Posted tagged ‘farm’

Farm house barometers: it’s cold and it snowed

2012/01/13

On snowing, snowy, wind-chilled, mornings, colder-than-a-second-grade-girl-friends-leer, I didn’t need to look out the window to know it was cold. All I had to do was open my eyes.  If it was near zero: say from 5F to 10F, then I would see my breath.  Yes. Indoors. In my room. While in bed.  Did I mention my room was a bit chilly?

I’d lay there and expel air in small amounts creating tiny clouds of breath-fog. Each one, once expelled, would rapidly ascend to the angled attic roof, not 8″ above my head, where they would collide and be destroyed. Then I’d repeat in variations until I was ready to retire, under-the-covers and attempt to not hear my mom calling me to, “Get up and go ____!”  That blank could be everything from ‘milk the cow’ to ‘get ready for school’.  Welcome to my ‘Farm Life’.  For real!

Growing up in the late ’50s and early ’60s, in rural Hoosierville, we did not enjoy the so-called advances of the new phenomena called… Suburbs.  We simply lived in farm houses; on the a farm; surrounded by farms; scatted with cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, dogs, cats and whatever else was raised or tolerated.  We lived country life … for real.

Part of that reality was this, houses were poorly insulated, even more poorly heated and were often just barely windbreaks in the colder months.  I say barely windbreaks, because there were a lot of drafty entry points in every house. Well beyond the drafty doors and windows, we had drafty corners, floors, roofs and walls.  Nearly any place, two pieces of building material met, could produce a draft.  In fact it was more likely to produce a draft than it was to keep one out.  Old timbers. Unskilled construction. Decades of drying out. Limited use of paint. And you have drafts.

We didn’t have many colds though. Guess the environment was too conducive to healthy auto-immune conditions.  We did have runny noses on cold mornings: today referred to a ‘nasal drip’.  And when you woke on a cold, frosty morning – in a drafty room – one of your first hints of a really cold morning, was the frozen snot on your cheeks.  Sure it’s gross. Even more so in person than in the imagination.  But you cannot deny the infallible validation it gave to the conditions; both inside the house and out.  It WAS COLD!

When that cold morning also showed it was blessed with a new coating of snow; the more the merrier; I didn’t need to look out the window for that indication either.  I looked into the ‘snow corner’. Yes, it had a physical location and designation.  Heck, if I’d have known anything about GIS then, I’d have had the UTM coordinates as well.  As it was, it was just known as the ‘snow corner’.

The ‘snow corner’ was my go-to-spot for letting me know: before doing the unthinkable act of breaking the heat-seal of 30 pounds of quilts and covers sparing me from the cold outer reaches of my below-zero universe-of-a-room.   Peeping out of the covers, leaning over the bed, and staring into the far NW corner of my room, where little if any light existed for visual verification, until later in the afternoon; a time I would never get to see from bed, unless I was extremely ill; I’d try to determine if there was snow on the floor.

If I found snow, then it had snowed outdoors in the night.  How much snow depended on two things:  1) How windy  and  2) How snowy.  Both were also dependent upon the length of time each was involved in production.

As I peered into the corner I would longingly look and hope for a huge drift of snow. Reaching well out into the room; not along the wall, but into the room.  Such a find would be jubilant enough to toss me out of my warm cocoon and into the frozen wasteland of my room!  For it meant LOTS of snow; HUGE drifts and definitely NO SCHOOL.  It did mean however, a lot of shoveling and dragging stuff  through the snow to care for farm duties.  But nothing in life is free.. right?  So, the rent for freedom from school was the added weight to the farm chores.  Dividends, no doubt, the envy of Wall Street.  I’m sure!

However, on most occasions the event was far more subtle.  It was more akin to the deft shadowing an artist would use to merely suggest depth in a faint image of a feather.  Barely perceptible … and definitely hugging the wall. There would not be an unmistakable drift.  No, it would be a small parlance of crystals, just barely large enough to gather light for a tiny, barely perceptible glint of reflection.

I would lean so hard to see this revelation, that many times I nearly fell from the graces of my warm confines and onto the tundra – that was more commonly referred to as – my floor. Upon which on more than one occasion I had the privilege of a physics lessons in thermal transfer.  Hot chocolate freezing near instantaneously when hitting a near sub-zero clime.  The accidental discoveries were always more preferred to the monotonous reminder that I’d have to rouse from what warm area I’d discovered to get more hot chocolate if I didn’t stop the experiments!

As stated, the more likely outcome of the wind and snow would reveal but a streak of snow crystals present.  Thus, letting me know that outside, school and farm chores were both on the docket.  And soon mom would begin her morning ritual of attempting to resurrect the near-dead to some sort of readiness for the day.  Translated: get us out of her hair and pronto.

Now, all these years later, on snowy, windy days I watch the snow with care.  I image once again those days, when I would summon my farmhouse barometers of the little breath fogs and the snow-corner for indications of just what kind of day lay in store.

Like most kids, I really did not appreciate those times.  They all blew by so fast.  But at least the memories have not all passed upwards, crashing into the roof overhead to become as ethereal as the breath-fogs.  And even though most of these memories are more like the sparse crystals of snow that lined the wall in the snow-corner. It is possible to whip up the winds of memory and rouse a good blow so that the memories become bigger, clearer and more complete.

Call it what you will.  They all did happen. And happened as they are told. The styling of the story may be padded with a bit of embellishment.  But, for that matter, what part of my being has not suffered the same, over the years.?

kk2

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The Auction Story

2010/09/01

The growing crowd surged, under the brightening morning sun, like waves of the unharvested oats ripening in nearby fields.  This rather usual gathering of local curiosity was a common site in small towns and farm communities, around the country, not all that long ago. The participants were all willing tickets in a special dance, common to small community life.

They were gathered for an event.  It was an auction.

Auctions were the place, in the era of my youth, on the western edge of the great Hoosier prairie, to gather for used goods in the days before garage sales and flea markets. Auctions were the unofficial redistribution channel of local possession wealth.  The auction was also a revelation of past personal histories.

Auctions would – and still do – bring out some of the more interesting elements in a small community population. Small town auctions are even more condensed in their storied, story-lines. Participating in an auction can appear, in principle, a lot like slowly peeling away the skin of a banana.  From the outside it looks ripe and clear. But, once the peeling is removed, the imperfections – and even the unexpected treasures – are revealed in all their naked reality.

Thus, people come to them as much for the findings – the revealing traces of the people – now on public display – who amassed the possessions being sold – as for the goods themselves.

Small town communities are built upon people.  People are the genesis of history.  And history is rife with ripe untold stories; well, at least untold in the light of day. It was the lure of untold story potential that tugged at the surging mass of humanity that morning. Anticipation fed the little centers of curiosity, agitating the very core of each participant.

But this auction was not to be – at least for me – any regular auction, driven by the quivering dopamine-rushed hippocampi pumping the wave of small town auction curiosity.  No. This auction was to become a key component in my own personal heritage collection.

This is my … Auction Story.

The auctioneer strode the to top of his auctioneer’s stand and flipped on the speaker.  His voice sparked and crackled over the bright morning air with a call for the crowd’s attention. He paused carefully – and deliberately – allowing the heads in the bobbing wave before him to gain a majority in his direction.

Upon finding the moment, he began his enumeration of the virtues of all the possessions on display on the many tables, on wagons and in roped-off sections of the parking lot before he and his congregation of, “Will I or Will I Not… be the new owner of ____?”.

He gave instructions and times for each auction of goods by lot-type and value.  He then flipped off the mic.  With an electronic snap the wave returned to its previous hum; steeped in personal investigation.

The auction had begun.

In most auctions the early morning hours are used as a time for previewing the goods. This allows the potential buyers time to work up their list of items on which they will begin a monetary joust with their fellow auctionites.

The day progressed as normal right up until the lunch break. At this point, those who remained with a card full of items to bid on, would either walk to a nearby restaurant or diner or patronize one of the on-site vendors.  Socializing during the lunch-break was as popular as the need to grab a bite-to-eat before entering the auction battle arena. All of this was preparation to actually begin the bidding for goods.

Shortly after 1:00 PM the auctioneer again strolled to his podium, flipped on the mic and with another sharp crack from the speakers, he brought the crowd to attention and the auction began in earnest.

Nearing 2:00 PM, the event that was to seal, in my memory, what an auction is truly about, began to unfold.

One of the roped off lots had a collection of shop equipment; tools of various sorts.  There, lain out upon tables and in boxes and crates were the tools of a farmer.  They weren’t new or even all that clean, but they had in themselves a special beauty. Sturdy, used, but dependable tools: hammers, wrenches, files, saws, drop-cords, oil cans, and the like. Stacked in wooden crates were cans of screws, nuts, washers, bolts and other assorted hardware that become the daily essentials of the farm workshop.

You see when a farmer isn’t in the field preparing, caring for or harvesting a crop, he’s fixing his equipment.  And all that fixing takes place in – or in very close proximity (drive way, feed lot, barn lot to mention a few) to the shop. The shop is the hub of a farm; the nerve center.  And one of the most important tools found in a farm shop is the vice.

In the middle of this assortment of tools stood a steel-plate workbench and on that bench was a big … BIG … vice.

That vice had my uncles’ eye.

He had been playing peek-a-boo with that vice nearly since the moment he’d arrived.  He was coy though.  He didn’t dare give anyone the impression he was interested – not in the least – about actually bidding on it.  That is one of the many tricks learned by veteran auction attendees.

The auctioneer began calling off the items. One by one the bidding began and ended with a sale. The vice remained untouched.  Seconds dragged into minutes. Before long 15 minutes gave way to half-an-hour. Still, no one had ventured a bid on the vice.  Occasionally, as an item of low interest was being promoted, my uncle would wander over to the vice bench and check on the mood surrounding it.  It was calm.  But he wasn’t.  He knew two things:  1) He wanted the vice.  2) He didn’t have the money to buy it.

Both are real problems on an auction ground.

The auctioneer was wrapping up the auction and noticed the very large vice and equally large man standing next to it.  The same vice that had not received a single bid and the same man that had remained close by it throughout the auction. Yes. It was that obvious. Well, at least to the man in charge of making a living by moving these goods; if not to anyone else.

At an auction there are three primary ways to instigate a productive sale mood.

First, proper placement of highly desirable goods.  When an auction has a fair number of items, for which people will be hot to buy, the auctioneer can space special offering of these items out, so as to create interest and the induced purchase of peripheral goods.  Some will even go so far as to plant nice items in an otherwise mediocre to poor quality lot to seed sales.  As long as it’s done within reason, it is seen as a good marketing ploy.

Second, is offering a few – select – highly-desirable products at incredibly – ‘can’t pass ’em up’ – low prices.  Often the auctioneer will offer a moderately interesting item – or even a very good one – at a very low price point.  Such an effort is like seeding the lot with better items, only the seed here is the price.

The third option is to offer a compelling story.  The alert auctioneer will watch his congregation with an eye for opportunity. If he sees a person in the crowd whom he believes – or observes – as being a crowd favorite, he might just offer that person an opportunity to make him a story.  With that story-line the crowd can become a feeding frenzy.

The auctioneer knew he had his story-line. He just had to figure a way to put the big man and the big vice into a crowd pleasing moment.

The loudspeaker crackled to life again as the auctioneer spoke.

“Hey Big-Fella? Yes, you by the big vice. Are you going to bid on the vice?  You seem to have taken quite a liking to it.”

My uncle answered back clearly,”I would if had the money. But I don’t.”

Sensing the moment of a great story-line, the auctioneer countered with a can’t-miss-offer.

“OK. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  Since you’re the only one who seems to really like that vice, I’ll give you a crack at getting it.   So, tell me, what do you think it weighs?”

Carefully studying the vice for a few seconds, my uncle looked up at the auctioneer and said, “Enough… enough that any man who could lift it and carry it, should own it.”

“Alright then!”, exclaimed the auctioneer. “If you can carry that vice to your truck and put it on the bed… you own it.  That vice will be yours.”

A smile began to grow across my uncles wide, gentle face. He looked straight at the auctioneer and said in a pleasingly low tone, “Oh, I don’t know. That might not be fair.”

“Fair?”, coughed the auctioneer. “If you think you can carry it to your …”. And before the auctioneer could finish his counter, my uncle reached down, hoisted the vice from that big steel-plate table – strode with an unwavering stride to his truck. Then in one continuous move, lifted that giant vice even higher to the level of the near-shoulder-high – truck bed.  He dropped the vice with a loud  – CLANG – that announced to all, the deal was closed.

The entire truck shuddered and bucked under the weight of the giant vice as it hit the truck bed. For a full 30 seconds the springs and shocks struggled to restore equilibrium.  The wave of the congregation had stopped.  No noise.  Only the sounds of the world outside this local auction community could be heard.

After a brief moment, my uncle turned, looked at the auctioneer and simply … smiled.  The crowd erupted into a vibrating cacophony of applause as the pulsing  body heaved one giant gelatinous wave after another of congratulation.  The auctioneer beamed.  It was one of his best moves ever… and he knew it.

The big man had his big vice.  The auctioneer had his story-line.  And as I understand it, the auctionites made quite a day of transferring local possession wealth.

They gave him -the table

From that day forward, I heard recant, mention or relay of the story at least once a month.  Each time, I was never reticent to announce that, “Yes! and that was MY UNCLE!”  Amazing what impact -and zone of safety- such a story-shadow can provide a young kid growing up.

Witness the power and importance of the heritage story.  The fragments of our lives are wrapped around the framework of certain key stories.  These stories are what our lives are built upon.  They form the framework of the character we carry though out our lives.

Likewise, we never know when  -WE-  are adding to another person’s heritage story-line. Uncanny isn’t it?

We simply cannot afford to loose connection to our heritage. If we do, we loose connection to our very life compass.  Recovery is possible later on, but not without facing some very unnecessary and rough waters before we do.

Listen-to and look-for your heritage stories and you will know it. You’ll also realize it as one of your best moves ever.

——–

The Auction Story by Les Booth
From the series, “In The Shadow of Gar Island: a life of wonder on the edge of the Hoosier prairie”
Written for Donna Swanson’s eMagazine: Aechoes

The Home-Ground: an introduction

2010/05/14

Today I begin a detailed, yet hap-hazard, journal of memories.

Memories of my life, living and growing up on a small farm in western Indiana, on the banks of a stream in which my view of life was baptized and will forever remain locked in a love affair with the natural world.

This journal is the seeding for a book. A book I’ve long wanted to write and even more importantly, I needed to write.  This book will detail my life growing up in, on, around and among the waters of this stream.  The waters of this stream have an ever-present flow in and out; fully encompassing my life.  I ebb and flow on its undulating pulse.

I didn’t really know how to describe my feelings about this rivulet of water. Not until I watched – for the third go-round, the infamous movie version of Norman Maclean’s story, A River Runs Through It.  The final words in the movie, read by the author himself, are the same as those in the story. They are: I am haunted by waters.

Profound.  Insightful.  Revealing.  Deafening.  Frightening.

Completely unexpected, I had feelings gushing upward through my emotional mantel. Coming from somewhere inside, in a deep seated cavern of sequestered protection.  A place I sensed, but did not have a clue to its location.  With it surged a flood of emotions, capped by flooding tears, accompanied by a jolting wave of sobs.  What good fortune it was for me that this revelatory event took place in my own living room, in the predawn hours, while my wife and son were asleep in their rooms, carefully cloistered away from the man breaking down not 8 yards from either of them.

How could have I missed, before, the cataclysmic force unleashed in those 5 words?  Did I really miss them?  Had I just not understood them?  Questions I honestly don’t know the answer to.  But I do know that in that moment, during the serendipitous late-night, channel surfing,  I had an explanation for what that little stream in western Indiana meant to me.

For I too, am haunted by waters.   And I am eternally grateful.

The water in a stream never stops, never rests, never remains in one place.  The water is always moving, changing, being changed, actively involved, never passive.  Life is just like this. Even when we think time has stood still, it is only our mind’s perception of halted time, that is in neutral. For all life is constantly flowing in the same stream.  Nothing ever stands still.

I eventually left the banks of my beloved stream.  But only physically.  That was almost 38 years ago.  Yet, to the very second I am typing this my every action is directed, mentored, motivated and purposed… by what I lived and learned along the banks of that stream.

I am compelled to write of this stream and it’s effects on my life. Not by vanity, but a desire to tell others of the richness it imparted to me.  The story may only be a work of recording memory for an unwilling audience, but at least it will have been recorded.  And if, perchance, one other person feels anything positive from reading it, then the effort was a compete success.  I am, however, optimistic.  I do believe many people will be compelled to read the book. Compelled for the same reasons that compel me to write it: the richness of it all is overwhelming and it beckons to be touched, tasted, breathed in deeply, exhaled lightly, supped, cherished. It will be at this point, when the reader of my book, sees their own home-ground in a light of loving appreciation. For the first time, or for the umpteenth time. Either way… it is all good.

Thus the saga of my remembering – mes mémoire dú coeur – my memories of the heart, on the little stream in western Hoosierville, begins.

What Papa Bear and The Gar People Taught Me About Life .. begins now.

memdecoeur

From the series, “In The Shadow of Gar Island: a life of wonder on the edge of the Hoosier prairie”

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