him. The young boys who gave
their lives did so, so we could live the easy life we have today. We
don’t thank them enough. I feel like going up to some old vet and
telling him how proud I am to even know him. They are all heroes to me
and I thank God for them. The honest values and faith that they had is
reflected in the generation of these people. They, what is left of them,
are the same today. They look at us, we who they fought and worked for,
with some kind of unbelief. I wonder if they feel that the sacrifices
they made in retrospect were worth it. An old man like me knows that it really does no
good to dwell on the shortcomings of we who are following this great
generation, but I must honor them by telling what I can remember of
their values. I am not a regular viewer of TV shows like the Jerry
Springer show, but I have seen parts of it from time to time when I am
surfing channels. I used to say, “I don’t know anyone like that”.
I used to watch COPS and say “none of the people I run around with act
like that”. I am starting to see that I do see people and know people
like that and it scares me. Where have the values and teachings of our
recent past gone? I drive a school bus now as a retirement job and
see the unbelievable values that our kids have. Nothing seems to be
sacred anymore. Sex, drugs, and living for today are the rule. I have
children in grade school tell me and other kids on my bus explicit sex
details that they know about or have seen. Don't think for a moment it
is any better in private schools or church sponsored schools. I have
driven these kids as well and they are no better and in some cases
worse. Kids
don’t even know for sure who their parents are let alone any extended
family. They talk about finding their mothers drug stash, the boyfriend
she is sleeping with now. Going to their father’s house or staying
with mother number two, who is their sister’s mom. Going to visit
brothers, fathers, and mothers in jail. They have no idea what the
values of their grandparents were and they don’t care. Yes some kids
are doing their best, but there aren’t enough of them and it makes me
real unsure of the future. The schools are scared to death of law suits
and special interest groups. Teachers are giving up and just going along
with the flow and doing their best to teach in an environment that does
not support them or care about them. When I was a kid, you gave your
attention to the teachers and you minded them. You did not misbehave
much because you knew that if you did the vice principle would be coming
down the hall with the paddle and you were going to get a swat. We were
conditioned to this from the time we were in grade school, so by the
time we got into high school teachers didn't have that many discipline
problems. When a parent was called to the school they were automatically
on the teachers side and wanted to see what they could do to correct
their child's bad behavior. Now days parents are automatically prepared
to fight and take the stance that their child has done nothing wrong and
is being picked on because of some imagined prejudice. Parents
and the ACLU have put a stop to any discipline in the schools now. Time
outs, write-ups, and other things that the schools try, are a joke to
the kids and they even brag about how many write-up slips they get.
Parents more and more just sign the slips and blow it off as the schools
problem. We are now reaping the rewards of
having children running the schools and scaring the hell out of everyone
and there is not a damn thing the teachers or administrators can do
about it. And, the kids know it. Like I have said before, “You can’t
scare me, I drive a school bus”. I started this chapter about my dad’s farm and
what he taught us. I continued to try and show how those people saw the
world, what their values were. And then went on to give you my complaint
as to what is happening today. I am, who I am, because of the values of
my parents, grandparents, schools, and society in general gave to me. I
have worked all my life and now still work into my sixties. I have at
least the pleasant memories of the past to strengthen me and guide me. Do
you have memories of times gone buy and people passed who could give
something to today’s kids? If you do then write them down and leave
them for someone. It is not too late we can turn this around. The lives
of hard working brave people like the ones I talk about here, were worth
something. Our kids and grandkids are not just biological accidents;
they really do have a past at least in some kind of family. Let’s keep
our families strong by doing our best to keep the family past alive. I remember well my dad, mom, and grandparents. They all gave more than they took in life. They contributed to society and sacrificed for us. My parents were never rich or famous. My parents and grandparents never had a new home and few new cars. In contrast my brother was a multi-millionaire, and I am not that rich, but have more than I really need. I have had almost 20 new cars in my lifetime, and have had 3 brand new homes. I live an easy life because of what my parents and grandparents did for me, just because they loved me. How can I ever repay them? Their long shadows will always be there for me and I bless them for it. These stories are my gift to my children and grandchildren so they can know more about who they are and what is expected of them. Amen
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