A Weekend at the Farm

                                            Chapter Eight

                                         A WEEKEND AT THE FARM

My father had such a close relationship with his family that for several years we spent nearly every weekend at the farm. After breakfast on Saturday morning, he would crank up the Ford (literally crank it, with a hand crank), and after it warmed up, we would pile in. When I say it warmed up, I mean the engine warmed up, because cars didn't have heaters in those days. When it was really cold, we would bundle up in heavy clothes, and my mother would heat a couple of bricks and wrap each in a towel, one for Betty and one for me, to keep our feet warm during the trip.

At that time, large sections of Route 220 were still unpaved, and there was one low place in the road where, except in dry weather, a shallow stream ran across the road. On one of those Saturday morning trips, our car got stuck in the mud there, and I became frightened. My father walked to a nearby farmhouse and, in a short time, he and the farmer appeared with two horses hitched together. They easily pulled us out of the mud, the farmer graciously refused payment, and we proceeded on our way. But the incident stuck with me, and afterwards I dreaded those drives, and would worry until after we had successfully crossed the stream.

My mother worried for a different reason. She had heard horrible stories about arms being broken by a crank that would "buck" on ignition, and in fact my father had a couple of close calls trying to start the Ford, which could sometimes be as obstinate as a mule. Fortunately, both problems soon vanished. In 1934, my father bought a new 1933 Chevrolet, which he secured at a greatly discounted price because new car buyers were scarce as hens' teeth during the depression. It had a battery, an ignition system, and a heater. At about the same time Route 220 was paved, and the stream was bridged over.

The farmhouse sat on a kind of plateau, near one end of a hill, with the front of the house facing the highway. Crops were grown in the low, relatively flat acreage between the highway and the hill. Beyond the north end of the hill, Lapsley's Run streamed eastward toward and under the highway. A hundred yards or so beyond the run, and roughly parallel to it, a country road wandered along by a school house and Uncle Bob Wiley's farm, crossed the highway, and then proceeded on through the hollow beyond, past the old Linkenhoker farm. The land on both sides of the run was arable, and was usually sown in corn, wheat, or some other grain; but occasionally part of it would be used for a specialty crop, like strawberries.

We would usually arrive at the farm in time for some catching up on family matters before dinner (the midday meal), but I didn't hang around for these conversations. However, I didn't wander far because I didn't want to be late for one of those country meals. After dinner, if a big job was still to be completed, like shocking grain or getting hay from the field to the barn, my father would help with it, and sometimes I would try to lend a hand, although my usual function was to be the water-boy. But those jobs were rare on Saturdays, and the afternoons were mostly taken up with long conversations, while my father gave his father and each of his brothers a haircut. At these times I was free to wander off on my own and entertain myself with the infinite variety of opportunities that the farm presented.

If it was a hot day, I might wade in Lapsley's Run, although I always approached it with caution because I had once seen a snake sunning itself on a rock that projected out of the water. Or, if the weather was nice, I would take the dogs, Rover and Jiggs, with me for a walk over some part of the farm. Rover was a beautiful Collie, and Jiggs was a smaller, white dog of an unknown breed. The cow pasture occupied a large portion of the hill, to the south and west of the farmhouse. The path to it led behind the barn, which was positioned on the hillside, and in front of an apple orchard. The orchard was fenced off to keep the cows out, but I could lie on the ground and roll under the barbed wire when the apples attained a deep dull red degree of ripeness. My mother repeatedly admonished me about snacking between meals, but one of those apples never seemed to diminish my mealtime appetite.

In the middle of the meadow on this higher level of the hill was a depression that would fill up with water whenever it rained, to the delight of the cows, who would stand around in it to stay cool on hot days. They didn't much care for my presence on their territory, but they were afraid of the dogs and left me alone - except for one time when I started out while the dogs were sleeping. As I walked toward the woods beyond the pasture, I noticed that they were paying an inordinate amount of attention to me. They had been grazing peacefully as I approached, but now they had interrupted their feeding to stare - perhaps "glower" is a better word - at me. I stood still and faced the nearest one, who appeared especially threatening, as if she were contemplating charging at me. I considered running for the woods as fast as I could, but I didn't relish the idea of being pursued by a herd of cows. One evening I had watched Uncle Carl whack one of the cows with a stick to get her to move along faster to the barn, so I carefully picked up a corn stalk that had been thrown into the pasture for fodder, and waved it menacingly. Sure enough, my adversary backed off slightly; and in a few minutes the herd returned to grazing, as if my presence was irrelevant to that more essential activity.

The view from the vantage point on the hill was often spectacular. Beyond the hills to the west lay Switzer's mountain; but if I stood on the eastern slope of the hill, I could look down on the crops in the flat between the hill and the highway. I would sometimes stand until I lost track of time, watching the late summer breezes blow "amber waves of grain" through the wheat field. Beyond the highway, lower hilltops receded in the distance until the view terminated with a low mountain.

After I traversed the cow pasture, I came to another rise in the terrain, as I approached a wooded knoll, which was referred to as "the woods". Its sun-dappled shade was welcome on a hot summer day. I would often spend an hour or more wandering through the trees discovering wildflowers and various kinds of mosses, or picking up hickory nuts, which I found were almost impossible to crack with a rock.

However, one Fall I discovered a couple of walnut trees toward the western edge of the cow-pasture. The walnuts were much easier to crack than hickory nuts, but it was an unpleasant surprise to find that the yellow-brown stain that the hulls left on my hands wouldn't wash off.

At the other side of the woods, near the highway, was a cherry tree that bore the best cherries that I had ever tasted. They were a large, sweet, deep red fruit, that my father called wax cherries. I didn't go there by myself, because I had promised not to go near the highway, but once Uncle Collins took me with him to pick cherries for pies. I was not a very efficient worker, since I put almost as much in my stomach as in my pail.

In the thirties horses were still used for the heavy pulling. They roamed over the fenced-in cow pasture, sometimes breaking into a picturesque gallop as their way of playing. Once Uncle Collins took me with him to fetch a couple of them. After a lengthy search, we finally located them near the far edge of the woods. I had thought we would drive them back, just as we sometimes rounded up the cows, but Uncle Collins sat me on one, mounted the other himself, and we started back, riding along the edge of the woods, where the trees were relatively sparse. I was just starting to get the hang of it when my horse walked under a tree and brushed the top of his head against a few leaves. But that little brush was just enough to spook him, and he broke into a run, as if I had taken a switch to him, and completely ignored Uncle Collins's shouts of, "Whoa, boy!"

I was terrified, and had no idea how to deal with the situation. Then I fell off. I landed in a sitting position, which would have been fortunate if I had not hit right on a stone. For the following two weeks I suffered from a severe case of "bruised fanny".

I never mastered the art of bareback riding, which for me always proved to be a tricky business. Once I was riding one of the horses along a path that led across a shallow branch. Since the water was only a few inches deep, I expected him to step right across it; but instead, he stopped to take a drink. When his long neck and fore-body bent downward, I felt myself slipping forward. I could imagine myself in the next second sliding down his neck into the water; but I pushed myself back and held on desperately until he had had his fill.

Sometimes I would play on the hillside, which was not by any means ideal grazing land. Besides being very steep in places, there were red clay gullies, large stone outcroppings, and lots of scrub junipers - beautiful in their symmetry and ideal for Christmas trees. There was a small recess in the lower hillside, where a spring poured forth pure cold water the year round. A panel had been placed over the recess to keep animals out, but water flowed from under the panel into a shallow pool and then down to a branch that ran roughly parallel to the highway and emptied into Lapsley's Run. The pool was surrounded by watercress, a salad green that my parents were fond of; but I didn't think it had much taste.

Sometimes I would sit on the bank of the branch, take off my shoes and socks, and cool my feet by letting the water run over them. The branch wasn't even deep enough for a good wading, but I had fun just letting the water gurgle over my feet while I watched the minnows, water-striders, and dragonflies, who all seemed to be possessed with boundless energy.

Not all of the water from the spring ran down to the branch. Some of it flowed by gravity through an underground pipe to a spring house at the foot of the hill, directly in front of the farm house. In the spring house the water came pouring out of the pipe about three feet above the floor, so that one could easily fill a pail of water. Then the water flowed slowly in a concrete channel under the wooden wall and through the adjacent room, which could be locked up at night. In this room, the channel of cold water served as a refrigerator. Butter, milk, and anything else that had to be kept chilled were stored there; and a watermelon, picked in the morning and placed in the water, would reach a perfect temperature for a late afternoon snack.

On rainy days when it was too muddy to explore in the woods and meadows, I would sometimes play in the barn. One weekend when my cousin Hanes was also visiting the farm, we spent an hour playing games that involved climbing onto the rafters and jumping into the hay some ten or fifteen feet below.

The granary wasn't quite as much fun as the barn, but I would sometimes make a pass through it to play a few minutes with the corn sheller, which was the old hand-turned kind. The corn stored there was not "eating corn", but large ears of hard yellow corn, that were run through this device, which would remove the kernels and spit out a bare cob. After the war a new granary was built, with modern electrified equipment, but the old building was left standing for a while. Then I looked on it as a kind of two-story playhouse - a bit spooky with its cobwebs made prominent by a heavy covering of white meal dust - but with the old hand sheller still there for me to play with.

Of course, the time would inevitably come when I would be either too hot or too tired to hike through the fields and woods, climb apple trees, or romp with the dogs. But it seemed that, just when I was on the verge of becoming bored, some new source of fun and adventure would manifest itself. I would stumble on some previously undiscovered corner, or attic, or basement of one of the farm buildings; or venture into an unknown neck of the woods, or find a beautiful stone or a chunk of iron ore, or see a deer grazing near the woods.

Then there were the times when I would get to take some kind of ride. Although I had hair raising experiences horse back riding, I never failed to jump at the opportunity. But more likely it would be a very slow ride over the rutted dirt farm roads in a horse drawn wagon, facing backward with my feet dangling off the rear. Sometimes a short truck trip off the farm would give me the chance to sit on the tailgate and watch the country scenery slowly recede behind the vehicle. For a longer ride, when the truck was speeding along, it was too dangerous to sit on the tailgate, so I stood holding on to the cab, while the wind cooled my face and arms.

The first trip of this kind that I can remember was to Eagle Rock, a town just a few miles north of the farm. What distinguishes it from a hundred other small rural towns is its setting - right where the James River cuts through the gorge between Crawford Mountain and Rathole Mountain. A railroad track runs beside the river through the gap between the mountains, but just downstream from this gap the river bows outward, forming a small flat tract on which stood a grain warehouse. I think it contained a mill for grinding wheat into flour, but its most notable feature was its loading platform facing the railroad tracks.

At that time the two-lane road ran steeply downward on the south side of the river, turned sharply to the right, crossed the bridge, and then divided - one branch heading on toward Iron Gate, while the other turned back to Eagle Rock. Between this road and the river stood the ruins of overgrown kilns, the vestiges of a defunct industry that had flourished there after the turn of the century. According to Granddaddy Barger, in that rural area, on a moonless night the sky was dark except for the illumination resulting from the kiln fires, an impressive red glow that could be seen for miles.

As we drove down the main street, the stores and shops were on our left, the railroad track to our right, and the grain warehouse beyond the track, facing it and the street. The residential area stretched up and around the mountain slope behind the main street. Our first stop was at the grain warehouse. Uncle Dallas walked over to talk to a man who had an air of authority. After a few minutes of what appeared to be a serious discussion, he returned and quoted some dollar amounts to Uncle Collins, who made some equally business-like comments about the numbers. We stopped at a general store which sported the expected bench in front, occupied on this day by a couple of grizzled men, both wearing overalls, the usual farmer's uniform, but evidently not themselves engaged in that occupation. Uncle Collins made a joking remark to them as we entered the store; and that seemed to break the serious tone that the business discussion had cast on our trip.

After purchasing a few necessities, we walked up the street to a drug store, which contained a small lunch counter, where he treated each of us to a cone of ice cream. That was all it took to make my day. I rode back to the farm with the wind in my face, convinced that the trip had been a success.

Milk that has been homogenized and pasteurized retains a slight characteristic odor, but it is not much like the distinctive smell of fresh milk. A few years ago, I was shopping with some friends in one of the strip malls in Lightfoot, near Williamsburg. I completed my shopping quickly and then waited outside while my friends browsed. Eventually I wandered around behind the shops, and looked out, through a wire fence, over a dairy farm, most of whose buildings were hidden from view by a grove of trees. But somewhere someone (or perhaps a machine) must have been milking the cows, because a soft west breeze carried the unmistakable smell of fresh milk over me. It had been years, decades, since I had experienced that odor, but in that magic instant my mind was transported through space and time, to the creamery that was situated in the smokehouse just outside the back yard of the farm house. The cream separator occupied one corner of the tiny building. When it was cranked up and the whole milk poured into the centrifuge, the milk aroma spread through the air, blending with the delectable smell of the smoked hams strung from the rafters and the subtle odor of the aging oak boards of the walls. It was like a symphony of odors, with both harmonies and counterpoint.

In the Fall, a cider mill was set up beyond the back yard fence, not far from the smokehouse; but I helped with the cidermaking on just a couple of occasions. My job was to wash the apples that my uncles had already picked - some two or three bushels of winesaps. We would rinse them in a large washtub of water, about a half bushel at a time, just before they were poured into the press. Turning the screw-gear press with a wooden rod had to be done gradually, because if the apples were squeezed too rapidly the trough at the bottom of the press would overflow. Each of us sampled the juice with a dipper, trying not to irritate the yellow jackets that circled around merrily, as if they had discovered yellow jacket nirvana. I thought it was delicious, but my father, who was an aficionado, said that it was too sweet - it would be best in a week or two when it would develop a little "bite", just before the "mother" began to form in it.

After the juice had been squeezed out of the apples, the remains were thrown away. I could see batches of this squashed residue back under the apple trees, the result of the previous week's cidermaking. By now they were thoroughly fermented, and bees were swarming around them in a drunken stupor. Grandma Barger told me that one day some calves escaped from the cow pasture, and ate some of the fermented apple dregs. Having sinned both by breaking through the fence and by partaking of the forbidden fruit, they were condemned to stagger about, sometimes falling down, in a scene that was at once both pitiful and hilarious.

Cider was an ideal afternoon refreshment in the Fall, but during the summer the best treat was watermelon that had been cooled in the spring house water. Each of us would carry a slice well away from the house to eat it the old fashioned way: leaning over to let the juice fall where it may, and spitting out the seeds. We avoided eating the melon near the porch, because the rolls of flypaper that hung from the porch ceiling already had enough business to strain their capacity. Sometimes a couple of cantaloupes would be substituted for the watermelons. Grandma Barger always referred to them as "mushmelons".

In cold weather, when a fire was burning in the huge kitchen fireplace, the afternoon snack would probably be popcorn. In one corner of the dining room was a burlap sack which, when full, held about a bushel of corn kernels. Uncle Collins would fill a tin cup from the sack, pour about a quarter of it into the popper, and sit in front of the fire patiently shaking it. It seemed to take forever for the first kernel to explode, and then the second; but after that the little pops became more frequent, and then a virtual machine gun rattle ensued, as Uncle Collins yelled, "Now she's goin' to town!" The white puffs soon filled the popper until they strained against the screen top. Then he quickly withdrew it from the fire and tried to yank back the screen without burning his fingers, to dump the popcorn into a bowl. At this crucial point there was the inevitable last pop, which would send several puffs flying off in all directions. Then someone else would start another shaker of corn over the fire while the rest of us stuffed ourselves.

When the weather was either too cold or too rainy to go outside at all, it wasn't so easy to keep from becoming bored during the long afternoons when the adults gathered in the sitting room, or in the kitchen while my father was giving haircuts. If Uncle Ray's family, or Aunt Leda's, happened to be visiting at the same time, Betty and I would play Rook with our cousins in the parlor. But those occasions were rare, and it was usually up to me to entertain myself. Fortunately, I discovered a stack of old high school books piled on a table in the upstairs hallway. The Roanoke schools used the rental book system, but the Botetourt County schools required the students to purchase their books - a happy circumstance from my point of view. They were not my preference for reading books, and they were somewhat advanced for my age, but with nothing else to do, I managed to work up an interest in some of the literature and history books.

Having visited the farm often, I became accustomed to the sounds of the country: the songs and chirps of the wild birds mixed in with the clucking of the hens and the rooster's arrogant crow, the cows' mooing, the squealing from the pig pen when something excited the hogs. The dogs barked whenever they saw a car turn off the highway onto the road into the farm, or even a neighbor walking over for a visit. The Wiley farmhouse was not visible from the Barger farm because it was hidden by a large dome-like hill, over which their cows roamed and grazed. Whenever one of those cows would moo, the sound would reflect off the hillside and echo across the Barger farm. The Barger cows were not as far as the Wiley cows; but their sounds were barely audible at the house because, being on the upper meadow, beyond the barn, and out of sight, the sound had no direct path to our ears. Not understanding the principles of sound reflection and diffraction at the time, I thought it strange that the Wiley cows mooed louder than the Barger cows.

There was one other sound at the farm that made a strong impression on me. The house had a metal roof and, when it rained, anyone standing on the porch could hear every drop that struck the roof. It made a summer storm twice as exciting - with the metallic racket going on overhead, and the water pouring off the roof into the rain barrel that stood beside the porch steps.

Although I came to take the characteristic sounds of the farm pretty much for granted, I never failed to be impressed by the silence that ensued in the evenings when they ceased - when the cowbells no longer clanked, the birds were in their nests, and the chickens had gone to roost. On a warm Saturday evening, we would sit on the long side section of the wrap-around porch, and the adults would talk while I tried to stay awake by petting the cat and the dogs. After sunset, the mist would rise in the hollow down past the Linkenhoker farm and gradually work its way up into the lower fields around Lapsley's Run and the highway. As it grew darker the fireflies began to levitate from the ground, and an occasional bat would flit about, rapidly but silently changing directions as it approached the walnut tree that stood on the hillside below the porch.

Then the only sounds were the occasional high-pitched twitter of a cicada and the low hum of two or three conversations. Grandma Barger would withdraw into the sitting room, where she sat studying her Bible and the Sunday School lesson that she would teach the following morning by the pale light of a kerosene lamp. Periodically, all the conversations would lapse simultaneously, and in those moments the silence was so profound, the view of the hollow with the hill tops beyond rising above the mists, so breathtaking, that the effect was one of ineffable peace. In retrospect, at least, I would consider it peaceful. At the time it seemed almost eerie.

When bedtime came, I was placed in a small bed with a straw tick mattress. Although it wasn't quite as comfortable as my bed at home, I would have had no trouble sleeping on it if it had not been so noisy. The slightest movement generated a crackling sound; and since I couldn't lie perfectly still, it was a long time before I finally fell asleep.

It was full daylight when I awoke to the sound of the rooster's crowing. Sunbeams were just peeping into the room, and the aroma of baking bread filled the house, giving rise to visions of the country breakfast that lay ahead. As I dressed and rushed downstairs, the smell of frying ham joined that of the bread, whetting my appetite to the point that I was as hungry as if I hadn't eaten for a full month.

Breakfast was not only a feast of luscious aromas and tastes. It was a thing of beauty and a masterpiece of color, with the blue and white cups filled with ebony black coffee, the white and gold of eggs cooked sunny side up, generous portions of ham fried to a deep ruddy red color, the translucent amber of apple jelly, or the ruby red of strawberry preserves beside large white curds of home made cottage cheese.

After breakfast we quickly dressed and drove to Forest Grove Baptist church, just a couple of miles away. Since everyone was expected to carry a Bible, Grandma Barger loaned me one of hers. When we arrived, the adults began shaking hands and trying to catch up on as much family news as possible before the service began. At these times, I felt awkward and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. The women were dressed in their finery, every single one wearing a hat; while the men, who habitually wore overalls six days a week, appeared uncomfortable and a bit ill at ease in their "dress up" clothes.

Since the church did not have a Sunday School building, the Sunday School classes were separated by partitioning the main sanctuary with draperies, drawn along a complicated overhead system of wires. There were only a few classes anyway - one each for the men and the women, and two or three levels of children's classes. I went into a children's class once, but I felt that the other kids were staring at me. I asked to be allowed to attend the men's class after that episode, so that I wouldn't be among strangers. My uncles were there, and some of my mother's cousins, but - best of all - Grandma Barger taught the class.

She would start out by having each member of the class read a few verses of the scripture for that Sunday. Some of the men were barely literate, and were clearly uncomfortable with having to perform in public; but whenever one would hesitate at a word, Grandma Barger would supply the word immediately, to minimize his embarrassment. Since reading was one of my hobbies, I had no trouble zipping right through my verses. I thought the men might be resentful of my performance, since I was only a child, but, on the contrary, they appeared to appreciate having someone to help with a chore that to them was more onerous than physical work.

It seems odd to me now that I can vividly recall the details of the Sunday School classes, but I have no recollection of the church service that followed, other than singing old hymns, like Shall We Gather at the River, to the accompaniment of a pump organ. I haven't the faintest memory of what the pastor looked like, or of anything that he said.

Back at the farm, after church, I had time to play with the dogs and romp in the straw stack before a relatively light Sunday dinner. Then, when it was finally time to leave the farm, after lengthy good-byes, I began to look forward to getting back to Roanoke and all my playmates; and I did my share of fidgeting in the back seat during the drive. But when we did arrive, I was usually too tired to hunt up my friends.

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