Some Dreams Do Come True

Dad loved the farm on Hog Creek, but unbeknownst to us, he was keeping his eye on other places too.  We learned one day that a property he had admired for years, was up for sale, and our family was buying it.  This was not good news for a boy who loved the farm, the river, the neighbors, and the cats.  But it was settled.  Dad’s dream was coming true, and we were moving.

We said goodbye to our Hog Creek farm the spring of 1962 and moved a few miles away to our new home on Grubb Road, a little west of Elida, and south of Route 30. It was a nice two-story farmhouse—probably a bit newer than the one we moved from.  Included in this package were a chicken house, a small shed, and a nice gambrel-roofed barn.  One small field of several acres brought Dad’s workload down to a more manageable size, while he continued his regular job at the Lima Lumber Company.

The Ottawa River, known as Hog Creek.  Our home in the background.  

Our milk cows didn’t make the move, but the sheep and a couple steers came along.  They shared a pasture that had a creek running through it.  Not a river, mind you.  Just a small creek.  Corky, the little black-and-white dog, happily came along, as did a couple tame cats.  All in all, this was a very nice mini-farm of six acres, and we were so close to our Mennonite school that we could walk or ride bicycles most of the time.  

Somehow though, our new place didn't feel like home.  I missed the old house, the old barn, the cows, and the big old iron bridge.  Most of all, I missed Hog Creek.  It had been our place of adventure and fun—where we hiked with our cousins, played on the sandbars with our tractors, waded in it on hot summer days, and skated on it in the winter.

And of course the cats—those trusting creatures who “willingly” risked their lives for science, suffering multiple humiliations at the hands of the *RSRG—if only for the sake of these poor animals, this move was a blessed event.  Finally the Hog Creek cats could stop looking over their shoulders, and sleep peacefully at night.

The barn is still there.  We played a lot of basketball in the loft, and Silver lived in the stall below the loft.

It took some time, but we began finding things to enjoy at our new place too.  This barn was nicer than the old one.  It had two hay lofts.  One was used for hay and straw storage, and the other was swept clean, with basketball hoops mounted on either end.  Here, we could play indoor basketball to our heart’s content, rain or shine.  Other kids came to play too, and our barn became the basketball hot spot for friends and neighbors.  It was a lot of fun, but I was limited to games of PIG.  The hand-eye coordination required for dribbling the ball was not a part of my skill-set.  (Nor has it ever been.)

One day, two of our second cousins showed up to play—Jay Daniels and his younger sister Jeanie, who was about my age, maybe a year older.  I scoffed inwardly as Jeanie climbed the ladder into the loft.  A girl!  I gave the ball a toss at the hoop, and then Jeanie got hold of it.  She ran, she dribbled, she shot, and she was good!  This was long before girls played sports in school.  They were supposed to stand on the sidelines watching the tough guys play.  Not Jeanie.  I don’t think I touched the ball again until she went home.  This was an awakening.  So much for what girls can’t do.

Under the basketball loft there were several tie-stalls for horses.  I’d look at them and dream.  What we needed was a pony or two to put in them, but I knew there would be no point in thinking about that.

Summer slipped into fall, and fall marched into winter.  It was early December now, and it was impossible to know the plans that Dad was making.  One day we learned that he was actually going to buy us a pony for Christmas!  He had been talking with someone about it and heard of a pony that was available.  It had been part of a six-pony wagon team—trained to ride and drive.  If excitement could be measured by a tachometer, I’d have been deep into the red.

According to Mom’s diary, it was December 15, 1962—less than one year after the lesson of the birthday bluejeans.  She wrote, “Dick and David went with someone to bring the pony home this afternoon.  Dick got it for the boys for Christmas.”  (Dad went by the nickname, “Dick”)

We arrived at our destination, and there stood the most beautiful black and white pony in the world.  His name was Silver, and he came with a bridle, saddle, pony-cart, and harness.  It was all there—everything we needed to ride and drive our very own pony.  I was in heaven!

Brother Wes holding Silver's head.  Little brother Keith sitting next to a very happy me in the cart.

When we arrived home with our prize, Dad was anxious to harness him up for cart rides.  He surprised himself by remembering exactly how to do it.  It must have been twenty-five or thirty years since he had handled a harness, but it came right back.  Dad and I climbed into the cart for the first drive down the road.  We went a ways, then turned around and trotted rapidly back.  It was great fun, but what I really wanted was to ride on the pony, not behind it.  We pulled into the driveway and dad asked us if we wanted to ride.  Are you kidding!?  He saddled up the pony, explaining how to cinch-up and tie the belly strap.   He gave Silver a pat on the neck and said, "I’ve always loved the way a horse smells, ever since I was a boy helping my Dad with them on the farm."  I loved the scent too.  And I loved the sounds Silver made—the whinny, and the gentle nickering.  He seemed calm and friendly, and his large brown eyes watched us trustingly.   I rubbed his velvety nose and pinched myself.  It wasn’t a dream.

Now it was time to ride, and Dad explained how to get into the saddle.  For the first time in my life my legs were straddling a real pony, and what an incredible feeling.  In an instant I became Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger wrapped up in one daring package.   

Dad led Silver around for a little while so I could get used to the feel of him, then asked if I wanted to run.  Of course I wanted to run.  So with dad still leading, we broke into a trot.  Holy Moses!  It was a hard, jouncy ride, and it felt like I’d be thrown to the frozen ground at any moment.  I clamped my hands onto the saddle horn with a death grip and asked Dad to slow it down.  This wasn’t anything like the electric pony in front of the Williams grocery store that whirred and rocked when you climbed on it’s back and dropped a nickle in the slot.

A fifty year old picture of Silver, taken with my first camera, a "Brownie."  I still have it.

It wasn't long though, before we were saddling and riding Silver on our own. This pony was no dummy, and he had apparently come with a bag of tricks that he was eager to share with us.  It was obvious that he liked the attention we gave him, but he didn't particularly enjoy being ridden.  When we attempted to put on the bridle, he’d clench his teeth together.  We had to learn how to wiggle it into his mouth anyway.  Then when we’d put on the saddle and began tightening up the cinch strap, he’d hold his breath, which made the saddle slip when we tried to mount him.  We quickly learned to watch his breathing, and give the cinch strap a hard pull when he exhaled.

Next on his list was an attempt to discourage us from getting on his back.  We’d put our left foot in the stirrup to swing up onto him, but as we did, he’d reach around and nip the back of our leg.  That hurt!  So we learned to wrap the right-side rein around the saddle horn. That fixed that.   He still had some more tricks up his sleeve.  One of the next things he thought we should learn was what it felt like to go under low hanging branches.  If we rode in the pasture, he’d do his best to head for just such a tree, and even managed to get me scraped off once. This guy was smart and devious, but he was also so lovable that it was easy to forgive him.  He wasn't through with the lessons yet.

Silver was never a problem when he was pulling a cart down the road, but for some reason, he didn’t enjoy being ridden in any direction that was headed away from home.  Barn sour, they call it.  He wouldn't gallop and would barely trot.  So it was slow going until we turned and headed for the house. Then look out!  With very little encouragement, he’d race for home like there was no tomorrow.  He scared me half to death one day when I took him across the road and back through a field.  When it was time to head for home he did his thing. The problem was the road.  It became obvious that he wasn't going to slow down for the approaching car.  I pulled with all my strength, but he had the bit clenched firmly in his teeth, and I was no match for him.  As a last ditch effort I got both hands on one rein and pulled like my life depended on it—which in fact it did. That worked.  His head came around, and his body followed his head.  Whew!  That was close!  But I loved him anyway.

That summer and the next with Silver were great fun. We didn't always go for rides or drives. There were plenty of times when it was fun to just brush him down, then lay on his back while he munched grass in the lawn.  He never attempted to run away.  He was getting what he wanted, and I had my dream come true.   

These days, it’s easy to relive those childhood experiences when Amish children drive pony carts past our home.  For them, it is not so much a dream, as an everyday reality.  Just the same, watching the Amish with their horses, and the children with their ponies, it is obvious that they love the interaction with them.  It puts a little longing in my heart to still be a part of that scene.

 

A couple friendly Amish boys.  Took this photo yesterday near Mt. Hope, Ohio.

It’s not likely that we will ever own another horse or pony, but we’ve had our share.  Over a period of years, I can count three ponies and four horses that have lived in our barns—not to mention several donkeys.  What’s really nice now, is that our next-door neighbors board horses in their barn.  Our small pasture is connected to theirs, so we let the two horses and one pony keep our pasture trimmed up too.  It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, and I can have contact with a horse any time I desire.  No feed bills.  No vet bills.  Just soft, velvety noses, the aroma of horses, and plenty of fertilizer for the garden.

That reminds me.  Gotta go pick some sweet corn for supper, and slice up some nice big tomatoes to go with it.  We are especially thankful this time of year when delicious garden crops are plentiful for eating and canning.

From Kidron, Ohio, where the homely men enjoy reminiscing about the good old days, and the lovely ladies keep getting better with age.  They’ve earned every wrinkle and wisp of gray hair, and enjoy each day together.

As a younger man, my prayer was that we’d live long enough to see our children into adulthood, and out on their own.  We’ve been blessed that God allowed that.   And we are grateful. So long.

*RSRG - Ross Scientific Research Group.  Referencing the writing from two weeks ago, "Pets."

Horsepower

It’s been a different kind of week on the Ross homestead.  After fourteen years of being greeted and shadowed by a lovely dog, it’s strange to have her gone.  The oddest part is that I keep hearing her.  I know it’s a trick of the mind, but sometimes when I get home from work, hop out of the truck, and head for the back door, I hear her tags jangling as she comes around the corner of the house to greet me.  It only lasts for a split second.

Sometimes I wonder if we own our animals, or if they own us.  Think about it.  If you have a house dog, they pretty much control your life.  Until toilets are invented for dogs, they will need to go outside, and we will drop whatever we are doing to oblige them, day or night.  Then, they have these nasty urges to roll on really smelly things like dead animals and manure, and after our initial reaction of disgust, we bathe them, and they return to the favored spot on the floor at our feet, or scrunched between our leg and the arm of the chair.  But we love our animals because they add so much to our lives.   

In this beautiful, rural, Wayne County setting where we live, many people are inextricably linked to animals—even dependent on them.  Particularly, the Amish.   Observing the Amish farming with horses, (something I can never get enough of), is an experience that repeats itself nearly every day as I walk, and I’m grateful for it.  Through them, I can watch my Grandparents working their fields, and even imagine it is my ten-year-old Dad standing on the rack at the front of the hay wagon, driving the horses.  It is no wonder that he loved these same views, and would often take drives in the country this time of year to watch the process and smell the hay.

Neighbors putting up the hay

Time moves on, and with it came tractors for the Mennonites.   It’s interesting to think about how our tractors are rated in horsepower.  I guess the switch from horses to gasoline engines had to have some kind of conversion factor, so the term horsepower was invented.  Even my little 1940 Ford 9N claims a whopping sixteen horsepower at the draw-bar.  That doesn’t sound like much when many of our riding lawn mowers have more than that.  Comparing that to real live horses though, is sort of baffling.  While watching those beautiful, powerful draft horses teamed up, plowing and pulling huge loads, and then thinking about my little tractor being equal to sixteen of them, I say, “No way.”  My little gray “work horse” could not begin to compete with that many horses.   Perhaps I’m missing something in the equation.   But speaking of tractors...

Farmers, collectors, and even children can get wound pretty tight over tractors.  John Deere or Farmall.  The banter is non-ending.  It goes like this…

“Green means go.  Red means stop.”

“Friends don’t let friends drive green tractors.”

“Farmer born, farmer bred, my tractor will never be red.”

“Fear no Deere.”

“Nothing runs like a Deere.”

“Nothing smells like a John.”

And it goes on and on...

At our little Mennonite grade school, we were among a bunch of farm kids, and without exception, there were undying loyalties to the brand of tractor each family used.   Some were big on Farmall.  For us, no tractor could compare to John Deere.  Our loyalty was set in stone.

They'll both get the job done.

Our closest neighbor—the one my older brothers worked for—was a John Deere man.  Leonard Troyer was a jovial and kind-hearted farmer with a large frame, and deeply tanned, muscular arms.  His line-up of John Deere tractors included the old two-cylinder variety.  Perhaps the credit should go to Leonard for the way the sound of an old John Deere is still music to my ears, and therapy for a frazzled mind.  Somehow, the rhythmic putt-putt-putt was so imprinted my young mind, that it is still a nostalgic pleasure when my neighbor, Lloyd Miller, fires up his old John Deere 520, and works his acreage just west of us.

We had a large square sandbox when we were boys, and there we “farmed” our little fields with toy John Deere tractors—at least we did until the cats took over.  Cats are not known for their extreme intelligence, but they do something really smart that sets them apart from all other animals.  They bury their stool.  It would be nice if dogs did the same.  The problem with this burial habit though, is that they seek soft soil or sand to do their business.  After the multitude of Hog Creek cats discovered our sandbox, they were in toilet heaven.  It wasn’t much fun to play in the sand after that.  So we moved our childhood enterprise down to Hog Creek where the sandbars behind the thick stand of giant horseweed provided ample room to till the soil with powerful little green tractors, accompanied by the well-practiced, mouth-produced sounds of a two-cylinder John Deere.

At school we got into nearly-heated arguments about our favorite tractors.  There were Farmall loyalists who enjoyed making fun of the John Deere “putt-putts.”  It didn’t matter.  We knew the John Deere could outwork a Farmall any day of the week, and weren’t afraid to proclaim it.  No amount of arguing could alter any opinions.

Nothing really changes for generations of farm boys.  After all these years, the banter still goes on.  There are more choices now, but John Deere still reigns supreme in the tractor world.  Of course, that’s a matter of opinion.  Unlike most other big names though, the John Deere company has never merged.

I’ll never forget the day that my love for John Deere tractors nearly got me in a heap of trouble.  One day when our family was at the Harold Bucher farm, (the home-place of my sister-in-law Margaret), I snuck out to the barn to sit on his John Deere.  I was probably about ten or eleven years old, and the tractor was in the upper level of the barn, with the front wheels pointed toward the far wall—maybe three feet from the wall.  I can picture this very well.  I loved that old tractor because it was a John Deere—a full sized tractor just like the little ones we played with in the sandbox—and It was exciting to sit on it.  

But… I just had to find out if I could turn the flywheel.  Remember, that’s how those old tractors were started.  I had seen Leonard do it many times, and probably Harold, and my brothers too.  So I crawled off the tractor, got hold of the flywheel and began turning it.  As it reached top-dead-center of the compression stroke, I could barely move it.  One more groaning heave, and the flywheel spun around on it’s own.  And the tractor’s engine sprung to life!  I had not considered that it might actually start.  I was just trying to test my strength against the wheel.

There was one problem with the tractor starting.  I didn’t know how to shut it off.  But that was the least of my worries.  As the tractor started, it began moving forward toward the wall, and all I could do was jump out of the way, and watch in horror.  Apparently Harold had parked it in gear, with the hand-clutch lever in the released position.  Makes sense.  Sort of like a parking brake.  But now what!?  In a second or two, the tractor would crash through the wall and tumble to the ground below, and I would be the worst kid who ever lived.  

It is impossible to describe the relief I experienced when the front wheels hit the wall and the tractor stalled out.  It still makes my hands break into a sweat as I recount that moment.

 

And I need to toss this in.   I knew I loved my farm girl before knowing her tractor history.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, but the very large Neuenschwander family—uncles, aunts, and cousins—pretty much all agree on color.  John Deere green.  It’s also gratifying to note that the first John Deere B purchased by the family patriarch, Jacob Neuenschwander, remains in running condition, and is owned by my brother-in-law.  

Horses have been used for farming for hundreds of years—perhaps thousands—and it wouldn’t surprise me if the same type of banter happens with them.  Belgian vs. Percheron vs. Mules.  The Amish around here use all these types of equines for field work and pulling large loads down the road, and certainly they have opinions about which is best.

Although I’ve never heard any discussions about it, I can tell you this much; Rudy, an Amish friend of mine, once bought a team of mules to work his farm.  Some believe mules are  a good choice because they have more stamina.  However, in Rudy’s case, he soon grew tired of a team of animals that had their own set of rules.  They pulled really well, he told me, but when they were tired of pulling, they stopped.  No amount of coaxing or threatening would change their minds.  He said he had no choice but to unhook them and head for the barn.  This is not a very satisfactory way to farm, so the mules were soon replaced by a team of Belgians.

Jacob and son Henry pulling logs from the woods to the sawmill with their team of Belgians.

Many of the Amish around here use Belgians, which range in color from blond to dark chestnut, but there are also many black, gray, and white varieties of draft horses seen in the fields.  I wasn’t sure what breeds were represented by those colors, so one day I stopped in to talk with Jacob.  Not wanting to interrupt his work, it seemed good to catch him during milking time, while he sat on his tiny stool, leaning into a cow, doing what he does twice a day, seven days a week.  He’d have time to talk, because milking cows is sort of like shelling peas.  It’s going to take a while, and you aren’t going anywhere, so you might as well have some good conversation.

Another neighbor, Henry, with his Percheron horses, mowing hay.

Jacob said the black and white draft horses are variations of Percheron—although dark, dappled gray is probably the best known color for that breed.  He mentioned that they get whiter with age.  That makes sense.  So do we.  

Knowing that Jacob and his brother Sam across the road both farm with Belgians,  it was time to find out which breed he thought was best.  (I was thinking of tractor discussions and brand-loyalty of course, so the question was loaded.)  

He grinned. “They used to say that Belgians were for show, and Percherons were for work.”   Now it was my turn to smile.  Jacob’s Belgians are handsome animals, and although an Amishman would never admit it, no doubt he has a sense of pride in them.  Perhaps what they “used to say” no longer applies.  Those who work with these massive animals are the only ones who know the difference.  Either way, for those of us who love to watch these gentle giants working, and marvel that even a child can guide them in the fields, it is a special pleasure to live where we do—a small town nestled in the hills near the middle of the world’s largest Amish population—Kidron, Ohio.  So long.

A beautiful team, unloading manure on Sam's farm.

Pets

We knew the day was coming.  Our dog Heidi was fourteen years old and failing, and even last winter we wondered if she would survive until spring.  She did, and with the coming of warm weather, she perked up and ate better, and began to take her daily walks again.  As was always her habit, she again visited the creek most days to lay in the water and cool off.  But she was growing weaker, and finally lost her ability to walk.  Her hind legs would no longer hold her up.  That’s what we were waiting for—and dreading.

Heidi as a puppy, with Angie, in the shade of a picnic table.

So yesterday was the day, and our vet came out to our house and gently helped us say goodbye.  I asked him if he sees grown men cry during these times.  “Yes,” he said, “actually, pretty often.”

I took her body down to the pasture under the Weeping Willow tree, and dug a deep hole.  The digging was cathartic, but it was still difficult to cover her with dirt.  I know.  I know.  She was just a dog.  But most of you will understand.  They’re not “just dogs.”  They really wiggle their way into our hearts.  We’ve had quite a few of them over the years, but she was the best.  There are many wonderful breeds, but in my opinion, none can match the gentle and loving personality of Golden Retrievers.  Labradors come close, and some of you have other favorite breeds, and that’s okay.

There are several memories I will always cherish.  Heidi would never let my hands lay on my lap.  She’d put her nose under my forearm and lift until my hand came to rest on top of her head.   Then a look of bliss would appear on her happily squinted eyes.  Just knowing the master’s hand was upon her was enough.  (Goodness, couldn’t one draw a powerful analogy from that?)  Sometimes I’d tease her, and hold my arm firmly in place while she tried to lift it with her nose.  She was remarkably strong, and wouldn’t give up until she had succeeded.

Other special memories include her instinctive gentleness with little children.  She loved them, and would lay down next to them, smiling gently (yes, dogs can smile) and softly nuzzle them.  Some dogs like to show affection by licking.  Heidi was never one of them.  Her affection was shown by being there—a constant companion who loved human interaction and physical touch.

All day l kept seeing her out of the corner of my eye.   I’d turn my head quickly, as if hoping that she might really be there, but it was one of those tricks of the mind.  I suppose that will happen for a few days or weeks until I get used to her being gone.

We still have a cat—a jet black cat that came from a wild mother at my workplace.  The mother cat had three kittens under an old truck body, and they’d come out to sun themselves on a pallet.  One day when they were about five weeks old, a lady that I worked with decided we should catch them, and she would find homes for them.  While she carefully distracted them from the front, I managed to sneak up from behind, and in one quick grab, got all three.   After a few days, and some begging from my daughter, we decided to give one of them a chance—and that became his name.  “Chance.”   He’s been with us as an indoor-outdoor cat for around thirteen years now.  Not sure why, but he’s gotten some extra love and attention today.  Maybe I’m really missing my Heidi.

But speaking of cats.  When I walked past Jacob’s farm yesterday, it was milking time again, and numerous cats were hanging around the barn door.  It looked like they might be expecting some milk.  The scene was one right out of my childhood when our own herd of cats would appear out of the shadows, and gather around expectantly at milking time, waiting for a dish full of milk.  Several were tame.  Most were wild—some of them with very good reason.  Step back in time with me as we reminisce about “The Hog Creek Cat Farm.”

To the casual observer it was a nice little family farm, situated on the west bank of the Ottawa River. (Better known by locals as “Hog Creek”)  It was bordered on the north by the shortest road in Allen County—Neff Road.  A very pleasant country setting, the little farm was complete with a couple of cows for milk, a few sheep, a horse, a family dog, and some cats.  Included in the picture were a passel of five boys, not yet joined by their late-coming brother.    

It may have appeared to be quite idyllic, but it was clear to the people who lived there that something unusual and unexpected was happening.  The cats were taking over the place.  They were everywhere.  Left to their own natural pursuits, they multiplied with reckless abandon. The situation had developed slowly at first, until one day the people woke up and realized that the cats, which had no natural enemies, had let their population go out of control.

How many cats were there?  Ten?  Way low.  Twenty?  Keep going.  Thirty?   Now we’re in the neighborhood.  Not kidding.  Thirty cats for one family is a problem.  There was just no way for all of them to get the attention they needed, so most of them were “wild” and nameless.  There were two older matriarchs who had names.  Issachar and Liberace.  They looked remarkably alike, and were largely responsible for the population explosion.  

Farm boys playing with kittens.  Gene on the left.  Author on the right.

Kittens were brought into the house to play.  Gene on the left, Wes in the middle, and author on the right.

Occasionally the boys would find a litter of kittens still young enough to be tamed.  These were sometimes brought into the house and dressed in doll clothes.  Don’t ask me what possessed boys to dress cats.  I have no clue.  I was just a little kid, and went along with my older brothers.  Maybe they could explain.  Then again, maybe they can’t.  Maybe it was Mom’s idea.  Yeah, pretty sure it was her.  She always loved cats.  And God bless her, she had us doing a lot of things normally left for girls.  Since there were no girls in our family, the boys did it. (And every one of our wives are grateful for the training Mom gave us.)  We washed and dried dishes, learned how to cook, even learned how to iron and run the sewing machine.  We also helped with the canning.  And we dusted the furniture—right down to every last chair rung.  Yep, that was back in the day when people actually dusted their furniture once a week, minimum.  Saturday mornings were all about sweeping and dusting—getting the house sparkling for Sunday, because you never knew who might drop in, and Lord knows they will probably get down on their hands and knees to inspect the chair rungs.     

Now let me be clear about the following anecdotes involving the cats on our farm.  The events I am about to describe may seem a bit unseemly in today’s world, where animals have been elevated to a nearly human-like status.  Rest assured, no cats died as a result of these experiences.

It was a long time ago, but it’s not difficult to remember the times that the cats of Hog Creek became the unwitting partners in experimentation.  My two oldest brothers—having curious and uninhibited minds—just had to find the answer to this question: Can cats swim?  Some people would contend that they cannot.  It is true that a high percentage won’t voluntarily take to water, but rest assured they are fine swimmers.  This fact was proved conclusively in 1959 by a team of highly unskilled and unsophisticated Mennonite farm boys.  Shall we be gracious, and pretend they were called the Ross Scientific Research Group. (RSRG for short—namely, Dick and Stan.)

The RSRG research did not require a large government grant.  This study was done solely at the expense of the cats, saving the American taxpayers a lot of money.  The experiments were conducted from the middle of an old iron bridge that spanned Hog Creek.  The cats were gently carried to the middle of the bridge and carefully dropped into the water, from a height of about ten feet.  As the RSRG monitored the results, the cats were observed easily navigating the expanse of the river.  Upon reaching the bank they proved that they were very much alive by racing at a remarkable speed for the safety of the barn.  The indisputable results of the experiment were: Cats can swim.  The downside was that the poor animals had little understanding or appreciation for the value of this research, and they tended to keep their distance for a few days.

While we’re telling tales, we might as well mention another cat—the bob-tailed one.  No, it wasn’t born that way.  Irrepressible big brother Dick had one day fastened a cap gun mechanism onto it’s tail.  Now, he won’t directly admit to the misdeed.  Rather, he would like to pass the guilt off to brother Stan.  Stan, on the other hand, remembers seeing Dick do it.  I’m pretty sure this was another RSRG experiment, but not really sure what it was supposed to prove.  The cat was not humored.  It took off lickety-split, and would not let anyone get close enough to remove mechanism on its tail.  So it wore part of the cap gun for a number of days until it finally fell off.  Unfortunately, so did the tail.  Hopefully, my brothers learned an important lesson.

And then, the Ferris Wheel ride.  Or maybe it would be better to call it the Scrambler.  Actually, it was probably more like the Bullet.  I rode that once at the Wayne County Fair, and once was enough.  At last I could fully sympathize with the cat that took the bucket ride at the hands of the RSRG.  I don’t know what in the world they were thinking or trying to prove.  They put a cat in a bucket, and swung it round and round.  Perhaps they were testing the cat’s tolerance for G-forces.  But again, the poor cat was not humored.

This is probably enough about the cats of Hog Creek.  There are additional stories, but there are also folks who will not be at all entertained by what has already been told.  Let’s try to show some grace.  We’ve all done some regrettable things.  It delights me greatly to report that Dick and Stan turned into good men.  Despite their youthful cat-related indiscretions, they did not become abusive adults or serial killers.  They are gentlemen of the first degree, and  I am proud to call them my brothers.  

Well, this about wraps it up for another week.  Now if I could just get a black cat off my arms, it would be a whole lot easier to type.  

From Kidron, Ohio, where the homely men don’t want to be seen holding a cat, so they do it in the privacy of their homes; where the beautiful women enjoy seeing the soft side of their men holding their cats; and where the children grow up nurturing a love for animals.  It makes the chore of cleaning the litter box worthwhile.  But it’s still a pretty sick feeling to step in dog poop.   Thank you, Heidi, you were the best and I’m going to miss you greatly, but I must confess, I won’t miss your randomly-placed, and sizable land mines.  Fare thee well.

 

Tamping the dirt, and saying goodbye.

The Best Birthday Present

While walking along the roads among the Amish, there are scenes that remind me of my childhood on the farm just north of Elida, Ohio.  Our east boundary was the Ottawa River—known by locals as Hog Creek—a great place for growing boys who loved to play in water, and take hikes along the banks.  There we lived simply, growing a large garden, milking our Jerseys, and tending our sheep.   Our social “media” was neighbors and church.  Our entertainment was a record player, with large black discs going in circles—a needle tracing tiny lines on the surface—somehow converting that motion to the wonderful voices of J. D. Sumner and the Blackwood Brothers Gospel Quartet, accompanied by the thrilling sounds of piano.  Looking back, there wasn’t a day when it seemed we were deprived of anything.   

The walks on Zuercher Road re-assure me that families can still live very simply, and be happy.  On Tuesday, when I came to Jacob's farm, it was milking time, so I walked through the open doors of the barn, about thirty feet off the road.  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shadows and the dim light in the windowless area where they milk the cows.  And there they were—Jacob, his wife,  and four children ranging in age from about twelve-years-old, to upper teens—two sons and two daughters—lined up between the cows, sitting on tiny stools, squeezing steady streams of pure white milk into the buckets.

They smiled and greeted me when I walked in.   We made some small talk about the cows and the crops, and then as people always do, we talked about the weather.  They don’t have radios, so any mention of the forecast is appreciated.  It was a pleasure to tell them that there is no rain predicted for several days.  This was good news.  They have hay on the ground, and it will need to dry for a day or two before bringing it into the barn.  But it was the friendly, smiling faces, and the wholesome goodness of seeing them working together that meant the most to me.  Wish they could have known how much I enjoyed the scene, the scent of cows and milk, the nostalgia that came along with the mixture.  As I left the barn amid friendly goodbyes, and headed north on Zuercher, my mind took a trip back in time.  Way back.  Back to the farm on Hog Creek.

Jacob's farm

More Swartzentruber Amish farm buildings. 

More Amish neighbors.  This is one more typical set of farm buildings.  Love scenes like this.

                                                               *     *     *     *     *

According to my best recollections it was my ninth birthday.  I had been reading a lot of books by now about pioneers and Indians.  Cowboys too.  And I was dreaming about a pony of my own.  After all, most of my storybook heroes rode horses, and I was longing to do the same.  My oldest brother already had a horse—a mean horse named Sam, but he was too big for me, and besides, he had bad habits that made him dangerous for all but experienced adult riders.

Still, I wanted a pony.  It would be the perfect size for a nine-year-old boy.  But sadly, I had to face the cold hard facts.  There just wouldn’t be a pony—we didn’t get gifts that large.  Birthdays were fun, and gifts were appreciated, but we didn’t get much on those special days—or at Christmas either for that matter.  It was a different time, and we lived simply.

So I quit dreaming about a pony and decided that a BB gun was what I wanted. Maybe, just maybe, a BB gun would be affordable. With it I could plink tin cans, and protect our Hog Creek farm from outlaws.  But again, I knew down deep that I wouldn’t be getting a BB gun.  It would probably cost too much and be too dangerous.

Okay, how about a ball glove?  I was beginning to play softball with my brothers, and during school recess, and didn’t have a glove of my own.  Of course, our family had a couple that were old and flat, but they had long ago worn so thin that they were only slightly better than catching the ball barehanded.  Yes, a ball glove would be a really nice present.  On the other hand, I didn’t remember any of my brothers getting a glove for a birthday present, so I probably wasn’t going to get one either.

My list of hopeful items was getting smaller and smaller.  There was one thing that would be fun, and I was sure we could afford it.  A kaleidoscope.  You aim those towards a light and look into the one end.  Then you began turning them.  All kinds of beautiful, very colorful symmetric shapes and patterns emerge.  A kaleidoscope would be a nice gift, and reasonably priced.

It was difficult to wait—wondering what my present would be.  We ate our supper that evening and then Mom brought out the cake—my favorite—a homemade yellow sponge cake covered with white icing and nine candles.  The family sang happy birthday to me, and mom began cutting generous slices and putting them into our dishes.  Naturally, the birthday-boy received the first piece.   I poured fresh, sweet, rich Jersey milk on it, and tasted the first bite.  It was delicious!  I enjoyed every bit of it, right down to the last soggy yellow crumb—still wondering what my gift was going to be.  Mom had told me that I needed to wait until after supper, and after the dishes were done, before getting my gift.

As soon as the meal was over, dad and my older brothers donned their chore coats and headed out the back door to milk and feed the cows while the rest of us remained in the kitchen to do dishes.  We quickly worked our way through all the colored plates and cups, and the miss-matched everyday silverware.  Outside on the back porch, Corky, the little black-and-white dog, happily wolfed down his bowl of table-scraps, while some cats sat around him at a safe distance, longing for a taste of the morsels, but knowing they would get nothing but an empty dish to lick.

Then it was the moment I had been waiting so impatiently for. I headed into the living room and sat down on the couch—my eyes staring expectantly toward Mom and Dad’s bedroom door, where Mom had just disappeared.   I didn’t have to wait long.  She walked through the doorway, holding something behind her back, and slowly approached the couch where I was waiting.  I can still hear her words.   “I’m sorry Dave, this is all we could afford.”  

Now she was holding my present out towards me.  She looked miserable, and the gift wasn’t even wrapped.  I looked in astonishment at the object in her hand.  Of course it wasn’t a pony.  It wasn’t a BB gun.  It wasn’t a ball glove.  It wasn’t even a kaleidoscope.  It was a new pair of blue jeans—something I needed anyway. 

 “I’m sorry Dave,” she said, “I know you need them anyway, we just didn’t have the money to get anything else.”  

I continued staring in disbelief and disappointment.  Of course there was no money.  Why did my birthday have to be so soon after Christmas?  But feeling sorry for myself didn’t change anything.  

I sat there on the couch holding my new blue jeans, and mom was still looking sad.  It took a few moments for this disappointing reality to sink in, and then I noticed something.  What was that smell?  I pressed my nose into the jeans and took a long, hard sniff.  Ah, they smelled so. . .  so. . . brand new!  That may seem strange, but with four older brothers and a mom who was an expert at mending and patching, this was likely the first new pair of jeans I had ever owned.  Up until now my jeans were faded, patched, and worn by at least two older brothers.  These new ones were dark blue, and stiff, and smelled really good.  

I tried them on and of course, they were too big.  Back then, moms and dads didn’t buy clothes to fit.  They bought them large so a growing boy could grow into them, and maybe even wear them for a year or more.  These jeans were long enough that I had to roll them twice to make them the right length.  And mom sewed a couple of temporary “darts” into the waist to make them snugger.  Then, as I grew, the darts were taken out and the cuffs were rolled down.  We didn’t protest—it was just the way it was.  More birthdays would come.  Maybe someday there would be a pony or a BB gun.  Maybe.  Just maybe.

And that would be the end of the story...except that perhaps it would be good to explain why the jeans were the best birthday present ever.  It wasn’t because I wanted them.  Nope.  I wanted other things.  It was the best birthday of my childhood because I remember it.  In fact, it is the only one I can remember.

 I remember the pained and disappointed expression on mom’s face.  I remember my own disappointment.  But on the other hand, I remember the delicious yellow sponge cake and the scent of new jeans.  I remember Gene sitting beside me singing our brotherly version of Happy Birthday under his breath.  “You look like a monkey, and you act like one too.”  

But most of all I’m reminded of those simpler days when birthdays didn’t have to be big celebrations—when it was fun just having Mom and Dad and brothers sitting around a table, eating cake and being a family.  

A couple weeks ago I went to Rural King Ohio to pick up oil and a filter for the truck.  That’s also a good place to buy Wranglers, so a pair of those were included in the cart.   After arriving home, the jeans went to the dresser drawer, but not before a little ritual.  As always, there was the undeniable need to press my nose into the dark blue material and take a long, deep sniff.  At that moment, I was once again transported to the living room of the big old farmhouse, nestled in a field near the banks of Hog Creek, the place of my birth and early childhood—where the formative years were filled with an education in all things that are truly important.

From Kidron, Ohio, we wish you a happy August.  June and July were a blink of the eye.  Time slows down for no man.  Take a moment to do what the homely, but improving, men of our small town do.  They love relaxing on the back patio with a beautiful wife, looking over an abundant garden, smelling the drifting scent of the volunteer Four-0-Clocks in the flowerbed next to the house, and being thankful for their children, their children’s choices for life mates, for wonderful grandchildren, and the many blessings of life.