Chapter Nineteen - Corn

The discussion that evening in the butcher house, while Grandmom and Diana were researching Diana’s family tree, eventually led back to her.
“I can really relate to her,” my Aunt Kristen announced. “I know how I felt when Bruce and Dean went to the city to retrieve my mother. They were only gone a little over half a day and I still had grave concerns that I’d never see them again. This poor woman hasn’t seen her husband for three weeks. So what of it? Why should our feelings be significant?”
“When you study about famous people,” she continued, “and about all the lands of the world and the contributions that were made to the world. About the kingdoms of the past and all the people who lived then and now inherit the Earth. Then compare that vast being of humanity to yourself, a single person with a small mind. Doesn’t it make you feel like an insignificant speck of dust in an endless desert; your mere existence at the whim of God? Like the wind can blow that dust particle anywhere and whenever it chooses? That anything and everything you do can have little effect on the grand scheme of things? So, what’s the use?”
I didn’t get it, at least not that evening. Seemed like the adults did, though, for all the other talk had ceased and eyes were gazing intently at each other.
Then she concluded, “Does anyone else feel like that?”
Sandy walked over to Kristen, sat beside her, put her arm on her shoulder and said, “We probably all feel like that at some time or another. I suppose it’s hard not to feel that way when you consider the billions of people that have existed up to this point in history. But you see, that what makes God great. For out of those billions of people he still knows and loves you, no matter how insignificant or purposeless you feel. So what if you never feel like you’ve made a great contribution to society? What is really important is how you affect those near to you, those that most need your love.”
“It reminds me of my grandmother. Of course, she was the most loving person in the world from the perspective of her spoiled granddaughter. But if you would have talked to my mother or grandfather, on some occasions they might have held a differing opinion. But what brought me joy for years after she passed away was that people would share with me the wonderful, loving things she had done for them. Or the way she treated people. One person from the neighborhood called her a saint, for the way she allowed the neighborhood children into her home on an almost daily basis, fed them, and put up with their shenanigans without ever losing her temper or uttering a mean word.”
Sandy put her hand on Kristen’s heart and continued, “Everyone has something in there – something meaningful – something purposeful – something significant. Just let the spirit lead you and use you. Share your love with everyone around you. And when you remember God loves you, the insignificance goes away.”
Sandy gave her a hug and then Jennifer, Dean, and Uncle Bruce. Others followed suit. It seemed like the evening was wrapping up and just about the time I was ready to hit the sack, Diana and Grandmom returned.
“What did you find?” Dad asked.
“A few things,” Grandmom answered, “nothing terribly definitive though.”
“How so?” Harvey asked.
“I could find no references to a Jonas, William or Gertie Fritz in any of the Hafer or Hepner notes I have,” she replied. “Well actually, there was a William Hafer, but he didn’t fit. His wife was Brenda and they had two daughters. Likewise we found no Jonas, William or Gertie Fritz in the Heffner book, but we did find a Howard and Clara Heffner that migrated to Kansas in 1922.”
“And who were their children?” Dad asked. “Did they have a daughter Gertie?”
“No such luck,” Grandmom answered. “There was no further information listed about them. Tells me they didn’t return to Pennsylvania.”
“Diana,” Dad cut in, “how old is your husband?”
“Thirty-five,” she responded.
“Then he was born in……. 1972?” he quickly calculated.
“Yes.”
“Any idea how old his mother might have been when he was born?”
“Not for certain,” Diana replied, “but he told me he was the youngest child. I recall that she died when he was twenty – before I knew him.”
“So she could have been 40 or so when he was born,” Dad surmised. “Forty from 1972 is 1932, tens years after Howard and Clara left for Kansas. Time wise they could have been his grandparents.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Diana said.
“But not for certain,” Grandmom said.
“No, not for certain,” Dad agreed.
“But,” Grandmom responded, “Jonas did say he had relatives in this area and Howard and Clara do have relatives in Pennsylvania.”
“So it is possible we’ve found his grandparents,” Diana reiterated.
“Yes, possible,” Grandmom replied, “and his relatives.”
“Anyone we know?” Jean asked.
“No one close,” Grandmom continued, “Howard had a brother, Curtis and a sister, Mary Ellen who remained in Pennsylvania. The Heffner book has information on them. Mary Ellen married Homer Groff.”
“We know a lot of Groff’s,” Joe interjected.
“Of course we do,” Poppop replied. “I even remember my dad talking about a Homer Groff. Lived up near Weilers. Can’t say that I would know his kids' names though.”
“Well I do,” Grandmom said. “Curtis and Mary Ellen had seven children between them. If we have the right family, they would be Jonas’s mother’s cousins and be around 70-90 years old. I have a list of their names and the names of their children, at least the ones that were in the book. Found a total of fifteen. Heffner’s, Groff,s, Adam’s, Riley’s; some girls are listed without surnames. They would be around 30-50 years old – Jonas’s second cousins.”
“The relatives Jonas might have come here looking for?” Larry inquired.
“Might have,” Dad answered, “remember, we don’t know if the Howard in the Heffner book is Jonas’s grandfather. And, it’s possible that the relatives he came to find are from his Grandmother Clara’s side. We know nothing about her family, do we?”
“Only,” Grandmom replied, “that her parents were Alfred Schmidt and Naomi Messerbaum. We have no information about their families. Howard and Clara’s family info is what we have.”
“But it’s all we have to go on. Please everyone, look at the list and see if you know any of them,” Diana pleaded.
So we passed the list around with mixed results ensuing.
Jeremiah said, “There’s a Clyde Heffner on the list. I played little league with a Clyde Heffner, but I’d have no idea where he is now.”
Sandy knew a Donna Riley and Mom remembered a Susan Heffner and Thomas Adam, but again their whereabouts were unknown. Joe said he once worked with Tyler Groff.
“He was from the Weilers area, where Poppop remembered Homer lived” Joe said. “Just talked to him about a year ago. Far as I know, he still lives around there, lessen he had to move like the rest of us did.”
“But it’s at least one name to go on,” Diana said. “Won’t you please try to find him. Jonas might be there.”
“Diana, we’ll try,” Joe replied. “But Weilers is over twenty miles from here. It would take a few days to make the trip and start searching farm after home after farm. But rest assured, if we have reason to travel that direction, we’ll be inquiring about him.”
“The best thing we can do is spread the word,” Dad added. “We’ll make copies of the list and have Jonas and your names on it with instructions how to contact us. We’ll pass them around; if anyone from the two farms travels somewhere, they can hand them out. And when the pastor or Doctor Fleming show up, we’ll brief them and they can expand the network. Just don’t give up hope, Diana, don’t give up hope.”
To be continued……Mort

Chapter Eighteen-Preserves(conclusion)

After supper that evening the discussion focused on Diana. It was late and mattresses and bedding had already been found for her children and they had promptly fallen asleep.
“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for my children and me. That warm bath felt terrific, it’s such a pleasure to see the boys and baby so clean and comfy, and you sure have good food here,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome,” Jean replied.
“Do you have work for us to do so we can earn our keep?” she asked.
“Not to worry,” Harvey offered, “They’ll be plenty of work around here when we start at the corn harvest. In the mean time, I believe tomorrow’s laundry day, isn’t it Mother?” he asked Jean. “You can always use help with that, right?”
“Most certainly. We got a poor start today, with so many of us helping in the potato patch,” Jean answered. “Plenty to do tomorrow.”
By now a schedule of activities for the butcher house had been established, though not yet fully implemented. Mondays and Tuesdays were reserved for laundry. Wednesday would be the day a beef animal would be slaughtered and hung in the ground cellar to cure. Thursday a hog would be killed and cut up the same day. Friday the beef would be butchered and any sausage or bologna made or meat canned. Then Saturday the fat would be rendered.
“I’m sure I can help with the corn,” Diana said. “But how can my boys help?”
“You’d be surprised what youngsters can do,” Dad replied. “How old are they? Five and six?”
“Four and six,” Diana answered, “the oldest will be seven at Christmas.”
“They appear to be strong, active, and energetic boys,” Dad responded. “By the end of the week, we’d like to start at the corn, but tomorrow, the young’ns from Butch’s will be coming and we have a job they can all help with.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“There’s a ton of hickory nut and walnut trees on these farms around here,” Harvey said. “Both the ground and the nuts are nice and dry now and the nuts need to be collected before the squirrels eat all of them. It’s a great job for someone who’s closer to the ground, like you.”
“Gee thanks,” I replied, “but it actually sounds like fun, unless we have to be too particular?”
“No, not tomorrow,” Harvey answered. “We don’t need to be picky. Just get them off the ground and into buckets and stored in the dry somewhere. We can finish sorting and hulling them some day when the weather’s too bad for field work, and then crack them this winter when it too ugly to work outside or in the evening when it’s dark.”
“I’m sure Will and Harry will enjoy it,” Diana answered. “But what am I to do with Tammy when I start helping with the corn harvest?”
“No need to worry about her,” Lois responded. “If it’s a nice day, we’ll just take her and a playpen to the field with us. We love babies. We’ll practically fight over whose turn it is to keep an eye on her. On days with poorer weather, she can stay behind; there’s always a babysitter here.”
“Again, I have to thank you. You’ve been so helpful. I hope you can be as helpful finding my husband. You will be able to find him, won’t you?” Diana concluded.
Things got quiet all of a sudden. I could see lips pursed, not knowing what to say. Glances were exchanged, searching for a spokesperson. Mom nudged Dad. I didn’t know if he was the best person to answer her as he was generally noted for being up-front and his propensity to not mince words. But I guess him it was going to be.
“To be truthful,” he started out, “we don’t know if we will be able to find him. What we do know is that we are going to try as hard as we can. Also, we need to have faith that no matter how long we look, we’ll still assume he’s somewhere to be found. And finally, that our chances of success will be increased the more we learn about him and his family. So in order to help you the best we can, what’s your husband’s name?”
“Fritz,” Diana answered, “Jonas Fritz.”
“Well now that’s a start,” Dad continued. “I don’t know a lot of Fritz’s, but there is at least one family at church with that family name. Wendell and Doris Fritz, I believe are there names. Is that right Mom?”
“Yes, I think you’re correct. I seem to remember they live about ten miles west of town. I don’t really know any of their family.”
“Do those names ring a bell?” Dad asked.
“None whatsoever,” Diana replied.
“I remember,” Joe interjected, “you said he was coming up here to locate relatives. These relatives might not be Fritz’s. They might be from his mother’s side or his grandmother’s. What are your husband’s parents’ names and your mother-in-law’s maiden name?”
“His father’s name was William, who we named our oldest son after, and his mother was Gertie, but I can’t just now think of her maiden name,” she answered. “As far as his grandparents, I’m not sure. Might have started with an ‘H’. Maybe it was Hafer or Heffner or Hepner, something like that. I never even met his parents. They lived in Kansas, although they were born around here. My husband told me both their families migrated there in the early 1900’s with several other farmers from this area. Could that help you?”
“I’ve heard stories about that,” Harvey replied. “In fact, I recall that Wayne fellow living up at Butch’s, who told us about making apple cider, once talked about friends that he knew that were born in Kansas, then migrated back here. We’ll have to ask if he knows any Fritz’s.”
“And,” Grandmom interjected, “Hafer, Heffner and Hepner are all names common in this area. In fact, almost everyone here has a Heffner for an ancestor. The immigrant Heinrich Heffner came from Germany in 1632. He must have close to 20,000 descendents by now.” Dad’s mother was the resident genealogist. The Stump’s, Heffner’s, Smith’s, Rorher’s, Wolfe’s, Buchalter’s, and all our other relatives - she knew darn near them all. She had books and family trees on scores of families in the neighborhood. If anyone could help Diana, it would be her.
“I have a whole book of the Heffner clan and some notes about the Hafer’s and Hepner’s,” Grandmom continued. “The book has a great index. If there are any Fritz’s in there, we’ll find them. We can look as soon as we’re done here, if you want to burn some midnight oil, or in our case, candles?”
“The kids are settled,” Diana responded, “let’s go.”
After Grandmom and Diana had left the men started discussing the ins and outs of the corn harvest; what equipment we’d use, which fields we’d do first, where we’d store the corn. There was also planning for the next day: where were the most nuts and which area to attack first. All the discussion made me think about the provisions that were being made. We now had apples and potatoes in the ground cellar as well as the apple cider vinegar and wine in the formation process. Later on we’d add the last of the cabbages, turnips and pumpkins before they froze. All our canned goods stored well in Jean’s kitchen, as well as the schnitz; they didn’t need to be in a temperature moderated ground cellar. They needed a dry place, just like the nuts did. We stored them in Poppop’s basement where there was a wood stove and tables with plenty of room to work on them during the winter. In the barn and bins were hay, wheat, and in a few weeks, corn.
To be continued......Mort

Chapter Eighteen - Preserves (continued)

Monday was a bright sunny day; time to harvest the potatoes. Poppop had a hand potato plow that he had pulled with a tractor in his garden for years. We had rigged up a well-fitting and strong harness for Brutus from braided baler twine. Because of last week’s rain, the ground was not hard and dry, nor was it too muddy, making it easy for Brutus to pull the plow. It was harder for the plow’s operator to hold the plow in the ground and for Brutus’s leader to keep him in the right row. It got better as it went and in no time at all, every row was dug and potatoes were laying on top the ground all over the patch. Now the real work began. Pick them into baskets. With 30 pickers on the job, it sounded easy enough, but we also needed to sift through the loosened dirt to make sure we wouldn’t leave any behind. Additionally, we had to sort out any potatoes cut or scraped by the plow or Brutus’s hooves. We put them in separate baskets, to use first, as the damage would cause them to spoil sooner. And if one ended up in a basket of good potatoes, it rotting could spread to the others in the basket. We picked the better potatoes into plastic milk cartons that we had.
Joe said, “Any wooden baskets or crates in the ground cellar are liable to mold and deteriorate if left in the damp cellar too long. The plastic will last forever and won’t cause the potatoes to rot.”
While we were picking potatoes we had visitors. A young mother came down the road carrying a baby girl and two small boys clinging to her legs. They were a bit dirty and grubby, looked on the skinny side and immediately grabbed the attention of the motherly types in our crew. Jean introduced herself, “Hello, my name’s Jean.”
“Mine’s Diana,” was the answer. “This here’s my boys Will and Harry and my daughter, Tammy.”
“Glad to meet you,” Jean replied, “you hungry?”
“Not at the moment. Your neighbors up the road, you know, Butch and Clare, were kind enough to feed us a good meal. But we have no food. Clare was sure you’d have some work for us down here, so as we could earn some.”
By now, Mom had turned a bucket upside down for Diana, and then said, “You sure look tired. Set a spell. If you don’t mind, I’ll hold Tammy for you. She‘s sure cute. The boys can help with the potatoes. Bet they’ll love playing in the dirt. Don’t worry; we got soap and hot water. You can all have a relaxing bath tonight.”
“And then,” Jean said, “We’ll have a place for you to stay and maybe some chores for you tomorrow. But tell us, if you want, where are you from?”
“Chesterton,” Diana answered.
“Chesterton?” Sandy responded, “that must be sixty miles from here. You walk all the way?”
“Yes, it was easy at first. Been dragging the last couple days, though.”
“This your whole family?” Lois asked.
“No, I have a husband, but I haven’t seen him since Labor Day.”
“Labor Day! That was five weeks ago. What happened to him?” inquired Jean.
“Lord only knows. You see, things were going pretty well just after the electric went off. My husband had stockpiled bottled water, dried milk for the children, plus other food. Every day he’d venture out to keep us supplied, but the pickins were getting slimmer and slimmer. He finally decided to travel up to your area, where there was farming to find food and work. He said he had relatives up here somewhere. I begged him not to go. He said he’d be back for us as soon as he found a place. After two weeks, he hadn’t returned. We were almost out of water and I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had to find him, don’t you see? I had to find him,” she sobbed.
“Now, now,” Sandy consoled her as she wrapped her arms around her. “Things will be all right. You have food and water here and a nice place to sleep.”
“You say he has relatives around here?” Mom asked. “After supper we’ll talk with my husband, and the other men. They seem to know everyone around here. If you can think of a couple names, we might be able to help.”
Will and Harry had a good time playing in the dirt and potatoes. They still had some energy. Unlike their mother, who had lay down in the lawn, next to the garden on a pile of jackets and sweaters we had taken off when the day had gotten warmer. She was napping while Mom was doing what she does best, playing mom with Diana’s baby daughter. That poor woman was exhausted. She awoke as we were loading the last potatoes onto the wagon we had hitched up to Brutus. When we got to the ground cellar, it was time for the milking crew to head for the barn. The supper crew headed for the butcher house with the newly arrived family, leaving the rest of us to unload the wagon. While we were working Dad and Mom were talking about Diana’s predicament.
“I know you meant well,” Dad told her. “And you absolutely said nothing wrong. The woman does need to have hope, but you know it might be pretty tough to find her husband.”
“I know,” Mom answered. “I know he could be a hundred miles from here. I suppose he could also be dead, but I sure hope not. You will talk to her, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Dad responded, “it’s the least we can do.”
When the potatoes were all piled in the cellar I said to Poppop, “Your crop yielded well. That’s quite a pile of potatoes. How many meals do you think they’ll make?”
“Don’t rightly know,” he replied. “But we aren’t planning to eat many of them.”
“We aren’t?” I said.
“No, the only way I know to get a crop next year is to plant as many of these potatoes next spring as we can. Potatoes don’t grow from seed, remember?”
“Yes, I do remember,” I replied. “I recall how last spring we cut the whole potato into five or six segments before we planted each piece in the ground. You know if every stalk yields five or six potatoes, like I just noticed from picking them, just from 1/5 or 1/6 of a seed potato, that means they yield 25 to 36 times the amount you plant.”
“In great years, 40 fold,” Poppop replied. “You know you calculated that pretty well. Some of that Stump math ability must be in that brain of yours somewhere.” You know he was right. Could I possibly be my father’s daughter and turn out like him one day?
“Let’s test it,” Poppop offered. “There are about 20 bushel of potatoes here. Next year I think we could easy get 120 in here, plus the early ones we would dig and eat in August and September. Let’s say another 20 bushel. How many bushels of this pile should we save to grow 140 bushel next year?”
Now I knew were Dad got it. “At what yield?” I asked him. “We should stay conservative.” I couldn’t believe I just said that.
“Good question,” Poppop responded, “conservatively, then, let’s say 25 fold.”
“Good answer,” I quipped, “doesn’t come out even though. Roughly six bushel. We can eat about two thirds of these and still have enough left to plant.”
“Wonderful,” Poppop replied, “we’ll be able to eat a good portion of these then.”
Potatoes and apples weren’t the only foods we had to eat. By now the garden had been exhausted of beans and tomatoes. All that was left in it were a few cabbages, pumpkins and a huge patch of turnips. In previous years, pumpkins were grown primarily for decorating, although Dad would cook a few for pies, usually using the neck variety as opposed to the round jack-o-lanterns. This year they were all saved for cooking no matter what variety they were. Dad liked cooked pumpkin a lot more than I did, but thank goodness we had butter. Made the pumpkin almost tolerable. Brown sugar would have made it better, but we couldn’t waste it on pumpkin. Some of the adults used a bit of honey on it and Dad would put a little blackstrap molasses on his. Of course he offered us some, but I liked his molasses less than I liked pumpkin. I did like the seeds when roasted, but it was only a treat we had two times. Other than the few seeds we roasted, all the seeds from every pumpkin were dried and stored as seed for next year’s crop. For another treat Mom made some pumpkin custard a couple times later in winter when a few eggs had accumulated. Why not, we had an ample supply of milk. She sweetened it lightly enough with blackstrap that it actually tasted pretty good.
Poppop had smelled the collapse coming and beings turnips are usually planted around August 1st, it allowed him time to plant at least ten times as many as he normally would have. After two weeks of turnips or pumpkin every day, I couldn’t believe how much I missed beets and beans.

To be continued…………..Mort

Chapter Eighteen - Preserves (cont)

In short order we were home. The truck and wagon were parked between the ground cellar door and the butcher house. The baskets with the best apples were carried one way, into the cellar, while the buckets of poorer ones were carried the other way, into the butcher house. Inside, everyone was already busy as the table was full of people cutting up apples. I watched Mom, Jean and others cut away the worst parts, throw the junk into one bucket, cut nice slices out of the better parts, and then place them in other dishes. While we were away picking, the window screens from the drying beds had been placed on racks behind the butcher stove. Amy and Lynette were placing the slices on the screens.
“Whatcha making?” I asked Mom.
“Schnitz,” she answered.
“Schnitz?” Jennifer quizzed.
“Schnitz are dried apples,” Mom replied. “We can’t eat these partially rotten apples fast enough. Even in the ground cellar they’d spoil, so we have to dry them. They’ll keep over a year, if we do it right and then keep them dry. They’ll taste good next summer, you’ll see. We can do more at a later time, especially if the apples in the cellar keep poorly. Uncle Bruce and Barry did a pretty good job setting up those racks while you were away picking, didn’t they?”
“Sure did,” I answered, “they make the whole set-up this morning?”
“No,” Joe interjected, “I helped with the design; made the racks out of reinforcing rods that were lying around. Plan to hang strips of meat on it to dry when we butcher. We’d been working on them all week.”
“Look’s good,” Dad remarked, “I believe the racks will work well.”
Meanwhile, Dennis and Aaron had the wringer for our wash machine set-up and running with some buckets under it. They had rigged up a kind of hopper or trough on the “in” side of the wringer and were dumping the junky apple parts into the wringer. Using a piece of wood, they pushed and shoved the apple pieces through the wringer. The juice was squeezed out and fell into the waiting buckets positioned strategically under the wringer. Except for one bucket, which caught the pulp that came through the wringer. At the same time, Grandpop, Poppop, and Butch were washing up jugs, bottles and their lids. Most were plastic milk or juice jugs that hadn’t been thrown away. But there were also a few large glass gallon jars that Dad had kept in our cellar.
Again Jennifer asked, “Now what are they making?”
This time I knew. “Apple cider,” I replied.
“You’re going to drink that stuff?” she retorted.
“You know, now that I see how it’s made, I’m not sure if I will,” I answered.
“Well,” Poppop responded, “we aren’t really making the cider to drink as cider. We want it to turn to vinegar. We’re not exactly sure how it will work, but Butch and your Grandpop have a feeling that if we let it go long enough, eventually it will become vinegar.”
“You can have your vinegar,” was my response.
“I know you don’t like it, but we’ll need it to help preserve some of our vegetables next year.”
Dad interjected, “I’m also curious what it might taste like between now and it becoming vinegar.”
“You think it might have a little punch to it?” Dennis wondered.
“Don’t know for sure,” Dad answered. “I do know I like cider and hard cider and vinegar, so which one it is just depends on how far along the fermentation process is. How can I go wrong?”
“You can go wrong by opening up too many jars to sample it,” Poppop answered in a rebuking manner. “We want some finished product left next summer.”
“Same goes for you,” Dad told his father. “You know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“You sure all we have to do is jar the juice?” Aaron inquired. “Don’t we have to add something to make it ferment?”
Butch answered, “I talked about that with Wayne, that elder gentleman staying with us. And he says apple juice will ferment on its on. They don’t add a thing to cider.”
“What you going to do with the pulp?” I asked. “Throw it away?”
“Come on, Alyssa,” Poppop replied, “you should know by now we don’t throw anything away around here. The heifers could eat it, and the pigs will eat it, but I am going to spread a little in the flower bed behind my house and cover it with dirt. Maybe some of the seeds in the pulp will sprout next spring and then we can replant the seedlings for the next generation.”
When most of the work was done, Josh hooked Brutus up to the wagon to take Butch’s crew home, along with a few apples that they could keep in their cellar this time of year. I went along for the ride and sat next to Robbie. Jennifer stayed behind.
“Did you get to talk to Jennifer today?” I asked Robbie.
“Yeah, a little.”
“So, what do you think? Is she the girl for you?” I asked him, trying to be as serious as possible, even though, I’ll admit, my intentions were a bit devilish.
He leered at me a few moments with a dazed look on his face, quirked a little smile and then answered, “Oh, I don’t know for sure, now mind you.”
Oops, I think I was caught at my own game. “But she’s enchanting, quite a pleasure to talk to, seems to enjoy being around me, has a brilliant mind, gorgeous hair, and that body, why let me tell you, she……..”
“Enough already!” I had been caught in my own web and had to put a stop to it. “You’re just too smart for me to pull anything over on. I’m sorry for trying. Just tell me the truth, please.”
He thought a bit, and then a bit longer, long enough for Brutus to reach his destination. He stood up, and then just before jumping off the wagon said, “The truth? Okay, the truth is: you’re both in the running. See ya.”
“And good riddens!” I shot after him. That boy would be a challenge.
When we got back to the butcher house, everything was pretty well cleaned up except for those four buckets of pears and peaches. Poppop, Mom and the others had removed all the stones from the shriveled peaches. The remaining fruit was mashed, peel and all, and divided into three separate plastic five gallon buckets. Poppop added sugar and water to each bucket and mixed it thoroughly.
With the scraggly pears, they trimmed off the stems, cut them into quarters before again mashing them. Similar to the peaches, sugar and water was added and mixed. We carried the buckets into a corner of the ground cellar where Poppop covered each bucket with a lid.
“I have no idea what you’re making,” I said, “but I don’t think that concoction is going to smell so good after a while. What’s it supposed to be?”
“Wine,” Poppop answered. “Least I hope so. I haven’t made any for years.”
“Will it be ready for communion Sunday?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed, “we have other wine for Sunday. It will take several weeks for this to get there. And then I have to remember how to decant it, and seal it properly so it doesn’t turn sour.”
“Well, if it does turn sour, we’ll have more vinegar then, right?” I concluded.
“I suppose you’re right,” he answered.
Saturday it was still too wet to dig the potatoes. There was plenty of other work, including helping Joe roast another hog and prepare the barbecue. We did it late in the day so we could keep it hot all night on the stove. That way we didn’t have to cool it down nor reheat it Sunday morning.
Communion went off without a hitch. It was a beautiful day and the fellowship was great. We got to see many of our friends we hadn’t seen for months. Quite a bit of business was done, in spite of it being the Lord’s Day. Mom lined up four roosters for our and Clare’s flocks from the Snyder’s, where Dr. Bear was staying. Harvey found a bull available from one of Roger’s neighbors. Larry found a neighbor with a supply of timothy seed, that he traded a young steer for. There was a lot of discussion about horses and oxen. I was amazed at the number of horses at the church that day.
“Where did they all come from,” I asked Dad when he had a moment.
“Well,” he answered, “don’t you recall how it seemed like anywhere you drove the last few years, you’d find a farmette had sprung up with a horse or two? The owners didn’t know how useful the horses would be one day. They were just kept as pets, a novelty, even a status symbol. I’m not condemning them; turned out to be quite a benefit for the surrounding neighbors and the larger community.”
“Sure are quite a few farmers talking to Butch about swapping for his workhorses,” I added. “Aren’t these other horses good enough?”
“They are for pulling buggies and wagons with lighter loads, but when it comes time to haul in heavy loads or pull machinery, they are just not quite built for it. They won’t get as much done and will have to be used carefully. Besides, Butch knows how important his horses are to our operation. That doesn’t mean, however, that he might not travel to some of the closer neighbors with his teams and do some work for them when needed. You know how Butch is such a great guy to work with?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied. Now, while trading horses was out of the question, oxen were a different matter. Dad must have gotten orders for five teams, even though we only had two started and none would be ready to work for months.
“Nice to know we’re not going to all the trouble for nothing,” Jeremiah had remarked.
“And,” Dad added, “we don’t even have to have them fully grown. As long as they are pretty well trained, they can finish growing and training at their new farms.”
“Probably better anyway,” Jeremiah commented, “if their new owners had a part in their training.”
“You’re probably right,” Dad concluded. With the festivities concluded we headed for home.

To be continued……more work?.....Mort

Chapter Eighteen - Preserves

As we headed into October, the corn and soybean harvests were just weeks away. Vegetable harvest was winding down, however. Poppop’s potatoes were ready for digging, but that first necessitated another construction project. Harvey’s farm lacked a decent ground cellar, where potatoes could be stored in a constant temperature and remain unspoiled for months.
It was another job for Harvey’s backhoe. A bit of thinking was put into the decision as to the location of the ground cellar. At Joe’s insistence, the cellar needed to be high enough to hang a slaughtered beef in, to cool down the carcasses in the summer and to keep them from freezing in the winter. The location had to be somewhere where the ground level was naturally higher, so Harvey could still dig deep, but not so deep as to have groundwater or runoff water be a problem.
They decided on the north side of Harvey’s house, which had a heavy stone wall. Most of the year, the ground cellar would be in the shade, helping to moderate the temperature. There was even a crown at that side of the house, enabling Harvey to excavate the opening as a gently sloping ramp, making it easier to carry a side of beef, a hog or the potatoes into the cellar. Also, just outside the opening was a stout tree that Joe said we could us to hang up the beef to skin and clean it before hanging it in the ground cellar. When Harvey was finished digging, there was a tremendous pile of ground in the yard.
“What are you going to do with all that dirt?” I asked Harvey.
“Oh, I need every inch of it,” he answered. “I might even go find some more to make the roof as thick with ground as I can.”
“What’s going to keep the roof from collapsing?” I inquired.
“Remember last week?” Josh replied, “when we cut down all those trees on the other side of the meadow. They’re not for firewood, although all the branches we shaved off the main trunks can be burned in Harvey’s furnace. We’ll lay the cleaned up poles across the hole, pretty close together for strength. They’ll be supported by the unexcavated soil on three sides, except where the door is. On the side next to the house wall we’ll support them with some heavy metal poles Larry had laying out back. We found some two inch thick planks from one part of the barn floor that we don’t need because we no longer need to drive heavy tractors there. We will lay the planks across the trees and then cover the whole business with ground.”
“What kind of door will it have?” I asked.
“One that’s real thick; one that a little kid like you will hardly be able to open.”
“Who you calling a little kid?”
“You, compared to the door I built. I had plenty of lumber. I made it twelve inches thick with an eight inch space in the middle, where we stuffed straw and some of the insulation from Jean’s stove. You know the one we took apart to make the oven?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“One big chore remains,” he continued.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Framing the door will be a challenge, and then filling in the space between the door and walls with something to keep the cellar as insulated as possible. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.”
And get it they did. It was quite a cooperative effort. Might have been ten men working on it at a time. The finished product looked good. They had screwed some hooks into a few of the tree trunks to hang meat from, and even built some wooden bins to keep the potatoes in. But potatoes weren’t the first thing to be stored in the cellar. We had quite a bit of rain for a couple days, making Poppop’s potato patch way too wet to plow. So we went at harvesting apples instead.
There was a large orchard about five miles north of us. Joe was good friends with the owner. Every year Joe would cut up some of the apple trees that were being culled for his smokehouse. Joe had always maintained that apple wood was the best for flavoring his smoked meat products. On yet another trip with the mo-ped, he had met the owner and we were welcome.
It was the Friday before the planned communion, when we went on our apple picking excursion. Brutus was out of the picture this time. We used Larry’s pickup to pull a wagon stacked with baskets and buckets for the apples. There were six bicycles on the pickup, three ladders, and one hog. We picked up ten pickers from Butch and Clare’s, including Ben and Robbie. I think that made thirty of us in all, so it was more like a wagon full of people.
When we reached the orchard, we found quite a gathering there. We weren’t the only ones who wanted to harvest apples. There must have been two hundred people there, but looking around, I estimated there might have been five thousand trees. Apples for everyone; so I thought. Quite a few people must have been there earlier in the picking season, for all the trees near the buildings were bare. The crowds of pickers were near the top of the hill, way to the back of the orchard. So up the hill we went, looking for apples. Not a problem, there were rows of unpicked fruit for the taking. We unloaded the wagon and the bicycles, and then Joe and Larry took the hog to the owner for his family.
Picking apples isn’t hard, sorting them is a different matter. We put the firmest, nicest looking apples in the baskets and the rattier looking ones, especially if they had brown spots or were getting mushy in buckets. Poppop even picked drops off the ground. Because of all the rain we had, some of them were pretty bad, but this wasn’t the year to be wasteful.
The other people there were friendly. In fact, I believe Dad knew many of them. There were a couple families from church, so we informed them of the communion Sunday. Actually, Dad told everyone they were welcome and not to worry if they had no food for the dinner; they should come anyway.
“Not a problem,” one young woman answered, “we got plenty of apples, a Dutch oven and plenty of flour. I’ll bake a giant pie.” That sounded good, but divided amongst four or five hundred people, we’d all get a pretty small portion. No matter, if she could do it, so could Jean.
We started loading buckets and baskets onto the wagon. It was full in no time. It took quite some doing to stack them, so there would still be room for the harvesters. Of course, Josh, Jake, Dean, Jennifer, Aaron and I intended to head home with our bicycles. Seemed like a much better option than being crammed into a wagon with buckets, baskets, and people. Once again, some preplanning had paid off.
Just before we left, I noticed Poppop and Jeremiah coming back from a different part of the orchard, each with two buckets. They had found the peach and pear sections. It being past the normal season for them, the pears were very soft and spotty. Similarly, the peaches were already shriveled up.
“What are you going to do with them?” Jake asked. “They look awful.”
“Oh, I have a couple ideas in mind.” Poppop answered, “You’ll see.”
Jennifer, the boys and I started down the road. It was a beautiful drive; the road followed the winding creek that later on downstream our little creek flowed into. It was surrounded by lush wooded ridges, just now starting to show fall colors on a tree here and there. We traversed some of our hunting areas. Josh pointed out where he had shot a turkey, where Dad had shot one, and Jake had shot his first buck. This was to be my first year of hunting and I wondered out loud where Dad would take me.
“Well,” Jake said, “I overheard Jeremiah and Dad talking about hunting the other night. The consensus was that we didn’t need to go hunting this year. First, we had enough meat right now. We should let the herd grow; save it for when we need it or if other people need it. Besides, we only have so much ammunition.”
“I could still use the bow,” Josh replied. “I can use the arrows more than once.”
“And probably make some, if you had to,” Aaron added.
“I suppose so,” Jake agreed and then said to me, “but it looks like you won’t get hunting this fall, unless we have to take care of some varmint problems. You really haven’t practiced much either; that takes precious ammunition, too.”
I had been practicing, but not with live ammo. I just practiced holding the gun, aiming, pulling the trigger, and bolting the next round in. But I guess I’d have to wait a couple years until I got my chance.
When we were about half way home, the rest of the crew passed us, waving and jeering. That pest, Robbie, even made a face at me and waved real nice at Jennifer. That boy might need some straightening out one day.

To be continued… Mort

Chapter Seventeen-Communion (conclusion)

Dad and I accompanied Joe and the pastor in toward the butcher house. Dad turned to Barry and said, “Why don’t you come also? I’d like you to relate some of the technical accomplishments we’ve done around here.”
“Sure,” said Barry. On the way in, Barry, Joe and Dad started filling in the reverend about all the things we had done with motors, the water pump, the alternators, the windmill, and the batteries. They intended to show him the showers, oven and wash machine, but when we entered the butcher house, Mom and the other women took over the conversation. It was the same questions the men had asked, and the same answers. He told them where his family lived, where he got the horse, what things were keeping him busy, how everyone was doing.
Mom offered him drink and food of course and then inquired, “How are people really doing? Are there some specific people we should pray for?”
“Well,” Reverend Schneider answered, “there really are some people out there who are hurting. Not people who are starving or without shelter; the community is meeting those needs, at least so far. But there’s quite a bit of depression. They’re asking questions like: How did this happen? Why did this happen? How will we make it through the winter? There are some who are separated from loved ones and don’t even know where they are. It’s tough. I can only soothe them so much. It’ll take strong faith, perseverance, trust in Jesus, and lots of prayer as you rightly acknowledged. So pray for all those people, but there is one couple who could definitely use specific prayer.”
“Who would that be?” Jean asked.
“You know Jennie and Bob Prince from church?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jean replied, “something wrong with one of them?”
“Physically they’re fine, but you know their son, Mark, is in the Navy?”
“Oh, that’s right,” answered Mom, “where is he stationed?”
“That’s the problem,” the reverend answered, “No one knows. Last they heard from him was in mid-May. At the time, his ship was in the Indian Ocean. Haven’t heard a word since. They’re really taking it hard and just letting the worry get the best of them.”
“They have some cause to worry,” Grandmom said. “He could be dead I suppose, but there hasn’t been mail for two months. How could he write home? He’s probably part of the force we’re using to protect our shores. He’s doing his duty and serving his country and I bet he’s proud to do it. The service probably wouldn’t let him go, the way things are right now. But if they did, how would he get here from whatever part of the world he’s in? He’s probably just as worried about his folks as they are about him. Jennie and Bob and Mark do need our prayers - and everyone else who’s hurting. If you’re finished eating, Reverend, why don’t we pray right now?”
“Great idea,” answered the reverend, “and I am finished. Why don’t we all sit around the table and hold hands? But first, is anyone here in need of healing?”
Joe replied, “My back hasn’t quite been the same since we mowed that last field of hay.”
“Then sit on my right, next to me, and I’ll lay hands on you. In James chapter 5 verse 14 he writes: ‘Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer made in faith will make the sick person well…’. I have a little vial of olive oil in my pocket, just for these occasions.”
Sandy sat on the other side of her husband and laid her free hand on his back as well. Dad coaxed a very uncomfortable Barry in position on the other side of the minister. And then Dad sat next to him. We all held hands and Reverend Schneider anointed Joe with a dab of oil and then prayed. He didn’t pray terribly long, as he sometimes could, but when he finished he didn’t let go of Barry’s or Joe’s hands.
He continued, “I have a strong feeling that someone else here is in pain, too. Physical perhaps, but maybe spiritual as well. Is there someone else in need?”
There was silence as we glanced around the table. Then Barry started sobbing.
“What is it, brother?” the pastor asked. “How can Jesus help you?”
It was hard for him. He stumbled a few words, took a couple breaths, and then restarted, “I’ve known my brother here on my left ever since grade school. Later he was a good customer at my repair business. We’d share a lot of things and he knew what my physical problems were.” He paused, trying to compose himself.
Reverend Schneider aided by asking, “And what is the difficulty you have?”
“My breathing,” Barry replied. “I have emphysema; smoked too many years.”
He paused again, so Dad jumped in, “Jesus can help you with that difficulty; we can pray for you, like the scripture the reverend quoted instructed us to do.”
Barry sobbed again and then took another deep breath before blurting out, “That’s the real difficulty! I don’t know God! Just a few years ago, when my emphysema started becoming more serious, you stood right in my garage. I’ll never forget it. You offered to pray for me, for healing. You quoted those passages from James, but there was more to it and that’s where I fell short. You told me it depended on both the faith of the person making the prayer and the faith of the person receiving it. I told you it was no use then, because I didn’t believe in any of that stuff, or a word similar to that. I could tell you were hurt, but it was the truth. You countered well enough by saying something like, ‘Well, maybe today’s not the day, God’s timing, He can do it. I’ll still pray for you’.”
“I wonder if today is the day?” he concluded.
“Praise Jesus!” Reverend Schneider exclaimed. “Today can be the day! It’s your decision. Jesus is waiting with open arms to receive you. Now here’s the rest of that passage that you heard those few years ago: ‘…the Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.’ Have you sinned?”
“That’s an easy one,” Barry replied, “of course I have.”
“Do you believe Jesus is real?”
“That’s harder, I did go to Sunday School and I do remember the stories, but how could I say ‘no’ with all the evidence of Him in this community?”
“Open your heart and think harder. Faith doesn’t require evidence. What you see around here is a product of the faith, not the other way around. Is Jesus real to you?”
Barry looked intently at the minister, and then at Dad, and then skyward and then finally, quietly declared through teary eyes, “Yes, I do believe in Jesus.”
“Praise the Lord,” many voices echoed.
“And that he died for your sins, even if you really don’t understand all this now, and that you will be forgiven by your faith in Him because he loves you, and that He can heal you, and that you’ll be able to abide in Him forever?” Reverend Schneider concluded.
“Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes,” cried Barry. And so did a few other people, Dad included. And more ‘praise the Lord’s' were heard. The pastor anointed Barry and then prayed for healing. This time he prayed longer, a prayer filled with joy.
“How does it feel to be born again?” Dad asked Barry when the prayer was over.
“Born again?”
“It’s what Jesus called it. You have a new life now, the old is gone. It will be different. You will still have troubles, but one thing you’ll always have is Jesus by your side. Relish it.”
“I think I will,” Barry replied.
“I’ll have to be getting on my way,” Reverend Schneider said. “Thanks for the meal. Is there anything I should be on the look out for you?”
“Roosters,” Mom said as she packaged up some pork and string beans for the pastor to take home.
“Roosters?” he inquired.
“We only have laying hens here and at Butch and Clare’s. None of our eggs are fertile. If we’re going to increase our egg production, and we have the corn to do so, we need to hatch some broods of chicks. But we need some roosters to make it happen. If you get my drift?”
“Yes, I understand,” the pastor answered, “I’ll be on the lookout.”
Leave it for Mom to bring practicality into a moving moment.
“Oh, one other thing,” he continued. “The other ministers in the area are making an effort to observe World Wide Communion on its usual date, the first Sunday in October. We feel we need to bring as many followers together as we can that day, not only to honor God, but also to support each other and have a time of fellowship. I’ve talked to a few elders about this and have their support. We’d like your support too.”
“Agreed,” responded Dad, “what can we do?”
“First of all, spread the word, and then bring as many people as you can, by horse and wagon, bicycle, walking, trucks if necessary. Pick up anyone you can along the way. We want to have a big meal afterwards, so could we count on you for a healthy supply of some kind of barbecue? Pork, beef or venison, whatever you have available.”
“Can do,” answered Joe, “for how many people?”
“Hard to say. We’re hoping for a church full. Let the Spirit lead you. Nearly everyone will bring something. You know our culture; a food shortage won’t be the problem. And also, if you have some, we could use some more wine; our supplies are low.”
“No problem,” said Jean, “we’ve some to spare.”
“Okay then, I’ll hop on old Flash and head on down the road. Thanks again for the food and the fellowship. The communion service is in two weeks, so I probably won’t be around before then. See you all there and don’t forget to bring the newborn, Brother Barry.
(Author’s note: to the best of my knowledge, the real life Barry has not yet accepted Christ as his savior. I continue to pray for him and really need to make a harder effort to reach him. I ask that all of you think of the Barry in your life and do the same…To be continued……Mort)

Chapter Seventeen - Communion (cont)

Harvey pursed his lips a little, scratched behind his neck a bit, and then answered, “Well, according to agricultural historians, in the 19th century one farmer fed six other people. Heck, most of them were his family. With engine powered equipment and technology that number rose steadily through the 1900’s. I recall about the time I started farming with Pop, the number might have been calculated to be about 60. And with further advances the last thirty years, maybe I heard once the number approached 90. There are two farmers in our operation, counting Larry, so theoretically our operation could feed 180 people.”
“Now,” added Larry, “one might have to discount the fact that we won’t have the technology, you know fertilizer, pesticides, and animal health products. But we have the acres necessary to grow a lot of food. We just need the labor. Between Butch’s farm and ours right now, there are twenty full grown men. Applying the 19th century standard, we should be able to feed 120. And absolutely the women and the kids around here work as well as many men, so you have to factor that in, too. Plus, every family that shows up provides at least one if not more workers. It will take some managing, but it’s doable. It also takes some faith.”
“Hey, that’s usually my answer,” Reverend Schneider answered. “But you certainly are on target. Keep thinking that way.”
“You know,” Joe said, “you said earlier you were very busy the last five weeks. What else you been doing?”
“Funerals,” he responded, “you see, not all the news I have for you is positive. In fact, there’s been a lot of trouble.” Then turning to my dad he added, “Remember you and me talking about nursing homes?”
“Yeah, I just thought of Springside Manor, that large one just to the west of town. How did it go over there?”
“Could have been worse. When I realized things were okay at the food bank, it dawned on me they might need help, so I headed over there. Management saw this coming and advised the families of the guests there to take them home. Adequate care could not be provided. As a result, the numbers were down as families took their parents or grandparents home to care for them as best they could. But many remained. Some had no family, or their families just lived too far away and lacked the means to get there. And then some just were in too poor a medical condition to leave. And, I guess, maybe some families just didn’t care.”
“When the electricity ended, the emergency generators they had only had enough fuel for a couple days. Quite a bit was used up the previous weeks when electricity was being rationed. It wasn’t a pretty sight; middle of August, no air conditioning or lights for the inner rooms; preparing food on charcoal grills and propane stoves. Of course it was too much stress for several of the patients. There were heroes though.”
“Heroes?” Jeremiah asked.
“The workers themselves. Several came to work even though they knew they wouldn’t get paid. Some used their precious gasoline, but many just stayed on the job. They became live-in caregivers. Just stayed day after day. One by one, however, they had to return to their families, but that created a chance for more heroics. A few took a resident with them, basically agreeing to care for that person as long as he or she lived. It was amazing. Of course, the local neighbors pitched in too. Bringing, water and food and helping with the care. Some of my family members accompanied me and put in a few days, too. The most able residents ended up in private homes somewhere, another credit to our community. But about a dozen did not pull through. Last Saturday, I buried the last one that had remained. The place is empty now. It’s usable. Perhaps it could house migrants this winter.”
“I did a few funerals at the church, too. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just want to let you know that Steward, the contractor that usually digs the graves, is housing his backhoe there. He says it might have enough fuel in it to dig maybe 50 to 75 graves, unless some other project in the neighborhood requires his hoe and he’d have to donate fuel to that. Bottom line, if you need a grave dug, there’s a backhoe there. You wouldn’t have to run yours up, Harvey, or dig a grave by hand. There are other troubles I could tell you about, if you’re interested?”
“Local or worldwide?” Jake asked.
“Local and what happened in some of the cities. Haven’t run into any preachers with news from China or Europe.”
“No I guess you wouldn’t have,” Josh agreed. “What local trouble? Anything we could help with?”
“Not really; the damage is done now. You know that big dairy west of the church, Gruber’s. Where they have about 200 cows?”
“Yeah,” Larry answered.
“Well, their operation was too, what’s the word? …. intensive. Fortunately, at this farm, your fields were already laid out with pastures and fencing. I look around and see pretty healthy and content cattle roaming around. At Gruber’s the cows were housed in big buildings and cement feedlots. Fans running all the time and silo unloaders needed to feed them. There was only a small lot for them to roam. Well when electricity became scarce, Gruber’s just kept on going. They made no adjustments in the way they were doing things, kept generating their own electricity until their fuel supply was completely depleted. Just kept feeding and milking cows just to pour the milk away. No one came to haul it away, right?”
“No one,” responded Harvey.
“They couldn’t milk or feed 200 cows by hand. No water, manure accumulated, buildings became deathly hot, cows got sick and died. They had no means to bury them. Made a terrible stink. They finally realized they had to release the cows so they could drink at the closest creek and eat in the surrounding fields. Fortunately the neighbors really pitched in by allowing it, though how could they say no. They helped to tend the herd, kept them in certain fields until some fencing could be erected. Others started taking one or two of the healthier ones home to milk and care for. Steward moved in with his bulldozer and buried the dead cows. Seems like everything’s settled now, but I’m sure more than 100 died. What a mess it was.”
“A mess that could have been mitigated by a little foresight and planning,” Jake said.
“Now Jake,” Dad admonished, “not so judgmental. Did you ever walk in their shoes?” It was one of Dad’s favorite philosophies: “Don’t judge a man until you walked a mile in his shoes”. Or is it a day in his shoes? No matter, good philosophy.
“Yeah, you’re right,’ Jake concurred. “I’m thinking a lot of other people had to make tough decisions, too, especially in the cities, perhaps. What did you hear about them, Reverend?”
“Well, a lot, but I’m not sure what’s true. Of course there was some looting. People trying to find water and food. Releasing the prisoners didn’t help.”
“Releasing the prisoners?” Barry asked. “Just yesterday, I had it on my mind how the prisons were managing. What happened?”
“Again, I heard a lot of things, but just last week I ran into a guard from the county prison. He was helping at the nursing home and he verified the story. They couldn’t keep a prison running with no fuel or water. Something had to be done. Here is one instance that shows that the federal government is still functional because they stepped in. The military came and hauled away all convicted murderers. No one knows where they took them, but they’re gone. Everyone else was released. Anyone convicted of theft, bad check writers, marijuana growers, prostitutes, drug users, people convicted of drunk driving or driving without a license or insurance; they are out on the street now.”
“Wow!” Barry exclaimed, “most of those people didn’t belong in jail anyway. I don’t know if that would have really contributed to looting and rioting.”
“Well, I’m thinking it probably did to at least a small extent,” Reverend Schneider responded. “But there’s another theory floating around. This guard said all the released prisoners received a pretty stern speech. They would be completely exonerated and in return for that would be expected to become productive members of society. They would have to learn to live with the other members of society as society needed as many productive members as could be found. It would not be easy, they’d have to learn to work, share, and give as well as take. It was necessary for them to change in order to be accepted. And finally, they would not be protected any longer. If they committed any crime, there would be no criminal justice system to save their butts, no court appointed lawyer to moderate their punishment, no getting out on bail. They would be subject to the wrath, sense of justice, and perhaps the vengeance of the communities they choose to settle in.”
“Do you think that’s working?” Barry inquired.
“Can’t say for sure; but I hear less and less about looting and criminal activities. One interesting story I did hear was about gangs in the city. Seems like when the police stopped doing their job, the gangs took over. They took control of territories and protected everyone living there. Stabilized the situation. Enforced their own law, administered justice, made everyone tow the line. Get along or get out was the dictate. Wouldn’t have been a welcome environment for criminal behavior; perhaps that’s what kept the released prisoners in line.”
“That is darn interesting,” Barry commented. “Perhaps things are working out.”
“You know,” said the reverend, “I’ve talked a lot. I really need to hear what you are all doing around here, so as I can share it with others that have the same predicaments. And, gee, I’ve been holding you up from your work.”
“Work!” Joe exclaimed, “I plum forgot. I wanted to help the girls can that pork we didn’t eat for dinner. And what kind of hosts are we? We offer your horse water and offer you nothing. Come on into the house. Maybe there’s some left for you. And the girls will be glad to see you as well.”
“I’d like that, and I’d like to hear how everyone else is feeling," Reverend Schneider answered.

To be continued….. How is everyone else feeling?.... Mort

Chapter Seventeen - Communion

Reverend Schneider’s horse was unlike my Brutus, the Clydesdale, and Titus’s workhorse. It was much sleeker, a shiny dark brown, and exhibited a lot of pep.
“Got yourself a racehorse there?” Joe asked the reverend.
“Suppose so,” he answered, “been winning every race, too. Got here first didn’t I?” Looking back up the road he added, “Don’t even see the second place finisher. Do you see him, Alyssa?”
I had a notion to look, but then caught the joke. It was getting to the point I had hung around these wise guys long enough to be aware of their trickery. “I’ll just keep an eye out for him, so you can hop on and head down the road, if’n he catches up to you. Wouldn’t want you to lose your lead. How far back do you think he is? Do I have time to water your steed before he gets here?”
He chuckled, then said, “Smart girl; sure you have time to water old Flash. Thank you.”
“So whose horse you acquire?” Joe asked.
“The neighbor farm, right next to the church; my whole family moved there. They still have a hand water pump, so we can pump all the water we need from their well. Their livestock can drink from the creek. The wife and kids work around the farm and they loaned me old Flash here for me to make my rounds. Miss you all at church. And I’m not being a wise guy. I’m not condemning you for not coming to church; I really do miss seeing and talking to you. Just came down from Butch and Clare. I told them the same. It was great to see everyone there, too.”
“It’s great to see you too, Reverend,” Harvey said. “What you’ve been hearing in your travels? That is, I assume you’ve been traveling.”
“That I have. This is one of the first days in the last five weeks that I could actually just go visiting. Seemed like every other day I had something to take care of.”
“Like what?” asked Dad.
“Well, as soon as we lost power and water, I knew a lot of people would be in trouble, just like you and I talked about a couple months ago. As I was on the board of the food bank in town, I headed into there to see what I could do. You know, it wasn’t as bad as I suspected.”
“How so?” Joe asked.
“When the power went off, the store managers knew that all the food in the freezers and coolers would spoil, so they gave it away. Just opened up their doors and announced any perishable food and fresh baked goods were free for the taking. They had moved most of the dry goods into the back of the stores, thinking maybe they could sell that later. So at least for the first week or so, no one was hungry. Eventually, when they realized that money as we knew it wasn’t coming back too soon, they allowed people to have some of the other food too. As a result, the food bank still has food. The whole thing was pretty sensible too. People didn’t cart away truckloads at a time; just what they needed for a few days. Oh I’m sure they didn’t wait until there was no food in the house before acquiring more. We’re a community of ants, not grasshoppers; food’s being stored for winter. Many are using the food from their gardens or farmers just out of town. Of course there aren’t as many people living in town anymore.”
“Where did they go?” I asked.
“Like I said, out to the country. Found a place with water and moved. Besides, if you had a home dependent on gas or heating oil to keep warm, what good would it do you to stay there? And those remaining had to cart all their water from the reservoir outside of town, at least their drinking water since the creek flowing through town provided some for washing and flushing toilets. But that became a problem too. Sewage treatment plant eventually became non-functional. They had to just allow the sewage to drain into the river.”
“Not so good for the people downstream,” Joe said.
“Not good, however, it isn’t a large volume. Mostly only toilets being flushed. Not near the number of showers and baths being taken and loads of laundry being done. And other people moved north.”
“North?” asked Dad, “What’s up there, cleaner water?”
“Yeah, I guess there is, but really, they moved for coal. They heard the coal mines needed workers to keep the mines open. All the work’s being done by hand, like in the 1800’s. Horses bring the coal out the mountain. They’re using steam engines to power the crushers. Others are chopping wood for the engines or sawing lumber for the tunnels. Whole families are working there.”
“For what?” responded Harvey, “there’s no money to pay workers. What good does it do them?”
“You’re correct, no money; they get paid in coal, or more precisely, coal credits.”
“Coal credits?” Dad asked.
“Yep, they get paid by the hundredweight of coal. Work a day; get ten hundredweight or whatever the going rate is, depending on the job you do. The mine owner just keeps a tab or you can take it home in script.”
“Script?” Harvey inquired.
“Sorry,” the reverend responded, “coal script. It’s a fancy piece of paper that tells others you own so much coal.”
“What can you do with it?” Joe wondered.
“You can redeem it for the coal, anytime and anywhere; anyone with coal will honor it.”
“But you can’t eat coal,” Joe responded.
“No you can’t,” Reverend Schneider agreed. “But you can also trade the script. Of course the main commodity right now is food. So workers are using their script to buy food. Unlike our little town, where the stores are pretty much out of business, in parts of the coal regions the stores are still open. Sure they don’t have all the goods they used to have; actually the dry goods are at a premium. They’re being stashed for winter. The local farmers provide the bulk of what’s being sold. They have produce to market. They’d rather accept the script than U.S. dollars. Script is worth something; you can redeem them for coal or trade them for something else you need, but dollars are worthless.”
“So coal script is their money now?” Dad asked.
“I suppose you’re right,” the reverend answered, “it would be like money. I tell you the other industry that’s flourishing.”
“What’s that?” Harvey asked as Josh, Jake, Barry and a couple others joined us.
“Transportation,” Reverend Schneider replied, “Coal and produce have to be moved. Horses are at a premium. Only so much hauling can be done by them. A lot of hand carts have been built; even heard of some dog carts. Townsfolk that walk to the farms to work or trade, wear baskets as backpacks and always carry something with them – coal out, food back. Or they carry the coal to the river.”
“The river?” Jake asked.
“Oh, didn’t I mention? Some entrepreneurs are building barges to float the coal to market.”
“That’s interesting,” Joe said, “but like I said before, you can’t eat coal. Only so many homes can burn coal, and those that can, like us, can also burn wood. Besides, what commodity could the people downstream trade for the coal? Sounds a bit risky to me. The whole operation might be fruitless. They’re creating a coal-driven economy, just like our country had an oil-driven economy.”
“And look what happened to us,” Josh touted.
“Now fellas,” Dad interjected, “let’s applaud their industriousness; and maybe their benevolence. Just like we share food with hungry people, they might share their coal with cold people. At least their producing something and not sitting around on their butts, waiting for someone to bail them out.”
“Right,” offered Harvey, “we’re all in this together and we’ll all pull through this together, provided we become a nation of producers, instead of consumers. All those people that had jobs manufacturing unnecessary items, like DVD’s, VCR’s, CD’s, video games, TV’s, I-Pod’s, walkman’s, or working at a computer, making movies or TV shows, or advertising, not to mention insurance salesman, lawyers or bankers; you get the idea; they’ll now be working to grow food, provide heat or shelter and the other things we really need.”
“It’s a chance for the faithful to shine,” the reverend added.
“Don’t keep your light under a bushel,” Jeremiah said.
“And speaking of lights,” the reverend said, “the way I hear, some parts of Pennsylvania are doing just fine.”
“How’s that?” inquired Josh.
“Well, there are thousands of natural gas wells drilled in Pennsylvania, mostly in the mountain regions, waiting to be tapped. Property owners, who have wells on their property, use the gas all the time. It’s naturally pressurized so the flow hasn’t stopped. They should have heat all winter and even be able to generate electricity. I hear people are migrating to those regions as well, helping with the harvest where there is farming.”
“Very interesting,” Jake said, “but you keep saying, ‘I hear’. How do you hear all these things? We hear practically nothing here.”
“Good question, Jake,” Reverend Schneider responded. “It’s from the other ministers and the doctors. We are all operating under the same system. Everyday we head out, making the rounds and looking for people to help. We hear stories from all kinds of people we run into and we meet each other both coincidently and on a planned basis, to discuss the needs of the community and to determine what we might do about it. We’re out spreading the word, hope, information and ideas, encouraging everyone to let their fruits emerge.”
“Makes sense to me,” Jeremiah said. “As you brought up doctors, here’s a piece of information we’d like to know. We heard Dr. Bear’s operating like you, but we don’t know how to reach him in an emergency. Do you?”
“Just get on a horse and fetch him. I’d say it’s only four or five miles from here where he’s headquartered. He’s on the farm on Dogwood Road, just north of the church, belongs to Milt Snyder. Know where it is?”
“Sure, that’s easy to find,” offered Joe.
“No guarantee he’ll be there during the day. He makes rounds like me then. I hope you don’t ever need him too quickly.”
“Hope not either,” Harvey said, “but the more people that keep moving in here, the greater the chance.”
“You expect more people?” the reverend asked.
“Yep.”
“How many, and can you feed them?”

To be continued…..What is Harvey’s answer? …… Mort

Chapter Sixteen - Time (conclusion)

The following week we made quite a bit more hay, but by Friday we had a break in the action to make the excursion back to the old house. It looked pretty much the same. For twelve years, other than when I was at camp or on vacation, I had woken up here. By now, I was just getting used to waking up at Grandmom’s house. Here I had my own room, but it made we wonder who slept in it now.
I got to see Marie and the other neighbors. They all looked well. Dad gave Marie and Bill directions to our new farm. They said they might take occasion to visit someday, especially if some trading was necessary or advice needed. While we were picking the beans, Dad related to our old friends all the technological things pertaining to direct current and batteries that the boys had accomplished at Harvey’s Dairy. Bill said that it might be worth the trip, just to get some ideas. In the meantime he said he’d experiment on his own, and then he’d know what obstacles he might need to overcome. Bill and Marie had become daily workers at our old farm.
There were other changes evident at our old place. The old springhouse now had water running through it and was surrounded by a thick layer of straw bales.
“Not exactly an ice house,” Bill said, “but it cools the milk and keeps the fruits and vegetables fresh.”
“Milk?” I inquired, “Where do you get milk?”
“We acquired three cows from Chester,” Marie offered. “Milk for the whole neighborhood. I’ve learned how to milk a cow. Have you?”
“Not yet,” I answered, “but I’m sure I’ll get my chance pretty soon.”
“There’s a nice supply of fruits and vegetables in the springhouse,” Mom pointed out. “Where do they come from?”
Bill responded, “Jim, Hallie and their family travel everyday by bicycle to a produce farm this side of town. They have baskets fastened to their bicycles and bring produce home every night to trade for milk. It’s been working real well so far. They also bring some dried and canned food as well for winter. We’re supposed to save every jar we open and the lids for them.”
“Just like Titus was telling us,” Jean offered.
“Titus?” Marie asked.
“Titus Weaver,” Dad replied, “he’s a Mennonite from the other side of town. He visited us a couple weeks ago and traded produce for a load of hay. He told us how things were going in his neighborhood.”
“Sure, I remember him,” Bill said. “Chester told him where you were.”
Mom and Jean sorted through our remaining goods that had been stashed in the shed and came up with nothing we needed. There were plenty of things we didn’t need: electric appliances, lamps, light bulbs, decorations, books, toys, pictures, mirrors, TV’s, VCR’s, DVD’s, video tapes, and air conditioners.
Mom wondered out loud, “What if the boys figure out how to make electricity? The lamps would come in handy and maybe even the air conditioners could be used to cool food or something?”
“Or the mirrors,” Dad added, “could they be used to collect solar energy some how?”
“Unanswered questions,” Jean responded, “but if items such as these do become useful, we have ours and your in-law’s to use back at the farm. We can always come back for these or perhaps maybe someone else will need them more?”
“You’re right – just let them here!” Mom concluded. And then we headed for home.
When we arrived back home, Poppop and Joe had the drying beds set up in the yard between Jean’s house and the barn in a spot the shade doesn’t hit.
“Just in case some of the beans need to dry some more. We wouldn’t want any of them to spoil – or spoil a whole batch,” Joe said.
“Good thinking,” Dad commended them. “We’ll let them dry thoroughly before we pack them away.”
We shelled all the beans by nightfall, and then put them on the screens when the sun had risen. Just after dinner on Saturday, I went to check on the beans and found Uncle Jeremiah and Jake with a funny looking table. They were digging the legs into the middle of the yard, near the drying beds and just off the sidewalk that we used most often to travel to and from the barn and house. It had four steel legs, that I suppose were made from some scrap found lying around the farm, bolted to a three by four foot plate of white appliance colored steel. I found out later it was a refrigerator door. On one side of the door was a triangular piece of steel mounted upright. Opposite the triangle painted like the end of a spoke with the triangle being the hub, was a single black line. It was labeled with a large, black, capital “N”. Harvey, Joe and Dad walked over to investigate.
“I get it,” Harvey said. “I saw this laying in the shop before the triangle and line were on it. Now I see what it is.”
“Should work,” Dad added, “if it’s positioned correctly.”
“Good spot for it,” said Joe. “We walk by it so often. With those long legs, it will stay above the snow, too. What do you think, Alyssa?”
“What do I think? I think I’m the only one here that doesn’t know what it is.”
“If you figure out what the “N” stands for, then you’ll know,” Jake offered.
“I’m surrounded by people who talk in riddles,” I lamented.
“That’s how you learn,” Dad said. “You have to figure things out, then you’ll remember. If we just tell you, then you’ll forget. Just observe what they’re doing.”
Just what I needed – more Stump philosophy. So, I watched. Jeremiah and Jake were carefully aligning the ‘door’ so that the shadow from the triangle fell on the line, every so often checking their watches and filling ground into the holes each leg was in.
“Hope it stays for you,” Joe said.
“No matter,” Jeremiah answered, “we can adjust it, if it wanders.”
“Know what the “N” stands for yet?” Jake asked.
“Must stand for ‘no’, I have ‘no’ idea.”
“Ha, Ha,” Jake laughed, “which direction is the shadow pointing?”
“So now I’m a geographer. Just like my teachers – answer a question with another. Well let’s see. Harvey talks about an east wind from that way, of course that’s where the sun comes up. Middle of the day the sun is to the south, so the shadow points NORTH! That’s what the “N” is for. It’s a compass!”
Everyone laughed. “I guess that’s true,” Dad agreed. “But what time is it when the sun is directly to the south?”
I thought a little, and then exclaimed, “NOON! The “N” stands for noon, too. It’s a sundial!” Everyone applauded, but then I added, “But you missed it. Noon was an hour ago. It’s nearly one o’clock.”
Harvey chuckled, “Noon used to be twelve o’clock, Alyssa. But you see in this country we have on omnipotent Congress.”
“Om-nip….what kind of tent?”
“Omnipotent means ‘all-powerful’. You see, back one Sunday morning in March, Congress had the power to make the Earth rotate faster, so that there was a 23 hour day. Remember, we had to get up an hour earlier, once again in the dark, just like it was winter again. They call it daylight savings time. Moved noon ahead to one o’clock. Was supposed to solve the energy crisis,” Harvey concluded.
“That worked just like everything else Congress did. They aren’t omnipotent, they’re impotent,” Jeremiah announced. The men broke up. Harvey rolled on the ground laughing. I didn’t get it.
“Of course Congress is important,” I said. More laughter.
“No, not important,” Joe replied, “impotent, means not having the power to perform.” The men laughed even more.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Impotent has another meaning. Hopefully you won’t run into it until you’re married 50 years,” Dad said.
“Yeeewww,” I answered. “By the way, why did you choose to do this today?”
“Tomorrow’s the autumnal equinox, equal day-equal night, the first day of fall,” Jeremiah said. “We thought the readings would be most accurate today, tomorrow and Monday. Every hour still needs to be marked off. If we miss one, or it’s cloudy, we can add it a later day. We’ll just mark the lines; we can paint and label them anytime.”
“You know what?” Joe announced. “Let’s free ourselves from the tyranny of Congress and go off of daylight savings time today. We actually did a couple weeks ago when we started getting up when the sun did.”
“As it should be then,” Harvey declared. “Everyone change your watches and then pass the word to the others.”
“Give me liberty or give me daylight savings time!” Dad shouted. “Now look who’s all powerful. We just added an hour to September 22nd.”
“And we are important, unlike Congress,” I added.
We left my uncle and brother to the task of firming the sundial’s position. As we walked toward the barn, we saw a man on horseback riding down the road. Why it was Reverend Schneider.
“I imagine he’ll have a lot to share,” Dad said.
“Or preach about,” Harvey added, “I wonder what time he’s on.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Joe cried, “so much for our extra hour."

To be continued..........Mort

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - TIME (cont)

The mo-ped was also a valuable tool for Dad. Near the end of the week, he said he would be going back to the old house to check on his beans in the garden as well as on our old neighbors. “Is there anything you can think of,” he asked Mom, “that we left behind that you could use?”
“All I can really think of is my sewing machine,” she answered. “Originally we thought it would be of no use without electricity. But the way things are progressing around here, the boys might be able to make it functional.”
“OK,” Dad answered. That struck me as a little odd. How could he bring Mom’s sewing machine back with him on the moped? Although, I recolected, Dad often had a way of making things work. So just after breakfast, off he went.
Later that morning, Uncle Jeremiah, Amy, Lynette, and I were working with Chip and Pepper, our young oxen. We were up to the point where we were actually leaving them yoked together for eight hours. They were getting used to it, were able to eat and drink while yoked, and even had gotten accustomed to being led around by us. We had started to give them verbal commands, not that they knew how to obey already, but they needed to hear the repetition of the commands to learn. The commands were simple enough. Of course, the obvious one was “whoa” for stop. Go was “hup”, left was “gaw” and right was “hee”. The actual word wasn’t that important, the sound of them was. Each had a distinctive ending vowel sound so the animals would not confuse them. We had just finished and Uncle Jeremiah was measuring them for the next size yoke that needed to be made soon, when we looked down the road and noticed a large charcoal gray Ford pick-up with some things loaded on the back approaching.
“Looks like the landlord from the old place,” I said.
“Wouldn’t know that,” my uncle replied, “but it’s your dad driving it.”
Sure enough, it was Dad. As he wheeled into the driveway, he throttled the diesel engine loudly enough to catch the attention of Josh and some of the others who were working close by. As they came out to see what was going on, we took stock of the items loaded on the truck. Of course there was Mom’s sewing machine and Grandpop’s mo-ped. We saw two cases of honey, a basket of beans from the garden and three implements that I wasn’t exactly sure what they were; one looked like a cultivator.
“Nice trade,” Josh said to Dad. “So this is what you got for our coal stove?”
“You remembered?” Dad replied. “This and more.”
“More?” Larry asked.
“Yep, the landlord’s son-in-law is a beekeeper. That’s where the honey comes from. But also in the deal are two hives of bees he’ll deliver next spring. That way we can have our own honey, but more importantly, ensure better pollination for all the fruit and vegetable crops we’ll be growing around here.”
“That hand cultivator is nice too,” Jeremiah said. “It’ll save a lot of hoeing when the time comes.” The hand cultivator had a high steel wheel in the front with wooden handles in the back, similar in design to a wheelbarrow. In between and at ground level was a row of narrow harrow like tines for scratching the dirt, making it loose for killing weeds.
“And look at that!” Joe exclaimed as he had just arrived and peered into the pickup bed. “A foot pedal driven grinding wheel for sharpening knives and axes.”
“And scythes and sickles,” Larry added. “We can sure use that. But what’s this third item?” The third item was shaped like the hand cultivator, but with a smaller wheel and a chain drive coming back to some kind of mechanism mounted under a metal box.
“It’s a planter,” Poppop announced. “One you can just push by hand through the field. It makes the furrow, drops the seed and covers it all in one pass. That’ll sure save us some time.”
“Sure will,” Jeremiah replied. “Do you have different plates for it?”
“Yep,” Dad responded, “in this box here with some spacing gears too.”
“Plates? Spacing gears?” I inquired.
“The plates are the metering mechanism. Round rings of metal with holes in that catch and drop one seed at a time. The holes have to be different sizes because some seeds are large like lima beans and others are smaller like sweet corn or pea beans,” Dad explained.
“The spacing gears,” Poppop added, “change the speed at which the plates rotate, either decreasing or increasing the distance traveled between each seed drop, hence changing the distance or spacing between each seed. You don’t plant every crop in the garden with the same distance between plants. There a chart for it?”
“On the underside of the seed box lid,” Dad answered.
“Good,” Poppop responded, “look here Alyssa. The chart tells you what gear to use with which plate to get the inches between seeds that you want. You’ll see when we use it.”
“Thanks,” I said, “looking forward to it.”
“And,” Dad continued, “got one more thing in the deal.”
“What’s that?” Josh asked.
“A Ford, four-wheel drive, diesel, pickup truck.”
“Neat,” Josh responded, “just for our old coal stove?”
“The truck couldn’t heat the house,” Dad answered. “Besides, what value does a truck have when there’s no fuel to run it?”
“Tank empty?” Larry inquired.
A big smile emerged on Dad’s face and then he said, “No, full. Part of the deal. Landlord filled it with the heating oil left in the tank in the cellar for the oil burner. It’s a forty gallon tank. I figure enough to combine twelve to fifteen acres of soybeans. Sound about right, Larry?”
After a little mental calculation Larry replied, “That would be just about right. No matter, every little bit helps.”
Poppop was looking at the beans and then asked, “This all there were?”
“No,” Dad answered, “they need about a week of good weather to dry well enough to keep. These will either have to be dried more, canned or eaten. If we don’t, they’ll spoil.”
“Either way,” Poppop responded, “these need to be shelled. I’ll take them in and we can get started on them. The cooks can decide later what to do with them. You picked them pretty quickly.”
“Had help,” Dad said, “a few of the neighbors were there. We actually picked more than these. I shared them.”
“Good for you,” Poppop replied.
“Which neighbors?” I asked. “Was Marie there? Did you talk to her?”
“No, she wasn’t, sorry,” Dad said. “But next time we go, you make the trip as well. Then you’ll get to see her. Everyone else seems to be doing fine. A couple other families moved into the house, must be about eighteen people in all. They had to take our things we left behind out into the wagon shed. No problem, I had told them. Next time we go over, I figure we’ll use Brutus and a wagon. Take Mom and a few others to pick the beans. That way we have a way to bring home the beans as well as anything Mom or Jean root out of our belongings that might be useful here.”

To be continued….. Mort

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - TIME

Haymaking didn’t happen without some consternation. Friday morning Jean was bound and determined to get some laundry done; the job had been neglected for nearly a week.
“Now Mother,” Harvey had said, “we have hay to make today; we need all the hands.”
“Maybe so,” Jean answered, “but you know hay drying weather is also clothes drying weather and besides that, soon all your hands will be walking round in dirty underwear. We need to get started today!”
Now Harvey didn’t rule his dairy farm as a king. On the family level, he was quick to consult Larry about farming matters and his wife as well on all matters. But with the arrival of the additional families, a new triumvirate had been formed. Harvey, Dad, and Joe collectively made the decisions. It seemed to be working so far. This being somewhat of a marital issue, it appeared Dad knew better than to interfere. Joe, on the other hand, had his own thoughts.
“It’s also time to butcher the largest hog we have. We need meat and I can’t have the butcher house full of laundry when I’m working on the hog,” he had said.
“But there’s hay to put away!” Harvey exclaimed.
“We need food,” Joe stated.
“And clean clothes,” was Jean’s response.
“And there’s two days to accomplish it all,” Dad finally interjected. “Joe, aren’t you going to roast the whole hog?”
“Yes, I was,” he answered.
“Well that you’ll do outside. You’ll only need the butcher stove to can the leftover meat. Isn’t that correct?” Dad continued.
“Yes.”
“And that you can do Saturday, instead, aren’t I right?”
“I suppose so,” Joe agreed, “if the tables aren’t being used to fold laundry when I want to go at canning.”
“If they get started right away, they should be done by dinner tomorrow. And Harvey, I believe there’s less than half of the amount of hay to put away today as we did yesterday.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Harvey answered.
“So we can do without ten or so women and girls and still get it all loaded and under roof. If we have to unload the last wagons on Saturday, then so be it,” Dad concluded.
“Then so be it,” Harvey concurred as he once again took the lead. “Mother, get started as soon as you can. Keep whomever you need. Larry and the boys will stoke the fire well so you have plenty of hot water. Joe, we’ll do the hog tomorrow. It will make a great dinner. The canning can be done in the afternoon. The women can finish folding in the house if they need to. Okay everyone?”
It was okay. The hay got put away, the laundry was done, we had a fine hog roast for Saturday dinner, the leftover got jarred in the afternoon for future use, and I guess we learned a lesson on priorities, urgency, and cooperation.
The following week the boys came up with several versions of wringers for the wash machine. They were patterned after the feed rolls on the forage harvester. These were spring loaded cylinders which pulled and guided the crop into the knives on the harvester that chopped the material fine. The rolls had serrated edges and were way too aggressive to use directly off the machine – would have shredded the wash. But they could use the drive and tension mechanism from the harvester and then replace the pair of rolls with smooth pieces of pipe. First they tried “schedule forty” plastic pipe which is about six inches in diameter, fairly heavy and is used for sewage lines both inside a home and underground. Harvey had several pieces lying around from his excavating days. The pipe being hollow, it was quite a challenge to put an end cap on the four ends that an axle could be mounted dead center so the rolls would run true. After a few tries, they had it working. They mounted a big crank to turn the wringer. Unfortunately, the pipe was way too smooth, so it would not pull the wash through; it just slipped, even after making several adjustments to the tension mechanism.
“Remember,” Grandmom said, “how the wringers years ago were made out of a semi-soft rubbery type material.”
“Yes, I believe I do remember,” Jean answered. “The boys really don’t know what they were like.” Then addressing them she added, “Could you find some sort of rubber like coating to put on the rolls or a different kind of roll?”
Aaron replied, “We looked at a lot of rolls from the farm equipment around here, and they were all too rough.”
“Suppose,” Dennis wondered, “we wrapped some of the duct tape that Bruce brought around the pipe. Would that be rough enough?”
“Maybe not initially,” Joe said, “we’d have to rough it up a bit with something like sandpaper, but then it probably would only last a few loads before wearing completely off. Worth a try though.”
They tried. He was right. Waste of tape.
Uncle Jeremiah suggested we stretch a piece of an old inner tube on the pipe and glue it fast. It was a project, trying to get the tube to just the right size so the glue would hold and the rubber wouldn’t be too loose on the pipe. But patience and perseverance won out and after a couple days of sticking to it, we had a working wringer. Finally, Barry and Dennis mounted a windshield wiper motor onto it so we wouldn’t have to crank. Great improvement, but we had to be more careful not to get our fingers caught between the wringers.
About the same time, Barry and Aaron had removed the circulator pump from Harvey’s furnace and mounted it in the line inside the house. They rigged a starter motor from Poppop’s Chevy onto it. After gearing it down, it worked fine.
“Still not sure how these motors will take the continuous use when it gets cold outside and will have to run for long periods. Nor how quickly we’ll have to replace the spent battery with a charged one,” Barry said. “If it becomes too burdensome, we’ll have to rig up another bicycle for people/pedal power.” This question, however, led to the determination as to where to put Larry and Joe’s windmill. On the porch right between the house and butcher house – that’s where we were using the most electricity and needing to have the batteries recharged.
When the windmill was up and functional there must have been a dozen batteries in line for charging at any given moment. They had built little carriers to move batteries where they were needed and we used a toy wagon to take four at a time to the barn for the lights later in the fall when we had to milk in the dark in the evening.
“You know,” Poppop said, “this reminds me of something. Before we had electric companies and wires bringing electricity to the farm, my grandfather Willis used to make his own with a generator. Gasoline was cheap and the generator was only run a few hours during the day to charge a bank of batteries that were stored in that small cellar beneath the butcher house.”
“Is that what those old electric controls in the corner of the butcher house were for?” Harvey asked.
“I think so,” Poppop answered, “remember I wasn’t around now mind you; only heard about it. Then all the lights in the house were direct current, running off the batteries in the evening. Wonder if we’ll regress to that?”
“Who knows,” was Dad’s response. “For the next several months, it might be hard to tell if we’re going forward or backward.”
At least we were going forward on the heating, laundry, and electric lighting front. But on the flour mill, I wasn’t so sure. Grandpop’s mo-ped had become a popular item when it came time to go somewhere in a hurry. The younger men could pedal it most of the time and only kick the engine into gear for the harder hills. It took very little gas. One day Larry had taken it to visit the two old flour mills in the neighborhood. The one was completely abandoned and all the milling equipment had been removed. Strike one. The other mill had been turned into a home and the current occupants were not at all agreeable to Larry’s request to look around. He tried to explain to them that we would be willing to trade for the mill if they desired or that a running mill, if they allowed us to donate to its repair, would be a valuable tool for the community as well as a source of income for them. They weren’t interested. I guess not everyone’s heart had changed. Or maybe Larry was sensed as a threat in these uncertain times. Strike two. Back to the drawing board for the boys to build our own mill.
To be continued……Mort

Stump Family Tree

This week, in response to requests, and to help the readers keep track of the members of the communities, I’ve decided to list the characters in the story.

I’ll do a Stump family tree first, and then list others who have joined either the Stump community or Butch and Clare’s. – Mort

Willis Stump (Harvey’s and Dad’s great-grandfather)
-- he had two sons: Thomas, Sr. and Joel
---- Thomas, Sr. had two sons: Lester and Thomas, Jr.
------ Joe is Lester’s son
--------his wife is Sandy
----------they have two sons: Dennis and Aaron
------ Harvey is Thomas, Jr.’s son
--------his wife is Jean
----------their son is Larry
------------ Harvey also has a brother, Randall
----Harold (my Poppop) is Joel’s son
------ his wife is Myra (my Grandmom)
-------- their sons are Jeremiah (my uncle) and Dad
----------Jeremiah’s wife is Lois (my aunt)
------------they have two daughters: Amy and Lynette (my cousins)
----------Dad’s wife is Mom
------------ her parents are Grandpop and Grandma
------------ her brother is my Uncle Bruce
-------------- his wife is Kristen (my aunt)
-------------------- her mother is Leticia
---------------- they have a daughter, Jennifer and a son, Dean-my cousins
------------------Dean has a girlfriend, Vanetta
---------- their sons are Jake and Josh (my brothers)
---------- their daughters are Mel (my sister) and Alyssa-that’s ME!

- - - - also Barry, our auto mechanic, has joined us

Our neighbors at Crystal View Farm:

Butch and Clare Rorher
Ben Lukens and his wife Denise
----their sons are Dave, Clark and Ted
Lee Smith and his wife Donna
----their sons are Billy and Robbie
----their daughters are Renee, Karen, Molly and Susan
Dan Parris and his wife Julie (the teacher)
----their daughters are Tina and Leslie
----their twin sons are Blaise and Matthew
------ the elderly couple, Wayne and Joan Wolfe

To be continued….. what’s up next?....... Mort