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

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

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

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