CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THINGS

Titus Weaver was an old chum of Dad’s. They had gone to elementary school together for the first five grades. Then the Mennonites built their first one room schoolhouse in the neighborhood and Titus finished his schooling there. Titus was extremely bright. Years later, Titus told Dad that he treated his years of school with Dad as a competition; always trying to better him. Dad had said he really hadn’t remembered, but credited Titus for his ambition and for complementing his ambitious and competitive spirit with a kind, friendly attitude. Titus was very outgoing and not afraid to speak his peace. Dad loved talking to him, about almost anything. They had gone their separate ways for many years. Titus had moved and his farm was at least twelve miles from Harvey’s.
But about 20 years ago, a group of farmers shifted some of their cash grain and livestock operations to produce. Titus was instrumental in leading the way, helping to start a produce auction in the neighborhood. Soon after that, Dad started growing some produce, too, opening the door to seeing more of Titus. Today you could tell Titus was in the produce business, for on his wagon were several boxes of fruits and vegetables, some almost empty. Harvey, Joe, Dad and I walked over and took a look. He had sweet corn, cantaloupes, watermelons, cabbage, lima beans, green and hot peppers, peaches and a few jars of honey. You could also tell he and Dad had a special bond between them, for as Titus jumped off the wagon he gave Dad a hug as fellow believers are instructed to do.
“Glad to see you Titus,” Dad started.
“And you, too,” he replied.
“What in the world brings you so far from home?” Dad asked.
“Well you know my farm and many of my neighbors are growing produce. For years we had an excellent market, but because the people in our sect don’t use rubber tired vehicles, we depended on others coming to the auction or to the farm. Those who had motor vehicles would buy and haul away our produce. When the supply of fuel dried up, so did our market. We’ve got plenty of produce and people still need food, so everyday I load up the wagon and travel to sell, trade, or give it away. Never did intend to get this far from home, though. This afternoon I reached your old place, anxious to see how you were making out. Your landlord told me where you live now. I still had produce on the wagon, so I decided to spend the extra time and drive the extra miles, just to see you.”
“I’m flattered, I guess,” Dad answered. “But how can you take the time away from home, what with all the work you must have?”
“You wouldn’t believe the help we have. Since the power went off, folks from town come to the farm everyday. First they came just looking for water, food and work. Our water pump is powered by a windmill; no problem there. And we were certainly willing to share our produce especially with people who want to work. Now it has become a real working relationship. I’ve had over one hundred people on my farm some days. Men, women and children; they all work hard. Not only weeding and picking produce, but with the livestock, too; we also spend a lot of time and effort canning and drying fruits and vegetables. We’re putting a real emphasis on drying, as we’re running out of canning supplies. Still, everyday the townsfolk bring empty jars and lids they used or found at home. We have a great feast of fruits and vegetables, and of course, all the workers go home with some, too; their earnings for the day. Not only on my farm, now mind you, but almost every farm in our community is operating pretty much the same way. Not all our help is local, however.
“How’s that?” Harvey asked.
“Well, things aren’t going nearly as smoothly nearer the city. You’re aware of the Amish and Mennonite communities located in the counties south of here, only ten to fifteen miles from the city limits?” Titus questioned.
“Yes,” Harvey answered.
“There’s been a lot of trouble there. Unlike our neighbors, who came to the farm willing to work for what they need, seems like the city dwellers think they have a right to everything,” Titus lamented.
“Years of entitlement programs,” Joe interjected.
“I suppose so,” Titus continued. “In my mind, it’s more of a lack of morals and absence of kindness in their hearts. This here’s Harlan, by the way. He’s my cousin’s son.”
“Glad to meet you,” Dad said for all of us.
“And you too,” Harlan said.
Titus concluded, “His family lived near Friarstown, close to the city… too close. They had to leave; came and moved in with us. I’ll let him tell you why.”
“You know our people practice passive resistance,” Harlan related, “so we daren’t lift a finger to oppose someone. Of course, we gladly shared our water and our food with the first refugees who came out from the city. Some paid, some worked for it. We even opened our homes for some of them, if they needed it. But that wasn’t good enough for some; they wanted more. First, while they still had gasoline, they’d come in their cars as they fled the city and want the trunk filled up with all the food they could take. What could we do? We don’t resist. But our other guests weren’t so inclined to put up with such antagonism. Over our objections, fights would break out. Usually they ended with little injury, but a lot of hurt still the same.”
“So they took things; OK it was just things. But next they wanted our horses. I understood they were trying to head south, toward warmer climes, and they knew their gasoline would only go so far. Passive resistance was put to the test. Our horses are our livelihood. But we only fought with words – angry words. Fortunately, they worked for my father. However he knew we had to flee. Loaded everything we could onto our three wagons and two buggies, tied a few cows onto the back and headed north to this community.”
“Others didn’t fare as well. Some of our brothers were beat up pretty bad – two were shot. I know one is healing OK; he made it up to here. I have no idea how the other one fared, or anyone else we left behind, for that matter. Hopefully the worst of society has already been through. I’m certainly glad to be here; it’s so much more peaceful,” Harlan concluded.
“Yes, around here it has been peaceful,” Harvey said. “And we’re glad you made it here, too.”
Joe said, “We have to keep praying for those people; both the members of your community and the perpetrators. Listen, Titus, your horses had a long hot trek already today. Couldn’t they use some water and feed?”
“Feed they can have tonight at home,” Titus said. “They just had rest and some grass along the roadside a few miles back. But water is necessary.”
“Then lead ‘em right over to the creek,” Dad said. “In fact, why don’t you unhitch them? It’s late in the day and a long walk home for them. Why don’t you spend the night? You can get an early start in the morning.”
“Naw, we couldn’t, I mean…”
“Ah, I should have thought,” Dad continued, “your missus and Harlan’s mother wouldn’t know where you are. It would be a rough night for them. We don’t know how to send them smoke signals, like the Indians did.”
“No we don’t,” Titus responded. “And that’s not it, either. When we leave home every morning, the others are aware we might run into some trouble and might have difficulty returning the same day. We know Jesus looks after us. Those at home would be at peace – peace that comes from the Lord.”
“Amen,” said Joe.
Titus went on, “We just wouldn’t want to impose. You’ve enough troubles trying to make a go of it. Why would you want four more mouths to feed?”
“Nonsense,” said Harvey, “the Golden Rule applies here. You’re welcome here just like we’d be welcome at your place. Get those horses unhitched, watered, fed and rested. Besides, by the looks of your wagon, we have some serious trading to do.”
“Titus,” Joe wondered, “you said earlier, ‘buy, trade, or give it away’. Have you been accepting money?”
“Interesting you should ask,” Titus responded. “Not paper money. We started using coins for exchanges between ourselves, not always having goods in kind. And some of the town folks have their pride – hate to accept charity – insisted on paying. They knew their paper money was worthless as well as any funds they had in bank accounts, so forget about checks. However coins still have intrinsic value, so we accept them… at extremely deflated prices.”
“You mean a nickel’s worth something again?” Dad asked.
“It’ll buy you a watermelon,” Harlan retorted.
“Wow!” Joe said, as he looked over the wagon. “Reckon we can buy everything on the wagon for six quarters.”
“I reckon that would be just about right. Unless you have goods to trade?” Titus asked.
“Here we go again,” Harvey countered. “What do we have that you need?”
“Hay,” Titus answered. “When shipping milk as you knew it stopped, the larger dairy farmers in our community spread the cows over all the farms in the neighborhood to distribute the work and the milk. Those of us that had some, swapped back steers. It was important that the dairies have enough animals to consume the corn silage and haylage in their silos at a rate fast enough to prevent spoilage.”
“That’s always tricky this time of year,” Harvey said, “when it’s so hot.”
“Right,” Titus responded, “work wise, it’s holding out really well. Feed wise, it’s a different story.”
“How so?” Dad asked.
“Most of us have a silo or two that we fed our steers from. Some contained corn silage, a few haylage. We can still fork the silage out by hand to feed the cows, steers and heifers. What with the cows from the neighbor, the steers I didn’t swap and the cows Harlan’s parents brought, we have 35 head to feed; more than enough to feed at a rate that prevents spoilage. Problem is - silo’s soon empty. We might try to ensile some corn, but it takes precious fuel to chop it. We also might want the grain for ourselves to eat. Fortunately cattle can eat corn fodder and vegetable stalks. That’s our dilemma; we’ll have to work it out. What compounds the problem is that with so many acres diverted to produce, there were not many acres of corn grown this year and virtually no hay crop acres. We found it more expeditious and profitable to buy the hay we needed at the produce auction.”
“The auction that hasn’t operated since the middle of July,” Joe added.
“Right,” Titus said, “bottom line is – we need hay. Every trip of produce I take out, I try to bring a load of hay home. In my mind, a load of hay is worth more than the six quarters you offered for the balance of the produce left on my wagon. But I had the wagon full when I left home. I didn’t sell all of it; some I traded for the honey and some I gave away. But in the process I collected another two dollars and eight-five cents in coins. You can have it all for a load of hay.”

To be continued… will the trade go through? Mort