The Old, Old Cap

It’s January, and lately in Ohio we've had some cold, snowy days.  The Zuercher Road walking-route still beckons, and six or seven days a week I buckle down and do the three mile hike .  If it weren't for the warm, soft comfort of my ancient stocking cap, this may not be possible.  As I pull it onto my head and step out the door, the instant soft warmth caresses my ears, and a flood of memories pour out from under it, warming my heart as well.  

Everyone has a favorite something; a cap, a coat, or a pair of shoes, and this cap is mine.  It is faded gold and intricately woven with ultra-soft, multi-layered material, and generous in size.  It looks tired, and although appearing to have seen it’s better days, it still serves it’s intended purpose equal to the day it was new.  The round, fuzzy ball that used to grace the top, has dwindled to just a few strands - a mere tuft - having left tiny bits of itself in many different places.  One side is missing a baseball-sized area of the outer layer - attesting to a moment of inattentiveness while I was operating a spark-spewing grinder.  I wasn't wearing it at the time, but had laid it on the workbench before running the grinder.   When the rim is folded up just right, the burnt-away layer can be covered.

I’ve tried to replace the vintage cap on a number of occasions, but find that it is simply irreplaceable.  All other stocking caps are too tight, too thin, or made of scratchy material.  It’s important to be comfortable when facing the elements.  Not too hot or cold, too tight, or too loose.  Seems like this one is here to stay.  It is so old, there is no possibility of recounting everywhere it’s been with me, but one or two events float to the top of the memories.  

The old cap has been a source of education - as I learned one morning in Southern Ohio, while working on a dairy farm about thirty years ago.  It was my first winter on the farm.  Gone were the hot sultry days of summer, and the pleasant days of fall.  Winter was upon us.  On this particular morning, I would be sharing milking duties with Matt, the farm-owner’s mischievous twenty-four year old son.

The silvery moon and star-studded sky were shining brightly enough to light my path across the snow-covered pasture to my morning milking duties.  I checked the thermometer on the back porch, and shivered in anticipation.  It was difficult to leave the cozy warmth of our old lap-sided farmhouse situated back a long lane near the Ohio River.  After tossing some more logs into the wood stove and pulling on my old faithful stocking cap, I headed out the door.    

I couldn't believe I was still wearing that cap.  I had purchased it at the age of thirteen.  My brother Gene and I thought we needed something to keep our heads warm, so we headed off to Pierces Sport Shop in Wooster.  After trying on a large assortment of caps, we stumbled onto these.  We knew immediately that our search was over.  Gold in color, and much softer than most caps - and best of all, not too tight on our big heads.   Without hesitation we laid down our cash and walked proudly out of Pierces, wearing our identical caps.

In the years following that fortunate purchase, the cap had accompanied me and kept my head and ears toasty through many sledding and skating parties.   It had also walked with me for many years of hunting rabbits and trapping muskrats.  Many were the times an errant bramble had yanked it from my head, and I had to take a step back to retrieve it - or most of it.  I think a thousand little golden strands must be lodged in a thousand different briers all over Wayne County.  

But here it was, nineteen years after acquiring it, and many miles from home - like the clothing on the Israelites during their desert journey - refusing to wear out, and still keeping my head warm at the age of thirty-two.  And now it was beginning to accumulate the unmistakable scent of a dairy farm.

After arriving at the barn and rousting the cows from the free stalls, I walked them to the holding pen, closed the gate, and stepped into the milking parlor.  Matt was already there, hooking up the lines and getting the milkers ready.

“Mornin’ Dave, looks like it’s time for the toboggan.”   

“Yes it is,” I replied.  The new layer of snow covered the many hills, and I looked forward to streaking down them on a sled or toboggan.

“Do you have a toboggan?” I asked.

“Yeah, a couple of them.”

“Where do you go to ride them?”

Matt’s face went from a smile to a rather confused look, and his response was just as bewildering.

“Huh?  You wear them - like the one you’re wearing right now.”

Now it was my turn to look confused.  Wear a toboggan?  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Matt.  Wear a toboggan!?  You ride a toboggan.”

“On yer head, Dave!

“On my head? What?”

“BOGGAN!  . . .YER CAP!  Matt made sure I understood him this time.

“Boggan?” I mused slowly, as it began to sink in. “It’s a stocking cap!”

“Stocking cap?” Matt chortled, “Never heard that before.  It’s a toboggan - ‘boggan for short.”

Now I was laughing, “A toboggan is something you ride down a hill.”

“Yeah, I know, but that’s a ‘boggan on yer head too - and yours is a girly ‘boggan!”

“Huh!?”  Knowing Matt, I could expect anything.  “What do you mean, a girly boggan?”

“It’s got that ball on top.  I’d cut that ball off if it was mine!”

Now we were both laughing, and after finishing with hooking up the milkers and turning on the compressor, we opened the door to let the first batch of six cows in.  The air felt even colder than before.  It sure was nice to be wearing the ‘boggan.

The next day, it was still really cold, and I was again wearing my faithful stocking cap.  This time I was helping Lisa, Matt’s sister, with the morning milking.  And wouldn't you know it, she had to have a word about my cap too.

“Where’d ya get that ‘boggan, Dave.”

I gave her my best educated smile,  “I’ve had it a long time, Lisa.  Just can’t find another one that comes close to being this warm and comfortable.”

“Well, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing it!”  Lisa’s words took me off guard, and again bewilderment twisted its way across my face and out through my eyes.

“Well, why not?  You’re wearing a ‘boggan too!”

“Yeah, but mine doesn't have a ball on top.  That’s too girly.”

“But . . . but . . . you ARE a girl. Why..…?........Ach!”  

I shook my head and laughed, “I don’t know about you guys!  Toboggans are made to ride down hills, and YOU wear them on your heads.  And I don’t care if my stocking cap has a ball on top, as long as it keeps my head warm.”

Lisa just shook her head and smiled at me sympathetically.  One thing for sure - the flat-lander from Wayne County with the girly ‘boggan on his head had a lot more to learn about life on the farm in Gallia County.  Now, many years later, the ‘boggan still survives.  It gets a lot of use every winter - forty-nine years and counting.

A man returned from a rapid, three-mile walk, thankful for good health and another day to get out and breathe deeply of the fresh invigorating air.  He hung an old coat on the hook, parked his old shoes under the split-log bench, and pitched an ancient stocking cap onto the closet shelf.  The man enjoyed watching buggies and wagons rattle up and down the road, seeing the corn shocks that are gathering snow while standing rigidly in the wind.  He waved a greeting at the rugged Amish men who were hauling manure onto their frozen fields with horse-drawn spreaders that had been loaded using strong backs and pitch forks.  He loved the sense of community and good will that he experienced in observing the farmers, and the chance meetings of young Amish men walking home from their job at the Chipmunk Hill Woodworking shop.  This is life, he told himself.   

Once again, we leave you with happy memories from scenic, snow-covered Kidron, Ohio, where all the good men keep the driveways clean for their lovely ladies who are in the house making chili soup for supper.  And the children?  Who knows what they’re doing.  They’ll come around by-and-by.  Maybe they’ll smell the soup.

Note on the names of caps:

Many variants exist for knitted caps, including the Southern American version, toboggan, and the American English version, stocking cap.

Help Wanted

It’s not so unusual to see help wanted ads for farm laborers, but one appeared in The Daily Record this week that caught my eye.  At first it made me laugh.  Probably not worded in a way that will garner a long line of prospective employees, but you have to hand it to the person who placed it - at least they're honest.  

FARM LABORER, male or female. Hard, wet, dirty work. 330-XXX-3922 or 330-XXX-1490 / leave msg.

Perhaps there are still some people who are up for a good challenge.  If they're ready to dig in and do some demanding physical labor; if they can see the humor in unexpected events; if they can remember that there are a lot more benefits to this vocation then the paycheck - they should apply.  The farm job will be a good experience.

There's nothing like farming that can bring us back to the roots of our existence.  Man was taken from dirt, and to dirt we will return.  Sometimes I  think about the layer of soil we rely on to grow our food.  It’s a complex accumulation of organic matter  and microorganisms - former plant and animal life - eons of decomposed vegetation,  and many generations of animals and humans.  Yes, humans.  Think about that.  For thousands of years humans and creatures have fallen and returned to the soil.  To put it simply, the water we drink and food we eat comes from an unceasing recycling of molecules that have been around for a long, long time.   

When visiting the cemetery where my Grandparents are buried, I see a fairly large cedar tree growing right next to their headstone.   I look at the tree and see life - life that is fed, in part, by the organic matter that was once the bodies of living, loving persons called Walter and Fannie. It’s good to be able to acknowledge these things.  It gives us perspective on life.  

The one farm that I walk past nearly every day is pretty typical of the Swartzentruber Amish.  The "Swartzentrubers" are the most conservative group of Amish, and by virtue of very strict religious rules designed to keep them distanced from the world, they don't have a lot of options for vocations.  Farming is their preferred way of making a living, but it's a bare existence.  This particular farm has a menagerie that includes horses, cows, pigs, goats, sheep, chickens, ducks, and geese - and if it were possible to give it a closer inspection, there would probably be rabbits in a hutch somewhere, and rats under the barn floor.  There are many buildings on this farm - some of them in various states of disrepair.  Still, there is something about it - it’s difficult to put it in words - something attractive, something that touches the part of us that yearns to live more simply - an instinctive knowledge that this way of life is more satisfying than great wealth.

 There is something so real, so fundamental, about observing and participating in the cycle of life.  Perhaps that's why I feel such a peace while walking the country roads with fields on both sides.  I see the Amish men hard at work planting and harvesting.  I see their animals in the pasture, and it gives me a feeling of nostalgia - almost a yearning.  Some day I want to sit down on a stool beside my Amish neighbors, and listen to the steady swish-swish of the milk hitting the pail, and watch the foam building up on top of the milk - just like when I was a boy, and my Dad and older brothers milked our Jersey cows.

 

I miss those days of growing up on a small farm near Elida, Ohio - then again as a thirty-something father, living and working on farms in Southern Ohio in the mid-eighties.   It wasn't an ad in the paper, but a phone call from my cousin that opened the door to an education on a dairy farm near Gallipolis - a few years that changed me - made me stronger and a lot more appreciative of those who spend a lifetime doing the  hard, wet, dirty work of an honorable profession.

After returning to Wayne County from the farm in Southern Ohio, my family spent the next twenty years hobby farming on our own little six-acre patch.  Goats, horses, donkeys, calves, rabbits, chickens, turkeys, and the occasional 'possum graced our premises.  Not all at the same time though.  Our children  went through different stages with different interests and needs.  Our small plot was an excellent place for them to learn about gardening and the rudiments of animal husbandry, the mystery of  birth, the reality of death, and appreciation for living close to the earth.  

For all those with fond memories of life on the farm, or current endeavors with hands in the dirt; may your days on earth be filled with the simple pleasures of planting and harvesting, and enjoying the fruits of your labors.  May your hours of “hard, wet, dirty” work reward you with the satisfaction of fresh food on your table, moments of surprise and joy, and nights of sweet rest.   May your children and grandchildren grow up experiencing this cycle of life - and may they find a way to repeat it with their own children.  

Proverbs 12:11 says it well. “Those who work their land will have abundant food.”  And Ecclesiastes 3:12,13, “I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.”

From the quiet little town of Kidron, Ohio, where a lot of men grew up with dirt under their fingernails and manure on their feet; where winsome farm "girls" love their farm "boys"; and where rosy-cheeked children hold their Daddy’s hand as they go to the barn to feed the calves and gather the fresh eggs.

Dogs

I've always loved dogs.  Most any dog.  The truth is - I will be bold enough to admit it - I am generally more comfortable around dogs than people.  Some will understand this.  Some will not.  Shy people and introverts probably will.  People who have been betrayed or abused may also understand.  Dogs provide good company and excellent therapy.

Dogs are like God in many respects.  They want to spend time with us.   They are forgiving and love us unconditionally the way we are.  They don't care if we're overweight or thin, old or young, homely or beautiful, athletic or handicapped, happy or depressed.  They have the singular ability to overlook everything that humans notice, and get right to the business of loving.  

The dogs of Zuercher Road are an interesting bunch.  I've met six of them now.  From the hound at the corner of Jericho and Zuercher that announces my passing-by with a couple throaty howls - to the other end of my walk, down by Western Road - where a little reddish-colored dog races around the yard trying to sound vicious, while contained behind an invisible fence.  It's very tempting to call its bluff.  I'll bet it would lay on its back and wet itself if I ever got down to pet it on the yard it so loudly proclaims as its own.

But, in a way, this one reminds me of my first dog - a little black and white mixed-breed named Corky.  We had a swing on the front porch of our old farm house.  As a boy I’d often sit there with Corky, and just day dream. We’d sit and think and think and think.  Occasionally a cat would wander into view, and I’d say, “Sic-em, Corky!”, and that little half-pint terrier would launch himself from the swing with the explosive action of a rocket.  Off he’d go lickety-split after the cat, which in turn would run for the safety of the barn - easily outrunning him.  In the meantime, I’d be sitting, swinging happily, thoroughly enjoying our little moment of excitement.  Presently, Corky would return, leap onto the swing and settle back down with a happy sigh and a pleased smile on his face.

I still remember Corky's confusion the day a cat refused to run. He came to a screeching halt mere inches from the feline, and stood there for a brief moment with an alarmed look on his face, before slinking embarrassedly back to the swing.  This experience messed with Corky's psyche for a while.  It was several cats later until he could extend his whole-hearted efforts again.  It seems certain if a cat would have ever gone after him, he'd have come streaking back to my lap like a heat-seeking missile, with his tail tucked between his legs, and loud screeches of terror coming from his upturned lips.  Corky was all bluff.  I think it's the little-dog syndrome.

The Irish Setter that I occasionally meet on Zuercher Road is always busy sniffing around the ditches.  He barely notices that I exist.  He will walk right past me within a couple feet and hardly glance my direction.  His master Jay is much more personable though, and its been a pleasure to get to know him.  Jay is a generous soul who helped me get rid of some bothersome poison ivy last summer.  I just don't know about his dog.  It ignores me.  I'm not used to dogs doing that.

Then there's the little mixed-breed dog  who lives up the hill north of Jericho.  It’s often walking south on Zuercher with its master. This dog too, seems surprisingly aloof.  I'd be happy to show it a little attention, but it's not interested.  That's fine.  Perhaps it is a one-person dog.  Surely, it is safer for the dog to not run across the road to greet people.   Actually, on human terms, I understand this personality trait.  

The farm dogs at the Amish S curve are a breed of their own.  Can't quite figure them out.  They're large.  One is the size and shape of a German shepherd, but with longer, solid reddish-brown hair.  The other is even larger and solid white.  Pretty dogs.  Sometimes they bark at me, and wander out to the road to investigate as I pass by.  They stop a couple feet away, and just watch.  I slow my pace to move respectfully past.  It would be nice to be on a first-name basis with them, but I don't know how the Amish would feel about that.  So I ignore them and walk on.

Just a few days ago, a Husky was tagging along with another walker, headed north as I was headed south.  She asked me to take the dog back where it came from.  It obediently followed when I called.  Nice dog.  It belongs to a family up over the hill after the S curve.  I've never seen it near the road before.

Generally speaking, dogs need not be feared. They are to be respected.  A little bit of dog language can go a long way for a walker who may encounter a canine with undetermined intentions.  One thing - if you feel threatened - turn your eyes away from the dog.  Take this a step further, and  turn your body slightly sideways to the dog too - enough that he thinks he is being ignored, but not too much that you can’t see him with your peripheral vision. This is counter-intuitive, but sends the dog a message that you are not threatening him, and you are not afraid.  Slowly ease away.  Your chances of getting bitten decrease a lot when you "speak" this language.  The thing is, you aren't going to out-run the dog anyway, unless someone else with you is slower than you.  It’s best to just tell it in dog language that you are not afraid.  If all else fails, lay down and curl up in a fetal position, and whimper.  It’s doubtful this will work, but it may surprise the dog enough to mess with its thinking.  Remember Corky.  

My Dad was always afraid of dogs.  It came from his days as a gasoline delivery man when he was in his twenties.  Going to farms to deliver gasoline does indeed put you directly into a dog’s territory.  I can’t say I blame Dad, because he did on occasion, get bitten.  It may even be doubtful if the techniques described above would always work for delivery people.  This may be why pepper spray was invented.

Seriously now, don’t lay down and whimper.  But do try to look away and ease away, and if all else fails, in extreme cases, you may need the pepper spray as a last resort.  This, of course, will not increase your chances of being seen in a favorable light with either the dog or its owner.  Neither species will forget that encounter.

Dogs have always been a wonderful part of my experience.  Just now my own Golden Retriever is slowly fading away after a full life of thirteen and one-half years.  She’s been a good one.  We carefully chose this breed after having a large mixed-breed dog that didn't like certain people - particularly bearded Amish men.  Don’t know why.  We just knew that we wanted a dog that would love everyone.  Golden Retrievers are the best choice for that.  We’re going to miss Heidi a lot when the time comes.  She’s been an awesome companion for innumerable walks through fields and woods.  She lets small children hug and lay on her.  She even sold her own pups.  Really, people who came to buy pups told us that.  It was because she would lay down beside their children and nudge them with her soft nose, and look at them lovingly with her large brown eyes.  Who could resist?  Her eyes are clouded now and her hearing is leaving.   Her energy is gone.  She’s content to just be close and receive the love she was so good at giving.  It won’t be long...

And that’s all for now.  Leaving you with best wishes, happy walking, and may all dogs treat you kindly.

From Kidron, Ohio, where good men show more affection to their wives than to their dogs; good women love their men and their men’s dogs; and the children come home once in a while to hug the dogs they left behind a long time ago.

Keep it up

It was a chilly walk the other day, but not too bad until the wind swept around the woods right at Hershberger’s driveway.  The Hershbergers are an Amish family with identical triplet boys.  They’re about fourteen years old, I’d guess, and they are an energetic bunch.  We can look across the field and see their home from our back yard.  Sometimes one of them takes the horse and buggy out into the large pasture and runs at top speed in great big circles.  Not sure why.  Maybe they’re training a young horse in a confined area.  Or maybe its just because they’re boys.  Once in a while, I’ll see them in the MCC Connections Thrift store looking at CD’s and players.  They’re counting the days.

As I continued heading south, one of triplets drove towards me in a buggy, waving and grinning widely as he passed.  I can’t tell them apart, but they recognize me now.   I’m no longer the English stranger walking along the road.

I’ve wondered how long I can continue doing this, as winter sets in.  But now there is new incentive.  The numbers are in, and they’re all good.  Talking about my annual physical.  My workplace requires it if we want to get a small break on insurance costs.  I’ve been dreading it for a while.  I didn't mind when they poked a needle in my arm a week ago and filled the little vial.  It’s all the things the good Doctor insists on doing that gets me.  

The nurse took all the vitals and asked a lot of questions.   Then, just before she left the room, she handed me the gown with the open back, and says to change into it.  I know the routine.  That’s why I was nervous in the first place.  But why bother?  Before this is over, I’ll be standing in front of the Dr., with the gown on the table.  Dutifully I changed and sat back down, waiting for the torture to begin.

Soon Doc comes into the room, looks at the computer screen, and comments on the blood pressure which was borderline-high a few months ago.  It’s now in normal range.  Then we go over the results of the blood tests.   Cholesterol also lower, triglycerides down, and everything else in normal range.   I am thankful for the report.

“What are you doing different?” he asks.

I tell him about the fast-paced walking of the last nine months.

“It’s working”, he says, “keep it up.”

I assured him I will.

“Sit up here”, he says, pointing to the table.  

He looks into every facial orifice, then listens to me breathe.

Then he hammers the reflex area on my knee.  I kick - adding a little extra just to impress him.

“Lay back,”  he says, and proceeds to poke and prod my stomach.

“Drop the gown and stand here,”  he says, as he pulls on the dreaded gloves.

He sits down on his stool and reaches out as I stand facing him.  

Yes, I know, he does this all the time - it’s nothing new - but all I can do is stare at the ceiling, and wish this wasn't part of the exam.

“Cough,” he says.  

“Again,” he says.  

It’s probably a good idea to obey - all things considered.

“Good,” he says, “no hernia.”

Thank goodness.  "May I get dressed now?"

“Not yet, one more thing, then we’re done.”

As if I haven’t been violated enough!

“Doc, can’t we just skip this part?”

“No,” he says.

It’s over in a moment, and he leaves the room.  His gloves and my dignity go into the waste basket together.  So glad that’s done for another year.

Yes, I know, every time I whine about the atrocities of a physical, I get the not-so-sympathetic reminder, “Just be glad you’re not a woman.”  I am glad.  You ladies have my sympathy, and I wish you all the best.

It was great to learn from this experience that the walking is bringing better health.  I will continue - somewhere, somehow, but not anywhere on an indoor track.  I just can’t interest myself in walking on one of those.  Going in circles has never held much appeal.  Neither has peddling my inherited Schwinn AirDyne in the basement family room.  It leads a lonely existence, although I do hop on for a spin once in a great while - just to see if I can still ride a bike.  And it’s true - just like they say - you never forget.   The only excitement this generates, is giving the unsuspecting spiders the ride of their lives.  However, the sheer boredom of peddling without going anywhere is so maddening, I’m pretty sure the resulting stress cancels out any potential benefits.   

I really need to be outdoors, under the great big sky, breathing fresh air, and observing the world around me.   I need to experience the calm and simplicity of open fields and Amish farmsteads -  to be alone to think, and talk with God.  And once I’ve reached the 1.5 mile mark, even when tired, it’s not possible to stop.  It’s another 1.5 miles to get back home.  

Hopefully this may give others the incentive to pull on some comfortable shoes, and take a walk.  Start slow.  Add speed and distance as time goes on.  It’s gets easier after a while, and you will soon look forward to it.  The day seems incomplete if you have to skip it at times.  Not speaking as an expert here - just as one who is discovering the many benefits.  As God's word says, “we are fearfully and wonderfully made.”   It is up to us to maintain our bodies with a healthy lifestyle.

Leaving you now, from our quaint little hometown of Kidron, Ohio - an energetic Swiss community where the men are plain, the women are lovely, and the children will come back home - bringing their little ones with them.

Have a wonderful and blessed new year!