As things appeared ready as far as equipment was concerned, we headed back to the butcher house to see how the rest were doing finishing up that project. We looked down the road and noticed a mini-van approaching with its rear bumper darn near dragging on the road. It looked like the van my Mom’s brother, my Uncle Bruce had. Sure enough, as it pulled into the driveway we spotted Bruce as the driver, with Aunt Kristen by his side and my cousin Jennifer and an elderly lady in the back seat. There was barely any room for her. The van was packed solid with boxes and clothing and with mattresses and bicycles tied on the roof. “More things,” I muttered to myself.
“Quick Alyssa!” Dad exclaimed, “get your mother, Grandma and Grandpop. These arrivals are going to make them happy.” Mom came running out; my grandparents a bit more slowly, followed by most of the others. There was hugging and kissing and sobbing and crying and praising God. Then the questions started.
“Where’s Dean?” Mom asked.
“About two miles down the road,” Bruce answered. “He’s with his girlfriend, Vanetta. They ran out of gas. We toyed with siphoning some from our van, but we had very little also. Thought it was better to make sure that at least one of us would get here for help. Do you have a pickup with enough gas to go and retrieve them and everything we have loaded in his car? It’s also packed to the gills.”
“No need to use a truck,” Dad said. “Let’s bring the whole car back; we can use the car parts as well, so we’ll just take Brutus down with a few of the boys. He can pull the car here while the others can help push up some of the grades.”
“Could they go as soon as possible?” Bruce asked. “I hate leaving them there alone and Kristen’s surely worried about them.” That struck me as odd. My Aunt Kristen always impressed me as a strong, take charge, doesn’t let anything bother her individual. And my cousin Dean, why he was as strong as they come. He had just finished his senior year in high school where he had lettered in three sports. I couldn’t imagine him not being able to deal with any circumstances that might occur. On the other hand, Vanetta, who I had only met a few times, appeared quite timid. I could see her being a bit frightened stranded in an unfamiliar place and not knowing for how long. Grandpop read his son’s request differently though.
“Is trouble following you?” he asked.
“Not imminently,” Bruce replied, “and really none that we could see; just been hearing a lot of stories in our travels.” Bruce didn’t need to say more. Jake grabbed the nearest bicycle and headed down the road, followed by Dennis.
“Be careful!” Mom yelled after them, as Josh ran to the pasture to get Brutus. At the same time Dad headed to the equipment shed and brought back some of the rope we braided for a tow rope. Shortly thereafter, Larry came out of Poppop’s house with two shotguns that he handed to Dad. When he and Josh were astride Brutus, Dad gave them the weapons and bid them haste.
“You be careful, too,” Dad advised them, “and use your best judgment.” He turned to Bruce and Kristen and offered, “Don’t worry. Those boys can handle anything. They’ll all be fine and back in no time.”
Still sensing fear in Kristen’s and Jennifer’s eyes and uncertainty in Bruce’s he added, “If you really feel the need, you could take the moped and join them, but I advise you not to. You look tired and stressed out. Just take a breather and relax. Let’s sit in the shade. How about a cool drink?”
“Sure could use a cold beer,” Bruce answered.
“Sorry, none cold,” Dad replied. “And we’re really saving anything canned for future needs. We’ve fresh spring water.”
“Actually,” Mom interjected, “Jean made some mint tea this morning, if you need more than water.”
“Iced tea?” Aunt Kristen inquired.
“Course not, we’ve no ice,” Mom responded. “Spring temperature cool, though, and not too sweet. She made it with a mixture of that Blue Balsam tea that grows around the flower beds and some of the wild tea from the meadow. She only added a little sugar.”
“Still sounds like a good idea,” Kristen agreed. “First, let’s get mother out of the van. She’s been crammed in there for hours. I’m sure she’s hot and thirsty. Which house will she be in? We should drive closer to the door.”
“”Don’t know yet,” Grandma responded. “I’m sure she’ll want to be close to where you and Bruce bed down. We’re guests here; it’s really up to the Stumps. These are Harvey and Jean’s and Harold and Myra’s homes.”
“No hurry to decide,” Jean said. “For now just pull your van over to the back porch where we can unload the goods. She and the rest can sit on the porch until things get settled. Meanwhile, I’ll fetch the tea from the springhouse.”
“Thanks,” said Kristen. The van was driven to the door of Jean’s upstairs kitchen entrance. Then I first realized who the fourth person in the van was: Aunt Kristen’s mother, Leticia. Only my immediate family would know her. As my Uncle Bruce’s mother-in-law, I had often seen her at my cousins’ birthday parties and such. In fact, the last time would have been just a couple months ago at Dean’s graduation party. She was a frail woman, who needed a walker to get around. She was still, to her credit, pretty spry for her age. But today, as they helped her out of the van, she looked much different. She had a haggard look on her face, the lines on her face deep and more pronounced. Actually, she looked like she had been through a war. We found out, however, that she still had her spirit.
“Bout time you got me out of there,” she snapped. “After all I’ve been through – and I need to go to the bathroom!”
“Yes mother,” Aunt Kristen answered. I saw Harvey roll his eyes at Jean. She responded with that little quirky smile she had. Oh… this could be a good one brewing. They took Leticia into the house to use the bathroom, jabbering all the way. It had become quite muggy that afternoon and the inside of the house was very hot, so they brought out a chair for her to sit on the porch where a nice breeze was flowing through. She took some of the tea, and then started up.
“This tea sure isn’t very cold,” she complained, “and my, was that bathroom dirty.”
Harvey grabbed Jean by the wrist and I think some of the men wanted to run for cover. There was an instant determination made where Leticia was going to sleep. Obviously not in Jean’s house. Actually, I think at that moment, Jean would have made her sleep in the barn. No, in with my grandparents and me she would go. In retrospect it was a good decision for everything was on one floor in Poppop’s house. Also, as it was very difficult for Leticia to come to the butcher house for meals, Kristen would have to take her meals to her, enabling our meals to remain peaceful.
Humans react quite differently to stress. As Bruce relayed to us later that evening, Leticia had been through a lot the last few weeks. Her way of coping, providing a means of survival, was to bitterly lash out. It wasn’t her normal behavior, but now served as her crutch. It successfully got her to this point, and as she settled in she settled down. As some peace was injected into her life, the more peaceful she became – thank goodness. Her irritability that afternoon did serve a useful purpose, however. You see as Kristen, Mom, and Jean catered to and fretted and fumed over Leticia, their fears and concerns about their sons down the road were assuaged.
Uncle Bruce was a different matter. As we started unloading his van, he would pause at least twice a minute to look down the road, searching for signs of his son’s safe return. Within five minutes, which must have seemed like five hours to Bruce, he caught a glimpse of Brutus cresting one of the little knobs in the road about one half mile away. Relief – brought a suspension to the unloading, for Bruce sprinted down the road, followed a bit more slowly by Joe, Aaron, Jennifer, and me on my bike, each with our own concerns. There were two thinking about their sons, three for their brothers, plus me for Brutus, with Joe having enough foresight to carry a bucket of spring water and ladle. Long before we reached them, as they were in full view of the farm, they had shown good sense and pulled Brutus under a big hickory tree so everyone could rest in the shade. Josh was wiping down Brutus and scratching his neck.
“Is something wrong? Is Brutus OK?” I frantically asked when I reached the crew.
“He’s fine,” Josh replied, “and doing a fine job. It’s almost effortless with us pushing. I would say pulling a car on four rubber tires is easier than pulling a plow through hard soil. We’re probably working harder than he is. We needed the break more than he did.”
“Just the same,” Joe said to me, “beings it’s so darn hot, as soon as everyone’s had a drink, take the bucket over to the creek and get him a bucket of water, too.” While they were drinking, I greeted Dean and Vanetta who were riding Jake’s and Dennis’s bicycles.
“You don’t have to stay with us,” Bruce instructed them. “If you’re well rested, just pedal up to the house. The car’s not as important as you are. We’ll get it there. Besides, you mother’s sure anxious about you.”
“Yeah right, Uncle Bruce,” I chided. “You were more bent out of shape than she was.”
“Naw, it was no sweat,” he said. “I knew they’d be all right all along.”
I thought it was a good cover. Why men have to be so macho is beyond me.
“Jennifer,” I offered, “you may have my bike if you want. Ride home with your brother. I’d like to stay and lead Brutus up.”
“Why thank you,” she answered. “Is that OK, Dad?”
“Sure,” Bruce replied, “it’s safe now.”
“Safe?” I quizzed, “safe from what?”
“Oh nothing,” he said, “just an expression.” He couldn’t fool me. Something was amiss. I guess I’d find out in due time. After I’d brought Brutus his water, we finished the trip home. Dean and Vanetta had been warmly received by the clan. The afternoon was waning. So after a short refreshment break, the boys headed to the barn for the evening chores and the cooks to the butcher house to start supper. That still left us with a nice size crew to finish unloading the vehicles, so we continued pulling the stuff out of Bruce’s van and Dean’s car.
To be continued…… Mort
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - REUNION
The rest of the week saw some accomplishments. The new calves were doing well. On Wednesday Joe accompanied Butch on the pilgrimage to Roger with our few extra barrels of sour milk for his hogs. Everything was reported as going well over there. When Roger realized he had more of an outlet for the meat, he decided to kill the biggest hog they had. Of course Joe and Butch aided, and then each brought a good portion of meat for each household. Fresh pork for supper; it even gave a few jars of leftovers that were canned for another meal. We also received four new little piglets to expand our swine herd. The ones we had were growing well and Joe said there would be one large enough to butcher next week for ourselves.
Pork wasn’t the only meat we had. Larry had noticed a flock of Canadian geese landing regularly in the pasture behind the spring. Prior to the collapse, if it would have been legal goose season, he would have just grabbed his shotgun and pursued his quarry. With the mindset of saving ammunition he decided to try and trap them instead. Dad and Harvey said when they were youngsters they would try to catch pigeons in the barn by using a stick with a string tied to it to hold up a box. They would bait the trap with a few kernels of corn, hide behind some hay bales, and wait until a pigeon was under the box, then yank the string and catch the bird. Well, it was suppose to work like that. Dad wasn’t sure if they had ever caught one. Harvey seemed to think they had. Ah, what a few score years will do to brain cells. This method wasn’t going to work for the geese, however, which were ten times larger.
Instead, Larry rounded up some muskrat traps Wednesday evening and indiscriminately set them around the area the geese were usually feeding. Of course, he had to stake them well into the ground or any trapped geese would simply fly away with the trap. He knew the geese were arriving every morning just a little before breakfast, so he, Dad and I went to the pasture about an hour before to check the traps. Sure enough, a possum had wondered into a trap. With Dad’s help we were able to release the trap from the critter’s foot and shush it away from the area. The trap didn’t appear to do the possum much harm. We retreated about forty yards from the traps to the closest woods and then made a makeshift blind to hide behind until the geese came.
“Do you think those traps will hold a goose?” Dad asked Larry.
“I hope so,” he answered. “Least ways until we can run out and grab them.”
“You know as soon as we run out, the others will fly away,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” Larry retorted, “we’ll have to be patient and wait until two or three are caught, and then rush for them all at once.”
“I’m also thinking, as soon as one trap snaps, they’ll all take off, but I wonder,” Dad thought out loud. “Alyssa, run over to the cornfield across the way and bring us back an ear of corn. Hurry!” I did, and came back puffing to where they were now standing out at the edge of the trapping area.
“Here, Dad,” I wheezed out.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now just shell a few kernels,” he said to Larry, “and carefully place them under the trap, right next to the trip plate. Let’s see what happens.”
“Anything’s worth a try,” Larry remarked as he placed about dozen kernels as Dad had directed. Then Dad took a handful of corn and just flung it out beyond the traps. Back to the blind we flew. And just in time, for within ten minutes, I heard the distinct honk of a goose.
“You know,” Larry whispered, “yesterday there was no corn here. Don’t you think that will make them suspicious?”
“Perhaps,” Dad softly replied, “but there was some undigested corn kernels in the cow manure. That’s some of what they were feeding on; it should seem familiar to them. Now don’t anyone move; looks like they’re coming in right above us.”
They did. Amazingly, they didn’t spot us. They circled the pasture twice; surveying the situation. Then finally set their wings and drifted to Earth just short of the traps. They were noisy; there was loud honking and some were hissing. I wondered if we make noise like that when we’re eating. They soon wandered into the area where the traps were set.
SNAP! One of the traps closed right on the head of a feeding goose. And then a tremendous commotion followed. Screeching and honking and as they ran to take flight, more stepped in the traps.
“NOW!” Larry yelled, “just grab them by their necks, Alyssa. Hold them till I can help you.”
The short forty yards we were from the geese seemed like one hundred as we sprinted out. Larry ran for the goose furthest away, Dad for the closest, the one with its head in the trap and I chose one in between. It was a flurry of wings and beaks. Dad secured his in no time. Larry’s wiggled free before he reached it, but he quickly switched his sights to a fourth one before it could free itself. He got it, and I got mine, but not before it nipped me in the hand. It hurt like crazy, but I still hung on though, until Larry had dispatched his and came back to finish mine. Success: goose for supper.
That same afternoon the first water pumping occurred. The milk tank, hot water tank and the shower heads were now in place. The building, including the installation of insulation and the flooring had been completed. The water line had been laid on top the ground and the pump set up in the cellar with a bicycle drive. To prime the pump, the boys poured water into the line before making the final connections. Josh proudly hopped onto the bicycle seat and started pedaling away. Sure enough, it worked, as water started flowing into the milk tank. Not that anyone in the cellar could tell, though. We were too far away.
“One of the disadvantages of this set-up,” Aaron said. “Someone has to watch the level of water in the tank, and then tell the pedaler when the tanks full.”
Dennis added, “But we decided to keep the pump in the cellar, so the person doing all the work would not have to be in the heat of the butcher house. Should make the job a little more bearable. How’s it pedal, Josh?”
“Not bad at all,” he answered. “I’m sure Mel could do it. Heck I even think Alyssa, Lynette or Amy could too.”
“Well, let one of them try,” Uncle Jeremiah said. “Go ahead Amy, hop on.” So Amy hopped on and pedaled away. Lynette took a turn and so did I. It wasn’t that hard. Nor did you have to pedal fast to make it work. Whatever speed you pedaled, the water still flowed.
“I think you girls have won an assignment,” Jeremiah continued. “As a team, keep the milk tank full of water. You can take turns. Remember someone has to watch the water level and another relay the message into the cellar. You have the time freed up because you’ll no longer have to bring as much water from the spring with Brutus. Just some for Poppop’s house, I guess. We’re hoping one day we can adapt a twelve volt motor to the pump and then you’ll be relieved. In the meantime, be timely with the job. The longer you put it off, the more pedaling you’ll have to do to fill the tank, and the greater the risk of the tank running dry. Got it?”
“I guess so,” Amy answered for us.
“Don’t worry,” Dennis added, “we’ll be around here to help you if you need us. We still have some things to finish up. The line needs to be buried and some plumbing completed to make the showers operable. No showers tonight yet, everyone. First we have to install some kind of tub above the shower head. In it, each showerer will have to mix the hot and cold water to his or her taste. They’ll be lines coming from the cold and hot water tanks that will have valves on that you’ll have to open to let the water in. Then you’ll be ready to shower. We should have that ready by tomorrow or Saturday evening.”
Even as we were completing the construction of the showering house, the boys still found time to sneak in some of the other projects. With Barry’s help they had rigged up a bicycle and an alternator on the back porch to charge batteries. It was mobile so you could carry it different places instead of carrying the batteries all over. Plus you could move it to the shade when it was hot, inside when it was cold, or under roof when it rained. It was temporary we hoped, as Joe and Larry were getting closer with their windmill project.
The water pump, furnace, and lights in the barn weren’t the only applications for twelve volt current that necessitated charging batteries. For by Friday they had installed a starter motor from our old Ford Fairmont on the wash machine. At first, the washer ran way too fast, but after some adjustments with the gearing, they slowed it enough to keep it in the building. The agitator ran much faster than it was designed to, but we’d just power it on for two, two and a half minutes at a time, as recommended by Aaron. He just wasn’t sure if the motor would hold up if we ran it continuously. Mind you, only the agitator operated, not the spin cycle, nor any of the automatic controls. It was simply “go” or “stop”. We still had to fill the tub by hand; once with hot water for washing and again with cold for rinsing. We used a set of hoses that branched off from the lines going to the shower tub. The boys had installed a hand nozzle to drain the water out of the tub. And, of course, we also had to squeeze the water out of every piece of laundry; no wringer had shown up. But it beat all the pounding and rubbing we had done to get the clothing clean with just a tub of soapy water the week before. Poppop had done a good job whittling some clothespins for us to use, but then his woodworking skills were shifted to a new project. He started manufacturing hay rakes.
We had garden rakes and lawn rakes, but their tines were too short and way too close together to rake long stem hay like Larry was going to mow. The hay would constantly be sticking in the rakes. Poppop had such an old style wooden rake, so he had one for a pattern. We rounded up every old handle we could find for him to attach a two and one half foot head onto. In each head, he used an old brace and bit to auger holes about five inches apart, and then he inserted some tines he had made from any wooden rod stock he could find. He would have to whittle and scrape them to just the right dimension. In some of the holes he used a little wood glue he had found to keep the tine in place, but usually the fit was tight enough to keep the tine from pulling out when in use. The finished product had seven tines sticking seven or eight inches from the head. We produced eight rakes in all. Saturday morning Poppop, Dad, and I carried the rakes to the equipment shed for presentation to Harvey.
We found Joe there with Harvey, who had his eyes glued to the sky. The last couple days he always had a watchful eye on the weather.
“Something’s going to give,” he said, “I can feel it. We’ll still have to wait before we start mowing. Larry’s sure getting itchy to go at it, but he can hold his horses a little longer. Ah, those are some fine rakes you got there. Looks like what, eight people can be kept busy raking. That’s good. Put them on that wagon over there.”
The wagon already had four scythes and six sickles, all recently sharpened, plus fourteen pitchforks on it, ready for Brutus to pull up to Butch’s. There was also a box full of work gloves and a toolbox with sharpening stones and some other tools that could be used to repair any implement that might break.
“We’ve a few more pitchforks around here to take along. With those that Butch has, we should be able to put a tool into everyone’s hands. It’s a shame we don’t have that old ground drive hay rake that you and my father had when we were kids,” Harvey said to Poppop. “Brutus could have easily pulled it. Do you remember it?”
“I do,” Dad jumped in, “it had a metal seat on it. I spent many enjoyable hours seated on it when my grandfather was raking hay. Isn’t it still here? Up in the woods with some of the other junked farm implements?”
“No, it’s gone,” Harvey replied. “Last winter scrap iron hit $8.50 per hundred weight. Just a year earlier, it was only worth four dollars. So Larry and I hauled three loads of scrap metal to the salvage yard. The rake was on one of the loads. It’s probably being turned into a Chinese missile right now.”
“Probably not,” Joe said. “things have moved too slowly the last four months to get it that far. It could be in the pipeline somewhere on route, but more than likely it’s still at the yard in that gigantic mountain of shredded steel that they had. You are, however, correct about the reason the price jumped so dramatically. China’s need of iron created tremendous demand for the commodity. And not only iron, but also aluminum and copper, like Titus had said on Tuesday night.”
“So maybe in this case,” Dad inquired, “the rise of metal prices was caused by true market factors, increased demand and short supply? And not the currency being inflated?”
“Maybe some of both,” Joe continued. “China’s need of all the metals created the demand. The increased demand caused the higher prices. Because China had to pay more for the scrap, that actually helped lower our trade deficit a little, plus retire some of that debt we owed China. But it might also have irritated them to the point that they made the move they did to change to the Euro and do us in. Yet in this country, we unsuspectingly benefited from the increased prices of scrap metals; least ways those of us that had some to sell. But then again, maybe the price for the metals was rocketed skyward by the inflating of our currency, just like the prices of almost everything else kept climbing. Who knows?”
“Bottom line,” lamented Harvey, “is that we never seem to learn from history. Before World War Two we sold our scrap to Japan so they could build the ships, planes and bombs to go to war with half the world. Seventy years later, we do the same damn thing.”
“Extremely ironic,” Dad agreed, “the richest country in the world, maybe only second to Russia in raw materials, gives the things we now need away to our enemy.”
“Water under the bridge,” Harvey concluded, “no sense looking back; time to go forward. Soon time to make hay.”
To be continued…. Mort
Pork wasn’t the only meat we had. Larry had noticed a flock of Canadian geese landing regularly in the pasture behind the spring. Prior to the collapse, if it would have been legal goose season, he would have just grabbed his shotgun and pursued his quarry. With the mindset of saving ammunition he decided to try and trap them instead. Dad and Harvey said when they were youngsters they would try to catch pigeons in the barn by using a stick with a string tied to it to hold up a box. They would bait the trap with a few kernels of corn, hide behind some hay bales, and wait until a pigeon was under the box, then yank the string and catch the bird. Well, it was suppose to work like that. Dad wasn’t sure if they had ever caught one. Harvey seemed to think they had. Ah, what a few score years will do to brain cells. This method wasn’t going to work for the geese, however, which were ten times larger.
Instead, Larry rounded up some muskrat traps Wednesday evening and indiscriminately set them around the area the geese were usually feeding. Of course, he had to stake them well into the ground or any trapped geese would simply fly away with the trap. He knew the geese were arriving every morning just a little before breakfast, so he, Dad and I went to the pasture about an hour before to check the traps. Sure enough, a possum had wondered into a trap. With Dad’s help we were able to release the trap from the critter’s foot and shush it away from the area. The trap didn’t appear to do the possum much harm. We retreated about forty yards from the traps to the closest woods and then made a makeshift blind to hide behind until the geese came.
“Do you think those traps will hold a goose?” Dad asked Larry.
“I hope so,” he answered. “Least ways until we can run out and grab them.”
“You know as soon as we run out, the others will fly away,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” Larry retorted, “we’ll have to be patient and wait until two or three are caught, and then rush for them all at once.”
“I’m also thinking, as soon as one trap snaps, they’ll all take off, but I wonder,” Dad thought out loud. “Alyssa, run over to the cornfield across the way and bring us back an ear of corn. Hurry!” I did, and came back puffing to where they were now standing out at the edge of the trapping area.
“Here, Dad,” I wheezed out.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now just shell a few kernels,” he said to Larry, “and carefully place them under the trap, right next to the trip plate. Let’s see what happens.”
“Anything’s worth a try,” Larry remarked as he placed about dozen kernels as Dad had directed. Then Dad took a handful of corn and just flung it out beyond the traps. Back to the blind we flew. And just in time, for within ten minutes, I heard the distinct honk of a goose.
“You know,” Larry whispered, “yesterday there was no corn here. Don’t you think that will make them suspicious?”
“Perhaps,” Dad softly replied, “but there was some undigested corn kernels in the cow manure. That’s some of what they were feeding on; it should seem familiar to them. Now don’t anyone move; looks like they’re coming in right above us.”
They did. Amazingly, they didn’t spot us. They circled the pasture twice; surveying the situation. Then finally set their wings and drifted to Earth just short of the traps. They were noisy; there was loud honking and some were hissing. I wondered if we make noise like that when we’re eating. They soon wandered into the area where the traps were set.
SNAP! One of the traps closed right on the head of a feeding goose. And then a tremendous commotion followed. Screeching and honking and as they ran to take flight, more stepped in the traps.
“NOW!” Larry yelled, “just grab them by their necks, Alyssa. Hold them till I can help you.”
The short forty yards we were from the geese seemed like one hundred as we sprinted out. Larry ran for the goose furthest away, Dad for the closest, the one with its head in the trap and I chose one in between. It was a flurry of wings and beaks. Dad secured his in no time. Larry’s wiggled free before he reached it, but he quickly switched his sights to a fourth one before it could free itself. He got it, and I got mine, but not before it nipped me in the hand. It hurt like crazy, but I still hung on though, until Larry had dispatched his and came back to finish mine. Success: goose for supper.
That same afternoon the first water pumping occurred. The milk tank, hot water tank and the shower heads were now in place. The building, including the installation of insulation and the flooring had been completed. The water line had been laid on top the ground and the pump set up in the cellar with a bicycle drive. To prime the pump, the boys poured water into the line before making the final connections. Josh proudly hopped onto the bicycle seat and started pedaling away. Sure enough, it worked, as water started flowing into the milk tank. Not that anyone in the cellar could tell, though. We were too far away.
“One of the disadvantages of this set-up,” Aaron said. “Someone has to watch the level of water in the tank, and then tell the pedaler when the tanks full.”
Dennis added, “But we decided to keep the pump in the cellar, so the person doing all the work would not have to be in the heat of the butcher house. Should make the job a little more bearable. How’s it pedal, Josh?”
“Not bad at all,” he answered. “I’m sure Mel could do it. Heck I even think Alyssa, Lynette or Amy could too.”
“Well, let one of them try,” Uncle Jeremiah said. “Go ahead Amy, hop on.” So Amy hopped on and pedaled away. Lynette took a turn and so did I. It wasn’t that hard. Nor did you have to pedal fast to make it work. Whatever speed you pedaled, the water still flowed.
“I think you girls have won an assignment,” Jeremiah continued. “As a team, keep the milk tank full of water. You can take turns. Remember someone has to watch the water level and another relay the message into the cellar. You have the time freed up because you’ll no longer have to bring as much water from the spring with Brutus. Just some for Poppop’s house, I guess. We’re hoping one day we can adapt a twelve volt motor to the pump and then you’ll be relieved. In the meantime, be timely with the job. The longer you put it off, the more pedaling you’ll have to do to fill the tank, and the greater the risk of the tank running dry. Got it?”
“I guess so,” Amy answered for us.
“Don’t worry,” Dennis added, “we’ll be around here to help you if you need us. We still have some things to finish up. The line needs to be buried and some plumbing completed to make the showers operable. No showers tonight yet, everyone. First we have to install some kind of tub above the shower head. In it, each showerer will have to mix the hot and cold water to his or her taste. They’ll be lines coming from the cold and hot water tanks that will have valves on that you’ll have to open to let the water in. Then you’ll be ready to shower. We should have that ready by tomorrow or Saturday evening.”
Even as we were completing the construction of the showering house, the boys still found time to sneak in some of the other projects. With Barry’s help they had rigged up a bicycle and an alternator on the back porch to charge batteries. It was mobile so you could carry it different places instead of carrying the batteries all over. Plus you could move it to the shade when it was hot, inside when it was cold, or under roof when it rained. It was temporary we hoped, as Joe and Larry were getting closer with their windmill project.
The water pump, furnace, and lights in the barn weren’t the only applications for twelve volt current that necessitated charging batteries. For by Friday they had installed a starter motor from our old Ford Fairmont on the wash machine. At first, the washer ran way too fast, but after some adjustments with the gearing, they slowed it enough to keep it in the building. The agitator ran much faster than it was designed to, but we’d just power it on for two, two and a half minutes at a time, as recommended by Aaron. He just wasn’t sure if the motor would hold up if we ran it continuously. Mind you, only the agitator operated, not the spin cycle, nor any of the automatic controls. It was simply “go” or “stop”. We still had to fill the tub by hand; once with hot water for washing and again with cold for rinsing. We used a set of hoses that branched off from the lines going to the shower tub. The boys had installed a hand nozzle to drain the water out of the tub. And, of course, we also had to squeeze the water out of every piece of laundry; no wringer had shown up. But it beat all the pounding and rubbing we had done to get the clothing clean with just a tub of soapy water the week before. Poppop had done a good job whittling some clothespins for us to use, but then his woodworking skills were shifted to a new project. He started manufacturing hay rakes.
We had garden rakes and lawn rakes, but their tines were too short and way too close together to rake long stem hay like Larry was going to mow. The hay would constantly be sticking in the rakes. Poppop had such an old style wooden rake, so he had one for a pattern. We rounded up every old handle we could find for him to attach a two and one half foot head onto. In each head, he used an old brace and bit to auger holes about five inches apart, and then he inserted some tines he had made from any wooden rod stock he could find. He would have to whittle and scrape them to just the right dimension. In some of the holes he used a little wood glue he had found to keep the tine in place, but usually the fit was tight enough to keep the tine from pulling out when in use. The finished product had seven tines sticking seven or eight inches from the head. We produced eight rakes in all. Saturday morning Poppop, Dad, and I carried the rakes to the equipment shed for presentation to Harvey.
We found Joe there with Harvey, who had his eyes glued to the sky. The last couple days he always had a watchful eye on the weather.
“Something’s going to give,” he said, “I can feel it. We’ll still have to wait before we start mowing. Larry’s sure getting itchy to go at it, but he can hold his horses a little longer. Ah, those are some fine rakes you got there. Looks like what, eight people can be kept busy raking. That’s good. Put them on that wagon over there.”
The wagon already had four scythes and six sickles, all recently sharpened, plus fourteen pitchforks on it, ready for Brutus to pull up to Butch’s. There was also a box full of work gloves and a toolbox with sharpening stones and some other tools that could be used to repair any implement that might break.
“We’ve a few more pitchforks around here to take along. With those that Butch has, we should be able to put a tool into everyone’s hands. It’s a shame we don’t have that old ground drive hay rake that you and my father had when we were kids,” Harvey said to Poppop. “Brutus could have easily pulled it. Do you remember it?”
“I do,” Dad jumped in, “it had a metal seat on it. I spent many enjoyable hours seated on it when my grandfather was raking hay. Isn’t it still here? Up in the woods with some of the other junked farm implements?”
“No, it’s gone,” Harvey replied. “Last winter scrap iron hit $8.50 per hundred weight. Just a year earlier, it was only worth four dollars. So Larry and I hauled three loads of scrap metal to the salvage yard. The rake was on one of the loads. It’s probably being turned into a Chinese missile right now.”
“Probably not,” Joe said. “things have moved too slowly the last four months to get it that far. It could be in the pipeline somewhere on route, but more than likely it’s still at the yard in that gigantic mountain of shredded steel that they had. You are, however, correct about the reason the price jumped so dramatically. China’s need of iron created tremendous demand for the commodity. And not only iron, but also aluminum and copper, like Titus had said on Tuesday night.”
“So maybe in this case,” Dad inquired, “the rise of metal prices was caused by true market factors, increased demand and short supply? And not the currency being inflated?”
“Maybe some of both,” Joe continued. “China’s need of all the metals created the demand. The increased demand caused the higher prices. Because China had to pay more for the scrap, that actually helped lower our trade deficit a little, plus retire some of that debt we owed China. But it might also have irritated them to the point that they made the move they did to change to the Euro and do us in. Yet in this country, we unsuspectingly benefited from the increased prices of scrap metals; least ways those of us that had some to sell. But then again, maybe the price for the metals was rocketed skyward by the inflating of our currency, just like the prices of almost everything else kept climbing. Who knows?”
“Bottom line,” lamented Harvey, “is that we never seem to learn from history. Before World War Two we sold our scrap to Japan so they could build the ships, planes and bombs to go to war with half the world. Seventy years later, we do the same damn thing.”
“Extremely ironic,” Dad agreed, “the richest country in the world, maybe only second to Russia in raw materials, gives the things we now need away to our enemy.”
“Water under the bridge,” Harvey concluded, “no sense looking back; time to go forward. Soon time to make hay.”
To be continued…. Mort
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THINGS (conclusion)
“I can’t help but keep thinking,” Jean offered, “about what Harlan said this afternoon about what had happened in his home county. Do you think that could happen here?”
“Hard to say,” Titus responded. “After talking to Harlan’s father, I got a little of the picture on how it went down there. Chaos might be the word to describe it. Not random violence and looting necessarily; just a lack of organization and feeling of community. Everyone lit out in different directions; just looked out for themselves. There’s a much different feeling here. Look how you’ve banded together on this farm and other people have on your neighbor’s farm up the road. I run into farms like that everywhere I travel. At my place we’re blessed by the way our neighbors, despite our spiritual and cultural differences, just bonded for the common good. Then there’s something else that might be to our advantage around here, though it’s awkward for me to talk about.”
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
“You’re armed,” Titus said, “and so are our neighbors that have joined up with us. I overheard them talking about being prepared to defend our ‘town’. Some of the leaders even came to me and said directly that they would provide protection for our families.”
“See,” Jake interjected, “the founding fathers knew what they were doing when they passed the second amendment.”
“Perhaps,” said Barry, “but I always figured it was to protect ourselves from a foreign invasion, not each other.”
“Maybe for now,” Josh said. “In the future, a foreign enemy might invade. And we’ll be ready for them!”
“Spoken just like a young whipper-snapper,” Dad said. “You’ve a lot to learn.”
“Religious beliefs aside,” Joe added. “This country probably has the highest percentage of the populace armed than any other country in the world. And although we’d love to settle all our differences without violence, in this case I don’t see that happening. But I’ll give you and your brothers credit, Titus. I know you won’t contribute to a violent solution. I wish everyone else in the world had the same convictions.”
“So do I,” Titus said.
“I was curious about something else,” Jeremiah said. “How did the idea of using coins as a medium of exchange catch on?”
“Money is only good if the users have faith in it,” Titus said. “I understand the dollar failed because China switched it’s debt over to Euros or something like that; I’m not exactly sure. Euros are paper money, too, but people still have faith in it, so they work as an accepted medium of exchange. If not in this country, at least around the rest of the world. For decades the dollar was backed by gold or silver, so the holders of dollars knew they could exchange dollars for something with a known, universal value. Ever since the US government abandoned the gold standard, that faith has been waning. On the other hand, for centuries coins have been used in exchange for goods. They had an intrinsic value. The metals in them were worth something even if the government that issued them went sour. Several of our brothers are in the wrecking/reclamation business. Last year when copper prices skyrocketed, they became aware that pennies have a value of their own, well above one cent, which is all any bank would give you for them. We all started saving them. Then last year the feds pointed out that it was illegal to melt down coins. So what? We were only saving them. Around Christmas I read that a penny was only 5% copper and the rest mostly zinc; burst that theory. But a nickel was 75% copper. So we started saving them, too. In fact, it was revealed that the government was spending 1.2 cents to make every penny and 7.9 cents to make a nickel. But they sold them for only one cent and five cents respectively. Boy was that bad business. Bottom line is, we have faith in the value of the metals in coins, even if the government issuing them is bankrupt. Metal is metal, coins are coins. We have faith in them, so we honor them. Seems to be working so far.”
“But how did you come up with the low prices for everything?” Lois asked.
“Accidentally, I guess,” Titus responded.
“Maybe not,” said Aaron, “coinage has an absolute value. But what do you base it on? Because it takes so many pennies to buy a Euro, a barrel of oil, or an ounce of gold? What does that matter to us? The value that our coins have is relative. How many pennies it takes to buy a ton of hay, a bushel of corn, a flashlight, or a watermelon?”
“I know that one,” I declared, “five.”
“Yes, you’re right little cousin,” Aaron continued. “Think how people that had tens of thousands of dollars in the bank, now have some metal half dollars and quarters in their pockets. And those who had a few hundred dollars, now have about the same.”
“The collapse was an equalizer,” Dad said. “Like Harvey said earlier today: ‘everyone’s in the same boat’.”
“Isn’t that funny,” Josh remarked. “What the Communists in other countries and Socialists in this country were trying to do for years – make us all equal – was accomplished by our own federal government’s poor fiscal policy.”
“At least when it comes to financial resources,” Aaron said. “There’s a lot of ways we are not equal. Some of us have food or resources to produce food, others don’t. Some have fuel, others don’t. And we all have different skills. But that wasn’t my point. Back to the relative value of our coins. You see there was once hundreds of billions of dollars, if not a few trillion of make-believe dollars in this country’s economy. A large portion of it was just numbers written with ink on paper. Worthless. Now there are a several million, maybe a billion dollars worth of coins belonging to the same group – us. And there is still a supply of food, building materials, tools, crops, clothing, medical supplies, some fuel, metals and other raw materials out there in the same economy. Not quite as much as before the collapse, now mind you, but a fair percentage still exists. Prior to the collapse, those goods’ value was determined by the amount of money that was out there. Goods divided by dollars out there. Now it’s divided by millions instead of trillions, therefore every unit of goods is worth fewer dollars. That’s what gives our coins their relative value; it’s in relation to the amount of goods in the economy. So what Titus’s clan is doing makes economic sense. At least that’s my theory.”
“Not too bad a theory, either,” Dad commented. “Bottom line – it works. Just like some of the other things we do or try around here – if it works: do it. You know people sure have to change.”
“How’s that?” Titus asked.
“Well, we spend our whole life accumulating things. When we’re young: toys, baseball cards, ice skates, or a bicycle. Later it’s a car, stylish clothing, video equipment, or tools. We start saving: for college, to pay for a wedding, for a house, furniture. Always we want more – things. Soon we have to have another hunting rifle, season tickets, that big screen TV, the cable, cell phones, DVD player, a four wheel drive pickup; it goes on and on. Build up your estate, buy another farm. No offense to Harvey and Titus intended – they need farms to grow food for people – that’s honorable. We’re also told to buy life insurance, for the future; IRA’s, for the future; stock portfolios, for the future. Now is the future; what good did it do us? Always more things. And what does it get you? Nothing. In the end you’re back in the ground where you came from. It’s like chasing after the wind. In Ecclesiastes Solomon says ‘everything is meaningless’. He includes wisdom, toil, advancement, pleasures and folly – all meaningless. In fact, what this desire to accumulate things really leads to is stress, frustration, and arguments over more things, like money. And what does it earn you? A hole in the ground. It’s that attitude that people have to change. Do you know what I mean?”
I really didn’t, and from the looks around the room, maybe no one else did either. Or at least they didn’t know what to say. Finally, Titus spoke up. “I think I know what you mean. And it’s something I struggled with my whole life, too. In Matthew chapter six Jesus told us: ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on Earth,’ yet my father accumulated things, including farms, to provide for his children. And I’ve done the same, providing for my children, just like Jesus told us later in the same chapter, verse 33 that ‘all these things will be given you as well’ by our heavenly father. So sometimes I wondered if I put too much emphasis on materialism. Did I love money more than God? The answer lies in the beginning of that same verse when Jesus said, ‘But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness.’ That’s our comfort. Jesus knows what’s in our heart. It reveals what we really feel about things. So I do know what you mean, people do have to change. Change their heart from one that loves things to one that loves God. Jesus showed us how to do that - by loving others. And also in Ecclesiastes, Solomon tells you a couple ways you can remove some of the meaninglessness and stress of life and bring a little more peace into it. He said ‘A man can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work’. And on top of that trust and obey God. If you keep those thoughts in your head and heart, you can’t go wrong,” Titus concluded.
There was silence again, just like after Dad had finished his expose`. Joe had a half a smile on his face as he squeezed his lower lip with his hand. He looked at Dad, and then at Titus and said, “When did you two get a chance to rehearse that?”
Dad and Titus looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders slightly, and then Dad said, “Didn’t. I just felt I had to say what was on my heart.”
Titus added, “Me neither. He was on a roll. Just thought I’d try and answer his question and explain why people should change. Did I?”
“I suppose you did,” Grandmom said. “Gave me something to think about. And pray about. But now, I think it’s time we hit the sack. Tomorrow’s another day.”
It was agreed. As I lay in bed, I pondered Dad and Titus’ remarks. Next morning, I hurried out to check on Titus and Harlan, wondering if any more revelations would be forthcoming. I guess they were anxious to get an early start for home, for the wagon load of hay, their horses, Harlan and Titus Weaver were gone.
To be continued….. Mort
“Hard to say,” Titus responded. “After talking to Harlan’s father, I got a little of the picture on how it went down there. Chaos might be the word to describe it. Not random violence and looting necessarily; just a lack of organization and feeling of community. Everyone lit out in different directions; just looked out for themselves. There’s a much different feeling here. Look how you’ve banded together on this farm and other people have on your neighbor’s farm up the road. I run into farms like that everywhere I travel. At my place we’re blessed by the way our neighbors, despite our spiritual and cultural differences, just bonded for the common good. Then there’s something else that might be to our advantage around here, though it’s awkward for me to talk about.”
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
“You’re armed,” Titus said, “and so are our neighbors that have joined up with us. I overheard them talking about being prepared to defend our ‘town’. Some of the leaders even came to me and said directly that they would provide protection for our families.”
“See,” Jake interjected, “the founding fathers knew what they were doing when they passed the second amendment.”
“Perhaps,” said Barry, “but I always figured it was to protect ourselves from a foreign invasion, not each other.”
“Maybe for now,” Josh said. “In the future, a foreign enemy might invade. And we’ll be ready for them!”
“Spoken just like a young whipper-snapper,” Dad said. “You’ve a lot to learn.”
“Religious beliefs aside,” Joe added. “This country probably has the highest percentage of the populace armed than any other country in the world. And although we’d love to settle all our differences without violence, in this case I don’t see that happening. But I’ll give you and your brothers credit, Titus. I know you won’t contribute to a violent solution. I wish everyone else in the world had the same convictions.”
“So do I,” Titus said.
“I was curious about something else,” Jeremiah said. “How did the idea of using coins as a medium of exchange catch on?”
“Money is only good if the users have faith in it,” Titus said. “I understand the dollar failed because China switched it’s debt over to Euros or something like that; I’m not exactly sure. Euros are paper money, too, but people still have faith in it, so they work as an accepted medium of exchange. If not in this country, at least around the rest of the world. For decades the dollar was backed by gold or silver, so the holders of dollars knew they could exchange dollars for something with a known, universal value. Ever since the US government abandoned the gold standard, that faith has been waning. On the other hand, for centuries coins have been used in exchange for goods. They had an intrinsic value. The metals in them were worth something even if the government that issued them went sour. Several of our brothers are in the wrecking/reclamation business. Last year when copper prices skyrocketed, they became aware that pennies have a value of their own, well above one cent, which is all any bank would give you for them. We all started saving them. Then last year the feds pointed out that it was illegal to melt down coins. So what? We were only saving them. Around Christmas I read that a penny was only 5% copper and the rest mostly zinc; burst that theory. But a nickel was 75% copper. So we started saving them, too. In fact, it was revealed that the government was spending 1.2 cents to make every penny and 7.9 cents to make a nickel. But they sold them for only one cent and five cents respectively. Boy was that bad business. Bottom line is, we have faith in the value of the metals in coins, even if the government issuing them is bankrupt. Metal is metal, coins are coins. We have faith in them, so we honor them. Seems to be working so far.”
“But how did you come up with the low prices for everything?” Lois asked.
“Accidentally, I guess,” Titus responded.
“Maybe not,” said Aaron, “coinage has an absolute value. But what do you base it on? Because it takes so many pennies to buy a Euro, a barrel of oil, or an ounce of gold? What does that matter to us? The value that our coins have is relative. How many pennies it takes to buy a ton of hay, a bushel of corn, a flashlight, or a watermelon?”
“I know that one,” I declared, “five.”
“Yes, you’re right little cousin,” Aaron continued. “Think how people that had tens of thousands of dollars in the bank, now have some metal half dollars and quarters in their pockets. And those who had a few hundred dollars, now have about the same.”
“The collapse was an equalizer,” Dad said. “Like Harvey said earlier today: ‘everyone’s in the same boat’.”
“Isn’t that funny,” Josh remarked. “What the Communists in other countries and Socialists in this country were trying to do for years – make us all equal – was accomplished by our own federal government’s poor fiscal policy.”
“At least when it comes to financial resources,” Aaron said. “There’s a lot of ways we are not equal. Some of us have food or resources to produce food, others don’t. Some have fuel, others don’t. And we all have different skills. But that wasn’t my point. Back to the relative value of our coins. You see there was once hundreds of billions of dollars, if not a few trillion of make-believe dollars in this country’s economy. A large portion of it was just numbers written with ink on paper. Worthless. Now there are a several million, maybe a billion dollars worth of coins belonging to the same group – us. And there is still a supply of food, building materials, tools, crops, clothing, medical supplies, some fuel, metals and other raw materials out there in the same economy. Not quite as much as before the collapse, now mind you, but a fair percentage still exists. Prior to the collapse, those goods’ value was determined by the amount of money that was out there. Goods divided by dollars out there. Now it’s divided by millions instead of trillions, therefore every unit of goods is worth fewer dollars. That’s what gives our coins their relative value; it’s in relation to the amount of goods in the economy. So what Titus’s clan is doing makes economic sense. At least that’s my theory.”
“Not too bad a theory, either,” Dad commented. “Bottom line – it works. Just like some of the other things we do or try around here – if it works: do it. You know people sure have to change.”
“How’s that?” Titus asked.
“Well, we spend our whole life accumulating things. When we’re young: toys, baseball cards, ice skates, or a bicycle. Later it’s a car, stylish clothing, video equipment, or tools. We start saving: for college, to pay for a wedding, for a house, furniture. Always we want more – things. Soon we have to have another hunting rifle, season tickets, that big screen TV, the cable, cell phones, DVD player, a four wheel drive pickup; it goes on and on. Build up your estate, buy another farm. No offense to Harvey and Titus intended – they need farms to grow food for people – that’s honorable. We’re also told to buy life insurance, for the future; IRA’s, for the future; stock portfolios, for the future. Now is the future; what good did it do us? Always more things. And what does it get you? Nothing. In the end you’re back in the ground where you came from. It’s like chasing after the wind. In Ecclesiastes Solomon says ‘everything is meaningless’. He includes wisdom, toil, advancement, pleasures and folly – all meaningless. In fact, what this desire to accumulate things really leads to is stress, frustration, and arguments over more things, like money. And what does it earn you? A hole in the ground. It’s that attitude that people have to change. Do you know what I mean?”
I really didn’t, and from the looks around the room, maybe no one else did either. Or at least they didn’t know what to say. Finally, Titus spoke up. “I think I know what you mean. And it’s something I struggled with my whole life, too. In Matthew chapter six Jesus told us: ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on Earth,’ yet my father accumulated things, including farms, to provide for his children. And I’ve done the same, providing for my children, just like Jesus told us later in the same chapter, verse 33 that ‘all these things will be given you as well’ by our heavenly father. So sometimes I wondered if I put too much emphasis on materialism. Did I love money more than God? The answer lies in the beginning of that same verse when Jesus said, ‘But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness.’ That’s our comfort. Jesus knows what’s in our heart. It reveals what we really feel about things. So I do know what you mean, people do have to change. Change their heart from one that loves things to one that loves God. Jesus showed us how to do that - by loving others. And also in Ecclesiastes, Solomon tells you a couple ways you can remove some of the meaninglessness and stress of life and bring a little more peace into it. He said ‘A man can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work’. And on top of that trust and obey God. If you keep those thoughts in your head and heart, you can’t go wrong,” Titus concluded.
There was silence again, just like after Dad had finished his expose`. Joe had a half a smile on his face as he squeezed his lower lip with his hand. He looked at Dad, and then at Titus and said, “When did you two get a chance to rehearse that?”
Dad and Titus looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders slightly, and then Dad said, “Didn’t. I just felt I had to say what was on my heart.”
Titus added, “Me neither. He was on a roll. Just thought I’d try and answer his question and explain why people should change. Did I?”
“I suppose you did,” Grandmom said. “Gave me something to think about. And pray about. But now, I think it’s time we hit the sack. Tomorrow’s another day.”
It was agreed. As I lay in bed, I pondered Dad and Titus’ remarks. Next morning, I hurried out to check on Titus and Harlan, wondering if any more revelations would be forthcoming. I guess they were anxious to get an early start for home, for the wagon load of hay, their horses, Harlan and Titus Weaver were gone.
To be continued….. Mort
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THINGS (cont)
“Good horse hay?” Harvey asked.
“Good horse hay I could use the most. I usually try to end up at a farm that doesn’t have livestock. They’re much more willing to part with some. You have a lot of livestock here, so I’d understand if you wouldn’t want to part with any.”
“Our hay is valuable,” Harvey responded. “But no more valuable than the load of produce you started out with this morning. How many bales does your wagon hold?”
“About 85.”
“Good enough,” Harvey decided, “I’ll apply the Golden Rule again. And you know your horses will need a night’s rest to pull over two tons of hay home.”
“That settles it then,” Dad said, “you’re staying the night.”
“I guess we are,” Titus agreed.
Fortunately, during the whole conversation, no one had started to unhitch the horses; so we drove the wagon right over to the springhouse to unload and store the fruit and vegetables. “Put one of the watermelons right into the spring water,” Dad instructed. “Should make it cold enough for supper. Tomorrow we’ll send word to Butch. They can use some fresh produce, too. I think he’s particularly fond of hot peppers. I know you and I aren’t, are we Alyssa?”
“No we’re not,” I answered, “but watermelon I can handle.” After letting the horses have a long drink, we drove the wagon to the barn where the hay was that Harvey had traded. On the way we dropped the honey and the sweet corn at the butcher house. Lois was the cook for supper and was quite agreeable to adding the corn to her planned meal, as there’d be two extra for supper.
Titus and Harlan unhitched the wagon next to the pile of hay. We led the horses back to the pasture, where they could spend the whole night eating grass. Dad brought them each five ears of corn.
“That’ll do them fine,” Titus said. The men folk had started milking; supper, of course, wasn’t near ready, so the four of us started loading the hay. My grandfathers joined us, which led to quite a conversation. Trouble was, I only could understand what Dad was saying. The others spoke in the Pennsylvania German dialect. If Dad listened real closely, he could understand, but he had never learned well enough how to speak in German. Of course he often tried. Usually got some laughs, the way he butchered it, generally messing up the grammar. Today was no different – he tried – the others would chuckle. From what I caught from Dad’s percentage of the conversation, they talked about old times and who lived on which farm. Seemed like Poppop and Dad knew everybody. They talked about the improvements to the butcher house, our plan to pump water, how we divided up the cows and our dilemma with using electric motors. It didn’t take long to get 85 bales onto the wagon. We used baler twine to fasten the load. Didn’t need to use the braided rope Dad and I had made. The load of hay wasn’t going to careen down the road at 55 miles per hour; it would stay on. As we tied on the last pieces of twine, the conversation ended with talk of some of the things we were looking for.
I heard Titus sum it up by saying, “Yeah, when I’m on my trading missions I can keep an eye open for you for those things like a wringer washer, a breeding bull, or a smaller generator.
“Thanks a lot,” Poppop said, “and if you would, we’re going to need something else; seed for next year’s crops. Trouble is, so does everyone else.”
“That’s right,” Dad added, “but one thing I think you do have, Titus, that I hope you can spare, is sweet potatoes.”
“I have quite a few growing,” Titus answered. “I’ll keep a share for you.”
“Thanks,” said Dad. “Well, it looks like the rest are heading in for supper. Let’s go wash up and join ‘em. I can almost taste that fresh sweet corn already.”
“And our homemade butter on it,” I added.
It was a fine supper, and after the watermelon was devoured and the supper dishes were finished, we learned a few more things about Titus’s community. “You know our lifestyle hasn’t changed that much since the power went off,” he commented. “We still farm and travel with horses. We milk by hand and fork silage by hand. We have wood fires and butcher our livestock at home. We’re canning like we did before. We go to church every Sunday by buggy or bicycle. Didn’t have televisions, radios or computers; don’t miss them. The women are making homemade baked goods. And our children are going to school.”
“Your schools are open?” Jake asked.
“Sure,” Titus answered, “Monday was the first day at our one room schoolhouses. Our children walk or bike to school. The teacher goes by buggy and brings a cooler of spring water for the students. We don’t need electricity this time of year. When it turns colder, the heat source is a wood stove. We’ll have to come up with some lighting eventually. There’s time to figure some things out yet.”
“If your school’s in session, how come you’re not there, Harlan?” Sandy asked.
“I’m fourteen, and finished eighth grade last year,” he said. “We only go to school eight years.”
“Learned all you need to know, I bet,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ve got a lot to learn yet,” Harlan answered, “Just like you.”
“You’re darn right she does,” Mom said. “You said your women were baking. Are you milling flour?”
“No, not yet,” Titus responded, “we still have a good supply. But with sharing our food with all the townsfolk that are helping us, it won’t last much longer. Some of the boys are trying to build a grinding mill.”
“So are we,” Larry retorted, “but it would sure be nicer if we could find one.”
“You mean one that’s operating?” Grandpop asked.
“I was thinking about an unused one,” Larry replied, “if there was one operating somewhere, then that would be even sweeter.”
“I’ll ask around in my travels,” Titus offered. “Wait a minute. On our way here, we passed an old mill near a golf course. Do you know where I mean?”
“Sure,” answered Harvey, “I know where you mean, and there’s one about three miles north of here, too. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably,” Titus said.
“You mean we should investigate them?” Larry wondered. “There could be an old grinding mill in good enough repair for us to use or fix. Or maybe it would work right where it is. They were both run by a waterwheel years ago. We might be able to get them operational.”
“We wouldn’t have to be the operators,” Dennis added. “Someone else could be set up there to handle that chore. Like some of the people migrating from the town or city.”
“Then we’d just have to take some of our wheat there every so often and bring back flour; like my grandparents did,” Poppop said.
“Either way, like Larry said, it’s worth investigating,” Josh said. “It might be easier than building our own from scratch.”
“Something we can do on a rainy day,” Harvey said. “When this weather turns dryer, we’ll be busy here. In your travels, Titus, have you discussed with anyone how they might be planning on putting hay away?”
“Got a couple of ideas,” Titus replied. “First, a few farms north of town have a lot of acreage in hay and only a few livestock to graze it. Been talking with one of them, Amos Adam. We’re already planning to shift our produce workers from town out there when he’s ready to harvest some. He’d also need to borrow a few of our teams to haul the hay to the barn. Last I talked to him he was rounding up scythes, sickles, rakes and forks. When I left him, he was in the shop, sharpening.”
“It’s a shame there aren’t any ground driven mowers around this area,” Harlan added. “Down where my family lived, many of our Amish neighbors still used them. Used teams to pull them, as well as rakes and tedders. If you were lucky, you might find some old ones in a fencerow, in the woods or on a junk pile that you could repair,” he said to Harvey. “Titus, are you going to mention Sam Burke’s idea?”
“That was the second idea I was thinking of,” Titus continued. “Sam Burke’s a neighbor of ours; has a pretty good machine shop. He’s trying to convert some of the power driven mowers we have to ground drive, so they can be operated by horses instead of tractors. It’s quite an undertaking. I’ll let you know how he makes out. If successful, he might be able to convert yours or at least give you the design.”
“Anything like that would be useful,” Harvey said. “You know, Titus, you’re doing a valuable service by gathering and sharing information as you travel about. Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, I’ll try,” he answered.
To be continued… is there more to Titus’ story? Mort
“Good horse hay I could use the most. I usually try to end up at a farm that doesn’t have livestock. They’re much more willing to part with some. You have a lot of livestock here, so I’d understand if you wouldn’t want to part with any.”
“Our hay is valuable,” Harvey responded. “But no more valuable than the load of produce you started out with this morning. How many bales does your wagon hold?”
“About 85.”
“Good enough,” Harvey decided, “I’ll apply the Golden Rule again. And you know your horses will need a night’s rest to pull over two tons of hay home.”
“That settles it then,” Dad said, “you’re staying the night.”
“I guess we are,” Titus agreed.
Fortunately, during the whole conversation, no one had started to unhitch the horses; so we drove the wagon right over to the springhouse to unload and store the fruit and vegetables. “Put one of the watermelons right into the spring water,” Dad instructed. “Should make it cold enough for supper. Tomorrow we’ll send word to Butch. They can use some fresh produce, too. I think he’s particularly fond of hot peppers. I know you and I aren’t, are we Alyssa?”
“No we’re not,” I answered, “but watermelon I can handle.” After letting the horses have a long drink, we drove the wagon to the barn where the hay was that Harvey had traded. On the way we dropped the honey and the sweet corn at the butcher house. Lois was the cook for supper and was quite agreeable to adding the corn to her planned meal, as there’d be two extra for supper.
Titus and Harlan unhitched the wagon next to the pile of hay. We led the horses back to the pasture, where they could spend the whole night eating grass. Dad brought them each five ears of corn.
“That’ll do them fine,” Titus said. The men folk had started milking; supper, of course, wasn’t near ready, so the four of us started loading the hay. My grandfathers joined us, which led to quite a conversation. Trouble was, I only could understand what Dad was saying. The others spoke in the Pennsylvania German dialect. If Dad listened real closely, he could understand, but he had never learned well enough how to speak in German. Of course he often tried. Usually got some laughs, the way he butchered it, generally messing up the grammar. Today was no different – he tried – the others would chuckle. From what I caught from Dad’s percentage of the conversation, they talked about old times and who lived on which farm. Seemed like Poppop and Dad knew everybody. They talked about the improvements to the butcher house, our plan to pump water, how we divided up the cows and our dilemma with using electric motors. It didn’t take long to get 85 bales onto the wagon. We used baler twine to fasten the load. Didn’t need to use the braided rope Dad and I had made. The load of hay wasn’t going to careen down the road at 55 miles per hour; it would stay on. As we tied on the last pieces of twine, the conversation ended with talk of some of the things we were looking for.
I heard Titus sum it up by saying, “Yeah, when I’m on my trading missions I can keep an eye open for you for those things like a wringer washer, a breeding bull, or a smaller generator.
“Thanks a lot,” Poppop said, “and if you would, we’re going to need something else; seed for next year’s crops. Trouble is, so does everyone else.”
“That’s right,” Dad added, “but one thing I think you do have, Titus, that I hope you can spare, is sweet potatoes.”
“I have quite a few growing,” Titus answered. “I’ll keep a share for you.”
“Thanks,” said Dad. “Well, it looks like the rest are heading in for supper. Let’s go wash up and join ‘em. I can almost taste that fresh sweet corn already.”
“And our homemade butter on it,” I added.
It was a fine supper, and after the watermelon was devoured and the supper dishes were finished, we learned a few more things about Titus’s community. “You know our lifestyle hasn’t changed that much since the power went off,” he commented. “We still farm and travel with horses. We milk by hand and fork silage by hand. We have wood fires and butcher our livestock at home. We’re canning like we did before. We go to church every Sunday by buggy or bicycle. Didn’t have televisions, radios or computers; don’t miss them. The women are making homemade baked goods. And our children are going to school.”
“Your schools are open?” Jake asked.
“Sure,” Titus answered, “Monday was the first day at our one room schoolhouses. Our children walk or bike to school. The teacher goes by buggy and brings a cooler of spring water for the students. We don’t need electricity this time of year. When it turns colder, the heat source is a wood stove. We’ll have to come up with some lighting eventually. There’s time to figure some things out yet.”
“If your school’s in session, how come you’re not there, Harlan?” Sandy asked.
“I’m fourteen, and finished eighth grade last year,” he said. “We only go to school eight years.”
“Learned all you need to know, I bet,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ve got a lot to learn yet,” Harlan answered, “Just like you.”
“You’re darn right she does,” Mom said. “You said your women were baking. Are you milling flour?”
“No, not yet,” Titus responded, “we still have a good supply. But with sharing our food with all the townsfolk that are helping us, it won’t last much longer. Some of the boys are trying to build a grinding mill.”
“So are we,” Larry retorted, “but it would sure be nicer if we could find one.”
“You mean one that’s operating?” Grandpop asked.
“I was thinking about an unused one,” Larry replied, “if there was one operating somewhere, then that would be even sweeter.”
“I’ll ask around in my travels,” Titus offered. “Wait a minute. On our way here, we passed an old mill near a golf course. Do you know where I mean?”
“Sure,” answered Harvey, “I know where you mean, and there’s one about three miles north of here, too. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably,” Titus said.
“You mean we should investigate them?” Larry wondered. “There could be an old grinding mill in good enough repair for us to use or fix. Or maybe it would work right where it is. They were both run by a waterwheel years ago. We might be able to get them operational.”
“We wouldn’t have to be the operators,” Dennis added. “Someone else could be set up there to handle that chore. Like some of the people migrating from the town or city.”
“Then we’d just have to take some of our wheat there every so often and bring back flour; like my grandparents did,” Poppop said.
“Either way, like Larry said, it’s worth investigating,” Josh said. “It might be easier than building our own from scratch.”
“Something we can do on a rainy day,” Harvey said. “When this weather turns dryer, we’ll be busy here. In your travels, Titus, have you discussed with anyone how they might be planning on putting hay away?”
“Got a couple of ideas,” Titus replied. “First, a few farms north of town have a lot of acreage in hay and only a few livestock to graze it. Been talking with one of them, Amos Adam. We’re already planning to shift our produce workers from town out there when he’s ready to harvest some. He’d also need to borrow a few of our teams to haul the hay to the barn. Last I talked to him he was rounding up scythes, sickles, rakes and forks. When I left him, he was in the shop, sharpening.”
“It’s a shame there aren’t any ground driven mowers around this area,” Harlan added. “Down where my family lived, many of our Amish neighbors still used them. Used teams to pull them, as well as rakes and tedders. If you were lucky, you might find some old ones in a fencerow, in the woods or on a junk pile that you could repair,” he said to Harvey. “Titus, are you going to mention Sam Burke’s idea?”
“That was the second idea I was thinking of,” Titus continued. “Sam Burke’s a neighbor of ours; has a pretty good machine shop. He’s trying to convert some of the power driven mowers we have to ground drive, so they can be operated by horses instead of tractors. It’s quite an undertaking. I’ll let you know how he makes out. If successful, he might be able to convert yours or at least give you the design.”
“Anything like that would be useful,” Harvey said. “You know, Titus, you’re doing a valuable service by gathering and sharing information as you travel about. Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, I’ll try,” he answered.
To be continued… is there more to Titus’ story? Mort
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THINGS
Titus Weaver was an old chum of Dad’s. They had gone to elementary school together for the first five grades. Then the Mennonites built their first one room schoolhouse in the neighborhood and Titus finished his schooling there. Titus was extremely bright. Years later, Titus told Dad that he treated his years of school with Dad as a competition; always trying to better him. Dad had said he really hadn’t remembered, but credited Titus for his ambition and for complementing his ambitious and competitive spirit with a kind, friendly attitude. Titus was very outgoing and not afraid to speak his peace. Dad loved talking to him, about almost anything. They had gone their separate ways for many years. Titus had moved and his farm was at least twelve miles from Harvey’s.
But about 20 years ago, a group of farmers shifted some of their cash grain and livestock operations to produce. Titus was instrumental in leading the way, helping to start a produce auction in the neighborhood. Soon after that, Dad started growing some produce, too, opening the door to seeing more of Titus. Today you could tell Titus was in the produce business, for on his wagon were several boxes of fruits and vegetables, some almost empty. Harvey, Joe, Dad and I walked over and took a look. He had sweet corn, cantaloupes, watermelons, cabbage, lima beans, green and hot peppers, peaches and a few jars of honey. You could also tell he and Dad had a special bond between them, for as Titus jumped off the wagon he gave Dad a hug as fellow believers are instructed to do.
“Glad to see you Titus,” Dad started.
“And you, too,” he replied.
“What in the world brings you so far from home?” Dad asked.
“Well you know my farm and many of my neighbors are growing produce. For years we had an excellent market, but because the people in our sect don’t use rubber tired vehicles, we depended on others coming to the auction or to the farm. Those who had motor vehicles would buy and haul away our produce. When the supply of fuel dried up, so did our market. We’ve got plenty of produce and people still need food, so everyday I load up the wagon and travel to sell, trade, or give it away. Never did intend to get this far from home, though. This afternoon I reached your old place, anxious to see how you were making out. Your landlord told me where you live now. I still had produce on the wagon, so I decided to spend the extra time and drive the extra miles, just to see you.”
“I’m flattered, I guess,” Dad answered. “But how can you take the time away from home, what with all the work you must have?”
“You wouldn’t believe the help we have. Since the power went off, folks from town come to the farm everyday. First they came just looking for water, food and work. Our water pump is powered by a windmill; no problem there. And we were certainly willing to share our produce especially with people who want to work. Now it has become a real working relationship. I’ve had over one hundred people on my farm some days. Men, women and children; they all work hard. Not only weeding and picking produce, but with the livestock, too; we also spend a lot of time and effort canning and drying fruits and vegetables. We’re putting a real emphasis on drying, as we’re running out of canning supplies. Still, everyday the townsfolk bring empty jars and lids they used or found at home. We have a great feast of fruits and vegetables, and of course, all the workers go home with some, too; their earnings for the day. Not only on my farm, now mind you, but almost every farm in our community is operating pretty much the same way. Not all our help is local, however.
“How’s that?” Harvey asked.
“Well, things aren’t going nearly as smoothly nearer the city. You’re aware of the Amish and Mennonite communities located in the counties south of here, only ten to fifteen miles from the city limits?” Titus questioned.
“Yes,” Harvey answered.
“There’s been a lot of trouble there. Unlike our neighbors, who came to the farm willing to work for what they need, seems like the city dwellers think they have a right to everything,” Titus lamented.
“Years of entitlement programs,” Joe interjected.
“I suppose so,” Titus continued. “In my mind, it’s more of a lack of morals and absence of kindness in their hearts. This here’s Harlan, by the way. He’s my cousin’s son.”
“Glad to meet you,” Dad said for all of us.
“And you too,” Harlan said.
Titus concluded, “His family lived near Friarstown, close to the city… too close. They had to leave; came and moved in with us. I’ll let him tell you why.”
“You know our people practice passive resistance,” Harlan related, “so we daren’t lift a finger to oppose someone. Of course, we gladly shared our water and our food with the first refugees who came out from the city. Some paid, some worked for it. We even opened our homes for some of them, if they needed it. But that wasn’t good enough for some; they wanted more. First, while they still had gasoline, they’d come in their cars as they fled the city and want the trunk filled up with all the food they could take. What could we do? We don’t resist. But our other guests weren’t so inclined to put up with such antagonism. Over our objections, fights would break out. Usually they ended with little injury, but a lot of hurt still the same.”
“So they took things; OK it was just things. But next they wanted our horses. I understood they were trying to head south, toward warmer climes, and they knew their gasoline would only go so far. Passive resistance was put to the test. Our horses are our livelihood. But we only fought with words – angry words. Fortunately, they worked for my father. However he knew we had to flee. Loaded everything we could onto our three wagons and two buggies, tied a few cows onto the back and headed north to this community.”
“Others didn’t fare as well. Some of our brothers were beat up pretty bad – two were shot. I know one is healing OK; he made it up to here. I have no idea how the other one fared, or anyone else we left behind, for that matter. Hopefully the worst of society has already been through. I’m certainly glad to be here; it’s so much more peaceful,” Harlan concluded.
“Yes, around here it has been peaceful,” Harvey said. “And we’re glad you made it here, too.”
Joe said, “We have to keep praying for those people; both the members of your community and the perpetrators. Listen, Titus, your horses had a long hot trek already today. Couldn’t they use some water and feed?”
“Feed they can have tonight at home,” Titus said. “They just had rest and some grass along the roadside a few miles back. But water is necessary.”
“Then lead ‘em right over to the creek,” Dad said. “In fact, why don’t you unhitch them? It’s late in the day and a long walk home for them. Why don’t you spend the night? You can get an early start in the morning.”
“Naw, we couldn’t, I mean…”
“Ah, I should have thought,” Dad continued, “your missus and Harlan’s mother wouldn’t know where you are. It would be a rough night for them. We don’t know how to send them smoke signals, like the Indians did.”
“No we don’t,” Titus responded. “And that’s not it, either. When we leave home every morning, the others are aware we might run into some trouble and might have difficulty returning the same day. We know Jesus looks after us. Those at home would be at peace – peace that comes from the Lord.”
“Amen,” said Joe.
Titus went on, “We just wouldn’t want to impose. You’ve enough troubles trying to make a go of it. Why would you want four more mouths to feed?”
“Nonsense,” said Harvey, “the Golden Rule applies here. You’re welcome here just like we’d be welcome at your place. Get those horses unhitched, watered, fed and rested. Besides, by the looks of your wagon, we have some serious trading to do.”
“Titus,” Joe wondered, “you said earlier, ‘buy, trade, or give it away’. Have you been accepting money?”
“Interesting you should ask,” Titus responded. “Not paper money. We started using coins for exchanges between ourselves, not always having goods in kind. And some of the town folks have their pride – hate to accept charity – insisted on paying. They knew their paper money was worthless as well as any funds they had in bank accounts, so forget about checks. However coins still have intrinsic value, so we accept them… at extremely deflated prices.”
“You mean a nickel’s worth something again?” Dad asked.
“It’ll buy you a watermelon,” Harlan retorted.
“Wow!” Joe said, as he looked over the wagon. “Reckon we can buy everything on the wagon for six quarters.”
“I reckon that would be just about right. Unless you have goods to trade?” Titus asked.
“Here we go again,” Harvey countered. “What do we have that you need?”
“Hay,” Titus answered. “When shipping milk as you knew it stopped, the larger dairy farmers in our community spread the cows over all the farms in the neighborhood to distribute the work and the milk. Those of us that had some, swapped back steers. It was important that the dairies have enough animals to consume the corn silage and haylage in their silos at a rate fast enough to prevent spoilage.”
“That’s always tricky this time of year,” Harvey said, “when it’s so hot.”
“Right,” Titus responded, “work wise, it’s holding out really well. Feed wise, it’s a different story.”
“How so?” Dad asked.
“Most of us have a silo or two that we fed our steers from. Some contained corn silage, a few haylage. We can still fork the silage out by hand to feed the cows, steers and heifers. What with the cows from the neighbor, the steers I didn’t swap and the cows Harlan’s parents brought, we have 35 head to feed; more than enough to feed at a rate that prevents spoilage. Problem is - silo’s soon empty. We might try to ensile some corn, but it takes precious fuel to chop it. We also might want the grain for ourselves to eat. Fortunately cattle can eat corn fodder and vegetable stalks. That’s our dilemma; we’ll have to work it out. What compounds the problem is that with so many acres diverted to produce, there were not many acres of corn grown this year and virtually no hay crop acres. We found it more expeditious and profitable to buy the hay we needed at the produce auction.”
“The auction that hasn’t operated since the middle of July,” Joe added.
“Right,” Titus said, “bottom line is – we need hay. Every trip of produce I take out, I try to bring a load of hay home. In my mind, a load of hay is worth more than the six quarters you offered for the balance of the produce left on my wagon. But I had the wagon full when I left home. I didn’t sell all of it; some I traded for the honey and some I gave away. But in the process I collected another two dollars and eight-five cents in coins. You can have it all for a load of hay.”
To be continued… will the trade go through? Mort
But about 20 years ago, a group of farmers shifted some of their cash grain and livestock operations to produce. Titus was instrumental in leading the way, helping to start a produce auction in the neighborhood. Soon after that, Dad started growing some produce, too, opening the door to seeing more of Titus. Today you could tell Titus was in the produce business, for on his wagon were several boxes of fruits and vegetables, some almost empty. Harvey, Joe, Dad and I walked over and took a look. He had sweet corn, cantaloupes, watermelons, cabbage, lima beans, green and hot peppers, peaches and a few jars of honey. You could also tell he and Dad had a special bond between them, for as Titus jumped off the wagon he gave Dad a hug as fellow believers are instructed to do.
“Glad to see you Titus,” Dad started.
“And you, too,” he replied.
“What in the world brings you so far from home?” Dad asked.
“Well you know my farm and many of my neighbors are growing produce. For years we had an excellent market, but because the people in our sect don’t use rubber tired vehicles, we depended on others coming to the auction or to the farm. Those who had motor vehicles would buy and haul away our produce. When the supply of fuel dried up, so did our market. We’ve got plenty of produce and people still need food, so everyday I load up the wagon and travel to sell, trade, or give it away. Never did intend to get this far from home, though. This afternoon I reached your old place, anxious to see how you were making out. Your landlord told me where you live now. I still had produce on the wagon, so I decided to spend the extra time and drive the extra miles, just to see you.”
“I’m flattered, I guess,” Dad answered. “But how can you take the time away from home, what with all the work you must have?”
“You wouldn’t believe the help we have. Since the power went off, folks from town come to the farm everyday. First they came just looking for water, food and work. Our water pump is powered by a windmill; no problem there. And we were certainly willing to share our produce especially with people who want to work. Now it has become a real working relationship. I’ve had over one hundred people on my farm some days. Men, women and children; they all work hard. Not only weeding and picking produce, but with the livestock, too; we also spend a lot of time and effort canning and drying fruits and vegetables. We’re putting a real emphasis on drying, as we’re running out of canning supplies. Still, everyday the townsfolk bring empty jars and lids they used or found at home. We have a great feast of fruits and vegetables, and of course, all the workers go home with some, too; their earnings for the day. Not only on my farm, now mind you, but almost every farm in our community is operating pretty much the same way. Not all our help is local, however.
“How’s that?” Harvey asked.
“Well, things aren’t going nearly as smoothly nearer the city. You’re aware of the Amish and Mennonite communities located in the counties south of here, only ten to fifteen miles from the city limits?” Titus questioned.
“Yes,” Harvey answered.
“There’s been a lot of trouble there. Unlike our neighbors, who came to the farm willing to work for what they need, seems like the city dwellers think they have a right to everything,” Titus lamented.
“Years of entitlement programs,” Joe interjected.
“I suppose so,” Titus continued. “In my mind, it’s more of a lack of morals and absence of kindness in their hearts. This here’s Harlan, by the way. He’s my cousin’s son.”
“Glad to meet you,” Dad said for all of us.
“And you too,” Harlan said.
Titus concluded, “His family lived near Friarstown, close to the city… too close. They had to leave; came and moved in with us. I’ll let him tell you why.”
“You know our people practice passive resistance,” Harlan related, “so we daren’t lift a finger to oppose someone. Of course, we gladly shared our water and our food with the first refugees who came out from the city. Some paid, some worked for it. We even opened our homes for some of them, if they needed it. But that wasn’t good enough for some; they wanted more. First, while they still had gasoline, they’d come in their cars as they fled the city and want the trunk filled up with all the food they could take. What could we do? We don’t resist. But our other guests weren’t so inclined to put up with such antagonism. Over our objections, fights would break out. Usually they ended with little injury, but a lot of hurt still the same.”
“So they took things; OK it was just things. But next they wanted our horses. I understood they were trying to head south, toward warmer climes, and they knew their gasoline would only go so far. Passive resistance was put to the test. Our horses are our livelihood. But we only fought with words – angry words. Fortunately, they worked for my father. However he knew we had to flee. Loaded everything we could onto our three wagons and two buggies, tied a few cows onto the back and headed north to this community.”
“Others didn’t fare as well. Some of our brothers were beat up pretty bad – two were shot. I know one is healing OK; he made it up to here. I have no idea how the other one fared, or anyone else we left behind, for that matter. Hopefully the worst of society has already been through. I’m certainly glad to be here; it’s so much more peaceful,” Harlan concluded.
“Yes, around here it has been peaceful,” Harvey said. “And we’re glad you made it here, too.”
Joe said, “We have to keep praying for those people; both the members of your community and the perpetrators. Listen, Titus, your horses had a long hot trek already today. Couldn’t they use some water and feed?”
“Feed they can have tonight at home,” Titus said. “They just had rest and some grass along the roadside a few miles back. But water is necessary.”
“Then lead ‘em right over to the creek,” Dad said. “In fact, why don’t you unhitch them? It’s late in the day and a long walk home for them. Why don’t you spend the night? You can get an early start in the morning.”
“Naw, we couldn’t, I mean…”
“Ah, I should have thought,” Dad continued, “your missus and Harlan’s mother wouldn’t know where you are. It would be a rough night for them. We don’t know how to send them smoke signals, like the Indians did.”
“No we don’t,” Titus responded. “And that’s not it, either. When we leave home every morning, the others are aware we might run into some trouble and might have difficulty returning the same day. We know Jesus looks after us. Those at home would be at peace – peace that comes from the Lord.”
“Amen,” said Joe.
Titus went on, “We just wouldn’t want to impose. You’ve enough troubles trying to make a go of it. Why would you want four more mouths to feed?”
“Nonsense,” said Harvey, “the Golden Rule applies here. You’re welcome here just like we’d be welcome at your place. Get those horses unhitched, watered, fed and rested. Besides, by the looks of your wagon, we have some serious trading to do.”
“Titus,” Joe wondered, “you said earlier, ‘buy, trade, or give it away’. Have you been accepting money?”
“Interesting you should ask,” Titus responded. “Not paper money. We started using coins for exchanges between ourselves, not always having goods in kind. And some of the town folks have their pride – hate to accept charity – insisted on paying. They knew their paper money was worthless as well as any funds they had in bank accounts, so forget about checks. However coins still have intrinsic value, so we accept them… at extremely deflated prices.”
“You mean a nickel’s worth something again?” Dad asked.
“It’ll buy you a watermelon,” Harlan retorted.
“Wow!” Joe said, as he looked over the wagon. “Reckon we can buy everything on the wagon for six quarters.”
“I reckon that would be just about right. Unless you have goods to trade?” Titus asked.
“Here we go again,” Harvey countered. “What do we have that you need?”
“Hay,” Titus answered. “When shipping milk as you knew it stopped, the larger dairy farmers in our community spread the cows over all the farms in the neighborhood to distribute the work and the milk. Those of us that had some, swapped back steers. It was important that the dairies have enough animals to consume the corn silage and haylage in their silos at a rate fast enough to prevent spoilage.”
“That’s always tricky this time of year,” Harvey said, “when it’s so hot.”
“Right,” Titus responded, “work wise, it’s holding out really well. Feed wise, it’s a different story.”
“How so?” Dad asked.
“Most of us have a silo or two that we fed our steers from. Some contained corn silage, a few haylage. We can still fork the silage out by hand to feed the cows, steers and heifers. What with the cows from the neighbor, the steers I didn’t swap and the cows Harlan’s parents brought, we have 35 head to feed; more than enough to feed at a rate that prevents spoilage. Problem is - silo’s soon empty. We might try to ensile some corn, but it takes precious fuel to chop it. We also might want the grain for ourselves to eat. Fortunately cattle can eat corn fodder and vegetable stalks. That’s our dilemma; we’ll have to work it out. What compounds the problem is that with so many acres diverted to produce, there were not many acres of corn grown this year and virtually no hay crop acres. We found it more expeditious and profitable to buy the hay we needed at the produce auction.”
“The auction that hasn’t operated since the middle of July,” Joe added.
“Right,” Titus said, “bottom line is – we need hay. Every trip of produce I take out, I try to bring a load of hay home. In my mind, a load of hay is worth more than the six quarters you offered for the balance of the produce left on my wagon. But I had the wagon full when I left home. I didn’t sell all of it; some I traded for the honey and some I gave away. But in the process I collected another two dollars and eight-five cents in coins. You can have it all for a load of hay.”
To be continued… will the trade go through? Mort
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Chapter Twelve - Traders - conclusion
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
“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, 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
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