This
was in the summer of 1958 when Aunt Doris came east on the train from
Washington State with cousins Wesley and Gordon, the first time I had ever met
any of them. I was 8 and Wes was
18. Cousin Wes was my great hero and I
followed him around everywhere. He was
cool, wore a cowboy hat, zapped woodchucks with one shot from a .22 rifle, and
he had a great sense of humor. This was
a memorable summer.
That
year the rich field directly behind and north of the Double Decker building was
planted in corn. It was an extremely fertile
field and always alternated between pasture, alfalfa, and corn. But there was a very hard rainstorm that had
washed out about a third of the beginning corn seedlings. You could see where the young sprouts were
coming up and where the field elsewhere was washed barren. This was rich loam bottom-land with huge and
very important corn yields for us. It
was a serious situation.
My
father took advantage of extra visitors at the farm and drafted us into labor
for manual re-planting, pairing us up into two-man teams (e.g., Wes and me). I am quite sure that Uncle Rod and Cousin
Danny were a team. Father was a
friendly, generous, earnest and genuine man, charmingly persuasive, and people
would go the extra mile for him.
And
I remember Uncle Albert and Cousin Ladd, on my mother’s side of the family,
being a team. They most likely were visiting
the farm because Aunt Edith and Cousin Judy from that side of the family were
there on a visit that summer, and thus Albert and Ladd may have been unluckily
drafted into service. (I have no idea
where my mother put up all the company that summer!)
My
father carefully lined out the rows where corn should have been sprouting. Then, in each team, the older one (Wes) would
use a hoe and dig a little hole every so many measured feet straight along the
row. The younger member of the pair (me)
would place about four kernels of corn seed into the hole, then the older one
would use the hoe to cover it up.
I
don’t remember who watered the kernels because my focus was on the holes in
front of me and the bag of seeds in my hand – but I’ll bet it must have been
Father, because he had an invariable rule for new plantings, whether for seeds
or sapling trees, that you first water the dry hole generously, then plant,
then cover, then water generously again.
He must have hauled a lot of water.
Our
two-man teams moved slowly, methodically, in parallel straight down the rows of
the field toward the Creek. I am not
sure if there was another team or more.
It was a very hot day, but once organized it didn’t take that long. And the good results could be seen in a few
weeks as new corn sprouts came up in previously barren stretches of field.
It
was a great example of farming in older days.
It may seem like a strange story in this day and age, but at the time it
seemed like a natural everyday obstacle to overcome on a family farm. It needed to be done, and, with generous
help, we did it. (I'm sure that Elvis would have understood completely.)
I
feel privileged to have grown up in such a place and time. We were not pathetically poor but we were
certainly not at all well off nor did we consider ourselves ever financially
safe. We were merely a family of small-time farmers,
doing what our ancestors always did, living off the soil and raising livestock. Working to make a life. It was hard work but a good life. We were all richer for such experience.
-Zenwind.
.
