Letters from Hillside Farm

by Jerry Apps

  Time to do my homework.

  Your grandson,

  George

  Dear George,

  I’m so happy to receive your letters and hear about all that you are doing in Wisconsin. Did you know I went to a one-room school that was a lot like yours? Our school was made of logs, and it hadn’t been built very well. In winter the cold air sifted into the room between the logs that were not chinked well. (That means the material plugging the spaces between the logs wasn’t put in properly.)

  Paper was scarce in those days, so we each had a slate where we worked numbers and wrote the letters of the alphabet. A slate is like a little blackboard, but small enough so that you can hold it in your hand. Of course, we also studied spelling, learned a little geography, and spent time reading and writing. It was reading and writing that I most enjoyed doing. I thought it was lots of fun to read about what other people were doing and how they did it. And I always liked writing; I still do. I am happy to hear how well you are doing in spelling. A perfect score in spelling is something special.

  Do you know we played anti-I-over when I was in school? We played it just as you described. It was so much fun! I’m glad to hear that children are still playing the old school games.

  Keep writing. Your letters mean a lot to me, George. It gets pretty lonely around here without you, little Annie, and your folks nearby.

  Love,

  Grandma S.

  March 23, 1938

  Wednesday

  Dear Grandma,

  Did I tell you that we don’t even have a radio here in the hinterlands of Wisconsin? We don’t have electricity, so I didn’t even ask Pa about getting a radio. But he surprised me. When I came home from school today, I saw a brand new Philco radio sitting on a little table near one of the kitchen windows. I told Pa I couldn’t see how it would work without electricity, and he kind of smiled and pointed to the two big batteries that sit under the radio. Then he showed me a wire that runs from the back of the radio, outside a kitchen window, and all the way to the top of our windmill. He called it an aerial and said it will help us pull in radio stations from as far away as Chicago.

  One thing I haven’t complained about since we moved to Wisconsin is not being able to listen to my favorite radio programs every afternoon like I did back in Ohio. I especially like Captain Midnight. (Luckily I remembered to bring to bring my decoder badge along with me from Ohio, which I need to figure out the secret messages at the end of each Captain Midnight program.) I also like listening to Jack Armstrong, Tarzan, and Terry and the Pirates.

  After the chores were done tonight, I snapped on the radio, gathered some paper and a pencil so I could write down the numbers the announcer reads at the end of the program (for the secret message), and sat next to our new radio. Captain Midnight came in just as well as it did in Ohio! What a wonderful thing a radio is.

  Of course, Pa wanted a radio as badly as anybody in the family. He likes listening to the news, the farm market reports, and the weather forecasts. Ma likes her programs as well, especially The Romance of Helen Trent, Ma Perkins, and Our Gal Sunday. And we all listen to Fibber McGee and Molly. Little Annie loves it when Fibber McGee opens the closet door and everything falls out with a big clatter. We’re all looking forward to Saturday night, when we’ll listen to the WLS National Barn Dance show from Chicago. Here in this new place these shows feel like old friends.

  Sure wish you were here so we could listen to some of them together, Grandma, like we did when we lived in Ohio.

  Your grandson,

  George

  March 25, 1938

  Friday

  Dear Grandma,

  I asked Pa again when I will get my puppy. At first he looked at me like he had other things on his mind. But after all, he did promise me a puppy if I’d quit complaining about having to move to Wisconsin, so he smiled and said that he sent in the order yesterday. My puppy should be here in about a week! Now I have something to look forward to. I have always wanted a dog.

  Yesterday Pa bought fifty laying hens from a neighbor. He said we need fresh eggs to eat, and Ma can sell what we don’t use. It was one of the first times I’ve seen Ma smile since we got to Wisconsin. She doesn’t say much, but I don’t think she likes living here. Pa keeps reminding us that we are on a Great Adventure and said again that we must keep looking at the sunny side of things. I guess he means we must keep our spirits up. But that’s not easy to do. Maybe having some egg money will cheer Ma up a little.

  Pa turned the chickens loose in the chicken house. They didn’t seem to mind that they were in a new place at all. They went right at eating the oats that Pa had bought for them. I hope they remember that they’re supposed to be laying eggs, not just eating and prowling around their new location.

  Pa also bought ten Holstein milk cows yesterday. Holsteins are the ones that are black and white, but I bet you already knew that. They were delivered in a big red cattle truck, and they seemed kind of scared. I suspect everything is new for them, just like it is for me. Pa said he’ll teach me how to milk and that milking will become one of my chores. Grandma, we’ve got to milk these cows every morning and night, every day, even on Saturdays and Sundays. When will I ever have time to work on my leather projects? This morning I was out in the barn at 5:30! The only light we have in the barn is a kerosene lantern that shines feebly, much less brightly than our lamp in the house. I pointed this out to Pa, who told me that you don’t need much light to milk a cow.

  The lantern hangs on a nail on the back wall, and there are shadows everywhere. It’s kind of scary—I imagine all kinds of wild creatures hiding where the light doesn’t reach. Pa says about all that’s in the shadows is a mouse or two, and that one of our neighbors might give us a couple of barn cats to keep the mice in check.

  The cows stand in a row, their necks stuck through metal and wooden bars that Pa calls stanchions. The cows can’t move around much, but there is no place to go anyway, and besides, it’s warm in the barn. Mornings are well below freezing here in Wisconsin, and there’s still some snow on the ground.

  The first time Pa showed me how to milk a cow, he told me just to watch. He sat on a little three-legged milk stool that he pulled up right under a cow, with a shiny milk pail clamped between his knees. Then he took a teat in each hand, and milk shot into the pail with a zing. He said that that all you do is squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull, and the milk will come. He made it look easy.

  Don’t laugh, Grandma, but the first time I tried to do this, nothing happened. Nothing. The harder I squeezed and the more I pulled, the jumpier the cow became, but still no milk came out. Pa said to just keep trying, so that’s what I did. After I relaxed a little, the milk started coming—not in big squirts, but enough that I could say I was milking a cow! Tonight it went even better. But my fingers are so sore they feel like they’ll drop off my hands. Pa said it will take a while for my fingers and wrists to toughen up.

  Polly is one of the cows I milk. She likes to swipe me across the face with her wiry tail. That is no fun at all. Last night I got so mad at Polly when she hit me in the face with her tail that I hauled off and hit her on the rump. That was not a good thing to do. Polly jumped, tipped me over, and spilled the little milk I had in the bottom of the pail. Pa came running when he heard the noise. I told him what had happened after he helped me collect the milk stool and pail and crawl out of the straw where I’d landed. Pa was angry. He said I should never hit a cow, no matter what. He didn’t need to tell me—I had already learned that lesson!

  I crawled back under Polly, sat on my milk stool, stuck the milk pail between my legs, and said, “Polly, you hear me!” The big cow turned her head, her big dark eyes staring right at me. “We’re in this together. You behave and don’t hit me in the face with your tail, and I won’t whop you on the rump with my hand.”

  I don’t know if she understood what I was saying, but we are getting along a little better. Maybe it’s because I’m learning how to milk.

 
; The barn is filled with strange smells that I’m not used to. There’s the smell of the hay that Pa feeds the cows and the smell of cow manure, of course. All of that mixes in with the smell of fresh milk, which I think is a nice, clean smell.

  I’m glad I have a weekend ahead of me. I sure wish I didn’t have to go to school. It’s no fun. On Monday the kids are choosing up sides for ball teams, and the teacher says everybody plays, even the little kids, if they want to. I can hit a ball as well as anyone, but I can’t run with my bad leg. It makes me feel awful. Whoever heard of a kid who can’t run?

  I wish I was back in Ohio, Grandma.

  Your grandson,

  George

  March 26, 1938

  Saturday

  Dear Grandma,

  When we finished the barn chores this morning, Pa asked if I’d like to go with him to a farm auction that was going on today near Willow River, which is a town about eight miles from here. I had never been to a farm auction so I didn’t know what to expect. Pa said he needed some farm equipment and a team of horses. We have cows and chickens, but with the spring work coming up fast, we’ll need horses to pull the machinery necessary for putting in our crops.

  We weren’t the only ones at the auction. Cars were lined up on both sides of the road when we got to the farm. As we walked up the road I could hear the patter of the auctioneer selling farm tools—hammers, saws, wrenches, that sort of thing. I’ve never heard an auctioneer before. This one sounded like a singer and a speaker combined. It was fun to listen to him and to watch the reactions of the people in the audience as he held up each item and began his spiel, trying to fetch as much money as possible.

  Pa bid on a grain drill—that’s what he called a machine that looks like a long box with wheels on each end and a series of disc-like things hanging from its bottom. Here’s how I remember it went:

  Auctioneer: “And what am I offered for this good grain drill? Do I hear twenty-five, anybody twenty-five, anybody twenty-five dollars for this good drill?”

  Pa: “Twenty-five.”

  Auctioneer: “And who’ll make it thirty? Do I hear thirty, thirty, thirty? This drill is ready to go. Just dump in some grain, hitch up your team, and you are sowing wheat or oats or whatever you want to sow. Who says thirty dollars for the drill?”

  Another farmer: “Thirty.”

  Auctioneer: “And who’ll make it thirty-five? Do I hear thirty-five? Anybody thirty-five?”

  Pa: “Thirty-five.”

  Auctioneer: “And now forty. Who’ll make it forty? Anybody? Anybody make it forty? I’m gonna sell it. Last chance. Once, twice, three times. Sold to that fellow standing in the back. And mark it cheap.”

  Pa won the grain drill. He also bought a four-wheeled hay wagon and a team of horses. Their names are Maud and Tony. We put the grain drill on the wagon and pulled it home behind the car. The trucker who delivered our cows was at the auction, and he told Pa he’ll haul Maud and Tony to our farm. He’ll get here around chore time (for country people that means around five o’clock, give or take a half hour).

  Looks like we’re all set to farm—at least that’s what Pa said on the way home. He told me he’s going to teach me how to drive the horses and how to harness them. He says I am old enough.

  I don’t know if I’m looking forward to driving our new team. They are big horses, Grandma. Really big! I guess they have to be big in order to pull a plow and all the other farm machinery that we have on Hillside Farm.

  Your grandson,

  George

  March 27, 1938

  Sunday

  Dear Grandma,

  When we got home from church this morning, Pa asked if I was ready to try my hand at driving our new team. What could I say? I mostly was worried about one of them putting its big foot down on mine. I mentioned that to Pa, and he kind of smiled and said, “They won’t do that—at least if they are like other horses I’ve known.” That didn’t do much to take away my fear.

  As Pa harnessed the team, he said I should watch what he was doing, because next time I’ll be doing it by myself. First he put big padded pieces of leather around each horse’s neck. He called them collars. Then he gathered up a leather harness and pulled it across Maud’s back and fastened it to her collar with a little strap. He buckled a couple more straps, then turned to Tony and did the same thing. Before I knew it he was finished harnessing the team—and telling me that it’s easy to do. It sure doesn’t look easy to me. But I guess it’s one more thing I’ll have to learn.

  Pa led Tony out of the barn and I led Maud, fearing every minute that the big horse—did I tell you, Grandma, that both horses are brown with black tails and black manes (that’s the long hair that grows on their necks)—would step on me. But she just walked along without even coming close to stepping on me.

  Once outside the barn, Pa walked the horses so they stood next to each other, and then he buckled a couple of straps so they would stay that way when they walked. He handed me the driving lines, which are two long pieces of leather attached to the horses’ bridles. Then he said the only way to learn how to drive a team is to do it.

  So there I stood, holding the driving lines with these two gigantic horses standing a few feet in front of me. To get the horses moving, you say “giddap.” Pa said, “Shake the lines a little when you say it.” To stop, you say “whoa” and pull back on the lines a little. To steer, you just pull on the lines in the direction you want the horses to turn.

  I must say, it all worked pretty well. Driving a team is not as difficult as I thought it would be. I marched Maud and Tony around the yard a few times, stopped, started, turned left, turned right. Nothing to it. I even forgot about my bad leg. Pa said they are a well-trained team.

  Another school day tomorrow, so I better get to bed. I didn’t tell Pa this, but it was kind of fun driving our new horses.

  Your grandson,

  George

  Dear George,

  You and your family are surely busy. Let’s see, you now have milk cows, laying hens, and a new team of horses. Just think, here you are driving a team of horses, and you are only twelve years old. That’s not easy to do. And you’ve learned how to milk cows by hand. That’s even harder than driving horses. I’m so proud of you.

  Did I tell you that I milked cows by hand when I was a little girl? It was one of my chores on the farm by the time I was ten years old. We had only three cows, and I milked them every morning and night. It was not a bad job, but our log barn wasn’t very warm in winter. In summer I milked them outside when the weather was nice.

  We didn’t have a team of horses on the home farm like you do. My father had a team of oxen that did all the heavy work, like plowing the land and pulling a big high-wheeled cart. I didn’t have much to do with them, as they were big and clumsy and moved very slowly. Their names were Fritz and Joe. They didn’t wear harnesses, like your horses. All they wore was a wooden yoke that fit over their necks. When my father wanted them to turn right, he said “gee,” and if he wanted them to turn left, he said “haw.” There were no leather lines like you have to turn your team of horses.

  Father always said Fritz and Joe were dependable. I guess that meant that they did whatever they were asked to do without complaining. Your great-grandfather never liked to hear anyone complain. He said everyone has problems, and it doesn’t help to complain about them.

  It’s getting late, and I must go to bed. Be sure to keep writing.

  Love,

  Grandma S.

  March 28, 1938

  Monday

  Dear Grandma,

  I had another go-around with Amos Woodward today. It all started when we formed softball teams at morning recess. Because they are in eighth grade, Amos and Rachel Williams are the team captains. They took turns choosing kids, until everybody was on a team except me. Amos came right out and said that a kid who can’t run shouldn’t be on a team. You can imagine how I felt. Miss Harvey said that I should have a chance to play if I wanted to. But Am
os held his ground and said that if I couldn’t run, I was not going to be on his team.

  Everyone just stared at me. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like running off and hiding. Finally Rachel looked at me, smiled a little, and motioned for me to be on her team. I hobbled over next to the rest of the kids she had chosen. Rachel is a tall, soft-spoken girl. She wears her black hair in braids, and she smiles easily. All the kids like her. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m from the city and walk with a limp.

  By the time the teams were chosen, recess was over—no time to even start a game. Miss Harvey said we’d have a ball game during noon break. She also told us that in a few weeks we’re going to play against Forest Grove School, which is a few miles from here, and that we’ll need lots of practice to beat them. The best players from Rachel’s and Amos’s teams will become the Rose Hill ball team. I sure would like to be on the school team, but I doubt I have much of a chance.

  After lunch we took our places on the ball diamond. Our school doesn’t even have real bases, just empty feed sacks that sit in the middle of bare spots on the ground. And none of the kids has a softball glove. You’ve got to have tough hands to play on this team, because the ball is always caught barehanded.

  Amos’s team took to the field first, and my team got ready to bat. Rachel pointed to a fourth-grader named Fred, and he stepped up to the plate to face Amos, who was pitching. Amos rolled the ball around in his hands, glared at the kid, and told him to look out or he might hit him in the head.

  I could see fear in the kid’s face as he held the bat. He swung wildly at three pitches and was out. Same with the next two batters. Then it was our turn to take the field. Rachel put me in right field. I hoped no balls would come my way, and none did.