This is my 53rd post - been at it for a year.
Don't look for any posts the next two weeks - I'll be away.
I'm not sure I'll be able to continue when I return, especially as it appears that no one is reading. If you are reading, please let me know - I need a confidence builder.
Mort
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Chapter Twenty - Agronomics (cont)
Wheat sowing continued into November, when the weather was cooperative and as fields were cleared. The other major agronomic activity that fall was harvesting the soybeans. Larry had over forty acres and we had saved enough fuel to enable the use of his combine to strip the pods from the beanstalks and clean the beans from the pods. He didn’t waste fuel on the road by driving back and forth from the farm to the field. We towed the combine to the field with the Clydesdales and only started the engine to do the actually threshing. We also hauled the fuel to the combine instead of coming back to the farm for fuel. The horses could also haul the beans back to the farm with the gravity bin wagons. In good years, soybeans dry well enough in the field to keep from spoiling, and this year was no different. The beans were stored in a metal bin that Harvey usually filled with an electric driven auger. With some adaptation, the boys rigged up a 12-volt motor to run it. It ran a lot slower than usual, but still got the beans in the bin. Even at the slower speed though, it ran a battery dead in about 30 minutes; good thing the windmill could recharge a couple at a time. The bin held 2000 bushels. When the second to last wagon was being unloaded the bin overflowed.
“Over 2000 bushel,” Harvey commented, “with maybe another 250 bushel in the last two wagons. All from forty acres means the yield was over 55 bushel per acre. That’s the best I think I’ve ever had. The Lord has blessed us.”
He’s blessed us indeed,” Dad agreed. “In that bin we have soybeans for food, feed, seed or fuel.”
“Fuel?” I asked, “we wouldn’t burn them would we?”
“We could if we needed to,” Dad answered, “they are loaded with energy. Dennis and Aaron are working on a way to squeeze the oil out. We can burn the oil in our diesels, we think. The remaining pulp, called soybean meal is a great source of protein.”
“For us?” I asked.
“Us, or the cattle or hogs. I didn’t hear their plan yet; we’ll see the results sometime, if it works.”
It wasn’t a problem having the two wagons remain loaded. They could just be parked in the wagon shed as we had others to use for the corn. However, one problem we did have throughout the whole harvest was flat tires. The first one wasn’t a big deal; Larry would just go “borrow” one, wheel and all, from a piece of equipment we weren’t using. That way the tire would not have to be removed from the rim, the tube repaired, remounted, and then inflated. That method was fine for the first few, but eventually Josh and Barry, using the repair kits for the inner tubes and the 12-volt air pump Uncle Bruce had brought, mastered the task of repairing tires. All along, we had been able to repair any bicycle flats, hoping our supply of glue for the tire patches would not run out. Down the road, to preserve our usable glue for bicycle tubes, we had to put sand in some of the implement tires to keep them inflated. It was an extremely laborious and painstakingly time consuming process that took patience and perseverance to accomplish, but the men got it done. At least for this harvest season, we still had glue and could patch inner tubes. And one BIG tire we did need to fix – the drive tire on the combine.
“Thank goodness you didn’t drive into anything that made a hole too big to repair,” Harvey said to Larry after inspecting the flat tire they found one day when returning to the field. “I knew something was wrong as soon we crested the hill and I saw the combine leaning to one side.”
“Yeah, it’s only a nail or something,” Larry agreed. “We’re lucky too that it went flat at a good flat spot in the field, so we can safely work at it. But what a mess the calcium made.”
Calcium was the word farmers used to call the water that was pumped into tractor or combine tires for added weight, which would give the tires better traction in different situations. Water alone would freeze in the winter, ruining the tube or maybe even the tire, so calcium carbonate, chemically speaking, a salt, was added to the water to keep it from freezing. Unbeknownst to Larry, when he parked the combine for the evening, the hole was very near the bottom of the tire so darn near all the calcium solution had seeped out, making a soggy mess.
“We’re not going to fix it here,” Harvey said. “Don’t even have the tools we need to get the tire off the combine. We need to go back home for stuff.”
The word stuff has a lot of meanings. In this case, it means all the tools and equipment one might need to get a job done, without having to make a return trip home for some “stuff” you forgot the first time. I had seen Dad do it many a time; he’d fill the pickup half full, but only use five percent of it. It was more critical in this instance, with the combine being broke down about 25 minutes from the farm at horse speed. On the wagon they threw chains, five different jacks, wrecking bars, toolboxes, pipes, solvent for loosening rusty bolts, sledge hammers, post irons, the 12 volt air pump, six charged batteries, the inner tube patches, even a brand new tube Larry thought might fit if the old one could not be repaired; and blocking, tons of wooden blocking and long heavy boards to keep the combine from falling further into the ground when the wheel was removed. They weren’t going to have to come back for anything.
Finally, they filled the wagon up with brawn; ten men climbed aboard to make sure there would be enough help. A combine drive tire isn’t small or light; it must have been about five feet high, over a foot and a half wide, and weighed about 300 pounds even without the calcium. Even with all the forethought and muscle, it still took a good part of the day to complete the tire change. It must have been close to three o’clock when the repaired tire and wheel were back on and the combine was being lowered off the jacks.
Larry said, “I’m glad we’re done, but I never thought it would take this long. I’ll only get a few acres combined today.”
“What would we have done if we wouldn’t have been able to fix the tire?” Dennis asked.
“I gave that a little thought,” Harvey replied. “We have some tractors with roughly the same size tire, but not the same wheel mounting. I guess we could have made it work, but I’m glad we didn’t have to. Darn lucky it didn’t rain either.”
And it didn’t rain, especially not that October; it was unseasonably hot and dry. Horrible weather for shocking corn, but great weather for harvesting beans; I think Larry finished November 3rd. Finally, that very next week in November colder weather came, and so did more people. Some to stay, but a lot were neighbors looking to trade for cows. They were in the same boat as us; they had some feed, food, a source of water and had taken in families that didn’t. Several cows had freshened in September and October. By now there were more hands to milk and care for the dairy animals, but also more people to drink milk as our numbers had exceeded 60. All in all though, we could spare some.
“Just rubs me a little,” Larry announced one evening, “that we’re giving away our livelihood.”
“I know,” Harvey agreed. “But don’t fret; I don’t think our total numbers are down at all. We’ve had fifteen calves born since the middle of August, and I believe we only traded or slaughtered thirteen so far.”
“I didn’t realize that,” Larry responded, “and I know the neighbors need food.”
“Also, it relieves us from some work and saves us feed,” Jean added. “Think about it, what good does it do anyone to have a cow if they can’t use the milk? And besides, the cow isn’t gone; it’s just eating and being milked somewhere else - still a good use of a resource. Be satisfied that we’re doing our part. People will remember, when we need help.”
“You’re right,” Larry replied, “I’ll have to remember that.”
But what could the neighbors trade, that we could use? Food, fuel, medicine? It didn’t much matter; few had anything valuable to trade, with two exceptions. One neighbor traded an antique corn sheller that became a real time saver. We had been shelling corn by hand with a small ring-like tool that you had to turn the ear inside of. It knocked the kernels off, but at only one ear at a time, it kept a person quite busy – took maybe a half an hour to shell a five gallon bucket full of corn. The newly acquired sheller had a large crank with a heavy flywheel that one person could keep spinning while another fed ear after ear into the machine. The cob came out the other end and the shelled corn slid down a screened chute. Dirt and fines fell through the screen and the clean corn fell into a bucket. Only took two workers about five minutes to shell five gallons. It was fun, too, and Poppop had another use for it. We could hull the walnuts with it. Beat rubbing the hulls off by hand.
The other valuable trade was two dozen chickens. As the length of daylight shortened, egg production fell sharply. We tried to keep it going by using a car light and battery to make the chickens think it was still light out, but that had minimal success.
“It works in commercial operations,” Mom complained one day. “I just don’t know what we’re doing wrong. The new chickens aren’t laying any better than ours were, but at least five percent of 40 is more than five percent of 16.”
“Just an egg or two extra per day?” Dad asked.
“Yep, that’s all,” she answered, “but it’s worth the effort just to expand our flock. They’ll start laying again with the longer daylight at the end of winter. We’ll be happy for the eggs then.”
To be continued………….. Mort
“Over 2000 bushel,” Harvey commented, “with maybe another 250 bushel in the last two wagons. All from forty acres means the yield was over 55 bushel per acre. That’s the best I think I’ve ever had. The Lord has blessed us.”
He’s blessed us indeed,” Dad agreed. “In that bin we have soybeans for food, feed, seed or fuel.”
“Fuel?” I asked, “we wouldn’t burn them would we?”
“We could if we needed to,” Dad answered, “they are loaded with energy. Dennis and Aaron are working on a way to squeeze the oil out. We can burn the oil in our diesels, we think. The remaining pulp, called soybean meal is a great source of protein.”
“For us?” I asked.
“Us, or the cattle or hogs. I didn’t hear their plan yet; we’ll see the results sometime, if it works.”
It wasn’t a problem having the two wagons remain loaded. They could just be parked in the wagon shed as we had others to use for the corn. However, one problem we did have throughout the whole harvest was flat tires. The first one wasn’t a big deal; Larry would just go “borrow” one, wheel and all, from a piece of equipment we weren’t using. That way the tire would not have to be removed from the rim, the tube repaired, remounted, and then inflated. That method was fine for the first few, but eventually Josh and Barry, using the repair kits for the inner tubes and the 12-volt air pump Uncle Bruce had brought, mastered the task of repairing tires. All along, we had been able to repair any bicycle flats, hoping our supply of glue for the tire patches would not run out. Down the road, to preserve our usable glue for bicycle tubes, we had to put sand in some of the implement tires to keep them inflated. It was an extremely laborious and painstakingly time consuming process that took patience and perseverance to accomplish, but the men got it done. At least for this harvest season, we still had glue and could patch inner tubes. And one BIG tire we did need to fix – the drive tire on the combine.
“Thank goodness you didn’t drive into anything that made a hole too big to repair,” Harvey said to Larry after inspecting the flat tire they found one day when returning to the field. “I knew something was wrong as soon we crested the hill and I saw the combine leaning to one side.”
“Yeah, it’s only a nail or something,” Larry agreed. “We’re lucky too that it went flat at a good flat spot in the field, so we can safely work at it. But what a mess the calcium made.”
Calcium was the word farmers used to call the water that was pumped into tractor or combine tires for added weight, which would give the tires better traction in different situations. Water alone would freeze in the winter, ruining the tube or maybe even the tire, so calcium carbonate, chemically speaking, a salt, was added to the water to keep it from freezing. Unbeknownst to Larry, when he parked the combine for the evening, the hole was very near the bottom of the tire so darn near all the calcium solution had seeped out, making a soggy mess.
“We’re not going to fix it here,” Harvey said. “Don’t even have the tools we need to get the tire off the combine. We need to go back home for stuff.”
The word stuff has a lot of meanings. In this case, it means all the tools and equipment one might need to get a job done, without having to make a return trip home for some “stuff” you forgot the first time. I had seen Dad do it many a time; he’d fill the pickup half full, but only use five percent of it. It was more critical in this instance, with the combine being broke down about 25 minutes from the farm at horse speed. On the wagon they threw chains, five different jacks, wrecking bars, toolboxes, pipes, solvent for loosening rusty bolts, sledge hammers, post irons, the 12 volt air pump, six charged batteries, the inner tube patches, even a brand new tube Larry thought might fit if the old one could not be repaired; and blocking, tons of wooden blocking and long heavy boards to keep the combine from falling further into the ground when the wheel was removed. They weren’t going to have to come back for anything.
Finally, they filled the wagon up with brawn; ten men climbed aboard to make sure there would be enough help. A combine drive tire isn’t small or light; it must have been about five feet high, over a foot and a half wide, and weighed about 300 pounds even without the calcium. Even with all the forethought and muscle, it still took a good part of the day to complete the tire change. It must have been close to three o’clock when the repaired tire and wheel were back on and the combine was being lowered off the jacks.
Larry said, “I’m glad we’re done, but I never thought it would take this long. I’ll only get a few acres combined today.”
“What would we have done if we wouldn’t have been able to fix the tire?” Dennis asked.
“I gave that a little thought,” Harvey replied. “We have some tractors with roughly the same size tire, but not the same wheel mounting. I guess we could have made it work, but I’m glad we didn’t have to. Darn lucky it didn’t rain either.”
And it didn’t rain, especially not that October; it was unseasonably hot and dry. Horrible weather for shocking corn, but great weather for harvesting beans; I think Larry finished November 3rd. Finally, that very next week in November colder weather came, and so did more people. Some to stay, but a lot were neighbors looking to trade for cows. They were in the same boat as us; they had some feed, food, a source of water and had taken in families that didn’t. Several cows had freshened in September and October. By now there were more hands to milk and care for the dairy animals, but also more people to drink milk as our numbers had exceeded 60. All in all though, we could spare some.
“Just rubs me a little,” Larry announced one evening, “that we’re giving away our livelihood.”
“I know,” Harvey agreed. “But don’t fret; I don’t think our total numbers are down at all. We’ve had fifteen calves born since the middle of August, and I believe we only traded or slaughtered thirteen so far.”
“I didn’t realize that,” Larry responded, “and I know the neighbors need food.”
“Also, it relieves us from some work and saves us feed,” Jean added. “Think about it, what good does it do anyone to have a cow if they can’t use the milk? And besides, the cow isn’t gone; it’s just eating and being milked somewhere else - still a good use of a resource. Be satisfied that we’re doing our part. People will remember, when we need help.”
“You’re right,” Larry replied, “I’ll have to remember that.”
But what could the neighbors trade, that we could use? Food, fuel, medicine? It didn’t much matter; few had anything valuable to trade, with two exceptions. One neighbor traded an antique corn sheller that became a real time saver. We had been shelling corn by hand with a small ring-like tool that you had to turn the ear inside of. It knocked the kernels off, but at only one ear at a time, it kept a person quite busy – took maybe a half an hour to shell a five gallon bucket full of corn. The newly acquired sheller had a large crank with a heavy flywheel that one person could keep spinning while another fed ear after ear into the machine. The cob came out the other end and the shelled corn slid down a screened chute. Dirt and fines fell through the screen and the clean corn fell into a bucket. Only took two workers about five minutes to shell five gallons. It was fun, too, and Poppop had another use for it. We could hull the walnuts with it. Beat rubbing the hulls off by hand.
The other valuable trade was two dozen chickens. As the length of daylight shortened, egg production fell sharply. We tried to keep it going by using a car light and battery to make the chickens think it was still light out, but that had minimal success.
“It works in commercial operations,” Mom complained one day. “I just don’t know what we’re doing wrong. The new chickens aren’t laying any better than ours were, but at least five percent of 40 is more than five percent of 16.”
“Just an egg or two extra per day?” Dad asked.
“Yep, that’s all,” she answered, “but it’s worth the effort just to expand our flock. They’ll start laying again with the longer daylight at the end of winter. We’ll be happy for the eggs then.”
To be continued………….. Mort
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
STRUGGLING
One of the premises of “Are You Ready” is that this country, if current fiscal policies do not change, is doomed to an economic collapse that, of course, would affect the whole world. Many people pooh-pooh that possibility, having faith, (or is it gullible ignorance?), in our federal government. But many economists think the collapse is inevitable. More information is on Andy Sutton’s website: my2centsonline.com. Educate yourselves and form your own opinion.
I tend to also view the current economic situation as dire. In my story, I used a war in the Middle East and China playing their financial trump cards as the catalyst for the collapse. The cause of the forthcoming regression, however, might not be one of such a grand scale, but instead be very subtle. We can read what the experts write and listen to the media’s perception of the way things are, but that doesn’t mean we can see the signs.
On a personal level, I see the signs and I’m struggling. My wife is self-employed and none of my three employers provides health insurance, so we as a family have that bill to pay. Blue Cross/Blue Shield has just requested a 9.9% increase from the state insurance board for our plan. That’s $885 per year – after taxes. My wife pays 15.3% social security taxes, none of which we ever expect to get back. Roughly calculated, including the tax breaks we receive on our 1040 schedule for paying our own insurance, she would have to earn $1125 to actually receive the $885 to give to BC/BS. At $100 per day earnings, she would have to work eleven more extra days next year to enable us to afford health insurance. Perhaps the Fed or the impotent Congress can legislate the earth to revolve slower around the sun like they get the earth to spin faster that Sunday in March when daylight savings time starts – enough to add eleven days onto the 2008 calendar?
So last week bread at our local grocery chain went up 10%, with other foodstuffs comparably increasing. My first tank full of heating oil was 10% higher than last year’s highest price. With the recent record high crude oil futures, I expect to pay even more for the next. In spite of those record highs, gasoline prices remain somewhat stable, but I can’t see them staying there for much longer. Our electric company’s agreement with the Socialist State of Pennsylvania to limit rate increases expires in 2008. We’re looking for 10-20% increases then. Yet none of my employers are offering the 13.7% increase in wages needed to earn 10% more (after taxes), actually required to give you the purchasing power to offset these forthcoming price increases. All in all, it’s becoming very, very hard to make ends meet. This is not news to most of you.
I’m not bragging, but for the last 16 years, we’ve been very faithful in our giving to the church. I’m actually ashamed to say – that as of right now, we’re failing to do so to the extent we have in the past. Is it me, my lack of faith, or just a consequence of a failing, inflationary, recessional economy? We’re a couple months behind in our rent, owe my brother $400, my daughter $1000, and my son a couple hundred. Should we drop health insurance so we can pay our other bills? Should we let them repossess the car so we don’t have to make that payment? Are we really going to be forced to stop giving to the church? The savings necessary to stay afloat go beyond keeping the thermostat at 62 degrees, burning more wood, changing over to energy efficient fluorescent light bulbs, and driving less. Other people have to be in a similar situation, don’t they? Yes, I know I’m just supposed to give the problem to Jesus and TRUST him for a solution, but even with faith, it’s becoming more difficult and more difficult……….
How are you all handling it? What methods are you using to make ends meet? What do you see coming? Please let me know!
Maybe next week, I can resume Alyssa’s story………….. Mort
I tend to also view the current economic situation as dire. In my story, I used a war in the Middle East and China playing their financial trump cards as the catalyst for the collapse. The cause of the forthcoming regression, however, might not be one of such a grand scale, but instead be very subtle. We can read what the experts write and listen to the media’s perception of the way things are, but that doesn’t mean we can see the signs.
On a personal level, I see the signs and I’m struggling. My wife is self-employed and none of my three employers provides health insurance, so we as a family have that bill to pay. Blue Cross/Blue Shield has just requested a 9.9% increase from the state insurance board for our plan. That’s $885 per year – after taxes. My wife pays 15.3% social security taxes, none of which we ever expect to get back. Roughly calculated, including the tax breaks we receive on our 1040 schedule for paying our own insurance, she would have to earn $1125 to actually receive the $885 to give to BC/BS. At $100 per day earnings, she would have to work eleven more extra days next year to enable us to afford health insurance. Perhaps the Fed or the impotent Congress can legislate the earth to revolve slower around the sun like they get the earth to spin faster that Sunday in March when daylight savings time starts – enough to add eleven days onto the 2008 calendar?
So last week bread at our local grocery chain went up 10%, with other foodstuffs comparably increasing. My first tank full of heating oil was 10% higher than last year’s highest price. With the recent record high crude oil futures, I expect to pay even more for the next. In spite of those record highs, gasoline prices remain somewhat stable, but I can’t see them staying there for much longer. Our electric company’s agreement with the Socialist State of Pennsylvania to limit rate increases expires in 2008. We’re looking for 10-20% increases then. Yet none of my employers are offering the 13.7% increase in wages needed to earn 10% more (after taxes), actually required to give you the purchasing power to offset these forthcoming price increases. All in all, it’s becoming very, very hard to make ends meet. This is not news to most of you.
I’m not bragging, but for the last 16 years, we’ve been very faithful in our giving to the church. I’m actually ashamed to say – that as of right now, we’re failing to do so to the extent we have in the past. Is it me, my lack of faith, or just a consequence of a failing, inflationary, recessional economy? We’re a couple months behind in our rent, owe my brother $400, my daughter $1000, and my son a couple hundred. Should we drop health insurance so we can pay our other bills? Should we let them repossess the car so we don’t have to make that payment? Are we really going to be forced to stop giving to the church? The savings necessary to stay afloat go beyond keeping the thermostat at 62 degrees, burning more wood, changing over to energy efficient fluorescent light bulbs, and driving less. Other people have to be in a similar situation, don’t they? Yes, I know I’m just supposed to give the problem to Jesus and TRUST him for a solution, but even with faith, it’s becoming more difficult and more difficult……….
How are you all handling it? What methods are you using to make ends meet? What do you see coming? Please let me know!
Maybe next week, I can resume Alyssa’s story………….. Mort
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Chapter Twenty - Agronomics
“Looks like all the illegals didn’t make it back to Mexico,” Uncle Jeremiah said when he first saw the Diaz’s. Thank goodness only a few people were near enough to hear him. However, my father was, and shot him that look that you never wanted to get from Dad.
Aunt Lois wasn’t as subtle; even before Dad’s glance had a chance to reach Jeremiah’s eyes, she smacked the back of her husband’s head.
“Schwetz net su dumb,” she said in the dialect. “That’s not a nice thing to say at all, especially in front of the girls. I don’t ever want to hear anything like that again!”
“Ah, I was only joking,” he responded.
It’s good it was only he and Lois, Dad and I, and Amy that heard it. I was pretty sure Amy and I weren’t adversely affected by it; we wouldn’t be scarred for life. But grown-ups need to be more careful what they say around impressionable adolescents. He said he was joking, and I believed him. Our family was a bunch of wise guys, good at joking and teasing, especially politics, but we didn’t always stop and think about the damage it might do. There had been so much talk in the media, like radio call-in shows, about the immigration problem, or at least what some people called a problem. People just like to ride the waves on an issue; becomes the popular thing to do. When some movement gets started, everyone jumps on the bandwagon, regardless of what they really believe about the issue; if they would just stop to think about it.
In any event, comments like that didn’t reoccur, at least any that I heard. But I wondered if the problem could resurface as more and different people joined our community. Bottom line, we made the Diaz’s feel welcome, just like we did any other newcomers. Beyond their cooking skills, they were a valuable addition to our crew; always willing to pitch in, learn new things, and boy could those boys play soccer!
That’s right, we hadn’t given that up; we played every Sunday afternoon. Enrico and Luis had to be on separate teams though, to keep it fair. Benny, as we called their father, was pretty good, too. But we had good players to even it out. Joe loved playing both with them or against them; either way, it was challenging.
Even though we had to wait for the corn to dry to harvest it, that didn’t mean any other farming had not occurred while waiting. Sometime in early September, Larry and Harvey had planted rye in a ten acre wheat stubble field that had earlier been pastured off by the cattle. The fast growing grain could be pastured in late fall if they needed it, but would certainly provide the first new forage n the spring. The planting was possible because of three things: they had a good supply of the summer’s rye harvest remaining to use as seed, they had successfully adapted two pieces of farm equipment to operate without tractor power, and Butch’s Clydesdales.
Larry estimated he had enough rye seed to sow 60 acres, but was determined to only use one half of it, so their would be some preserved for next fall’s planting. When he sowed the ten acres that left him enough to seed another twenty later in the fall in the harvested cornfields that he hoped at least a few acres might be harvested for grain somehow next summer. We would see.
The two pieces of farm equipment that were adapted were a field cultivator and the grain drill. A field cultivator had tines in it with two inch wide shovels on them that dug in and loosened up the earth as it was pulled through the field. The grain drill had a metering system to accurately drop the seed into small seed furrows created by the drill’s disks, which ran through the soil as the drill was pulled. It wasn’t a problem for Butch’s horses to pull the equipment; the problem was disengaging them. Both the field cultivator and the grain drill worked when they were in the down position and didn’t work when raised up. They were designed to be raised and lowered by hydraulics powered by the tractor. Before tractors and hydraulics were the norm, some machinery had a ground driven hand clutch or a lever system to raise and lower the piece, but the boys were not able to locate either of those on any old machinery that could have possibly been fitted onto our equipment to adapt them for use with horses. By good fortune, Larry had some handjacks, a hand powered, screw type mechanism that would lengthen or shorten depending on which way you turned the screw. When the hydraulic cylinders on the equipment were replaced with these handjacks, by shear brute strength, Larry could raise or lower either piece of equipment to the proper operating or transporting height.
He didn’t want to do that very often, so once the field cultivator was in the ground, it stayed there until the field was finished; similarly with the drill. It gave Butch a chance to show off his horse handling skills, making sure they didn’t walk into a situation where the machine would have to be lifted and steering them precise enough to not overlap the seed with the drill or leave skippers (areas of no seed). He and his horses did admirably; even Dad, Jake and Larry took tries at it, and learned well. One team could easily pull the drill; it was on rubber tires and rolled easily, but the cultivator was another matter. Larry’s field cultivator was twenty feet wide and he usually used a one hundred and ten horsepower tractor. While the correlation is not exact, we only had six horsepower, so no way could they pull twenty feet. Speed through the field is the other component in the equation, so the horses, going slower could still accomplish the task when the cultivator was narrowed. Larry’s machine had wings that were folded up for transport; they were taken off. And then, six tines on each side of the remaining frame were removed, bringing the working width down to about eleven feet. They tried it that way, with the intent of taking more off if the job was too difficult.
The first time through the field was the hardest as the soil had not been tilled since October the previous fall, it had been driven on by the combine, tractor, baler, and wagon, baked by the summer sun, plus the cattle had been treading on it in all kinds of weather making it very hard. I don’t know if Butch ever had his six horses hitched as a single team before, but with some chains, our braided ropes, some keen thinking, and the work of all, they accomplished it. Then Larry started them out only lowering the cultivator a little at a time, until the point was reached that the horses could pull without out over-straining, but still do a good job ripping up the soil. One time over the field was not enough to make a good seedbed. Back and forth through the field they went a second time and even with Larry setting the machine deeper, it pulled easier and put good tilth in the soil. But for final seedbed preparation, which required a third trip, Dad added a spike toothed harrow that we used in the garden that leveled off a nice even fine seedbed.
Because the farmers had successfully completed the task of sowing rye in September, when October came and we had cleared some cornfields, sowing wheat was accomplished as well using the same procedures. Harvey and Larry’s farming operation only had about one third of its acreage in hay. With the emphasis on pasturing, some acreage would need to be shifted to some kind of hay crop. Hay was hard to harvest, but easy to pasture. Unlike corn, there was no practical way to manually harvest grains like rye, barley, wheat, and soybeans. We would try some by hand, but needed to cut down on those acres. The necessity of that shift mandated that Larry plant timothy as well in every field of wheat he sowed that fall. Timothy was a grass that was planted in the fall, was excellent horse feed, really easy to dry, not so bad to harvest, and would first produce a crop the following summer after the grain had been harvested and the straw cleared off the field. So to get a crop next year and subsequent years (as timothy is a perennial), it needed to be planted this year. Larry had traded for timothy seed. The grain drill, in addition to having a compartment for the wheat, also had a seedbox for the grass seed. It took very little extra effort to plant the timothy in the same trip we made to sow the wheat.
Aunt Lois wasn’t as subtle; even before Dad’s glance had a chance to reach Jeremiah’s eyes, she smacked the back of her husband’s head.
“Schwetz net su dumb,” she said in the dialect. “That’s not a nice thing to say at all, especially in front of the girls. I don’t ever want to hear anything like that again!”
“Ah, I was only joking,” he responded.
It’s good it was only he and Lois, Dad and I, and Amy that heard it. I was pretty sure Amy and I weren’t adversely affected by it; we wouldn’t be scarred for life. But grown-ups need to be more careful what they say around impressionable adolescents. He said he was joking, and I believed him. Our family was a bunch of wise guys, good at joking and teasing, especially politics, but we didn’t always stop and think about the damage it might do. There had been so much talk in the media, like radio call-in shows, about the immigration problem, or at least what some people called a problem. People just like to ride the waves on an issue; becomes the popular thing to do. When some movement gets started, everyone jumps on the bandwagon, regardless of what they really believe about the issue; if they would just stop to think about it.
In any event, comments like that didn’t reoccur, at least any that I heard. But I wondered if the problem could resurface as more and different people joined our community. Bottom line, we made the Diaz’s feel welcome, just like we did any other newcomers. Beyond their cooking skills, they were a valuable addition to our crew; always willing to pitch in, learn new things, and boy could those boys play soccer!
That’s right, we hadn’t given that up; we played every Sunday afternoon. Enrico and Luis had to be on separate teams though, to keep it fair. Benny, as we called their father, was pretty good, too. But we had good players to even it out. Joe loved playing both with them or against them; either way, it was challenging.
Even though we had to wait for the corn to dry to harvest it, that didn’t mean any other farming had not occurred while waiting. Sometime in early September, Larry and Harvey had planted rye in a ten acre wheat stubble field that had earlier been pastured off by the cattle. The fast growing grain could be pastured in late fall if they needed it, but would certainly provide the first new forage n the spring. The planting was possible because of three things: they had a good supply of the summer’s rye harvest remaining to use as seed, they had successfully adapted two pieces of farm equipment to operate without tractor power, and Butch’s Clydesdales.
Larry estimated he had enough rye seed to sow 60 acres, but was determined to only use one half of it, so their would be some preserved for next fall’s planting. When he sowed the ten acres that left him enough to seed another twenty later in the fall in the harvested cornfields that he hoped at least a few acres might be harvested for grain somehow next summer. We would see.
The two pieces of farm equipment that were adapted were a field cultivator and the grain drill. A field cultivator had tines in it with two inch wide shovels on them that dug in and loosened up the earth as it was pulled through the field. The grain drill had a metering system to accurately drop the seed into small seed furrows created by the drill’s disks, which ran through the soil as the drill was pulled. It wasn’t a problem for Butch’s horses to pull the equipment; the problem was disengaging them. Both the field cultivator and the grain drill worked when they were in the down position and didn’t work when raised up. They were designed to be raised and lowered by hydraulics powered by the tractor. Before tractors and hydraulics were the norm, some machinery had a ground driven hand clutch or a lever system to raise and lower the piece, but the boys were not able to locate either of those on any old machinery that could have possibly been fitted onto our equipment to adapt them for use with horses. By good fortune, Larry had some handjacks, a hand powered, screw type mechanism that would lengthen or shorten depending on which way you turned the screw. When the hydraulic cylinders on the equipment were replaced with these handjacks, by shear brute strength, Larry could raise or lower either piece of equipment to the proper operating or transporting height.
He didn’t want to do that very often, so once the field cultivator was in the ground, it stayed there until the field was finished; similarly with the drill. It gave Butch a chance to show off his horse handling skills, making sure they didn’t walk into a situation where the machine would have to be lifted and steering them precise enough to not overlap the seed with the drill or leave skippers (areas of no seed). He and his horses did admirably; even Dad, Jake and Larry took tries at it, and learned well. One team could easily pull the drill; it was on rubber tires and rolled easily, but the cultivator was another matter. Larry’s field cultivator was twenty feet wide and he usually used a one hundred and ten horsepower tractor. While the correlation is not exact, we only had six horsepower, so no way could they pull twenty feet. Speed through the field is the other component in the equation, so the horses, going slower could still accomplish the task when the cultivator was narrowed. Larry’s machine had wings that were folded up for transport; they were taken off. And then, six tines on each side of the remaining frame were removed, bringing the working width down to about eleven feet. They tried it that way, with the intent of taking more off if the job was too difficult.
The first time through the field was the hardest as the soil had not been tilled since October the previous fall, it had been driven on by the combine, tractor, baler, and wagon, baked by the summer sun, plus the cattle had been treading on it in all kinds of weather making it very hard. I don’t know if Butch ever had his six horses hitched as a single team before, but with some chains, our braided ropes, some keen thinking, and the work of all, they accomplished it. Then Larry started them out only lowering the cultivator a little at a time, until the point was reached that the horses could pull without out over-straining, but still do a good job ripping up the soil. One time over the field was not enough to make a good seedbed. Back and forth through the field they went a second time and even with Larry setting the machine deeper, it pulled easier and put good tilth in the soil. But for final seedbed preparation, which required a third trip, Dad added a spike toothed harrow that we used in the garden that leveled off a nice even fine seedbed.
Because the farmers had successfully completed the task of sowing rye in September, when October came and we had cleared some cornfields, sowing wheat was accomplished as well using the same procedures. Harvey and Larry’s farming operation only had about one third of its acreage in hay. With the emphasis on pasturing, some acreage would need to be shifted to some kind of hay crop. Hay was hard to harvest, but easy to pasture. Unlike corn, there was no practical way to manually harvest grains like rye, barley, wheat, and soybeans. We would try some by hand, but needed to cut down on those acres. The necessity of that shift mandated that Larry plant timothy as well in every field of wheat he sowed that fall. Timothy was a grass that was planted in the fall, was excellent horse feed, really easy to dry, not so bad to harvest, and would first produce a crop the following summer after the grain had been harvested and the straw cleared off the field. So to get a crop next year and subsequent years (as timothy is a perennial), it needed to be planted this year. Larry had traded for timothy seed. The grain drill, in addition to having a compartment for the wheat, also had a seedbox for the grass seed. It took very little extra effort to plant the timothy in the same trip we made to sow the wheat.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Chapter Nineteen-Corn (conclusion)
And corn as a supply of food was becoming evident, based on two developments. Shortly after the corn harvest started we ran out of oatmeal and cereal - no more Cocoa Puffs. And all through the fall harvest and later that winter, more people starting arriving; people we didn’t know – a couple from Bedford, a family from New Jersey, single women, single men, some older than Dad, and quite a few children. They arrived at different times and in different ways. Most walked; a few came on bicycles, a couple even still had their cars, one even came on horseback. Some looked well and brought goods with them, but many were very thin, dirty, poorly clothed for wintry weather, and carrying few belongings. Their arrival was always a cause for suspicion. Questions would go through our minds. Are these good people? Is one a thief? Are they sick? Are they running from something? Will they fit in? Do they understand our culture?
They had questions too, but in almost every instance it was the same one: Can we work for food? Harvey and Jean always had the same answer: First you eat, wash, and rest. Tomorrow, there’s work. Some would pridefully argue they should work first, all would smile. Most would express gratitude immediately; a few would be skeptical and cautious in their acceptance of the farm owners’ graciousness. All would eat, they didn’t all stay. A few chose to settle in at Crystal View, some just moved on. Some came with skills, some had none. Either way we had work for them - in the cornfields, in the barn, in the butcher house. Plenty of help to bring in the corn crop, but also to help shovel feed, move fences, fork manure, milk, cook, sew, do dishes and laundry.
With the increased number of workers, we could even devote time to woodcutting. Harvey’s furnace, Poppop’s woodstove, and the cook stove in the butcher house took a lot of fuel. Up until now they had been using the supply of firewood they had on hand and burning scrap that had accumulated over the years. That supply had reached its end. Now that there had been a frost and the cooler temperatures were prevalent, crews could venture into the woods with less annoyance from the bugs or fear from disease carrying ticks. It took some skill to chop and saw trees up, but it was one that could be learned. Even some of the youngsters could tag along and help by picking up the smaller pieces of sawed branches, stacking the firewood, or loading and unloading the wagon. The crews also spend timing cleaning up fallen branches and dead trees in the fencelines along the edges of our fields.
All these extra workers came with a few challenges, too. Where will they all sleep and use the bathroom? What about meals? Because our houses were getting pretty full and there was a concerted effort to maintain some privacy for the owners themselves, the newcomers were asked to sleep in the top of the barn. We had bedding and mattresses. Like the barn floor wasn’t already overfilled, there was no heat, and what kind of privacy could they have? Fortunately, Harvey’s barn was built in an “L” shape, so one wing was devoted to single women, the other end to single men, with families in the middle. Hay bales were rearranged into makeshift walls or pieces of the plastic from the silage bags that Larry was feeding from were hung as dividers. Small dressers or end tables, boxes or crates from the two houses were provided for the newcomers to keep their few belongings and toilet articles in. Eventually, the milking herd was housed underneath and a little bit of heat from the cows would help, but realistically, it was just like camping out in winter. Our guests needed good sleeping bags or plenty of covers, long underwear and heavy clothing, all of which we were able to find in our inventoried goods. As an added benefit, moving some things out of Jean’s upstairs kitchen made some more room for Lois’s infirmary.
There was one certainty; as expressed by Harvey and Dad in a huge sign at the barn’s main entrance with reminders at other doors. The sign said:
NO SMOKING OR FIRES IN THIS BARN
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD CANDLES
MATCHES OR LIGHTERS BE FOUND HERE
IF YOU BURN DOWN THIS BARN
YOU BURN YOUR HOME AND FOOD
No matter how cold it got that winter, the ban was never lifted. At one point the residents had learned to heat up bricks or stones at an outside fireplace, built far enough away from the barn to provide some light for bathroom trips during the night. They would then put them in their sleeping bags or under the covers like in colonial times. Harvey and Dad allowed that. Also, Barry, Uncle Bruce, and Dean installed a few car headlights in the barn to make some light during the evening and early morning.
There was a schedule made for showering, and as far as toileting, once again, the boys had exhibited some forethinking. A double outhouse had been built about fifty feet from the barn doors, right next to the manure pit. It was not only convenient for those sleeping in the barn, but also for all of us working around the farm. A lot less water to carry to the bathrooms in the houses. Also, it was ecologically sound. For instead of digging a hole and having our wastes go into the ground, the boys had designed the outhouses so the wastes would flow by gravity right into the manure tank, and then eventually be hauled to the fields to fertilize our crops.
Feeding everyone became our major concern. One of the first things was a change in the eating schedules. As soon as our number exceeded 30, meals had to be served in two shifts, your shift being determined by what time of the morning or evening you were needed at your assigned duties, like milking or dishes. I also noticed how happy the newcomers were to have milk with every meal. They might have not drunk milk for months and even though I was almost tired of drinking it all the time, it made me realize I lucky and blessed I was to have some.
As our oatmeal and cereal was gone, we had to come up with a new breakfast menu. Fortunately, the boys finally had a working flour mill built and running. They had carved two millstones from pieces of a concrete feed trough we didn’t need to have and then incredibly created a drive for it by using Larry’s hay rake in reverse. I mean, normally a tractor was used to power a nine foot wheel with six arms and tines on to rake hay. The boys hooked up a gearbox to rotate one of the millstones, hooked up the power take off shaft to the gear box, and then by walking around the hub and pushing the arms on the rake, transferred the power the opposite direction to make the millstone turn. It was rough for one person to do it alone, but two, three or even six people could hop in to drive the mill. Maybe some day they might be able to drive it with oxen or water, but at least for now, it worked!
They had successfully made wheat flour and were ready to tackle corn next to make cornmeal. That was good news at Butch’s farm; they had been smashing corn with bricks and hammers for over a month. With wheat flour, in addition to baking bread, cakes or pies, we could now make biscuits for breakfast. They didn’t need sugar, very little leavening, and were delicious with all that butter we had. They were also the perfect companion for the gravy we could make with all the meat we had, now that we had flour to thicken it. Our wheat supply was finite, so when they had mastered the art of making cornmeal, some could be added to the biscuits or used straight to make cornbread if we had some eggs to spare. The trick with making cornmeal was roasting it properly first. We accomplished this by spreading the shelled corn on cookie sheets on top the butcher stove whenever it wasn’t being used for cooking or laundry.
Roasting and grinding corn became a steady chore for several members of our crew. Of course some times the cornmeal would be cooked and served as mush, which was similar to oatmeal in consistency and served hot, often times for supper.
“I love mush,” Dad said one evening at supper, “especially with this blackstrap molasses on it.”
“Well I don’t,” I replied, “you can have your mush and your blackstrap. I can barely eat it smothered in butter. You know that blackstrap will be gone one day; we don’t grow sugar cane around here.”
“I know,” he answered, “maybe by then we’ll have some honey or trade for molasses or syrup. It’s to my advantage though, that hardly anyone else likes it, so my supply will last a while.”
“That was your theory with candy in the house, too,” Mom chimed in. “You’d buy kinds, like black licorice, that no one liked.”
“Yep,” Dad responded, “that way it would last weeks, instead of all the munchkins eating it in two days.”
“Oh, you’re the most loving father ever,” I crooned.
“You got that right,” he answered. “Now mother, if everyone has had there fill of mush tonight, it’s going to be pretty cold tonight. You can save the leftover for breakfast.”
“Of course dear,” Mom replied, “wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Any leftover mush would be poured into a pan and if put somewhere cold enough, would ‘set up’ overnight. It could then be sliced into blocks and fried for breakfast. Maybe it was a little better that way; at least I could handle it, again with butter and a little pancake syrup which we had fortunately managed to conserve.
One other way we were very glad to eat cornmeal, probably never thought of by anyone in our family, was brought to us by a couple with their two sons who arrived from New York City. The parents were cooks in a Mexican restaurant and could they do things with cornmeal. Not just tortillas, which were excellent, but also other dishes with our homegrown beans, beef and pork. They were immediately assigned to the kitchen crew and were glad to be there. Their names were Benito and Rosa Diaz.
To be continued………….. Mort
They had questions too, but in almost every instance it was the same one: Can we work for food? Harvey and Jean always had the same answer: First you eat, wash, and rest. Tomorrow, there’s work. Some would pridefully argue they should work first, all would smile. Most would express gratitude immediately; a few would be skeptical and cautious in their acceptance of the farm owners’ graciousness. All would eat, they didn’t all stay. A few chose to settle in at Crystal View, some just moved on. Some came with skills, some had none. Either way we had work for them - in the cornfields, in the barn, in the butcher house. Plenty of help to bring in the corn crop, but also to help shovel feed, move fences, fork manure, milk, cook, sew, do dishes and laundry.
With the increased number of workers, we could even devote time to woodcutting. Harvey’s furnace, Poppop’s woodstove, and the cook stove in the butcher house took a lot of fuel. Up until now they had been using the supply of firewood they had on hand and burning scrap that had accumulated over the years. That supply had reached its end. Now that there had been a frost and the cooler temperatures were prevalent, crews could venture into the woods with less annoyance from the bugs or fear from disease carrying ticks. It took some skill to chop and saw trees up, but it was one that could be learned. Even some of the youngsters could tag along and help by picking up the smaller pieces of sawed branches, stacking the firewood, or loading and unloading the wagon. The crews also spend timing cleaning up fallen branches and dead trees in the fencelines along the edges of our fields.
All these extra workers came with a few challenges, too. Where will they all sleep and use the bathroom? What about meals? Because our houses were getting pretty full and there was a concerted effort to maintain some privacy for the owners themselves, the newcomers were asked to sleep in the top of the barn. We had bedding and mattresses. Like the barn floor wasn’t already overfilled, there was no heat, and what kind of privacy could they have? Fortunately, Harvey’s barn was built in an “L” shape, so one wing was devoted to single women, the other end to single men, with families in the middle. Hay bales were rearranged into makeshift walls or pieces of the plastic from the silage bags that Larry was feeding from were hung as dividers. Small dressers or end tables, boxes or crates from the two houses were provided for the newcomers to keep their few belongings and toilet articles in. Eventually, the milking herd was housed underneath and a little bit of heat from the cows would help, but realistically, it was just like camping out in winter. Our guests needed good sleeping bags or plenty of covers, long underwear and heavy clothing, all of which we were able to find in our inventoried goods. As an added benefit, moving some things out of Jean’s upstairs kitchen made some more room for Lois’s infirmary.
There was one certainty; as expressed by Harvey and Dad in a huge sign at the barn’s main entrance with reminders at other doors. The sign said:
NO SMOKING OR FIRES IN THIS BARN
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD CANDLES
MATCHES OR LIGHTERS BE FOUND HERE
IF YOU BURN DOWN THIS BARN
YOU BURN YOUR HOME AND FOOD
No matter how cold it got that winter, the ban was never lifted. At one point the residents had learned to heat up bricks or stones at an outside fireplace, built far enough away from the barn to provide some light for bathroom trips during the night. They would then put them in their sleeping bags or under the covers like in colonial times. Harvey and Dad allowed that. Also, Barry, Uncle Bruce, and Dean installed a few car headlights in the barn to make some light during the evening and early morning.
There was a schedule made for showering, and as far as toileting, once again, the boys had exhibited some forethinking. A double outhouse had been built about fifty feet from the barn doors, right next to the manure pit. It was not only convenient for those sleeping in the barn, but also for all of us working around the farm. A lot less water to carry to the bathrooms in the houses. Also, it was ecologically sound. For instead of digging a hole and having our wastes go into the ground, the boys had designed the outhouses so the wastes would flow by gravity right into the manure tank, and then eventually be hauled to the fields to fertilize our crops.
Feeding everyone became our major concern. One of the first things was a change in the eating schedules. As soon as our number exceeded 30, meals had to be served in two shifts, your shift being determined by what time of the morning or evening you were needed at your assigned duties, like milking or dishes. I also noticed how happy the newcomers were to have milk with every meal. They might have not drunk milk for months and even though I was almost tired of drinking it all the time, it made me realize I lucky and blessed I was to have some.
As our oatmeal and cereal was gone, we had to come up with a new breakfast menu. Fortunately, the boys finally had a working flour mill built and running. They had carved two millstones from pieces of a concrete feed trough we didn’t need to have and then incredibly created a drive for it by using Larry’s hay rake in reverse. I mean, normally a tractor was used to power a nine foot wheel with six arms and tines on to rake hay. The boys hooked up a gearbox to rotate one of the millstones, hooked up the power take off shaft to the gear box, and then by walking around the hub and pushing the arms on the rake, transferred the power the opposite direction to make the millstone turn. It was rough for one person to do it alone, but two, three or even six people could hop in to drive the mill. Maybe some day they might be able to drive it with oxen or water, but at least for now, it worked!
They had successfully made wheat flour and were ready to tackle corn next to make cornmeal. That was good news at Butch’s farm; they had been smashing corn with bricks and hammers for over a month. With wheat flour, in addition to baking bread, cakes or pies, we could now make biscuits for breakfast. They didn’t need sugar, very little leavening, and were delicious with all that butter we had. They were also the perfect companion for the gravy we could make with all the meat we had, now that we had flour to thicken it. Our wheat supply was finite, so when they had mastered the art of making cornmeal, some could be added to the biscuits or used straight to make cornbread if we had some eggs to spare. The trick with making cornmeal was roasting it properly first. We accomplished this by spreading the shelled corn on cookie sheets on top the butcher stove whenever it wasn’t being used for cooking or laundry.
Roasting and grinding corn became a steady chore for several members of our crew. Of course some times the cornmeal would be cooked and served as mush, which was similar to oatmeal in consistency and served hot, often times for supper.
“I love mush,” Dad said one evening at supper, “especially with this blackstrap molasses on it.”
“Well I don’t,” I replied, “you can have your mush and your blackstrap. I can barely eat it smothered in butter. You know that blackstrap will be gone one day; we don’t grow sugar cane around here.”
“I know,” he answered, “maybe by then we’ll have some honey or trade for molasses or syrup. It’s to my advantage though, that hardly anyone else likes it, so my supply will last a while.”
“That was your theory with candy in the house, too,” Mom chimed in. “You’d buy kinds, like black licorice, that no one liked.”
“Yep,” Dad responded, “that way it would last weeks, instead of all the munchkins eating it in two days.”
“Oh, you’re the most loving father ever,” I crooned.
“You got that right,” he answered. “Now mother, if everyone has had there fill of mush tonight, it’s going to be pretty cold tonight. You can save the leftover for breakfast.”
“Of course dear,” Mom replied, “wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Any leftover mush would be poured into a pan and if put somewhere cold enough, would ‘set up’ overnight. It could then be sliced into blocks and fried for breakfast. Maybe it was a little better that way; at least I could handle it, again with butter and a little pancake syrup which we had fortunately managed to conserve.
One other way we were very glad to eat cornmeal, probably never thought of by anyone in our family, was brought to us by a couple with their two sons who arrived from New York City. The parents were cooks in a Mexican restaurant and could they do things with cornmeal. Not just tortillas, which were excellent, but also other dishes with our homegrown beans, beef and pork. They were immediately assigned to the kitchen crew and were glad to be there. Their names were Benito and Rosa Diaz.
To be continued………….. Mort
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Chapter Nineteen - Corn - Part 3
So once the uses for our corn were established, it shed some light on how to harvest it. The corn harvested as a whole stalk could be utilized by the cattle. The hogs and chickens could eat any ears of corn, even if they had grown a little mold in storage. But the corn we wanted to eat ourselves, feed our horses, and save for seed had to be harvested in the cleanest fashion and stored where there was the least chance of spoilage.
So what did a field’s location have to do with which method we employed to harvest it? Its proximity to cattle. In any field that was close enough to our cattle (or Butch’s) to be fenced off and have the cattle forage in all winter, we would only remove the husked ear from the field. It took a little more effort to harvest, but produced both a clean, safe food for us and left the most forage for the gleaning animals. An added advantage of having the cattle forage all winter in those fields was the manure they deposited there.
Just pulling the ear off the stalk, husk and all, was a much quicker process. We would harvest many more loads per day, therefore we used this method at the end of the harvest season when we were running out of autumn and afraid we might lose some of the crop to winter. Additionally, by the end of fall, the corn was dry enough that it would keep on the barn floor with less risk of spoilage. From the barn floor, as winter progressed, we would husk the corn under roof, feed the corn to the chickens or hogs, and the husks to calves, cows or horses.
By any measure, the hardest and most time consuming method of bringing in the crop was harvesting the whole stalk. It was the method we started with that Wednesday in October and we didn’t actually finish until early spring. For although we may have cut the corn at the beginning of the harvest season, we didn’t need to bring it back to the farm until we needed it, it had dried more fully, and we had time to haul it. The fields that we harvested by this method were those farthest from the farm, fences and water, where no cattle were near enough to use the forage we left behind using the other methods. This method necessitated much more horsepower, as it required less acreage to fill a wagonload of stalks compared to a load of ears only. As a result, many more loads came from these fields, plus it was the farthest distance Butch’s teams had to travel to bring in the corn.
For this job we once again brought out the sickles with their short, heavy, sturdy blades. Scythes would not work well for corn. The cornstalk was way too thick for the scythe’s thinner, flimsier, blade, and it took two hands to swing a scythe. The person wielding the sickle would grab three or four stalks with one hand about shoulder high and then cut the stalks with a couple swings of the sickle with the other hand. Ideally he would hand off the clump to another harvester I’ll call shockers. No, they weren’t electrifying; they stacked the clump of stalks in an upright configuration we call a shock. You must have seen them on Christmas or Thanksgiving cards, or pictured on calendars. That fall we created scores of those shocks immortalized by the poet who wrote:
“When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock”.
With the stalks in an upright position, the ears on the stalk could dry, but by strength of numbers, the shock was protected from the devastating effects of wind and weather through the winter. If we had plenty of shockers in the harvesting crew and our timing was on, there would always be a shocker ready to grab the clump of stalks from the cutter. If not, the cutter would throw the clump onto the ground, making it much harder for the shockers to pick them up and shock. One reason we began shocking corn in mid-October was that the stalks were still strong enough to take the handling. Trying to harvest whole stalks after they had become dry and brittle would be both frustrating and unproductive as the stalk would break off in your hand or the ear would fall off. The other reason was that we didn’t have to be as concerned that the corn was not dry enough to keep in the barn. That risk aside, whenever a wagonload of harvesters traveled to a field to shock corn, those that were not engaged in the shocking process (for we conveniently rotated jobs throughout the day), would take the wagon to a different part of the field and pull the whole ear off the stalk to create a wagonload of corn to take back home. No sense wasting the horsepower by coming back from the field empty.
Typically, we’d use a hay wagon that by design had slatted sides that bales of hay would not fall through, but ears of corn would. For these excursions the boys had fastened boards on all four sides of the wagon around the bottom foot or so from the floor of the wagon to keep the corn from falling off. Every trip home, we’d ride on top the pile of corn. It was always a pleasant ride, especially for the older generations who would reminisce about many a ride on the corn wagon they had taken while growing up. We also had a feeling of accomplishment with the fruits of our labor piled under us, not to mention the fact that we would soon be arriving back to the warmth and comfort of home, particularly if the weather was bad. Not being sure if this early harvested corn was dry enough to keep, we were judicious in the placing of it, so that we could use it first, before it had a chance to spoil.
We had to shovel every load of corn off the modified hay wagons. Later in the season, when the shocking was completed and we were harvesting ears only we switched to using gravity bin wagons. They were metal sided wagons that had a sloping floor and would unload by opening a gate at the wagon’s lowest point. Some shoveling was still necessary, but not near as much. Loading and unloading ears were much easier tasks than doing the same with stalks. I never helped much, but rode along a trip or two. It was back breaking work, but necessary to supply our herd with needed forage.
When either shocking or picking corn, gloves were a very necessary tool, primarily to prevent blisters and also cuts. Cornstalks are rough, but worse was their proclivity to tear in string-like strips that had sharp edges. While not threatening amputation, a cut from such a sliver was similar to a paper cut, but worse. It was very annoying, caused much burning and would be susceptible to infection as corn stalks had different molds and fungi growing on them, especially later in the growing season.
Of course the most necessary tool for shocking was the sickle, although a machete would have worked as well. For pulling and husking corn, however, a husking knife was the preferred tool. If you tried to husk corn all day long without one, the whole area between and along the sides of your thumb and forefinger would take a beating. Gloves helped some, but soon you’d wear holes in them. Husking knives were short pieces of metal with just a dull edge on it, that lay on the thumb side of the forefinger and you used to snap the ear off the stalk or the husk off the ear. Once you learned how to use one, you wouldn’t want to be without it. The knife was fastened to and held in place by rings of leather that fit over your fore and middle fingers. That way the knife was always in the right position and you didn’t drop it while husking. Poppop had two such knives in his antique collection so he used them as a pattern to make a couple dozen more from scrap pieces of metal and leather he cut out of old handbags we had found when we inventoried our belongings.
All in all, husking corn was a pretty neat experience. The horses would pull a wagon right through the field. Three people husked the rows of corn directly in front of the horses before the wagon ran the corn down. They threw the ears into buckets outside the horse’s path and then the buckets were dumped into the wagon when the wagon had moved ahead. Someone had the job of carrying the empty buckets back up in front of the horses; lots of times, it was me. On each side of the wagon, eight or ten people would each take a row and throw the plucked ear directly into the wagon. The most athletic, who wanted to show off their throwing skills, would take the rows farthest from the wagon. So they’d miss once in a while or hit someone (accidentally for the most part); ears could be picked up. Taking 18 to 20 rows in one pass down the field could fill a load in no time. It was a great time for fellowship, laughter, teasing, planning. No noise like when working with engine powered machinery. We even used the harvest moon to husk corn in the evening, the days leading up to and the couple nights of the full moon near the end of October, and then again in November. It was spooky, but at the same time peaceful, sensing God’s silent, still and silhouetted creation and knowing you were with people who cared about you.
Other years, Harvey’s one hundred acres of corn would have all been stored in those plastic bags, so there was virtually no space on the farm dedicated to corn storage. At Crystal View Farm there was an old wooden slatted corn crib, facing open air, where cleanly husked corn could be placed to dry with little risk of spoilage. But it only held about eight acres of corn. Our lack of storage space was another driving factor that forced us to shock as many acres as we did. There was space remaining on the barn floors at the two farms, but it was disappearing quickly. Loose hay took up a lot of room and also baled hay and straw had been stacked in both barns in early summer when Larry still had fuel. We used very little of that hay and straw the rest of the summer, preferring to conserve as much as we could by making maximum use of pasturing. Pasturing also negated the need for using straw as bedding – a very good thing as we didn’t want to spend time and labor forking and hauling manure out of barns. We could delay that chore until the worst part of winter. To make as much room for the corn as possible, the men had painstakingly restacked the baled hay up against the roof, and even on top of the loose hay we had harvested. Also, all the equipment and wagons that Harvey usually stored in the barns was taken outside to free up as much space as possible for the corn.
So space had been created for the corn as the harvest progressed. We piled, shoveled and heaped the ears as high as we could so we’d still have room to work at husking for the livestock and shelling for us and the chickens, or for any other purpose that might arise. The cleanly husked corn that was intended for our use was not just piled on the floor. Larry and Poppop made rings of box fence wire about eight feet in diameter and stacked them on slatted wooden pallets in upright cylinders right on the barn floor near the area where a good flow of fresh air was usually present. Similar to the wooden crib at Butch’s, this would promote thorough drying to keep our food supply as safe, nutritious, and palatable as possible.
To be continued…… Mort
So what did a field’s location have to do with which method we employed to harvest it? Its proximity to cattle. In any field that was close enough to our cattle (or Butch’s) to be fenced off and have the cattle forage in all winter, we would only remove the husked ear from the field. It took a little more effort to harvest, but produced both a clean, safe food for us and left the most forage for the gleaning animals. An added advantage of having the cattle forage all winter in those fields was the manure they deposited there.
Just pulling the ear off the stalk, husk and all, was a much quicker process. We would harvest many more loads per day, therefore we used this method at the end of the harvest season when we were running out of autumn and afraid we might lose some of the crop to winter. Additionally, by the end of fall, the corn was dry enough that it would keep on the barn floor with less risk of spoilage. From the barn floor, as winter progressed, we would husk the corn under roof, feed the corn to the chickens or hogs, and the husks to calves, cows or horses.
By any measure, the hardest and most time consuming method of bringing in the crop was harvesting the whole stalk. It was the method we started with that Wednesday in October and we didn’t actually finish until early spring. For although we may have cut the corn at the beginning of the harvest season, we didn’t need to bring it back to the farm until we needed it, it had dried more fully, and we had time to haul it. The fields that we harvested by this method were those farthest from the farm, fences and water, where no cattle were near enough to use the forage we left behind using the other methods. This method necessitated much more horsepower, as it required less acreage to fill a wagonload of stalks compared to a load of ears only. As a result, many more loads came from these fields, plus it was the farthest distance Butch’s teams had to travel to bring in the corn.
For this job we once again brought out the sickles with their short, heavy, sturdy blades. Scythes would not work well for corn. The cornstalk was way too thick for the scythe’s thinner, flimsier, blade, and it took two hands to swing a scythe. The person wielding the sickle would grab three or four stalks with one hand about shoulder high and then cut the stalks with a couple swings of the sickle with the other hand. Ideally he would hand off the clump to another harvester I’ll call shockers. No, they weren’t electrifying; they stacked the clump of stalks in an upright configuration we call a shock. You must have seen them on Christmas or Thanksgiving cards, or pictured on calendars. That fall we created scores of those shocks immortalized by the poet who wrote:
“When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock”.
With the stalks in an upright position, the ears on the stalk could dry, but by strength of numbers, the shock was protected from the devastating effects of wind and weather through the winter. If we had plenty of shockers in the harvesting crew and our timing was on, there would always be a shocker ready to grab the clump of stalks from the cutter. If not, the cutter would throw the clump onto the ground, making it much harder for the shockers to pick them up and shock. One reason we began shocking corn in mid-October was that the stalks were still strong enough to take the handling. Trying to harvest whole stalks after they had become dry and brittle would be both frustrating and unproductive as the stalk would break off in your hand or the ear would fall off. The other reason was that we didn’t have to be as concerned that the corn was not dry enough to keep in the barn. That risk aside, whenever a wagonload of harvesters traveled to a field to shock corn, those that were not engaged in the shocking process (for we conveniently rotated jobs throughout the day), would take the wagon to a different part of the field and pull the whole ear off the stalk to create a wagonload of corn to take back home. No sense wasting the horsepower by coming back from the field empty.
Typically, we’d use a hay wagon that by design had slatted sides that bales of hay would not fall through, but ears of corn would. For these excursions the boys had fastened boards on all four sides of the wagon around the bottom foot or so from the floor of the wagon to keep the corn from falling off. Every trip home, we’d ride on top the pile of corn. It was always a pleasant ride, especially for the older generations who would reminisce about many a ride on the corn wagon they had taken while growing up. We also had a feeling of accomplishment with the fruits of our labor piled under us, not to mention the fact that we would soon be arriving back to the warmth and comfort of home, particularly if the weather was bad. Not being sure if this early harvested corn was dry enough to keep, we were judicious in the placing of it, so that we could use it first, before it had a chance to spoil.
We had to shovel every load of corn off the modified hay wagons. Later in the season, when the shocking was completed and we were harvesting ears only we switched to using gravity bin wagons. They were metal sided wagons that had a sloping floor and would unload by opening a gate at the wagon’s lowest point. Some shoveling was still necessary, but not near as much. Loading and unloading ears were much easier tasks than doing the same with stalks. I never helped much, but rode along a trip or two. It was back breaking work, but necessary to supply our herd with needed forage.
When either shocking or picking corn, gloves were a very necessary tool, primarily to prevent blisters and also cuts. Cornstalks are rough, but worse was their proclivity to tear in string-like strips that had sharp edges. While not threatening amputation, a cut from such a sliver was similar to a paper cut, but worse. It was very annoying, caused much burning and would be susceptible to infection as corn stalks had different molds and fungi growing on them, especially later in the growing season.
Of course the most necessary tool for shocking was the sickle, although a machete would have worked as well. For pulling and husking corn, however, a husking knife was the preferred tool. If you tried to husk corn all day long without one, the whole area between and along the sides of your thumb and forefinger would take a beating. Gloves helped some, but soon you’d wear holes in them. Husking knives were short pieces of metal with just a dull edge on it, that lay on the thumb side of the forefinger and you used to snap the ear off the stalk or the husk off the ear. Once you learned how to use one, you wouldn’t want to be without it. The knife was fastened to and held in place by rings of leather that fit over your fore and middle fingers. That way the knife was always in the right position and you didn’t drop it while husking. Poppop had two such knives in his antique collection so he used them as a pattern to make a couple dozen more from scrap pieces of metal and leather he cut out of old handbags we had found when we inventoried our belongings.
All in all, husking corn was a pretty neat experience. The horses would pull a wagon right through the field. Three people husked the rows of corn directly in front of the horses before the wagon ran the corn down. They threw the ears into buckets outside the horse’s path and then the buckets were dumped into the wagon when the wagon had moved ahead. Someone had the job of carrying the empty buckets back up in front of the horses; lots of times, it was me. On each side of the wagon, eight or ten people would each take a row and throw the plucked ear directly into the wagon. The most athletic, who wanted to show off their throwing skills, would take the rows farthest from the wagon. So they’d miss once in a while or hit someone (accidentally for the most part); ears could be picked up. Taking 18 to 20 rows in one pass down the field could fill a load in no time. It was a great time for fellowship, laughter, teasing, planning. No noise like when working with engine powered machinery. We even used the harvest moon to husk corn in the evening, the days leading up to and the couple nights of the full moon near the end of October, and then again in November. It was spooky, but at the same time peaceful, sensing God’s silent, still and silhouetted creation and knowing you were with people who cared about you.
Other years, Harvey’s one hundred acres of corn would have all been stored in those plastic bags, so there was virtually no space on the farm dedicated to corn storage. At Crystal View Farm there was an old wooden slatted corn crib, facing open air, where cleanly husked corn could be placed to dry with little risk of spoilage. But it only held about eight acres of corn. Our lack of storage space was another driving factor that forced us to shock as many acres as we did. There was space remaining on the barn floors at the two farms, but it was disappearing quickly. Loose hay took up a lot of room and also baled hay and straw had been stacked in both barns in early summer when Larry still had fuel. We used very little of that hay and straw the rest of the summer, preferring to conserve as much as we could by making maximum use of pasturing. Pasturing also negated the need for using straw as bedding – a very good thing as we didn’t want to spend time and labor forking and hauling manure out of barns. We could delay that chore until the worst part of winter. To make as much room for the corn as possible, the men had painstakingly restacked the baled hay up against the roof, and even on top of the loose hay we had harvested. Also, all the equipment and wagons that Harvey usually stored in the barns was taken outside to free up as much space as possible for the corn.
So space had been created for the corn as the harvest progressed. We piled, shoveled and heaped the ears as high as we could so we’d still have room to work at husking for the livestock and shelling for us and the chickens, or for any other purpose that might arise. The cleanly husked corn that was intended for our use was not just piled on the floor. Larry and Poppop made rings of box fence wire about eight feet in diameter and stacked them on slatted wooden pallets in upright cylinders right on the barn floor near the area where a good flow of fresh air was usually present. Similar to the wooden crib at Butch’s, this would promote thorough drying to keep our food supply as safe, nutritious, and palatable as possible.
To be continued…… Mort
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Chapter Nineteen - Corn (cont)
Gathering nuts was both easy and fun. Like Harvey had envisioned, we youngsters did the bending and the picking, while our elders aided by moving the buckets from tree to tree and carrying the full ones to the wagon. To get started, we used Brutus to pull the wagon full of empty buckets and nut-pickers. A carefully thought out route was followed, dropping off people and buckets at predetermined nut-infested areas of the farms. I stayed with Brutus to the last stop, where we only had seven empty buckets and five people remaining. While Brutus was resting in the shade and munching early fall grass, Jake, who drove the wagon, Uncle Bruce, Aunt Kristen, Dean and I filled the seven buckets with nuts and loaded them onto the wagon.
We then retraced our steps, picking up people and loading buckets of nuts all the way back to the farm. It quickly got to the point where there were more nuts than people on the wagon; though Harvey commented once that it was hard for him to tell which were the nuts. Soon every square inch of the wagon floor had a bucket of nuts on it, so everyone was walking back to the farm. Some of the kids, Robbie, of course, clung precariously onto the sides of the wagon as Brutus plodded along. He’s such a show off.
We unloaded the nuts into Poppop’s basement in time for lunch, and then repeated the whole process by another route in the afternoon. They yielded well; we must have gathered over 100 buckets. But the pile of nuts in Poppop’s basement wasn’t the only evidence of our toil. The juice in black walnut hulls possess the powerful ability to stain. Depending on the maturity of the nut or how long it lay on the ground, the stain was either a light greenish-yellow brown or a deeper brownish black. Practically everyone had come across a black walnut tree that day, so Wednesday morning when we started the corn harvest, we all had yellow-green-brownish stained hands. It wouldn’t wash off so I figured we’d have to work it off. The corn harvest gave us just that opportunity.
Prior to the collapse, Harvey and Larry’s corn was harvested by two methods. One was to use a machine called a forage harvester to chop into fine pieces the whole stalk and ear while there was still a fair amount of moisture in it. Then the chopped material was packed into oxygen limiting, tube-like plastic bags where the material would ferment similar to sauerkraut and thus be preserved as what is known as silage. The second was to use the combine to shell the kernels of corn off of the ear, leaving the rest of the stalk, cob and husk in the field. If the right moisture, the shelled corn could be ground into the plastic tubes as well, or if it contained less moisture, could be dried with artificial heat and stored in a grain bin. Neither of these methods could be used this year – we did not have the fuel to spare, nor were there any bags available.
Fortunately there are ways to harvest corn by hand and we had the tools, the know-how, and the manpower to do so. The three ways that we employed were harvesting the whole stalk, the ear with the husk on, and a husked ear. The method we used was determined by the field’s location and the intended use of the corn. There was much discussion about how we should use the corn.
“I recall,” Mel said during that discussion, “a chart I saw in school in an environmental biology class, that compared the amount of grain consumption by various animals to the amount of product produced.”
“I bet dairy cows were the most efficient,” Larry declared.
“I think it’s hogs,” Dad offered.
“Has to be chickens,” Mom chimed in. “What did the chart say?”
“I don’t remember exact figures, or the exact order,” Mel responded. “But I remember their groupings. Raising cattle and sheep for their meat took the most: five to six pounds of grain for every pound of meat produced. Hogs took less, three or four pounds. Producing milk took around three pounds of grain per pound of milk, while egg production took two and a half, I think. And chickens for their meat use two pounds of grain.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Dad commented, “that a six pound chicken only ate twelve pounds of grain in its short lifetime.”
“I don’t believe the figure on milk production either,” Larry complained. “A cow giving 100 pounds of milk per day doesn’t eat 300 pounds of grain.”
“That’s very true,” Mel replied. “I thought about that at the time. I think the two keys were that it measured the grain consumption of the animal over its whole lactation and lifetime and that the figure was a grain equivalent. Think of all the days you feed a heifer before you even get one drop of milk and also the grain a cow eats while it’s dry. All that grain was figured in.”
“That makes sense,” Harvey said. “But what did you mean by ‘grain equivalent’?”
“I concluded that the study was conducted as part of the ecology revolution,” Mel answered.
“You mean the environmentalist whackos?” Joe asked.
“I suppose you could say that,” Mel chuckled. “The study’s purpose was to show that we should be feeding people with the grain instead of feeding it to animals – to show it was an ecological, financial, and moral obligation to not feed animals the grain that starving people could eat.”
“You buy that?” Josh asked.
“No,” Mel answered, “I immediately recognized the results as propaganda and missing a very key element.”
“What element?” Uncle Bruce asked.
“The study didn’t take into account the whole ration the cow, sheep or hog ate. To answer Harvey’s question, the grain equivalent was the amount of grain the animal would eat if you replaced every other ingredient in the animal’s diet with grain.”
“You can’t do that!” Larry exclaimed. “It’s not healthy for the cow.”
“We know that,” Mel agreed. “But they had to compare apples to apples. Chickens eat very little grass or other plant matter, while cattle and sheep can be on all forage diets.”
“So I might have guessed wrong,” Mom interjected. “Almost 100% of a chicken’s diet, at least commercially, is grain. They would eat the most grain compared to what you get from them.”
“True, maybe,” Jean offered, “but I’d rather eat two scrambled eggs or a drumstick than a half pound of corn.”
“Agreed,” Mom replied, “So I guess in our operation, it’s advantage cows – we shouldn’t waste so much corn on the chickens.”
“I don’t know if I would reach the same conclusion,” Dad said. “With your chickens not being cooped up and running free range around the farm, they eat insects, weed seeds and pick at the garbage. As they don’t eat much grain, we can spare some for them. Besides, eggs and chicken are a valuable source of protein in our diets. The cows on the other hand, are producing more milk than we can use without additional grain to their ration. They can grow and produce milk on grass, hay, vegetable stalks and pods, cornstalks and husks, at least this time of year.”
“When it gets colder,” Larry added, “both the cows and young stock will need more energy to grow. You see now, they’re getting some grain in the corn silage we have leftover from last fall. That supply might last until late winter at best. Then they will need more grain to grow, at least until new, rich spring grass is available for them to forage. You think about it: cows, sheep and goats might be our saviors through the next few years. We can’t eat all those forages you mentioned like grass and stalks. They can, and in turn produce food that we can eat. They didn’t mention that in the study did they Mel?”
“Of course not,” she replied.
“Bet they didn’t think of the manure either,” Poppop added. “It’s a valuable fertilizer for us to grow more feed for the livestock and food for us. Our yields would drop dramatically without it. Livestock are indeed a blessing to our operation and a solution to our predicament. Heck, goats will even eat bushes and weeds and poison ivy to give us meat and milk.”
Thinking back on that, we later learned that the several goat farms in the neighborhood had continued to prosper and provide food and work for many guests. It made me think how the Israelites survived and even thrived in the virtual deserts of Midian and Sinai and other arid areas of Palestine. Their goats and sheep could convert any scrubby growth into food, not to mention the value of their skins and wool.
“Yes,” Harvey concluded, “our cattle will keep us going. I look at some of the neighbors’ land that was placed in the Conservation Reserve Enhancement Program. In essence, rented to the government to take it out of production in order to stabilize prices and create cover for wildlife. Almost all those acres are seeded in wild grasses that we can’t eat, but our livestock can. When those agreements were still in effect, harvesting those fields was prohibited; there’s lush growth there. Now with the government inoperative and not fulfilling their side of the contract, that is paying the rent, that makes the contract void. That grass may now be grazed and will become a valuable forage, especially as winter progresses.”
“Bottom line is,” Larry said, “even with all the available forage around, when it becomes harder for the livestock to find it and the temperatures get lower, we should feed some corn to our cattle, and use some for the chickens. What about the hogs?”
“I would say,” Joe answered, “only if we have some to spare. They can grow without it, but when you go to butcher a hog fed milk only, the pork isn’t firm at all and annoyingly difficult to cut. So it would be better if we can spare some.”
“I’m sure we can,” Dad replied. “Fortunately, when we run our hogs with the cattle, the hogs can root through the manure for undigested pieces of grain. And they also find roots and tubers in the fields as well. Hogs around here aren’t totally dependent on us feeding them milk and corn; they convert some inedible materials to food for us, too.”
“OK,” Jean said, “corn for cows, chickens and hogs, and don’t forget us!”
“That’s right,” Poppop agreed, “don’t forget us. But there is one group of animals we didn’t mention yet that needs corn, too.”
“Brutus!” I exclaimed, “the horses.”
“Right,” Poppop replied, “Brutus and the horses at Butch’s. They are going to be doing some hard work and need the energy. Our oat supply is limited, so they need corn. Also when our oxen get to working age, they’ll need more grain as well.”
“And lastly,” Larry added, “we have to save some corn for seed.”
To be continued…… Mort
We then retraced our steps, picking up people and loading buckets of nuts all the way back to the farm. It quickly got to the point where there were more nuts than people on the wagon; though Harvey commented once that it was hard for him to tell which were the nuts. Soon every square inch of the wagon floor had a bucket of nuts on it, so everyone was walking back to the farm. Some of the kids, Robbie, of course, clung precariously onto the sides of the wagon as Brutus plodded along. He’s such a show off.
We unloaded the nuts into Poppop’s basement in time for lunch, and then repeated the whole process by another route in the afternoon. They yielded well; we must have gathered over 100 buckets. But the pile of nuts in Poppop’s basement wasn’t the only evidence of our toil. The juice in black walnut hulls possess the powerful ability to stain. Depending on the maturity of the nut or how long it lay on the ground, the stain was either a light greenish-yellow brown or a deeper brownish black. Practically everyone had come across a black walnut tree that day, so Wednesday morning when we started the corn harvest, we all had yellow-green-brownish stained hands. It wouldn’t wash off so I figured we’d have to work it off. The corn harvest gave us just that opportunity.
Prior to the collapse, Harvey and Larry’s corn was harvested by two methods. One was to use a machine called a forage harvester to chop into fine pieces the whole stalk and ear while there was still a fair amount of moisture in it. Then the chopped material was packed into oxygen limiting, tube-like plastic bags where the material would ferment similar to sauerkraut and thus be preserved as what is known as silage. The second was to use the combine to shell the kernels of corn off of the ear, leaving the rest of the stalk, cob and husk in the field. If the right moisture, the shelled corn could be ground into the plastic tubes as well, or if it contained less moisture, could be dried with artificial heat and stored in a grain bin. Neither of these methods could be used this year – we did not have the fuel to spare, nor were there any bags available.
Fortunately there are ways to harvest corn by hand and we had the tools, the know-how, and the manpower to do so. The three ways that we employed were harvesting the whole stalk, the ear with the husk on, and a husked ear. The method we used was determined by the field’s location and the intended use of the corn. There was much discussion about how we should use the corn.
“I recall,” Mel said during that discussion, “a chart I saw in school in an environmental biology class, that compared the amount of grain consumption by various animals to the amount of product produced.”
“I bet dairy cows were the most efficient,” Larry declared.
“I think it’s hogs,” Dad offered.
“Has to be chickens,” Mom chimed in. “What did the chart say?”
“I don’t remember exact figures, or the exact order,” Mel responded. “But I remember their groupings. Raising cattle and sheep for their meat took the most: five to six pounds of grain for every pound of meat produced. Hogs took less, three or four pounds. Producing milk took around three pounds of grain per pound of milk, while egg production took two and a half, I think. And chickens for their meat use two pounds of grain.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Dad commented, “that a six pound chicken only ate twelve pounds of grain in its short lifetime.”
“I don’t believe the figure on milk production either,” Larry complained. “A cow giving 100 pounds of milk per day doesn’t eat 300 pounds of grain.”
“That’s very true,” Mel replied. “I thought about that at the time. I think the two keys were that it measured the grain consumption of the animal over its whole lactation and lifetime and that the figure was a grain equivalent. Think of all the days you feed a heifer before you even get one drop of milk and also the grain a cow eats while it’s dry. All that grain was figured in.”
“That makes sense,” Harvey said. “But what did you mean by ‘grain equivalent’?”
“I concluded that the study was conducted as part of the ecology revolution,” Mel answered.
“You mean the environmentalist whackos?” Joe asked.
“I suppose you could say that,” Mel chuckled. “The study’s purpose was to show that we should be feeding people with the grain instead of feeding it to animals – to show it was an ecological, financial, and moral obligation to not feed animals the grain that starving people could eat.”
“You buy that?” Josh asked.
“No,” Mel answered, “I immediately recognized the results as propaganda and missing a very key element.”
“What element?” Uncle Bruce asked.
“The study didn’t take into account the whole ration the cow, sheep or hog ate. To answer Harvey’s question, the grain equivalent was the amount of grain the animal would eat if you replaced every other ingredient in the animal’s diet with grain.”
“You can’t do that!” Larry exclaimed. “It’s not healthy for the cow.”
“We know that,” Mel agreed. “But they had to compare apples to apples. Chickens eat very little grass or other plant matter, while cattle and sheep can be on all forage diets.”
“So I might have guessed wrong,” Mom interjected. “Almost 100% of a chicken’s diet, at least commercially, is grain. They would eat the most grain compared to what you get from them.”
“True, maybe,” Jean offered, “but I’d rather eat two scrambled eggs or a drumstick than a half pound of corn.”
“Agreed,” Mom replied, “So I guess in our operation, it’s advantage cows – we shouldn’t waste so much corn on the chickens.”
“I don’t know if I would reach the same conclusion,” Dad said. “With your chickens not being cooped up and running free range around the farm, they eat insects, weed seeds and pick at the garbage. As they don’t eat much grain, we can spare some for them. Besides, eggs and chicken are a valuable source of protein in our diets. The cows on the other hand, are producing more milk than we can use without additional grain to their ration. They can grow and produce milk on grass, hay, vegetable stalks and pods, cornstalks and husks, at least this time of year.”
“When it gets colder,” Larry added, “both the cows and young stock will need more energy to grow. You see now, they’re getting some grain in the corn silage we have leftover from last fall. That supply might last until late winter at best. Then they will need more grain to grow, at least until new, rich spring grass is available for them to forage. You think about it: cows, sheep and goats might be our saviors through the next few years. We can’t eat all those forages you mentioned like grass and stalks. They can, and in turn produce food that we can eat. They didn’t mention that in the study did they Mel?”
“Of course not,” she replied.
“Bet they didn’t think of the manure either,” Poppop added. “It’s a valuable fertilizer for us to grow more feed for the livestock and food for us. Our yields would drop dramatically without it. Livestock are indeed a blessing to our operation and a solution to our predicament. Heck, goats will even eat bushes and weeds and poison ivy to give us meat and milk.”
Thinking back on that, we later learned that the several goat farms in the neighborhood had continued to prosper and provide food and work for many guests. It made me think how the Israelites survived and even thrived in the virtual deserts of Midian and Sinai and other arid areas of Palestine. Their goats and sheep could convert any scrubby growth into food, not to mention the value of their skins and wool.
“Yes,” Harvey concluded, “our cattle will keep us going. I look at some of the neighbors’ land that was placed in the Conservation Reserve Enhancement Program. In essence, rented to the government to take it out of production in order to stabilize prices and create cover for wildlife. Almost all those acres are seeded in wild grasses that we can’t eat, but our livestock can. When those agreements were still in effect, harvesting those fields was prohibited; there’s lush growth there. Now with the government inoperative and not fulfilling their side of the contract, that is paying the rent, that makes the contract void. That grass may now be grazed and will become a valuable forage, especially as winter progresses.”
“Bottom line is,” Larry said, “even with all the available forage around, when it becomes harder for the livestock to find it and the temperatures get lower, we should feed some corn to our cattle, and use some for the chickens. What about the hogs?”
“I would say,” Joe answered, “only if we have some to spare. They can grow without it, but when you go to butcher a hog fed milk only, the pork isn’t firm at all and annoyingly difficult to cut. So it would be better if we can spare some.”
“I’m sure we can,” Dad replied. “Fortunately, when we run our hogs with the cattle, the hogs can root through the manure for undigested pieces of grain. And they also find roots and tubers in the fields as well. Hogs around here aren’t totally dependent on us feeding them milk and corn; they convert some inedible materials to food for us, too.”
“OK,” Jean said, “corn for cows, chickens and hogs, and don’t forget us!”
“That’s right,” Poppop agreed, “don’t forget us. But there is one group of animals we didn’t mention yet that needs corn, too.”
“Brutus!” I exclaimed, “the horses.”
“Right,” Poppop replied, “Brutus and the horses at Butch’s. They are going to be doing some hard work and need the energy. Our oat supply is limited, so they need corn. Also when our oxen get to working age, they’ll need more grain as well.”
“And lastly,” Larry added, “we have to save some corn for seed.”
To be continued…… Mort
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Chapter Nineteen - Corn
The discussion that evening in the butcher house, while Grandmom and Diana were researching Diana’s family tree, eventually led back to her.
“I can really relate to her,” my Aunt Kristen announced. “I know how I felt when Bruce and Dean went to the city to retrieve my mother. They were only gone a little over half a day and I still had grave concerns that I’d never see them again. This poor woman hasn’t seen her husband for three weeks. So what of it? Why should our feelings be significant?”
“When you study about famous people,” she continued, “and about all the lands of the world and the contributions that were made to the world. About the kingdoms of the past and all the people who lived then and now inherit the Earth. Then compare that vast being of humanity to yourself, a single person with a small mind. Doesn’t it make you feel like an insignificant speck of dust in an endless desert; your mere existence at the whim of God? Like the wind can blow that dust particle anywhere and whenever it chooses? That anything and everything you do can have little effect on the grand scheme of things? So, what’s the use?”
I didn’t get it, at least not that evening. Seemed like the adults did, though, for all the other talk had ceased and eyes were gazing intently at each other.
Then she concluded, “Does anyone else feel like that?”
Sandy walked over to Kristen, sat beside her, put her arm on her shoulder and said, “We probably all feel like that at some time or another. I suppose it’s hard not to feel that way when you consider the billions of people that have existed up to this point in history. But you see, that what makes God great. For out of those billions of people he still knows and loves you, no matter how insignificant or purposeless you feel. So what if you never feel like you’ve made a great contribution to society? What is really important is how you affect those near to you, those that most need your love.”
“It reminds me of my grandmother. Of course, she was the most loving person in the world from the perspective of her spoiled granddaughter. But if you would have talked to my mother or grandfather, on some occasions they might have held a differing opinion. But what brought me joy for years after she passed away was that people would share with me the wonderful, loving things she had done for them. Or the way she treated people. One person from the neighborhood called her a saint, for the way she allowed the neighborhood children into her home on an almost daily basis, fed them, and put up with their shenanigans without ever losing her temper or uttering a mean word.”
Sandy put her hand on Kristen’s heart and continued, “Everyone has something in there – something meaningful – something purposeful – something significant. Just let the spirit lead you and use you. Share your love with everyone around you. And when you remember God loves you, the insignificance goes away.”
Sandy gave her a hug and then Jennifer, Dean, and Uncle Bruce. Others followed suit. It seemed like the evening was wrapping up and just about the time I was ready to hit the sack, Diana and Grandmom returned.
“What did you find?” Dad asked.
“A few things,” Grandmom answered, “nothing terribly definitive though.”
“How so?” Harvey asked.
“I could find no references to a Jonas, William or Gertie Fritz in any of the Hafer or Hepner notes I have,” she replied. “Well actually, there was a William Hafer, but he didn’t fit. His wife was Brenda and they had two daughters. Likewise we found no Jonas, William or Gertie Fritz in the Heffner book, but we did find a Howard and Clara Heffner that migrated to Kansas in 1922.”
“And who were their children?” Dad asked. “Did they have a daughter Gertie?”
“No such luck,” Grandmom answered. “There was no further information listed about them. Tells me they didn’t return to Pennsylvania.”
“Diana,” Dad cut in, “how old is your husband?”
“Thirty-five,” she responded.
“Then he was born in……. 1972?” he quickly calculated.
“Yes.”
“Any idea how old his mother might have been when he was born?”
“Not for certain,” Diana replied, “but he told me he was the youngest child. I recall that she died when he was twenty – before I knew him.”
“So she could have been 40 or so when he was born,” Dad surmised. “Forty from 1972 is 1932, tens years after Howard and Clara left for Kansas. Time wise they could have been his grandparents.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Diana said.
“But not for certain,” Grandmom said.
“No, not for certain,” Dad agreed.
“But,” Grandmom responded, “Jonas did say he had relatives in this area and Howard and Clara do have relatives in Pennsylvania.”
“So it is possible we’ve found his grandparents,” Diana reiterated.
“Yes, possible,” Grandmom replied, “and his relatives.”
“Anyone we know?” Jean asked.
“No one close,” Grandmom continued, “Howard had a brother, Curtis and a sister, Mary Ellen who remained in Pennsylvania. The Heffner book has information on them. Mary Ellen married Homer Groff.”
“We know a lot of Groff’s,” Joe interjected.
“Of course we do,” Poppop replied. “I even remember my dad talking about a Homer Groff. Lived up near Weilers. Can’t say that I would know his kids' names though.”
“Well I do,” Grandmom said. “Curtis and Mary Ellen had seven children between them. If we have the right family, they would be Jonas’s mother’s cousins and be around 70-90 years old. I have a list of their names and the names of their children, at least the ones that were in the book. Found a total of fifteen. Heffner’s, Groff,s, Adam’s, Riley’s; some girls are listed without surnames. They would be around 30-50 years old – Jonas’s second cousins.”
“The relatives Jonas might have come here looking for?” Larry inquired.
“Might have,” Dad answered, “remember, we don’t know if the Howard in the Heffner book is Jonas’s grandfather. And, it’s possible that the relatives he came to find are from his Grandmother Clara’s side. We know nothing about her family, do we?”
“Only,” Grandmom replied, “that her parents were Alfred Schmidt and Naomi Messerbaum. We have no information about their families. Howard and Clara’s family info is what we have.”
“But it’s all we have to go on. Please everyone, look at the list and see if you know any of them,” Diana pleaded.
So we passed the list around with mixed results ensuing.
Jeremiah said, “There’s a Clyde Heffner on the list. I played little league with a Clyde Heffner, but I’d have no idea where he is now.”
Sandy knew a Donna Riley and Mom remembered a Susan Heffner and Thomas Adam, but again their whereabouts were unknown. Joe said he once worked with Tyler Groff.
“He was from the Weilers area, where Poppop remembered Homer lived” Joe said. “Just talked to him about a year ago. Far as I know, he still lives around there, lessen he had to move like the rest of us did.”
“But it’s at least one name to go on,” Diana said. “Won’t you please try to find him. Jonas might be there.”
“Diana, we’ll try,” Joe replied. “But Weilers is over twenty miles from here. It would take a few days to make the trip and start searching farm after home after farm. But rest assured, if we have reason to travel that direction, we’ll be inquiring about him.”
“The best thing we can do is spread the word,” Dad added. “We’ll make copies of the list and have Jonas and your names on it with instructions how to contact us. We’ll pass them around; if anyone from the two farms travels somewhere, they can hand them out. And when the pastor or Doctor Fleming show up, we’ll brief them and they can expand the network. Just don’t give up hope, Diana, don’t give up hope.”
To be continued……Mort
“I can really relate to her,” my Aunt Kristen announced. “I know how I felt when Bruce and Dean went to the city to retrieve my mother. They were only gone a little over half a day and I still had grave concerns that I’d never see them again. This poor woman hasn’t seen her husband for three weeks. So what of it? Why should our feelings be significant?”
“When you study about famous people,” she continued, “and about all the lands of the world and the contributions that were made to the world. About the kingdoms of the past and all the people who lived then and now inherit the Earth. Then compare that vast being of humanity to yourself, a single person with a small mind. Doesn’t it make you feel like an insignificant speck of dust in an endless desert; your mere existence at the whim of God? Like the wind can blow that dust particle anywhere and whenever it chooses? That anything and everything you do can have little effect on the grand scheme of things? So, what’s the use?”
I didn’t get it, at least not that evening. Seemed like the adults did, though, for all the other talk had ceased and eyes were gazing intently at each other.
Then she concluded, “Does anyone else feel like that?”
Sandy walked over to Kristen, sat beside her, put her arm on her shoulder and said, “We probably all feel like that at some time or another. I suppose it’s hard not to feel that way when you consider the billions of people that have existed up to this point in history. But you see, that what makes God great. For out of those billions of people he still knows and loves you, no matter how insignificant or purposeless you feel. So what if you never feel like you’ve made a great contribution to society? What is really important is how you affect those near to you, those that most need your love.”
“It reminds me of my grandmother. Of course, she was the most loving person in the world from the perspective of her spoiled granddaughter. But if you would have talked to my mother or grandfather, on some occasions they might have held a differing opinion. But what brought me joy for years after she passed away was that people would share with me the wonderful, loving things she had done for them. Or the way she treated people. One person from the neighborhood called her a saint, for the way she allowed the neighborhood children into her home on an almost daily basis, fed them, and put up with their shenanigans without ever losing her temper or uttering a mean word.”
Sandy put her hand on Kristen’s heart and continued, “Everyone has something in there – something meaningful – something purposeful – something significant. Just let the spirit lead you and use you. Share your love with everyone around you. And when you remember God loves you, the insignificance goes away.”
Sandy gave her a hug and then Jennifer, Dean, and Uncle Bruce. Others followed suit. It seemed like the evening was wrapping up and just about the time I was ready to hit the sack, Diana and Grandmom returned.
“What did you find?” Dad asked.
“A few things,” Grandmom answered, “nothing terribly definitive though.”
“How so?” Harvey asked.
“I could find no references to a Jonas, William or Gertie Fritz in any of the Hafer or Hepner notes I have,” she replied. “Well actually, there was a William Hafer, but he didn’t fit. His wife was Brenda and they had two daughters. Likewise we found no Jonas, William or Gertie Fritz in the Heffner book, but we did find a Howard and Clara Heffner that migrated to Kansas in 1922.”
“And who were their children?” Dad asked. “Did they have a daughter Gertie?”
“No such luck,” Grandmom answered. “There was no further information listed about them. Tells me they didn’t return to Pennsylvania.”
“Diana,” Dad cut in, “how old is your husband?”
“Thirty-five,” she responded.
“Then he was born in……. 1972?” he quickly calculated.
“Yes.”
“Any idea how old his mother might have been when he was born?”
“Not for certain,” Diana replied, “but he told me he was the youngest child. I recall that she died when he was twenty – before I knew him.”
“So she could have been 40 or so when he was born,” Dad surmised. “Forty from 1972 is 1932, tens years after Howard and Clara left for Kansas. Time wise they could have been his grandparents.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Diana said.
“But not for certain,” Grandmom said.
“No, not for certain,” Dad agreed.
“But,” Grandmom responded, “Jonas did say he had relatives in this area and Howard and Clara do have relatives in Pennsylvania.”
“So it is possible we’ve found his grandparents,” Diana reiterated.
“Yes, possible,” Grandmom replied, “and his relatives.”
“Anyone we know?” Jean asked.
“No one close,” Grandmom continued, “Howard had a brother, Curtis and a sister, Mary Ellen who remained in Pennsylvania. The Heffner book has information on them. Mary Ellen married Homer Groff.”
“We know a lot of Groff’s,” Joe interjected.
“Of course we do,” Poppop replied. “I even remember my dad talking about a Homer Groff. Lived up near Weilers. Can’t say that I would know his kids' names though.”
“Well I do,” Grandmom said. “Curtis and Mary Ellen had seven children between them. If we have the right family, they would be Jonas’s mother’s cousins and be around 70-90 years old. I have a list of their names and the names of their children, at least the ones that were in the book. Found a total of fifteen. Heffner’s, Groff,s, Adam’s, Riley’s; some girls are listed without surnames. They would be around 30-50 years old – Jonas’s second cousins.”
“The relatives Jonas might have come here looking for?” Larry inquired.
“Might have,” Dad answered, “remember, we don’t know if the Howard in the Heffner book is Jonas’s grandfather. And, it’s possible that the relatives he came to find are from his Grandmother Clara’s side. We know nothing about her family, do we?”
“Only,” Grandmom replied, “that her parents were Alfred Schmidt and Naomi Messerbaum. We have no information about their families. Howard and Clara’s family info is what we have.”
“But it’s all we have to go on. Please everyone, look at the list and see if you know any of them,” Diana pleaded.
So we passed the list around with mixed results ensuing.
Jeremiah said, “There’s a Clyde Heffner on the list. I played little league with a Clyde Heffner, but I’d have no idea where he is now.”
Sandy knew a Donna Riley and Mom remembered a Susan Heffner and Thomas Adam, but again their whereabouts were unknown. Joe said he once worked with Tyler Groff.
“He was from the Weilers area, where Poppop remembered Homer lived” Joe said. “Just talked to him about a year ago. Far as I know, he still lives around there, lessen he had to move like the rest of us did.”
“But it’s at least one name to go on,” Diana said. “Won’t you please try to find him. Jonas might be there.”
“Diana, we’ll try,” Joe replied. “But Weilers is over twenty miles from here. It would take a few days to make the trip and start searching farm after home after farm. But rest assured, if we have reason to travel that direction, we’ll be inquiring about him.”
“The best thing we can do is spread the word,” Dad added. “We’ll make copies of the list and have Jonas and your names on it with instructions how to contact us. We’ll pass them around; if anyone from the two farms travels somewhere, they can hand them out. And when the pastor or Doctor Fleming show up, we’ll brief them and they can expand the network. Just don’t give up hope, Diana, don’t give up hope.”
To be continued……Mort
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Chapter Eighteen-Preserves(conclusion)
After supper that evening the discussion focused on Diana. It was late and mattresses and bedding had already been found for her children and they had promptly fallen asleep.
“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for my children and me. That warm bath felt terrific, it’s such a pleasure to see the boys and baby so clean and comfy, and you sure have good food here,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome,” Jean replied.
“Do you have work for us to do so we can earn our keep?” she asked.
“Not to worry,” Harvey offered, “They’ll be plenty of work around here when we start at the corn harvest. In the mean time, I believe tomorrow’s laundry day, isn’t it Mother?” he asked Jean. “You can always use help with that, right?”
“Most certainly. We got a poor start today, with so many of us helping in the potato patch,” Jean answered. “Plenty to do tomorrow.”
By now a schedule of activities for the butcher house had been established, though not yet fully implemented. Mondays and Tuesdays were reserved for laundry. Wednesday would be the day a beef animal would be slaughtered and hung in the ground cellar to cure. Thursday a hog would be killed and cut up the same day. Friday the beef would be butchered and any sausage or bologna made or meat canned. Then Saturday the fat would be rendered.
“I’m sure I can help with the corn,” Diana said. “But how can my boys help?”
“You’d be surprised what youngsters can do,” Dad replied. “How old are they? Five and six?”
“Four and six,” Diana answered, “the oldest will be seven at Christmas.”
“They appear to be strong, active, and energetic boys,” Dad responded. “By the end of the week, we’d like to start at the corn, but tomorrow, the young’ns from Butch’s will be coming and we have a job they can all help with.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“There’s a ton of hickory nut and walnut trees on these farms around here,” Harvey said. “Both the ground and the nuts are nice and dry now and the nuts need to be collected before the squirrels eat all of them. It’s a great job for someone who’s closer to the ground, like you.”
“Gee thanks,” I replied, “but it actually sounds like fun, unless we have to be too particular?”
“No, not tomorrow,” Harvey answered. “We don’t need to be picky. Just get them off the ground and into buckets and stored in the dry somewhere. We can finish sorting and hulling them some day when the weather’s too bad for field work, and then crack them this winter when it too ugly to work outside or in the evening when it’s dark.”
“I’m sure Will and Harry will enjoy it,” Diana answered. “But what am I to do with Tammy when I start helping with the corn harvest?”
“No need to worry about her,” Lois responded. “If it’s a nice day, we’ll just take her and a playpen to the field with us. We love babies. We’ll practically fight over whose turn it is to keep an eye on her. On days with poorer weather, she can stay behind; there’s always a babysitter here.”
“Again, I have to thank you. You’ve been so helpful. I hope you can be as helpful finding my husband. You will be able to find him, won’t you?” Diana concluded.
Things got quiet all of a sudden. I could see lips pursed, not knowing what to say. Glances were exchanged, searching for a spokesperson. Mom nudged Dad. I didn’t know if he was the best person to answer her as he was generally noted for being up-front and his propensity to not mince words. But I guess him it was going to be.
“To be truthful,” he started out, “we don’t know if we will be able to find him. What we do know is that we are going to try as hard as we can. Also, we need to have faith that no matter how long we look, we’ll still assume he’s somewhere to be found. And finally, that our chances of success will be increased the more we learn about him and his family. So in order to help you the best we can, what’s your husband’s name?”
“Fritz,” Diana answered, “Jonas Fritz.”
“Well now that’s a start,” Dad continued. “I don’t know a lot of Fritz’s, but there is at least one family at church with that family name. Wendell and Doris Fritz, I believe are there names. Is that right Mom?”
“Yes, I think you’re correct. I seem to remember they live about ten miles west of town. I don’t really know any of their family.”
“Do those names ring a bell?” Dad asked.
“None whatsoever,” Diana replied.
“I remember,” Joe interjected, “you said he was coming up here to locate relatives. These relatives might not be Fritz’s. They might be from his mother’s side or his grandmother’s. What are your husband’s parents’ names and your mother-in-law’s maiden name?”
“His father’s name was William, who we named our oldest son after, and his mother was Gertie, but I can’t just now think of her maiden name,” she answered. “As far as his grandparents, I’m not sure. Might have started with an ‘H’. Maybe it was Hafer or Heffner or Hepner, something like that. I never even met his parents. They lived in Kansas, although they were born around here. My husband told me both their families migrated there in the early 1900’s with several other farmers from this area. Could that help you?”
“I’ve heard stories about that,” Harvey replied. “In fact, I recall that Wayne fellow living up at Butch’s, who told us about making apple cider, once talked about friends that he knew that were born in Kansas, then migrated back here. We’ll have to ask if he knows any Fritz’s.”
“And,” Grandmom interjected, “Hafer, Heffner and Hepner are all names common in this area. In fact, almost everyone here has a Heffner for an ancestor. The immigrant Heinrich Heffner came from Germany in 1632. He must have close to 20,000 descendents by now.” Dad’s mother was the resident genealogist. The Stump’s, Heffner’s, Smith’s, Rorher’s, Wolfe’s, Buchalter’s, and all our other relatives - she knew darn near them all. She had books and family trees on scores of families in the neighborhood. If anyone could help Diana, it would be her.
“I have a whole book of the Heffner clan and some notes about the Hafer’s and Hepner’s,” Grandmom continued. “The book has a great index. If there are any Fritz’s in there, we’ll find them. We can look as soon as we’re done here, if you want to burn some midnight oil, or in our case, candles?”
“The kids are settled,” Diana responded, “let’s go.”
After Grandmom and Diana had left the men started discussing the ins and outs of the corn harvest; what equipment we’d use, which fields we’d do first, where we’d store the corn. There was also planning for the next day: where were the most nuts and which area to attack first. All the discussion made me think about the provisions that were being made. We now had apples and potatoes in the ground cellar as well as the apple cider vinegar and wine in the formation process. Later on we’d add the last of the cabbages, turnips and pumpkins before they froze. All our canned goods stored well in Jean’s kitchen, as well as the schnitz; they didn’t need to be in a temperature moderated ground cellar. They needed a dry place, just like the nuts did. We stored them in Poppop’s basement where there was a wood stove and tables with plenty of room to work on them during the winter. In the barn and bins were hay, wheat, and in a few weeks, corn.
To be continued......Mort
“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for my children and me. That warm bath felt terrific, it’s such a pleasure to see the boys and baby so clean and comfy, and you sure have good food here,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome,” Jean replied.
“Do you have work for us to do so we can earn our keep?” she asked.
“Not to worry,” Harvey offered, “They’ll be plenty of work around here when we start at the corn harvest. In the mean time, I believe tomorrow’s laundry day, isn’t it Mother?” he asked Jean. “You can always use help with that, right?”
“Most certainly. We got a poor start today, with so many of us helping in the potato patch,” Jean answered. “Plenty to do tomorrow.”
By now a schedule of activities for the butcher house had been established, though not yet fully implemented. Mondays and Tuesdays were reserved for laundry. Wednesday would be the day a beef animal would be slaughtered and hung in the ground cellar to cure. Thursday a hog would be killed and cut up the same day. Friday the beef would be butchered and any sausage or bologna made or meat canned. Then Saturday the fat would be rendered.
“I’m sure I can help with the corn,” Diana said. “But how can my boys help?”
“You’d be surprised what youngsters can do,” Dad replied. “How old are they? Five and six?”
“Four and six,” Diana answered, “the oldest will be seven at Christmas.”
“They appear to be strong, active, and energetic boys,” Dad responded. “By the end of the week, we’d like to start at the corn, but tomorrow, the young’ns from Butch’s will be coming and we have a job they can all help with.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“There’s a ton of hickory nut and walnut trees on these farms around here,” Harvey said. “Both the ground and the nuts are nice and dry now and the nuts need to be collected before the squirrels eat all of them. It’s a great job for someone who’s closer to the ground, like you.”
“Gee thanks,” I replied, “but it actually sounds like fun, unless we have to be too particular?”
“No, not tomorrow,” Harvey answered. “We don’t need to be picky. Just get them off the ground and into buckets and stored in the dry somewhere. We can finish sorting and hulling them some day when the weather’s too bad for field work, and then crack them this winter when it too ugly to work outside or in the evening when it’s dark.”
“I’m sure Will and Harry will enjoy it,” Diana answered. “But what am I to do with Tammy when I start helping with the corn harvest?”
“No need to worry about her,” Lois responded. “If it’s a nice day, we’ll just take her and a playpen to the field with us. We love babies. We’ll practically fight over whose turn it is to keep an eye on her. On days with poorer weather, she can stay behind; there’s always a babysitter here.”
“Again, I have to thank you. You’ve been so helpful. I hope you can be as helpful finding my husband. You will be able to find him, won’t you?” Diana concluded.
Things got quiet all of a sudden. I could see lips pursed, not knowing what to say. Glances were exchanged, searching for a spokesperson. Mom nudged Dad. I didn’t know if he was the best person to answer her as he was generally noted for being up-front and his propensity to not mince words. But I guess him it was going to be.
“To be truthful,” he started out, “we don’t know if we will be able to find him. What we do know is that we are going to try as hard as we can. Also, we need to have faith that no matter how long we look, we’ll still assume he’s somewhere to be found. And finally, that our chances of success will be increased the more we learn about him and his family. So in order to help you the best we can, what’s your husband’s name?”
“Fritz,” Diana answered, “Jonas Fritz.”
“Well now that’s a start,” Dad continued. “I don’t know a lot of Fritz’s, but there is at least one family at church with that family name. Wendell and Doris Fritz, I believe are there names. Is that right Mom?”
“Yes, I think you’re correct. I seem to remember they live about ten miles west of town. I don’t really know any of their family.”
“Do those names ring a bell?” Dad asked.
“None whatsoever,” Diana replied.
“I remember,” Joe interjected, “you said he was coming up here to locate relatives. These relatives might not be Fritz’s. They might be from his mother’s side or his grandmother’s. What are your husband’s parents’ names and your mother-in-law’s maiden name?”
“His father’s name was William, who we named our oldest son after, and his mother was Gertie, but I can’t just now think of her maiden name,” she answered. “As far as his grandparents, I’m not sure. Might have started with an ‘H’. Maybe it was Hafer or Heffner or Hepner, something like that. I never even met his parents. They lived in Kansas, although they were born around here. My husband told me both their families migrated there in the early 1900’s with several other farmers from this area. Could that help you?”
“I’ve heard stories about that,” Harvey replied. “In fact, I recall that Wayne fellow living up at Butch’s, who told us about making apple cider, once talked about friends that he knew that were born in Kansas, then migrated back here. We’ll have to ask if he knows any Fritz’s.”
“And,” Grandmom interjected, “Hafer, Heffner and Hepner are all names common in this area. In fact, almost everyone here has a Heffner for an ancestor. The immigrant Heinrich Heffner came from Germany in 1632. He must have close to 20,000 descendents by now.” Dad’s mother was the resident genealogist. The Stump’s, Heffner’s, Smith’s, Rorher’s, Wolfe’s, Buchalter’s, and all our other relatives - she knew darn near them all. She had books and family trees on scores of families in the neighborhood. If anyone could help Diana, it would be her.
“I have a whole book of the Heffner clan and some notes about the Hafer’s and Hepner’s,” Grandmom continued. “The book has a great index. If there are any Fritz’s in there, we’ll find them. We can look as soon as we’re done here, if you want to burn some midnight oil, or in our case, candles?”
“The kids are settled,” Diana responded, “let’s go.”
After Grandmom and Diana had left the men started discussing the ins and outs of the corn harvest; what equipment we’d use, which fields we’d do first, where we’d store the corn. There was also planning for the next day: where were the most nuts and which area to attack first. All the discussion made me think about the provisions that were being made. We now had apples and potatoes in the ground cellar as well as the apple cider vinegar and wine in the formation process. Later on we’d add the last of the cabbages, turnips and pumpkins before they froze. All our canned goods stored well in Jean’s kitchen, as well as the schnitz; they didn’t need to be in a temperature moderated ground cellar. They needed a dry place, just like the nuts did. We stored them in Poppop’s basement where there was a wood stove and tables with plenty of room to work on them during the winter. In the barn and bins were hay, wheat, and in a few weeks, corn.
To be continued......Mort
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Chapter Eighteen - Preserves (continued)
Monday was a bright sunny day; time to harvest the potatoes. Poppop had a hand potato plow that he had pulled with a tractor in his garden for years. We had rigged up a well-fitting and strong harness for Brutus from braided baler twine. Because of last week’s rain, the ground was not hard and dry, nor was it too muddy, making it easy for Brutus to pull the plow. It was harder for the plow’s operator to hold the plow in the ground and for Brutus’s leader to keep him in the right row. It got better as it went and in no time at all, every row was dug and potatoes were laying on top the ground all over the patch. Now the real work began. Pick them into baskets. With 30 pickers on the job, it sounded easy enough, but we also needed to sift through the loosened dirt to make sure we wouldn’t leave any behind. Additionally, we had to sort out any potatoes cut or scraped by the plow or Brutus’s hooves. We put them in separate baskets, to use first, as the damage would cause them to spoil sooner. And if one ended up in a basket of good potatoes, it rotting could spread to the others in the basket. We picked the better potatoes into plastic milk cartons that we had.
Joe said, “Any wooden baskets or crates in the ground cellar are liable to mold and deteriorate if left in the damp cellar too long. The plastic will last forever and won’t cause the potatoes to rot.”
While we were picking potatoes we had visitors. A young mother came down the road carrying a baby girl and two small boys clinging to her legs. They were a bit dirty and grubby, looked on the skinny side and immediately grabbed the attention of the motherly types in our crew. Jean introduced herself, “Hello, my name’s Jean.”
“Mine’s Diana,” was the answer. “This here’s my boys Will and Harry and my daughter, Tammy.”
“Glad to meet you,” Jean replied, “you hungry?”
“Not at the moment. Your neighbors up the road, you know, Butch and Clare, were kind enough to feed us a good meal. But we have no food. Clare was sure you’d have some work for us down here, so as we could earn some.”
By now, Mom had turned a bucket upside down for Diana, and then said, “You sure look tired. Set a spell. If you don’t mind, I’ll hold Tammy for you. She‘s sure cute. The boys can help with the potatoes. Bet they’ll love playing in the dirt. Don’t worry; we got soap and hot water. You can all have a relaxing bath tonight.”
“And then,” Jean said, “We’ll have a place for you to stay and maybe some chores for you tomorrow. But tell us, if you want, where are you from?”
“Chesterton,” Diana answered.
“Chesterton?” Sandy responded, “that must be sixty miles from here. You walk all the way?”
“Yes, it was easy at first. Been dragging the last couple days, though.”
“This your whole family?” Lois asked.
“No, I have a husband, but I haven’t seen him since Labor Day.”
“Labor Day! That was five weeks ago. What happened to him?” inquired Jean.
“Lord only knows. You see, things were going pretty well just after the electric went off. My husband had stockpiled bottled water, dried milk for the children, plus other food. Every day he’d venture out to keep us supplied, but the pickins were getting slimmer and slimmer. He finally decided to travel up to your area, where there was farming to find food and work. He said he had relatives up here somewhere. I begged him not to go. He said he’d be back for us as soon as he found a place. After two weeks, he hadn’t returned. We were almost out of water and I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had to find him, don’t you see? I had to find him,” she sobbed.
“Now, now,” Sandy consoled her as she wrapped her arms around her. “Things will be all right. You have food and water here and a nice place to sleep.”
“You say he has relatives around here?” Mom asked. “After supper we’ll talk with my husband, and the other men. They seem to know everyone around here. If you can think of a couple names, we might be able to help.”
Will and Harry had a good time playing in the dirt and potatoes. They still had some energy. Unlike their mother, who had lay down in the lawn, next to the garden on a pile of jackets and sweaters we had taken off when the day had gotten warmer. She was napping while Mom was doing what she does best, playing mom with Diana’s baby daughter. That poor woman was exhausted. She awoke as we were loading the last potatoes onto the wagon we had hitched up to Brutus. When we got to the ground cellar, it was time for the milking crew to head for the barn. The supper crew headed for the butcher house with the newly arrived family, leaving the rest of us to unload the wagon. While we were working Dad and Mom were talking about Diana’s predicament.
“I know you meant well,” Dad told her. “And you absolutely said nothing wrong. The woman does need to have hope, but you know it might be pretty tough to find her husband.”
“I know,” Mom answered. “I know he could be a hundred miles from here. I suppose he could also be dead, but I sure hope not. You will talk to her, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Dad responded, “it’s the least we can do.”
When the potatoes were all piled in the cellar I said to Poppop, “Your crop yielded well. That’s quite a pile of potatoes. How many meals do you think they’ll make?”
“Don’t rightly know,” he replied. “But we aren’t planning to eat many of them.”
“We aren’t?” I said.
“No, the only way I know to get a crop next year is to plant as many of these potatoes next spring as we can. Potatoes don’t grow from seed, remember?”
“Yes, I do remember,” I replied. “I recall how last spring we cut the whole potato into five or six segments before we planted each piece in the ground. You know if every stalk yields five or six potatoes, like I just noticed from picking them, just from 1/5 or 1/6 of a seed potato, that means they yield 25 to 36 times the amount you plant.”
“In great years, 40 fold,” Poppop replied. “You know you calculated that pretty well. Some of that Stump math ability must be in that brain of yours somewhere.” You know he was right. Could I possibly be my father’s daughter and turn out like him one day?
“Let’s test it,” Poppop offered. “There are about 20 bushel of potatoes here. Next year I think we could easy get 120 in here, plus the early ones we would dig and eat in August and September. Let’s say another 20 bushel. How many bushels of this pile should we save to grow 140 bushel next year?”
Now I knew were Dad got it. “At what yield?” I asked him. “We should stay conservative.” I couldn’t believe I just said that.
“Good question,” Poppop responded, “conservatively, then, let’s say 25 fold.”
“Good answer,” I quipped, “doesn’t come out even though. Roughly six bushel. We can eat about two thirds of these and still have enough left to plant.”
“Wonderful,” Poppop replied, “we’ll be able to eat a good portion of these then.”
Potatoes and apples weren’t the only foods we had to eat. By now the garden had been exhausted of beans and tomatoes. All that was left in it were a few cabbages, pumpkins and a huge patch of turnips. In previous years, pumpkins were grown primarily for decorating, although Dad would cook a few for pies, usually using the neck variety as opposed to the round jack-o-lanterns. This year they were all saved for cooking no matter what variety they were. Dad liked cooked pumpkin a lot more than I did, but thank goodness we had butter. Made the pumpkin almost tolerable. Brown sugar would have made it better, but we couldn’t waste it on pumpkin. Some of the adults used a bit of honey on it and Dad would put a little blackstrap molasses on his. Of course he offered us some, but I liked his molasses less than I liked pumpkin. I did like the seeds when roasted, but it was only a treat we had two times. Other than the few seeds we roasted, all the seeds from every pumpkin were dried and stored as seed for next year’s crop. For another treat Mom made some pumpkin custard a couple times later in winter when a few eggs had accumulated. Why not, we had an ample supply of milk. She sweetened it lightly enough with blackstrap that it actually tasted pretty good.
Poppop had smelled the collapse coming and beings turnips are usually planted around August 1st, it allowed him time to plant at least ten times as many as he normally would have. After two weeks of turnips or pumpkin every day, I couldn’t believe how much I missed beets and beans.
To be continued…………..Mort
Joe said, “Any wooden baskets or crates in the ground cellar are liable to mold and deteriorate if left in the damp cellar too long. The plastic will last forever and won’t cause the potatoes to rot.”
While we were picking potatoes we had visitors. A young mother came down the road carrying a baby girl and two small boys clinging to her legs. They were a bit dirty and grubby, looked on the skinny side and immediately grabbed the attention of the motherly types in our crew. Jean introduced herself, “Hello, my name’s Jean.”
“Mine’s Diana,” was the answer. “This here’s my boys Will and Harry and my daughter, Tammy.”
“Glad to meet you,” Jean replied, “you hungry?”
“Not at the moment. Your neighbors up the road, you know, Butch and Clare, were kind enough to feed us a good meal. But we have no food. Clare was sure you’d have some work for us down here, so as we could earn some.”
By now, Mom had turned a bucket upside down for Diana, and then said, “You sure look tired. Set a spell. If you don’t mind, I’ll hold Tammy for you. She‘s sure cute. The boys can help with the potatoes. Bet they’ll love playing in the dirt. Don’t worry; we got soap and hot water. You can all have a relaxing bath tonight.”
“And then,” Jean said, “We’ll have a place for you to stay and maybe some chores for you tomorrow. But tell us, if you want, where are you from?”
“Chesterton,” Diana answered.
“Chesterton?” Sandy responded, “that must be sixty miles from here. You walk all the way?”
“Yes, it was easy at first. Been dragging the last couple days, though.”
“This your whole family?” Lois asked.
“No, I have a husband, but I haven’t seen him since Labor Day.”
“Labor Day! That was five weeks ago. What happened to him?” inquired Jean.
“Lord only knows. You see, things were going pretty well just after the electric went off. My husband had stockpiled bottled water, dried milk for the children, plus other food. Every day he’d venture out to keep us supplied, but the pickins were getting slimmer and slimmer. He finally decided to travel up to your area, where there was farming to find food and work. He said he had relatives up here somewhere. I begged him not to go. He said he’d be back for us as soon as he found a place. After two weeks, he hadn’t returned. We were almost out of water and I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had to find him, don’t you see? I had to find him,” she sobbed.
“Now, now,” Sandy consoled her as she wrapped her arms around her. “Things will be all right. You have food and water here and a nice place to sleep.”
“You say he has relatives around here?” Mom asked. “After supper we’ll talk with my husband, and the other men. They seem to know everyone around here. If you can think of a couple names, we might be able to help.”
Will and Harry had a good time playing in the dirt and potatoes. They still had some energy. Unlike their mother, who had lay down in the lawn, next to the garden on a pile of jackets and sweaters we had taken off when the day had gotten warmer. She was napping while Mom was doing what she does best, playing mom with Diana’s baby daughter. That poor woman was exhausted. She awoke as we were loading the last potatoes onto the wagon we had hitched up to Brutus. When we got to the ground cellar, it was time for the milking crew to head for the barn. The supper crew headed for the butcher house with the newly arrived family, leaving the rest of us to unload the wagon. While we were working Dad and Mom were talking about Diana’s predicament.
“I know you meant well,” Dad told her. “And you absolutely said nothing wrong. The woman does need to have hope, but you know it might be pretty tough to find her husband.”
“I know,” Mom answered. “I know he could be a hundred miles from here. I suppose he could also be dead, but I sure hope not. You will talk to her, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Dad responded, “it’s the least we can do.”
When the potatoes were all piled in the cellar I said to Poppop, “Your crop yielded well. That’s quite a pile of potatoes. How many meals do you think they’ll make?”
“Don’t rightly know,” he replied. “But we aren’t planning to eat many of them.”
“We aren’t?” I said.
“No, the only way I know to get a crop next year is to plant as many of these potatoes next spring as we can. Potatoes don’t grow from seed, remember?”
“Yes, I do remember,” I replied. “I recall how last spring we cut the whole potato into five or six segments before we planted each piece in the ground. You know if every stalk yields five or six potatoes, like I just noticed from picking them, just from 1/5 or 1/6 of a seed potato, that means they yield 25 to 36 times the amount you plant.”
“In great years, 40 fold,” Poppop replied. “You know you calculated that pretty well. Some of that Stump math ability must be in that brain of yours somewhere.” You know he was right. Could I possibly be my father’s daughter and turn out like him one day?
“Let’s test it,” Poppop offered. “There are about 20 bushel of potatoes here. Next year I think we could easy get 120 in here, plus the early ones we would dig and eat in August and September. Let’s say another 20 bushel. How many bushels of this pile should we save to grow 140 bushel next year?”
Now I knew were Dad got it. “At what yield?” I asked him. “We should stay conservative.” I couldn’t believe I just said that.
“Good question,” Poppop responded, “conservatively, then, let’s say 25 fold.”
“Good answer,” I quipped, “doesn’t come out even though. Roughly six bushel. We can eat about two thirds of these and still have enough left to plant.”
“Wonderful,” Poppop replied, “we’ll be able to eat a good portion of these then.”
Potatoes and apples weren’t the only foods we had to eat. By now the garden had been exhausted of beans and tomatoes. All that was left in it were a few cabbages, pumpkins and a huge patch of turnips. In previous years, pumpkins were grown primarily for decorating, although Dad would cook a few for pies, usually using the neck variety as opposed to the round jack-o-lanterns. This year they were all saved for cooking no matter what variety they were. Dad liked cooked pumpkin a lot more than I did, but thank goodness we had butter. Made the pumpkin almost tolerable. Brown sugar would have made it better, but we couldn’t waste it on pumpkin. Some of the adults used a bit of honey on it and Dad would put a little blackstrap molasses on his. Of course he offered us some, but I liked his molasses less than I liked pumpkin. I did like the seeds when roasted, but it was only a treat we had two times. Other than the few seeds we roasted, all the seeds from every pumpkin were dried and stored as seed for next year’s crop. For another treat Mom made some pumpkin custard a couple times later in winter when a few eggs had accumulated. Why not, we had an ample supply of milk. She sweetened it lightly enough with blackstrap that it actually tasted pretty good.
Poppop had smelled the collapse coming and beings turnips are usually planted around August 1st, it allowed him time to plant at least ten times as many as he normally would have. After two weeks of turnips or pumpkin every day, I couldn’t believe how much I missed beets and beans.
To be continued…………..Mort
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Chapter Eighteen - Preserves (cont)
In short order we were home. The truck and wagon were parked between the ground cellar door and the butcher house. The baskets with the best apples were carried one way, into the cellar, while the buckets of poorer ones were carried the other way, into the butcher house. Inside, everyone was already busy as the table was full of people cutting up apples. I watched Mom, Jean and others cut away the worst parts, throw the junk into one bucket, cut nice slices out of the better parts, and then place them in other dishes. While we were away picking, the window screens from the drying beds had been placed on racks behind the butcher stove. Amy and Lynette were placing the slices on the screens.
“Whatcha making?” I asked Mom.
“Schnitz,” she answered.
“Schnitz?” Jennifer quizzed.
“Schnitz are dried apples,” Mom replied. “We can’t eat these partially rotten apples fast enough. Even in the ground cellar they’d spoil, so we have to dry them. They’ll keep over a year, if we do it right and then keep them dry. They’ll taste good next summer, you’ll see. We can do more at a later time, especially if the apples in the cellar keep poorly. Uncle Bruce and Barry did a pretty good job setting up those racks while you were away picking, didn’t they?”
“Sure did,” I answered, “they make the whole set-up this morning?”
“No,” Joe interjected, “I helped with the design; made the racks out of reinforcing rods that were lying around. Plan to hang strips of meat on it to dry when we butcher. We’d been working on them all week.”
“Look’s good,” Dad remarked, “I believe the racks will work well.”
Meanwhile, Dennis and Aaron had the wringer for our wash machine set-up and running with some buckets under it. They had rigged up a kind of hopper or trough on the “in” side of the wringer and were dumping the junky apple parts into the wringer. Using a piece of wood, they pushed and shoved the apple pieces through the wringer. The juice was squeezed out and fell into the waiting buckets positioned strategically under the wringer. Except for one bucket, which caught the pulp that came through the wringer. At the same time, Grandpop, Poppop, and Butch were washing up jugs, bottles and their lids. Most were plastic milk or juice jugs that hadn’t been thrown away. But there were also a few large glass gallon jars that Dad had kept in our cellar.
Again Jennifer asked, “Now what are they making?”
This time I knew. “Apple cider,” I replied.
“You’re going to drink that stuff?” she retorted.
“You know, now that I see how it’s made, I’m not sure if I will,” I answered.
“Well,” Poppop responded, “we aren’t really making the cider to drink as cider. We want it to turn to vinegar. We’re not exactly sure how it will work, but Butch and your Grandpop have a feeling that if we let it go long enough, eventually it will become vinegar.”
“You can have your vinegar,” was my response.
“I know you don’t like it, but we’ll need it to help preserve some of our vegetables next year.”
Dad interjected, “I’m also curious what it might taste like between now and it becoming vinegar.”
“You think it might have a little punch to it?” Dennis wondered.
“Don’t know for sure,” Dad answered. “I do know I like cider and hard cider and vinegar, so which one it is just depends on how far along the fermentation process is. How can I go wrong?”
“You can go wrong by opening up too many jars to sample it,” Poppop answered in a rebuking manner. “We want some finished product left next summer.”
“Same goes for you,” Dad told his father. “You know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“You sure all we have to do is jar the juice?” Aaron inquired. “Don’t we have to add something to make it ferment?”
Butch answered, “I talked about that with Wayne, that elder gentleman staying with us. And he says apple juice will ferment on its on. They don’t add a thing to cider.”
“What you going to do with the pulp?” I asked. “Throw it away?”
“Come on, Alyssa,” Poppop replied, “you should know by now we don’t throw anything away around here. The heifers could eat it, and the pigs will eat it, but I am going to spread a little in the flower bed behind my house and cover it with dirt. Maybe some of the seeds in the pulp will sprout next spring and then we can replant the seedlings for the next generation.”
When most of the work was done, Josh hooked Brutus up to the wagon to take Butch’s crew home, along with a few apples that they could keep in their cellar this time of year. I went along for the ride and sat next to Robbie. Jennifer stayed behind.
“Did you get to talk to Jennifer today?” I asked Robbie.
“Yeah, a little.”
“So, what do you think? Is she the girl for you?” I asked him, trying to be as serious as possible, even though, I’ll admit, my intentions were a bit devilish.
He leered at me a few moments with a dazed look on his face, quirked a little smile and then answered, “Oh, I don’t know for sure, now mind you.”
Oops, I think I was caught at my own game. “But she’s enchanting, quite a pleasure to talk to, seems to enjoy being around me, has a brilliant mind, gorgeous hair, and that body, why let me tell you, she……..”
“Enough already!” I had been caught in my own web and had to put a stop to it. “You’re just too smart for me to pull anything over on. I’m sorry for trying. Just tell me the truth, please.”
He thought a bit, and then a bit longer, long enough for Brutus to reach his destination. He stood up, and then just before jumping off the wagon said, “The truth? Okay, the truth is: you’re both in the running. See ya.”
“And good riddens!” I shot after him. That boy would be a challenge.
When we got back to the butcher house, everything was pretty well cleaned up except for those four buckets of pears and peaches. Poppop, Mom and the others had removed all the stones from the shriveled peaches. The remaining fruit was mashed, peel and all, and divided into three separate plastic five gallon buckets. Poppop added sugar and water to each bucket and mixed it thoroughly.
With the scraggly pears, they trimmed off the stems, cut them into quarters before again mashing them. Similar to the peaches, sugar and water was added and mixed. We carried the buckets into a corner of the ground cellar where Poppop covered each bucket with a lid.
“I have no idea what you’re making,” I said, “but I don’t think that concoction is going to smell so good after a while. What’s it supposed to be?”
“Wine,” Poppop answered. “Least I hope so. I haven’t made any for years.”
“Will it be ready for communion Sunday?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed, “we have other wine for Sunday. It will take several weeks for this to get there. And then I have to remember how to decant it, and seal it properly so it doesn’t turn sour.”
“Well, if it does turn sour, we’ll have more vinegar then, right?” I concluded.
“I suppose you’re right,” he answered.
Saturday it was still too wet to dig the potatoes. There was plenty of other work, including helping Joe roast another hog and prepare the barbecue. We did it late in the day so we could keep it hot all night on the stove. That way we didn’t have to cool it down nor reheat it Sunday morning.
Communion went off without a hitch. It was a beautiful day and the fellowship was great. We got to see many of our friends we hadn’t seen for months. Quite a bit of business was done, in spite of it being the Lord’s Day. Mom lined up four roosters for our and Clare’s flocks from the Snyder’s, where Dr. Bear was staying. Harvey found a bull available from one of Roger’s neighbors. Larry found a neighbor with a supply of timothy seed, that he traded a young steer for. There was a lot of discussion about horses and oxen. I was amazed at the number of horses at the church that day.
“Where did they all come from,” I asked Dad when he had a moment.
“Well,” he answered, “don’t you recall how it seemed like anywhere you drove the last few years, you’d find a farmette had sprung up with a horse or two? The owners didn’t know how useful the horses would be one day. They were just kept as pets, a novelty, even a status symbol. I’m not condemning them; turned out to be quite a benefit for the surrounding neighbors and the larger community.”
“Sure are quite a few farmers talking to Butch about swapping for his workhorses,” I added. “Aren’t these other horses good enough?”
“They are for pulling buggies and wagons with lighter loads, but when it comes time to haul in heavy loads or pull machinery, they are just not quite built for it. They won’t get as much done and will have to be used carefully. Besides, Butch knows how important his horses are to our operation. That doesn’t mean, however, that he might not travel to some of the closer neighbors with his teams and do some work for them when needed. You know how Butch is such a great guy to work with?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied. Now, while trading horses was out of the question, oxen were a different matter. Dad must have gotten orders for five teams, even though we only had two started and none would be ready to work for months.
“Nice to know we’re not going to all the trouble for nothing,” Jeremiah had remarked.
“And,” Dad added, “we don’t even have to have them fully grown. As long as they are pretty well trained, they can finish growing and training at their new farms.”
“Probably better anyway,” Jeremiah commented, “if their new owners had a part in their training.”
“You’re probably right,” Dad concluded. With the festivities concluded we headed for home.
To be continued……more work?.....Mort
“Whatcha making?” I asked Mom.
“Schnitz,” she answered.
“Schnitz?” Jennifer quizzed.
“Schnitz are dried apples,” Mom replied. “We can’t eat these partially rotten apples fast enough. Even in the ground cellar they’d spoil, so we have to dry them. They’ll keep over a year, if we do it right and then keep them dry. They’ll taste good next summer, you’ll see. We can do more at a later time, especially if the apples in the cellar keep poorly. Uncle Bruce and Barry did a pretty good job setting up those racks while you were away picking, didn’t they?”
“Sure did,” I answered, “they make the whole set-up this morning?”
“No,” Joe interjected, “I helped with the design; made the racks out of reinforcing rods that were lying around. Plan to hang strips of meat on it to dry when we butcher. We’d been working on them all week.”
“Look’s good,” Dad remarked, “I believe the racks will work well.”
Meanwhile, Dennis and Aaron had the wringer for our wash machine set-up and running with some buckets under it. They had rigged up a kind of hopper or trough on the “in” side of the wringer and were dumping the junky apple parts into the wringer. Using a piece of wood, they pushed and shoved the apple pieces through the wringer. The juice was squeezed out and fell into the waiting buckets positioned strategically under the wringer. Except for one bucket, which caught the pulp that came through the wringer. At the same time, Grandpop, Poppop, and Butch were washing up jugs, bottles and their lids. Most were plastic milk or juice jugs that hadn’t been thrown away. But there were also a few large glass gallon jars that Dad had kept in our cellar.
Again Jennifer asked, “Now what are they making?”
This time I knew. “Apple cider,” I replied.
“You’re going to drink that stuff?” she retorted.
“You know, now that I see how it’s made, I’m not sure if I will,” I answered.
“Well,” Poppop responded, “we aren’t really making the cider to drink as cider. We want it to turn to vinegar. We’re not exactly sure how it will work, but Butch and your Grandpop have a feeling that if we let it go long enough, eventually it will become vinegar.”
“You can have your vinegar,” was my response.
“I know you don’t like it, but we’ll need it to help preserve some of our vegetables next year.”
Dad interjected, “I’m also curious what it might taste like between now and it becoming vinegar.”
“You think it might have a little punch to it?” Dennis wondered.
“Don’t know for sure,” Dad answered. “I do know I like cider and hard cider and vinegar, so which one it is just depends on how far along the fermentation process is. How can I go wrong?”
“You can go wrong by opening up too many jars to sample it,” Poppop answered in a rebuking manner. “We want some finished product left next summer.”
“Same goes for you,” Dad told his father. “You know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“You sure all we have to do is jar the juice?” Aaron inquired. “Don’t we have to add something to make it ferment?”
Butch answered, “I talked about that with Wayne, that elder gentleman staying with us. And he says apple juice will ferment on its on. They don’t add a thing to cider.”
“What you going to do with the pulp?” I asked. “Throw it away?”
“Come on, Alyssa,” Poppop replied, “you should know by now we don’t throw anything away around here. The heifers could eat it, and the pigs will eat it, but I am going to spread a little in the flower bed behind my house and cover it with dirt. Maybe some of the seeds in the pulp will sprout next spring and then we can replant the seedlings for the next generation.”
When most of the work was done, Josh hooked Brutus up to the wagon to take Butch’s crew home, along with a few apples that they could keep in their cellar this time of year. I went along for the ride and sat next to Robbie. Jennifer stayed behind.
“Did you get to talk to Jennifer today?” I asked Robbie.
“Yeah, a little.”
“So, what do you think? Is she the girl for you?” I asked him, trying to be as serious as possible, even though, I’ll admit, my intentions were a bit devilish.
He leered at me a few moments with a dazed look on his face, quirked a little smile and then answered, “Oh, I don’t know for sure, now mind you.”
Oops, I think I was caught at my own game. “But she’s enchanting, quite a pleasure to talk to, seems to enjoy being around me, has a brilliant mind, gorgeous hair, and that body, why let me tell you, she……..”
“Enough already!” I had been caught in my own web and had to put a stop to it. “You’re just too smart for me to pull anything over on. I’m sorry for trying. Just tell me the truth, please.”
He thought a bit, and then a bit longer, long enough for Brutus to reach his destination. He stood up, and then just before jumping off the wagon said, “The truth? Okay, the truth is: you’re both in the running. See ya.”
“And good riddens!” I shot after him. That boy would be a challenge.
When we got back to the butcher house, everything was pretty well cleaned up except for those four buckets of pears and peaches. Poppop, Mom and the others had removed all the stones from the shriveled peaches. The remaining fruit was mashed, peel and all, and divided into three separate plastic five gallon buckets. Poppop added sugar and water to each bucket and mixed it thoroughly.
With the scraggly pears, they trimmed off the stems, cut them into quarters before again mashing them. Similar to the peaches, sugar and water was added and mixed. We carried the buckets into a corner of the ground cellar where Poppop covered each bucket with a lid.
“I have no idea what you’re making,” I said, “but I don’t think that concoction is going to smell so good after a while. What’s it supposed to be?”
“Wine,” Poppop answered. “Least I hope so. I haven’t made any for years.”
“Will it be ready for communion Sunday?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed, “we have other wine for Sunday. It will take several weeks for this to get there. And then I have to remember how to decant it, and seal it properly so it doesn’t turn sour.”
“Well, if it does turn sour, we’ll have more vinegar then, right?” I concluded.
“I suppose you’re right,” he answered.
Saturday it was still too wet to dig the potatoes. There was plenty of other work, including helping Joe roast another hog and prepare the barbecue. We did it late in the day so we could keep it hot all night on the stove. That way we didn’t have to cool it down nor reheat it Sunday morning.
Communion went off without a hitch. It was a beautiful day and the fellowship was great. We got to see many of our friends we hadn’t seen for months. Quite a bit of business was done, in spite of it being the Lord’s Day. Mom lined up four roosters for our and Clare’s flocks from the Snyder’s, where Dr. Bear was staying. Harvey found a bull available from one of Roger’s neighbors. Larry found a neighbor with a supply of timothy seed, that he traded a young steer for. There was a lot of discussion about horses and oxen. I was amazed at the number of horses at the church that day.
“Where did they all come from,” I asked Dad when he had a moment.
“Well,” he answered, “don’t you recall how it seemed like anywhere you drove the last few years, you’d find a farmette had sprung up with a horse or two? The owners didn’t know how useful the horses would be one day. They were just kept as pets, a novelty, even a status symbol. I’m not condemning them; turned out to be quite a benefit for the surrounding neighbors and the larger community.”
“Sure are quite a few farmers talking to Butch about swapping for his workhorses,” I added. “Aren’t these other horses good enough?”
“They are for pulling buggies and wagons with lighter loads, but when it comes time to haul in heavy loads or pull machinery, they are just not quite built for it. They won’t get as much done and will have to be used carefully. Besides, Butch knows how important his horses are to our operation. That doesn’t mean, however, that he might not travel to some of the closer neighbors with his teams and do some work for them when needed. You know how Butch is such a great guy to work with?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied. Now, while trading horses was out of the question, oxen were a different matter. Dad must have gotten orders for five teams, even though we only had two started and none would be ready to work for months.
“Nice to know we’re not going to all the trouble for nothing,” Jeremiah had remarked.
“And,” Dad added, “we don’t even have to have them fully grown. As long as they are pretty well trained, they can finish growing and training at their new farms.”
“Probably better anyway,” Jeremiah commented, “if their new owners had a part in their training.”
“You’re probably right,” Dad concluded. With the festivities concluded we headed for home.
To be continued……more work?.....Mort
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Chapter Eighteen - Preserves
As we headed into October, the corn and soybean harvests were just weeks away. Vegetable harvest was winding down, however. Poppop’s potatoes were ready for digging, but that first necessitated another construction project. Harvey’s farm lacked a decent ground cellar, where potatoes could be stored in a constant temperature and remain unspoiled for months.
It was another job for Harvey’s backhoe. A bit of thinking was put into the decision as to the location of the ground cellar. At Joe’s insistence, the cellar needed to be high enough to hang a slaughtered beef in, to cool down the carcasses in the summer and to keep them from freezing in the winter. The location had to be somewhere where the ground level was naturally higher, so Harvey could still dig deep, but not so deep as to have groundwater or runoff water be a problem.
They decided on the north side of Harvey’s house, which had a heavy stone wall. Most of the year, the ground cellar would be in the shade, helping to moderate the temperature. There was even a crown at that side of the house, enabling Harvey to excavate the opening as a gently sloping ramp, making it easier to carry a side of beef, a hog or the potatoes into the cellar. Also, just outside the opening was a stout tree that Joe said we could us to hang up the beef to skin and clean it before hanging it in the ground cellar. When Harvey was finished digging, there was a tremendous pile of ground in the yard.
“What are you going to do with all that dirt?” I asked Harvey.
“Oh, I need every inch of it,” he answered. “I might even go find some more to make the roof as thick with ground as I can.”
“What’s going to keep the roof from collapsing?” I inquired.
“Remember last week?” Josh replied, “when we cut down all those trees on the other side of the meadow. They’re not for firewood, although all the branches we shaved off the main trunks can be burned in Harvey’s furnace. We’ll lay the cleaned up poles across the hole, pretty close together for strength. They’ll be supported by the unexcavated soil on three sides, except where the door is. On the side next to the house wall we’ll support them with some heavy metal poles Larry had laying out back. We found some two inch thick planks from one part of the barn floor that we don’t need because we no longer need to drive heavy tractors there. We will lay the planks across the trees and then cover the whole business with ground.”
“What kind of door will it have?” I asked.
“One that’s real thick; one that a little kid like you will hardly be able to open.”
“Who you calling a little kid?”
“You, compared to the door I built. I had plenty of lumber. I made it twelve inches thick with an eight inch space in the middle, where we stuffed straw and some of the insulation from Jean’s stove. You know the one we took apart to make the oven?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“One big chore remains,” he continued.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Framing the door will be a challenge, and then filling in the space between the door and walls with something to keep the cellar as insulated as possible. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.”
And get it they did. It was quite a cooperative effort. Might have been ten men working on it at a time. The finished product looked good. They had screwed some hooks into a few of the tree trunks to hang meat from, and even built some wooden bins to keep the potatoes in. But potatoes weren’t the first thing to be stored in the cellar. We had quite a bit of rain for a couple days, making Poppop’s potato patch way too wet to plow. So we went at harvesting apples instead.
There was a large orchard about five miles north of us. Joe was good friends with the owner. Every year Joe would cut up some of the apple trees that were being culled for his smokehouse. Joe had always maintained that apple wood was the best for flavoring his smoked meat products. On yet another trip with the mo-ped, he had met the owner and we were welcome.
It was the Friday before the planned communion, when we went on our apple picking excursion. Brutus was out of the picture this time. We used Larry’s pickup to pull a wagon stacked with baskets and buckets for the apples. There were six bicycles on the pickup, three ladders, and one hog. We picked up ten pickers from Butch and Clare’s, including Ben and Robbie. I think that made thirty of us in all, so it was more like a wagon full of people.
When we reached the orchard, we found quite a gathering there. We weren’t the only ones who wanted to harvest apples. There must have been two hundred people there, but looking around, I estimated there might have been five thousand trees. Apples for everyone; so I thought. Quite a few people must have been there earlier in the picking season, for all the trees near the buildings were bare. The crowds of pickers were near the top of the hill, way to the back of the orchard. So up the hill we went, looking for apples. Not a problem, there were rows of unpicked fruit for the taking. We unloaded the wagon and the bicycles, and then Joe and Larry took the hog to the owner for his family.
Picking apples isn’t hard, sorting them is a different matter. We put the firmest, nicest looking apples in the baskets and the rattier looking ones, especially if they had brown spots or were getting mushy in buckets. Poppop even picked drops off the ground. Because of all the rain we had, some of them were pretty bad, but this wasn’t the year to be wasteful.
The other people there were friendly. In fact, I believe Dad knew many of them. There were a couple families from church, so we informed them of the communion Sunday. Actually, Dad told everyone they were welcome and not to worry if they had no food for the dinner; they should come anyway.
“Not a problem,” one young woman answered, “we got plenty of apples, a Dutch oven and plenty of flour. I’ll bake a giant pie.” That sounded good, but divided amongst four or five hundred people, we’d all get a pretty small portion. No matter, if she could do it, so could Jean.
We started loading buckets and baskets onto the wagon. It was full in no time. It took quite some doing to stack them, so there would still be room for the harvesters. Of course, Josh, Jake, Dean, Jennifer, Aaron and I intended to head home with our bicycles. Seemed like a much better option than being crammed into a wagon with buckets, baskets, and people. Once again, some preplanning had paid off.
Just before we left, I noticed Poppop and Jeremiah coming back from a different part of the orchard, each with two buckets. They had found the peach and pear sections. It being past the normal season for them, the pears were very soft and spotty. Similarly, the peaches were already shriveled up.
“What are you going to do with them?” Jake asked. “They look awful.”
“Oh, I have a couple ideas in mind.” Poppop answered, “You’ll see.”
Jennifer, the boys and I started down the road. It was a beautiful drive; the road followed the winding creek that later on downstream our little creek flowed into. It was surrounded by lush wooded ridges, just now starting to show fall colors on a tree here and there. We traversed some of our hunting areas. Josh pointed out where he had shot a turkey, where Dad had shot one, and Jake had shot his first buck. This was to be my first year of hunting and I wondered out loud where Dad would take me.
“Well,” Jake said, “I overheard Jeremiah and Dad talking about hunting the other night. The consensus was that we didn’t need to go hunting this year. First, we had enough meat right now. We should let the herd grow; save it for when we need it or if other people need it. Besides, we only have so much ammunition.”
“I could still use the bow,” Josh replied. “I can use the arrows more than once.”
“And probably make some, if you had to,” Aaron added.
“I suppose so,” Jake agreed and then said to me, “but it looks like you won’t get hunting this fall, unless we have to take care of some varmint problems. You really haven’t practiced much either; that takes precious ammunition, too.”
I had been practicing, but not with live ammo. I just practiced holding the gun, aiming, pulling the trigger, and bolting the next round in. But I guess I’d have to wait a couple years until I got my chance.
When we were about half way home, the rest of the crew passed us, waving and jeering. That pest, Robbie, even made a face at me and waved real nice at Jennifer. That boy might need some straightening out one day.
To be continued… Mort
It was another job for Harvey’s backhoe. A bit of thinking was put into the decision as to the location of the ground cellar. At Joe’s insistence, the cellar needed to be high enough to hang a slaughtered beef in, to cool down the carcasses in the summer and to keep them from freezing in the winter. The location had to be somewhere where the ground level was naturally higher, so Harvey could still dig deep, but not so deep as to have groundwater or runoff water be a problem.
They decided on the north side of Harvey’s house, which had a heavy stone wall. Most of the year, the ground cellar would be in the shade, helping to moderate the temperature. There was even a crown at that side of the house, enabling Harvey to excavate the opening as a gently sloping ramp, making it easier to carry a side of beef, a hog or the potatoes into the cellar. Also, just outside the opening was a stout tree that Joe said we could us to hang up the beef to skin and clean it before hanging it in the ground cellar. When Harvey was finished digging, there was a tremendous pile of ground in the yard.
“What are you going to do with all that dirt?” I asked Harvey.
“Oh, I need every inch of it,” he answered. “I might even go find some more to make the roof as thick with ground as I can.”
“What’s going to keep the roof from collapsing?” I inquired.
“Remember last week?” Josh replied, “when we cut down all those trees on the other side of the meadow. They’re not for firewood, although all the branches we shaved off the main trunks can be burned in Harvey’s furnace. We’ll lay the cleaned up poles across the hole, pretty close together for strength. They’ll be supported by the unexcavated soil on three sides, except where the door is. On the side next to the house wall we’ll support them with some heavy metal poles Larry had laying out back. We found some two inch thick planks from one part of the barn floor that we don’t need because we no longer need to drive heavy tractors there. We will lay the planks across the trees and then cover the whole business with ground.”
“What kind of door will it have?” I asked.
“One that’s real thick; one that a little kid like you will hardly be able to open.”
“Who you calling a little kid?”
“You, compared to the door I built. I had plenty of lumber. I made it twelve inches thick with an eight inch space in the middle, where we stuffed straw and some of the insulation from Jean’s stove. You know the one we took apart to make the oven?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“One big chore remains,” he continued.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Framing the door will be a challenge, and then filling in the space between the door and walls with something to keep the cellar as insulated as possible. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.”
And get it they did. It was quite a cooperative effort. Might have been ten men working on it at a time. The finished product looked good. They had screwed some hooks into a few of the tree trunks to hang meat from, and even built some wooden bins to keep the potatoes in. But potatoes weren’t the first thing to be stored in the cellar. We had quite a bit of rain for a couple days, making Poppop’s potato patch way too wet to plow. So we went at harvesting apples instead.
There was a large orchard about five miles north of us. Joe was good friends with the owner. Every year Joe would cut up some of the apple trees that were being culled for his smokehouse. Joe had always maintained that apple wood was the best for flavoring his smoked meat products. On yet another trip with the mo-ped, he had met the owner and we were welcome.
It was the Friday before the planned communion, when we went on our apple picking excursion. Brutus was out of the picture this time. We used Larry’s pickup to pull a wagon stacked with baskets and buckets for the apples. There were six bicycles on the pickup, three ladders, and one hog. We picked up ten pickers from Butch and Clare’s, including Ben and Robbie. I think that made thirty of us in all, so it was more like a wagon full of people.
When we reached the orchard, we found quite a gathering there. We weren’t the only ones who wanted to harvest apples. There must have been two hundred people there, but looking around, I estimated there might have been five thousand trees. Apples for everyone; so I thought. Quite a few people must have been there earlier in the picking season, for all the trees near the buildings were bare. The crowds of pickers were near the top of the hill, way to the back of the orchard. So up the hill we went, looking for apples. Not a problem, there were rows of unpicked fruit for the taking. We unloaded the wagon and the bicycles, and then Joe and Larry took the hog to the owner for his family.
Picking apples isn’t hard, sorting them is a different matter. We put the firmest, nicest looking apples in the baskets and the rattier looking ones, especially if they had brown spots or were getting mushy in buckets. Poppop even picked drops off the ground. Because of all the rain we had, some of them were pretty bad, but this wasn’t the year to be wasteful.
The other people there were friendly. In fact, I believe Dad knew many of them. There were a couple families from church, so we informed them of the communion Sunday. Actually, Dad told everyone they were welcome and not to worry if they had no food for the dinner; they should come anyway.
“Not a problem,” one young woman answered, “we got plenty of apples, a Dutch oven and plenty of flour. I’ll bake a giant pie.” That sounded good, but divided amongst four or five hundred people, we’d all get a pretty small portion. No matter, if she could do it, so could Jean.
We started loading buckets and baskets onto the wagon. It was full in no time. It took quite some doing to stack them, so there would still be room for the harvesters. Of course, Josh, Jake, Dean, Jennifer, Aaron and I intended to head home with our bicycles. Seemed like a much better option than being crammed into a wagon with buckets, baskets, and people. Once again, some preplanning had paid off.
Just before we left, I noticed Poppop and Jeremiah coming back from a different part of the orchard, each with two buckets. They had found the peach and pear sections. It being past the normal season for them, the pears were very soft and spotty. Similarly, the peaches were already shriveled up.
“What are you going to do with them?” Jake asked. “They look awful.”
“Oh, I have a couple ideas in mind.” Poppop answered, “You’ll see.”
Jennifer, the boys and I started down the road. It was a beautiful drive; the road followed the winding creek that later on downstream our little creek flowed into. It was surrounded by lush wooded ridges, just now starting to show fall colors on a tree here and there. We traversed some of our hunting areas. Josh pointed out where he had shot a turkey, where Dad had shot one, and Jake had shot his first buck. This was to be my first year of hunting and I wondered out loud where Dad would take me.
“Well,” Jake said, “I overheard Jeremiah and Dad talking about hunting the other night. The consensus was that we didn’t need to go hunting this year. First, we had enough meat right now. We should let the herd grow; save it for when we need it or if other people need it. Besides, we only have so much ammunition.”
“I could still use the bow,” Josh replied. “I can use the arrows more than once.”
“And probably make some, if you had to,” Aaron added.
“I suppose so,” Jake agreed and then said to me, “but it looks like you won’t get hunting this fall, unless we have to take care of some varmint problems. You really haven’t practiced much either; that takes precious ammunition, too.”
I had been practicing, but not with live ammo. I just practiced holding the gun, aiming, pulling the trigger, and bolting the next round in. But I guess I’d have to wait a couple years until I got my chance.
When we were about half way home, the rest of the crew passed us, waving and jeering. That pest, Robbie, even made a face at me and waved real nice at Jennifer. That boy might need some straightening out one day.
To be continued… Mort
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Chapter Seventeen-Communion (conclusion)
Dad and I accompanied Joe and the pastor in toward the butcher house. Dad turned to Barry and said, “Why don’t you come also? I’d like you to relate some of the technical accomplishments we’ve done around here.”
“Sure,” said Barry. On the way in, Barry, Joe and Dad started filling in the reverend about all the things we had done with motors, the water pump, the alternators, the windmill, and the batteries. They intended to show him the showers, oven and wash machine, but when we entered the butcher house, Mom and the other women took over the conversation. It was the same questions the men had asked, and the same answers. He told them where his family lived, where he got the horse, what things were keeping him busy, how everyone was doing.
Mom offered him drink and food of course and then inquired, “How are people really doing? Are there some specific people we should pray for?”
“Well,” Reverend Schneider answered, “there really are some people out there who are hurting. Not people who are starving or without shelter; the community is meeting those needs, at least so far. But there’s quite a bit of depression. They’re asking questions like: How did this happen? Why did this happen? How will we make it through the winter? There are some who are separated from loved ones and don’t even know where they are. It’s tough. I can only soothe them so much. It’ll take strong faith, perseverance, trust in Jesus, and lots of prayer as you rightly acknowledged. So pray for all those people, but there is one couple who could definitely use specific prayer.”
“Who would that be?” Jean asked.
“You know Jennie and Bob Prince from church?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jean replied, “something wrong with one of them?”
“Physically they’re fine, but you know their son, Mark, is in the Navy?”
“Oh, that’s right,” answered Mom, “where is he stationed?”
“That’s the problem,” the reverend answered, “No one knows. Last they heard from him was in mid-May. At the time, his ship was in the Indian Ocean. Haven’t heard a word since. They’re really taking it hard and just letting the worry get the best of them.”
“They have some cause to worry,” Grandmom said. “He could be dead I suppose, but there hasn’t been mail for two months. How could he write home? He’s probably part of the force we’re using to protect our shores. He’s doing his duty and serving his country and I bet he’s proud to do it. The service probably wouldn’t let him go, the way things are right now. But if they did, how would he get here from whatever part of the world he’s in? He’s probably just as worried about his folks as they are about him. Jennie and Bob and Mark do need our prayers - and everyone else who’s hurting. If you’re finished eating, Reverend, why don’t we pray right now?”
“Great idea,” answered the reverend, “and I am finished. Why don’t we all sit around the table and hold hands? But first, is anyone here in need of healing?”
Joe replied, “My back hasn’t quite been the same since we mowed that last field of hay.”
“Then sit on my right, next to me, and I’ll lay hands on you. In James chapter 5 verse 14 he writes: ‘Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer made in faith will make the sick person well…’. I have a little vial of olive oil in my pocket, just for these occasions.”
Sandy sat on the other side of her husband and laid her free hand on his back as well. Dad coaxed a very uncomfortable Barry in position on the other side of the minister. And then Dad sat next to him. We all held hands and Reverend Schneider anointed Joe with a dab of oil and then prayed. He didn’t pray terribly long, as he sometimes could, but when he finished he didn’t let go of Barry’s or Joe’s hands.
He continued, “I have a strong feeling that someone else here is in pain, too. Physical perhaps, but maybe spiritual as well. Is there someone else in need?”
There was silence as we glanced around the table. Then Barry started sobbing.
“What is it, brother?” the pastor asked. “How can Jesus help you?”
It was hard for him. He stumbled a few words, took a couple breaths, and then restarted, “I’ve known my brother here on my left ever since grade school. Later he was a good customer at my repair business. We’d share a lot of things and he knew what my physical problems were.” He paused, trying to compose himself.
Reverend Schneider aided by asking, “And what is the difficulty you have?”
“My breathing,” Barry replied. “I have emphysema; smoked too many years.”
He paused again, so Dad jumped in, “Jesus can help you with that difficulty; we can pray for you, like the scripture the reverend quoted instructed us to do.”
Barry sobbed again and then took another deep breath before blurting out, “That’s the real difficulty! I don’t know God! Just a few years ago, when my emphysema started becoming more serious, you stood right in my garage. I’ll never forget it. You offered to pray for me, for healing. You quoted those passages from James, but there was more to it and that’s where I fell short. You told me it depended on both the faith of the person making the prayer and the faith of the person receiving it. I told you it was no use then, because I didn’t believe in any of that stuff, or a word similar to that. I could tell you were hurt, but it was the truth. You countered well enough by saying something like, ‘Well, maybe today’s not the day, God’s timing, He can do it. I’ll still pray for you’.”
“I wonder if today is the day?” he concluded.
“Praise Jesus!” Reverend Schneider exclaimed. “Today can be the day! It’s your decision. Jesus is waiting with open arms to receive you. Now here’s the rest of that passage that you heard those few years ago: ‘…the Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.’ Have you sinned?”
“That’s an easy one,” Barry replied, “of course I have.”
“Do you believe Jesus is real?”
“That’s harder, I did go to Sunday School and I do remember the stories, but how could I say ‘no’ with all the evidence of Him in this community?”
“Open your heart and think harder. Faith doesn’t require evidence. What you see around here is a product of the faith, not the other way around. Is Jesus real to you?”
Barry looked intently at the minister, and then at Dad, and then skyward and then finally, quietly declared through teary eyes, “Yes, I do believe in Jesus.”
“Praise the Lord,” many voices echoed.
“And that he died for your sins, even if you really don’t understand all this now, and that you will be forgiven by your faith in Him because he loves you, and that He can heal you, and that you’ll be able to abide in Him forever?” Reverend Schneider concluded.
“Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes,” cried Barry. And so did a few other people, Dad included. And more ‘praise the Lord’s' were heard. The pastor anointed Barry and then prayed for healing. This time he prayed longer, a prayer filled with joy.
“How does it feel to be born again?” Dad asked Barry when the prayer was over.
“Born again?”
“It’s what Jesus called it. You have a new life now, the old is gone. It will be different. You will still have troubles, but one thing you’ll always have is Jesus by your side. Relish it.”
“I think I will,” Barry replied.
“I’ll have to be getting on my way,” Reverend Schneider said. “Thanks for the meal. Is there anything I should be on the look out for you?”
“Roosters,” Mom said as she packaged up some pork and string beans for the pastor to take home.
“Roosters?” he inquired.
“We only have laying hens here and at Butch and Clare’s. None of our eggs are fertile. If we’re going to increase our egg production, and we have the corn to do so, we need to hatch some broods of chicks. But we need some roosters to make it happen. If you get my drift?”
“Yes, I understand,” the pastor answered, “I’ll be on the lookout.”
Leave it for Mom to bring practicality into a moving moment.
“Oh, one other thing,” he continued. “The other ministers in the area are making an effort to observe World Wide Communion on its usual date, the first Sunday in October. We feel we need to bring as many followers together as we can that day, not only to honor God, but also to support each other and have a time of fellowship. I’ve talked to a few elders about this and have their support. We’d like your support too.”
“Agreed,” responded Dad, “what can we do?”
“First of all, spread the word, and then bring as many people as you can, by horse and wagon, bicycle, walking, trucks if necessary. Pick up anyone you can along the way. We want to have a big meal afterwards, so could we count on you for a healthy supply of some kind of barbecue? Pork, beef or venison, whatever you have available.”
“Can do,” answered Joe, “for how many people?”
“Hard to say. We’re hoping for a church full. Let the Spirit lead you. Nearly everyone will bring something. You know our culture; a food shortage won’t be the problem. And also, if you have some, we could use some more wine; our supplies are low.”
“No problem,” said Jean, “we’ve some to spare.”
“Okay then, I’ll hop on old Flash and head on down the road. Thanks again for the food and the fellowship. The communion service is in two weeks, so I probably won’t be around before then. See you all there and don’t forget to bring the newborn, Brother Barry.
(Author’s note: to the best of my knowledge, the real life Barry has not yet accepted Christ as his savior. I continue to pray for him and really need to make a harder effort to reach him. I ask that all of you think of the Barry in your life and do the same…To be continued……Mort)
“Sure,” said Barry. On the way in, Barry, Joe and Dad started filling in the reverend about all the things we had done with motors, the water pump, the alternators, the windmill, and the batteries. They intended to show him the showers, oven and wash machine, but when we entered the butcher house, Mom and the other women took over the conversation. It was the same questions the men had asked, and the same answers. He told them where his family lived, where he got the horse, what things were keeping him busy, how everyone was doing.
Mom offered him drink and food of course and then inquired, “How are people really doing? Are there some specific people we should pray for?”
“Well,” Reverend Schneider answered, “there really are some people out there who are hurting. Not people who are starving or without shelter; the community is meeting those needs, at least so far. But there’s quite a bit of depression. They’re asking questions like: How did this happen? Why did this happen? How will we make it through the winter? There are some who are separated from loved ones and don’t even know where they are. It’s tough. I can only soothe them so much. It’ll take strong faith, perseverance, trust in Jesus, and lots of prayer as you rightly acknowledged. So pray for all those people, but there is one couple who could definitely use specific prayer.”
“Who would that be?” Jean asked.
“You know Jennie and Bob Prince from church?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jean replied, “something wrong with one of them?”
“Physically they’re fine, but you know their son, Mark, is in the Navy?”
“Oh, that’s right,” answered Mom, “where is he stationed?”
“That’s the problem,” the reverend answered, “No one knows. Last they heard from him was in mid-May. At the time, his ship was in the Indian Ocean. Haven’t heard a word since. They’re really taking it hard and just letting the worry get the best of them.”
“They have some cause to worry,” Grandmom said. “He could be dead I suppose, but there hasn’t been mail for two months. How could he write home? He’s probably part of the force we’re using to protect our shores. He’s doing his duty and serving his country and I bet he’s proud to do it. The service probably wouldn’t let him go, the way things are right now. But if they did, how would he get here from whatever part of the world he’s in? He’s probably just as worried about his folks as they are about him. Jennie and Bob and Mark do need our prayers - and everyone else who’s hurting. If you’re finished eating, Reverend, why don’t we pray right now?”
“Great idea,” answered the reverend, “and I am finished. Why don’t we all sit around the table and hold hands? But first, is anyone here in need of healing?”
Joe replied, “My back hasn’t quite been the same since we mowed that last field of hay.”
“Then sit on my right, next to me, and I’ll lay hands on you. In James chapter 5 verse 14 he writes: ‘Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer made in faith will make the sick person well…’. I have a little vial of olive oil in my pocket, just for these occasions.”
Sandy sat on the other side of her husband and laid her free hand on his back as well. Dad coaxed a very uncomfortable Barry in position on the other side of the minister. And then Dad sat next to him. We all held hands and Reverend Schneider anointed Joe with a dab of oil and then prayed. He didn’t pray terribly long, as he sometimes could, but when he finished he didn’t let go of Barry’s or Joe’s hands.
He continued, “I have a strong feeling that someone else here is in pain, too. Physical perhaps, but maybe spiritual as well. Is there someone else in need?”
There was silence as we glanced around the table. Then Barry started sobbing.
“What is it, brother?” the pastor asked. “How can Jesus help you?”
It was hard for him. He stumbled a few words, took a couple breaths, and then restarted, “I’ve known my brother here on my left ever since grade school. Later he was a good customer at my repair business. We’d share a lot of things and he knew what my physical problems were.” He paused, trying to compose himself.
Reverend Schneider aided by asking, “And what is the difficulty you have?”
“My breathing,” Barry replied. “I have emphysema; smoked too many years.”
He paused again, so Dad jumped in, “Jesus can help you with that difficulty; we can pray for you, like the scripture the reverend quoted instructed us to do.”
Barry sobbed again and then took another deep breath before blurting out, “That’s the real difficulty! I don’t know God! Just a few years ago, when my emphysema started becoming more serious, you stood right in my garage. I’ll never forget it. You offered to pray for me, for healing. You quoted those passages from James, but there was more to it and that’s where I fell short. You told me it depended on both the faith of the person making the prayer and the faith of the person receiving it. I told you it was no use then, because I didn’t believe in any of that stuff, or a word similar to that. I could tell you were hurt, but it was the truth. You countered well enough by saying something like, ‘Well, maybe today’s not the day, God’s timing, He can do it. I’ll still pray for you’.”
“I wonder if today is the day?” he concluded.
“Praise Jesus!” Reverend Schneider exclaimed. “Today can be the day! It’s your decision. Jesus is waiting with open arms to receive you. Now here’s the rest of that passage that you heard those few years ago: ‘…the Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.’ Have you sinned?”
“That’s an easy one,” Barry replied, “of course I have.”
“Do you believe Jesus is real?”
“That’s harder, I did go to Sunday School and I do remember the stories, but how could I say ‘no’ with all the evidence of Him in this community?”
“Open your heart and think harder. Faith doesn’t require evidence. What you see around here is a product of the faith, not the other way around. Is Jesus real to you?”
Barry looked intently at the minister, and then at Dad, and then skyward and then finally, quietly declared through teary eyes, “Yes, I do believe in Jesus.”
“Praise the Lord,” many voices echoed.
“And that he died for your sins, even if you really don’t understand all this now, and that you will be forgiven by your faith in Him because he loves you, and that He can heal you, and that you’ll be able to abide in Him forever?” Reverend Schneider concluded.
“Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes,” cried Barry. And so did a few other people, Dad included. And more ‘praise the Lord’s' were heard. The pastor anointed Barry and then prayed for healing. This time he prayed longer, a prayer filled with joy.
“How does it feel to be born again?” Dad asked Barry when the prayer was over.
“Born again?”
“It’s what Jesus called it. You have a new life now, the old is gone. It will be different. You will still have troubles, but one thing you’ll always have is Jesus by your side. Relish it.”
“I think I will,” Barry replied.
“I’ll have to be getting on my way,” Reverend Schneider said. “Thanks for the meal. Is there anything I should be on the look out for you?”
“Roosters,” Mom said as she packaged up some pork and string beans for the pastor to take home.
“Roosters?” he inquired.
“We only have laying hens here and at Butch and Clare’s. None of our eggs are fertile. If we’re going to increase our egg production, and we have the corn to do so, we need to hatch some broods of chicks. But we need some roosters to make it happen. If you get my drift?”
“Yes, I understand,” the pastor answered, “I’ll be on the lookout.”
Leave it for Mom to bring practicality into a moving moment.
“Oh, one other thing,” he continued. “The other ministers in the area are making an effort to observe World Wide Communion on its usual date, the first Sunday in October. We feel we need to bring as many followers together as we can that day, not only to honor God, but also to support each other and have a time of fellowship. I’ve talked to a few elders about this and have their support. We’d like your support too.”
“Agreed,” responded Dad, “what can we do?”
“First of all, spread the word, and then bring as many people as you can, by horse and wagon, bicycle, walking, trucks if necessary. Pick up anyone you can along the way. We want to have a big meal afterwards, so could we count on you for a healthy supply of some kind of barbecue? Pork, beef or venison, whatever you have available.”
“Can do,” answered Joe, “for how many people?”
“Hard to say. We’re hoping for a church full. Let the Spirit lead you. Nearly everyone will bring something. You know our culture; a food shortage won’t be the problem. And also, if you have some, we could use some more wine; our supplies are low.”
“No problem,” said Jean, “we’ve some to spare.”
“Okay then, I’ll hop on old Flash and head on down the road. Thanks again for the food and the fellowship. The communion service is in two weeks, so I probably won’t be around before then. See you all there and don’t forget to bring the newborn, Brother Barry.
(Author’s note: to the best of my knowledge, the real life Barry has not yet accepted Christ as his savior. I continue to pray for him and really need to make a harder effort to reach him. I ask that all of you think of the Barry in your life and do the same…To be continued……Mort)
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