Remembering Life on the Farm

By Michele Bazan Reed  |  bazanreed@hotmail.com

 

“Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go,” are the words of the classic carol.

I got thinking about those lyrics the other day, while sharing memories with my cousin, Leslie. We’re about the same age and grew up together like sisters, so we share a lot of good memories together.

It seems as we all age, reminiscing is a popular topic of conversation, whether it’s around the holiday table or, more increasingly, the holiday family Zoom call.

Lately, the topic turned to memories of growing up on our grandparents’ dairy farm.

My cousins lived on the farm, above the old farmhouse where Grandma and Grandpa resided. During the summer months and school holidays, my mother would drop me off on her way to work, or often I’d spend all week, sleeping in our grandmother’s spare room and roaming the pastures and barns during the hot summer days with Leslie, her brother and sisters, and occasionally another visiting cousin or two.

It was the 1950s when the adults were a bit more hands off than now. As long as you didn’t burn the barn down (we came close — read on), or break your leg (I broke an arm tripping on the chicken coop steps), it would be OK.

I remember swinging from the haymow on ropes and landing in bales of hay which broke apart with the force of our fall. (The grownups were not as amused by this as we were.)

The hayloft was a never-ending source of fun. We loved to make tunnels in the hay, another good way to annoy the adults.

Other adventures were not so benign. My cousins and I read somewhere (probably the back of a comic book) that you could start a fire with a magnifying lens, and tried to put these theories to the test on some hay in the barn. Luckily we put the sparks out before we had a chance to prove the truth of that hypothesis and burn down the barn.

Another time, we almost got drowned in sileage in the silo, where the fermenting corn gives off a gas that can overcome you. I don’t think we were gassed, but we quickly lost our footing. The corn becomes like quicksand and the more you struggle, the easier it is to “drown” in the corn. Nowadays, there are no doubt many more safety features than probably existed back then. Luckily the adults were on guard so these curious kids could be rescued.

But while they make for the best stories, it’s not the scary or dangerous episodes that made up our days. We spent idyllic hours petting the baby calves and feeling their rough tongues licking our hands and faces. Like farm kids have done for ages, we had our favorites and named them. There were sheep, too, with their fluffy wool to stroke.

At dusk, we traipsed to the upper pasture to lead the cows in for milking.

We’d call, “Hey, Bossy,” and walk behind them to round them up.

Major, the dog, would help and we would do our best to keep the herd together and facing in the right direction. Not that we were always successful.

I have lots of memories of walking through the pastures, including my cousins convincing this city girl that walking barefoot through the “cow flops,” aka poop patties, and squishing it between your toes was good luck.

What I didn’t remember until Leslie reminded me recently, was that the superstition came from my mother, who told us that if she had a test, before school, she’d step in a cow patty, and she always passed. She insisted it was magic, because the one time she didn’t, she failed the test.

Another favorite thing to stomp were giant puffball mushrooms, which collapsed and the spores came floating out in a gray cloud.

I remember the big barn and the milking machines, the smell of the cow dung and hay, and the heat their massive bodies put out.

Sometimes Grandpa would let us try to milk a cow by hand — my cousins were better at this than I was, for sure!

We went fishing in Bullhead Pond, and went flying down the barnyard hill on our bikes, throwing gravel as we skidded to a stop. The same hill provided a great track for sledding in winter months, sliding through snow where the gravel had been.

My cousin reminded me of big family dinners outside in the yard. We’d take the doors off and lay them on sawhorses, where Grandma and the aunts would pile them high with food, mostly Polish staples like kielbasa, sauerkraut and pierogi, but also homemade pickles, jams and cottage cheese and butter.

Every Sunday, when my mother and I arrived for a visit, there was a pot of chicken soup on the stove, which Grandma would ladle over homemade noodles kept cold in the fridge, making the perfect temperature for eating. In the oven, a pan of golabki (stuffed cabbage) kept warm, and potato salad rounded out the weekly meal.

Sharing stories like these with family members brings us all closer together, reminding us of our roots and shared values.

Photo albums or, if you’re lucky enough to have them, old home movies or slide shows, spark lots of “remember when?” discussions.

I hope you enjoyed this trip back in time with our family’s pastoral memories. And I hope you have fun sharing your own reminiscences of growing up in a different time, with a new generation around the holiday meal table or in online visits.