Letters from Hillside Farm

by Jerry Apps

  Then the unexpected thing happened. We were working on the second load of hay. Pa was pitching hay onto the wagon, while I was driving the team from hay bunch to hay bunch and arranging the hay on the wagon. (Pa calls this “making a load.”) I wasn’t paying much attention to Pa other than trying to stay ahead of him, when I heard him yell. I looked up and saw that he had dropped his three-tine fork and was running across the field, swinging his straw hat around his head, yelling, “Bees, bees!” At the time it was rather comical. I have never seen Pa run faster, not even when he was playing ball at the end-of-school-year picnic.

  The next thing I knew, Pa had stuck his head into a hay bunch. He stayed there for a little while, but eventually he came walking back to wagon, rubbing his neck. His face and hair were covered with hay leaves.

  “Look at you,” I chuckled.

  “Bees got me,” he said. He continued rubbing his neck, which I could see was swelling. “Gotta put something on these stings,” he said.

  I helped him onto the wagon, and I drove home. Pa sat quietly all the way home, holding his head in his hands. When we got to the house, I tied the team to a tree near the kitchen and ran to tell Ma what happened. Somewhere she learned that bread soaked in milk is a good treatment for beestings, and she quickly prepared a mixture, which she called a poultice. In the meantime, Pa sat on the porch in a kind of daze.

  Ma was concerned when she looked at all the beestings on Pa’s neck. She put the bread and milk poultice in place and tied a dish towel over the concoction. Then she helped Pa walk into the house and over to the couch in the dining room. Pa said that Ma and I should unload the hay and put the horses away, because we wouldn’t be hauling any more hay that day.

  I tried to do what Pa had done, while Ma drove Maud on the hayfork rope. Between the two of us, we managed to unload the partial load of hay. I left forking the hay around in the mow for another day. I unharnessed the horses and turned them out in the barnyard.

  When I got back in the house, I saw that Pa’s neck was swelled to twice its normal size and his face was a sickly red. Ma was worried. She was on the phone to Grandma Woodward, asking what she could do besides the bread and milk poultice. Grandma Woodward told Ma how to mix a concoction that would make Pa sick when he drank it and take the bee poison from his system.

  Ma and I milked the cows, and Annie helped us feed the calves. I surprised myself with how much I can do, even with my gimpy leg.

  I heard Pa throwing up most of the night. In the morning when I looked in on him, he was as pale as bread flour, but the swelling had gone down.

  “Afraid you and Ma will have to do the milking again this morning,” he said. “I can barely stand up, I’m so weak.”

  “You’re lucky you’re alive,” Ma said. “Grandma Woodward told me she had heard of people dying with fewer beestings than you had.”

  It took a couple of days before Pa was back to his old self and we could continue haying. He gave us quite a scare. I didn’t know that beestings could be so dangerous. I also learned that when someone is sick, you have to take up the slack, as the farm work still needs doing.

  Your grandson,

  George

  July 4, 1938

  Monday

  Dear Grandma,

  We are still making hay. The barn is nearly filled, but still I wonder if we’ll ever finish. I don’t want to see another load of hay for the rest of my life. And I’ll bet Maud and Tony feel the same way. Pa and I are out in the field every day, making hay bunches, loading them on the wagon, and forking the hay around in the haymow. Hay doesn’t smell nearly as good as it did when we first started; now it smells like work. Hard, sweaty, never-ending, day-after-day work.

  I’ve been learning how to use a three-tine fork. Haying is easier if you know where to grab the fork handle, know how to twist it, and know when to push and when to pull. Don’t laugh, Grandma. All these things make a difference. If you use the fork right, you finish the day a little less tired. Like Pa always says, “Little things make the difference.” He’s sure right when it comes to a three-tine fork.

  At the breakfast table this morning, Pa said it was the Fourth of July and that we would work only until noon. He said we would drive to Round Lake, where there’s a big community celebration, and he asked Ma if she would pack a picnic dinner.

  I spent the morning making hay bunches, thinking about Round Lake and the Fourth of July celebration. Pa had said there would be games for the little kids to play, like drop the handkerchief and blind man’s bluff. I knew Annie would have fun playing those. A few days ago when we were at the mill waiting for cow feed to be ground, Pa and I heard that the celebration would include a big tug-of-war between the older kids. I hoped that I might be a part of that. It’s done over a small pond, so participants are told to bring along a change of clothes in case they fall into the water.

  Ma made her special potato salad, a chocolate cake, and a batch of beans and packed it all up with some sandwiches. She even stirred up a jar of lemonade with slices of yellow lemons floating on top. We all climbed into the car and were off to Round Lake for dinner and an afternoon of fun. Even though the outing was Pa’s idea, I suspect he was worried about the hay that was sitting out in the field. But I figured a half day away from it surely wouldn’t hurt anything, unless we got a pouring rain, but it didn’t look like any rain was coming anytime soon.

  It seemed like everyone in the world was at Round Lake. We could hardly find a place to park the car. Kids were running around, swinging and sliding down the metal slides, and swimming. Families were spreading tablecloths on picnic tables and getting ready to eat. I think we got one of the last tables in the shade, under a big old pine tree.

  While Ma spread out the meal, I walked over to a bulletin board, where a sign said that everyone interested in the tug-of-war should gather near the lake at two o’clock.

  Ma called out that dinner was ready. I sat down, and we dug into one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten. Maybe that’s because I don’t get potato salad, baked beans, and chocolate cake every day. Or maybe it’s because I worked up a powerful hunger making hay for the last three weeks. Either way, I ate way too much, and after I was finished I mostly wanted to crawl off in the shade and take a nap.

  Pa shook me. He was holding his pocket watch in his hand.

  “Five minutes to two,” he said. “Didn’t you want to try the tug of war?”

  I got up and made my way toward the shore of the lake, where a large crowd had gathered. A tall man with a big voice was announcing, “Everybody interested in the tug-of-war, assemble right here.” Ma, Pa, and Annie walked over to the tug-of-war area, too, to watch the contest.

  Wouldn’t you know it, Grandma? When I lined up for the tug-of-war, the first person I saw was Amos Woodward.

  “What’re you doin’ here, Struckmeyer?” he growled at me. “This game’s for strong kids, not ones with gimpy legs.”

  “If you can do it, I can do it,” I told him.

  “Here, here, boys!” the announcer said. He was wearing a little flat-topped straw hat with a red band around it. “Everybody who wants to play can. I think I’ll put you boys on opposite sides. Might be interesting.”

  He pointed to where each of us should stand. We were on opposite sides of a little pond of murky water that someone had dug in the sand next to the lake. The pond was about six feet across by four feet wide. I couldn’t tell how deep it was because the water was so cloudy. A piece of hayfork rope, maybe thirty feet long, lay across the pond.

  Soon the tall fellow with the straw hat had us all organized. I suspect he was counting us to make sure each side had the same number of kids. I wished he had paid more attention to the size of the kids. I glanced across the pond and saw a bunch of big strong farm kids.

  “Here are the rules,” the announcer began. “When I shoot this gun, start pulling.” He pulled a pistol with a white handle out of his pocket. (It looked like a real gun to me, but later Pa told me that it shot blank
cartridges.)

  “The idea is to pull the other side into this here pond. The winning team does it two out of three times. Is everybody ready?”

  I grabbed hold of the rope with all my might.

  “Kaboom!” The pistol shot echoed across the lake. I hadn’t expected it to be so loud and dang near fell down when it went off.

  Grandma, before I knew it, I was dragged right to the edge of that little muddy pond. I saw Amos on the other side grinning like crazy, his face getting redder by the second as he pulled on the rope. I planted my good leg in the sand, yelled over my shoulder, “Pull!” and, by golly, slowly my team eased away from the pond’s edge. Of course this meant that Amos was getting that much closer to the pond.

  I looked up to see that his face was even redder than before, and now his smile was gone. “Pull! Pull!” he yelled.

  I was so proud of my team, Grandma. I didn’t even know most of the kids, because they came from all around Link Lake, but we sure knew how to pull together. The next thing I knew, Amos had toppled into the pond of muddy water, followed by one teammate after the other. It was hilarious to see a pond full of kids all wet and muddy and tangled up in the hayfork rope.

  “Kaboom!” The pistol shot stopped the pulling.

  “Favor to this team,” the thin man said, pointing at us. A big yell went up from my team as we watched the other kids crawl out of the pond, dripping with water and mud.

  “For the next go, we switch sides,” the tall man said. We ran around to the other side.

  “I’ll get you this time,” Amos said as he walked past. He was a mess—mud on his pants, on his shirt, on his face, in his hair.

  Now we had a wet rope to deal with, and before you could say, “You’re gonna get muddy and wet,” my team was in the pond.

  So there we were, two teams of wet, muddy kids, with a rope that was wet on both ends, and one more pull to decide the winner.

  The announcer had us switch sides once more and said, “This time whoever pulls the other team into the water wins.”

  I looked around at my teammates. What a wet mess we were, with mud in our hair, covering our clothing, everywhere. The same went for Amos’s team. Each side grabbed the muddy rope and began pulling and pulling. First one side was on the brink of tumbling into the pond, then the other. Finally, Amos pulled a dirty trick. He said quietly so the judge couldn’t hear, “We give up.” Of course, he didn’t mean it. But several of the kids on my team quit pulling. The minute they did, Amos and his team gave a mighty yank, and everyone on my team fell in the muddy pond once more. We lost the tug-of-war.

  Pa was laughing when I crawled out of the muddy pond the second time. I was soaked to the skin.

  I stripped off my shirt, shoes, and socks and jumped into the lake, wearing only my muddy pants. Eventually I was clean enough to crawl into the dry clothes I had brought along.

  I walked by Amos on my way to the car. “Told you I’d get you,” Amos said. He had a snarly look on his face. I didn’t say anything. Why does he have to be this way, Grandma? I didn’t mind being wet and muddy—or even losing the contest. But Amos cheated. Pa has taught me never to cheat, no matter what.

  Your grandson,

  George

  Dear George,

  We have had a string of hot, hot days here in Cleveland. I wish I could spend a few days at your farm, but I just can’t afford a long trip right now. I’ll bet it is cooler there in the country, away from all the big buildings.

  Your father’s encounter with the bees sounds dreadful. Beestings can be dangerous. But I don’t have to tell you that—you saw it firsthand. I’m very glad he’s feeling better now.

  What a Fourth of July celebration! Picnics are fun, aren’t they? And having one near a lake makes it even more fun.

  Amos Woodward just doesn’t give up, does he? I would have liked to have seen his face when your tug-of-war team pulled his team into the muddy water. It seems you didn’t mind getting wet and dirty—it’s part of the fun, isn’t it? Who cares if you win or lose? It’s having fun while you’re doing something that counts. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. But I can understand your disappointment over Amos cheating. It’s no fun competing with someone who cheats.

  I’m looking forward to some cooler weather.

  Much love,

  Grandma S.

  July 12, 1938

  Tuesday

  Dear Grandma,

  It was an awful day, Grandma. Just awful. Remember that I told you that Ginger didn’t feel well after he performed so well in the circus? This morning, Depot and I went over to his stall to say good morning to him, as we do every morning, and I noticed that he was lying down, with his head stretched out in front on him. Pa was there with a glum look on his face. I reached out to pet Ginger, and his neck was cold.

  “He’s dead,” Pa said in a quiet voice. “Likely had a heart attack. He was pretty old, you know.”

  I burst into tears. Depot put his nose close to Ginger’s head and let out a high-pitched bark. It was a mournful sound. Ginger and Depot had become good buddies, and Ginger was gone.

  Pa blew his nose into his handkerchief and then said, “Well, the cows still need to be milked. After breakfast we’ll bury Ginger.”

  Grandma, I milked cows this morning with tears running down my face and dripping into the milk pail. I wonder if anyone will notice that their milk tastes salty.

  Breakfast was a quiet affair. When little Annie heard about Ginger, she began sobbing and didn’t quit. She wouldn’t eat breakfast. I didn’t eat very much. All I could think about was Ginger lying dead in the barn. No more circus performances, no good times riding him around the yard, no more circus tricks.

  We buried Ginger on the hill on the west side of the farm, next to some big pine trees. When we finished, Pa cut a couple of pine tree branches and used some twine to fashion a cross. He pushed it into the ground at one end of the grave. Ma, Annie, and Depot were there with us. Annie put some wildflowers on the grave next to the cross. Ma had picked a couple of roses from the rosebush that grows alongside our house, and she gently placed them on Ginger’s grave as well. Then we all stood there with our heads bowed. Pa asked if I’d like to say some words over the grave. “Ginger was a good pony,” was all I could think to say. And then I started crying and mumbled, “Why did you have to die?”

  Pa put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “George, remember what I told you when Polly died? On a farm there is birth, and there is death. One we look forward to, and the other we don’t. But both happen. And we must go on.” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. I could see tears in his eyes. Ma was crying, too, and Annie was sobbing with her head buried in Ma’s apron.

  Pa turned to walk back to the house, and the rest of us followed, all except Depot. He lay on Ginger’s grave, and as we left he lifted his head and howled a long, deep sound that I’ve never heard him make before. He stayed at Ginger’s grave all day, finally coming home when it was getting dark.

  This evening around the supper table we were very quiet. Then Pa said, “Let’s each say something we remember about Ginger.” And that’s what we did. I told about how well he had performed in the Struckmeyer Family Circus. Annie talked about how much fun she had had riding him. Ma said she just liked having him around and that he was such a friendly little pony. Pa said he thought Ginger was always smiling.

  It will be hard to not keep thinking about Ginger, Grandma.

  Love,

  George

  Dear George,

  I’m so very sorry to hear about Ginger. What a wonderful little pony he was. I wish I could have gotten to know him. I know how bad you and your family must be feeling. Ginger had become a part of your family, too.

  Try to remember the good times you had with him and feel good that you and your family took such good care of him after he came to your farm. Remember, too, that you gave him one last chance to perform in front of a crowd of people. From what you wrote, that was something G
inger really enjoyed doing.

  I’m sorry, George. There’s nothing more I can say.

  Love,

  Grandma S.

  July 15, 1938

  Friday

  Dear Grandma,

  Today is my thirteenth birthday. I hadn’t heard Ma or Pa say one thing about it, and I was sure they had forgotten. I know there is no money for presents. And since we are just winding up the haying season, there is still plenty of work to do and no time for celebrations.

  When I got up at five-thirty this morning, I was still thinking about Ginger, and, I must say, feeling pretty sorry for myself. I limped out to the barn to milk my cows as usual. Pa didn’t say anything other than “Good morning, George,” which he says every morning when I open the barn door. No mention of my birthday. Just some comment about it being a nice day for making hay. The last thing I wanted to hear about was making hay. That’s about all we’ve done for the past month.

  Nothing was different at breakfast, either. Ma made oatmeal, fried eggs with bacon, and sliced hunks of homemade bread spread with butter and homemade strawberry jam. The usual. Nobody had much to say while we ate. Annie finished her breakfast and went off to play.

  “Something wrong?” Ma asked when she noticed I was dawdling over my oatmeal.

  “Nothing wrong, Ma,” I answered. But there was something wrong—mighty wrong. Here it was my birthday, and nobody had even mentioned it. When I finished eating, I started to get up from the table, but Pa said, “Why don’t you wait a minute?”

  Just then Annie came through the door from the dining room carrying a pile of packages that came almost up to her chin. She was smiling the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. “Happy birthday!” everyone said.