How to approach the future of Chanyata Farm is a challenging and soul-searching responsibility - a task I do not take lightly.

What are the options?

1. Keep the land, house, outbuildings as they are presently, continuing to lease out tillable land and maintaining everything, but still live in my present home.

2. Develop a new plan/purpose for the farm but retain the agricultural tax status on the land, and continue to live away from the farm. Upgrade the lane from gravel to concrete or asphalt. Have an engineer determine the health of the two existing bridges on the lane.

3. Same as #2 except Wes and/or I would build house(s) on the farm, probably tearing down the existing house and older outbuildings, and constructing new barns to meet the needs of the land-use plan that was developed.

4. Sell the entire farm to the Hamilton Co. Park District with restrictions that no recreational development will ever take place and that the land will remain in a conserved state.

5. Consider options/proposals/ideas from other family members re. the future of the farm. There may be possibilities which Wes or I haven’t considered.

6. Same as #4, but keep a 5 acre (approx.) cutout which includes the house, barns, room for a garden, and perhaps the area where existing picnic spot is located. This would buy us some time to determine the future of the house and barns. We would give the Park District the first right of refusal if Wes and I would choose to sell the remaining 5 acres at a future time. Attempt to negotiate an agreement with the Park District that would give us continued access to the acreage sold (hiking, firewood from trees already on the ground, etc.). Wes or I could tear down the house and barns if either of us wanted to build a house and possibly pursue gardening or raising a few animals, etc.

If we went the route of #6, we could pursue gaining an easement from the Park District to establish an alternate ingress/egress over Park property (directly south of Chanyata) that has frontage on the highway. This would eliminate issues related to maintenance of the lane, and the engineering soundness of the two existing bridges which must be crossed to enter or leave the farm.

Certainly there are more options that could be considered, but these are the ones that have been dancing in my head - sometimes at 3 a.m.! I’m probably more inclined towards #6 - as you might guess from the length of its description.

Wes and I are meeting with a representative of the Park District on Tuesday. Our purpose is to gain more information about possible scenarios/options if we’d decide to sell some or all of the farm to the Park District.

This is a difficult balancing act, trying to maintain the spirit of Chanyata and deal with the realities of maintaining it. The issues are not black and white, but rather on a continuum of possibilities.

I may have no readers left in cyberworld since so much time has passed since my last posting. There are many reasons, a few of which will be evident.

My mother has died. It’s a harsh/hard sentence to write. It’s harder still to live without her. Our family has grieved - is still grieving. Kate wrote well of the experience in her blog.

Kate suggested many weeks ago that I post my remarks from mom’s memorial service. Here they are:

May 31, 2005

Thank you for being here today. Each of us has been touched in some way by the remarkable woman whose life we celebrate. At 87 she was living where wanted to be, on her beloved Chanyata Farm, still driving, mowing the lawn with her John Deere, and absolutely loving her new dog, Lucy. What a life - what a way to go!

Mother was a member of this congregation for 54 years and for 27 years filled this sanctuary with wonderful organ music. Her faith was mostly private, but so very strong. It sustained her through the challenges of caring for Louise, especially during the nearly three decades following Jean’s death, her husband, our father, who she so dearly loved and missed. Her sacrifices were many, always placing the needs of others before her own. Yet despite the hardships in her life, she radiated that glorious smile and conveyed to all of us her zest for living.

Mom was a quiet but active warrior for human rights, peace, and social justice for all peoples of the world. Many politicians received kudos or a kick in the pants from her. She would often ask me to find the addresses of legislators she wished to contact to share her views on important issues of the day.

Music was one of her passions. Mom was an accomplished and professionally trained organist and pianist. She played nearly every day, finding solace and relaxation through the keyboard. She made great granola, always sending some home with Wes and me. On Sunday afternoons her popcorn popper would be working overtime and she’d enjoy a long telephone visit with her brother, Bud. Another passion was UC basketball. She hardly ever missed a televised game, and followed closely the career of Bob Huggins. Fresh watercress from the farm’s spring was a treat for her.

Whenever I would come to the farm to work and visit, I could depend on mom having a list to go over with me -- a list of chores, repairs, questions, a story or newspaper clipping to share. It was a routine of countless years.

When she died I was in Ontario, Canada, visiting friends. The day before I left I was at the farm for what turned out to be the final “Barry list.” As I was preparing to say goodbye, she said, “There’s just one more thing. I was mowing last evening with the John Deere. I didn’t have my hearing aids in but it sounded funny. Do you think you could take a look at it before you go?” I went to the barn and started the lawn tractor. It fired up with an awful roar, and when I lifted the motor cover I could see the engine literally bouncing on its frame. All of the engine’s mounting bolts were gone and the muffler had broken loose. I have no idea how she was able to mow the night before, but she was right -- it did sound sound a little funny!! Such was life on the farm with mom.

Speaking of the farm, I’ve been asked many times this past week, “What will happen to the farm?” At first I was surprised and even a little put off by the question, but I’ve come to feel that it really reflects that you know how much mom, dad, and our family have cared about Chanyata Farm. While Wes and I haven’t reached any decisions, we can tell you that it will NEVER, let me emphasize NEVER, become a housing development as has happened to so many family farms in Ohio. The spirit of Chanyata will always remain with the land.

My last view of mom was part of another ritual at the farm. Whenever any of us would leave after visiting her, we’d stop part way down the gravel lane and return the wave that was coming from mom as she stood by the kitchen window. She and I waved at each other that last day I was with her, neither of us knowing it would be for the final time. And since her death I’ve caught myself stopping in that same spot on the lane, expecting to see her waving from the window.

The farm is lonely and quiet now, but somehow still peaceful. Mom, I miss you -- and your wave.

Change. . .cont.

Now two brothers must decide the future of Chanyata. We share so many mixed feelings. Since dad’s death in 1976 we have kept the farm going, barely going. Each passing year exposed more wear and tear on the buildings, including the house. Wes and I, each maintaining our own homes, weren’t often able to give the farm the attention it needed. However sometimes there were spurts of activity - a new barn roof, a new heating system for the house, new fencing.

But Nature always wins. Weather and time work so well together in returning “things” to their natural state - through growth and decay.

That’s what’s happening now at Chanyata. We’re still watering the flowers, mowing the grass, and completing minor repairs. But our purpose isn’t the same. It’s for a memory... and that’s sad.

The grand kids, Kate, David, Erin, and Kelly have wonderful memories of the farm - all different, as they should be. I’m glad they have those memories. And yet, memories can be idyllic, even for Wes and I. But there is a reality to face, many of them in fact.

How will taxes be paid. Who will maintain the gravel monster, the lane, that bane of living a quarter mile off the highway (yet a blessing). Other issues are, but not limited to: maintenance, mowing, fighting the auditors new valuations every three years, paying all the utility bills, keeping the cistern and the plumbing system running, holding back the encroachment of forest into tillable acres.

I don’t want the farm to become the tail that wags the dog in my life. I won’t continue to run out there every whip stitch to respond to a new crisis. I don’t choose to live two lives as I have for the past 29 years. Yet I wish Chanyata to still exist in some fashion because I love the land.

Tomorrow’s Posting: Options

Check out the link to a new photo gallery. You'll find pictures from my childhood on the farm, as well as some recent farm scenes. This album will grow with the passing of seasons...
Chanyata

I can’t believe it’s been over a month since recording in this journal. Much has happened in the intervening weeks, including a trip to Venezuela to visit friends, another trip to see Kate and David, and the winter blahs! Enough of excuses.

February was always lambing time on the farm. Twins were more common than single lambs. We’d typically have a half dozen ewes who would be expecting, depending on the virility of the ram. For several years we owned a ram and at other times we borrowed one. Sometimes it wasn’t easy to tell when a ewe was due to deliver, especially when a thick coat of wool made it difficult to see the ewe’s backside. We’d err on the side of caution and keep the ewe penned up rather than take a chance on newborn lambs freezing to death outside.

Once lambs are born it’s important that they find the mother’s teats and begin nursing as soon as possible. Intervention was sometimes called for but it was better to let the process happen naturally. It was also necessary to dip the lambs’ umbilical cords in iodine to lessen the risk of infection.

Since most births were twins, we had to be sure that the ewe would accept both lambs. As strange as it seems, it wasn’t unheard of for a ewe to want nothing to do with a newborn, pushing or butting the lamb away as it would try to nurse. There were times when my all my dad’s efforts failed at coaxing the ewe to accept her lamb. Two options remained: see if another ewe would accept the lamb, or bottle feed the lamb. The latter option was the most difficult and dangerous for the lamb. Lambs nurse a lot and always seem to be hungry. Bottle fed lambs don’t gain weight as well as nursing lambs. We weren’t always successful in saving a rejected lamb. I have a photograph of one of our rejected lambs as it was being fed in the the farmhouse kitchen standing in a round tub we used to keep it enclosed and warm. One of these days I’ll figure out how to post photos...

Tails of the lambs had to come off to prevent infection, mostly from flies, leading to maggots. What an ugly mess that was. And it could also result in the lamb’s death. Sometimes we cut the tails with a knife or used a device that stretched open a small, heavy duty rubber band. The band would be placed over the tail and eventually it would dry up and fall off due to elimination of the blood supply to the tail. I know it doesn’t sound pleasant, and I’m sure it wasn’t for the lambs, but this was life on the farm. Any male lambs would have to be castrated at some point if they weren’t going to be kept or sold as rams. A special clamp was used to crush the cords carrying sperm from the testicles. It was a bloodless, though painful operation. It was never something I enjoyed doing.

My daughter gently reminded me that it had been several weeks since I’d entered a new posting to my blog. Thanks Kate! For whatever reason, I’m inspired to write about bovines in winter...

The dead of winter was often tough on our cattle. Frozen ground is no picnic for walking, even with four legs. There’s little roughage in the fields for grazing, and exposure to snow and ice storms can be life threatening, even to critters with thick, tough hides.

Our cows were in a typical winter routine of wandering into the barn lot from the pastures, usually late in the afternoon. The barn door to the cow stable was kept closed until we were ready to feed the herd of 8 - 12 animals. Cows will let you know they’re hungry or thirsty by bawling their fool heads off. When dad, my brother, or I were ready to feed them, we’d swing open the door and watch the cows lumber in. Occasionally we’d have to chase a recalcitrant one into the barn.

The old timers knew exactly where to park themselves in the stable. They’d head right for their usual stanchion. We had about a half dozen or so of these metal head locks which kept the cows from wandering willy nillly around the stable. Stanchions look like elongated “o”s, attached to permanent structures at the top and bottom by short chains. Each stanchion has a latch at the top which permits it to be opened wide enough for the cow’s head to easily enter. The cows have ample freedom of movement and can lie down or stand. The trick was to get the ornery ones to put their heads into the open stanchions and get them closed it before they backed out. Corn usually worked wonders.

Once in the stanchions the cows were given a ground corn and cob feed which we ground in a huge burr mill grinder. It was belt driven from our little farm tractor (a future blog entry...) Later they’d be given hay.

For most of my childhood, our hay was stored loose in the barn’s hayloft. How it got there needs to be saved for another blog entry. Suffice it to say, the hay had to be handled with a pitchfork and thrown through a 4 x 4 ft. opening in the upper part of the mow, down to the alleyway below, and then pitched again with the fork into a manger which ran the length of the stable in front of the cows. Our cows could be greedy animals, much like people. If one got hay or corn before the others, the anxiety and tension in the barn would be raised by several notches! Hay was fed in the morning and evening.

Everything I’ve described so far has had to do with the front end of cows. There’s more to the story of course. It’s called manure in polite company. It never ceased to amaze me how much manure a small herd of cows could produce overnight, not to mention what it was like when we had to keep them in the barn for several days if the weather turned really nasty.

Manure had to be shoveled out of the barn every day, without exception. Failure to do so would create a mess of Biblical proportions! The cows stood in their stanchions in an area that was 4-6 inches higher than the rest of the stable floor. The lower and back part of the stable floor slanted ever so slightly downwards towards a large floor drain. Most of the liquid waste was handled by this drain, except when it froze, which only added to mess in the stable. Across the length of the back wall of the barn were windows, several of which were on hinges to allow them to be easily opened.

Most of the time the cows did their business in a way which caused the manure to land in the lower section of the stable floor. Manure shovel in hand, I’d start at one end of the floor and push the shovel towards the middle, then go back and do it again until all the manure was more or less in a pile near one of the hinged windows. I’d open the window and then begin pitching the manure through the window opening to the outside pile. Of course the outside pile could only get so large before the manure was pitch forked into a manure spreader for fertilizing the corn and hay fields. Have you gotten the sense that manure was handled multiple time before it ended up on fields!

Most non-farm folk pinch their noses and make strange noises when the subject of cow manure comes up in everyday conversation. :) Actually it doesn’t smell that bad. In fact, it has almost a sweet aroma. Given the choice of shoveling hog, chicken or cow manure, I’d take the cow manure for sure!

I’d mentioned earlier that sometimes the weather or ground conditions would force us to keep the cows in the barn for several days. During that time they’d need water, twice a day. Cows are not timid drinkers. Typically we’d have to use the hand pump and carry buckets of water to the manger and dump them into the concrete trough. The cows at the end of the manger were the last to get the water, as those closer to where we dumped it often drank it all before it would flow down to the end of the line. It wouldn’t be uncommon to see a cow go down onto its front knees and try to extend its neck followed by its long tongue towards the water. Our cows always received all the water they needed, despite the tens of buckets we had to pump and carry to satisfy them.

Sadly I couldn’t keep my promise to you of two days ago to share more of my (circa)1958 saga of Christmases past. As you likely know, Cincinnati was at the center of a horrific winter storm. All of my energies were diverted to shoveling 12-15” of snow - multiple times - as well as making sure my mother was secure on the farm.

The days before Christmas in our 1958 scenario were filled with anticipation. Christmas Eve would include a local church service, usually at midnight, followed by eggnog and mom’s homemade fruitcake upon return to the farm.

Finally it was bedtime and the challenge of going to sleep. More than once I had my own small Christmas tree in my room, and on Christmas Eve I’d go to sleep with the tree lights still burning. To this day we still leave the barn’s Christmas lights and the lighted star on the house burn throughout Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Christmas morning had its own set of rituals which were adhered to even through my high school years. We kids could not come down the stairs without permission. Mom and dad would have to be coaxed to awaken by our urgings from the upstairs. Even then, dad would need to get the fire going in the furnace before anything else happened. Finally, Christmas tree lights were turned on, followed by dad’s investigation into whether Santa had actually visited. Once it was concluded he’d stopped by, we were given permission to descend the stairs.

Santa had conveniently left our presents in separate areas of the living room, and as if by some miraculous prearrangement, each of us knew where to look. Christmas gifts from Santa were never wrapped, but were found sans boxes and paper. However, gifts from grandparents and others were always wrapped.

I can still feel the excitement of coming down the stairs on Christmas morning and the surprise - and the occasional disappointments - in discovering the presents I’d received. I say ‘disappointments’ because our family’s economic circumstances were sometimes evident at Christmas. I don’t believe I ever really considered my family to be 'poor’, but I knew most of the my friends in the suburbs would have more substantial presents than I’d have to talk about at school following vacation.

At a point I can’t clearly remember, I came to the realization that not all of our gifts were new. Other children had played with some of my gifts prior to them being given to me. My mother has spoken a little about dad’s tendency to go overboard with frugality when it came to Christmas presents. She knew our finances were tight, but felt we should still have new, not used, gifts at Christmas. I’m not being critical of my father. He did the best he could as a product of the Depression and from knowing trying times firsthand. He also could project into the future and plan accordingly for future needs of the family, ie. the college education of his children. However, it has been important to me, very important, that my own children never receive secondhand Christmas presents.

As I share these thoughts with you on this Christmas Eve, 2004, I eagerly await the arrival tomorrow of my own son, David, from Baltimore. Due to the severe Cincinnati snow storm, his flight was canceled and could only be rebooked for Christmas Day. May he arrive safely. I await him...

The snow is flying in Cincinnati as I begin this chapter. The forecast is for 6-12”. Temperature for Christmas morning is minus 2!

What better setting exists to reminisce about a childhood Christmas. By this date in, let’s pick, 1958, our tree would would be up and decorated. A Lionel train set would also be running on a 4x8 sheet of plywood laid out the dining room floor, and its town of little people, trees, cars, houses, etc. fixed in position, awaiting the imaginations of three children.

My father’s announcement of, “Let’s cut the Christmas tree today,” was always magic to the ears of my brother, sister, and me. If the ground was snow covered, we hitch the horses up to a battered wood sled with steel runners. Dad would drive the sled with the family on board over a rough trail leading to the northern section of the farm where the grove of pines stood. These Austrian pines were 30-40 ft. tall, even in my childhood, towering upwards 50-70 ft. today.

Dad would have to climb the branches of the chosen tree to top it with a saw, lowering it to the ground with a rope. Extra greens would also be cut for making wreaths and swags to hang outside the house and on the large mailbox at the end of the lane. The tree would have priority for the sled ride back to the house. Occasionally there’d be an open spot on the tree where there wasn’t a branch. Dad would use a wood auger to drill a hole and then insert a piece of the extra greenery we’d brought back with us. No one could ever tell that the added branch hadn’t naturally grown in that spot.

Furniture was moved in the living room to clear space for the large tree, which always seemed to just graze the 9 ft. ceiling. The next task was to cajole dad into putting the lights on the tree. Often it seemed the tree would stand naked for days before he’d dig into an upstairs closet and bring down the light sets. This was before the days of miniature lights, and besides, our long needled trees (6-8”) were better served with the larger traditional bulbs. Dad worked from the top of the tree downward in placing the lights, always making sure there was a white bulb in the very top light.

Everyone could help with the ornaments, except the two delicate, glass, German decorations in the shape and actual size of clusters of grapes. These were left to dad or mom to tie securely to a branch. These special ornaments still survive, with my brother caring for the gold one while I preserve its silver twin.

The finale of decorating was the hanging of icicles - a word I prefer over tinsel. Ours were the traditional metallic icicles, which are impossible to find today, having given way to cheap, plastic, difficult to hang, plastic imitations. (I still have a handful of these icicles which mom gave me many years ago. They were always saved and reused from year to year).

Two rules re. hanging icicles could not be broken: 1) icicle strands must be hung one by one (although two or three can hang together on the same branch); 2) icicles must not touch an ornament or any other branch besides the one they’re hung from. These are rules I live by to this day, and hopefully this tradition will be carried on by my children!

To be continued later today...

It’s been difficult deciding where next to set my pointer. I don’t wish to overdo the the Christmas memories, whether sweet or sour. Christmas topics are on hold for at least another week! However, you should know about heat.

Staying warm is something many of us take for granted in our lives. Others struggle to stay warm during the winter months, as doorways, alleyways, and highway overpasses offer little to sustain the body’s temperature when it’s 20 degrees outside.

To be honest, I never physically suffered from lack of heat. Was I often cold, yes indeed, especially upstairs at night. But it was nothing compared to what other, less fortunate folk, endured daily - then and now.

The farmhouse had three levels: basement; main floor; upstairs. The basement was a dark, dank, subterranean space. All of mom’s jars of produce from summer canning were stored on wooden shelves, hidden from daylight by sheets of cloth hung from wire. Here too was the coal bin, always dark, with it’s earthy black smells. And in the basement’s center was the furnace, that cantankerous, cast iron, heat source with it’s accessories of doors, chains, dampers, and more.

A rotund monster it was, perhaps 6 feet in diameter, consisting of an outer sheet metal skin, which hid its cast iron innards. There was no ductwork and no fan to force heat throughout the farmhouse. The physics of “hot air rises,” was the only the truth that gave us heat.

We fired up the furnace with anthracite coal and hardwood. (There’s a great coal story waiting to be told when the summer tales are ready for the telling. And, you’ve previously read about cutting winter wood.)

The furnace was essentially a cast iron boiler with doors for adding the fuel, controlling air flow, and cleaning out the ashes. A large pipe connected the furnace to the chimney. Built into this pipe was a damper door which regulated the amount of “draw” the chimney would exert on the fire. The damper door was connected by a chain and pulleys to a motor that was wired to a thermostat. It was a fairly simple but effective system to somewhat regulate the heat.

Above the furnace, on the main floor, was an iron grate, roughly three feet square. The top of the furnace boiler was visible through the grate. As the heated boiler gave off warmth, the heated air rose through the grate and into the rest of the house - at least on the main floor. The kitchen, dining and living rooms, bathroom, and mom & dad’s bedroom were all on this floor. We kids occupied the the three upstairs bedrooms - the cold, frigid, frosty, upstairs bedrooms.

Heat only rises to a point. The three upstairs bedrooms were rarely warm and often downright cold. It was very common to have thick frost on the INSIDE of the upstairs windows in the mornings. My will was always tested as I tried to make myself slide out of bed, hoping my feet would be as tough as the fire walkers of the South Seas - only in reverse!

Dad would usually be the one to put the final wood and coal in the furnace for the night and also be the one in the morning to revive the few remaining glowing coals. The grate over the furnace was the most popular place to be after coming down from a cold night upstairs.

The furnace produced a number of scary moments when it overheated. The boiler could be seen glowing red hot when viewed through the grate on the main floor. The fiery cast iron would give off a smell of overheated metal, another sign that the furnace was acting up. I always had confidence that dad would be able to adjust the damper quickly enough to prevent the house from bursting into flames. However, those were still frightening incidents for me.

Today the old furnace still remains in the basement. And, a few tons of coal are left in the bin, but the furnace hasn’t been used in over 25 years. The house is now warmed with electric baseboard heaters, saving my elderly mother from having to shovel coal and haul out buckets of ashes. Most importantly, her heat is safe, and easy to control.

More time has elapsed than I intended since last adding to this narrative. Winter is fast approaching, as it should...

The arrival of the Sears Christmas catalog was a major event in my childhood. It was anticipated, wished for, and then celebrated when it was finally delivered. The toys in that catalog transported me into worlds of fantasy and adventure. The pages of the toy guns were always where I would turn to first. Wes and I were never allowed to own toy six shooters, rifles, cap guns and the like. The variety of guns, holsters, and accessories was always overwhelming. By the way, do you know what “caps” are??

Caps came in a variety of forms, and I’m not even sure they can be sold today. (Does anyone know?) Typically they were sold in rolls - strips of red paper, 3/8” wide and maybe two feet long. The strip was actually made from two layers of paper, the top layer being extremely thin. Every inch or so, there would be a dot of gunpowder, sandwiched between the two layers. The gunpowder dot would be no larger the the diameter of a pencil eraser. Roll caps were fitted into toy guns in such away that whenever the trigger was pulled, the roll of caps would advance one space and be struck by the hammer of the gun. causing the dot of gunpowder to fire (explode). Kids could play Cowboys and Indians, firing away at each other until the roll of caps was exhausted. Caps were sold in packs, with five or six rolls attached together. Talk about getting bang for the buck !(more likely a nickel or dime)

As I said, we weren’t permitted to have toy guns, but we were allowed to buy the caps. (go figure?) Wes and I would unroll the caps on the sidewalk and use a hammer to fire them. It was the best we could do. If we really wanted an ear splitting bang, we’d lay an entire roll on its side and strike it with the hammer. I remember seeing the large powder burns on the concrete.

Dad was a pacifist and I respect him for his beliefs, although I didn’t really understand it while growing up. It usually meant a restriction of some sort in my life life, such as no toy guns. With W.W.II so recently in the past and Korea in the present, pacifism was not popular in the 50’s. For that matter, it still isn’t - even with the horrors of Vietnam and today’s tens of thousands of losses from terrorism and conflicts around the world. From the time I turned 18 and continuing into my adult years, I’ve had to face some personal realities and conflicts with my father’s beliefs. Perhaps more on that down the road...

I’ve strayed from the Sears Christmas catalog...
That catalog was the ultimate wish list, even knowing the chances were nil to none of finding something from it under the tree on Christmas morning. But that’s why children are blessed with unlimited imagination - and hope. Next to the toy guns, train sets were the most fascinating, followed by Erector sets and other toys involving construction. If you’re not familiar with an Erector set, check out:
http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/erectorset.htm

December 25 needs to be closer at hand before I share additional holiday memories. Suffice it to say they will include cutting the tree on the farm, setting up the Lionel train set, decorating the tree, putting up the star, and of course, Christmas morning. There’s lots to tell. Can you be patient?? :)

Winter is on its way. Growing up, our fall preparations for it were extremely necessary in the house and throughout the farm. Our farmhouse windows were the old double hung type with lead weights, ropes and pulleys. Storm windows were marked with a numbered tack and mated with a window frame with the same tack number. These were large, heavy, full size storm windows which covered the top and bottom of the house windows in one frame. Barn, chicken house, and work shed windows were also checked for needed caulking and then put in place after being taken out for the summer months.

Water in the cavernous barn cistern was pumped by hand or with an electric pump. With the onset of the first hard frosts we drained the electric pump for the season and nightly drained the cast iron hand pump to prevent cracking from expanding ice if water was allowed to remain in the pump. A water heater was cleaned and tested for the chicken house.

Pasture for the cattle always became overgrown in the summer with iron weed and other tall woody plants. Fall was a time to mow the pasture down to facilitate the growth of new grass in the spring. We had several horse drawn sickle bar mowers for this job, and they were also used for mowing hay. These were cast iron behemoths which derived their power from the turning of the iron wheels as the mower was pulled along. The circular motion of the wheels was transferred in a gear box into a back and forth cutting action of razor sharp blades on a long bar. The faster the horses or tractor pulled the mower, the faster the sickle bar cut. These were wicked machines with absolutely no safety devices. There was an iron seat for the operator who had to not only command the horses but adjust the sickle bar as well. When we converted the mowers from horse drawn to tractor use, it was still helpful to have either Wes or I riding in the mower seat to take care of any problems that might arise, as well as to make the frequent adjustments to cutting height of the sickle bar.

Anything in the path of the blade would be sliced, including the heads off of blacksnakes when they’d raise their heads upon feeling the vibrations of the oncoming mower. It was always a shame to find a beheaded snake in the field, knowing how much they contributed to controlling rodents. One of our first farm dogs, Pokey, lost part of a leg to a sickle bar when he ran into a hay field while dad was mowing. I remember how sad dad felt over this incident, blaming himself for not seeing Pokey run into the field.

This was also a time to winterize all motorized equipment on the farm, mainly the tractor and our cars. Antifreeze was checked, oil changed, tire chains readied, and snow tires mounted on the cars. Heavy iron weights were always kept close at hand ready to be placed into the car trunks to provide additional traction to the rear wheels.

I could see almost a daily change in the coats of the cattle, sheep, and horses as their hair became thicker and longer in preparation for the cold weather to come. As for human coats, we kids would always have to try on our previous year’s winter wear to see if it would still fit for one more season. The first snow was just around the corner, often before Thanksgiving.