Grandpa's Farm

A lazy dog and several cats snoozed in the shade of the large wrap around porch of Grandpa and Grandma’s large white house. Its simple, two-story, Victorian style was typical of most Central Iowa farm houses. Several large elm and ash trees dominated the yard, while apple trees occupied a portion of the pasture, just on the other side of the fence. A vegetable garden flourished out back, and peonies, tulips, iris, hollyhocks and honeysuckle grew in abundance all around. My mom grew up there, just as Grandpa and his father did.

Mom and Dad lived in the "little house" after they married. It was a small tenant house just across the sheep pasture from the main house. Dad worked as a part time hired man for Grandpa for a while. I was born during that time, so I lived on the farm for the first couple years of my life. Dad later took a job in town and we had to move, but I looked forward to the many frequent visits back to the farm.

One of my earliest memories was of the huge goldfish that Grandpa had in a concrete stock tank out by the windmill. It's hard to believe they could survive those Iowa winters, but they were big enough to be at least a few years old.

There was always something new to discover on the farm. Grandpa wasn't necessarily an orderly person, but he knew where to find things. His workshop was attached to the garage and was rather dark and disorganized. It had a dirt floor and smelled of old oil and grease. I enjoyed going in there and just looking around, as there was always a new discovery. If a needed thingamajig wasn't in the shop, then it was probably lying around outside somewhere. Pieces of baling wire and twine could be found everywhere, always ready for emergency repairs. For several years there was a private dump behind the garage. The biggest difference between the shop and the dump was that the dump was outside. Years later, the dump was cleaned up and many of the cats had to find new homes. There were also several piles of "good" junk scattered throughout the place. One in particular was just north of the house, behind the hog shed. Underneath the elm and mulberry trees were several pieces of machinery among other odds and ends. I had a pretty good fort built out there, and since I was usually armed with my Daisy Model 36 BB gun, I was ready for any attack by rustlers, renegades, or other assorted bad guys.

I grew up with guns in the house and Dad taught me respect for them. My folks gave me the Daisy rifle for Christmas when I was about nine. When I was 12, I got my first .22 rifle. It was a single shot bolt action, that I paid $10 for. I shot my first rabbit on the farm and the experience was rather traumatic for me. It gave me a deep respect for life and I have never hunted just for the thrill of killing.

I still have Grandpa's old Remington Model 10, 12 gauge shotgun and his Iver Johnson, nine shot, .22 caliber revolver. Occasionally, on hot summer nights, Grandma heard the chickens kick up a fuss out in the henhouse; Grandpa grabbed the flashlight and the revolver from the top of the refrigerator and go out to check for a 'possum. He'd stick the revolver into the back pocket of his overalls and off he'd go. The pistol had a long, six inch barrel, and it looked so funny just hanging out of his pocket, waving as he walked out into the night.

Grandma kept chickens for many years. Sometimes I'd get to help feed the chickens and then gather the eggs in yellow, rubber coated wire egg baskets. Grandma used to reach right underneath the hens to take the eggs, but I was never quite so brave. I'd have to shoo the chickens out of their nests before I could make my withdrawal. . Grandma fed them corn and cracked oyster shells, then mixed up some concoction of vitamins with their water, so they would be healthier and lay more eggs. Then off we went, back to the house where we took the eggs to be cleaned in the basement. She set the basket of eggs into the egg washing machine a tub of hot water which sat on top of a rotating platform run by an electric motor. After washing, we put them into cardboard egg crates to await the egg man to come and buy them. She also sold eggs to neighbors and many times just gave them away.

When Grandma worked around the house, she was rarely without an apron tied around her waist. Besides keeping her usual flower print dresses clean, it could be made into an instant basket by holding up the two bottom corners together. She could go to the henhouse to gather just a few eggs, or to the garden to pick a few vegetables for dinner, without having to take a basket along. It could also be used for flapping at loose chickens, pigs, and sheep, if they got out of their pens.

There were several lanes connecting the fields of corn and soybeans, the pumpkin patch, and the hog and sheep lots. The back fields were like a maze when I'd go exploring. A lone mulberry tree stood at the dividing fence between the north 80 acres and the rest of the place. It always provided tasty berries during my safaris. My purple stained fingers gave me away when I returned. The pumpkin patch was only used for two seasons. We grew squash, gourds, and pumpkins to take into town, where I sat up shop on the picnic table in the front yard.

I thought I was wealthy as a kid. In the summer, I earned money by mowing lawns, walking beans, and collecting deposits on pop bottles that I had found in roadside ditches. I scooped neighborhood sidewalks during the winters, as well as operated a newspaper route. Aside from my wages, there was always some change in "Grandpa's cup" in the basement. Grandma would empty the pockets from Grandpa's overalls prior to wash day, and would put the pennies, nickels, and dimes into an old coffee cup that set on one of the lower shelves in the basement. I guess she let him keep the quarters so he could buy coffee and a roll at the local cafe.

Grandpa had a good sense of humor. He was known for his stories at the town coffee shop, and his tall tales kept my friends and I entertained. I believe I laughed most at the way he sneezed and blew his nose. He wasn't a very big man, but he sure did make a lot of noise. He'd return from the fields at night and head for the basement for his shower. Since he'd been breathing dust and dirt all day, he'd let out a big sneeze, Grandma would yell "Catch um!" and the cats sitting outside the door would scramble for cover! Then he'd have to blow his nose, which sounded just like a foghorn. Grandma said it was our ship coming in.

I enjoyed riding with Grandpa on his tractors on hot summer days. He owned mostly Olivers and a couple of John Deeres. One of them stands out in my mind more than the others. It was an old green Oliver 70 with a huge green and yellow umbrella mounted over the seat and platforms built on either side. The platforms, used for carrying bags of feed or seed, field rocks, tools, or other equipment, were also great for hitching a ride.

When I was older, I had a Honda 70 mini bike that I rode all over the farm. One day I was riding down the lane between the corn field and the hog lot, when I came across a single wire about two feet off the ground, and strung all the way across the road. I wasn't sure why it was there, but I did want to continue on my way. I grabbed the wire so I could lift it up to ride underneath. Zap! I discovered Grandpa's new electric fence.

About once a year, Mom and I would go out to the farm to help Grandma "do chickens." Grandma would pick the ones she wanted, grab them with a long wire hook, and take them over to the butchering stump to chop their heads off. That was Grandma's job, since Mom didn't care for the execution part of the whole ordeal. It was funny in a weird sort of way seeing a couple dozen headless chickens hopping all over the place, bouncing off Mom and Grandma if they got in the way. The cats carried chicken heads up to the front door steps for the next several days, as a sort of "thank you" for feeding them, I suppose. For the rest of the day, Mom and Grandma were in the kitchen boiling water, plucking feathers and cutting up chickens for the freezer. The smell of boiled chicken feathers is even worse than wet dog.

They would also get together later in the summer to can sweet corn. I'd help pick and husk several bushels of corn from the sweet corn patch. Mom and Grandma could cut all the kernels off an ear of corn with about four slices of a knife. Then it would be bagged and boxed for the freezer. Fresh, homegrown sweet corn would grace our table for the next year.

One thing I remember most is all the farm cats that lived on the place. Each spring I would search all the hiding places where the mama cats would have their kittens. If I couldn't find them all, Grandpa would give me some hints, since he usually had already found most of them. I remember pushing Mom's old wicker doll buggy, filled with kittens, all over the yard. At feeding time, there seemed to be hundreds of cats that met Grandma at the door, as she brought them out day old bread from the store, table scraps, and milk. The actual number of cats probably leveled out around 50, give or take 20. Grandpa named each of their cats and never got them mixed up. They were all named "Tabby."

When Dad put new siding on the main house, I used scraps and extra lumber to build a cat house. About the size of a large dog house, it was supposed to be a warm shelter for many of the resident felines. I think I played in it more than anything ever lived in it. I couldn't have been more than nine years old then, but I must have done a fairly decent job on that house, for it stood for many years just outside the orchard fence.

The farm was never without a dog either. They each seemed to get along well with the cats, probably because they were so outnumbered. When I was just a toddler, I got Buttons, a white Spitz puppy, and we started growing up together. When we moved to town, Buttons happily stayed on the farm and joined Smoky (named for his resemblance to The Bear) down at the big house. At the time Grandma died, the farm happened to be without a dog. One day, Mom and Dad rescued a small black mutt, with maybe some border collie mixed in, from the animal shelter. We took her home, gave her a bath, combed and cut out all the matted fur and tangles, and introduced her to Grandpa. He and Candy became constant companions. Candy continued to live on the farm for several years after Grandpa died.

There were a few winters where the gravel roads leading out to the farm had snow plowed to over 10 feet on each side. Grandpa would crank up the Oliver with the front end loader attached, and clear out the driveway and all the lanes connecting the buildings to wherever he would need to go on a daily basis. There was a canvas cab on the tractor which probably didn't raise the temperature much, but it did keep the wind off. When he was finished, there were several mountains of piled snow. It took me the rest of the day to excavate snow caves.

The farm has survived over 135 years of family ownership. Although the buildings were sold off years ago and all of paths through the fields and hog lots have been cultivated, things seem pretty much the same as when it was Grandpa's Farm.