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.

My daughter was one who started me on this journey. I've neglected to post a link to her blog, Over the Edge. Now it's there on the left.

Slaughtering Fowl
Staying with friends for the past two weeks on a Canadian farm jogged many more farm memories from my own growing up experiences. My friend, Hugh, will soon be slaughtering five roosters he was given by a neighboring farmer. They are beautiful birds of several breeds and no doubt will make for many fine meals. The advice I gave Hugh was to have a chicken wire available when it’s time to catch those roosters.

A chicken wire in the hand of a skillful user makes the task of nabbing the chicken much easier. The one we used on the farm is likely still hanging in the chicken house. I hope to find it and scan the shape to send to Hugh so he can create his own. The wire was about three feet long with a bend at one end for hanging on a nail. The opposite end was shaped to easily encircle a chicken’s leg without harming the chicken. Imagine a “V” with a rounded bottom instead of a point, and with the sides of the V being parallel nearest to the rounded end and the upper parts of the V retaining their flared shape to make it easier for the user to snag the chicken’s leg.

Using the wire required a quick outward thrust close to the ground to the side of a chicken’s leg followed a quick reverse pull to ensnare the leg. The hapless chicken was then pulled towards the catcher, grabbed by both legs and taken from the pen to the killing location. This was my job whenever chickens were to be slaughtered.

Garrison Keillor in, “Leaving Home - A Collection of Lake Wobegon Stories,” accurately and humorously describes the task of catching chickens to bring to his father for killing. He writes, “All the chickens had to die, so it wasn’t like I had any power; I was only a lower-level bureaucrat trying to keep things going smoothly. I didn’t have the power of clemency, so why did they look at me that way--why did I feel cheap. I closed the door behind me and stood in the dim light with my hook and work gloves, the chickens milling away from me, and I took a deep breath and snagged one and it cried out, ‘Oh no, gosh no, please no, don’t do this,’ and I took it to my dad and handed it over and turned my back, not wanting to watch this creature, who had been alive in my hands just a moment before, now--WHACK--was gone.”

We didn’t chop the heads off our chickens. Instead we hung them by the legs with a tattered loop of rope or baling twine. My father would then slit their throats, letting them bleed into a wheel barrow lined with many layers of newspapers. The farm cats would jump into the wheel barrow to lick the dripping blood from the newspaper and later devour many of the guts. I’m not trying to make this sound overly gruesome; it’s just the way it was.

The drained carcasses were dipped into a large bucket of boiling water which mom had carried from the house to the barn. It was important not to let the bird remain in the scalding water any longer than necessary to loosen the feathers. Inattention to this detail might cause the flesh of the chicken to begin cooking. The chickens were then hung back on the nails so the feathers could be plucked and thrown in the wheel barrow. The steamy, slightly sweet smell of hot feathers will always remain with me. Finally, dad would do the gutting, saving the gizzards, hearts, and livers.

We followed the same process in slaughtering a turkey except that it was hung by the legs inside a metal cone with only its head and neck protruding from the bottom of the cone narrow opening. The cone prevented the turkey from flapping its large wings in dad’s face and from spraying him with blood.

Friday Egg Route
Watching Hugh gather the two or three eggs his Ontario hens laid daily reminded me of my family’s Friday egg route. After meeting our own needs it was typical for us to accumulate 10-15 dozen (or more) of extra eggs each week if the hens were laying well. Church members, knowing of our farm, would ask to be regular customers for delivery of farm fresh eggs. Every Friday afternoon mom would pick we three kids up after school and head into the nearby tiny city of Mt. Healthy (a refuge from the cholera epidemic of 1850). We’d drive the streets of Mt. Healthy dropping off eggs at the homes of our customers. If no one was home we expected to find the egg money in the empty carton from the previous week’s delivery. All of our customers were asked to return the cartons as it was an additional expense if we had to constantly provide new ones. Mom kept here egg money separate from other funds. She alone decided which special occasions or needs would be financed from this resource.