Life on the farm

Life on the farm.

In a prior “essay” I related that in 1943 when I was just 5 years old my dad and mother bought a small 26 acre farm a few miles southwest of Garrett, Indiana. The purpose of this article is to detail some of what life was like on the “farm”.  I doubt that you will believe some of what I relate but every word is the Gods truth.

The first memory is of the day that the folks looked at the farm.  My brother, Norm, sister, Sharron, and I had to stay in the rear seat of the “41” ford while the folks looked the place over.  My little sis broke a rear window in the Ford by hitting it with a copper beer mug.  (The story of the beer mug will be explained later).  She was only 3 years old so I guess she could not hold her liquor. (Pun intended). When the folks got back to the car dad was pissed to see the broken window.  He hauled my brother and I out of the back seat, stood in a mud puddle, and paddled both our asses.  I had no idea that I was in charge of mug watching. Neither did Norm.

  The second event was one that I did not witness.  Neither of the folks had inquired where my older brother, Norm, would attend school.  He was in the first grade in the spring of 1943.  They happened to pass two girls walking down the road past our house, so dad asked them where the school was located.  The older one pointed across a field and said, “yonder over thar”. (They were “southern” girls).  It was a one room brick school house about a mile away that she pointed out.  There was no bus service because of WW2 so Norm spent that first half year walking to school. The following year the township did offer bus service.  What fun !!

  Dad had promised mom that we would not have a cow on the farm because mom didn’t like to milk cows.  A week or so after we moved in, we had a cow.  Mom hated that damned cow.  She said that it would lift up a shitty foot, feel around for the bucket and as soon as she found it, kick hell out of it.  The cow did not last long BUT the cow was replaced by two goats.  The goats were small and close to the ground.  Who better to milk a goat than someone who was short and close to the ground?  You are way ahead of me.  Yep, I was chosen to milk the damned goats.  That was a job I maintained until I started working away from home at age 12.  No one else wanted to milk the damned goats so they went bye-bye.  If you visit the “goat barn” at the county fair you can witness all the 4-H kids that “raise” goats praise them to high heaven.  They are both nuts and liars.  Dal knows.

The last item on the “goat list” is about Jeff, the neutered Billy goat.  Somewhere dad found a harness for the goat.  He built a small cart using 2 tricycle wheels and a crate.  My sister was in hog heaven because she had her own private goat and cart.  Big deal.  That goat was worthless too.  Jeff was later converted into “leg of lamb”.  I do not remember what happened to the harness or cart.  I can attest that roast goat tastes terrible.  It is dry and greasy.  Don’t let anyone try to convince you differently.

We also had hogs, but not for long.  You cannot milk a hog.  You cannot ride a hog.  You cannot keep a hog contained within poor fencing.  The hog herd lasted only long enough to get a few pork chops and a ham or two.

More farm adventures will be covered in a future essay.