Shade Tree Stories

Preface

My memories of baling hay during Iowa’s hot and humid summertime of the 1950s.

Shade Tree Stories

Photo credit: 10000 Rain Gardens

The cool shade of a big tree brings joy to young and old. The shade was a joyous location after a humid afternoon of baling hay in the hot Iowa summertime. I hold fond memories of those days in my youth; days before responsibilities and relationships.

Working in the hot sun baling hay was just another day in the summer on an Iowa farm. Most farms had several shade trees but the most cherished were the big elm trees. Trees so big even the men couldn’t reach around them. Trees so tall they looked like giants. They were old trees, and no one seemed to know the age of the trees. Some old timers said they had been there since Moby Dick was a minnow.

For us teenagers working on the haying crew, the big elms were a place to escape the hot sun. We loved shade trees because none of the farms in our neighborhood had air conditioning. Air conditioning was a luxury. Those that had air conditioning lived in town and were considered wealthy people. Out on the farm, we slept in the damp basement on really hot nights. It was damp and clammy but at least it was cooler than the bedrooms of the house.

Baling hay was usually a four day project. When the hay was tall enough to cut, the weather forecast was checked. In those days, before satellites, weather forecasting was an art in the 1950s. Weather satellites were still science fiction, and radar was still confined to the military. The accuracy was much less than it is in 2015. In haying season, many farmers relied on the signs of nature; the signs from the clouds, the wind, the humidity, the dew, and the moon. At least one of the local farmers had an arthritic knee that was considered more reliable than the weather forecast on the radio. They were consulted often. After carefully weighing the signs of nature, consulting the neighbors, and listing to the forecast, a decision was made to cut the hay. Neighbors would also be contacted as their help and hay racks would be needed to bale and store the hay.

After cutting, the hay needed to lay on the stubble for two or three days for it to dry. The hay had to be dried to just the right moisture. Hay that was too moist would mold or worse. The worse was spontaneous combustion. The overly moist hay, pack tightly in the hay mow of the barn, would start to decay. The decay produced heat. If enough heat developed, the hay

would start to burn and the barn would burn down. A barn fire was devastating to a farm.

If the hay were allowed to dry too long, all the leaves would fall off as it was raked and baled. The greatest food value is in the leaves and would be lost if they fell off. Livestock doesn’t do well eating just stems. Determining the proper dryness for baling was an art handed down from generation to generation. The afternoon of the second day after mowing, the hay would be checked for dryness. The most common way was to grab a hand full of hay and twist the stems. The effort required to twist the hay was a key indicator of moisture content. Too much moisture required extra effort to twist. Too little moisture caused the stems to be brittle and crack. After twisting, the stems were scratched with a thumb nail and examined for moisture. The next step was to bite the stem of a stalk with your teeth to check moisture and taste. This process was repeated every half day until the moisture was judged to be correct. Moisture testing was always fun as alfalfa had a sweet taste and aroma.

My dad, Fritz, and his cousin Hans were cousins who farmed near each other. They owned the hay baler together and helped each other make hay. Together they did the moisture testing. Hans and Fritz twisted, bit, tasted, and then compared conclusions. I tagged along trying to learn the art of determining the correct moisture. The final decision went to who’s ever farm we were on.

When the dryness was determined to be correct, the order was given that tomorrow we will bale hay. This always started a frenzy of work. The hay rake and the baler were made ready. The hay racks were rounded up from neighbors. If we were baling with a wire tie baler, the leather gloves were checked for holes or tears. If we were baling with a twine tie baler, leather gloves were not required but some guys used them. The wife of the farmer doing the baling began the preparation of food for the baling crew.

The next morning, when the dew was just right, the hay was raked. Raking too early put too much moisture back into the windrow. Raking too late in the morning, with not enough dew, knocked too many leaves off the stems. The goal was to start baling just after dinner (that’s the noon meal for you city folks). Just before dinner, the hay was twisted again to check moisture and the final decision to bale was made. Dinner was eaten and off to the field we went.

There are three major jobs in baling hay, baling it in the field, hauling it to the barn, and storing it in the barn. I usually worked in the field with one other person. We took turns driving the tractor and loading the bales on the hay rack. If the hay was moved into the barn using a hay fork we loaded sixty-four bales on a rack. They were stacked in a specific order, eight bales to a group, four bales lengthwise on top of four bales crossways of the hay rack. If an elevator was used, the bales could be stacked in any order. On some racks one person could stack a hundred bales when an elevator was used at the barn. One person hauled the loaded rack to the barn and returned the empty rack to the field. The barn crew consisted a person, usually the youngest kid, on a tractor pulling the rope that raised the hay from the rack into barn and a person on the rack sticking the hay fork and pulling the trip rope to dump the hay. The haymow crew was two to four guys who carried the dumped bales and stacked them in an orderly manner.

Photo credit: popscreen.com

Loading the sixty to eighty pound bales was hot and hard work. These were the days before sun screen and knowledge of skin cancer. We wore caps and “T” shirts. Some guys went without their shirts and their hats. Each group on the haying crew carried a water jug with them. After a couple of hours, the ice in the water jug was melted and the water was warm, but it was still wet. When we changed a full hay rack for an empty hay rack each group would pause just long enough for a drink of water. The water jug, each crew had their own, and it was passed from person to person and everybody drank out of the same spigot. Guys that chewed tobacco had to drink last then wipe off the spigot with their hand and splash a little water out of the spigot. There were no federal regulations on water jugs for haying. We all survived, never got any diseases, and turned into old codgers.

Baling hay was intense and the weather always unpredictable. The best hay was baled without being rained on after it was cut. Except for a drink of water, we didn’t take breaks. As the long hot afternoon passed we all looked toward the farmhouse and the shade tree. When the last bale was stored in the barn we would be under that shade tree. We would be in that oasis of shade cooled by a gentle breeze. The sun would still be high in the fair weather blue sky. A few white puffy clouds would gently float across the sky on a slight breeze from the south. The gentle breeze would jingle the leaves and create a pleasant relaxing sound. The sweet smell of newly baled alfalfa wafted through the farmstead on the gentle breeze. The sound of cicadas’ singing in the trees filled the air. All this we took for granted as we settled into the shade for the real treat of the day.

Lunch.

The wife had been cooking most of the day for us. She would present us with ice-cold lemonade and ice-cold sun tea. Lemonade made from real lemons and tea brewed all day in the sun. Tea bags had been placed in gallon jars of water In the early morning. They sat in the yard with the hot sun shining on them, and the tea steeped all day. As the last load of hay came to the barn, the tea was placed on ice. Sun tea is a true nectar of the gods.

After the drinks came the food; chocolate cakes and two or three kinds of fresh baked pie were set before us. Sometimes fresh cookies still warm from the oven were served. Each farm had its own

specialty cake or pie that us teenage boys eagerly awaited. Aunt Darmer was the pie cook. She used lard, and butter, and she cooked on a range stove; none of these modern gas stoves in her kitchen. At the Brown farm it was Mable’s brown sugar frosting chocolate cake. We boys sometimes salivated so bad for that cake that Mable teased us she didn’t have time to make one. But after some teasing she always brought one out of the house. As we relaxed in the cool breeze under the shade of the big elm tree, the stories began to be told. Each story being more embellished than the previous.

The guys from the hay mow would tell about how hot it was in the mow. They would whine about the wind being from the wrong direction causing an almost breathless heat in the mow. I think some fire and brimstone Sunday sermons started out as haymow stories. They would bellyache about the bales being too loose or to tight causing them extra work. They would complain the fork operator didn’t drop the bales when commanded, causing them more unneeded work.

When the haymow crew was done, the guys from the field would start their stories. The sun was always too hot. The breeze was nonexistent. The field was rough and it was hard to keep the bales on the rack. The knotters on the baler didn’t work right and missed tying many bales. I learned to tie a square knot and many one syllable words when this happened. They complained the hay rack driver was slow and they had to wait for the next empty rack. We’re burning daylight ya know. There was always one story of a snake going through the baler. Much embellishment went into describing the snake, or snake parts, emerging as part of a hay bale.

The person hauling the hay from the field to the barn got his turn and had stories about all the gates he had to drive through. The agony of stopping, getting off the tractor, opening the heavy gate, getting back on the tractor, driving through the gate, stopping, getting off the tractor, closing the even heavier gate, getting back on the tractor, and going to the next gate. Then, he repeated the story, with embellishments, for each gate. At least one story required details of chasing cattle or horses away so he could drive through the gate. There were also stories of all the mud holes and pot holes he had to go through and the effort it took to keep the bales from falling off the rack.

Then, it was the turn of the person who stuck the hay fork to lift the bales into the barn. His story

was the bales were too sloppy, and they fell off the forks as the hay was lifted. Or, the bales were too tight and he had to use all his strength to push the forks into the bale. A good story teller could weave a story to include too sloppy and to tight bales happening in the same day. He would chastise the field people for not knowing how to adjust the baler to make a “decent” bale. He would also complain the tractor driver pulling the hay rope was driving too fast, too slow, or not hearing the commands. The tractor driver, the youngest and lowest guy in the pecking order, just smiled and ate more cake and pie. So the stories were told as we feasted upon cold drinks and luscious desserts. As teenagers, we keenly observed the art of storytelling and the skill of embellishment; a useful skill when we became young men and went on fishing and hunting trips with our friends. We all shared the joy and laughter as each story was told. Unfortunately, most of us are not nearly as good a story teller as our elders. The art of story telling has been all but lost with the advent of modern farm machinery. Today, one person does the work of many and does it inside a tractor cab with all the amenities of air conditioning, satellite radio, and comfortable seats. One big round bale holds more hay than an entire hayrack, and it was made by one person in a tractor cab. There are still stories to be told but far fewer people to listen to them because modern farm equipment allows one person to be as productive as ten people were in the 1950s. Dutch elm disease has claimed most of the big shade trees where we gathered after the last bale was in the barn.

Times have changed, but we cling to the memories of hot summer days, fresh pies and cakes, the stories told under a big old shade tree, and the taste of Mable Brown’s brown sugar frosting.

IAO

Fritz’s Youth Fritz’s Youth

This story was written in 1995 by my father, Galen “Fritz” Stratton. It was typed on his typewriter. After high school, Dad worked as a typist for Donnally’s in Nevada, Iowa for a while before he started farming with his dad. Dad thought it was the end of the world when they quit making typewriter ribbons. My daughter Karmin had a high school assignment to have a grandparent tell them about their life growing up. Galen Fredrick Stratton was born May 11, 1920 on a farm in Richland Township, Story County, Iowa, northeast of Nevada. He lived on this farm until 1939 when the family (Glen and Rose, Garnett, Art, Galen, Jeanne) moved to Milford Township. In December of 1945, my dad and mom, and me, moved to Grant Township one mile west of Nevada on Highway 30. Dad lived there until he retired at age 62. This is his story.

I was born in Richland Township, Story County Iowa on a farm near Nevada, Iowa. One of my first memories was a Model T ford car about a 1919 model with side curtains to protect you from the elements. There were no heaters in these cars, so you used lap robes and winter clothing to be comfortable in winter travel.

We had chores to do at an early age like about 4 or 5 years and started out by doing things like gathering the eggs and feeding baby chickens and gradually worked up to milking cows, feeding horses, cattle, hogs, and sheep and learning about the care and management of draft horses used on farms at that time. We had room for 8 head of draft horses in the barn and through observation by the age of about 12 years, my brother and I could harness and hitch a two horse team, a 3 horse team, or a four horse team. We were able to work the gentle teams and left the high spirited horses for our Father and Grandfather to handle. We also kept a saddle horse which we depended on to round up cattle and horses and also for personal transportation which was usually limited to a 10 mile radius of our home. I rode this horse to school much of the time when the weather wasn’t too severe. We had no shelter for horses at the country school house location, so the horse had to be secured to a fence post by a halter rope for 7 hours before we could go home. My daily routine in the morning was to get up between 5 and 6 A.M. and head for the barn where we fed the horses, cattle, and hogs, milked the cows and separated the milk from the cream and then take the cream to the house and eat breakfast and then back to the barn to saddle my horse and stop by the house to pick up my lunch and off 2 miles to school. We did chores again at night and there was no way we could get out of helping milk the cows even in the slack winter season because it was all done by hand and time consuming.

During my 8 years in a one room county school five cents would buy a candy bar and10 cents would take you to a movie (silent movie, that is). Our usual allowance per week ranged from 15 cents to 25 cents and if we had special requirements we might get 50 cents, but that was tops. A new pair of bib overalls was about $1.00 and a pair of work shoes were about $2.00. When I graduated high school and got a job my first dress suit cost $20.00 and it was of real good quality.

We got our first battery radio in 1932 and this was a sensational experience as far as news and entertainment was concerned. We listened to Lum and Abner, Amos and Andy, One Man’s Family, Fibber McGee and Molly, Jack Benny, and many others. We had bob sled parties, ice skating parties, card parties, and sometimes snow skied behind our saddle horse. We had neighborhood oyster stews, ice cream socials, square dances, and card parties on a regular basis and exchanged labor on jobs like making hay, threshing, shelling corn, and many other jobs. Wild game was plentiful during my youth and we spent many days in the winter hunting cottontails, jack rabbits, prairie chickens, ducks, and geese. There were very few deer and I never saw a pheasant until about 1933. We did some fishing in small streams in the area and always had a swimming hole located along those streams. In order to haul our fishing gear, we usually would drive a one horse buggy to the site and take a picnic dinner and believe me that was a big deal.

I remember the depression of the ‘30s and the stock market crash along with the closing of the banks. My Father had very little money in the bank so we didn’t lose as much as some folks did. Times were tough as far as money was concerned but we didn’t suffer much because we didn’t have much money to start with and we had big gardens along with milk, meat, eggs, and poultry. About all the groceries my Mother bought were staples and she baked our own bread, churned our own butter, and canned numerous amounts of fruit and vegetables. We also had an underground cave to store food in and it was usually pretty full by fall of each year. The economy perked up in the mid- ‘30s and my father bought his first new car in 1937. What a thrill!

I remember the Lindburg landing and figured the guy was wacky. I didn’t think he’d make it and everybody was overjoyed when he did.

In looking back, I feel very fortunate to have lived in my time. I think the values of most of the people of my generation were solid and as far as farm life goes, the advancements have been almost unbelievable. It has been a wonderful life for me.

Light, Dammit, Light

Preface:

Tending livestock on an Iowa farm during the winters of the 1950s was an arduous and monotonous task. These are my memories of tending to water tank heaters for the hogs and cattle.

Light, Dammit, Light

I was a farm kid in central Iowa during the 1950s; the ‘50s when we had real winter. Snow so deep it was up to the barn roof. The cold north wind packed snow drifts so hard the livestock walked up and over the fences. It didn’t just snow. We had blizzards and lots of them. Cold, it was so cold if you sneezed the spray turned to ice pellets. When I complained, dad would say “Well there’s nothing between us and the North Pole except for a woven wire fence.” As I looked out over the snowy and flat farm fields, I knew he was right.

We raised hogs, a few cattle, and a dozen milk cows. Our livestock shed provided shelter from the wind and snow. Half the shed was for cattle and the other half for the hogs. In the really cold weather the cows, that were milked by hand, were kept in the milking parlor of the barn. Cattle and hog feeders were outdoors. In the ‘50s, confinement buildings were somewhere in the future. Hogs required water and feed on a daily basis. The feed wasn’t much of a problem. Ground corn, oats, and protein came out of the feeder regardless of temperature. Water however, was fickle. Below 32 degrees it became hard water, as we called it. The hogs and cattle couldn’t drink hard water. The winters presented real challenges with water.

One of my jobs was to make sure the water didn’t get hard in the hog waterer. Our hog waterer held 100 gallons. When the temperature

was below zero, ice would freeze on the top and around the outer side of the tank. The ice on top had to be removed. The sides were removed if it was thick. A hammer or shovel was used to break the ice, being careful not to cut a hole in the tank. The ice was then shoveled over the fence. It was a sloppy wet job, and chances of finishing it without getting wet were slim. After the ice was removed it was time to fill the tank.

I filled the hog waterer out of the stock tank the cattle used. I dipped a five gallon bucket in the stock tank. I lifted it out, pivoted on my left foot, and dumped it into the hog waterer. I wore yellow cotton gloves like most farm workers. I carried several pair with me. You can still buy those gloves

today, but now they are made in China. The handle of the 5 gallon pail was in my left hand. As I pivoted on my left foot, my right hand gripped the dripping wet bottom of the pail. In a smooth motion I lifted the bottom of the pail and dumped it into the hog waterer. By the third bucket my right glove was soaking wet. Gore-Tex waterproof gloves would not be invented for another thirty years. I got use to cold wet hands. I learned not to touch my wet gloves to anything cold and metal less the gloves stayed frozen there until the spring melt. Think of the movie “Christmas Story” and the boy’s tongue on the flag pole. After ten or fifteen buckets, the tank was full.

With the waterer filled it was time to fill the heaters with kerosene. The heaters were basic tools. Imagine your great grandmother’s kerosene wick lantern she used in the house for light before electricity. Now remove the glass chimney from the lantern. Now remove the ornate glass container

that held the kerosene and replace it with a shallow rectangular or round galvanized container that holds about a quart of kerosene. You now have a hog waterer heater. Properly trimmed and set, the flame from the heater guaranteed soft water for the hogs. Just light it and place it under the cast iron trough and eureka, soft water. Sounds easy, but it ain’t.

I begin the job by putting my wet gloves on top of a wooden fence post and putting dry gloves on my hands. Rubbing the dry gloves together relieves the shock of the cold wind blowing on my wet hands. Next I get down on the frozen snowy ground on my hands and knees. Now days I can still do that, but I can’t get up. I remove the access door located at ground level. I look in and see both heaters still burning, a good sign. The water in the trough is not hard. I lay down on my left side and get my body situated between the waterer and the woven wire fence. I reach into the waterer with my right hand and slide one of the heaters toward the opening. I blow out the flame. It’s not safe to have an open flame around fuzzy yellow cotton gloves or spilled kerosene. Most of the time I didn’t have to blow out the flame. The wind did it for me. Your first clue to “not easy.” I repeat the process with the other heater.

The next step was to remove the screw-on cap or the cork. Corks replaced lost caps. The fill opening of the heater was small. I filled a quart oil can with a flex spout from the nearby kerosene barrel. I carefully poured kerosene down the spout into the small opening, and filled the heater. I was careful not to spill kerosene on the heater or on me. It was undesirable to have kerosene puddles or soaked clothes when I got ready to strike a match to light the heaters. Your second clue to “not easy.”

Prior to lighting the heater I pulled the glove off my right hand; hopefully, it was still dry and not soaked with kerosene. I unbutton the side of my coveralls and reach into the right front pocket of my blue jeans. I extract my pocket knife. I still carry a pocket knife in that location every day of my life. In the 1950s no self respecting school boy would admit to not carrying a pocket knife. Father’s enforced the rule to never threaten someone with a knife or to use it for anything mischievous. I never remember a kid who needed a second chance. You just never broke that rule. Those were the days of respect for others and self respect. Idiotic zero tolerance rules were not required back then. I digress. I opened the long blade of the knife and trimmed the wick. I cut off all the ragged and charred edges. A well trimmed wick was flat and straight. This produced a uniform and long burning flame. A flame that kept the water soft all night and all day. A successful trim job included no cut gloves, no cut fingers, and definitely no blood. Although at twenty below zero cold, blood vessels were so constricted there was little blood loss. Another clue. Are you getting the idea of not easy? The worst is yet to come.

With the wick trimmed, the heater is ready to go back inside the hog waterer. I check the wind direction to determine how I need to place my body. Trees and shrubs are not the only wind break. I lay down on the cold snow covered ground to shield the access opening from the

wind. I try not to tangle my feet and five buckle overshoes in the woven wire fence. I need a match. I unzip or unbutton multiple layers of clothing to reach the left hand pocket of my flannel shirt. Stored in that pocket are several stick matches. I retrieve a match and zip up the outer layer of clothing.

I lay down on the ground, shielding the wind, and reach into the waterer. As I reach, the collar on my coat shifts and the wind blows snow down the back of my neck. I shiver and grimace. I’m shivering too hard to swear. I strike the match across the rough cast iron surface of the water trough. The match ignites, and the air fills with the smell of burning sulfur. Yuk. Quickly I move the match to the wick. Just before the match gets to the wick a gust of wind comes over my back, through the access door, and blows out the match. If Dad wasn’t around I would talk to the wind in one syllable words.

Time to roll over on my back, unzip, reach deep into my dry clothing and retrieve another match. Now it was time for reason and logic to overcome mother nature. Accurate timing was the essence of success. I check the wind direction again, and I positioned my ample chest and belly to block the wind. I waited for a gust of wind and checked my body position. I was in the right place. I waited for the second gust of wind. Aha, now I had the time interval between gusts of wind.

In that interval I could strike the match and light the wick. The plan was ready so I waited for the next gust. It came just as I expected. I struck the match, and more sulfur smell filled the air. I move it quickly to the wick. But damn, an unscheduled gust of wind blew it out an inch short of the wick. Failed again. A flurry of one syllable words escaped my mouth. (The line “You’d be better off to try to rope the wind” from the song “Whatca Goona Do With A Cowboy” by Chris Ledoux always makes me think of lighting hog water heaters)

Once again, roll over, unzip, reach deep, retrieve a match. Rezip, wiggle around on the cold snow, but heck, I’m numb by now, and position my body. Good thing we didn’t know about wind chill back then. It was either cold or damn cold. Today it was damn cold. I time the gusts, I strike the match, move it quickly, and the wick ignites into a beautiful flame. I turn the knob to adjust the flame. Too low is not enough heat. Too high is a smoky flame that will char the wick and eventually go out. I get it just right. Success. The water in that trough will stay soft. Now, it was time to attack the second heater. The second heater was on the opposite side of the water tank. I fill it. I dig down for a dry match. I position my body and strike the match. I move it quickly to the wick. The wick doesn’t light. I slide the match back and forth across the wick. The match stick flame is getting closer and closer to my cold numb fingers. I holler “light, dammit, light.” The wick erupts into a flame. Success followed by a grumble of “it’s about time.” It isn’t easy, but it’s done. Tomorrow will be the sequel. The movie “Ground Hog Day” ain’t got nothen on kids that had to light hog water heaters.

I crawl up off the snow covered ground and brush the snow off my coveralls. I pick up my wet, now frozen, gloves from the wooden fence post and climb over the fence. The cattle tank heater is next.

I open a door on the cover over the cattle tank and reach for the heater. It is stone cold. The fire has

gone out, but luckily the water is still soft. I fetch some kerosene and fill the large tank on the heater. Carefully I open the valve and set it to a slow but steady drip. I wait several seconds for a small pool of kerosene to collect in the bottom of the tank. I look down the pipe. It’s dark, and I can’t see down the three foot of pipe to see if there is a pool of fuel. So I again unzip and unbutton multiple layers of clothes and find a dry match; the last match. I think “maybe I’ll get lucky” knowing full well it isn’t going to happen.

I take the fuzzy yellow cotton glove off my right hand that is almost warmed up after doing the hog waterer. I strike the match on the side of the fuel tank. The flame and sulfur smell jump out. I hold the match until the match stick ignites. Being quick and careful, I hate burnt fingers, I turn the match on end with lit end down. I drop it down the middle of the pipe hoping for a direct hit in the fuel pool.

The burning match lasts long enough for me to see the pool of fuel. Out of nowhere a gust of wind sweeps over my back and down the pipe. The match goes out just before it hits bottom. I turn the kerosene valve to off. Too big a fuel pool will harm the heater when it ignites. I close the doors on the cattle tank and trudge through the cold blowing snow to the barn.

I unzip, unbutton, and refill my shirt pocket with dry matches. The cows in the barn keep it warm. I pause to warm my hands and chilled body before wading through the snow to the cattle tank. As I open the barn door, I am greeted with falling snow. Whoopee.

Back at the cattle tank I check the wind and I time the wind gusts. I figure with my luck a big snow flake will land on the match just as I strike it. I strike it, the snow flake misses, I get the stick ignited, turn it, aim it, and drop it down the pipe. The match hits bottom but off to the side of the fuel pool. Bad aim and I search for new one syllable words.

Again unzip, reach deep, find a match. I strike it, turn it, take aim, and drop it. But this time I apply body english. The match hits the middle of the fuel pool and falls on its side with the flame still burning. I holler “light, dammit, light.” The fuel pool ignites and the burn pot glows. Success has almost arrived. I reopen the valve to achieve a slow steady drip. The frigid air drafts down the fuel pipe, across the burn pot, and up the chimney. The fire in the burn pot is steady and not too much smoke out the chimney. Success.

I trudge off to the house and go down the basement stairs. I lay all my gloves, wet, frozen, or otherwise, on the exhaust pipe of the furnace. They will be dry and warm when I start this all over again tomorrow after school. Filling and lighting water heaters was a miserable job. However, it was preferable to the summer job of walking beans.

IAO

Farm Aromas and Sounds

Preface:

The aromas and sounds experienced by farm kids in our youth of the 1950s and 1960s will live in our memories forever. With work, a few can still be found but many have faded into history. This story will energize your memories of the greatest time in our lives.

Farm Aromas and Sounds

During my youth, the aromas and sounds of the farm gave me productive skills. Many of those skills have been almost lost to today’s youth isolated in tractor cabs and dependent upon technology to manage farm machinery. The skills acquired on the open seat of a tractor via sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell, help us “old” guys and gals keep up with the “techies” of the 21st century. We learned skills of safety, enjoyment, contentment, contemplation, observation, common sense, and how to solve our own problems.

I grew up on an Iowa farm during the 1950s and 1960s. After World War II, farm power was in rapid change from horses to tractors. I remember when my dad used horses to plant and cultivate corn. He said it was easier to get the horses to go in a straight line than to steer the tractor in a straight line. My dad was not a believer in the philosophy that there was more corn in a crooked row. A straight row was a sign of a good farmer. Driving in a straight line was almost a religion for my dad. In those days, there were lots of aromas and sounds that have been displaced by “modern technology.” Those aromas and sounds gave my generation coping skills that did not require batteries, computer analysis, or a wireless connection. Many of today’s generation become helpless with the loss of electricity or a wireless connection.

My favorite job on the farm was plowing, especially fall plowing. The weather was cool, the smell of fall was in the air, the leaves were turning, and the harvest was done. Some mornings the ground was covered with a sparkling white carpet of frost. We had three tractors each capable of pulling a three bottom plow. That was a big deal in the early ‘60s as my dad, my brother, and I plowed down the corn and bean ground after harvest.

444 Massy, 300 IH, 350IH Utility

These were the days before tractor cabs. We sat out in the open on the tractor seat. The sun, wind, sounds, and aromas surrounded us. Our five senses delighted us as they gathered data that required only the computing power of our brains. Cold and windy days were sometimes hard days. The cold wind would cut through all four or five layers of clothing. When the weather turned really cold, we put heat housers on the tractors. They were constructed of canvas and a simple wire rod frame. They covered the engine and funneled the warm fan blast of the engine toward you.

When driving into the wind, you could get warm. The cold wind blew up the open back of the tractor driving with the wind. You got cold but just counted the minutes until you could turn around and go the other way to get warm again. Heat housers were such a great comfort I wondered what else anyone could want on a

Photo credit: yesterdaystractors.com tractor. Little did I know my future would be part of a team designing tractors with a cab providing a comfort level similar to the family’s living room.

When plowing in the fall, you could hear the sound of the plow’s moldboards breaking the soil. You could hear the sound of the coulters cutting the corn stalks. You could hear the sound of the engine lugging down in tuff spots. In those days there were no tachometers on tractors. You depended on hearing the sound of the engine to know when to downshift and upshift. Most tractors had four or five gears, two of which were useful for plowing. Mechanically shifting gears at the right time was an art requiring considerable experience to acquire. Tractors with cabs, 16 speed automatic transmissions, and a gazillion sensors have eliminated all the fun, and the art, of shifting gears. One day I discovered a new sound of plowing.

I had been off the farm for several years. A newspaper article told about the national plowing matches being held on a Saturday about an hour’s drive away. I decided to go. When I arrived, I discovered they were also having a contest with plows drawn by horses. I had heard my dad’s stories about plowing with horses when he was young. Dressed in my John Deere baseball cap, tee shirt, blue jeans, and work boots I meandered across the field to the site of the contest. I watched in awe as the plowmen handled their horses and plow with great skill.

I became aware of sounds that I hadn’t heard when plowing with a tractor. The first was easy; it was

the jingle of the harness on the horses. The jingle sounded like sweet music in rhythm with the big hoofs of the draft horses. Second was the squeaky sounds of the steel wheeled plows being pulled through the soil. Not sweet music but the periodic sounds, a melody, created by working farm machinery. The third sound eluded me. What was that sound? I watched and listened. The sound was the soft and pleasant sound of the turned soil falling off the moldboard and into the furrow. I had never heard that sound before. The muffler noise of the modern tractor drowned out that soft and melodious sound. I had discovered a soft and most pleasant sound my grandfather and father heard as they plowed the soil with a team of horses.

Many years have past since that day. My hearing is not what it used to be. But, I still recall the sweet sounds and melodies of that day. A group of spectators, both younger and older than I, stood quietly while we soaked in the sweet sounds of days gone by. Sound was only part of the joy. The aromas were also a big part plowing. The aroma of freshly turn soil was pleasant upon my nostrils. Farm kids know this aroma. Most others are unaware. The aroma of a freshly plowed field is part of the fabric that holds a farmer close to the soil. Us “old” farm kids that grew up in the days of open tractor seats and moldboard plows know that smell. As we plowed we could smell the soil. When we stopped the tractor for fuel, lunch (a snack to you youngsters), or dinner (the noon meal to you city folk) the aroma of the freshly turned soil embraced you. You would stand there, take a deep breath, and allow that aroma to settle into your lungs and senses. You felt a closeness to the soil that cannot be felt by any other sense. The aroma of soil brings a smile to your face. You get this euphoria like you get when you get a whiff of your sweetheart’s favorite perfume. That aroma and euphoria, and being enveloped by it, is all but lost with today’s tractor operators isolated in air conditioned and heated cabs listening to the satellite radio as GPS drives the tractor across the field. Hearing was the most important sense during corn planting. Each brand of corn planter has unique sounds. For that reason alone many farmers hesitated to change brands of their corn planters. The clickity-clack of the trip wire passing through the guides; the rhythmic sounds of the gear box; the snap of the trip levers as they opened each time the kernels of corn dropped into the soil were key sounds to a successful planting season. Driving in a straight line was an obsession with my dad. Looking back to check the planter often caused a deviation from a straight line. That was an event that came with consequences. Hearing the sound of a properly operating planter as you looked straight ahead, and drove a straight line, was the most important attribute of a planter operator. Today’s planters are monitored by electronics and computers. The operator is isolated from the planters sound by the tractor’s cab. The operator is totally dependent upon the computer to determine problems and can result is excess downtime.

Picking corn was similar to planting corn. Hearing was the key sense for the operator. The first corn

combine we had on the farm had a cab. It was the first piece of machinery on the farm with a cab. We often ran with a window or a door open so we could hear the sound of the machine. We could quickly tell when something was not correct. With the current dependence on monitors and computers there are few operators that can tell if a combine is operating properly just by listening to the sound.

I’m a believer in concentrating on the basics. Today, fewer people pay attention to that. Understanding the basics allows you to appreciate technology, and you always have a fall back position. During my years at John Deere a wise mentor told me, “Kid, concentrate on the basics, you’re not smart enough to make advanced mistakes.” I’ve found that to be good advice for all aspects of life and living. I am no longer involved with farm machinery, but I still have the basic knowledge of how to plant corn, harvest corn, save seeds, and plant a crop again the next year. I also know how to conduct a soil analysis without any lab equipment.

During my career, I happened into a situation where I questioned the value added by technology. I was conducting tests and needed to determine the soil type. I was familiar with the rich black soil of Iowa, and it’s unique aroma. Rich with humus, the soil had a texture and feel all its own. Soils in other states were not the same and were unfamiliar to me. The current procedure was to collect samples in quart cans, seal the cans, send them to the lab, and wait six weeks for the results of the minutest detail. Too long and too complex because I needed results today. I decided to use the old farmers approach. That approach had been completely lost on the highly educated people in charge of the lab.

In the “old days,” soil was usually typed when a farm was sold. The seller and buyer would go out to a field, dig down two to six inches, and

scoop up a sample of the soil. An empty quart fruit jar, from the wife’s canning shelf, was filled half-full of the sample. The jar was then filled with water and shaken. The jar was then set on the shelf. After a cup of coffee and some conversation, the jar was inspected. Soil settles out in water by weight with sand on the bottom then silt, and clay. Using the ruler on the edge of the pocket ledger they carried in the pocket of their bib overalls, they measured the depth of each layer. Using a pencil pulled from their bib pocket they calculated the percentage of sand, silt, and clay. They looked at a soil triangle chart and they had an answer; no batteries or technology were required. A half hour of time and minor use of your brain and determination is at hand.

Haying season was also a time when the sense of smell was rewarded with the aroma of freshly cut

alfalfa. This is an aroma farm kids and city kids can appreciate equally. You just need to know when and where to find it. In the summer of 2005 I was recovering from the death of my wife. I would often leave home just before sunset and drive out into the country. I would drive east and as sunset approached I would turnaround the drive west into the sunset. Sunsets were my wife’s favorite time of day. She believed Iowa sunsets were the best. I believed sunsets over the mountains of Arizona were the best. We had many spirited debates about sunsets. If you’ve ever observed a debate between a Norwegian (her) and a Dane (me) you can appreciate the animation and passion involved.

One evening as I was driving home in the twilight, I went down a hill on the highway. Light ground fog was starting to accumulate in the low land at the bottom of the hill. It was a scene I had seen many times while growing up on the farm. The windows of my pickup truck were down, and the sweet aroma of freshly mowed alfalfa hit my nostrils. I looked around. Just ahead on the left side of the road was about twenty acres of freshly mowed alfalfa. I slowed down. I took deep breaths. The aroma brought back many memories of growing up on the farm. The aroma is very relaxing, and I felt mellow. For a brief time, the grief of my loss faded away.

If you want to experience the sweet aroma of freshly mowed alfalfa, drive through farm country in early June and mid-August, at least in Iowa, roll down the windows, turn off the AC, and search for a freshly mowed field. You will be rewarded with one of the sweetest aromas on earth. That aroma is just another of God’s gifts during our earthly life.

The Crib

Preface:

This is a story about my father’s family improvising, adapting, and overcoming a situation on the farm. It is not untypical of the people of their generation. Their work ethic, family values, and the ability to improvise, adapt, and overcome are the traits that gave them the distinction of the Greatest Generation and they passed that heritage to my generation.

The Crib The year was 1937. Life on an Iowa farm had been tuff. The country was just coming out of the Great Depression. Winter heating fuel was corn and corn cobs because there wasn’t money to buy coal. The winter of 1936 would be remembered as an epic winter in Iowa. Snow drifts so high that deep trenches were dug by hand to get to the barns and livestock. Roads blocked with deep drifts preventing access to town for weeks. The dust bowl storms and summers of 110 degree days had been common in recent years. The old farm house was in bad shape. The landlord decided to tear down the house and build a new house on the same spot. Great news but where do you live while the house is being built?

The 1930s were among the most difficult years for Americans. The economy had collapsed in the Great Depression. Jobs were scarce, and money was hard to come by. Farm families were in better shape than most because they were mostly self-sufficient. Butchering of cattle and hogs on the farm was still common and provided a supply of meat. Gardens were common, and the vegetables were canned for storage in root cellars for a year around food supply. Heating was supplied by range stoves, pot bellied stoves, or coal burning furnaces. Many farms had a grove of trees the provided wood for the cook stoves. Cutting firewood was a fall ritual. My dad often told stories about the willow row. The willow row was a quarter mile long. The willow trees were cut down with axes and cut up for fuel (chain saws had not been invented). My dad, his brother, my granddad, and great granddad worked their way down the willow row. Great granddad, John, was tall and had long arms that made him an excellent axe man. John enjoyed axe work and made it look easy. Dad always described with disgust that by the time they got to the end of the willow row, the other end was again ready for cutting. Dad didn’t share John’s enthusiasm for axe work. Heat for the house was provided by a coal burning furnace. Some winters they burned wood and corn in the furnace because there wasn’t money to buy coal.

Summers in Iowa are hot. Watch any summer weather forecast in the Midwest and note the record high temperatures. The records were in the range of 100 to 115 degrees and occurred in the 1930s. Air conditioning hadn’t been invented yet. Electrical power was just making its way into the rural areas of Iowa. This farm had electricity and a telephone; both considered luxuries in the 1930s. My dad and his brother cultivated corn at night. A job that was easier during a full moon. The cooler nights were easier on the horses. It was so hot it was not uncommon for a horse to die of heat stroke when cultivating during the day. Farmers with cultivators that required a team of three horses had to be especially careful. The horse in the middle was very susceptible to heat stroke on those hot summer days. Horses were the primary power on the farm in the 1930s. The loss of a horse was a major economic tragedy.

Mechanical power on many farms was limited to a single cylinder hit and miss engine. The engine had a pulley and was connected to tools via a flat belt. The primary tools were a pump jack and a burr mill. The pump jack pumped water from a shallow well to fill livestock water

tanks. The burr mill ground feed for the horses, cattle, hogs, sheep, and chickens. Today, we think of hit and miss engines as simple mechanical devices, but they were, and still are, cantankerous machines. In the 1930s they were considered very complicated machines. People knew how to break horses to the harness. They knew how to doctor horses for their various ailments. They knew how to guide horses with voice commands, and harness leads. Hit and miss engines were new and complicated, and they didn’t respond to verbal commands, even single syllable word vocabulary. But I digress.

The 1930s were tuff times in America, but farm families in Iowa were mostly self-sufficient, hardy, and innovators. They were seasoned by hard physical labor and perseverance. Combined with common sense; they were survivors.

The joy of a new house was dampened by the need to figure out where to live during construction. Work on the farm would not cease. The old house had to be torn down before construction could start on the new house. After talking with the carpenters, a schedule was established. The new house could be closed in before winter. The basement could become living quarters for the winter while the house was finished. What to during the summer?

Looking at their resources a decision was made to live in the double corn crib during the summer. The remaining corn could be moved to make room. With a plan, they set out to move everything out of the house and into the corn crib.

The alleyway would be the storage area. One side of the crib would become the kitchen. The other side of the crib would become sleeping quarters for grandma and the girls. Grandpa and the boys would sleep outdoors or in the barn.

The crib was swept and cleaned. The slatted sides of the corn crib were covered with tarps to

protect the kitchen and sleeping quarters from rain and wind. The range stove was moved into the kitchen area of the corn crib. The rest of the kitchen was setup on tables and boxes. The kitchen table and chairs were set in one end and a pantry on the other end. Beds for the women were moved and set up in the sleeping area on the other half of the crib. Ropes were strung up to hold clothes. This would be home into the fall of the year. The summer was hot but not as hot as previous years. The boys slept outdoors many a night. The family made due with what they had. A new house was worth the sacrifice. Construction was progressing, but the cool days of fall were neigh. The cold nights of early winter on the doorstep when the house was closed in. The family moved into the basement and got situated. They were anxious for the house to be finished.

While all the construction was going on, 10 year old Jeanne had to have her tonsils removed. In 1937 tonsillectomies were not routine surgery. Jeanne’s recovery at home did not seem to be going well. She rested in bed but did not gain strength or energy. She was not in pain but just didn’t seem to be recovering. One afternoon, about a week after the surgery, she started vomiting red blood. Jeanne had been slowly hemorrhaging since the surgery. She turned white as a sheet and was limp. Her dad, Glen, believed in having a phone in the house. The doctor was called, and he wanted her brought to his office immediately. For some reason, the car was gone. Calls were made to neighbors and a car was obtained. Jeanne was rushed to the doctor’s office. The doctor was able to stop the hemorrhage, and Jeanne did recover. The doctor told the family it was a very close call. He thought a half hour later, and he could not have saved Jeanne. But, as the snow flew, the family was thankful to be out of the corncrib and into the warmth of the basement.

The finish work on the first and second floor went well, and they were able to move into the main floor and the upstairs a few days before Christmas 1937. The hardships of the summer had been taken in stride and were now behind them. The joy of the home would be short lived. In 1939 the landlord moved a son-in-law onto the farm and the Stratton’s moved to Milford Township. They moved between Christmas and New Years of 1939. The Nevada School didn’t hold classes on New Years day. Milford school did. Jeanne had to go to school on New Years Day. She was not happy and complained her whole life about it.

REA (Rural Electric Association) electrical power had not yet reached the farm in Milford township. No electricity was just another challenge the family overcame for the next two years. On December 7th 1941 dad was doing the evening milking when the radio announced the attack on Pearl Harbor. Shortly thereafter, his brother Art enlisted in the Army. In March of 1943 my dad married. In October of 1943 Grandpa died. Dad was deferred from the draft to run the farm and care for his mother and two sisters. I was born in April of 1944. In the fall of 1944 the landlord told dad he would have to move. A member of the landlord’s family wanted to farm that land. In December of 1944 we moved to a farm in Grant Township, one mile west of Nevada on Highway 30, and dad remained there until he retired in 1983.

So it’s in our genes. Descendants of Glen and Rose Stratton tend to be self-sufficient, we overcome obstacles, we hate to be told it can’t be done, we have faith in God, as youth we were seasoned to hard work and perseverance, we have common sense, although that was sometimes questioned in our youth, we have strong family ties, and we usually say yes when asked to help others. The hardships in our lives pale compared to those overcome by Glen and Rose. We are what we are because of them and thankful for it. Postscript:

The house and the crib on this farm were still standing in 2013. Some minor remodeling had been done on the house and the corn crib had been converted to a horse barn. The willow row, the barn, and the rest of the buildings on the farm have faded into history.

Stitches and Gett’n Even

Preface:

In our youth, the squabbles between my brother and I resulted in lots of bumps, bruises, mercurochrome, and a bandaid. Things got more serious when barbed wire fences and pitch forks were involved with our squabbles. Originally, these were two separate stories but in 2016 I have combined them into one story for the web world.

Stitches and Gett’n Even Stitches

My brother and I grew up on a central Iowa farm in the ‘50s and early ‘60s. Our father thought if he worked us hard enough we would be too tired to get into trouble. Sometimes it worked for me but seldom worked for my brother. We still found time to have fun, fight with each other, and get into trouble. Gale was two years younger. He was physically smaller and a lot quicker. When we fought with each other, he could always escape. He could run faster and slip through places I couldn’t.

When Gale turned ten, he also joined 4-H, and we raised hogs. After we showed our hogs at the 4-H fair, we sold them. The check was more money than the two of us had ever seen. We wanted to buy bicycles. Dad said we would have to buy one together as there wasn’t enough money for two bicycles. Dad took us to the Gambles store in town. We picked out a bright red 24 inch bike. We paid for it with cash and counted out the $44 to the store owner. In the ‘50s we paid cash for everything we bought. If we didn’t have the cash, we didn’t buy it. Simple but effective economics. We proudly took the bike home and showed it to our mother.

Since this was our first bike, Dad insisted we leave the training wheels on it. We quickly learned to keep our balance, and in a few days the training wheels came off the bike. Sharing the bike went better than we expected. Gale and I had a well deserved reputation for fighting with each other. Later in life I heard stories about the fights between my Dad and his brother. Gale and I couldn’t help it; it was in the genes. However, we had few fights about the bike.

A few weeks later we bounded off the school bus and headed for the back door of the house, the only door we used. Leaning against the well house, by the back door, was another bike; a larger bike.

The 26 inch bike was green, and it had an electric horn. Dad had been to the sale barn auction to see about buying some livestock. This bike was offered for sale. Dad decided we needed a second bike and bought this bike for me. He paid $25 for the used bike.

The electric horn didn’t work, but I scratched the corrosion off the contacts, and it would work most of the time. The two bikes were different sizes and different colors, but Gale and I decided we needed to add stuff to make sure we could tell them apart. We added handle grips with streamers. We clipped playing cards to the fender frames with clothes pins. The faster we pedaled, the more noise the cards made as the wheel spokes clipped each card. We loved it and the livestock learned to live with it. We added horns, lights, reflectors, and all the stuff we could pay cash for. It took a while on an allowance of a dollar a week.

It wasn’t long before we were racing each other. One great use for the bikes was to ride out to the pastures. We had pastures for the hogs, and we would ride out to water and feed them. We had cattle and cows and we would ride out to the pastures to herd them back to the barn. The lane to the pastures went past mom’s garden and made a ninety degree turn and headed west along the highway. There was enough room in the lane for the two of us to ride, or race, side by side.

When we had time, we would go down the lane and race each other back to the house. We usually went down to the corner of the gravel road and the highway. A woven wire fence was on both sides of the lane from our start line to the 90 degree corner by mom’s garden. The fence along mom’s garden was steel posts with two strands of barb wire. One strand was about a foot off the ground and the other strand was about waist high.

One day we were racing. Gale was always faster. I always blamed it on the bigger bike and bigger tires. The fact that I weighed a lot more than he did never enter into my logic for being slower. That day we raced several times. We took turns with the inside path and the outside path. It was always a 1, 2, 3, go. The winner was the first one to the gate by mom’s garden. Whether on the inside path or outside path Gale always won.

After a few races, I developed a new strategy. The 90 degree corner was always a tight place when both of us tried to navigate it at the same time. Whoever got around the corner first would win the race. I would try really hard to keep up with Gale going into the corner. I would take the inside path. At the corner, I would use my large bike and larger size to crowd him near the barb wire fence. He would stop, and I would win.

I was confident of this strategy because both of us had unpleasant experiences with barb wire fences. On rainy days, one of dad’s favorite jobs was building or repairing fences. Both of us had been poked, scratched, cut, or shocked by barb wire. Shocked because many of our barb wire fences were electrified to help keep the cattle and hogs inside the fences. Gale would stop instead of risking getting hurt by the barbed wire.

It was a hot summer day, and I was in a rolling sweat; nothing new for me. I sweat profusely. I could get into a sweat carrying water to the hogs at 20 below zero. With a 1, 2, 3, go, we were off. I was pedaling as hard as I could. I was huffing and puffing, but I was keeping up with my light weight brother on his smaller bike. We had passed the wet spot in the lane and starting the up hill run. We were still side by side, and the corner was getting closer. Slowly I edged to the right crowding Gale, but he didn’t want to budge. He could be stubborn. I always thought he was more stubborn than me. Later in life our wife’s would debate that point many times and decide it was a draw.

I was pedaling as fast as I could, and the corner was fast approaching. I edged to the right a little more. Our bikes are bumping each other. Size and mass does have its advantages, and I didn’t back off. Gale was forced to the outside. We were neck and neck as we enter the corner. Halfway through the corner the barb wire is fast approaching Gale. I expect him to hit the brakes at any moment. Being stubborn, he doesn’t do that. He chooses to take his chances with the barb wire and win the race.

The next thing I hear is a scream and Gale falls off his bike. I slam on my brakes and run back to him. His pant leg is torn open, and there is this ugly cut on his thigh. I had seen a lot of cuts, but this one was different. It was long and deep but there was little bleeding. There was this funny yellow stuff I had never seen in a cut before. It looked like yellow cottage cheese. I knew this was not good.

I yelled for my dad and started running toward the machine shed. Dad and his hired man were working on machinery by the workshop. As I ran I yelled. They heard me and came running. I told them Gale had run into the barb wire fence and cut his leg. They walked over to Gale and looked at his leg. From the look on dad’s face, I knew this was no ordinary cut. The hired man said, “Well that’ll take some stitches.”

Stitches? What are stitches? Gale and I had been in lots of fights and had lots of injuries working on the farm. The worst may have required a bandage for a few days. We had no experience with stitches.

So they helped Gale up and carried him to the car. Dad and mom took him to the doctor in town. The hired man returned to the machinery, and I started feeding the livestock. I decide my new strategy was flawed. Gale came home with stitches in his thigh. As I recall that was the first real scar between us. There would be more.

Dad told me to never do that again. He often said that to my brother and me in our younger days. Now, more than sixty years later, wrinkles hide most of our scars but on occasion our stubborn streak is just as visible as ever.

Gett’n Even

My younger brother, Gale, was smaller than me. He ran faster than me and was more tenacious. He could get away from me by slipping through small openings that blocked my pursuit. After our brotherly fights and squabbles, he sometimes got mad but he always got even.

The day patience was handed out, Gale was in line but I was absent. After our disagreements, I wanted revenge right now but Gale had patience. He could wait; he didn’t have to get even right away. He patiently waited for the opportune time to exact his revenge.

I devised a plan to beat Gale in a bicycle race, It worked, but Gale got a trip to the doctor and several stitches. Gale healed, and I forgot all about it. Not Gale, he had patience and he was just waiting.

The next spring we were cleaning out the chicken house. According to my father, chickens were

women’s work. Mom fed them, watered them, collected the eggs, sold the eggs, kept the money, and butchered the chickens. Dad insisted on fried chicken for Sunday dinner so there were always fifty-two roosters in the freezer by Fall. The only job that was men’s work was cleaning the manure out of the chicken house. That terrible job, worse than walking beans, occurred in the early Spring and in the Fall. The disposal of cattle manure, hog manure, and chicken manure was accomplished manually, one pitch fork at a time. No skid steer loaders back in those days.

My brother and I didn’t mind the cattle and hog manure. Each had its own aroma and for farm kids both were tolerable. Now, chicken manure was in a category by itself. Chicken manure didn’t have an aroma, it had an odor, an odor of ammonia. Not the odor of household cleaning ammonia but one hundred times worse. The stench that made you feel this breath could be your last. The deeper the manure, the more ammonia odor. A long winter meant a hold-your-breath job of cleaning the chicken house. This was one of those springs.

My dad, my brother, and I would each have a four tine pitch fork. Each would gather up a fork load, walk across the chicken house, through the one man door, and deposit the load in the manure spreader. My Dad was a stickler for efficiency. Keeping the proper rhythm and steps were required so there was no standing still time and no one waiting to get through the one man door. Our motions were a carefully crafted routine that would make a choreographer proud.

On this day, we were about half done. We no longer sucked in a big breath outside the chicken house and held it as we gather a fork load and returning to the outdoors. The ammonia odor was subsiding. Dad was returning from the field where he spread the manure. We were expected to have forks full of manure and ready for the spreader; the second dad backed the spreader into place by the door.

Gale and I loaded our forks and walked toward the door with me leading the way. Dad had miscalculated backing up the spreader, a rare occurrence, and had to make a second attempt. I paused in the doorway. Gale, being behind me, could not see what was happening. Those fork loads of chicken manure were heavy. He told me to hurry up. I don’t recall what I said, but it was probably some snide remark. I didn’t actually see it, but I know that’s when Gale’s eyes lit up, and he smiled his devilish smile. He had his chance to get even for those stitches in his leg.

Gale stabbed me in both buttocks with his four tine pitchfork loaded with fresh chicken manure reeking of ammonia. I yelled and jumped, but I didn’t drop my pitch fork load of manure. I had learned a good deal of profanity from my Dad’s cousin, and I used most of it.

Dad had parked the manure spreader and was coming through the door. He responded with “What the hell’s going on with you two.” Gale and I had heard that statement often. I said Gale stabbed me in the butt with the pitch fork. Dad looked at Gale. Yep, Gale was still holding the pitch fork load of aged chicken manure. He had his unapologetic look on his face.

Dad took down my pants. There were puncture wounds. It was off to the house for mom to look at and clean. After her inspection, the next stop was the doctor’s office. I became the recipient of another tetanus shot. I remember other shots and the sting of another cleansing of the punctures. When we left the doctor’s office, I was “good as new” according to my Dad; no stitches and no bandages. The punctures didn’t affect my ability to sit or walk so it was back to work. Unless you were dead, dad believed you should be working.

Gale and I got another familiar warning “don’t do that again.” We followed that warning. There were so many new opportunities we didn’t have to repeat our previous encounters.

We finished cleaning the chicken house and filled it with fresh straw. The place actually smelled good. Everybody was happy. Dad was happy we could all keep working. Mom was happy to have a clean chicken house. Gale got even for his stitches and had that devilish smile he was noted for. And me, well I just had a sore butt for a few days. I was happy I didn’t have to go back to the doctor in a few days and get stitches out like he did. The Olden Days

Preface:

When my dad, Galen (Fritz), my Aunt Garnett, and my Uncle Art were in their eighties they wrote stories about growing up in the 1920s, ’30s, and World War II. The three of them, and their youngest sister Jeanne, were all born on a farm in Richland Township of Story County, Iowa between 1916 and 1927. They are all deceased. Their stories will make you appreciate the luxury life we live today.

Stories by

Galen (Fritz) Stratton Garnett Stratton Morris Arthur Stratton

Stories by Galen (Fritz)

Old Age by Fritz Stratton

Time is humming And old age is coming Doc gave me new eyes and new knees So we kind of go steady and I’m on the ready But I hope there’s no more, if you please Life can be magic And sometimes tragic You never know what you should fear So I’ll just keep mowing If the John Deere keeps going Pretty soon we’ll start a New Year Then it’s back to snow blowing Sometimes it’s tough going When it’s icy you fall on your rear Lord, give me more magic Put a hold on the tragic And help me get out of bed every morn I’ll fire up the mower, also the blower Until I hear Gabriel’s horn

What Did We Do For Fun by Fritz Stratton

I grew up on a horse and he was a big part of my life for about 10 years. Our neighbor across the section was a horse buyer and he saw Dad one day and told him he had a 3-year old stallion that he thought might make a good saddle horse. He came out of the Dakotas and had never had a strap on him, so we would have to start from scratch. Dad brought him home and the first thing they did as castrate him. He didn’t look like much to me as is hair was rough and patchy (probably from fighting with other horses) and he had lice, so we started treating him for lice and handling him to kind of get some idea how tough this job was going to be.

I was still a scrawny kid at the time so I wasn’t much good at helping to break horses. My Dad and my Grandpa spent a lot of their time in the winter breaking colts and broncos into work horses so this is right up their alley and the next thing you know they have a bridle and saddle on him and they are riding him around the yard. I’m not sure whether Art rode him much at this time or not, but I had orders to stay off his back until they could get him broke better. I hadn’t seen him try to buck anybody off but I knew they weren’t having much luck making him do what they wanted him to.

One day when everyone was gone I decided I’d see if I could get a bridle on him and go for a little ride. I got the bridle on, got him out of the barn and got aboard bareback and went out on the road and headed south. He didn’t want to go south but I finally coaxed him about 40 rods down the road and turned him around and headed for home. He took the bit in his mouth and he is going home flat out! He made the turn in the gate and right up to the barn door and set his feet and stopped. I didn’t stop……….but the top barn door was open and I went right over his head and landed inside the barn with a bloody nose. I could see then that if I wanted to ride that horse, the first thing I had to do was learn how to sit tight. I don’t recall telling my Dad about this little deal!

They kept working with him and it looked like they were making some headway. I saw my Grandpa catch him in the lot one day and it looked pretty easy so I had to give it a try. I saw Old Joe eating grass in the front yard so I got an ear of corn and offered it to him. He took it, whirled around and rolled me across the yard. He kicked me just below the right hip and I still have the scar to prove it. It was probably a year or so before they got Old Joe so I could ride him then they put me to herding cows along a mile dirt road east of our house. Old Joe was high- spirited, well muscled, sure-footed, weighed about 1050 pounds, and was tougher than “whang”! Usually he would be rambunctious when you took him out of the barn and the quickest way to settle him down was to let him run a quarter of a mile flat out then he handled good for the rest of the day. After I herded cows with him for a couple of years, he developed into a really good cow horse— probably the nearest thing to a cutting horse Richland Township had seen for a while.

I rode to school quite a lot and there would be as many as 5 horses tied to the fence when the weather was good. This prompted a running race every now and then. The dirt road went straight west from the schoolyard for a mile and there were no houses, so we had it made. We also raced on the road east of our house. On Saturday afternoon we would sometimes ride to Nevada and leave our horses at my Great Uncle Frank Lough’s livery stable just off Main Street FOR FREE and go to a ten cent matinee. Pretty big deal when you are ten years old! I think about this time Grandpa decided we had a saddle horse and now we would try to make Old Joe into a workhorse we could use as a replacement for light work such as cultivating. It didn’t take long for him to decide that it wasn’t worth the hassle because Joe would fight the other horse when they went to turn around and then try to run away or balk or just be ornery.

The next project would be to try to make a driving horse out of him on a 4-wheel buggy and work him as a single. Grandpa got that going pretty good and turned the outfit over to me and told me to haul water on the threshing run with it. The first day out I was filling my jugs at the windmill and the fuel truck drove into the yard. It was all painted up in bright colors and Joe hadn’t seen anything like that before and he went wild and broke the strap I had him tied to the windmill with and took off in a circle. He hit the water tank, upset the buggy, broke the shafts and tore up the harness so its back to the saddle again! The next thing I know, Grandpa has it fixed up, has Joe hitched up and is heading for Nevada, meets another truck and ends up with the buggy on its side on top of his leg in the ditch. He was bruised and sore but recovered in a couple of days. I think we all decided that Joe was a real good saddle horse, but nothing else. Period.

Jeanne started school when she was 4 years old and we rode a horse some of the time. (Jeanne started when she was 4 because she was the only kid in the township that age. So she would be the only kid in the class next year. There were 4 kids that were 5 years old so they decided to start her in school a year early) I was 11 years old and could handle a horse pretty well by that time. I’d put her in the saddle wand we would carry our lunch and we never had a mishap of any kind. I would have to include this in the “fun” category. I was proud of her and proud that I could handle it.

We had a big pond just west of our barn where we swam in the summer and ice skated in the winter and sometimes had 8 or ten kids at time. (Farm fields had not been tiled yet. Many ponds were filled with water year round. Ducks and geese were plentiful). We had bob sled parties and sometimes took two teams and two sleds to Nevada when we were in high school. These usually ended up at someone’s house for oyster stew and a card game. Lois and I belonged to a 500 card club for a few years and then there was Pitch, Poker, and several other games, Chinese and American checkers were also popular at the time. We had a roller rink in Nevada and they used to pack them in, particularly in the winter. I used to skate quite a bit and I could hardly wait to get to the rink when our family went to town for groceries on Saturday night. The radio was a big factor in our entertainment and was battery powered. The reception depended on how good an antenna wire you had on it. We put a wire from the house to the windmill and the reception was excellent. We could pull in stations from Texas, the East Coast and about anything this side of the Rocky Mountains because there weren’t many stations to cause any interference. We used to gather around the radio and listen to Lum & Abner, Amos & Andy, Jack Benny, One Man’s Family, and later the big bands. We could hear Tommy Dorsey, Wayne King, Sammy Kay, Eddy Howard and many others. I think this was the best music of my lifetime and I expected it come back but I don’t think it will. We had the Hit Parade on Saturday night and we couldn’t miss that or we wouldn’t know “who” was Number One!

This assessment probably sounds boring to the younger generations and if we weren’t having fun, we didn’t know it. It’s as simple at that.

GROWING UP IN THE 20’s AND 30’s

I was born in 1920. A time when we had no electricity and did all the farm work with horses on a 240 acre operation. We tried to keep 8 head of horses ready for work during the busy season. We used 2-horse, 3 horse, and 4 and 5 horse teams for heavy work like plowing and disking. These horses required a lot of TLC as there were sore shoulder, sore necks, and hooves needing trimmed among other things. They were fed corn, oats and hay and had to be groomed with a curry comb and brush before harnessing. Then you took them to the water tank, watered them and linked them up for the size hitch you wanted for a particular job. This was time consuming and made the farm tractor look attractive when it finally came along.

Dad got his first tractor about 1928. It was an IHC 10-20 with a 2-bottom 14” plow. We used it for several years and it was dependable, but we needed more belt power for the 30 inch Woods Bros. threshing machine so Dad traded for an IHC 15-30. Both of these tractor had steel wheels. The first tractor we had with rubber tires was a 1938 Massey Challenger, which cranked about 40 horsepower on the belt and was great for threshing. I ended up with this tractor in 1948 when I started farming and wore it out about 3 times before I could afford a new model 44 Massey in 1950.

We depended on a windmill for pumping water and did have a single cylinder engine as a stand-by in case the wind wouldn’t blow enough to turn the mill. The water was carried to the house in buckets and there was no bathroom, of course.

The first car I remember was a model T Ford, then a 1929 Chevy with the in-line 6 cylinder engine, then a 1932 Chevy, then a 1934 Chevy. I believe these were all used cars when Dad bought them. I think they got their first new car when they bought the 1937 4-door Chevy. This was a really durable car and Mother drove it for several years.

On the farm in Richland Township the buildings were all built new while we lived there. This included a new double corn crib with overhead bins, a new hog house with 8 pens, a new barn and a new house in 1936. We did not have electricity when the new house was built, but it came a year or so afterward. There was no running water but it was a nice house with a full basement. We left the farm in Richland Township because the owner’s son-in-law wanted to start farming. We moved to the farm in Milford Township where there was no electricity. This change was hard to get use to again but, fortunately, the line came through within a year or two. We had a nice two-story house but no running water or bathroom inside. We had a big basement barn with a hay mow you could drive into with a load of hay and originally was built so you could fork it up to the track and go either right or left. They had installed a big door in the east end of the barn and we used a conventional fork or slings. We handled all our hay and straw loose and had room for all our hay and at least 20 loads of straw for bedding. I think when the barn was built there was room for about sixteen head of horses, ten milk cows and three calf pens on the ground level and it was nice and warm in the winter. It was a good farm and we like it but the ownership change hands and the nephew wanted to start farming so we rented the farm west of Nevada on the Old Lincoln Highway and stayed put until we retired in 1982. I think Gary and Gale would say that this was God’s country and it seems to me that God’s country is wherever you grow up. For me it would be Richland Township. The 38 years we spent on the Dowell farm flew by and I can’t help but think about all the advancements in farm equipment and technology in going from a team of horses to tractors with cabs, heat, air- conditioning, stereo, and seats that were probable more comfortable than anything we had in the house. We finally got running water and a bathroom in 1952 when Dowell’s built a ranch style house on the farm. That house was about 1200 square feet with a full basement and cost $14,500. Hard to believe!

Some Of My Observations Growing Up In The Stratton Family

Anna, my Grandmother Stratton, passed away when I was 4 years old. I remember being at her house the night her death took place and the funeral that followed. My mother used to drop me off at grandmother’s house when she came to town to get groceries and I remember her mostly as a baby-sitter. She was a loving, mild mannered, delicate sort of woman and I think my grandfather and my father worshipped her as long as they lived. John Mecum Stratton, my grandfather, came to live with us sometime after grandmother passed away and alternated between Cyril’s and our home helping out as needed on the farm. He stood 6’ 1”, 204 lbs., stayed strong well into his 70s and lived by the early to bed , early to rise theory. He had a wide range of work abilities and made most things that he did look easy. He was an artist with an axe and had those great long arms and didn’t look like he was in a hurry … the next thing you knew, he had that tree on the ground. He was good-natured and had lots of smiles, but if you crossed him, you probably wouldn’t do it a second time! He remained sharp mentally until he passed away at age 82. Yes, he was my hero and friend and I thought any boy who didn’t have a grandfather living in the same house with him really got a bad deal! Gary John was named after him, Harlan’s son John was named after him, and Art got the middle name of Mecum from him so somebody besides me must have been impressed. If you’ve ever heard Randy Travis sing that song about his Grandpa (He Walked On Water), that’s just the way I felt about him.

Glen and Rose—My Father and Mother

Glen and Rose started their married life on a farm southeast of Nevada on what was call “the Wells place” and after a year or two got a chance to rent a better farm in Richland Township where we four kids were born. We went through some hard time in the Depression but we raised most of our food and Mother made a lot of our clothes, so I guess we never thought we were poor as our home life remained good. My mother was multi-talented and hard working. She could do about everything a woman could do and most things a man could do. I have always been sorry that my father couldn’t live long enough to see his grandchildren grow up. He would have really lived it up. Glen was kind of a people-person and I was surprised to hear from other people about what a good host he was as far as family gatherings, square danced, and that sort of thing. I never met a person that gave me any indication that they didn’t like him. He owned a threshing machine and we would have an ice cream social after we finished the harvest. The first thing you know they were rolling up the rugs and Glen was calling the square dance and there was nobody there who was having as much fun as he was! In the winter we would have oyster suppers around the neighborhood and roll up the rugs and do it again. In 1939 Glen rented a 240 acre farm in Milford Township and he loved that farm as it was well drained, weed free (more or less), and easy to farm compared to the farm in Richland Township where the drainage was poor. He was a good farmer and was recovering from the Depression financially and on his way up when cancer took him at 54 years of age. He was a good teacher, a devoted father and I learned a lot from him. One of the quotes he gave me was “It isn’t what you have, it’s what you can do with what you have that counts”. I’ve thought about that a time or two.

Fernald Was Our Hometown In The ’30s

Fernald was 2 miles northeast of our house and it was kind of like a convenience store to us. We had 2 grocery stores, a Post Office, 2 grain elevators, a livestock shipper, an auto repair shop, a blacksmith shop, a school gymnasium, and a church. We sold all of our grain to the grain elevators, most of the hogs to the Fernald buyer, had our horses shod and most of the blacksmith work done there, and some auto repair at Bill Nelds shop. The people in business there were like family to us. Most of the groceries we bought were small items and I would pick up most of them on horseback. We had a cave west of our house filled with enough food to keep alive for a year and a half and what we bought was mostly staples, so it was no big deal. They didn’t stock any tuxedos, but they had work clothes that real people wore. Garnett went to school there a year or two but I don’t know whether Art went there or not. I believe Fernald had 12 grades at the time. They showed movies in the gym for a year or two when times were tough. I think the tickets were 10 cents. That little town has just about dried up and blown away and it’s sad to see it go.

In closing I might add that life has been good to me and I am happy to have lived in this era. Lois joins me in Best Wishes to all the Stratton’s and their families.

Gary notes:

Dad mentioned selling the hogs to the buyer in Fernald. To do that, dad, Art, and Glen, drove the hogs the two miles to Fernald. They took the dirt road east of the house and then turned north to Fernald. If you’ve never driven hogs you cannot possibly understand how much work it is to drive hogs two miles. It is a phenomenal amount of work.

Art told me a story of Glen asking him to drive a team and wagon to Fernald to get the horses shod. He did it without any problems. Art said that was quite the big deal to trust an 8 year old to drive a team by himself. Art also told about having a job scooping grain at the elevator. That job paid $1 per day. Big money for the times.

Stories by Garnett

The Life of Garnett Marie Stratton-Morris

I was born on May 28, 1916 to Glenn and Rose Stratton in a farmhouse in Richland Township, Story County, Iowa. We lived two miles from the village of Fernald and four miles from the town of Nevada, which was the county seat. I was the first grandchild in the Stratton family and the first girl. My grandparents were John Mecum and Anna Marie (Lough) Stratton. They had two sons: my dad, Glenn, and Uncle Cyril. My grandmother was so elated to have a granddaughter that she drove 9 miles in a horse drawn buggy to see me the day I was born. In the years to follow I remember her sitting in a rocking chair with me combing her beautiful, long gray hair. I would sit on her lap and she would sing songs to me about “The Little Grey Kitten”. I remember too of going to their house on the Lounsberry farm southeast of Nevada and how much fun Art and I had running down the hill. When they left the farm, they moved to the northeast corner of 11th St. and J Ave in Nevada. Grandpa worked as a custodian at the Nevada High School. He was good friends with the Coach there and was given a football to give to his grandsons, Art and Galen (Fritz). That was their first football. Grandpa and Grandma moved to the southwest corner of 11th St. and M Ave and lived there until Grandma’s death in 1924. Grandma always had cookies on the sideboard in the cookie jar. (A sideboard is what they called a buffet.) They lived next door to Faye and Verda Purvis and when Grandma died, Art, Fritz, and I stayed at their house while the family made arrangements for the funeral. My grandfather came to stay with us. He was there in the wintertime and at Uncle Cyril’s in the summer. My brother, Arthur Mecum, was born February 9, 1918, Galen Frederick was born May 11, 1920, and Jeanne Phyllis was born January 12, 1927.

My mother, Rose (Jensen) Stratton came from a family of seven children, she being the fifth in line of birth. My grandparents were both born in Denmark. Grandpa came to the U.S. through Canada. He came to Story County where there were other Danes and worked and learned the language. He earned enough money to bring Grandma to this country and they were married in the Lutheran Church in Nevada. They started farming in Richland Township on what was called the McCall farm a little north and west of Fernald. Later they purchased a farm in Grant Townsip a mile north of Shipley where they lived until their deaths. This was where my mother was born. This is the farm where Marvin and Joyce Jensen live now. My maternal Grandpa was Lars Jensen and my maternal Grandma was Metta Marie (Nelson) Jensen. Uncle Lloyd Jensen purchased this farm from the rest of the Jensen heirs at the time of Grandpa’s death. In September 1921 I entered Fernald School. They did not have kindergarten there so I was in First Grade. My teacher was Gertrude Morris. She had been my Aunt Myrtle’s teacher years before so I felt I knew her. I attended Fernald for the first three years of school. Art attended the first year of his school life there also. Art had Miss Ersland in First Grand and I had Mabel Hague. She died of a ruptured appendix. This was before the days of penicillin. Since we were not in the school district, our parents had to pay tuition and transportation for us to attend there so it became a little costly. We left Fernald and attended Richland #9. While still at Fernald some of the friends I made were: Genevieve Brooks, Margaret Apple, Charles Hilburn, Robert Procter, and James Chitty. There was another girl named Nedra Stevenson whose father was the depot agent in Fernald. (Yes, believe it or not, the trains did stop there. The Rock Island line.) Nedra and her parents lived upstairs in the depot. I was quite excited when she asked me to come and stay all night with her. I never heard from her after they left Fernald. I wasn’t at the age yet to write letters.

In entering Richland #9 it was quite a change to have eight grades in one room. There was never more than 3 or 4 in one grade. Our second cousins, Frank and Wilna Lough, lived two miles south of us and we would meet at the corner east of Harry New’s and come the rest of the way together. Art and I rode horseback and Frank and Wilna had a horse and buggy. Their horse Tiger and ours was a Western named Old Charley. He was tricky and would break loose at school and run home if he got a chance and then we’d have to walk home. There were times when I preferred walking and sometimes we did. If the weather was bad Dad would take us in the car, but in those days we had nothing but dirt roads and in the spring they were bottomless. I remember the day I was confirmed, which in those days was Palm Sunday. We had to drive a team and wagon to Nevada. I think Dad’s uncle still had the livery barn and we were able to leave the horses there while we went to church.

At Richland #9 my teachers were: Bertha Ball, Gertrude Ball, Marian Dobson, and Frances Boten. I graduated from Eighth Grade and attended Nevada High. I graduated from there in May of 1933. The majority of us were not able to go on to college as we were in the midst of “The Great Depression”. There were perhaps eight or ten who went on to college out of a class of fifty-two. I did housework for $2.50 to $4 a week! Finally I landed a job at Donnelley’s as a typist, which was seasonal. Then I got a call from Charlie Smith asking me if I would run an electric “ditto” machine. It would mean I would get to work almost all year long. It was piecework and we could make $25 to $30 a week. Straight pay was $11 to $13 a week. Alvina Dueland and I put in some long hot hours. No air-conditioning — not even fans unless we brought our own. I worked there until World War II came along. I then went to work at the Des Moines Ordnance Plant where they made shells. I worked in the Purchasing Department until my father died. I then came back to Nevada and went to work at the Nevada National Bank as bookkeeper and cashier. Jeanne, who had also been working at the Ordnance Plant came back to Nevada and went to work at the AAA Office (Agriculture office).

My father died of cancer at the age of 54. My brother, Art, was stationed in England with the 121st Station Hospital — not able to return until the War in Europe was over. My brother, Galen “Fritz”, was left to help my mother farm and carry on until Art could return.

In the late ‘30s I began dating David “Dick” Morris. He was working for Harry New. We became engaged in April of 1941 as he left to join the Marine Corps. In December of that year Pearl Harbor was attacked and all furloughs were cancelled so it was three years before I saw him again. He was sent immediately to the South Pacific and was in Samoa many months building roads and air strips. From there he was sent into the invasion of Tarawa and the Marshalls and Gilbert Islands. When he returned to the States in March of 1944 I didn’t know he had returned and he walked into the Nevada National Bank where I was working and really surprised me! We were married April 9, 1944 on Easter Sunday. He returned to Camp Pendleton the last of April and I joined him in August. I spent 7 1/2 glorious months with him there and while we lived in war houses and cramped quarters, I don’t think I have ever been happier. I met his Aunt Belle, Aunt Edith and Uncle Doc and their spouses and we had a great time. I met several of his Marine Corps buddies. Among them was “Doc” Miller who eventually married my sister, Jeanne. We also spent lots of time with Stan and Anna Morton in Altadena, California. Our friendship continued for many years after the War. They lived in Colorado on a wheat ranch and then retired to Ft. Morgan. Later they moved to Yakima Valley in Washington and we spent one vacation with them there. After Stan’s death I corresponded with Anna but haven’t heard from her in several years. She would be well into her 90’a if still living.

In April of 1945 Dick was again sent to the Pacific. He was in Hawaii at Hilo building pipelines and waiting for the invasion of Japan. However, after the “bombs” he was sent to Japan for the Occupation. He was at Nagasaki and also at Hiroshima. From there he was sent to North China where the Communists were taking over. It was almost as dangerous there as in the South Pacific. In November of 1945 our first son was born, Glen Ray Morris. Dick didn’t get to see him until he was 15 months old. I had returned to Nevada to stay with my mother and sister, Jeanne, until his return.

We lived west of Nevada on the Irish place on old Highway 30 — formerly known as the Lincoln Highway. It was during this time that Fr. and Marie Simon lived with us one winter. This was the year that Jeanne and Lloyd Miller were Married, December 28, 1946.

After Dick returned to civilian life it was a big adjustment for him in deciding what to do. He first worked on the pipeline in Oklahoma, but it rained all the time and that was not profitable. We came back to Nevada and he worked on a farm for Harold Hansen, but that was not what he wanted to spend the rest of his life doing, so he went to work for Iowa Power & Light as a lineman, but that too was not his calling. He finally decided to take advantage of his “GI Bill of Rights” and go to mechanics school. He went to Chicago to Commercial Trade Institute and took automotive and diesel mechanics. Housing was scarce in Chicago so Ray and I stayed with mom. I went back to work at Donnelley’s. Part of the time after we left the farm we lived in an apartment in one of the buildings on the Irish farm. It had a bathroom and oil furnace—really uptown! After graduating from mechanic school in 1949, Dick went to work for the Eldon Miller Trucking Co. in Iowa City, Iowa as a truck driver. Ray and I joined him there in October and we lived there until the spring of 1950. We came to Des Moines as Dick was the Maintenance Supervisor for the Eldon Miller Trucking Terminal. Ray and I stayed in Nevada with Mom who had left the (Irish) farm and lived in an apartment over what was then Berka’s Drug Store. We finally found a house in Des Moines at East 32nd and Aurora. Ray started to school at Adams Elementary School. Our second son, Rex Arthur, was born on February 9, 1951 at Mary Greeley hospital in Ames. Dr. W.B. Armstrong was the doctor as he had also delivered Ray. In September of 1951 we moved to West Des Moines in an apartment at 8th and Vine. We lived there a year until rent control was removed and rent shot up sky high so we were fortunate to be able to share a house with Inez Hoffman at 1314 Peasant View Drive. She was so good to us and let us have the run of the house and she kept her own bedroom. We lived there for several years until she sold the house and bought a hotel in Creston. Ray attended Park Ave. School while we lived there. We then moved to an apartment at 2926 Brattleboro. This was 1956. Rex started to kindergarten there and Ray went to 5th grade at Elmwood School which no longer stands there. We lived there until 1959 when we bought our home at 3121 Crocker St. That was our home until 1994 when I sold it and bought the condo at 4230 Ingersoll Ave.

To go back a few years—it was 1956 that our third son was born prematurely and lived only a few minutes. He was named Alan S. Morris (S. for Stratton). Ray and Rex both attended Elmwood, Callanan, and Roosevelt Schools. I know Ray was glad to not have to be changing schools every year or so. Dick had gone to work for International Harvester Truck Sales and Service when Miller’s closed their terminal in Des Moines. He worked there until his retirement in 1979. In 1991 his health failed (mentally) and in 1993 I had to give into a nursing home for him. I was thankful I had gone to work for the Internal revenue in the early 1950s and worked there until 1978. My work for the IRS is another story! In 1997 we laid Dick to rest on February 6th. He died February 2nd, just 18 days before his 80th birthday. There are so many wonderful memories of my childhood and growing up that I reflect back on. And though we didn’t have many of the modern conveniences of today, they were good times. I remember the Saturday night baths in the wintertime and the old galvanized tub by the kitchen range and the long underwear, which I detested, and mom gathering us around the kitchen table on Saturday night and reading to us the story of the Bible by “Aunt Charlotte”.

We got our first radio in 1935 or 1936. It was battery operated, as there was no electricity. We listened to “One Man’s Family”, “Ma Perkins”, “Stella Dallas”, “Lum and Abner”, “The WHO Barn Dance Frolic” on Saturday night, “The Little Theatre Off Times Square”, and “The Lucky Strike Hit Parade” to name a few. After they built our new house we had electricity and I bought our first electric console model radio. I was then working at Donnelley’s.

Going back again to the ‘20s: I remember my Dad’s long raccoon fur coat that he wore when he helped the neighbors haul shelled corn to the elevators in Fernald or Nevada. In those days it was all hauled with a team and wagon and often in bitter cold weather. Often at night while Mom washed supper dishes we kids; Art, Fritz, and I would curl up in Dad’s fur coat and often go to sleep having to be awakened to go up to bed. Often when dad would come home from town he would have Baby Ruth candy bars in the pocket of his fur coat so we would often check the pockets to find out. I remember in summer we had home made ice cream every Sunday. Dad would freeze the ice cream while Mom fried chicken and got the rest of the dinner ready, most of it grown in our garden.

Harry and Fanny New were our neighbors and we remained friends as long as they lived. Wille and Gertie Hart were also great friends and neighbors and many a winter night we’d gather for a good old oyster stew meal at one of the homes. Those were great times! During threshing time the women of the neighborhood all came to help cook. Vera and Emory Black were also neighbors and I always enjoyed Vera, she was fun. Their boys, Loy and Floyd grew up with Jeanne.

I remember the summer I worked for Mrs. J.D. Black and Pauline was home from college. She and I would ride horseback and then lay out in the front yard and watch the falling stars. This was in August when there are the greatest amount of stars. One thing I remember was Saturday night in the summertime Dad would quit work early and we would all get ready and try to get a parking spot on Main Street to see who all was in town. When I was a teenager I would meet my girlfriends and we would often go to the public dances at the Odd Fellows Hall or The Knights of Pythias Hall. This was ballroom dancing and we really had some great orchestras there. In the fall of the year there were lots of the fellows from Iowa State there and we would have a great time. Lydia Mosebach and I were usually together. After I learned to drive we would “scoop the loop”. In those days there was some alcohol but no drugs, etc. to worry about. During the Depression Days when I was in my late teens and early 20’s there was not much money for entertainment. A group of around twenty young adults in our neighborhood had a club. We called it the TNT Club — Tuesday Night Twisters. We would gather at one of the homes, roll up the rugs, and dance. The Myers boys, Lloyd and Lester, were banjo and guitar players and once in a while they had a piano player, Cassie Harrell, who would join them. The adults in the neighborhood joined us then and we would have some great square dances and two-steps. When Art was farming in Milford Township, he had a few barn dances in the summer time before the hay and straw went into the haymow. A bunch of Jr. Farm Bureau friends joined us then. Art and I both belonged to Jr. Farm Bureau and met lots of young people our age and had many good times, picnics, trips, and conventions. The conventions were held at Iowa State College.

One of my best friends was Margaret Andrews. She and I spent lots of pleasant times together. I remember we came to Des Moines to see a stage play at the Shrine Auditorium, “Bringing up Father”. We also came to see Marian Anderson—the wonderful Negro opera singer. Margaret joined the WACS and was in England during the war. She and several Story County people met in London, including my brother Art. She married and eventually came home to have her son, Ricky Lloyd who is now a plastic surgeon in Ames. Margaret died when she was quite young of a brain tumor. I really miss her. She and Ricky came to visit us when Ray was a baby and brought him a photograph book. Ray has the book now.

Another of my dearest friends, Helen Thornton has been gone many years too. I met her in Colo when I was staying with Aunt Myrtle. Helen was the youngest of 12 children. She came to Nevada to go to high school when we were Juniors. She stayed with her sister, Verlie Handsaker. Helen’s nephew, Howard Handsaker, was in Art’s class in high school. Helen spent many weekends at our house and I spent a great many weekends at her house. When any of the Thorntons got together, it was a riot. Lots of laughs. Helen married Cal Fausch the year after we graduate and he died the week after my Dad in 1943. She joined her sister in California in 1944 and later married John. She and Cal had a daughter, Gloria Fausch. John died of a heart attack after they had been married a number of years. Later she married Chuck and I think she was the happiest I’ve ever seen her. She and Chuck were both killed in a fiery auto crash in California. I was devastated. Dick and I had planned to visit them that summer in our first trip back to California since living there in 1945.

A Letter By Art

About England and WWII

Mr. Christopher Pluck 164 Paufield Lane Braintree Essex England July 12, 1992

Dear Sir, I am in receipt of your letter of 22 Nov 1988 and I first must send my apology for having put off answering it until now.

When I read the return address on the letter, Braintree, my heart seemed to skip a beat and then a wave of memories swept over me for the next hour or more, some fond, some sad, but all vivid and precious. At that time, I was in the middle of sending out a personal letter and season’s greetings to those members of the 121st with which I still have contact. The number would be somewhere near 150 or more and by the time I finished posting them, Christmas was upon us.

In my Christmas mail, Mr. N.B. Cheek sent a copy of a paper printed on the subject of the 121st hospital unit which is very well done and very correct as I recall.

I suppose it might be well if I should tell you a few things about myself in order to give you more of a complete picture of the connections between us.

I was born on 9 Feb 1918 on a farm in Story County Iowa, USA. I was educated in a one room rural school for 8 years, then attended a 4 year high school located in the county seat of Nevada, Iowa. I returned to the farm in 1935 and worked with my father and brother operating a 240 acre livestock and grain farm raising corn (maize), oats, alfalfa, and soybeans. We kept a herd of Shorthorn (Durham) cattle and raised and fed out several hundred pigs and a flock of sheep.

On 1 March 1941, I accepted a position as a farm manager of a dairy and livestock farm near Burlington, Wisconsin about 350 miles from my Iowa home.

I worked in Wisconsin about a year and upon the bombing of Pearl Harbor 7 Dec 1941, I joined the US Army. I took my basic training at Joseph T. Robins, Arkansas and was then enrolled in a crash course of nursing at Fitzsimmons General Hospital in Denver, Colorado. Upon graduation from that school, I was sent for more training in Texas where the 121st Station Hospital was activated. My own occupational specialty by the army was termed male nurse, operating room. After training for several months more, our unit was completed with 395 enlisted men, 40 doctors, and 66 nurses which to be picked up at the Port of Embarkation, NY, NY.

We left Texas on a troop train and traveled some 2000 miles across the states — Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Michigan, into Canada, and back to New York to Camp Shanks staging area. As male nurses, we were put to work in dispensaries giving immunizations to thousands of men, doctors, and nurses who were leaving for overseas duty.

On June 23, 1942, under cover of darkness, we loaded our unit. There were 395 enlisted men, 44 doctors, 44 nurses, and 10 medical administrative officers on board the Queen Mary docked on the Canard White Star Line at New York Harbor. It was a very warm night and as we walked up the gangplank, a US Army band played over and over again, “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody”. At 10 AM June 24 Eastern Standard Time, we sailed out of New York Harbor. We passed the Statue of Liberty. The Queen carried a total of 23,600 people. It was reportedly the most persons she had ever carried.

We were on the high seas, changing course every 30 minutes, having no escort! On Saturday night, an enemy sub was reportedly detected nearby and we turned back, but by daylight we again were back on course in the North Atlantic. We arrived on Greenock, Scotland on 29 June 1943.

We were taken by train down the beautiful English country side to Braintree Essex where we spent the next two years.

As I have mentioned, my duty was male nurse operating room. After some weeks I was placed as First Sergeant in charge of 395 enlisted personnel, a position I held the remainder of the war until discharge December 20, 1945. I was called to the operating room to assist only in pressing times, however, throughout stay at White Courts.

We were surprised on the second night on our new location to see what we deemed to be haystacks open up to be ack ack guns blazing away at German planes flying overhead. Of course, we soon learned to know the difference in the sound of all planes; German, English and/or American, and to know what their purpose was. We soon got accustomed to the English Wireless, (radio to us) and the BBC and of course the propaganda from German radio featuring the traitor voice of Lord “Haw- Haw”. He acknowledged our arrival, the 121st, and promised us a “visit” which did occur about 1 1/2 year later.

Daily sorties flown by our B-26’s, B-17’s, and B-24’s in good weather got to be part of our life at the hospital. As the planes came back, we counted them, knew the names of the planes, and sometimes the flying crews, many times having had a mild and bitters with them the previous night. We prepared ourselves for the admissions to the hospital and stood ready at OR until they were accounted for.

We also would hear the British planes taking off after dark and knowing the sounds of those Landcasters, with their spitfires as escorts. They did most of the night bombing.

Those days in the summer found the German bombers calling on us with regularity. Seldom did a night go by but the air raid siren sounded — giving one the chills up and down the spine. At first we Yanks were a bit casual about maintaining the “black-out” in our area, but a few visits by the air raid “wardens” who took us to task a bit, and it did not take long until we fell into line with the rules of life and death.

At that time, The Jerries were trying to destroy the planes and equipment on the ground at our airfields; Wethers Field, Earls Cone, Andrew Field. I recall very vividly being called to get the morgue open to receive bodies of those who lost their lives in such a raid. Several arrived that night, and I began to realize the reality of the war in the European Theater of Operations. (ETO). I have since thought about the fact that we didn’t have body bags at the time and you were obliged to read the faces of the dead whether you liked it or not.

The B-26 was an aircraft, which on paper was not supposed to fly, but it did. It came to be that only the very young pilots had the reflexes to cope with their high speed landings and take-off. The crash of one with a bomb load on take-off is a memory I still carry, as they called our hospital for help and ambulances.

During that time, prior to D-day, our dead were laid to rest at Maddeningly near Cambridge. It was a duty assigned to me, to accompany many of those to their eternal rest.

The 121st had barely landed to White Courts when the male personnel were out and about the Braintree area with two or three things to check up on; the pubs, the girls, and perhaps the town itself.

It was one of my duties to keep and maintain the records of the enlisted personnel. It seemed only a few weeks until the first soldier came and asked permission to marry an English girl. Prior to that, the thought had not occurred to me that such a thing would happen. Occur it did, and many many times during the next 2 1/2 years. Stationed as we were, for about 2 years in one place, it came to be home for so many. My desk in detachment headquarters was not without one or several applications lying before me to be processed. As I look at the records today, I find that over 95% of these marriages have lasted, not without some problems, of course, but certainly a good match for the most part. I believe since then it’s been a fresh bit of old England enhancing the spirit of America.

Perhaps the finest part of all was the manner in which the English people opened their hearts and their homes to the American men and women who served over there. It could not have been easy in so many cases, as our youth were loud of mouth —braggers in some cases-having more money to throw around than even they ever had before, and yet for the most part, we were well received.

In my own case, a lady—Lillian Yeatman-who with her Aunt operated the Korner Houe Café in Braintree, befriended me. Mrs. Yeatman had a son Keith, that served in the Royal Navy, whom I never got to meet, but have kept a picture of. Mrs. Yeatman and Auntie were very kind to myself and two other GI’s, a private 1st class Henry Lyle, and Sgt. Harry Cowan, both of who are deceased. Mrs Yeatman had a cottage in Marks Tey where she spent her weekends and holidays. She lived the working days with Auntie. We three GI’s were given a standing invitation to use her cottage any time we were able to bring some government goodies from our commissary such as tinned peaches, sugar, and other staples as available.

For several years after the war we wrote and kept up correspondence with Mrs. Yeatman and Auntie, but the letters stopped coming and of course we can only guess they have passed on. A friend of mine, who served the 943rd Engineers as a Chaplain, visited Braintree about 7 years ago reported to me that the Korner House was closed and no one seemed to know what happened to Mr. Keith Yeatman, the heir. Through the years, as I’ve driven my tractors in the fields, I’ve had a great deal of time to remember. I wrote a poem about Mrs. Yeatman and her cottage. It went like this — sung to the tune of Galway Bay…

If you ever go across the sea to England Be sure and par a visit to Marks Ty Tis a village in the corner of old Essex From London town ’bout 50 miles away There’s a lovely cottage nestled in the village With lavender and roses blooming ‘round There’s a fish in the garden flecked with seaweed That thatch upon the roof a golden brown Oh! The grandest lady lived within this cottage With heart of gold as pure as gold could be And today there’s three American soldiers Remember her, though far across the sea She always left the key beneath the door mat So we could find it there in case we’d call She gave us all the comforts of a home there When home was what we needed most of all If there is going to be a life here after Through faith of course we now there’s going to be I hope we will find up there in heaven Our lovely lady, her cottage, and her key.

During the time from July 1943 and June 6, 1944 we were preparing in all ways for the big battle; the big push we all knew was coming. We saw the build up of men, materials, and supplies. Meanwhile, the bombers were hitting the German installations harder and harder as tension built up. Our hospital was designated to be 750 beds and we operated as such until the spring of 1944.

On 19 April 1944, about 0100, a German plane dropped a 2400 lb blockbuster bomb in the surgical wing of our hospital. This of course is part of the history received by N.B. Cheek and passed onto me in his Christmas notes.

We rebuilt the hospital with the help of US843rd Engineers Aviation Battalion who worked with us in two 12-hour shifts. We had it all done before D-Day—June 6. In addition to that we put a cement slab of some 60 feet in length between each of the existing wards, put new beds in them, making our capacity about 1400 beds by August 1944. We were designated a General Hospital and remained as such until and after the unit moved to Germany in late 1945.

We moved through the month of May and tension was mounting, but no one knew the day or the hour D-Day would arrive. On June 3, orders came from Eastern Base Section for one member of Army Corps and one surgical technician-male to report to 32 Evac Hospital Portsmouth staging area; in name ANC Lt. Macerlane and Sgt. Arthur M. Stratton to proceed at once. We knew the invasion was upon us and before dawn on the 6th we were sure. At daylight the sky was full of planes — at one time we saw over 1000 B-26’s aloft at once, stacked as far as you could see.

When the casualties started to come back it was a nightmare. We could not keep up, the cannel was rough, and plus the injuries, they were all seasick. Some died before they could be helped — in those times there were no body bags — you were compelled to read the faces until they could be taken to a temporary morgue.

On June 13, we returned to Braintree, the remainder of the Evac Hospital moved across the channel.

We were soon loaded with casualties at our own unit and the real work was upon us, to care for, operate when needed. We sent those with major wounds or amputations back to the Zone of Interior (Z.I.) via C-47 planes (The Dakota) from local airfields to Preswick, Scotland. Then on a C-54, four engine they were taken to the U.S.

We opened a physical therapy section and also a rehabilitation center where many, many stayed until they were able to be reassigned, some to their former units and some to other departments of the service. There were the weeks of hedgerow fighting in France. The tragedy of bombing our own troop etc.

As the summer passed and fall came, we all hoped for a quick end, but that was not to be. On September 19 the ill-fated glider and paratroop drop into the Ardens took place—many mistakes were made and lives were lost.

When cold weather set in, the problem of “trench foot” took thousands of men out of action and we filled all the empty beds with men afflicted with that ailment. Treatment was very successful in the program prescribed and while it took some time, most of them fully recovered.

The winter of ’45 was a nightmare over all, as wars do, with the atrocities, the massacres at Malmondy, and the Battle of the Bulge—Liberating the death camps by the allies and as the spring slowly arrived, the desperate last battles of the German forces. Finally the surrender by early May with Jodl in charge of the German troops, the death of Adolph Hitler, and many of the Nazi “war lords”.

Many of us had been told that the war in Japan was our next stop and that, very quickly, we would be on our way to that destination. We did, after splitting up the 121st — part going to Netley and part to Tidworth, spent some anxious days waiting. Then the atom bomb was dropped in Hiroshima and then on Nagasaki and we were assured we should then, in time, be deployed to the USA. We were shuttled into other units, our old groups being deactivated, and reassigned—mine being the 87th General then 303 station and then the 7th General, which I came home with and which seemed to be a melting pot for 1st Sergeants.

It was late October, 1st Sgt. Eddie Disler from the 7th General and myself were put on Detached Service to 64th US Graves Registration Company, issued a jeep and sent to attempt to locate “missing in action” personnel, both in the UK and on the continent. That of course is another story, about which we will not discuss here and now.

Our final orders were to report to Southampton on or before 9 Dec 1945. As that date arrived, we turned in our jeep and reported to Southampton where the Queen Mary was docked. We were present at that time, boarded the Queen Mary, and rode through a 72 hour storm from LaHarve, France to mid-Atlantic, with 7000 of the 11000 on board seasick. One of those was yours truly; lost 16lb., but able to deliver my morning report to the authorities in charge of the 7th General Hospital every day.

I carried my duffle bag down the gang plank, knelt and kissed the ground and drank a cold milk, the first in 31 months, and headed for the chow line in the Fort Dix, New Jersey debarkations center.

Gary notes: I remember many times Uncle Art telling the story of Mrs. Yeatman. He always talked about how kind she was. Uncle Art also mentioned his time assigned to the Graves Registration Company. He gave no details but said it was by far the worst assignment of the war. After the bomb was dropped on the hospital, Uncle Art was assigned the job of writing a prayer for the services afterward.

The Walking Cast

Preface:

My father saw no reason my broken ankle should allow me to quit working around the farm. Things changed when the doctor had to replace my cast.

The Walking Cast

I played football in Junior High and High School. I played in eight grade, my freshman year, my junior and senior year. My senior year was the only year I completed the season without injury. In eighth and ninth grade I sprained an ankle. In my junior year my left ankle was broken during a practice.

I liked my defensive tackle position and fending off blocks by the offensive linemen. On this play my assignment was to plug the hole between the offensive guard and center. The practice field was soft from recent rains. As I worked against the center the offensive guard slid off his initial block and moved to me and I got hit low in the left leg. It wasn’t a hard hit, but the cleats on my shoe were firmly planted in the muddy turf and I heard something pop. I flexed my foot and ankle. There wasn’t much pain. I was accustomed to sprains, and the pain that came with them. Without much pain I figured I was okay. I tightened my shoe laces, the standard procedure for sprains back then, and played the rest of the practice. The five block walk back to the locker room wasn’t that bad and

I figured I had a mild sprain.

I went home and limped around a little, but there wasn’t much pain. I did my homework and went to bed. I awoke the next morning and got out of bed. I took one step and promptly fell to the floor. I didn’t play tackle because I was skinny and the thud shook the house, attracting my mother’s attention. The ankle was in considerable pain and was swollen. It was more swollen than with either of my previous sprains. I told mom what happened in practice and off to the hospital we went. The X-rays showed a hair line fracture just above the ankle. That was the end of my football for that year.

The doctor ordered hospital bed rest with my foot elevated. I was put in a hospital room with another kid from high school that was recovering from an appendectomy. We were lucky. The World Series was on and we had a TV in our room. It helped pass the time of day. The second day my pastor stopped to see me, “I heard you hurt an ankle” he said, as he grabbed my left ankle and wiggle it around. I yelled out in pain. That was the closest I have ever come to cussing out a pastor. He was apologetic but he smirked as he apologized. Four days later the swelling had receded and the doctor put on a walking cast. I was given instructions to take it easy and keep the foot elevated.

World Series time was also corn combining time. Dad had a 303 International combine with a three row head. We dried the corn in a John Deere 458 corn dryer. My dad was a workaholic but during picking season he was especially intense. He was always looking for ways to get more productivity. Picking season was long work days. Dad was usually up at 3 a.m. and worked until about 9 p.m. I usually had homework for school and I was still up when dad went to bed. One of my jobs before I went to bed was to unload the corn dryer and start a new batch drying. That load would be done when dad got up at 3 a.m.

Dad pretty much believed that unless you were dead you should be working. I had a walking cast so he said I should continue unloading and loading the corn dryer before I went to bed. If the ground was muddy, I wrapped a plastic bag around my cast. Since I wasn’t at football practice there were other jobs I could help out with but driving a tractor with a broken ankle was out of the question.

Sometimes loading the corn dryer required climbing a 10 foot ladder with round metal rungs. At the top of the ladder was an adjustment lever that allowed the auger to fill the dryer in a level manner. Dad had me try climbing the ladder with the walking cast. I climbed up and down the ladder without difficulty but slower than normal. There wasn’t any pain so all seemed well.

I had been loading the corn dryer for several days and climbing the ladder when necessary. One night I was part way up the ladder when I heard and felt my cast crack. I carefully climbed down, finished loading the dryer, and went to bed. The next morning I told mom my cast had cracked. Off to the doctor’s office we went.

I told the doctor my cast had cracked and pointed to the place it was cracked. The doctor looked at the cast, looked at me, looked back at the cast. He said, “I’ve never had a cast crack in this location, what were you doing?” I explained I was climbing the ladder on the corn dryer when it cracked. The doctor replied, “This is a walking cast, not a climbing cast.” He was not happy. The doctor knew my dad and knew his work ethic. The doctor gave explicit instructions to my mother to give to my dad. This kid was to take it easy. The walking cast was to get around with, to go to school, but not to do farm work. I was not to be doing any ladder climbing or other farm work. The doctor replaced the cast.

My mother made sure my dad got the message. My mother was not often assertive with my father, but when her kids health and safety were concerned she didn’t back down. Dad was not happy. He felt I could be working. My younger brother had to pick up my work plus keep up with his own work. He was not happy but I was happy. I had a new cast and I had time off from farming for a while. By Thanksgiving I was mended and good as new.

The Weed Wars

Introduction:

Walking beans and pulling weeds was part of life on an Iowa farm. It wasn’t a fun time but my brother and I had our diversions. Those diversions weren’t supported by our father and he earned every gray hair in his head. The story also looks at the difference between a farmer’s kids walking beans and his grandkids walking beans. The Weed Wars

My brother and I grew up on a farm in Grant Township, Story County, Iowa. Our summer weed wars were great fun for us. However, they were a constant sore point with our father who believed work was a serious endeavor. He tolerated our weed wars, to a degree, because he needed our labor.

In 1945 our father was recruited to be the renter of a farm in Grant Township, a mile west of Nevada, Iowa. He was recruited based on his reputation for being a good farmer with a vengeance for weed eradication. His new landlord was assistant dean of agriculture at the University of Minnesota. It was a toss up which one most detested weeds. In the winter of ’44 – ’45 we moved from Milford Township to Grant Township. In the spring of ’45, as I reached my first birthday, my father began his tenure on this farm and that tenure lasted until his retirement in 1983.

In the ‘50s weed control was accomplished by mechanical cultivation and manually pulling weeds. Herbicides were just being created and were not in wide spread use. The ones that were in use would also kill young corn and bean plants so they were mainly used for fence rows and ditches. Tractors, with cultivators, covered fields twice in June and sometimes again in early July. After cultivation we walked the fields pulling weeds that were in the middle of the row, out of reach of the cultivator. The larger weeds were cut with corn knives (machetes).

The weed wars were fought at two levels. The first was the global level. Our father wanted to eradicate every weed in every field. This war was to eliminate the weeds from the farm. The farm was infested with button weeds. According to legend, every button weed seed pod has 100 seeds and one seed grows every year. If the seed is buried deep in the soil, it will wait until it is dug up and then grow. It was our father’s obsession to eliminate button weeds and put an end to the 100 year scourge. There would be no more seed pods reaching maturity on his watch. The second was the localized war between my brother and me. There were many battles and skirmishes in the localized war but never a winner. This part of the war was conducted in the bean fields. This war used weeds to provide recreation and entertainment that was often mistaken for mischief. Our father was not real supportive of this war.

My brother and I hated walking beans. It was hot hard work and we got little sympathy from our father. We sought diversions. Our favorite was finding a big black and yellow spider with a web stretched between two rows of beans. We would use the flat side of the corn knife to swat the spider. A good swat required stealth with an accurate and aggressive swing of the knife. These were fat and juicy spiders and they made a loud splat that left a big gooey mess on the corn knife. Being boys, we sometimes wiped the mess off on the leg of our jeans. Our mother was not happy about that.

As we walked and walked we had many valid excuses we constantly verbalized to our dad. I’m tired and need a rest; my feet hurt; it’s hot out here; these rows are longer than yesterday; it looks like rain; my shoe string broke; I’m thirsty; I got a thistle sticker in my finger; my corn knife is dull; it’s almost time for dinner; it’s almost time for supper. We pleaded and begged but to no avail, dad kept us walking and pulling weeds. However, our constant complaining eventually did some good. When our children helped their grandpa walk beans, he was a lot easier on them than he was on us.

The walking was endless. The first time through was in June. Each of us took two rows. We had to watch the inside of our two rows plus the outside of the row of the person next to us. My brother and I would occasionally miss a weed but our father never missed any of his or ours. He would holler at us, point out the missed weed, and chide us to pay attention.

The walking was just endless, just endless. The first walk was in late June. During the second walk we took four rows and baked under the July sun. During the third walk in August we took six rows as the dog days of summer drug on and on. The miles and miles of walking were endless. Most of all we dreaded the south 80. That 80 acres was a quarter mile wide and a half mile long; twice as long as most of our fields. So we walked and walked. My brother and I would walk over 30 miles to complete that 80 acres. Most years we had 150 to 200 acres of beans to walk. No wonder I hate walking for exercise.

My brother and I invented weed wars to battle the boredom and fatigue of walking beans. Two things had to occur to begin a weed war. First we had to have the right kind of weed. The weed of preference was a weed we called a coarse weed (proper name is pig weed). A weed about shoulder tall was ideal but a waist high weed would do. These weeds had straight and rigid stalks and made a good weapon.

The second thing was that our dad had to be walking in front of us so he could not see us. He was intense about looking for weeds. My brother and I did not suffer from that affliction. If dad was intensely focused on weeds and we were quiet, we could conduct a weed war. We had to be crafty and plan our attacks on each other. Prime coarse weeds were not always plentiful. Sometimes we had to resort to the bountiful button weed. The wimpy stems made aerodynamics terrible but they were better than no weapon. When we found a good coarse weed it might need to be cut, trimmed, and stashed for future use. That future was the next pass through the field. When a coarse weed was not visible an attack was not expected. A sneak attack could yield great results.

The weapon, the coarse weed, was cut with the corn knife. The ideal cut was at a sixty degree angle. This produced a sharp point at the end of the stalk. The next cuts were to carefully cut all the branches off the stalk without nicking, or weakening, the stalk. With the branches cut off and a big end sharpened you had an ideal spear. All the time you are doing this, you let your brother get ahead of you. So taking careful aim, you chucked the spear across the field at your brothers back. If you were really lucky, a second prime target was presented if your brother was bending over pulling a weed when you chucked the spear.

Once the spear was let loose, one of two things happened. There was a hit or a miss. Either result had repercussions. If it was a miss, the spear would be retrieved and returned, just as it was delivered. The spear was chucked back and forth until there was a hit or we got caught. If it was a hit, usually there was a verbal response. Often in words our mother would not like to hear. There were seldom injuries. It was an injury if blood was drawn but bruises, scratches, and minor cuts didn’t count as an injury.

The first time or two this happened we would get yelled at, but that didn’t bother us. My brother and I were known to fight like brothers. Our father’s threat was “If you boys can’t behave, I’ll send you to the bean field,” but we were already there. Except for a beating, there wasn’t much harsher punishment and when walking beans we seldom got a beating; dad needed our help.

When we kept at it, our dad took a position between us to keep us separated. At this point we were required to keep up with him. There was no falling behind or being out of his sight. Depending on how ornery we were that day, or if we had been for several days, there were other repercussions.

The smallest would be an extra round that day or an extra round before we took a break. Stronger would be an extra hour or two in the field. This was an early application of our father’s disciplinary philosophy. He felt if he worked us hard enough we would be too tired to get into trouble. As we got older, and started driving, he applied the full force of that philosophy. Sometimes it worked on me but seldom worked on my brother. He was too much like our father. In my young life I heard enough stories about my dad, and from my dad, to know he did not want his sons to follow in his youthful footsteps.

Walking beans was a pain in the butt. However, it helped form our character. It might be where both of us got the beginning of our perseverance. Today, 60 years later, I still dislike walking anywhere.

One of the great injustices arrived when our kids walked beans with their grandpa. They got to take many breaks. If it was too hot they quit early. Grandma brought many goodies to the field for them to eat and drink. They got paid money. My brother and I never got one cent of pay. Lucky for them our father saw the error of his ways and had softened over the years. Our kids never appreciated the sacrifice my brother and I made for them. Grandkids never understand how easy they have it.

The Bucket

The outside of the bucket was a dull and faded yellow. The cracked paint made it look old and crusty. The inside was clean as a whistle. It hung on two nails in the wash house on the farm where I grew up. Sixty years later it’s a memory of who I am and where I came from.

I was born in April of 1944. We lived on a farm in Milford Township in Story County, Iowa. World War II was in progress. Food and supplies were rationed. Times were tough. That Fall, my dad’s landlord decided he wanted a son-in-law to farm the land so we had to move. In December of 1944 we moved about 5 miles to a farm in Grant Township of Story County. The new farm was a mile west of Nevada, Iowa. My Uncle Art returned from the war in Europe in December of 1945 to see his first nephew, now 20 months old. My dad would rent this farm and till the land until his retirement in 1983.

In my mature adult life I remember the farm as a great place to be a kid. Lots of places to play, explore, and have fun. From an early age I had chores. One chore I remember was feeding the work horses. Dad owned a tractor but some of field work was still done with horses. Dad preferred to plant and cultivate with horses because it was easier to get the horses to go in a straight line than it was the tractor. Manually steering a tractor was hard work in the days before power steering. Dad put the horses in the barn at the end of the work day and my job was to give each horse several ears of corn to eat. I walked from the barn to the double corn crib and pulled four ears of corn out of the slats. It was all my little arms could do to cradle those ears of corn and carry them back to the barn. My dad arranged the feed bunks so I could feed the horses without getting in the same pen with them. I remember how big they looked to me. I pushed the ears up and off my chest and into the feed bunk. I made trips between the barn and corncrib until each horse had been fed.

The farm house was a two story house. Mom’s kitchen had a range stove in it. Heat for cooking and warmth was provided by burning corn cobs. The kitchen was the warmest place in the house in the winter. There was a summer porch on the south side of the kitchen with screens and a big door. There was always a breeze blowing through the kitchen in the summer with the windows open, and sometimes in the winter with the windows closed. That house was a cold and drafty place in the winter. The range stove always had a fire in it and the warm kitchen was a comfy place to be.

There was a sink in the kitchen. We didn’t have running water but the sink could be filled with water from a hand pump next to it. The water came from the cistern next to the house. The cistern

was about twenty feet in diameter and about 20 feet deep. Rain water from the roof of the house was collected in the cistern and ground water also seeped into the bottom of the cistern. The cistern and the outdoor well provided our drinking and washing water.

Just off the kitchen was a dining room and a living room. The oil burner that provided heat was in

the dining room. In the winter mom put a copper wash tub next to the oil burner and filled it with warm water. My brother and I took our bath in that tub. Upstairs were two bedrooms. My brother and I had the south bedroom and Mom and Dad had the north bedroom. It was cold up there in the winter. That old house was built before insulation was part of the construction process for a house. It was actually one of those houses where you could write your name in the frost on the walls on those bitter cold mornings of an Iowa winter. There was a root cellar. The only entrance was outside the house on the other side of the cistern. A huge potato bin was in the cellar and the food mom canned during the summer was stored in that root cellar.

The cellar also served as our shelter from severe thunderstorms and tornados. I remember being woken in the middle of the night, scooped up in my dad’s arms while my mother carried my little brother. Out the door we went. Dad pulled open the cellar door. Mom and my brother went down. I was put down so I could walk down the stairs while dad held the door in the wind. The single light bulb dangling from the ceiling cast shadowy light on the cellar. When the electricity went out, the cellar was like a dark dungeon. My brother and I often became scared of the loud thunder. The folks would always tell us the loud noise was just God dumping his potatoes in his bin. We looked over at our potato bin and it made sense to a couple of pre-school kids. Even into our early adult life the folks told us “little stories” in an attempt to protect us from reality.

There was also the path. Like most farms, there was no running water, so we used an outhouse for a bathroom. We had a two holer. Next to the house was the wash house (pronounced worsh in this part of Iowa). It was a small building used for washing clothes, separating the cream from the milk, washing the cream separator parts, and storing corn cobs for mom’s range stove. It was also the place we bathed when the temperature allowed. The well was just outside the wash house. The handle was long and I was short. I couldn’t get a full stoke but I could pump water out of the well by hand. It was good water that tasted especially good on a hot summer day. The yellow bucket hung on a nail in that wash house.

Cistern, well pump, and cellar door. Cousins Dorothy Wokoun Yeakley and Sandra Brownfield Deems in back ground, Me and Gale on cellar door.

The crusty old bucket had a brass spigot on the bottom of the bucket. When the spigot was opened a small stream of water, about the size of a wooden pencil, came pouring out. The bucket hung on two nails at the top of the wall. Mom would heat a pail of water on the range stove. Dad would pour that pail of warm water into the crusty bucket, open the spigot, and step under it. At full open the stream lasted 3 minutes and 20 seconds. That was Dad’s shower in the days before running water. He would get wet, turn the spigot off, lather up with soap, turn the spigot on and rinse off. Two or three buckets of hot water were required after hot and dirty jobs on the farm.

In the early ’50s the landlord decided to build a new house on the farm. The house would be similar to a new house built a year earlier about a mile and a half away. My brother and I were told it would have a furnace and we would be warm in the winter. There would be a basement where we could play. My brother and I looked forward to a new house. But first we had to survive the winter in the old house.

The new house was to be built in the same place as the old house. In the fall a moving company jacked up the old farm house, moved it about a hundred feet west, and placed it in the middle of my mother’s garden. Cribbing was stacked about three feet high and the house was lowered onto the cribbing. There was nothing under the house. The cold and wind blew over, around, and now under the house. My dad stacked bales of hay around the base of the house to help keep the wind out. But in reality there was nothing between us and the cold but a wooden floor covered by a thin layer of linoleum. The chamber pots, kept in the downstairs closet so we didn’t have to use the outhouse during the night, froze solid. I still remember how cold that house was that winter. During the winter my dad helped build the house. After the morning livestock chores were done, dad would work for the carpenter until it was time for the night chores. The carpenter liked dad’s work. For several winters after that Dad worked as a carpenter to supplement the farm income. We moved into the new house in the spring of 1952.

In the basement there was a shower with hot and cold running water. We didn’t have to bathe in a copper boiler or under the pencil stream of the shower bucket. The basement shower was simple. A hot and cold valve was mounted on the wall with a tall curved pipe with a shower head on the end. The water ran into a floor drain. A piece of pipe was bent in a hoop and plastic shower curtains were hung from the pipe. It was a dream shower. My brother and I thought we had it made. We used that shower until we moved away from home.

Next to the shower was a big red storage cabinet. Towels and soap were stored in that cabinet. Mom put a rag rug on the floor as a place for us to stand while drying off. Clothes baskets for our dirty clothes were near by. My brother and I mostly hung our dirty clothes on the floor. Mom never did get us trained to put dirty clothes in the baskets. Later in life my brother and I found out a wife could train us in things our mother couldn’t.

On top of that red cabinet was that yellow crusty looking shower bucket from the wash house. It just fit between the floor joists and the ceiling. It just sat there all those years. How it missed the occasional cleaning out of the basement I’ll never know.

The first, and only, house my wife and I bought had a wall shower in the basement. It was similar to the one I grew up with. Nothing fancy, just a shower hanging from the basement wall. The water went down a near by floor drain. I formed a ten foot piece of electrical conduit into a hoop and hung shower curtains from it. It was just like being back on the farm. I lived in that house for 36 years, 5 of it after my wife died, and used that shower everyday, well almost everyday. I preferred it to the fancy shower in the whirlpool tub of the upstairs bath.

Now, 50 years after leaving the farm, the bucket is a constant reminder of the “good-ole-days” on the farm. I recall the pencil stream of almost warm water from the shower bucket and appreciate the hot water from the big shower head I can linger under in my current home.

When my folks retired from the farm my brother confiscated that shower bucket before dad could throw it away. Today that faded and crusty shower bucket is among the antiques that decorate his home. Most call it an antique but I call it a fond memory of growing up on an Iowa farm.