When we arrived, Dad, Clare, and Ben had everything back in order: new clean straw on the chicken house, fresh feed in the feeders and clean water in the waterers; mission accomplished.
“Good job everyone,” Butch said. “Why don’t you wash the sweat and smell off of you, and then I’ll grab a couple fishing poles and you can try your luck in our pond.”
Sounded good to me. I hadn’t fished that often; wasn’t one of Dad’s obsessions. But he went along anyway, with Butch and Ben. Robbie was the fisherman, however, and proudly carried his can of worms to the pond. Now I got it; they were bait. Robbie showed us how to put the squirming mealworms on a hook and how to throw the line into the pond.
Butch said, “Most important part of fishing, least around here, is picking the right spot to sit, so the sun doesn’t hit you.” I guess catching fish wasn’t the main objective. In fact, when Robbie finally did catch the first one, Butch gently removed the hook from its mouth and tossed it back into the pond. “Someday, when he’s a bit bigger, we might need him for a meal. For now, just let ‘em grow,” he concluded.
So in the shade we sat, more resting than fishing, more fishing than catching. While we were there, Dad had a few things to go over with Butch and Ben. He told them about how Harvey and the boys were building the shower house and installing the water pump, tank and lines. He related our trading activities with the Sensenig’s, the training of the oxen, and the plans for the oven and flour mill. He wondered if they had come up with any kind of wringer for the washing machine. They hadn’t. He mentioned how we could charge automotive batteries with the alternators from our cars and trucks.
“Additionally, we still wish we could solve the problem we have with converting our motors from 110 volt alternating current to 12 volt direct current,” Dad said. “You’re the electrical engineer, Ben. How do we do it?”
“With transformers,” was Ben’s answer.
“But can you build some?” Dad inquired. “Or restructure the transformers we have that go the other way, like for the electric fencer or flashlight charger?”
“I could if I had the right materials, tools, and schematics. I just can’t remember from my student days what they looked like, but I don’t think we could find the needed materials anyway,” Ben responded.
Dad kinda pursed his lips tightly together and squinted his eyes. “Well,” he eventually said, “if we can’t convert the motors to 12 volt, we’re back to trying to make 110 volt alternating current. We’ll just have to continue to investigate sources of power that would turn that 45 horsepower generator Harvey has.”
“Or,” Butch said, “find a smaller generator, say 4500 to 6500 watts, that only needs ten to twelve horsepower to turn; one that you might be able to turn with a windmill, waterwheel, or animal wheel.”
“Animal wheel?” Ben wondered.
“Yeah,’ Butch replied, “they used to have one at the folk festival, remember?”
“I do,” Dad said, “It was like the wheel the Philistines made Samson turn.”
“Right,” Butch went on, “you could use some of your steers or heifers, assuming you could train them. Probably would be more difficult, however, than training your oxen when they’re young.”
“Or we could use teams of horses,” Dad added.
“I suppose we could,” Butch agreed, “but first we would need to find a smaller generator.”
“Back to trading again,” Dad said.
“I guess so,” Ben said. “Or if we could trade for solar panels; they would be incredibly helpful.”
“And valuable,” Dad added, “so who would give any up?”
“Someone who needed food more than electricity. We have a source of food,” Butch replied. “Or could we build some panels of our own?”
“Not without photoelectric cells. I don’t know even what to build them out of. The frame, glass, and wires we’d probably have. Look for some of them too, when you’re trading,” Ben suggested.
“Or 12 volt motors; we can make direct current for them,” Dad said.
“Wait a minute,” Ben said, “we have 12 volt motors.”
“What do you mean? Where?” Dad asked.
“On every motor vehicle,” Ben responded, “what we call the starters; they’re technically called cranking motors. They’re 12 volt and direct current. They’ll run off the batteries we can charge with the automotive alternators like you talked about earlier.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Dad, “why didn’t we think of that?”
“Well, I’ll be,” added Butch, “the solution was there all along.”
“Just needed someone to show us. Thanks a lot, Ben,” Dad said. “But Joe said the other day: ‘as soon as we have a good idea, glitches develop’. I guess in this case I have to wonder if starters can handle continuous service. They don’t run that way in a car; just for short bursts. And they run at high rpm’s, I think. Hope we can reduce it.”
“Don’t kill an idea with negative thoughts,” Butch said. “I know in some matters, like safety or health issues, you might have to be surer of things, but in this case, just start experimenting. You might be surprised.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Dad replied. “I’m sure the boys will be glad to hear the suggestion and will run with it. Hey! It just occurred to me; there are other 12 volt motors in our cars. Think about it.”
Ben cocked his head, looked at Dad, and then as if a spark had ignited in his brain, he jolted out, “The power window motors and the windshield wiper motors.”
“Right,” said Butch, “and the wiper motors are designed to run continuously. Oh, we’re going to have fun adapting them to our appliances.”
“I think we will,” Dad agreed. “Now, I have one more matter before we head for home.”
“What’s that?” Butch asked.
“Making hay,” Dad continued. “One of these days the weather’s going to break. Next Monday’s Labor Day; only gives us three or four weeks of decent hay drying weather. Most of the hayfields at Harvey’s are being grazed off. But here and on Harvey’s other rented farm there are some fields that should be harvested and stored for the winter. Especially here, so you have enough feed for your horses; they’re valuable. We’ve thought it through and it’s been decided that we’ll use a little fuel to cut just some parts of the hayfields; you know, get them started and then finish mowing by hand. We have four scythes and a few sickles. Do you have some?”
“Just a few,” Butch answered.
“It will have to do,” Dad went on. “If we have more workers than implements, that gives more opportunities for breaks for the workers; will keep the tools in continuous operation. We figure the hardest and most time consuming part of the operation is the mowing. That’s part of the reason we’re willing to use some precious fuel to mow some of the hay. We think we have enough pitchforks and rakes to get darn near all of us into the field for turning, raking and loading the hay. Hopefully we can keep two wagons and teams busy going back and forth from field to barn. That’s your part Butch; you up to it?”
“Bring it on,” he answered, “three teams if needed.”
“And when we go at it, we’ll need everyone in on the act,” Dad added.
“Don’t know why it wouldn’t work,” Butch replied. “Everyone around here has the spirit of cooperation, knowing we have to, to survive. When might we start?”
“Hard to say. We’ve no weather forecast. Have to rely on Poppop’s, my, and Harvey’s skill of reading the skies. Could be anytime. Once Harvey makes up his mind, things are going to move. Don’t be surprised if Larry comes up your lane in the middle of the night to start mowing,” Dad concluded.
Butch smiled, stuck up a thumb and said, “We’ll be ready.”
We put away the fishing gear. There were no keepers. Robbie said he didn’t feel like cleaning fish anyway. We said our goodbyes and back down the road we went.
“Oh, shoot,” I said to Dad, “we didn’t make arrangements for our next play session.”
“You mean work session,” he answered. “Don’t worry. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other when the weather turns.”
When we got home, Harvey and Poppop were already back. The boys had the milk tank over at the butcher house. They said they’d wait until tomorrow to place it on the foundation. There was cattle work to do now. As we walked out to the barn, we looked down the road and noticed a wagon pulled by a team of horses. Not Clydesdales like Butch had. They were smaller and sleeker; looked much like the horses the Mennonites used. And sure enough, as the wagon got close enough to see the driver, we could see he wore a straw hat and the typical plain garb of the Mennonites. He had a passenger, a boy about half grown, dressed the same way.
“Looks like more traders,” Dad said. And as the team pulled up to us, a big smile appeared on Dad’s face, “Well I’ll be,” he said, “if it isn’t Titus Weaver.”
To be continued… Who’s Titus Weaver? … Mort
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
CHAPTER TWELVE - TRADERS (CONT)
You see, fifty years ago there were eight operating farms on our road from where it branches off of Mountain Road to where it meets the main highway. Each had their own farm family with a little dairy herd. Some had hogs, too, and most had chickens or other poultry. Since then, every time one of those farmers died or retired and the farm was sold, it was rare that the farm was passed onto a family member or even to another aspiring young farmer. Prices of farms continually rose and farming just didn’t pay well enough for anyone to afford one by just squeaking an existence from a single, average farm. However, the upper middle class could afford them; therefore many of the new owners were not farmers.
As a result seven of the eight farms, not Harvey’s of course, were owned by someone who did not do the farming on it. Not that the land was idled though, for it was still somewhat profitable for a farmer to absorb the farmland into his existing operation by simply paying rent for the cultivated acres. Harvey farmed three, including Butch’s, Roger farmed two, and another farmer named Roscoe worked the other three, one of which was Reuben’s. Yet each of the farms still had a barn that feed could be stored in and livestock housed. They each had some land that was pasture with the creek running through for a water source. All of the farms could easily support a couple cows or a few hogs or chickens. So Reuben’s request made sense.
“Tom and his family moved in with us from the city,” Reuben continued, “and between the two families, there are four kids under ten years old – milk drinkers. We have the stable, pasture and water, plus Roscoe has baled hay in the barn that he said we’re welcome to use. He’ll give us corn, too, when we help him with his harvest.”
“You sure one cow’s enough?” Harvey asked, always having the thought that we couldn’t use all the milk we had, not to mention the amount we might get as more cows freshen.
“Yes, one’s enough,” Tom said, “so, what would you accept as trade for one?”
In typical Stump fashion Harvey started gently tugging at his hairs on his chin; his eyes showing deep thought. “It just don’t seem right,” he finally said, “taking something from you that you might really need some day in exchange for something we have plenty of.”
“But that’s the idea,” Reuben retorted, “we chose things out of our abundance to trade, just like you would be doing.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I just wish you had something else we could use…that you wouldn’t miss,” Harvey concluded.
“Like nails and insulation!” Josh exclaimed. “You’re a home builder; do you have some to trade?”
“Yeah,” said Jeremiah, “we need insulation for this building. We have none and we hated the idea of using straw, it being so flammable. We were leaning to using old sofa and chair cushions; might be a little safer, but still flammable, and we’d rather save the ones we have for future needs. If you would have regular fiberglass insulation to trade, that would be great.”
“And nails,” added Dennis, “especially sixteen pennies; we’ve been straightening out every used, bent nail we could find. Sure could use those, too.”
“Got both,” answered Reuben, “several bales of insulation and all sizes of nails. Gladly trade what you need for a cow.”
“Now we’re cooking,” Harvey jubilantly declared. “I’ve just the cow for you. It’s Frenchie, that black one Dennis is milking,” he announced to the boys. “She’s in good production and early lactation nor bred back, so she’ll keep producing a long time. In addition she’s a young cow, but doesn’t act it; she’s real calm and will handle well. You want to take her with you, now?”
“I suppose,” Reuben said, “but we haven’t given you the insulation or nails.”
“Ah come on; we’re neighbors, and honest traders. Besides, wouldn’t want to make you carry everything back home plus carry the insulation here. We’ll hitch up Brutus to a lighter hay wagon we have, haul your knapsacks home for you with Frenchie in tow, and bring our building materials home. Larry can run the backhoe while I’m gone if they need to. Alyssa, I imagine you’ll want to go along?”
“Heck yeah,” was my response.
“And your dad and Poppop?”
They nodded and then Dad added, “Was planning on going to Butch’s this afternoon anyway with the young’ns. We can be dropped off on the way.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Harvey said, and then turned to me. “Alyssa, would you fetch a few strands of the rope you were braiding yesterday, oh, about fifteen feet or so. Larry can make a halter for Frenchie and a tow rope. Just bring it to the butcher house. We’ll be heading in for dinner. You boys are invited.”
Tom said, “No thanks. We brought our own; some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches?” Jake quizzed, “You have bread?”
“More like, we had bread,” Reuben answered, “down to our last loaves. When Tom was getting out of the city, he ran into a fella with a truckload of it.”
Tom continued, “I didn’t ask where he got it. He was trading it with people for things. I traded some gasoline for ten loaves. But like Reuben said: we’re down to our last loaves.”
“We’re thinking we’ll have bread again,” Dad said. “We have the wheat and yeast. The boys are building an oven; still have to fabricate a flour mill. That’s in the future. Right now you can still set with us to eat. Cooled milk goes well with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. But I bet they’re some kids who might want to swap their dinner for them. Either way, join us for the meal.”
“We’re right behind you,” they answered.
Dad was prophetic. When Reuben and Tom sat down to eat, the real trading began. Harvey and Dad had accomplished the main trade and were satisfied to let us continue the haggling with the Sensenig’s. Dinner was clam chowder; mostly milk with butter; had to hunt the clams and potatoes. Must have looked good to Reuben and Tom though, for in short order, they had three bowls of it and Lynette, Amy and I had two packs of gum and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That was two thirds of a sandwich for each of us. We needed Josh to cut them as evenly as possible. He got to lick the knife for his effort, plus a stick of gum; made dividing the remaining nine easier. Larry swapped a milk bucket full of wheat for the .22 cartridges. Jean and Mel traded four cans of salmon for the two packs of feminine napkins.
“Meat we’ll have around here when we butcher,” Jean said, “so we can spare it. Besides I’m sure the Sensenig’s will enjoy it.” I didn’t understand then all the fuss about the napkins the women were making that day. About a year later, I found out.
Lois swapped some butter for the ibuprofen. “At least you’ll have some butter for your last bread tonight,” she told them. “You can make your own butter later if you find or make something to churn the cream with; we use a hand-cranked ice cream freezer. And just because we have the ibuprofen now, doesn’t mean we wouldn’t share it later if the need arises.”
“Thanks much,” Reuben said.
After dinner, with the swapping completed, the goods were loaded onto the wagon with Reuben, Tom, Amy, Lynette, Dad and I. Frenchie was tied to the back and Brutus hitched to the front. Harvey and Poppop held the reins. When we got to Crystal View Farm, Dad and we kids got off the wagon. Poppop, Harvey and the Sensenig’s would have no trouble completing the trading trip. Dad told them not to worry about us on the way home; we could walk.
Butch and Clare put us right to work. They were manuring their chicken house and had extra shovels and brooms for all of us. It was a dusty job. We tied our handkerchiefs around our noses. Made us all look like outlaws. It wasn’t really that bad though; the job was almost half finished. Butch had a wagon hitched to a team of horses and parked right next to chicken house door. The men were shoveling the manure onto the wagon; we only had to push and sweep it toward the door. As we worked, Robbie was picking little white mealworms out of the chicken dirt and putting them in an old empty coffee can.
“What you doing that for?” I asked, out from under my kerchief.
“You’ll see later,” was his answer.
It was too hot for this kind of job, but Butch said it needed to be done. In the summertime, chickens are more comfortable and produce much better when their pens are clean and dry. The house was soon cleaned; the next thing to do was empty the wagon.
“Chicken manure is excellent fertilizer,” Dad said to Butch. “You should probably spread it in a field where you intend to grow corn or vegetables next year.”
“That’s what I figured,” Butch replied, “there’s an oat stubble field, that has deep easy working soil, with few rocks. Thought I’d put it there.”
It was a short trip. We all walked along. Normally, I wouldn’t pass on an opportunity for a wagon ride, but I had no desire to jump onto or into the wagon’s stinky cargo. Spreading went real smooth. Butch drove real slowly while Dan and Lee threw shovelful after shovelful of the manure off the wagon in easy sweeping motions. That way the manure was distributed all over the ground, not clumped on piles here and there. Not bad for a chemist and a machinist. When the wagon was empty, Lynette and I climbed onto the wagon and swept it clean. Now the rest all hopped on for the trip back.
To be continued.... see what else Butch is up to, Mort
As a result seven of the eight farms, not Harvey’s of course, were owned by someone who did not do the farming on it. Not that the land was idled though, for it was still somewhat profitable for a farmer to absorb the farmland into his existing operation by simply paying rent for the cultivated acres. Harvey farmed three, including Butch’s, Roger farmed two, and another farmer named Roscoe worked the other three, one of which was Reuben’s. Yet each of the farms still had a barn that feed could be stored in and livestock housed. They each had some land that was pasture with the creek running through for a water source. All of the farms could easily support a couple cows or a few hogs or chickens. So Reuben’s request made sense.
“Tom and his family moved in with us from the city,” Reuben continued, “and between the two families, there are four kids under ten years old – milk drinkers. We have the stable, pasture and water, plus Roscoe has baled hay in the barn that he said we’re welcome to use. He’ll give us corn, too, when we help him with his harvest.”
“You sure one cow’s enough?” Harvey asked, always having the thought that we couldn’t use all the milk we had, not to mention the amount we might get as more cows freshen.
“Yes, one’s enough,” Tom said, “so, what would you accept as trade for one?”
In typical Stump fashion Harvey started gently tugging at his hairs on his chin; his eyes showing deep thought. “It just don’t seem right,” he finally said, “taking something from you that you might really need some day in exchange for something we have plenty of.”
“But that’s the idea,” Reuben retorted, “we chose things out of our abundance to trade, just like you would be doing.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I just wish you had something else we could use…that you wouldn’t miss,” Harvey concluded.
“Like nails and insulation!” Josh exclaimed. “You’re a home builder; do you have some to trade?”
“Yeah,” said Jeremiah, “we need insulation for this building. We have none and we hated the idea of using straw, it being so flammable. We were leaning to using old sofa and chair cushions; might be a little safer, but still flammable, and we’d rather save the ones we have for future needs. If you would have regular fiberglass insulation to trade, that would be great.”
“And nails,” added Dennis, “especially sixteen pennies; we’ve been straightening out every used, bent nail we could find. Sure could use those, too.”
“Got both,” answered Reuben, “several bales of insulation and all sizes of nails. Gladly trade what you need for a cow.”
“Now we’re cooking,” Harvey jubilantly declared. “I’ve just the cow for you. It’s Frenchie, that black one Dennis is milking,” he announced to the boys. “She’s in good production and early lactation nor bred back, so she’ll keep producing a long time. In addition she’s a young cow, but doesn’t act it; she’s real calm and will handle well. You want to take her with you, now?”
“I suppose,” Reuben said, “but we haven’t given you the insulation or nails.”
“Ah come on; we’re neighbors, and honest traders. Besides, wouldn’t want to make you carry everything back home plus carry the insulation here. We’ll hitch up Brutus to a lighter hay wagon we have, haul your knapsacks home for you with Frenchie in tow, and bring our building materials home. Larry can run the backhoe while I’m gone if they need to. Alyssa, I imagine you’ll want to go along?”
“Heck yeah,” was my response.
“And your dad and Poppop?”
They nodded and then Dad added, “Was planning on going to Butch’s this afternoon anyway with the young’ns. We can be dropped off on the way.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Harvey said, and then turned to me. “Alyssa, would you fetch a few strands of the rope you were braiding yesterday, oh, about fifteen feet or so. Larry can make a halter for Frenchie and a tow rope. Just bring it to the butcher house. We’ll be heading in for dinner. You boys are invited.”
Tom said, “No thanks. We brought our own; some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches?” Jake quizzed, “You have bread?”
“More like, we had bread,” Reuben answered, “down to our last loaves. When Tom was getting out of the city, he ran into a fella with a truckload of it.”
Tom continued, “I didn’t ask where he got it. He was trading it with people for things. I traded some gasoline for ten loaves. But like Reuben said: we’re down to our last loaves.”
“We’re thinking we’ll have bread again,” Dad said. “We have the wheat and yeast. The boys are building an oven; still have to fabricate a flour mill. That’s in the future. Right now you can still set with us to eat. Cooled milk goes well with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. But I bet they’re some kids who might want to swap their dinner for them. Either way, join us for the meal.”
“We’re right behind you,” they answered.
Dad was prophetic. When Reuben and Tom sat down to eat, the real trading began. Harvey and Dad had accomplished the main trade and were satisfied to let us continue the haggling with the Sensenig’s. Dinner was clam chowder; mostly milk with butter; had to hunt the clams and potatoes. Must have looked good to Reuben and Tom though, for in short order, they had three bowls of it and Lynette, Amy and I had two packs of gum and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That was two thirds of a sandwich for each of us. We needed Josh to cut them as evenly as possible. He got to lick the knife for his effort, plus a stick of gum; made dividing the remaining nine easier. Larry swapped a milk bucket full of wheat for the .22 cartridges. Jean and Mel traded four cans of salmon for the two packs of feminine napkins.
“Meat we’ll have around here when we butcher,” Jean said, “so we can spare it. Besides I’m sure the Sensenig’s will enjoy it.” I didn’t understand then all the fuss about the napkins the women were making that day. About a year later, I found out.
Lois swapped some butter for the ibuprofen. “At least you’ll have some butter for your last bread tonight,” she told them. “You can make your own butter later if you find or make something to churn the cream with; we use a hand-cranked ice cream freezer. And just because we have the ibuprofen now, doesn’t mean we wouldn’t share it later if the need arises.”
“Thanks much,” Reuben said.
After dinner, with the swapping completed, the goods were loaded onto the wagon with Reuben, Tom, Amy, Lynette, Dad and I. Frenchie was tied to the back and Brutus hitched to the front. Harvey and Poppop held the reins. When we got to Crystal View Farm, Dad and we kids got off the wagon. Poppop, Harvey and the Sensenig’s would have no trouble completing the trading trip. Dad told them not to worry about us on the way home; we could walk.
Butch and Clare put us right to work. They were manuring their chicken house and had extra shovels and brooms for all of us. It was a dusty job. We tied our handkerchiefs around our noses. Made us all look like outlaws. It wasn’t really that bad though; the job was almost half finished. Butch had a wagon hitched to a team of horses and parked right next to chicken house door. The men were shoveling the manure onto the wagon; we only had to push and sweep it toward the door. As we worked, Robbie was picking little white mealworms out of the chicken dirt and putting them in an old empty coffee can.
“What you doing that for?” I asked, out from under my kerchief.
“You’ll see later,” was his answer.
It was too hot for this kind of job, but Butch said it needed to be done. In the summertime, chickens are more comfortable and produce much better when their pens are clean and dry. The house was soon cleaned; the next thing to do was empty the wagon.
“Chicken manure is excellent fertilizer,” Dad said to Butch. “You should probably spread it in a field where you intend to grow corn or vegetables next year.”
“That’s what I figured,” Butch replied, “there’s an oat stubble field, that has deep easy working soil, with few rocks. Thought I’d put it there.”
It was a short trip. We all walked along. Normally, I wouldn’t pass on an opportunity for a wagon ride, but I had no desire to jump onto or into the wagon’s stinky cargo. Spreading went real smooth. Butch drove real slowly while Dan and Lee threw shovelful after shovelful of the manure off the wagon in easy sweeping motions. That way the manure was distributed all over the ground, not clumped on piles here and there. Not bad for a chemist and a machinist. When the wagon was empty, Lynette and I climbed onto the wagon and swept it clean. Now the rest all hopped on for the trip back.
To be continued.... see what else Butch is up to, Mort
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
CHAPTER TWELVE - TRADERS
Tuesday morning was once again warm and humid; seemed like we just couldn’t get out of the soup. Our family had different reactions to Dr. Fleming’s treatments. Most felt fine, some better, others, me included, felt no different. A few like Sandy and Mom were a little stiff.
“It will work out,” Dad had said.
After breakfast the men started preparing the site for the milk tank and showering area. Harvey had to use his backhoe, but it was a justifiable use of fuel. It didn’t take much to dig a foundation between the butcher house and Harvey’s furnace. He dug down, removing the loose soil until he reached a level where it was firm. Actually, it was pretty rocky there, so he didn’t have to dig very deep at all. The trick was building a strong enough base to hold the weight of the milk tank, 1000 gallons of water, some piping, and the walls and roof the boys planned to build around it. Fortunately, several years earlier, Harvey had some major excavation work done when his liquid manure storage tank was installed. The excavation yielded a large pile of debris that wasn’t needed to complete the project. The pile contained soil, many rocks (some very large), and pieces of concrete that had been broken up and removed from areas where the manure pump, filler pipe, and tank had been placed. Harvey hadn’t hauled the pile away.
He had said, “No sense moving it until we know where we’ll need it.” It appeared we needed it now. The pile was only 150 yards from the butcher house. Harvey adroitly used his backhoe to sort out the larger pieces of concrete that had even, flat areas. He maneuvered them to the foundation and placed them on each corner. The next step took the most fuel. He made about a dozen trips to the meadow and scooped clay from the creek bank. A few scoops he dumped right into the foundation; the rest he strategically placed around the sides. The boys leveled out the clay in the foundation, using it to firm up the concrete cornerstones, while Harvey brought some of the larger rocks to fill in between the corners. Others and I sorted through the now disheveled pile of debris, tossing the smaller rocks we found onto one of Harvey’s dump trailers. When it was full, he towed the trailer to the construction site and dumped it near the piles of clay. We threw the rocks into the foundation where the boys positioned them, imbedding them into the clay.
I wondered out loud, “How is this all going to work?”
Josh explained, “We’ll alternate clay and stone until we’ve reached the height we want for the bottom of the milk tank. Larry found two steel beams from an old farm implement that were long enough to span the narrow end of our structure and strong enough to hold the weight. We have enough lumber to frame up the walls and roof and to attach to the butcher house. Poppop has a pile of used steel roofing to top off the building. We can use a couple four by eight panels from the walls of Larry’s milk house under the floor where the showers will be. They’re strong and are made of waterproof material. They’ll be pitched toward an old cattle watering tank in the corner to collect the water. We just have to bucket it out every so often. We can use the waste water to flush toilets or water the garden. The floor will be slatted to let the shower water drain through; we’re still hunting a material to use that won’t give us splinters in our feet when we shower. And we need to find some insulation to keep the heat in. Don’t worry, it will come together.”
It was hard, thirst-creating work. Our fresh spring water supply was getting low so Poppop and I went to get Brutus to make a trip to the spring. On the way back, we noticed two fellows walking down the road – one tall and one short. They both had immense knapsacks on their backs; the sacks looked as big as the short fellow. Poppop waited until they were closer, then said, “Pretty hot day for a hike, and the local campground is back up the road.”
They laughed, and then introduced themselves. “I’m Tom Sensenig,” the taller one said. “This here’s my brother, Reuben.”
“Oh, Reuben Sensenig,” Poppop responded, “are you the Reuben Sensenig that lives on the last farm on this road before it joins the main highway?”
“That’s right,” answered Reuben, “looks like you’re making a go of it around here. This is the Stump farm, right?”
“Yeah, sure is. I’m Harold Stump. Most call me Hap, cept’n this one here, my granddaughter Alyssa; she calls me Poppop. Get those sacks off and rest a little. Bet you could use a cool drink. We can wander in and check out what the rest of the clan is up to. Less’n you’re on a hot and heavy mission?”
“Well, it’s hot and these sacks are heavy and they’re part of our mission,” Tom answered. “The other part is talking to Harvey. But first, we’ll take that cool drink, thank you.” After the drink, they followed us to the construction site to strike up a conversation with Harvey and company. As we came into view of everyone, Harvey and the others stopped working. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the guests or our fresh water.
“Everyone take a break!” Harvey yelled. “Get a cool drink and we can see what these travelers are wanting.” I still wasn’t sure – probably was the water…
“Do you know Reuben Sensenig?” Poppop asked Harvey.
Harvey responded, addressing Reuben, “I’ve seen you drive by the farm many times. We wave at each other. I know you live on the last farm up the road and have a home construction business, but I don’t recall ever talking to you. Glad to meet you.”
That was sad. Here was a neighbor of Harvey’s, living on the same road, a scant one and a half miles away, with whom Harvey had never had a conversation. But I guess things were no different in our neighborhood or with me for that matter. At our old home there were roughly 35-40 homes within a mile and a half radius of ours. They probably contained 100 or more people, many a lot older than me, but some around my age, that I had never talked to. I can only imagine how people in a city with thousands of neighbors, living within a few hundred feet of each other, rarely get to converse with one another. I perceive it as a bane on our society.
On the other hand, Dad might have spoken to many of the neighbors. He was outgoing and generally civic-minded, often presenting himself on local government or school issues. But that was the extent of it. We didn’t stop and visit, just to talk and be neighborly. At least not until the collapse… which produced a change in people, mostly good so far, as well as I could determine. Now, however, it was apparent that talking to neighbors was becoming more popular, or at least more common. Was it due to selfishness – because we needed “things” they had and so did they? Was it because we needed each other’s support? Or was it to fill a void in our psyches created when we no longer had newspapers, magazines, radio and television to keep our minds stimulated. Probably all three. Would I soon find out?
“No, we probably never have,” Reuben responded, as he shook hands with Harvey. “Glad to meet you. This is my brother Tom. You’ve quite a crew here.”
“Need them,” Harvey said, “got a lot of work here. What can we do for you?”
“We’re thinking it’s more what can we do for you?” Tom answered.
“Or what we can do for each other,” Reuben continued. “We’ve come to trade. Got a passel of goods in our knapsacks; hoping you can use some of it.”
“There are a lot of things we can use, but not many people want to part with the things we need, like toilet paper or food. Everyone’s in the same boat,” Harvey said. “But tell us. What you got?”
The brothers opened up their knapsacks and Tom started off. “There’s some shampoo, toothpaste, flashlight batteries, and rubbing alcohol; a couple wristwatches, two cigarette lighters with a bottle of butane for them; a mess of heavy socks and some work gloves, a utility knife, a large bottle of ibuprofen, chewing gum, a couple of blankets, three leather belts, .22 long rifle ammo, and two packs of feminine napkins.”
“Well,” said Harvey, “I guess we could use most of those things. But so could you. Why would you want to part with them? Or maybe better put, what do we have worth giving those things up for?”
“A cow,” Reuben answered.
To be continued… a cow? ... Mort
“It will work out,” Dad had said.
After breakfast the men started preparing the site for the milk tank and showering area. Harvey had to use his backhoe, but it was a justifiable use of fuel. It didn’t take much to dig a foundation between the butcher house and Harvey’s furnace. He dug down, removing the loose soil until he reached a level where it was firm. Actually, it was pretty rocky there, so he didn’t have to dig very deep at all. The trick was building a strong enough base to hold the weight of the milk tank, 1000 gallons of water, some piping, and the walls and roof the boys planned to build around it. Fortunately, several years earlier, Harvey had some major excavation work done when his liquid manure storage tank was installed. The excavation yielded a large pile of debris that wasn’t needed to complete the project. The pile contained soil, many rocks (some very large), and pieces of concrete that had been broken up and removed from areas where the manure pump, filler pipe, and tank had been placed. Harvey hadn’t hauled the pile away.
He had said, “No sense moving it until we know where we’ll need it.” It appeared we needed it now. The pile was only 150 yards from the butcher house. Harvey adroitly used his backhoe to sort out the larger pieces of concrete that had even, flat areas. He maneuvered them to the foundation and placed them on each corner. The next step took the most fuel. He made about a dozen trips to the meadow and scooped clay from the creek bank. A few scoops he dumped right into the foundation; the rest he strategically placed around the sides. The boys leveled out the clay in the foundation, using it to firm up the concrete cornerstones, while Harvey brought some of the larger rocks to fill in between the corners. Others and I sorted through the now disheveled pile of debris, tossing the smaller rocks we found onto one of Harvey’s dump trailers. When it was full, he towed the trailer to the construction site and dumped it near the piles of clay. We threw the rocks into the foundation where the boys positioned them, imbedding them into the clay.
I wondered out loud, “How is this all going to work?”
Josh explained, “We’ll alternate clay and stone until we’ve reached the height we want for the bottom of the milk tank. Larry found two steel beams from an old farm implement that were long enough to span the narrow end of our structure and strong enough to hold the weight. We have enough lumber to frame up the walls and roof and to attach to the butcher house. Poppop has a pile of used steel roofing to top off the building. We can use a couple four by eight panels from the walls of Larry’s milk house under the floor where the showers will be. They’re strong and are made of waterproof material. They’ll be pitched toward an old cattle watering tank in the corner to collect the water. We just have to bucket it out every so often. We can use the waste water to flush toilets or water the garden. The floor will be slatted to let the shower water drain through; we’re still hunting a material to use that won’t give us splinters in our feet when we shower. And we need to find some insulation to keep the heat in. Don’t worry, it will come together.”
It was hard, thirst-creating work. Our fresh spring water supply was getting low so Poppop and I went to get Brutus to make a trip to the spring. On the way back, we noticed two fellows walking down the road – one tall and one short. They both had immense knapsacks on their backs; the sacks looked as big as the short fellow. Poppop waited until they were closer, then said, “Pretty hot day for a hike, and the local campground is back up the road.”
They laughed, and then introduced themselves. “I’m Tom Sensenig,” the taller one said. “This here’s my brother, Reuben.”
“Oh, Reuben Sensenig,” Poppop responded, “are you the Reuben Sensenig that lives on the last farm on this road before it joins the main highway?”
“That’s right,” answered Reuben, “looks like you’re making a go of it around here. This is the Stump farm, right?”
“Yeah, sure is. I’m Harold Stump. Most call me Hap, cept’n this one here, my granddaughter Alyssa; she calls me Poppop. Get those sacks off and rest a little. Bet you could use a cool drink. We can wander in and check out what the rest of the clan is up to. Less’n you’re on a hot and heavy mission?”
“Well, it’s hot and these sacks are heavy and they’re part of our mission,” Tom answered. “The other part is talking to Harvey. But first, we’ll take that cool drink, thank you.” After the drink, they followed us to the construction site to strike up a conversation with Harvey and company. As we came into view of everyone, Harvey and the others stopped working. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the guests or our fresh water.
“Everyone take a break!” Harvey yelled. “Get a cool drink and we can see what these travelers are wanting.” I still wasn’t sure – probably was the water…
“Do you know Reuben Sensenig?” Poppop asked Harvey.
Harvey responded, addressing Reuben, “I’ve seen you drive by the farm many times. We wave at each other. I know you live on the last farm up the road and have a home construction business, but I don’t recall ever talking to you. Glad to meet you.”
That was sad. Here was a neighbor of Harvey’s, living on the same road, a scant one and a half miles away, with whom Harvey had never had a conversation. But I guess things were no different in our neighborhood or with me for that matter. At our old home there were roughly 35-40 homes within a mile and a half radius of ours. They probably contained 100 or more people, many a lot older than me, but some around my age, that I had never talked to. I can only imagine how people in a city with thousands of neighbors, living within a few hundred feet of each other, rarely get to converse with one another. I perceive it as a bane on our society.
On the other hand, Dad might have spoken to many of the neighbors. He was outgoing and generally civic-minded, often presenting himself on local government or school issues. But that was the extent of it. We didn’t stop and visit, just to talk and be neighborly. At least not until the collapse… which produced a change in people, mostly good so far, as well as I could determine. Now, however, it was apparent that talking to neighbors was becoming more popular, or at least more common. Was it due to selfishness – because we needed “things” they had and so did they? Was it because we needed each other’s support? Or was it to fill a void in our psyches created when we no longer had newspapers, magazines, radio and television to keep our minds stimulated. Probably all three. Would I soon find out?
“No, we probably never have,” Reuben responded, as he shook hands with Harvey. “Glad to meet you. This is my brother Tom. You’ve quite a crew here.”
“Need them,” Harvey said, “got a lot of work here. What can we do for you?”
“We’re thinking it’s more what can we do for you?” Tom answered.
“Or what we can do for each other,” Reuben continued. “We’ve come to trade. Got a passel of goods in our knapsacks; hoping you can use some of it.”
“There are a lot of things we can use, but not many people want to part with the things we need, like toilet paper or food. Everyone’s in the same boat,” Harvey said. “But tell us. What you got?”
The brothers opened up their knapsacks and Tom started off. “There’s some shampoo, toothpaste, flashlight batteries, and rubbing alcohol; a couple wristwatches, two cigarette lighters with a bottle of butane for them; a mess of heavy socks and some work gloves, a utility knife, a large bottle of ibuprofen, chewing gum, a couple of blankets, three leather belts, .22 long rifle ammo, and two packs of feminine napkins.”
“Well,” said Harvey, “I guess we could use most of those things. But so could you. Why would you want to part with them? Or maybe better put, what do we have worth giving those things up for?”
“A cow,” Reuben answered.
To be continued… a cow? ... Mort
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Chapter eleven - Visitors (cont)
We found some pots and pans, spatulas, cooking spoons and mixing bowls that were taken right down to the butcher house. Even found some cans of clams and baked beans that somehow had ended up here; probably gotten packed or unloaded in too much of a hurry. Those went to Jean’s kitchen together with a bag of chocolate covered peanuts. It made Mom’s eyes light up; they were her favorite. Dad had said we shouldn’t worry about bringing too many books from home, but we did find some interesting ones like cookbooks, some self-help manuals for plumbing and electrical work. Lois was tickled to find a half a dozen alternative medicine books, home cure books, and both a first aid manual and CPR booklet. She found a place for them on the kitchen counter right above the ‘first aid’ drawer.
“Look’s like this might as well be the spot for our dispensary,” she said. “And look at this good selection of old or broken eyeglasses we’ve accumulated. They’re going to come in real handy as there’s no eye doctor to go to.”
We found deodorant, shampoo and soap; there were a couple unopened boxes of those fancy little perfumed ones that people kept in bowls on their toilet. We found some jewelry. Didn’t know if any was gold or silver which would have made it worth something. Either way we saved it for some unknown future use. There were also cufflinks and tietacs and even money. Almost every drawer had some loose change in it; some was even collectable coins. Then there were several cans of Dad’s penny collection. Sandy put all the coins in a can as well as the paper currency then stashed it all on the floor of the linen closet as we now had a path cleared to it.
“Don’t know if it will ever be worth anything,” she said, “but you never know.” Soon we had several boxes full and many more started. We had boxes of sweaters, pants, shirts, winter hats, coats, and gloves. All stored where we could find them when we needed them. There was quite an assortment of cameras and film.
“Not that they’ll do us any good,” Jean said. “There’s no place to have film developed.”
“But we can still take pictures,” I said. “The exposed film might keep well enough that it could still be developed if photo labs ever come back into being.”
“She’s right,” Mrs. Smith said, “one day, we might really enjoy having a pictorial record of our life without electricity. Even if we have to wait a few years to get the film developed.”
“And,” added Lois, “we should scrutinize what we take pictures of; you know, wait for special occurrences or for some of the creative inventions we might use. But right here is something that we can use right now to take pictures: Jeremiah’s Polaroid camera. He even went out and bought four packs of film when he smelled this coming.”
“That’s great,” Jean said, “but we should still use it judiciously.”
We found some disposable diapers, tissues, and quite a few handkerchiefs.
“That’s something everyone will have to learn to use,” Mom said. “We have to save any tissues we have for toilet paper. We rarely used tissues when I was a kid. It’s been like two generations now that have learned to be a throw away society. For example, from now on we won’t be able to run out and buy new socks; it’s darning time again. Disposables have become a very bad habit that might even have contributed to this economic predicament we’re now in.”
“Oh Mom,” Mel whined, “you’re starting to sound like Dad.”
“Well, so what if she does?” Jean commented. “Probably more of us should have listened when people like your dad talked. Here I found a few packs of garden seeds I can give him. He’ll be glad for them. What’s that you have there, Alyssa?”
“I found two rifle clips with some ammo in them and a few shotgun shells. I better take them to Larry,” I answered. Larry was in charge of our weapons. He had some of them locked up in his room and others in Poppop’s house. The ammunition was locked in a different location.
“In due time,” Jean responded. “We might find more before we’re done.”
“Oh,” Mom said, “I think we’ve just about gotten enough done for the day. It’s really getting hot and everyone is so very sweated. Why don’t we let the kids go over and splash in the creek before the neighbors need to head for home?”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Smith said. “We really should get started for home in about a half hour or so.”
“But we have no swimming suits, Mommy,” Robbie’s sister Susan said.
“No time for modesty; we’re all becoming family here,” Mrs. Smith replied. “If you want to walk home in wet clothes, then keep them on. It’s your choice.”
“But Robbie’s along,” Molly chimed in.
“Like he’s never seen you girls in your underwear before? You’re all wet and sticky. Go cool off and enjoy yourselves. I’ll bring Julie’s little girls over and wash them as well. Would you have a towel I could borrow, Mrs. Stump?”
“Sure,” four women answered.
“Yeah that’s right, I guess you’re all Mrs. Stump,” she laughed.
“Here, take three towels for all to use; Alyssa can bring them back,” Mom said. We headed for the creek. Because of the cooling rain of the morning, the creek was a little fuller than usual, even a little muddy, and wasn’t terribly warm. That made it all the more refreshing and fun. We probably spent about one half an hour there, and then Mrs. Smith gathered up her crew, toweled the young’ns off, and headed for home.
Lynette, Amy, and I trudged back to the house with the towels and waved good-bye to our friends from Crystal View Farm. As they walked up the road we spied someone on a bicycle coming down the road toward us. He had large saddlebags on his bike. He looked somewhat familiar, but I just couldn’t place him. He stopped and parked his bicycle, pulled a small black leather bag out of one of the saddlebags, and approached us. He was tall, well-built and looked to be around 30 years old. But it wasn’t until he spoke that I recognized him. It was Dr. Fleming, the chiropractor my dad visited.
“Hello young ladies,” he said. “I’m Doctor Fleming. Are your folks around?
“Our mothers are in the house,” Amy answered. “Our dads and the other men are around the farm close by somewhere.”
“We don’t travel very far now-a-days,” Lynette added.
“No, I guess you don’t,” he responded. “I was just up at Butch and Clare’s, and they told me the Stump family lived at this farm.” He looked directly at me and continued, “You look familiar. I think you father is one of my patients. Is your name Lizzie, or Liddy, or Lisa, or something like that?”
“Alyssa”, I announced, “and my dad is one of your patients. I’ll go and get him. I’m sure Mom remembers you. Why don’t you head into the house with my cousins here? Dad and I will catch up.”
“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll do that.”
I gave the towel I was carrying to Lynette and sprinted to the barn to find Dad. I found him, Jeremiah, Harvey, Dennis, and Aaron working in the milk house. They had been dismantling the milk tank and making a hole in the wall large enough to remove the tank to its new home next to the butcher house.
“Dad,” I said, “guess who’s here?”
“How would I know?” he answered, “seems like we get more visitors now that people have no motorized transportation than when they could just hop in a car and drive anywhere they wanted. So who is it?”
“Doctor Fleming.”
“Really? I could sure use an adjustment.”
“So could I,” said Jeremiah.
“Well he’s headed toward the house, if you want to talk to him,” I said.
“Let’s all head in there boys. His visit might be beneficial to all of us,” Dad concluded.
We found the others in the butcher house where things had already been put into motion. One of the tables had a blanket on it as well as Lois. Dr. Fleming was working on her neck.
“What’s going on?” I asked Dad.
“Looks like Doctor Fleming is practicing his trade,” Dad answered. “Doctor Fleming! Good to see you. I see you’ve become an itinerant.”
“Yes, I guess you could say that, and good to see you, too,” he answered. “It got to the point I had to close my office. Few had the gas to continue making visits for my services; nor the money to pay.”
“Hey! What would you need money for?” Harvey asked. “All doctors are rich anyway.”
“Yes and no,” Dr. Fleming said, as he finished with Lois and Sandy hopped onto the table. “I guess some were rich, and then there were others, like myself, who still had student loans and mortgages on our offices to pay. That’s where a lot of my earnings went. But the collapse has evened it out; we’re all in the same boat. Now one of my valued possessions is my bicycle and a few tension hammers and other tools of my trade. But the possession that’s most valuable, that truly makes me rich, is the skill I have as a chiropractor; the skill that I can use to benefit others, by helping them heal. The same way you’re rich, Harvey, because you can use your dairying skills to produce milk to feed others. And Joe can use his butchering skill to put meat on the table for everyone.”
“Guess you’re right,” Harvey said sheepishly as Sandy relinquished her position to Mom for the doctor’s manipulating hands.
“And we’re all rich in friends that care,” Dr. Fleming continued. “Look how quickly you all readily received me, and I you, knowing any money you might have to give me is worthless.”
“But we’ll have something for you, Doc,” Dad answered. “At least a good meal, and some food or other supplies you can take home to your family. By the way, how are they and where are they?”
“Thanks for asking,” Dr. Fleming answered. “We found a farm, just a little out of town, similar to Harvey’s here, with a spring to supply water. The Missus and the kids are fine, helping on the farm, while I’m out applying my trade.”
One after another we jumped onto the table for an adjustment by Dr. Fleming. Dad made sure Barry received a treatment, knowing some of his previous medical conditions. Many of us, me included, had never had a chiropractor work on us before. When it was my turn, I was tense, not knowing what to expect, but Dr. Fleming talked me through, for everyone’s benefit as well as mine.
He started, “You know your nervous system is responsible for helping your body heal as well as stay healthy. All your nerves run through your spine, so anytime the vertebrae in your spine are out of alignment they can possibly rub against or pinch the nerves, thus interfering with the signals that go through them. This can make you feel bad, or feel pain, and prohibit your body from healing. There, you’re all done. Jump off and stand up straight. Do you feel okay?”
“I feel fine,” I answered, “what was wrong with me?”
“Hardly anything,” the doctor replied. “I see you have excellent posture, your back muscles appear very strong. That’s good; keeps your vertebrae in line. You evidently work hard, are careful not to lift too heavy and not from awkward positions. You only had two vertebrae slightly out of line. They popped right back into place. Now let’s see how your dad is.”
Dad lay down on the table. “More than one vertebra out of alignment here,” Dr. Fleming said. “I haven’t seen you for what, eight - ten weeks?”
“Sometime in early June,” Dad answered.
“I could tell,” the doctor replied. “A lesson for everyone: take care with your back and spine, then your spine will take care of you. I’ll probably get around every month or so.”
“Well, whenever you get here, you’re welcome,” Jean said. “You’re the only medical care we have.”
“Not quite true,” Jeremiah said. “Lois is a nurse, remember; she can handle a lot of things.”
“Sorry,” Jean replied, “she is very valuable. I just meant we don’t see any doctors or dentists.”
“But you might soon,” Dr. Fleming interjected. “Both Dr. Bear, the physician in town and the dentist, Dr. Miller have the use of horse and buggies, so they can make rounds like I am. With a buggy they can carry more of their tools and a small supply of medicines with them. Don’t know how often they’ll get around, but at least they are around. Finding them in an emergency might be tough, maybe some system should be created for the future.”
“It would be helpful if we knew where they both live now,” Jean said.
“I guess it would,” Dr. Fleming replied. “Dr. Miller is on his cousin’s farm about three miles from here on Possum Lane. I can’t remember his name.”
“Ed Miller,” Harvey said.
“Yeah, that’s it, thanks. Maybe I can find out till I’m around next time where Dr. Bear is. Well, I should be going now. I’d like to stop a few other places on the way home.”
“Won’t you stay for supper?” Lois asked.
“Not this time. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Can you handle a small sack of red beets and a few potatoes on that bicycle?” Poppop asked. “Or is there something else you might really be in need of?”
“I have some room for a few. Some people gave me a couple cans of fruit and another family some toothpaste. We could use some bath soap, if you’ve some to spare?” Dr. Fleming inquired.
“That we can,” Jean said. “Amy, you know where it is. Would you go get Dr. Fleming what – three or four bars?” The doctor nodded in agreement.
“We’re hoping we’ll be able to make more in the future, after we’ve butchered a few beef. Sorry we can’t thank you more than that,” she concluded.
“Nothing more necessary,” he remarked, “it was my pleasure. You all take care of your spines now.”
As he pedaled back up the road Lois said, “That was some special man.”
“More special than me?” her husband Jeremiah asked.
“Shush, you know what I mean. People like that, with hearts like his, will be an integral part in the survival of many families and the communities of this country.”
“I do know what you mean,” my uncle responded.
To be continued….. Mort
“Look’s like this might as well be the spot for our dispensary,” she said. “And look at this good selection of old or broken eyeglasses we’ve accumulated. They’re going to come in real handy as there’s no eye doctor to go to.”
We found deodorant, shampoo and soap; there were a couple unopened boxes of those fancy little perfumed ones that people kept in bowls on their toilet. We found some jewelry. Didn’t know if any was gold or silver which would have made it worth something. Either way we saved it for some unknown future use. There were also cufflinks and tietacs and even money. Almost every drawer had some loose change in it; some was even collectable coins. Then there were several cans of Dad’s penny collection. Sandy put all the coins in a can as well as the paper currency then stashed it all on the floor of the linen closet as we now had a path cleared to it.
“Don’t know if it will ever be worth anything,” she said, “but you never know.” Soon we had several boxes full and many more started. We had boxes of sweaters, pants, shirts, winter hats, coats, and gloves. All stored where we could find them when we needed them. There was quite an assortment of cameras and film.
“Not that they’ll do us any good,” Jean said. “There’s no place to have film developed.”
“But we can still take pictures,” I said. “The exposed film might keep well enough that it could still be developed if photo labs ever come back into being.”
“She’s right,” Mrs. Smith said, “one day, we might really enjoy having a pictorial record of our life without electricity. Even if we have to wait a few years to get the film developed.”
“And,” added Lois, “we should scrutinize what we take pictures of; you know, wait for special occurrences or for some of the creative inventions we might use. But right here is something that we can use right now to take pictures: Jeremiah’s Polaroid camera. He even went out and bought four packs of film when he smelled this coming.”
“That’s great,” Jean said, “but we should still use it judiciously.”
We found some disposable diapers, tissues, and quite a few handkerchiefs.
“That’s something everyone will have to learn to use,” Mom said. “We have to save any tissues we have for toilet paper. We rarely used tissues when I was a kid. It’s been like two generations now that have learned to be a throw away society. For example, from now on we won’t be able to run out and buy new socks; it’s darning time again. Disposables have become a very bad habit that might even have contributed to this economic predicament we’re now in.”
“Oh Mom,” Mel whined, “you’re starting to sound like Dad.”
“Well, so what if she does?” Jean commented. “Probably more of us should have listened when people like your dad talked. Here I found a few packs of garden seeds I can give him. He’ll be glad for them. What’s that you have there, Alyssa?”
“I found two rifle clips with some ammo in them and a few shotgun shells. I better take them to Larry,” I answered. Larry was in charge of our weapons. He had some of them locked up in his room and others in Poppop’s house. The ammunition was locked in a different location.
“In due time,” Jean responded. “We might find more before we’re done.”
“Oh,” Mom said, “I think we’ve just about gotten enough done for the day. It’s really getting hot and everyone is so very sweated. Why don’t we let the kids go over and splash in the creek before the neighbors need to head for home?”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Smith said. “We really should get started for home in about a half hour or so.”
“But we have no swimming suits, Mommy,” Robbie’s sister Susan said.
“No time for modesty; we’re all becoming family here,” Mrs. Smith replied. “If you want to walk home in wet clothes, then keep them on. It’s your choice.”
“But Robbie’s along,” Molly chimed in.
“Like he’s never seen you girls in your underwear before? You’re all wet and sticky. Go cool off and enjoy yourselves. I’ll bring Julie’s little girls over and wash them as well. Would you have a towel I could borrow, Mrs. Stump?”
“Sure,” four women answered.
“Yeah that’s right, I guess you’re all Mrs. Stump,” she laughed.
“Here, take three towels for all to use; Alyssa can bring them back,” Mom said. We headed for the creek. Because of the cooling rain of the morning, the creek was a little fuller than usual, even a little muddy, and wasn’t terribly warm. That made it all the more refreshing and fun. We probably spent about one half an hour there, and then Mrs. Smith gathered up her crew, toweled the young’ns off, and headed for home.
Lynette, Amy, and I trudged back to the house with the towels and waved good-bye to our friends from Crystal View Farm. As they walked up the road we spied someone on a bicycle coming down the road toward us. He had large saddlebags on his bike. He looked somewhat familiar, but I just couldn’t place him. He stopped and parked his bicycle, pulled a small black leather bag out of one of the saddlebags, and approached us. He was tall, well-built and looked to be around 30 years old. But it wasn’t until he spoke that I recognized him. It was Dr. Fleming, the chiropractor my dad visited.
“Hello young ladies,” he said. “I’m Doctor Fleming. Are your folks around?
“Our mothers are in the house,” Amy answered. “Our dads and the other men are around the farm close by somewhere.”
“We don’t travel very far now-a-days,” Lynette added.
“No, I guess you don’t,” he responded. “I was just up at Butch and Clare’s, and they told me the Stump family lived at this farm.” He looked directly at me and continued, “You look familiar. I think you father is one of my patients. Is your name Lizzie, or Liddy, or Lisa, or something like that?”
“Alyssa”, I announced, “and my dad is one of your patients. I’ll go and get him. I’m sure Mom remembers you. Why don’t you head into the house with my cousins here? Dad and I will catch up.”
“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll do that.”
I gave the towel I was carrying to Lynette and sprinted to the barn to find Dad. I found him, Jeremiah, Harvey, Dennis, and Aaron working in the milk house. They had been dismantling the milk tank and making a hole in the wall large enough to remove the tank to its new home next to the butcher house.
“Dad,” I said, “guess who’s here?”
“How would I know?” he answered, “seems like we get more visitors now that people have no motorized transportation than when they could just hop in a car and drive anywhere they wanted. So who is it?”
“Doctor Fleming.”
“Really? I could sure use an adjustment.”
“So could I,” said Jeremiah.
“Well he’s headed toward the house, if you want to talk to him,” I said.
“Let’s all head in there boys. His visit might be beneficial to all of us,” Dad concluded.
We found the others in the butcher house where things had already been put into motion. One of the tables had a blanket on it as well as Lois. Dr. Fleming was working on her neck.
“What’s going on?” I asked Dad.
“Looks like Doctor Fleming is practicing his trade,” Dad answered. “Doctor Fleming! Good to see you. I see you’ve become an itinerant.”
“Yes, I guess you could say that, and good to see you, too,” he answered. “It got to the point I had to close my office. Few had the gas to continue making visits for my services; nor the money to pay.”
“Hey! What would you need money for?” Harvey asked. “All doctors are rich anyway.”
“Yes and no,” Dr. Fleming said, as he finished with Lois and Sandy hopped onto the table. “I guess some were rich, and then there were others, like myself, who still had student loans and mortgages on our offices to pay. That’s where a lot of my earnings went. But the collapse has evened it out; we’re all in the same boat. Now one of my valued possessions is my bicycle and a few tension hammers and other tools of my trade. But the possession that’s most valuable, that truly makes me rich, is the skill I have as a chiropractor; the skill that I can use to benefit others, by helping them heal. The same way you’re rich, Harvey, because you can use your dairying skills to produce milk to feed others. And Joe can use his butchering skill to put meat on the table for everyone.”
“Guess you’re right,” Harvey said sheepishly as Sandy relinquished her position to Mom for the doctor’s manipulating hands.
“And we’re all rich in friends that care,” Dr. Fleming continued. “Look how quickly you all readily received me, and I you, knowing any money you might have to give me is worthless.”
“But we’ll have something for you, Doc,” Dad answered. “At least a good meal, and some food or other supplies you can take home to your family. By the way, how are they and where are they?”
“Thanks for asking,” Dr. Fleming answered. “We found a farm, just a little out of town, similar to Harvey’s here, with a spring to supply water. The Missus and the kids are fine, helping on the farm, while I’m out applying my trade.”
One after another we jumped onto the table for an adjustment by Dr. Fleming. Dad made sure Barry received a treatment, knowing some of his previous medical conditions. Many of us, me included, had never had a chiropractor work on us before. When it was my turn, I was tense, not knowing what to expect, but Dr. Fleming talked me through, for everyone’s benefit as well as mine.
He started, “You know your nervous system is responsible for helping your body heal as well as stay healthy. All your nerves run through your spine, so anytime the vertebrae in your spine are out of alignment they can possibly rub against or pinch the nerves, thus interfering with the signals that go through them. This can make you feel bad, or feel pain, and prohibit your body from healing. There, you’re all done. Jump off and stand up straight. Do you feel okay?”
“I feel fine,” I answered, “what was wrong with me?”
“Hardly anything,” the doctor replied. “I see you have excellent posture, your back muscles appear very strong. That’s good; keeps your vertebrae in line. You evidently work hard, are careful not to lift too heavy and not from awkward positions. You only had two vertebrae slightly out of line. They popped right back into place. Now let’s see how your dad is.”
Dad lay down on the table. “More than one vertebra out of alignment here,” Dr. Fleming said. “I haven’t seen you for what, eight - ten weeks?”
“Sometime in early June,” Dad answered.
“I could tell,” the doctor replied. “A lesson for everyone: take care with your back and spine, then your spine will take care of you. I’ll probably get around every month or so.”
“Well, whenever you get here, you’re welcome,” Jean said. “You’re the only medical care we have.”
“Not quite true,” Jeremiah said. “Lois is a nurse, remember; she can handle a lot of things.”
“Sorry,” Jean replied, “she is very valuable. I just meant we don’t see any doctors or dentists.”
“But you might soon,” Dr. Fleming interjected. “Both Dr. Bear, the physician in town and the dentist, Dr. Miller have the use of horse and buggies, so they can make rounds like I am. With a buggy they can carry more of their tools and a small supply of medicines with them. Don’t know how often they’ll get around, but at least they are around. Finding them in an emergency might be tough, maybe some system should be created for the future.”
“It would be helpful if we knew where they both live now,” Jean said.
“I guess it would,” Dr. Fleming replied. “Dr. Miller is on his cousin’s farm about three miles from here on Possum Lane. I can’t remember his name.”
“Ed Miller,” Harvey said.
“Yeah, that’s it, thanks. Maybe I can find out till I’m around next time where Dr. Bear is. Well, I should be going now. I’d like to stop a few other places on the way home.”
“Won’t you stay for supper?” Lois asked.
“Not this time. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Can you handle a small sack of red beets and a few potatoes on that bicycle?” Poppop asked. “Or is there something else you might really be in need of?”
“I have some room for a few. Some people gave me a couple cans of fruit and another family some toothpaste. We could use some bath soap, if you’ve some to spare?” Dr. Fleming inquired.
“That we can,” Jean said. “Amy, you know where it is. Would you go get Dr. Fleming what – three or four bars?” The doctor nodded in agreement.
“We’re hoping we’ll be able to make more in the future, after we’ve butchered a few beef. Sorry we can’t thank you more than that,” she concluded.
“Nothing more necessary,” he remarked, “it was my pleasure. You all take care of your spines now.”
As he pedaled back up the road Lois said, “That was some special man.”
“More special than me?” her husband Jeremiah asked.
“Shush, you know what I mean. People like that, with hearts like his, will be an integral part in the survival of many families and the communities of this country.”
“I do know what you mean,” my uncle responded.
To be continued….. Mort
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Chapter Eleven - Visitors (cont)
After dinner the boys went at their projects in earnest. We were low on water so Mel, Lynette, Amy, and I hitched up Brutus to the cart and went to the spring. On the way back we saw that the neighbor kids were coming down the road. How could I’ve forgotten? Robbie led the way, with his sisters Molly and Susan, followed by his mother, Donna Smith, holding the hands of Tina and Leslie, Julie the teacher’s daughters who were just five and seven years old.
“Glad that rain stopped,” Robbie hollered. “They almost wouldn’t let us visit today.”
“I’m glad too,” I answered, “come on everyone. I’ll show you my horse Brutus, and Patsy our dog and all the calves we have.”
“Just for a few minutes,” Mrs. Smith instructed. “And Molly, take special care with Tina and Leslie while I go in to talk to Alyssa’s mother. Remember we came to help with the work.” As we walked toward the pens where the cows and calves were kept, it occurred to me Robbie was at quite a disadvantage. He was the only boy in the bunch. All the other boys, besides Julie’s newborn twins, were much older than he was and getting pretty close to being men, not just because of their age, but because of the situation we all were in. So to stay in his age group Robbie had to associate with us girls. I think he handled it well. Even at eleven he behaved like a leader, not too bossy, which could be dangerous in our group - what with five of us girls between ages 12 to 15. He was smart and I recall many a time at church how he could be a good spokesperson. He had garnered our respect. And I guess he was growing up fast, just like we were.
“The cows we milk are over here,” I said to the group.
Robbie asked, “Do they have names?”
“Yep, I know every one. One’s named after me: Ally; over there she is. And another one’s Jeanie for Jean. Harvey and Larry have some funny names too like Intimidator and Birdbrain.”
“That’s funny,” Robbie responded, “but come to think of it, sometimes ours act like birdbrains.”
“Did you name yours?” I asked.
“My dad did. Butch put him in charge of the cows. He said he wasn’t too fond of them. Dad named them Bonnie and Lassie.”
“Lassie’s a dog’s name,” I quipped.
“I know,” Robbie answered, “just seemed to fit. Dad wanted to give them a Scottish flavor.”
“Well that it did, laddie,” I chuckled.
“How much do you help with the cows, Alyssa? Do you get to milk any?”
“No, not yet,” I replied, “but I will someday, especially if we get a few more to milk.”
“I help already,” Robbie said proudly. “I also get to watch them when we graze them in the hayfield. I like them very much. I like the milk, too. Don’t think everyone does though. Every meal – milk. Milk with eggs for breakfast. Milk with corn for dinner, and tomato milk soup for supper.”
“Milk with corn?” I inquired.
“Yeah, we pick some of the corn from Harvey’s fields. It’s pretty dry though, not like corn-on-the-cob, so some of us crush the kernels with bricks or hammers, then soak it in water. They heat it until it’s fairly soft, drain the water, add milk and butter and warm it up to eat. It’s kinda tasty with a little sugar or syrup on it. Probably pretty nutritious; it would be a lot better with more sugar though. What did you have for dinner?”
“What else?” I answered, “string beans and red beets. Fills you up, but I’m sure getting tired of them.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Robbie. “I’d love to have some fresh vegetables. Butch didn’t have much of a garden. Only thing left in it is tomatoes. We’ve got canned fruit and vegetables, spaghetti, tuna, spam, peanut butter, and beans. But we’re not using any of it until it’s absolutely necessary, whatever that means.”
“Same here,” I replied, “have to eat what’s fresh, they tell us. Sorry about the tomatoes; they’re not my favorite either. At least you get eggs. Our few chickens only lay about six a day. Mom says it will take a week until we have enough to make a breakfast of eggs for everyone. I guess once a week’s better than not at all. So we eat cereal for breakfast, sometimes with dried fruit.”
“Cereal,” Robbie said, “what kind of cereal?”
“All kinds; Dad always had lots on hand. There’s Chex, Cocoa Puffs, Cheerios…”
“Whoa! You have Cocoa Puffs. Do you have a lot?”
“Don’t really know,” I replied, “Lois is in charge. Most of the adults eat oatmeal, so I guess there must be quite a few boxes left.”
“Sure would like to trade for some. Your dad the negotiator?” he asked.
“Knee-go-she… what?” I asked.
“Negotiator, you know, does the bargaining, the trading, talks things through.”
“Oh. That he is. In fact we just had a, what would you call it, a bargaining session this morning, talking about the school.”
“School, what school? I told you that teacher would be trouble. What did he say about it?”
“He said, ‘No, not now.’ He wouldn’t makes us go to school for now.”
“That’s a relief,” Robbie said, “but I think the danger still exists.”
“Oh, get over it,” his big sister Molly said, “let’s get into the house now; there’s work to do.” On the way to the house we passed the calves.
“Those two over there,” I said, “are going to be our oxen one day. I named them Chip and Pepper.”
“Shouldn’t it be ‘Salt and Pepper’?” Susan asked.
“I suppose that would sound right,” I responded, “but I always wanted to name something Chip, so now I did.”
We entered the house from an outside door that led right into Jean’s upstairs second kitchen, the room she didn’t really need as a kitchen as she had one downstairs. The last people to use the room as a home were Harvey’s brother’s family, but they had moved out over twenty years ago. The stove and refrigerator were gone. The sink remained as well as all the cabinets and closets. They were empty, but wouldn’t be for long. For walking into the room was like walking into a mountain. Piles and piles of boxes, dresser drawers, mattresses, box springs, and clothing – piled to the ceiling. Just a narrow path where Mom, Lois, Sandy, Jean, and Mrs. Smith were working around some empty boxes. Four households of stuff; it came from our house, Grandma and Grandpop’s, Joe and Sandy’s and Jeremiah and Lois’s. Everything had just been unloaded in our haste. The women were chattering away, just like five women can when they’re busy on a project.
Amy had a little trouble finding an opening to speak, but finally she asked, “What are we going to do with all this stuff?”
“We going to organize it,” Jean said.
“It sure ain’t organized now,” Mel said. “What’s the purpose?”
“We want to take an inventory; see what we have. And put things where we can find them when we need them,” Mom answered.
“What’s the hurry?” Lynette quipped.
“Don’t know when the need will arise,” Jean responded, “but we want to be ready when it does. Especially with any medical or hygiene items we may find in here. Also, Barry needs a place to sleep. All the beds in the rest of the house are occupied. He can sleep on the sofa in the living room for a night or two, but it would be nicer to have a little space he could consider his own. It won’t be much; there’s still going to be a lot of stuff in here.”
“You kids won’t have to do much sorting,” Lois said, “just the running.
As we decide where something goes, you can get it there for us. There are enough of you that you won’t be overworked. The more carriers, the lighter the load. Sandy found some permanent markers, so we can label boxes. You won’t be going too many places. Some cooking items we think we can use right at this time, we’ll send to the butcher house. Of course any food items we find go to Jean’s kitchen.”
“We’re trying to dig that closet open, so we can put linens in it,” Mom said, “you know, sheets, pillowcases, blankets, towels and washcloths. We can already reach the cabinets above the sink. We plan on putting eating utensils, plates, bowls, cups, and glasses in them as we have enough in the butcher house for now.”
So at it we went. Sandy was busy with her markers. She only had a few empty boxes to start; we’d get more as we’d kept emptying them. One she labeled ‘socks’, another ‘office supplies’, one for men’s underwear and one for women’s. She labeled a big box ‘shoes’. Boxes weren’t all she wrote on. One kitchen drawer she labeled ‘first aid’ for bandages, antiseptics, cough drops and the like. Any more potent medicines or prescriptions Lois put in a special box. On another drawer Sandy wrote ‘toothpaste/brushes’. On one, dishcloths. There was one for flashlights and batteries. Cleaning supplies went in the cabinet under the sink.
You couldn’t believe the stuff we found; think of the things we let accumulate in our closets, desks, and dresser & kitchen drawers. There were small tools like screwdrivers and pliers, plus screws, nuts and bolts; we took those to Larry’s tool shed. Paper clips, thumbtacks, staples, pens, pencils, and crayons were all thrown in the office supplies box. Who knew what purpose they might serve one day. We soon had a good size box that we kept throwing the candles in we were finding. Mom was meticulously gathering a storehouse of sewing supplies in a basket. We kept finding matches; a lot from weddings we had attended. Old shoestrings found a special place next to the shoebox. Discarded handbags, purses, wallets, and old belts were put in another large box; might need the leather for repairing.
“Look,” said Mel, “here’s a pocket knife with a Penn State Nittany Lion on it; it must be Jake’s. Should we take it to him?”
“Not necessary,” Jean answered. “He has one to use I’m sure. Just put it in the drawer with the other knives. If anyone needs one they’ll know where to look.”
“But it’s his,” I declared.
“Yeah!” exclaimed Lynette, “and that pair of socks Sandy just threw into the ‘socks’ box are mine!” The whole crew became uncommonly silent.
Mom looked at Jean. Jean looked at Lois and Sandy. Mrs. Smith just had a bewildered look on her face. Mom held her hand up in front of her face and just kept twirling it, like her fingers were probing her mind, searching for words. Every so often her lips would start, then stop; nothing was ready.
Jean encouraged her. “Go ahead,” she said, “you can explain it.”
“Okay,” Mom started, “I guess the adults and the near adults understand what I’m about to tell you. But you young’ns probably need to hear this. When we grown-ups agreed to move here onto Harvey and Jean’s farm, we also agreed that we would have to pool our resources. Maybe the word you would better understand is share. We knew that in order to survive we’d have to depend on each other; not only with our time and labor, but also our things. So everything that we brought from our old homes or anything that we gather or trade for in the future becomes what we call community property. I know that’s a big word for some of you to understand, but it pretty much means that the things here no longer belong to me or to Jean or to Jake but they belong to us; all of us. Didn’t you notice that when we eat we don’t say these are Poppop’s vegetables, or Harvey’s milk, or my chow-chow? It’s now our food. When you take a bath it’s not your soap, washcloth or towel that you’re using, but they’re ours. And the things we’re store housing in here are ours, for everyone’s benefit. Not to worry though; when you need something, you just need to ask and we’ll find it for you. When Jake needs a knife, they’ll be one here for him, maybe even the one that was his. And Lynette, when you need socks, there will be some here for you, even if they aren’t the ones that were yours. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Amy ventured an answer: “I guess it means there is no place for any selfishness here. That we’re all in this together and we need to support each other, including sharing the things that were once our own.”
“I think you got it, sweetheart,” Lois proudly said to her daughter. “So as we continue to sort, remember that many of these things might be sorely needed one day.” So on we went.
To be continued…. Find out next week what else they find, Mort
“Glad that rain stopped,” Robbie hollered. “They almost wouldn’t let us visit today.”
“I’m glad too,” I answered, “come on everyone. I’ll show you my horse Brutus, and Patsy our dog and all the calves we have.”
“Just for a few minutes,” Mrs. Smith instructed. “And Molly, take special care with Tina and Leslie while I go in to talk to Alyssa’s mother. Remember we came to help with the work.” As we walked toward the pens where the cows and calves were kept, it occurred to me Robbie was at quite a disadvantage. He was the only boy in the bunch. All the other boys, besides Julie’s newborn twins, were much older than he was and getting pretty close to being men, not just because of their age, but because of the situation we all were in. So to stay in his age group Robbie had to associate with us girls. I think he handled it well. Even at eleven he behaved like a leader, not too bossy, which could be dangerous in our group - what with five of us girls between ages 12 to 15. He was smart and I recall many a time at church how he could be a good spokesperson. He had garnered our respect. And I guess he was growing up fast, just like we were.
“The cows we milk are over here,” I said to the group.
Robbie asked, “Do they have names?”
“Yep, I know every one. One’s named after me: Ally; over there she is. And another one’s Jeanie for Jean. Harvey and Larry have some funny names too like Intimidator and Birdbrain.”
“That’s funny,” Robbie responded, “but come to think of it, sometimes ours act like birdbrains.”
“Did you name yours?” I asked.
“My dad did. Butch put him in charge of the cows. He said he wasn’t too fond of them. Dad named them Bonnie and Lassie.”
“Lassie’s a dog’s name,” I quipped.
“I know,” Robbie answered, “just seemed to fit. Dad wanted to give them a Scottish flavor.”
“Well that it did, laddie,” I chuckled.
“How much do you help with the cows, Alyssa? Do you get to milk any?”
“No, not yet,” I replied, “but I will someday, especially if we get a few more to milk.”
“I help already,” Robbie said proudly. “I also get to watch them when we graze them in the hayfield. I like them very much. I like the milk, too. Don’t think everyone does though. Every meal – milk. Milk with eggs for breakfast. Milk with corn for dinner, and tomato milk soup for supper.”
“Milk with corn?” I inquired.
“Yeah, we pick some of the corn from Harvey’s fields. It’s pretty dry though, not like corn-on-the-cob, so some of us crush the kernels with bricks or hammers, then soak it in water. They heat it until it’s fairly soft, drain the water, add milk and butter and warm it up to eat. It’s kinda tasty with a little sugar or syrup on it. Probably pretty nutritious; it would be a lot better with more sugar though. What did you have for dinner?”
“What else?” I answered, “string beans and red beets. Fills you up, but I’m sure getting tired of them.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Robbie. “I’d love to have some fresh vegetables. Butch didn’t have much of a garden. Only thing left in it is tomatoes. We’ve got canned fruit and vegetables, spaghetti, tuna, spam, peanut butter, and beans. But we’re not using any of it until it’s absolutely necessary, whatever that means.”
“Same here,” I replied, “have to eat what’s fresh, they tell us. Sorry about the tomatoes; they’re not my favorite either. At least you get eggs. Our few chickens only lay about six a day. Mom says it will take a week until we have enough to make a breakfast of eggs for everyone. I guess once a week’s better than not at all. So we eat cereal for breakfast, sometimes with dried fruit.”
“Cereal,” Robbie said, “what kind of cereal?”
“All kinds; Dad always had lots on hand. There’s Chex, Cocoa Puffs, Cheerios…”
“Whoa! You have Cocoa Puffs. Do you have a lot?”
“Don’t really know,” I replied, “Lois is in charge. Most of the adults eat oatmeal, so I guess there must be quite a few boxes left.”
“Sure would like to trade for some. Your dad the negotiator?” he asked.
“Knee-go-she… what?” I asked.
“Negotiator, you know, does the bargaining, the trading, talks things through.”
“Oh. That he is. In fact we just had a, what would you call it, a bargaining session this morning, talking about the school.”
“School, what school? I told you that teacher would be trouble. What did he say about it?”
“He said, ‘No, not now.’ He wouldn’t makes us go to school for now.”
“That’s a relief,” Robbie said, “but I think the danger still exists.”
“Oh, get over it,” his big sister Molly said, “let’s get into the house now; there’s work to do.” On the way to the house we passed the calves.
“Those two over there,” I said, “are going to be our oxen one day. I named them Chip and Pepper.”
“Shouldn’t it be ‘Salt and Pepper’?” Susan asked.
“I suppose that would sound right,” I responded, “but I always wanted to name something Chip, so now I did.”
We entered the house from an outside door that led right into Jean’s upstairs second kitchen, the room she didn’t really need as a kitchen as she had one downstairs. The last people to use the room as a home were Harvey’s brother’s family, but they had moved out over twenty years ago. The stove and refrigerator were gone. The sink remained as well as all the cabinets and closets. They were empty, but wouldn’t be for long. For walking into the room was like walking into a mountain. Piles and piles of boxes, dresser drawers, mattresses, box springs, and clothing – piled to the ceiling. Just a narrow path where Mom, Lois, Sandy, Jean, and Mrs. Smith were working around some empty boxes. Four households of stuff; it came from our house, Grandma and Grandpop’s, Joe and Sandy’s and Jeremiah and Lois’s. Everything had just been unloaded in our haste. The women were chattering away, just like five women can when they’re busy on a project.
Amy had a little trouble finding an opening to speak, but finally she asked, “What are we going to do with all this stuff?”
“We going to organize it,” Jean said.
“It sure ain’t organized now,” Mel said. “What’s the purpose?”
“We want to take an inventory; see what we have. And put things where we can find them when we need them,” Mom answered.
“What’s the hurry?” Lynette quipped.
“Don’t know when the need will arise,” Jean responded, “but we want to be ready when it does. Especially with any medical or hygiene items we may find in here. Also, Barry needs a place to sleep. All the beds in the rest of the house are occupied. He can sleep on the sofa in the living room for a night or two, but it would be nicer to have a little space he could consider his own. It won’t be much; there’s still going to be a lot of stuff in here.”
“You kids won’t have to do much sorting,” Lois said, “just the running.
As we decide where something goes, you can get it there for us. There are enough of you that you won’t be overworked. The more carriers, the lighter the load. Sandy found some permanent markers, so we can label boxes. You won’t be going too many places. Some cooking items we think we can use right at this time, we’ll send to the butcher house. Of course any food items we find go to Jean’s kitchen.”
“We’re trying to dig that closet open, so we can put linens in it,” Mom said, “you know, sheets, pillowcases, blankets, towels and washcloths. We can already reach the cabinets above the sink. We plan on putting eating utensils, plates, bowls, cups, and glasses in them as we have enough in the butcher house for now.”
So at it we went. Sandy was busy with her markers. She only had a few empty boxes to start; we’d get more as we’d kept emptying them. One she labeled ‘socks’, another ‘office supplies’, one for men’s underwear and one for women’s. She labeled a big box ‘shoes’. Boxes weren’t all she wrote on. One kitchen drawer she labeled ‘first aid’ for bandages, antiseptics, cough drops and the like. Any more potent medicines or prescriptions Lois put in a special box. On another drawer Sandy wrote ‘toothpaste/brushes’. On one, dishcloths. There was one for flashlights and batteries. Cleaning supplies went in the cabinet under the sink.
You couldn’t believe the stuff we found; think of the things we let accumulate in our closets, desks, and dresser & kitchen drawers. There were small tools like screwdrivers and pliers, plus screws, nuts and bolts; we took those to Larry’s tool shed. Paper clips, thumbtacks, staples, pens, pencils, and crayons were all thrown in the office supplies box. Who knew what purpose they might serve one day. We soon had a good size box that we kept throwing the candles in we were finding. Mom was meticulously gathering a storehouse of sewing supplies in a basket. We kept finding matches; a lot from weddings we had attended. Old shoestrings found a special place next to the shoebox. Discarded handbags, purses, wallets, and old belts were put in another large box; might need the leather for repairing.
“Look,” said Mel, “here’s a pocket knife with a Penn State Nittany Lion on it; it must be Jake’s. Should we take it to him?”
“Not necessary,” Jean answered. “He has one to use I’m sure. Just put it in the drawer with the other knives. If anyone needs one they’ll know where to look.”
“But it’s his,” I declared.
“Yeah!” exclaimed Lynette, “and that pair of socks Sandy just threw into the ‘socks’ box are mine!” The whole crew became uncommonly silent.
Mom looked at Jean. Jean looked at Lois and Sandy. Mrs. Smith just had a bewildered look on her face. Mom held her hand up in front of her face and just kept twirling it, like her fingers were probing her mind, searching for words. Every so often her lips would start, then stop; nothing was ready.
Jean encouraged her. “Go ahead,” she said, “you can explain it.”
“Okay,” Mom started, “I guess the adults and the near adults understand what I’m about to tell you. But you young’ns probably need to hear this. When we grown-ups agreed to move here onto Harvey and Jean’s farm, we also agreed that we would have to pool our resources. Maybe the word you would better understand is share. We knew that in order to survive we’d have to depend on each other; not only with our time and labor, but also our things. So everything that we brought from our old homes or anything that we gather or trade for in the future becomes what we call community property. I know that’s a big word for some of you to understand, but it pretty much means that the things here no longer belong to me or to Jean or to Jake but they belong to us; all of us. Didn’t you notice that when we eat we don’t say these are Poppop’s vegetables, or Harvey’s milk, or my chow-chow? It’s now our food. When you take a bath it’s not your soap, washcloth or towel that you’re using, but they’re ours. And the things we’re store housing in here are ours, for everyone’s benefit. Not to worry though; when you need something, you just need to ask and we’ll find it for you. When Jake needs a knife, they’ll be one here for him, maybe even the one that was his. And Lynette, when you need socks, there will be some here for you, even if they aren’t the ones that were yours. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Amy ventured an answer: “I guess it means there is no place for any selfishness here. That we’re all in this together and we need to support each other, including sharing the things that were once our own.”
“I think you got it, sweetheart,” Lois proudly said to her daughter. “So as we continue to sort, remember that many of these things might be sorely needed one day.” So on we went.
To be continued…. Find out next week what else they find, Mort
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
CHAPTER ELEVEN - VISITORS
By lunch time the rain had stopped. As we left the barn, I spied a pickup truck coming down the road. It had a utility body on it and had boxes and other things piled in the bed high above the cab’s roof and covered with a tarp. Into the driveway it pulled and as the driver emerged I recognized him. It was Barry, our auto mechanic. He was an unforgettable fellow. I remembered him as a jolly, smoking fiend and a very foul mouth. He and Dad would vigorously debate politics. Actually sometimes it would seem more like arguing, the way Barry would carry on. Yet in the end he’d be laughing about it. He had long hair and was extremely overweight. I often wondered how he could even get close enough to work in some of the tighter areas of cars. I thought I had heard Dad tell Mom one time about some of the health problems Barry had. Today, however, he looked different. Hard to describe; perhaps more humble, mellow, or subdued. Shorter hair, that was obvious. And definitely weighing less. It looked like he lost a hundred pounds.
“Good to see you, Barry,” Dad said. “What brings you out here?”
“My truck,” he said. So he had some jolliness left in him. “I’m out of business,” he continued. “When the gasoline supply dried up, no one needed their cars fixed, nor did they have money to pay for repairs. But I knew there were people out here, especially farmers, who had equipment that might still be in use and could need repair. So I packed up as many of my tools as I could, at least those I deemed to be most likely to be useful. Put all the gasoline I had in a couple cans, together with some clothing and the little food I had and hit the road. I’ve been going from house to house and farm to farm trying to trade my skill for some room and board. Hasn’t really been working out. I had to trade most of my gasoline for food. Fact is I probably couldn’t drive another ten miles before I’d run out of gas. Didn’t know this was your place. Soon as I saw you, hope returned. Is there something I can do here to earn some food?”
“Not a thing,” Harvey said. Some of the color drained out of Barry’s face. I almost couldn’t believe I’d just heard Harvey say that.
“This here’s Harvey Stump, my second cousin. This is his farm,” Dad said.
Barry remained silent. After a few moments Harvey extended his hand and said, “Glad to meet you, Barry. We’re getting ready to go to the house to eat shortly. Like I said, there’s ‘not a thing’ you need to do, except to join us. If you want to eat, you’re welcome to what we have to share.”
A big smile emerged on Barry’s face as he grabbed Harvey’s hand and shook it. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. He just kept shaking it as he looked at Dad and said, “You put him up to that didn’t you?”
“Didn’t have time to,” was Dad’s response. “But we had the same great-grandfather and they say he was a corker, so I had a pretty good idea what Harvey was doing. Let’s go eat.”
The boys were planning to tackle the project of preparing the butcher house for housing the milk tank after lunch. Of course, while it was raining they had been preparing. Larry had the sprayer pump all flushed out and cleaned up. Jake and Joe had started converting a bicycle into the drive for the pump. Aaron was working on Jean’s oven. Poppop and the rest were pulling the water line from the barn. Dennis had the least success. While we were eating, he explained the problem he was having making the blender run on 12 volts.
“I think,” he said, “the trouble is a battery is direct current and the blender as well as all these other motors around here are alternating current.”
“That would be correct,” Aaron said, “to convert it we need a transformer to go from DC to AC.”
“Sounds like a rock group,” Grandmom said. Chuckles from everyone.
“I guess the transformers we might have go the other way?” Dad asked.
“What transformers?” Dennis wanted to know.
“Like the one for a toy electric train, a re-chargeable flashlight, Mel’s laptop, the two-way radios, or an electric fencer,” Dad answered.
“Yeah, those convert from AC to DC,” Dennis agreed, “but still it makes me wonder…. I guess I should have played a little closer attention in school.”
“School?” Dad said, “did you hear that Alyssa? Dennis learned something in school.”
“Now don’t start that again,” I said.
“Enough already you two,” Mom said, “Boys, I have something on my mind. I’d like to ask you three questions. Address them whenever and in whatever order you wish.”
“What are the questions, Mom?” Jake asked.
“Number one - you are putting a lot of effort into powering our basic machines by people power, what with the bicycles and all. Rightly so, I guess, we need to do something quickly to meet some of our needs. But shouldn’t you be investigating using other power sources such as animals, water, or wind?”
“Number two - Just like practically every other farm and household in the country we have many things like motors, appliances, and tools that run on electricity. Additionally, we have a generator capable of making electricity if we only had a power source to turn it. Isn’t it feasible to spin that generator with one of the power sources I just mentioned? Or wouldn’t it be an even better long term solution to develop an alternative fuel source so we could use our tractors again to run the generator? Then we wouldn’t have put so much effort into converting all these machines we have to mechanical drive or to 12 volt. Number three…”
“Four,” Josh said, “You already asked three.”
“Don’t get picky,” Mom continued. “Number four then - A few weeks from now we are going to have more darkness in a day than daylight. So far we’ve been able to see well enough into the evening with a couple flashlights, lanterns, and candles. Without making electricity, recharging the batteries will end and our supply of them will be depleted. There is only a little kerosene left for the lanterns and it positively isn’t a good idea to have candles in the barn. Have you devised a plan to provide lighting for the winter?”
Aaron, Dennis, Jake, Josh and the others just looked at each other for a few moments, then Joe asked, “anybody get all that?”
“I think I did,” Jake said.
“Go ahead then; answer her. And give it your best shot,” Joe said.
“OK,” Jake started, “If I got them straight --- Yes, Probably, Yes, and Not entirely.” Dad and Jeremiah put their hands other their mouths in a weak attempt to keep from laughing out loud. Harvey and Larry couldn’t help it; they broke up, then the rest of us too.
Mom responded, “What the… what kind of answers are those? Yes, Probably, Yes and Not entirely?”
“Well you asked yes-no questions,” Jake said.
“You guys!” Mom shrilled, “you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
“I’m sure they will,” Dad assured her, “I’m positive I will. Who’d we make fun of?”
“Oh shush,” she finished. “I won’t say another word.”
Joe took over. “Ignore them; those were good questions,” he said. “And Jake’s answers were accurate, but worthy of explanations. I’ll try, and anyone please jump in if I twist things. Yes, we should be investigating other mechanical power sources. Larry and I are designing a windmill and I think your husband has talked a little about damming the creek and building a water wheel. Design and construction might be the easy parts. The trick is getting a way to get that mechanical power to the machines we want to power.
“Probably we can spin the generator with one of those other power sources you mentioned. Problem is the generator requires a minimum of 45 horsepower to spin. Neither a windmill nor a waterwheel could produce that much, unless they were gigantic. Then the problem would be getting enough wind or water to turn them.”
Aaron chimed in, “A decent possibility, besides developing an alternative fuel, would be a steam engine. That’s kind of what the electric companies do. We have wood to burn and the excess heat could be used to heat Harvey’s house. But we haven’t come up with a design yet. It requires large pistons and some sort of control valve system.”
“Unless we could locate one of those old steam tractors that some of those antique farm tractor collectors might have?” Harvey said. “If someone would want to part with one.”
“If they aren’t being put to use already?” Dad wondered.
“Or a steam locomotive?” Josh added.
“Some of them around, too,” Joe said, “some even in museums. But no doubt someone already has claimed them.”
“And that would quite an endeavor to transport one here,” Larry said.
“So you see,” Joe said to my mom, “as we come up with ideas we often run into roadblocks. Now Aaron has already answered your third question. Yes, it would be a better long term solution to develop an alternative fuel for our vehicles. They’re all in the thinking stages for now. However your last question is a more urgent one. We need light. Especially in the barn as we will have to milk in the dark around the beginning of November. You were right about the lanterns. Kerosene’s soon gone. We thought of other fuels; it appears to just raise more questions. In the Bible they used olive oil in their lamps. Could we squeeze oil from the soybeans or render the beef tallow when we butcher? Would they burn? But still we’d like to stay away from open flame in the barn, so we’re leaning toward car headlights. A superficial solution would be to just pull two cars or trucks over to the doors and shine the lights in while we are milking. However, it would be a wasteful use of gasoline, for if we didn’t run the engines now and again, the batteries would go dead.”
“Actually,” Dennis jumped in, “charging the batteries is already a problem we need to solve. Remember we are using one on Harvey’s furnace. In fact we’re on the second one now; the first is too low on juice to keep the control working.”
Josh added, “When we rigged up the bicycle to run the water pump, we also designed it to run an alternator from my old car. But it just doesn’t seem to work right. We think it has something to do with the voltage regulator that’s built right into the alternator.”
“It never fails,” Joe resumed, “as soon as we have a good idea, glitches develop. We’re hoping as more and more people join us, they’ll bring some of the skills we need to overcome these obstacles. Our next step is to get Ben down here; remember he’s an electrical engineer. Maybe he can talk us through them.”
“I can help,” Barry said.
“Yes, Barry!” Dad said. “You’re an auto mechanic. Do you think you know what’s wrong?”
“Maybe two things,” Barry answered. “First, we’ll want to make sure the alternator is spinning fast enough, just to be sure. Second, more than likely your assumption about the voltage regulator is one hundred percent correct.”
“But can you do anything about it?” Jake asked.
“I used to keep that old beat up jalopy of a Pontiac you once had running didn’t I?” Barry remarked. “When I was a teenager back in the 60’s, my buddies and I spent a lot of time converting our hot rods with generators over to alternators. Did it for many farm trucks and tractors, too. We always had to rework the voltage regulators. I’m pretty sure I remember the intricacies of them. I can make it work for you.”
“That would be great,” Harvey said. “then we can remove some of the headlights from a few vehicles and position them right in the barn. We’d just have to keep charging the batteries as they run down.”
“And we wouldn’t have to depend on people-pedal power either,” Larry said. “We could use the windmill Joe and I are working on.”
“Right,” said Joe, “and maybe even rig it up to charge several at a time. Think that can be done, Barry?”
Barry answered, “Don’t know why not. A lot of things can be done if you try; nothing if you don’t.”
“That’s a good attitude, Barry,” Dad responded. “We should all remember that.”
“Yeah we should,” several voices echoed.
To be continued…. Mort
“Good to see you, Barry,” Dad said. “What brings you out here?”
“My truck,” he said. So he had some jolliness left in him. “I’m out of business,” he continued. “When the gasoline supply dried up, no one needed their cars fixed, nor did they have money to pay for repairs. But I knew there were people out here, especially farmers, who had equipment that might still be in use and could need repair. So I packed up as many of my tools as I could, at least those I deemed to be most likely to be useful. Put all the gasoline I had in a couple cans, together with some clothing and the little food I had and hit the road. I’ve been going from house to house and farm to farm trying to trade my skill for some room and board. Hasn’t really been working out. I had to trade most of my gasoline for food. Fact is I probably couldn’t drive another ten miles before I’d run out of gas. Didn’t know this was your place. Soon as I saw you, hope returned. Is there something I can do here to earn some food?”
“Not a thing,” Harvey said. Some of the color drained out of Barry’s face. I almost couldn’t believe I’d just heard Harvey say that.
“This here’s Harvey Stump, my second cousin. This is his farm,” Dad said.
Barry remained silent. After a few moments Harvey extended his hand and said, “Glad to meet you, Barry. We’re getting ready to go to the house to eat shortly. Like I said, there’s ‘not a thing’ you need to do, except to join us. If you want to eat, you’re welcome to what we have to share.”
A big smile emerged on Barry’s face as he grabbed Harvey’s hand and shook it. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. He just kept shaking it as he looked at Dad and said, “You put him up to that didn’t you?”
“Didn’t have time to,” was Dad’s response. “But we had the same great-grandfather and they say he was a corker, so I had a pretty good idea what Harvey was doing. Let’s go eat.”
The boys were planning to tackle the project of preparing the butcher house for housing the milk tank after lunch. Of course, while it was raining they had been preparing. Larry had the sprayer pump all flushed out and cleaned up. Jake and Joe had started converting a bicycle into the drive for the pump. Aaron was working on Jean’s oven. Poppop and the rest were pulling the water line from the barn. Dennis had the least success. While we were eating, he explained the problem he was having making the blender run on 12 volts.
“I think,” he said, “the trouble is a battery is direct current and the blender as well as all these other motors around here are alternating current.”
“That would be correct,” Aaron said, “to convert it we need a transformer to go from DC to AC.”
“Sounds like a rock group,” Grandmom said. Chuckles from everyone.
“I guess the transformers we might have go the other way?” Dad asked.
“What transformers?” Dennis wanted to know.
“Like the one for a toy electric train, a re-chargeable flashlight, Mel’s laptop, the two-way radios, or an electric fencer,” Dad answered.
“Yeah, those convert from AC to DC,” Dennis agreed, “but still it makes me wonder…. I guess I should have played a little closer attention in school.”
“School?” Dad said, “did you hear that Alyssa? Dennis learned something in school.”
“Now don’t start that again,” I said.
“Enough already you two,” Mom said, “Boys, I have something on my mind. I’d like to ask you three questions. Address them whenever and in whatever order you wish.”
“What are the questions, Mom?” Jake asked.
“Number one - you are putting a lot of effort into powering our basic machines by people power, what with the bicycles and all. Rightly so, I guess, we need to do something quickly to meet some of our needs. But shouldn’t you be investigating using other power sources such as animals, water, or wind?”
“Number two - Just like practically every other farm and household in the country we have many things like motors, appliances, and tools that run on electricity. Additionally, we have a generator capable of making electricity if we only had a power source to turn it. Isn’t it feasible to spin that generator with one of the power sources I just mentioned? Or wouldn’t it be an even better long term solution to develop an alternative fuel source so we could use our tractors again to run the generator? Then we wouldn’t have put so much effort into converting all these machines we have to mechanical drive or to 12 volt. Number three…”
“Four,” Josh said, “You already asked three.”
“Don’t get picky,” Mom continued. “Number four then - A few weeks from now we are going to have more darkness in a day than daylight. So far we’ve been able to see well enough into the evening with a couple flashlights, lanterns, and candles. Without making electricity, recharging the batteries will end and our supply of them will be depleted. There is only a little kerosene left for the lanterns and it positively isn’t a good idea to have candles in the barn. Have you devised a plan to provide lighting for the winter?”
Aaron, Dennis, Jake, Josh and the others just looked at each other for a few moments, then Joe asked, “anybody get all that?”
“I think I did,” Jake said.
“Go ahead then; answer her. And give it your best shot,” Joe said.
“OK,” Jake started, “If I got them straight --- Yes, Probably, Yes, and Not entirely.” Dad and Jeremiah put their hands other their mouths in a weak attempt to keep from laughing out loud. Harvey and Larry couldn’t help it; they broke up, then the rest of us too.
Mom responded, “What the… what kind of answers are those? Yes, Probably, Yes and Not entirely?”
“Well you asked yes-no questions,” Jake said.
“You guys!” Mom shrilled, “you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
“I’m sure they will,” Dad assured her, “I’m positive I will. Who’d we make fun of?”
“Oh shush,” she finished. “I won’t say another word.”
Joe took over. “Ignore them; those were good questions,” he said. “And Jake’s answers were accurate, but worthy of explanations. I’ll try, and anyone please jump in if I twist things. Yes, we should be investigating other mechanical power sources. Larry and I are designing a windmill and I think your husband has talked a little about damming the creek and building a water wheel. Design and construction might be the easy parts. The trick is getting a way to get that mechanical power to the machines we want to power.
“Probably we can spin the generator with one of those other power sources you mentioned. Problem is the generator requires a minimum of 45 horsepower to spin. Neither a windmill nor a waterwheel could produce that much, unless they were gigantic. Then the problem would be getting enough wind or water to turn them.”
Aaron chimed in, “A decent possibility, besides developing an alternative fuel, would be a steam engine. That’s kind of what the electric companies do. We have wood to burn and the excess heat could be used to heat Harvey’s house. But we haven’t come up with a design yet. It requires large pistons and some sort of control valve system.”
“Unless we could locate one of those old steam tractors that some of those antique farm tractor collectors might have?” Harvey said. “If someone would want to part with one.”
“If they aren’t being put to use already?” Dad wondered.
“Or a steam locomotive?” Josh added.
“Some of them around, too,” Joe said, “some even in museums. But no doubt someone already has claimed them.”
“And that would quite an endeavor to transport one here,” Larry said.
“So you see,” Joe said to my mom, “as we come up with ideas we often run into roadblocks. Now Aaron has already answered your third question. Yes, it would be a better long term solution to develop an alternative fuel for our vehicles. They’re all in the thinking stages for now. However your last question is a more urgent one. We need light. Especially in the barn as we will have to milk in the dark around the beginning of November. You were right about the lanterns. Kerosene’s soon gone. We thought of other fuels; it appears to just raise more questions. In the Bible they used olive oil in their lamps. Could we squeeze oil from the soybeans or render the beef tallow when we butcher? Would they burn? But still we’d like to stay away from open flame in the barn, so we’re leaning toward car headlights. A superficial solution would be to just pull two cars or trucks over to the doors and shine the lights in while we are milking. However, it would be a wasteful use of gasoline, for if we didn’t run the engines now and again, the batteries would go dead.”
“Actually,” Dennis jumped in, “charging the batteries is already a problem we need to solve. Remember we are using one on Harvey’s furnace. In fact we’re on the second one now; the first is too low on juice to keep the control working.”
Josh added, “When we rigged up the bicycle to run the water pump, we also designed it to run an alternator from my old car. But it just doesn’t seem to work right. We think it has something to do with the voltage regulator that’s built right into the alternator.”
“It never fails,” Joe resumed, “as soon as we have a good idea, glitches develop. We’re hoping as more and more people join us, they’ll bring some of the skills we need to overcome these obstacles. Our next step is to get Ben down here; remember he’s an electrical engineer. Maybe he can talk us through them.”
“I can help,” Barry said.
“Yes, Barry!” Dad said. “You’re an auto mechanic. Do you think you know what’s wrong?”
“Maybe two things,” Barry answered. “First, we’ll want to make sure the alternator is spinning fast enough, just to be sure. Second, more than likely your assumption about the voltage regulator is one hundred percent correct.”
“But can you do anything about it?” Jake asked.
“I used to keep that old beat up jalopy of a Pontiac you once had running didn’t I?” Barry remarked. “When I was a teenager back in the 60’s, my buddies and I spent a lot of time converting our hot rods with generators over to alternators. Did it for many farm trucks and tractors, too. We always had to rework the voltage regulators. I’m pretty sure I remember the intricacies of them. I can make it work for you.”
“That would be great,” Harvey said. “then we can remove some of the headlights from a few vehicles and position them right in the barn. We’d just have to keep charging the batteries as they run down.”
“And we wouldn’t have to depend on people-pedal power either,” Larry said. “We could use the windmill Joe and I are working on.”
“Right,” said Joe, “and maybe even rig it up to charge several at a time. Think that can be done, Barry?”
Barry answered, “Don’t know why not. A lot of things can be done if you try; nothing if you don’t.”
“That’s a good attitude, Barry,” Dad responded. “We should all remember that.”
“Yeah we should,” several voices echoed.
To be continued…. Mort
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Chapter Ten - Beasts of Burden (cont)
“And how would you like it if you weren’t able to read the Bible?”
“I wouldn’t,” I answered.
“You learned that in school, didn’t you?” Dad asked.
“Yes, but also at home when you and Mom read with me, and at church when following along in the hymn book,” I said.
“Sure, that’s right. And how are your math skills?”
Dad hit a sore spot; my math was terrible. In fact, I’d probably have liked school better if learning math had not been so difficult. “A problem with school,” I continued, “was that all the students had to fit the same mold. Those that had little math ability were taught using the same methods and were expected to achieve the same goals as those with greater abilities. Someone, somewhere in the educational system, once coined the phrase: ‘all children can learn’. The educational community fell for it, but it’s all a bunch of crap. It would be true if the word ‘something’ would be added onto the phrase, because we can all learn something. But not all the same things and definitely not to the same achievement level. Yet we were still all thrown into the same room with about 24 others of varying abilities and then all were expected to reach the same level. It’s horribly frustrating and not fair. Then they ignore the other skills we have, like music or craftsmanship. No wonder we hate school.”
Dad had a sorry look on his face. He and I were different. He was a great math student; it came easy. But play the piano or type. Forget it! He said his brain didn’t know how to tell his fingers what to do when his eyes weren’t looking at them. And read and consequently play two, three, four notes at a time? Impossible. He said it was physiological - some nerve synapses in his brain just wouldn’t let him do that. I thought it was psychological – his mind just wouldn’t let him. On the other hand, I couldn’t calculate worth a dime, but could play both the piano and the flute. Dad was very glad that I could and once said he’d be willing to trade his ability to do math for the ability to play the piano. That made no sense to my teachers though. So what if I can’t learn math? Let me excel at what I can. Allow me some level of achievement.
“I wonder how many feet of twine I’ve handled in my lifetime?” Dad asked. “A million perhaps?”
“Okay, so you’re going to push your point,” I answered. “How in the world would you know that? And who would care?”
“Well, you wouldn’t really know, we’d have to estimate.”
“Estimate! You know I hate that more than word problems. What good is it anyway?” was my response.
“Just to prove a point, and I’m curious and maybe you’ll learn something. Get that paper feed bag over there. Here’s a pencil. Do some calculations.”
“Oh great,” I grumbled.
“Look at this hay bale,” he started. “Every bale has 14 inches of twine up the end and maybe averages two and a half feet for its length. How many inches total would that be on one bale?”
“Okay, I’ll oblige you,” I said. So on the feed bag I wrote two point five times 12 as there’re 12 inches in a foot. “That’s 30 inches plus the 14 up the end equals 44 inches.”
“Yes, but that’s only one end and the top. How much then for all the way around the bale?”
“88, I don’t need the paper for that,” was my answer.
“Good, but how many strings on each bale?” Dad prompted.
“Two.” But now I needed the paper again. I scribbled 88 times two. “Comes to 176.”
“176 what?” he asked.
“OK, another point; always label your answers – inches.”
“Good,” he said, “how do we change to feet?”
“Divide by 12,” I said. The paper again. “14 point six, six, six, six...”
“How are we going to work with that number?” Dad asked.
“Don’t know,” I said.
“It’s just an average anyway,” Dad went on, “an estimate. Why don’t you round it off?”
He knew I hated rounding off, too. Couldn’t see any use to it. But, on the other hand, it sure would be easier to work with 15 instead of 14.6666.
“15,” I answered.
“So every time I pick up a bale, I handle 15 feet of twine. How many bales would it take for me to handle one million feet of twine?”
“Divide again, right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
This took me longer. It was that stupid repeating six again. “66 thousand, six hundred sixty-six point six, six, six…” I replied indignantly.
“66,666 what?”
“I don’t know…feet?”
“No – you divided feet by feet per bale. The feet cancel out. What’s left?” Dad asked.
“Bales I suppose.”
“You suppose correctly,” he continued. “So how many bales per year would I have to have picked up to handle that million feet of twine?”
“Don’t you ever give up? How would I figure that?”
Dad answered, “If the answer we’re looking for is bales per year, and remembering that ‘per’ means divided by, then we need to divide the number of bales by the number of years I’ve worked with them. This requires another skill – deduction. Let’s suppose I’ve handled bales fairly regularly since I’m ten years old. I’m now 53. How many years is that?”
“That I can answer – 43 years. So if we are looking for bales per year I divide 66,666 bales by 43 years?” I asked.
“That’s correct.”
It took more paperwork and a bit of time. “It comes to 1,558.” I paused. He gave me a funny look. “Bales per year,” I finished.
“Good. So in your estimation do you think that I have handled more than 1558 bales per year and then consequently handled a million feet of twine in my lifetime?”
“Easy,” I answered, “that’s only four or five bales a day.”
“Wow! How did you know that so quickly?”
“I don’t know. You’re just like our teachers who want us to explain our answers. Maybe I learned something?” I sarcastically commented. “There’s 365 days in a year, so four bales times 400 is 1600. Sounded like a good estimate.”
“It was,” Dad answered, “and you rounded off, too.”
“Whoopee!” I exclaimed.
“So do you think I’ve handled a million miles of twine in my lifetime?” he asked.
“You really don’t give up. Do I have to go through all these steps again?”
“No, just add one additional piece of information.”
“And what would that be?” I asked
“The number of feet in a mile. You all ready estimated four to five bales per day for one million feet. You just have to multiply by feet per mile to determine how many bales per day for one million miles. How many feet in a mile?”
“Five thousand and something,” I answered.
“5280,” Dad continued, “can you figure it out now?”
“As this is just an estimate I might as well just round it off to 5000. Times four or five bales comes to 20,000 – 25,000 bales per day. Didn’t happen.”
“No, didn’t happen. What did happen was you learned something about estimating and rounding off.”
“I suppose I did… and without a school!” I jubilantly declared. “So you don’t need to make me go to school!”
“Well, to repeat my answer to your original question. No, not now.”
“OK, I guess. What are we going to do with all this rope we’re making anyway?” I asked.
“Oh, for any need that may arise and for harnesses,” Dad answered.
“Harnesses?” I asked.
“Yes. Butch gave us a nice harness for Brutus, but you never know when it might tear or we’ll need to design some different or stronger rigging to pull a harrow or a wagon to bring Harvey’s crop in,” Just then Harvey walked in the barn. “And for the oxen,” Dad concluded.
“Oxen?” I quizzed.
“Yes,” said Harvey, “we’re going to take two evenly matched bull calves and pair them up to be oxen. We’ll have to castrate them like we do the steers now. Then maybe in a couple months we’ll start a second pair, and a third and so on. Unless we have a return of the fuel supply we are going to have some heavy work to do around here. Brutus and Butch’s other horses are pretty old and we’re afraid won’t be able to do a lot. The oxen probably won’t be able to do any real heavy pulling until they’re 15 months old, so we need to get started.”
“But how will they learn to be oxen?” I asked.
“They’ll have to be trained – taught by us,” Dad said.
That blew holes in my geese theory. “How will we do that?” I asked.
“First, after choosing the pair, we’ll use two saplings and tie the wood across and under their necks with the rope you’re making. At first they’ll hate it. They’ll struggle and bawl perhaps. We’ll have to stay with them diligently the first day so they don’t hurt each other. In fact, we’ll only leave them connected for an hour the first day, then two the second day, then three, until they get used to being yoked together. Eventually they need to learn to drink, eat, and of course, move together. They’ll have to do everything together. And get used to us. We’ll move them, walk them, pull them, talk to them. As they get older and larger, we’ll build heavier, stronger yokes for them. The whole thing’s an experiment. We don’t know how it’s going to work. We’ve plenty of animals here; more than we need for milk and plenty even for meat. As horses are in short supply, if we can successfully train several pair of oxen, we’ll be able to supply some of the neighbors with a pair or two to help with their work. Are you willing to help with the training?”
“Sure,” I answered, “I have Brutus to tend as my first priority, then cooking and dishes. I guess I’ll have some time if Dad doesn’t have me working all the time or sends me to school.”
“School?” Harvey asked, “what foolishness you telling this child? We got a lot of work to do.” It appeared I had an ally.
“Oh give it up you two,” Dad said. “I’ll remember - work first. And you know, Harvey, we can’t castrate all the bulls into steers. You’re going to need one to breed your open cows.”
“What are open cows?” I asked.
“Cows that haven’t been bred and are not carrying calves. They’re not… you know…pregnant,” he said a little sheepishly.
“You don’t need to explain. Between helping with the cows over at Chester’s and from what I learned in school, yes I know I said school Dad, I got the whole picture. Just didn’t recall ever hearing that term.”
“How many cows are carrying now?” Dad asked.
“Twenty-nine, that leaves about thirty that aren’t bred,” Harvey answered.
“How will they get bred, without a bull?” I asked.
“Same as before; Larry breeds them artificially, using semen stored in that liquid nitrogen tank in the milk house,” Harvey answered. I remembered Chester had a tank like that too. He told me never to play with it as it was very dangerous. Liquid nitrogen is something like 200 degrees below zero, much colder than dry ice, and it will burn you just as quickly. But it served its purpose well, keeping the semen frozen until it was needed.
“Do you have a good supply?” Dad asked.
“I think we have 35 ampules. We can split an ampule sometimes and breed two cows or heifers at a time. But then figuring some repeat services, maybe the best we can do is get 25 to 30 animals bred with the supply we have. Who knows? Maybe it will last six months if the nitrogen doesn’t lose its punch. Then we’ll need a bull to keep the operation running. There is one uncastrated bull calf in with the nursing cows, about ten weeks old. We can eventually use him, but he might not be old or large enough to get the job done until maybe next May. It would be best if we could trade for a bull with some other cattle producer in the neighborhood, doesn’t even matter what breed it is,” Harvey concluded.
“We’ll have to keep that in mind,” Dad said.
To be continued…. Mort
“I wouldn’t,” I answered.
“You learned that in school, didn’t you?” Dad asked.
“Yes, but also at home when you and Mom read with me, and at church when following along in the hymn book,” I said.
“Sure, that’s right. And how are your math skills?”
Dad hit a sore spot; my math was terrible. In fact, I’d probably have liked school better if learning math had not been so difficult. “A problem with school,” I continued, “was that all the students had to fit the same mold. Those that had little math ability were taught using the same methods and were expected to achieve the same goals as those with greater abilities. Someone, somewhere in the educational system, once coined the phrase: ‘all children can learn’. The educational community fell for it, but it’s all a bunch of crap. It would be true if the word ‘something’ would be added onto the phrase, because we can all learn something. But not all the same things and definitely not to the same achievement level. Yet we were still all thrown into the same room with about 24 others of varying abilities and then all were expected to reach the same level. It’s horribly frustrating and not fair. Then they ignore the other skills we have, like music or craftsmanship. No wonder we hate school.”
Dad had a sorry look on his face. He and I were different. He was a great math student; it came easy. But play the piano or type. Forget it! He said his brain didn’t know how to tell his fingers what to do when his eyes weren’t looking at them. And read and consequently play two, three, four notes at a time? Impossible. He said it was physiological - some nerve synapses in his brain just wouldn’t let him do that. I thought it was psychological – his mind just wouldn’t let him. On the other hand, I couldn’t calculate worth a dime, but could play both the piano and the flute. Dad was very glad that I could and once said he’d be willing to trade his ability to do math for the ability to play the piano. That made no sense to my teachers though. So what if I can’t learn math? Let me excel at what I can. Allow me some level of achievement.
“I wonder how many feet of twine I’ve handled in my lifetime?” Dad asked. “A million perhaps?”
“Okay, so you’re going to push your point,” I answered. “How in the world would you know that? And who would care?”
“Well, you wouldn’t really know, we’d have to estimate.”
“Estimate! You know I hate that more than word problems. What good is it anyway?” was my response.
“Just to prove a point, and I’m curious and maybe you’ll learn something. Get that paper feed bag over there. Here’s a pencil. Do some calculations.”
“Oh great,” I grumbled.
“Look at this hay bale,” he started. “Every bale has 14 inches of twine up the end and maybe averages two and a half feet for its length. How many inches total would that be on one bale?”
“Okay, I’ll oblige you,” I said. So on the feed bag I wrote two point five times 12 as there’re 12 inches in a foot. “That’s 30 inches plus the 14 up the end equals 44 inches.”
“Yes, but that’s only one end and the top. How much then for all the way around the bale?”
“88, I don’t need the paper for that,” was my answer.
“Good, but how many strings on each bale?” Dad prompted.
“Two.” But now I needed the paper again. I scribbled 88 times two. “Comes to 176.”
“176 what?” he asked.
“OK, another point; always label your answers – inches.”
“Good,” he said, “how do we change to feet?”
“Divide by 12,” I said. The paper again. “14 point six, six, six, six...”
“How are we going to work with that number?” Dad asked.
“Don’t know,” I said.
“It’s just an average anyway,” Dad went on, “an estimate. Why don’t you round it off?”
He knew I hated rounding off, too. Couldn’t see any use to it. But, on the other hand, it sure would be easier to work with 15 instead of 14.6666.
“15,” I answered.
“So every time I pick up a bale, I handle 15 feet of twine. How many bales would it take for me to handle one million feet of twine?”
“Divide again, right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
This took me longer. It was that stupid repeating six again. “66 thousand, six hundred sixty-six point six, six, six…” I replied indignantly.
“66,666 what?”
“I don’t know…feet?”
“No – you divided feet by feet per bale. The feet cancel out. What’s left?” Dad asked.
“Bales I suppose.”
“You suppose correctly,” he continued. “So how many bales per year would I have to have picked up to handle that million feet of twine?”
“Don’t you ever give up? How would I figure that?”
Dad answered, “If the answer we’re looking for is bales per year, and remembering that ‘per’ means divided by, then we need to divide the number of bales by the number of years I’ve worked with them. This requires another skill – deduction. Let’s suppose I’ve handled bales fairly regularly since I’m ten years old. I’m now 53. How many years is that?”
“That I can answer – 43 years. So if we are looking for bales per year I divide 66,666 bales by 43 years?” I asked.
“That’s correct.”
It took more paperwork and a bit of time. “It comes to 1,558.” I paused. He gave me a funny look. “Bales per year,” I finished.
“Good. So in your estimation do you think that I have handled more than 1558 bales per year and then consequently handled a million feet of twine in my lifetime?”
“Easy,” I answered, “that’s only four or five bales a day.”
“Wow! How did you know that so quickly?”
“I don’t know. You’re just like our teachers who want us to explain our answers. Maybe I learned something?” I sarcastically commented. “There’s 365 days in a year, so four bales times 400 is 1600. Sounded like a good estimate.”
“It was,” Dad answered, “and you rounded off, too.”
“Whoopee!” I exclaimed.
“So do you think I’ve handled a million miles of twine in my lifetime?” he asked.
“You really don’t give up. Do I have to go through all these steps again?”
“No, just add one additional piece of information.”
“And what would that be?” I asked
“The number of feet in a mile. You all ready estimated four to five bales per day for one million feet. You just have to multiply by feet per mile to determine how many bales per day for one million miles. How many feet in a mile?”
“Five thousand and something,” I answered.
“5280,” Dad continued, “can you figure it out now?”
“As this is just an estimate I might as well just round it off to 5000. Times four or five bales comes to 20,000 – 25,000 bales per day. Didn’t happen.”
“No, didn’t happen. What did happen was you learned something about estimating and rounding off.”
“I suppose I did… and without a school!” I jubilantly declared. “So you don’t need to make me go to school!”
“Well, to repeat my answer to your original question. No, not now.”
“OK, I guess. What are we going to do with all this rope we’re making anyway?” I asked.
“Oh, for any need that may arise and for harnesses,” Dad answered.
“Harnesses?” I asked.
“Yes. Butch gave us a nice harness for Brutus, but you never know when it might tear or we’ll need to design some different or stronger rigging to pull a harrow or a wagon to bring Harvey’s crop in,” Just then Harvey walked in the barn. “And for the oxen,” Dad concluded.
“Oxen?” I quizzed.
“Yes,” said Harvey, “we’re going to take two evenly matched bull calves and pair them up to be oxen. We’ll have to castrate them like we do the steers now. Then maybe in a couple months we’ll start a second pair, and a third and so on. Unless we have a return of the fuel supply we are going to have some heavy work to do around here. Brutus and Butch’s other horses are pretty old and we’re afraid won’t be able to do a lot. The oxen probably won’t be able to do any real heavy pulling until they’re 15 months old, so we need to get started.”
“But how will they learn to be oxen?” I asked.
“They’ll have to be trained – taught by us,” Dad said.
That blew holes in my geese theory. “How will we do that?” I asked.
“First, after choosing the pair, we’ll use two saplings and tie the wood across and under their necks with the rope you’re making. At first they’ll hate it. They’ll struggle and bawl perhaps. We’ll have to stay with them diligently the first day so they don’t hurt each other. In fact, we’ll only leave them connected for an hour the first day, then two the second day, then three, until they get used to being yoked together. Eventually they need to learn to drink, eat, and of course, move together. They’ll have to do everything together. And get used to us. We’ll move them, walk them, pull them, talk to them. As they get older and larger, we’ll build heavier, stronger yokes for them. The whole thing’s an experiment. We don’t know how it’s going to work. We’ve plenty of animals here; more than we need for milk and plenty even for meat. As horses are in short supply, if we can successfully train several pair of oxen, we’ll be able to supply some of the neighbors with a pair or two to help with their work. Are you willing to help with the training?”
“Sure,” I answered, “I have Brutus to tend as my first priority, then cooking and dishes. I guess I’ll have some time if Dad doesn’t have me working all the time or sends me to school.”
“School?” Harvey asked, “what foolishness you telling this child? We got a lot of work to do.” It appeared I had an ally.
“Oh give it up you two,” Dad said. “I’ll remember - work first. And you know, Harvey, we can’t castrate all the bulls into steers. You’re going to need one to breed your open cows.”
“What are open cows?” I asked.
“Cows that haven’t been bred and are not carrying calves. They’re not… you know…pregnant,” he said a little sheepishly.
“You don’t need to explain. Between helping with the cows over at Chester’s and from what I learned in school, yes I know I said school Dad, I got the whole picture. Just didn’t recall ever hearing that term.”
“How many cows are carrying now?” Dad asked.
“Twenty-nine, that leaves about thirty that aren’t bred,” Harvey answered.
“How will they get bred, without a bull?” I asked.
“Same as before; Larry breeds them artificially, using semen stored in that liquid nitrogen tank in the milk house,” Harvey answered. I remembered Chester had a tank like that too. He told me never to play with it as it was very dangerous. Liquid nitrogen is something like 200 degrees below zero, much colder than dry ice, and it will burn you just as quickly. But it served its purpose well, keeping the semen frozen until it was needed.
“Do you have a good supply?” Dad asked.
“I think we have 35 ampules. We can split an ampule sometimes and breed two cows or heifers at a time. But then figuring some repeat services, maybe the best we can do is get 25 to 30 animals bred with the supply we have. Who knows? Maybe it will last six months if the nitrogen doesn’t lose its punch. Then we’ll need a bull to keep the operation running. There is one uncastrated bull calf in with the nursing cows, about ten weeks old. We can eventually use him, but he might not be old or large enough to get the job done until maybe next May. It would be best if we could trade for a bull with some other cattle producer in the neighborhood, doesn’t even matter what breed it is,” Harvey concluded.
“We’ll have to keep that in mind,” Dad said.
To be continued…. Mort
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Chapter Ten - Beasts of Burden
We couldn’t spend the whole day at Butch’s. There were cows to feed and milk, water to haul, Brutus to tend. I think everyone had a good time though. It was really fun for Lynette and me to be with a group of kids our age. Donna Smith, Robbie’s mother, had talked with Mom about spending parts of the day at each other’s farm. Monday afternoon we should look for them to come down and help us with our chores and then play something. Then on Tuesday we’d go up there. Sounded good to me.
We loaded everything up including a bag of oats for Brutus and headed home. After Josh and I used Brutus to haul water, I fed him and put him away for the night. When I went to help with the milking, sure enough Harvey was right; there was a new bull calf. Mother and newborn son were both fine.
After that fine meal we had at Butch’s, no one was really hungry for supper. But the men had worked hard since we came back and needed nourishment. Besides, breakfast was pretty far away. As there was plenty of milk to use (we had used none for lunch) Grandmom made potato soup. She didn’t use many potatoes, just digging a few from her husband’s potato patch. The soup was mostly milk. However, the addition of globs of butter and some hard boiled eggs from those we had received from Butch the day before made it pretty darn good. We just had enough crackers so that everyone had a few.
“That’s the end of our crackers,” Lois announced.
“And there is no bread or rolls, either,” added Jean. “How soon will you be able to make flour?” she asked the boys.
“Not too soon,” Jake answered, “We’ve figured we have to take two pieces of concrete, perhaps from a feed trough that we’re not using. They’ll be the grinding wheels, but it will take time to chisel them to the right shape to have the grain flow in between them. And they’ll have to be aligned just right to produce a fine enough flour or cornmeal with which to bake.”
“Then we’ll have to devise an apparatus to turn them,” Josh added. “It’s the best long term plan, but in the meantime we were wondering if anyone has an electric blender. We think flour can be made with one and we’d like to experiment if we can rewire it to 12 volts and still have it operate fast enough.”
“Sure, we have one,” Jean said. “Experiment all you want.”
“The oven’s another matter,” Dennis said. “The outdoor furnace is burning all the time to heat water and eventually to heat Harvey’s house. But the furnace is so well insulated, positioning any oven next to it wouldn’t do any good; it just wouldn’t get enough heat. So the butcher stove is the other option. It has fire going all the time for cooking and it’s mostly brick, so if we place the oven at the right spot, and maybe drill a few holes into the bricks, we think the oven would stay hot enough to bake. We’d have liked to build an oven from bricks, but we have no cement. Neither did we think clay from the creek’s banks would hold up as mortar in this application. So we decided to use Jean’s range; it has a larger oven than Poppop’s. Because it is so well insulated to keep the heat inside the oven and out of the kitchen in its designed use, we’ll have to take the back off to let heat in. Then replace it with a thin piece of steel that will let the heat through but not the smoke. We’ll probably remove the insulation in the sides and top so there’s an air space for the heat to travel forward, surround the whole stove with the insulation, cover it with more steel or aluminum siding, push the modified back against the bricks of the butcher stove, and presto, we’ll have a working oven.”
“Least we think we will,” Aaron added.
“Well it’s worth a try,” Jean said. “Get at it. Even if we don’t have flour yet, we can still use an oven.”
Joe jumped in, “I’ve been thinking a lot about our meat situation. If we kill a small hog, like Butch had today, there’s no problem. We can eat all the meat in a day’s time. But when we butcher a half-grown bull or heifer, or a full grown hog, or a cow, there will be a lot of meat to keep. In winter it will be less of a problem, but for this time of year I’ve come up with two solutions. I wish I would have thought of it this afternoon and told Butch, but any leftover meat can be heated to around boiling temperature and with a little salt be canned just like we did the soup we made from the freezer’s contents. Not to keep for months, but just to eat within a few days, so the jars are empty again for the next butchering.”
“The other way to preserve would be to dry some strips of meat. I know what parts to cut to make them real easy to hang. I wouldn’t want to depend on the sun to dry it like we did the fruits and corn or like the Indians once did, so again we’ll have to make use of the butcher house. We can build a nice rack out of some of the materials lying around here and position it around the stovepipe.”
Dad said, “We’re sure getting a lot of use out of this butcher house - cooking, laundry, eating, doing the dishes, soon baking and butchering. We’ll soon be falling all over each other in here.”
“Well it’s OK so far,” Jean said. “I suppose we’ll have to make some kind of schedule to keep us straight.”
“I suppose we will, Mother,” Harvey answered. “For now, let’s just call it quits for tonight; there are a lot of projects we have to tackle tomorrow.”
I said goodnight to Mom and Dad and headed back with Amy, Lynette, and Mel to Grandmom’s house. We stopped to check on Brutus, then off to bed. I kept thinking about what Robbie had said about Julie being a teacher. I really needed to talk to Dad about that tomorrow.
When I awoke Monday morning it was already starting to get light. I went out into the kitchen and found Jeremiah still there. “We’re late,” I said.
“No we’re not,” he answered. “While we were milking last night we had a little discussion about our milking times. As the hours of daylight lessen from now until Christmas, we know we will have to milk in the dark eventually. Even though we’re still in the month of August, the time for sunrise is rapidly becoming later and later making it very difficult to find our milking cows out in the pasture in the semi-darkness. Harvey had said we can afford to start later in the morning, wait the eleven and one half hours we usually wait to milk in the evening and still have light for the evening milking. By December it will get dark for the evening milking, too, but then we can at least gather the cows inside in daylight. He also said it was a good morning to make the switch because we started milking about a half hour later Sunday evening as we were up a Butch’s yesterday. His conclusion was that it wouldn’t bother the cows at all.”
“Some people would say we’re losing an hour of working time if we start milking an hour later and get to the fields an hour later. But we get the hour back in the afternoon because we don’t have to leave our fieldwork to start milking as early. The biggest change will be for Harvey who has been getting up at 5:00 AM for about 40 years. He’s finally going to get to sleep in a little, even if it’s just around an hour. I guess he’ll be able to handle it.”
“I know I’ll be able to,” I responded.
“Me too,” Jeremiah said.
“I guess that means Mom and Grandma can have breakfast ready at a little later time than usual and I won’t have to rush in to help them as soon?” I inquired.
“Grandma already knows,” he said. “Your mom will find out soon enough. And sure, you can help us a little longer.”
He and I went to the barn. I checked on Brutus then went with Larry and Patsy to bring in the milking cows. Patsy was his cow dog. Actually a Border collie, bred for herding sheep, but she worked well with cows, too. A Border collie doesn’t look like a regular collie such as Lassie. They’re smaller, maybe two thirds the size and often black and white, not sandy tan like Lassie was. Patsy was black and white and quite a go getter. No ornery Holstein pulled anything on her. We gathered the milking string together and had them headed toward the barn when I saw Harvey waving to me.
“Alyssa,” he called, “Come over here. I’ve something to show you.”
He was in the pen were the dry cows were kept. As I neared him I saw what he wanted me to see. Two more calves.
“With the one yesterday afternoon, that makes three,” he said. “And they’re all doing fine. Would you help me lead them into the barn?”
“Sure,” I answered. I always loved helping with the calves, especially feeding them milk from a bucket. To teach them I’d let them suck on my fingers, then lower my hand into the bucket so their nose would get into the milk and they would start drinking. Now, however, no one had to feed calves with a bucket. All of them were mixed in the pen with cows that they could drink from without our help. It saved a lot of our time, but I did miss it. It was amazing that the newborns would suck so soon after being born. I guess as newborns, we do too. Not that I remembered it. These two were no exception. As soon as I put my fingers at one’s mouth it knew what to do. Harvey did likewise with the other. We eased our way toward the barn, keeping our fingers right on their noses; the calves followed and right behind them their mothers. In this situation fresh cows can be a little dangerous sometimes, if they feel their young threatened. Jake and Patsy were soon out to help, just in case.
“That makes thirteen we need to milk now,” Jake said to Harvey. “I guess Alyssa will have to take one of these,” he teased.
“Oh, I guess she’ll get in for some share of milking duty sometime, but for now Joe, Jeremiah, or your dad can have the extra,” Harvey said. With everything settled in the barn, I headed for the butcher house to help Mom. Breakfast was uneventful except that while we were eating it started to rain. Not a storm, just a nice steady rain, but enough to keep us out of the garden. The men would still have to feed and move some animals around, but they could handle that. After breakfast, Dad and I went into the top of the barn to do some braiding.
Any farm that has animals to feed and makes a fair amount of hay and straw has a virtually endless supply of used baler twine. Twine held the bales together and had to be cut off the bales when the hay was fed or the straw was bed. It came in both sisal and plastic varieties and in different thicknesses. Back on our farm, Chester baled soybean stubble and corn fodder in large four by eight foot bales. They were very heavy so we could only move them using the skid loader or a tractor. Bales that heavy needed extra thick twine to take the pressure. For years farmers disposed of the used twine by burning it or if sisal, just throwing it in the dump to rot. Dad hated throwing anything away. So last year, he and I started braiding the extra thick plastic twine into a rope.
Braiding isn’t really that hard; it’s just like making pigtails in your hair except it goes on and on and on. You start with three strands then wrap left over middle, right over middle, left over middle, right over middle, and so forth. You don’t even think about it once you get going. We started three separate ropes with three strands each, and then braided the three newly created ropes into one thicker rope using the same method. It made the finished product nine strands strong. Each strand had a tensile strength of 450 pounds, so the new heavier rope had a tensile strength of just over two tons. We worked at it for months, but just on opportune occasions like rainy days. We quit when it was 245 feet long.
Dad put it behind the truck seat for emergency use. You never know when you might need to pull a tree off the road, or a bear up a steep bank in hunting season, to rescue someone that had fallen through the ice while skating, or to pull a vehicle stuck in the mud or snow. So be it, the twine wasn’t wasted. Today we were braiding sisal twine into rope. Although the braiding itself became boring sometimes, it was a great opportunity for Dad and me to talk. We had some good heart to heart discussions while braiding and I was hoping today would be no different. I really needed to talk to him. I didn’t need to beat around the bush with Dad either.
So I said, “Dad, you know that Julie lady with the twins is a teacher. You’re not going to make us go to school are you?”
Dad squinted his eyes, cocked a half a smile, took his hat off and with the same hand rubbed the side of his head just above the ear, a sure sign that the answer took some thought. He paused a little and answered, “Not now.” Dad was rarely accused of using too few words. I guess I’d have to pick up the slack.
“Let me ask you this,” I responded. “Do geese need to learn how to fly?”
Dad thought a little and answered, “I guess so.” It was a typical answer from Dad. He often said “I guess so” for “yes” and “I guess not” for “no”. His father did it also; showed they didn’t really want to commit to their answers. I’d have to accept that and go on.
“Do they have to be taught to fly?” I followed up.
“No, they can learn that on their own,” he answered.
“Without a teacher?” I retorted.
“Definitely, without a teacher,” he agreed.
“So if geese can learn without a teacher or a school, then so can I. Anyway I didn’t need a school to learn to do the things that need to be done around here, like pulling weeds, feeding Brutus, forking manure, putting wood on the fire, planting beans, drying vegetables, cooking, doing laundry, or washing dishes.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Dad answered. “But think of some of the other things that get done here. Dennis rewired the controls on Harvey’s furnace to make it work off of a battery. Don’t you think he learned that at school?”
“No, at work!”
“Poor example I guess,” he said. “But believe me there are some things we do around here, some problems we solve, using the knowledge we gained at school.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Dad appeared frustrated and in my mind, losing the argument. “Like all this corn Harvey has growing here. Just putting the seed into the ground doesn’t magically make a crop. Not taking anything away from God, now mind you, but a lot of book learning has gone into crop production in the last century. There’s been years of research and experiments, things someone learned in a school, that have enabled farmers to increase their yields. How do you think Harvey and Larry knew how much fertilizer to put on the fields this spring?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Well they had to read a report of a soil analysis done by a chemist that included a recommendation prepared by an agronomist, both of whom spent years in school learning. When Larry sprayed the corn for weeds, how did he know which herbicide to use, how much to put in each sprayer tank full, and how many gallons per acre to apply?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “I guess there’s a lot I don’t know.”
“You got that right. I guess there is,” Dad continued. “He had to read instructions and make calculations. Yes, hard work will keep us going here for a while, successfully, out of necessity. But what’s going to advance us, make improvements to our situation, and actually cause progress to occur will have to come from book learning. Yes, and even from teachers. For centuries, few people went to school. Who needed to read or write or calculate? And what were we then? A bunch of people who thought the world was flat and that the sun revolved around us. We thought maggots were created from rotting meat and milk spoiled because of demons.”
“Yeah, I remember that from science class, Louis Pasteur and all,” I said.
“Oh, something from school?” Dad remarked.
To be continued… Mort
We loaded everything up including a bag of oats for Brutus and headed home. After Josh and I used Brutus to haul water, I fed him and put him away for the night. When I went to help with the milking, sure enough Harvey was right; there was a new bull calf. Mother and newborn son were both fine.
After that fine meal we had at Butch’s, no one was really hungry for supper. But the men had worked hard since we came back and needed nourishment. Besides, breakfast was pretty far away. As there was plenty of milk to use (we had used none for lunch) Grandmom made potato soup. She didn’t use many potatoes, just digging a few from her husband’s potato patch. The soup was mostly milk. However, the addition of globs of butter and some hard boiled eggs from those we had received from Butch the day before made it pretty darn good. We just had enough crackers so that everyone had a few.
“That’s the end of our crackers,” Lois announced.
“And there is no bread or rolls, either,” added Jean. “How soon will you be able to make flour?” she asked the boys.
“Not too soon,” Jake answered, “We’ve figured we have to take two pieces of concrete, perhaps from a feed trough that we’re not using. They’ll be the grinding wheels, but it will take time to chisel them to the right shape to have the grain flow in between them. And they’ll have to be aligned just right to produce a fine enough flour or cornmeal with which to bake.”
“Then we’ll have to devise an apparatus to turn them,” Josh added. “It’s the best long term plan, but in the meantime we were wondering if anyone has an electric blender. We think flour can be made with one and we’d like to experiment if we can rewire it to 12 volts and still have it operate fast enough.”
“Sure, we have one,” Jean said. “Experiment all you want.”
“The oven’s another matter,” Dennis said. “The outdoor furnace is burning all the time to heat water and eventually to heat Harvey’s house. But the furnace is so well insulated, positioning any oven next to it wouldn’t do any good; it just wouldn’t get enough heat. So the butcher stove is the other option. It has fire going all the time for cooking and it’s mostly brick, so if we place the oven at the right spot, and maybe drill a few holes into the bricks, we think the oven would stay hot enough to bake. We’d have liked to build an oven from bricks, but we have no cement. Neither did we think clay from the creek’s banks would hold up as mortar in this application. So we decided to use Jean’s range; it has a larger oven than Poppop’s. Because it is so well insulated to keep the heat inside the oven and out of the kitchen in its designed use, we’ll have to take the back off to let heat in. Then replace it with a thin piece of steel that will let the heat through but not the smoke. We’ll probably remove the insulation in the sides and top so there’s an air space for the heat to travel forward, surround the whole stove with the insulation, cover it with more steel or aluminum siding, push the modified back against the bricks of the butcher stove, and presto, we’ll have a working oven.”
“Least we think we will,” Aaron added.
“Well it’s worth a try,” Jean said. “Get at it. Even if we don’t have flour yet, we can still use an oven.”
Joe jumped in, “I’ve been thinking a lot about our meat situation. If we kill a small hog, like Butch had today, there’s no problem. We can eat all the meat in a day’s time. But when we butcher a half-grown bull or heifer, or a full grown hog, or a cow, there will be a lot of meat to keep. In winter it will be less of a problem, but for this time of year I’ve come up with two solutions. I wish I would have thought of it this afternoon and told Butch, but any leftover meat can be heated to around boiling temperature and with a little salt be canned just like we did the soup we made from the freezer’s contents. Not to keep for months, but just to eat within a few days, so the jars are empty again for the next butchering.”
“The other way to preserve would be to dry some strips of meat. I know what parts to cut to make them real easy to hang. I wouldn’t want to depend on the sun to dry it like we did the fruits and corn or like the Indians once did, so again we’ll have to make use of the butcher house. We can build a nice rack out of some of the materials lying around here and position it around the stovepipe.”
Dad said, “We’re sure getting a lot of use out of this butcher house - cooking, laundry, eating, doing the dishes, soon baking and butchering. We’ll soon be falling all over each other in here.”
“Well it’s OK so far,” Jean said. “I suppose we’ll have to make some kind of schedule to keep us straight.”
“I suppose we will, Mother,” Harvey answered. “For now, let’s just call it quits for tonight; there are a lot of projects we have to tackle tomorrow.”
I said goodnight to Mom and Dad and headed back with Amy, Lynette, and Mel to Grandmom’s house. We stopped to check on Brutus, then off to bed. I kept thinking about what Robbie had said about Julie being a teacher. I really needed to talk to Dad about that tomorrow.
When I awoke Monday morning it was already starting to get light. I went out into the kitchen and found Jeremiah still there. “We’re late,” I said.
“No we’re not,” he answered. “While we were milking last night we had a little discussion about our milking times. As the hours of daylight lessen from now until Christmas, we know we will have to milk in the dark eventually. Even though we’re still in the month of August, the time for sunrise is rapidly becoming later and later making it very difficult to find our milking cows out in the pasture in the semi-darkness. Harvey had said we can afford to start later in the morning, wait the eleven and one half hours we usually wait to milk in the evening and still have light for the evening milking. By December it will get dark for the evening milking, too, but then we can at least gather the cows inside in daylight. He also said it was a good morning to make the switch because we started milking about a half hour later Sunday evening as we were up a Butch’s yesterday. His conclusion was that it wouldn’t bother the cows at all.”
“Some people would say we’re losing an hour of working time if we start milking an hour later and get to the fields an hour later. But we get the hour back in the afternoon because we don’t have to leave our fieldwork to start milking as early. The biggest change will be for Harvey who has been getting up at 5:00 AM for about 40 years. He’s finally going to get to sleep in a little, even if it’s just around an hour. I guess he’ll be able to handle it.”
“I know I’ll be able to,” I responded.
“Me too,” Jeremiah said.
“I guess that means Mom and Grandma can have breakfast ready at a little later time than usual and I won’t have to rush in to help them as soon?” I inquired.
“Grandma already knows,” he said. “Your mom will find out soon enough. And sure, you can help us a little longer.”
He and I went to the barn. I checked on Brutus then went with Larry and Patsy to bring in the milking cows. Patsy was his cow dog. Actually a Border collie, bred for herding sheep, but she worked well with cows, too. A Border collie doesn’t look like a regular collie such as Lassie. They’re smaller, maybe two thirds the size and often black and white, not sandy tan like Lassie was. Patsy was black and white and quite a go getter. No ornery Holstein pulled anything on her. We gathered the milking string together and had them headed toward the barn when I saw Harvey waving to me.
“Alyssa,” he called, “Come over here. I’ve something to show you.”
He was in the pen were the dry cows were kept. As I neared him I saw what he wanted me to see. Two more calves.
“With the one yesterday afternoon, that makes three,” he said. “And they’re all doing fine. Would you help me lead them into the barn?”
“Sure,” I answered. I always loved helping with the calves, especially feeding them milk from a bucket. To teach them I’d let them suck on my fingers, then lower my hand into the bucket so their nose would get into the milk and they would start drinking. Now, however, no one had to feed calves with a bucket. All of them were mixed in the pen with cows that they could drink from without our help. It saved a lot of our time, but I did miss it. It was amazing that the newborns would suck so soon after being born. I guess as newborns, we do too. Not that I remembered it. These two were no exception. As soon as I put my fingers at one’s mouth it knew what to do. Harvey did likewise with the other. We eased our way toward the barn, keeping our fingers right on their noses; the calves followed and right behind them their mothers. In this situation fresh cows can be a little dangerous sometimes, if they feel their young threatened. Jake and Patsy were soon out to help, just in case.
“That makes thirteen we need to milk now,” Jake said to Harvey. “I guess Alyssa will have to take one of these,” he teased.
“Oh, I guess she’ll get in for some share of milking duty sometime, but for now Joe, Jeremiah, or your dad can have the extra,” Harvey said. With everything settled in the barn, I headed for the butcher house to help Mom. Breakfast was uneventful except that while we were eating it started to rain. Not a storm, just a nice steady rain, but enough to keep us out of the garden. The men would still have to feed and move some animals around, but they could handle that. After breakfast, Dad and I went into the top of the barn to do some braiding.
Any farm that has animals to feed and makes a fair amount of hay and straw has a virtually endless supply of used baler twine. Twine held the bales together and had to be cut off the bales when the hay was fed or the straw was bed. It came in both sisal and plastic varieties and in different thicknesses. Back on our farm, Chester baled soybean stubble and corn fodder in large four by eight foot bales. They were very heavy so we could only move them using the skid loader or a tractor. Bales that heavy needed extra thick twine to take the pressure. For years farmers disposed of the used twine by burning it or if sisal, just throwing it in the dump to rot. Dad hated throwing anything away. So last year, he and I started braiding the extra thick plastic twine into a rope.
Braiding isn’t really that hard; it’s just like making pigtails in your hair except it goes on and on and on. You start with three strands then wrap left over middle, right over middle, left over middle, right over middle, and so forth. You don’t even think about it once you get going. We started three separate ropes with three strands each, and then braided the three newly created ropes into one thicker rope using the same method. It made the finished product nine strands strong. Each strand had a tensile strength of 450 pounds, so the new heavier rope had a tensile strength of just over two tons. We worked at it for months, but just on opportune occasions like rainy days. We quit when it was 245 feet long.
Dad put it behind the truck seat for emergency use. You never know when you might need to pull a tree off the road, or a bear up a steep bank in hunting season, to rescue someone that had fallen through the ice while skating, or to pull a vehicle stuck in the mud or snow. So be it, the twine wasn’t wasted. Today we were braiding sisal twine into rope. Although the braiding itself became boring sometimes, it was a great opportunity for Dad and me to talk. We had some good heart to heart discussions while braiding and I was hoping today would be no different. I really needed to talk to him. I didn’t need to beat around the bush with Dad either.
So I said, “Dad, you know that Julie lady with the twins is a teacher. You’re not going to make us go to school are you?”
Dad squinted his eyes, cocked a half a smile, took his hat off and with the same hand rubbed the side of his head just above the ear, a sure sign that the answer took some thought. He paused a little and answered, “Not now.” Dad was rarely accused of using too few words. I guess I’d have to pick up the slack.
“Let me ask you this,” I responded. “Do geese need to learn how to fly?”
Dad thought a little and answered, “I guess so.” It was a typical answer from Dad. He often said “I guess so” for “yes” and “I guess not” for “no”. His father did it also; showed they didn’t really want to commit to their answers. I’d have to accept that and go on.
“Do they have to be taught to fly?” I followed up.
“No, they can learn that on their own,” he answered.
“Without a teacher?” I retorted.
“Definitely, without a teacher,” he agreed.
“So if geese can learn without a teacher or a school, then so can I. Anyway I didn’t need a school to learn to do the things that need to be done around here, like pulling weeds, feeding Brutus, forking manure, putting wood on the fire, planting beans, drying vegetables, cooking, doing laundry, or washing dishes.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Dad answered. “But think of some of the other things that get done here. Dennis rewired the controls on Harvey’s furnace to make it work off of a battery. Don’t you think he learned that at school?”
“No, at work!”
“Poor example I guess,” he said. “But believe me there are some things we do around here, some problems we solve, using the knowledge we gained at school.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Dad appeared frustrated and in my mind, losing the argument. “Like all this corn Harvey has growing here. Just putting the seed into the ground doesn’t magically make a crop. Not taking anything away from God, now mind you, but a lot of book learning has gone into crop production in the last century. There’s been years of research and experiments, things someone learned in a school, that have enabled farmers to increase their yields. How do you think Harvey and Larry knew how much fertilizer to put on the fields this spring?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Well they had to read a report of a soil analysis done by a chemist that included a recommendation prepared by an agronomist, both of whom spent years in school learning. When Larry sprayed the corn for weeds, how did he know which herbicide to use, how much to put in each sprayer tank full, and how many gallons per acre to apply?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “I guess there’s a lot I don’t know.”
“You got that right. I guess there is,” Dad continued. “He had to read instructions and make calculations. Yes, hard work will keep us going here for a while, successfully, out of necessity. But what’s going to advance us, make improvements to our situation, and actually cause progress to occur will have to come from book learning. Yes, and even from teachers. For centuries, few people went to school. Who needed to read or write or calculate? And what were we then? A bunch of people who thought the world was flat and that the sun revolved around us. We thought maggots were created from rotting meat and milk spoiled because of demons.”
“Yeah, I remember that from science class, Louis Pasteur and all,” I said.
“Oh, something from school?” Dad remarked.
To be continued… Mort
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Chapter Nine - Two Families (cont)
While we were still gathered, Dad gave a blessing for the food then as soon as he had finished, people sprang into action. More tables were brought and setting them commenced. From the four families that had moved in with Butch and Clare, there were plenty of plates, cups and utensils. For this meal we even needed knives. Besides the pork, Clare had mashed a huge pot of potatoes and some tomato gravy. I guess she didn’t need ours. Our salads were an excellent addition to the fare. And there were several pitchers of that good spring water and some even had a little powdered lemonade mix added. Soon Butch, with the help of a few others, came with four big trays of the pork and we sat down to eat a fine meal.
As we ate, I surveyed the families that were now our new neighbors. There was one elderly couple, who probably couldn’t have fended for themselves. I was glad they found their way here. Of course there was Ben and his wife, with their three college-age sons. Another family, the Smith’s, with their six children, the youngest one named Robbie who was in my Sunday School class. And finally Dan and his wife Julie, who had two girls ages five and seven and a new set of twin boys, just two months old. They were the center of attention; every female there had to hold them.
As we finished, it was evident that our little bit of fruit salad didn’t go very far as the only desert.
“Eat up the pork, if you’re still hungry,” Butch declared. “It won’t keep til tomorrow.” So we did, in fact everything was gone, but no one was complaining they hadn't enough. We started cleaning off the tables and carrying the dishes.
“No hurry,” said Clare. “We have to wait for hot water. Butch and Ben
have put the big butcher kettle on the spit where the pig was. The water should be hot enough in about a half hour. Let’s just set a spell.”
No problem for me. Robbie produced a deck of UNO cards, so Lynette, I, he, and his two youngest sisters, Molly and Susan, started a game on one of the now cleared tables. Most of the adults were sitting right behind me.
I heard Dad ask, “I’ve been wondering about Reverend Schneider and the church; has anyone been there in the last few weeks?”
Lee Smith, Robbie’s dad answered, “Took the whole family last week. There were only a couple cars in the parking lot, but I bet 100 bicycles. We had ridden ours; Reverend Schneider rode his, too. I think he’s doing fine, by the way. Must have been 300 people there, but I bet not even a third were members. Most were just people who lived right around the church, those who could easily bike or walk. Some were members at other churches too far away to go to or perhaps were not having services. But I got the impression there were many who rarely if ever went to church. Seems like this collapse woke ‘em up a little. Church was sure different, too. In part I mean the building itself; no lights, no organ, no bulletins, no electric drums or guitars, no air conditioning.”
“But we’re getting used to no air conditioning,” Jean said.
“You might be,” said Mom, “But I sure miss it.”
“We miss a lot of things,” Sandy said, “What else about church?”
Lee continued, “The service itself was like.....well… one big explanation.”
“Explaining what?” Jake asked.
“Different things. Our beliefs, from the beginning. The Garden of Eden. Sin. Who Jesus was; why we confess sins. What the Lord’s Prayer is. Salvation. Being born again. I think Reverend Schneider was trying not to alienate the unchurched in attendance. I tell you he didn’t scare them away with the offering basket. There was none; it was weird. But why bother, nobody has any money, nor does the church need any. There are no bills to pay. However, people brought some produce or some canned goods for the minister. Also he kept his message simple, like your Dad’s; talked about faith and hope and to trust Jesus and not worry too much about what is going to happen in the future.”
“What is going to happen in the future?” Lois asked.
“Who knows?” said Clare, “Who knew this was going to happen?”
“Dad did,” Josh said. All eyes turned to Dad; we even paused our card game.
Dad held his hands up in front of him and quizzically said “What, am I E.F. Hutton?”
“No, you’re not,” Butch chuckled, “but you did know this was going to happen.”
“I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen. Just knew something had to happen. Couldn’t keep going the way it was. I just made some logical deductions or assumptions based on the facts and a lot on what other much smarter people than me had said or written. As to what is next, I don’t have any strong feelings one way or the other. We’ve been doing without the mass media now for what, six, eight weeks? I’ve little information to go on. Has anyone heard anything, perhaps by radio or from travelers? Has anyone heard about trouble in the region, anything?”
“I haven’t,” Ben said. No one else did either.
Dad continued, “So do we have to prepare for an attack and build barricades? I think not. China and Russia made a huge mistake by allowing Iran to destroy Jerusalem. It wasn’t only a holy place for Christians and Jews. It also housed the Dome of the Rock, an extremely sacred place to the Muslims. Plus, they’ve caused death, destruction, and radiation sickness in a sizable part of the Islamic world. Now worldwide the fanatical and even the more moderate Islamists are mad at Iran, China, and Russia. We are no longer the main enemy for either group. They hate each other now. I think our image as Americans appears much better to them than it did a year ago.”
“We just have to concern ourselves with food, water, heat, shelter and things here at Crystal View Farm and Harvey’s dairy. But I will make one prediction, which some of you have heard already. There will be more people coming and we need to be ready.”
“But the good news,” said Butch, “Is that whoever comes will have skills. They’ll have hands to work and brains to think. Look how we already have a butcher and contractors. Ben here’s an electrical engineer, Dan’s a chemist and Lee’s a machinist. Many who come will bring additional skills. Sure some who come might be dead weight, but we have to care for them just like the sheep did in Jesus’ description of the judgment.”
“Slowly but surely, we’re getting ready,” Larry said, “And Butch, would you finish that story about Roger? He hasn’t been around for several days.”
“He’s very busy,” Butch answered, “he must have over 400 hogs. With no electricity for ventilating fans and to run the water pump, he had to remake a lot of the pens so all the hogs could get some fresh air and be able to get to his creek to drink. Back when it was so hot, a dozen or so did die. They seem to be acclimated to the changes now. He still has to shovel or bucket all his corn and barley out of the grain bins and carry it to the herd. Even has to carry some water into the farrowing house for the sows that are birthing, plus milk those two cows you gave him. Fortunately several neighbors stop over every day to help. He’s been roasting a pig every day to feed his helpers and somehow get his herd numbers down. He’s gotten rid of about fifty to three other farmers like you and me, but I think he said last week alone he had three litters born which increased the herd by 41.The work just doesn’t go away; that we know from here. Maybe a greater concern is that some of his hogs are now about three to four weeks past market weight. He’s not feeding them as much, of course, but some are still getting mighty heavy. They’re too big to butcher and be able to eat all at once, even for a couple dozen people. That’s where you come in, Joe. You’re the butcher, right?”
“Yes I am,” Joe answered, “But we’re too busy at Harvey’s for me to run over to Roger all the time.”
“Actually,” Butch said, “he knows that. What he was hoping you could do was accompany me over there on our next trip, look over his operation and perhaps give him some ideas on how he could use some of those bigger hogs.”
Joe responded, “Until we get much colder weather, it’s going to be quite a challenge. It will be for us here, too. I’ve had it on my mind ever since we moved in with Harvey. I’ll think about it more and certainly I’ll be glad to go with you next time.”
“Roger has quite a few acres of corn and soybeans to harvest doesn’t he?” Dad asked.
“Yes he does,” Butch responded, “he told me he’s saving diesel fuel for the combine so the soybeans can be harvested; the corn can be harvested by hand.”
“Same as we’re thinking,” Jeremiah said. “He’ll be all right; we’ll all pull through this together.”
“Good attitude,” Dad replied. “Another thing, Butch, you and I need to talk about feeding Brutus. We have a good supply of clean grass hay and a little dry corn, but can he handle fresh corn? Pop says oats would be best. Do you have a good supply?”
“You can start him on fresh corn now – maybe three or four ears a day. With this spell of dry weather you must have some that’s fairly dry by now.”
“I think our driest corn is up here on your farm in the field next to the woods,” Larry said, “If you need it for your horses, help yourself.”
“Thanks,” Butch responded, “I noticed that field was pretty dry. That’s where I pulled some for the cows. As far as oats, I have a pretty big pile in the barn. Remember you harvested it for me. If you just take a bag a week for Brutus, that would be good for him, and still leaves me plenty for my horses.”
“We appreciate it,” Dad said, “What do we owe you?”
“Nothing, you’ve done enough already,” Butch answered.
“Also,” Dad said, “We need to save some oats to plant next spring. And don’t feed any to the cows or pigs; they can do without it.”
“Right, the horses are first priority. “And we do need to save some for seed; however, I have four full bags of seed leftover from this spring.”
“Wonderful,” Larry said. “now we have to figure out how to prepare ground for planting, sow the oats and then harvest them without fuel.”
“No, not now,” Joe jumped in, “we’ve time to plan that. Now would be a good time to have a soccer match. Aren’t you all tired of talking? Let’s go compete.” He got the attention of me and the other kids, but his directions were to the adults, too. The younger ones jumped up, just as we did.
“Where are we playing?” Jake asked.
“There’s a pretty flat hayfield, right behind the barn,” Joe answered, “Not too high; must have been one of the last fields you baled when you still had fuel.”
“It was,” said Larry, “and we can carry a few bales of straw out of the barn for goals, too.” We had a nice match, even with the adults helping. We didn’t keep score, of course, but our side won 6-4. Afterwards, we all got drinks and splashed ourselves with that cool water from the horse trough. As we headed back toward the house, Robbie called Lynette and me aside. His two older sisters and Amy joined us.
“See that woman over there?” Robbie asked, “The one who has the twins.”
“That’s Julie,” Amy said.
“Right,” said Robbie, “That’s the one. She’s big trouble.”
“Trouble?” I asked, “what you mean? She’s real nice.”
“Yeah on the outside,” Robbie said, “But when she’s not a mom, I’m sorry to say, she’s a teacher.”
“A teacher!” Lynette exclaimed.
“Yeah a teacher, and like I said, BIG trouble!”
To be continued… Mort
As we ate, I surveyed the families that were now our new neighbors. There was one elderly couple, who probably couldn’t have fended for themselves. I was glad they found their way here. Of course there was Ben and his wife, with their three college-age sons. Another family, the Smith’s, with their six children, the youngest one named Robbie who was in my Sunday School class. And finally Dan and his wife Julie, who had two girls ages five and seven and a new set of twin boys, just two months old. They were the center of attention; every female there had to hold them.
As we finished, it was evident that our little bit of fruit salad didn’t go very far as the only desert.
“Eat up the pork, if you’re still hungry,” Butch declared. “It won’t keep til tomorrow.” So we did, in fact everything was gone, but no one was complaining they hadn't enough. We started cleaning off the tables and carrying the dishes.
“No hurry,” said Clare. “We have to wait for hot water. Butch and Ben
have put the big butcher kettle on the spit where the pig was. The water should be hot enough in about a half hour. Let’s just set a spell.”
No problem for me. Robbie produced a deck of UNO cards, so Lynette, I, he, and his two youngest sisters, Molly and Susan, started a game on one of the now cleared tables. Most of the adults were sitting right behind me.
I heard Dad ask, “I’ve been wondering about Reverend Schneider and the church; has anyone been there in the last few weeks?”
Lee Smith, Robbie’s dad answered, “Took the whole family last week. There were only a couple cars in the parking lot, but I bet 100 bicycles. We had ridden ours; Reverend Schneider rode his, too. I think he’s doing fine, by the way. Must have been 300 people there, but I bet not even a third were members. Most were just people who lived right around the church, those who could easily bike or walk. Some were members at other churches too far away to go to or perhaps were not having services. But I got the impression there were many who rarely if ever went to church. Seems like this collapse woke ‘em up a little. Church was sure different, too. In part I mean the building itself; no lights, no organ, no bulletins, no electric drums or guitars, no air conditioning.”
“But we’re getting used to no air conditioning,” Jean said.
“You might be,” said Mom, “But I sure miss it.”
“We miss a lot of things,” Sandy said, “What else about church?”
Lee continued, “The service itself was like.....well… one big explanation.”
“Explaining what?” Jake asked.
“Different things. Our beliefs, from the beginning. The Garden of Eden. Sin. Who Jesus was; why we confess sins. What the Lord’s Prayer is. Salvation. Being born again. I think Reverend Schneider was trying not to alienate the unchurched in attendance. I tell you he didn’t scare them away with the offering basket. There was none; it was weird. But why bother, nobody has any money, nor does the church need any. There are no bills to pay. However, people brought some produce or some canned goods for the minister. Also he kept his message simple, like your Dad’s; talked about faith and hope and to trust Jesus and not worry too much about what is going to happen in the future.”
“What is going to happen in the future?” Lois asked.
“Who knows?” said Clare, “Who knew this was going to happen?”
“Dad did,” Josh said. All eyes turned to Dad; we even paused our card game.
Dad held his hands up in front of him and quizzically said “What, am I E.F. Hutton?”
“No, you’re not,” Butch chuckled, “but you did know this was going to happen.”
“I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen. Just knew something had to happen. Couldn’t keep going the way it was. I just made some logical deductions or assumptions based on the facts and a lot on what other much smarter people than me had said or written. As to what is next, I don’t have any strong feelings one way or the other. We’ve been doing without the mass media now for what, six, eight weeks? I’ve little information to go on. Has anyone heard anything, perhaps by radio or from travelers? Has anyone heard about trouble in the region, anything?”
“I haven’t,” Ben said. No one else did either.
Dad continued, “So do we have to prepare for an attack and build barricades? I think not. China and Russia made a huge mistake by allowing Iran to destroy Jerusalem. It wasn’t only a holy place for Christians and Jews. It also housed the Dome of the Rock, an extremely sacred place to the Muslims. Plus, they’ve caused death, destruction, and radiation sickness in a sizable part of the Islamic world. Now worldwide the fanatical and even the more moderate Islamists are mad at Iran, China, and Russia. We are no longer the main enemy for either group. They hate each other now. I think our image as Americans appears much better to them than it did a year ago.”
“We just have to concern ourselves with food, water, heat, shelter and things here at Crystal View Farm and Harvey’s dairy. But I will make one prediction, which some of you have heard already. There will be more people coming and we need to be ready.”
“But the good news,” said Butch, “Is that whoever comes will have skills. They’ll have hands to work and brains to think. Look how we already have a butcher and contractors. Ben here’s an electrical engineer, Dan’s a chemist and Lee’s a machinist. Many who come will bring additional skills. Sure some who come might be dead weight, but we have to care for them just like the sheep did in Jesus’ description of the judgment.”
“Slowly but surely, we’re getting ready,” Larry said, “And Butch, would you finish that story about Roger? He hasn’t been around for several days.”
“He’s very busy,” Butch answered, “he must have over 400 hogs. With no electricity for ventilating fans and to run the water pump, he had to remake a lot of the pens so all the hogs could get some fresh air and be able to get to his creek to drink. Back when it was so hot, a dozen or so did die. They seem to be acclimated to the changes now. He still has to shovel or bucket all his corn and barley out of the grain bins and carry it to the herd. Even has to carry some water into the farrowing house for the sows that are birthing, plus milk those two cows you gave him. Fortunately several neighbors stop over every day to help. He’s been roasting a pig every day to feed his helpers and somehow get his herd numbers down. He’s gotten rid of about fifty to three other farmers like you and me, but I think he said last week alone he had three litters born which increased the herd by 41.The work just doesn’t go away; that we know from here. Maybe a greater concern is that some of his hogs are now about three to four weeks past market weight. He’s not feeding them as much, of course, but some are still getting mighty heavy. They’re too big to butcher and be able to eat all at once, even for a couple dozen people. That’s where you come in, Joe. You’re the butcher, right?”
“Yes I am,” Joe answered, “But we’re too busy at Harvey’s for me to run over to Roger all the time.”
“Actually,” Butch said, “he knows that. What he was hoping you could do was accompany me over there on our next trip, look over his operation and perhaps give him some ideas on how he could use some of those bigger hogs.”
Joe responded, “Until we get much colder weather, it’s going to be quite a challenge. It will be for us here, too. I’ve had it on my mind ever since we moved in with Harvey. I’ll think about it more and certainly I’ll be glad to go with you next time.”
“Roger has quite a few acres of corn and soybeans to harvest doesn’t he?” Dad asked.
“Yes he does,” Butch responded, “he told me he’s saving diesel fuel for the combine so the soybeans can be harvested; the corn can be harvested by hand.”
“Same as we’re thinking,” Jeremiah said. “He’ll be all right; we’ll all pull through this together.”
“Good attitude,” Dad replied. “Another thing, Butch, you and I need to talk about feeding Brutus. We have a good supply of clean grass hay and a little dry corn, but can he handle fresh corn? Pop says oats would be best. Do you have a good supply?”
“You can start him on fresh corn now – maybe three or four ears a day. With this spell of dry weather you must have some that’s fairly dry by now.”
“I think our driest corn is up here on your farm in the field next to the woods,” Larry said, “If you need it for your horses, help yourself.”
“Thanks,” Butch responded, “I noticed that field was pretty dry. That’s where I pulled some for the cows. As far as oats, I have a pretty big pile in the barn. Remember you harvested it for me. If you just take a bag a week for Brutus, that would be good for him, and still leaves me plenty for my horses.”
“We appreciate it,” Dad said, “What do we owe you?”
“Nothing, you’ve done enough already,” Butch answered.
“Also,” Dad said, “We need to save some oats to plant next spring. And don’t feed any to the cows or pigs; they can do without it.”
“Right, the horses are first priority. “And we do need to save some for seed; however, I have four full bags of seed leftover from this spring.”
“Wonderful,” Larry said. “now we have to figure out how to prepare ground for planting, sow the oats and then harvest them without fuel.”
“No, not now,” Joe jumped in, “we’ve time to plan that. Now would be a good time to have a soccer match. Aren’t you all tired of talking? Let’s go compete.” He got the attention of me and the other kids, but his directions were to the adults, too. The younger ones jumped up, just as we did.
“Where are we playing?” Jake asked.
“There’s a pretty flat hayfield, right behind the barn,” Joe answered, “Not too high; must have been one of the last fields you baled when you still had fuel.”
“It was,” said Larry, “and we can carry a few bales of straw out of the barn for goals, too.” We had a nice match, even with the adults helping. We didn’t keep score, of course, but our side won 6-4. Afterwards, we all got drinks and splashed ourselves with that cool water from the horse trough. As we headed back toward the house, Robbie called Lynette and me aside. His two older sisters and Amy joined us.
“See that woman over there?” Robbie asked, “The one who has the twins.”
“That’s Julie,” Amy said.
“Right,” said Robbie, “That’s the one. She’s big trouble.”
“Trouble?” I asked, “what you mean? She’s real nice.”
“Yeah on the outside,” Robbie said, “But when she’s not a mom, I’m sorry to say, she’s a teacher.”
“A teacher!” Lynette exclaimed.
“Yeah a teacher, and like I said, BIG trouble!”
To be continued… Mort
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