tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12391533837862757562024-03-06T01:16:27.531-05:00Imagine That!A collection of children's stories based upon the authors' experience growing up on a farm in rural Ontario, Canada.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-780165328122539742009-12-15T12:58:00.023-05:002009-12-20T12:07:28.935-05:00The Farm and Why it was So LovedThe farmhouse was very old , we found the year 1829 etched into the attic boards of the old part and 1867 above the woodshed when we were exploring. Imagine living in a house that had seen so many prior generations living in it. The rumour was that a retired sea captain had the house built after he decided to leave the life of the sea. Treasure was said to be buried somewhere near the house and for us that explained the odd old coin that surfaced in the garden or by the lilac bushes. When they installed the plumbing (and the houses first bathroom with running water!) in the 1960's Mother told the fellow who excavated for the tile bed that if he found the treasure, we would share it. Mother was a romantic at heart, even though there was little time to indulge those sentiments, and the thought of a treasure and an old sea captain really peaked her curiosity.<br /><br /><br />Coming to the farm meant meandering down a long lane, bordered both sides by oaks and elm trees that were absolutely regal in the summer, framing the passage way with a living, green canopy. The lane itself was covered with crushed stone, that was variably dense or sparse depending upon whether we had money to buy a load or two of gravel or whether we used the stones that we ourselves picked from the soil of the garden. We picked stones out of the garden to save the ploughs we used from damage and to make the plants germinate and pierce the earth without obstacle.<br /><br /><br />Father loved to garden; he loved it his whole life. He ploughed in the early days with one of the work horses and a plough that he "walked" behind. I still remember the reigns from the harness slung over his shoulder as he "drove" the plough. I can still hear him urging the old horse on with his slow and steady voice, calming and encouraging old <em>Jim</em> to first of all, continue; and, to move along in a straight line <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKKvQHzg6P0aXUrcPzJYE2mW3trYs8TPTVhaZV4CBsNszEsnUeb10V4nQj-nTH7JXkJ0UNm0q4E9c3Sc6epxNs1iyGXVJVSViDC2t2mgWQVQvA83kFyKw4CzdjYxpCZMcpTC4uRBGOYY/s1600-h/harnesseng.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 294px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 181px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415540217926414370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKKvQHzg6P0aXUrcPzJYE2mW3trYs8TPTVhaZV4CBsNszEsnUeb10V4nQj-nTH7JXkJ0UNm0q4E9c3Sc6epxNs1iyGXVJVSViDC2t2mgWQVQvA83kFyKw4CzdjYxpCZMcpTC4uRBGOYY/s400/harnesseng.gif" /></a>from row to row. It was a dance of sorts, a little awkward for sure, but captivating to watch. Father knew just how much to spur the magnificent partner on and when he needed a break to rest and for that long, refreshing, drink of water. During the break Father would scratch that place under Jim's harness collar where he knew (somehow) that it would be itchy and, behind the ear, under the bridle, where a rub was always welcome. They would rest a while together, Father whispering and the old horse nuzzling, and then, together, finish the job.<br /><br /><br />Inside the farmhouse the smells of fresh baked bread or pot roast in the oven would permeate the air. Mother would be busy getting a meal on while Father worked. There were always seven of us for supper, sometimes more. Because Father loved to grow things, we had fresh fruit and vegetables with meals. The farm came with a small apple orchard but we never fully understood how to care for it so it seemed to produce a little less every year. We also had two cherry trees and in the back of the farm beside the "far" well there was a pear tree. I discovered the pear tree with my brother Fred one time when we went looking for the cows out there. He somehow knew where it was; possibly from his hunting trips with Father. The cows ate all the low hanging fruit so he picked me a pear as far up as he could reach from the height of our horse, Tina. It tasted tart but so good. No preservatives there.<br /><br />So the farm helped to sustain us through what the land had to offer, what the animals produced for us in milk and meat, and, with the shelter provided by a century old home.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-43617872368108239752009-11-23T07:23:00.002-05:002009-11-23T07:46:26.101-05:00Ahh Yes Skating...there was always a Pond for Skating!The Farm was 150 acres of cleared land, woods, streams, and ponds and we loved it all year round but winter was particularly magical! The frost on the trees, the warmth of the fire inside, the smell of hot chocolate warming on the wood stove, the quiet and peaceful surroundings absent of car horns, fire truck sirens, or city busses passing made for an atmosphere of peaceful reflection!<br /><br />In the winter the walk to school always seemed a little longer in distance but the time taken to make the trek was shortened by the necessity of the brisk pace! Often I walked the mile huddling my face behind the back of an older brother. His sturdy frame shielded me from the blowing wind and cold. It was like walking with your eyes closed - all I could see was the back of the coat my brother was wearing and I dared not peer beyond on those days when the wind was particularly wild, wisps of snow "<em>cutting"</em> my face. Once home from school chores were completed as quickly as possible. We could use the remaining light of day to play a game of hockey or skate around the frozen pond in the front of the house near the road or over in a distant field where the rains had left huge pools to freeze over. <br /><br />My fondest memories include skating with my older brothers and trying to be included in their ice games. I learned later that the role they had given me was less part of the game and more designed to keep me out of harms way! For that reason I often found myself tending goal a great distance away with our lovely golden lab as a playmate. The occasional skate by of one of my brothers would be enough to leave me with the impression that I was, indeed, a part of the real play. Real or not the chill on my cheeks, the fresh air in my lungs and the blissful feeling of exhaustion at the end of the afternoon, as dusk was approaching was nothing short of wonderful. Mother , with the hot chocolate ready, and the warmth in the kitchen that always waited for us to return, made us feel so good. Winter on the farm was just perfect!Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-7318476019590920832009-07-02T16:27:00.005-04:002009-07-02T16:36:34.242-04:00Father's Birthday was the 29th of June.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yiWpLyWK6xF0DIohsGQ8SPkbeSinvaPrQvDyEAqGWU4R3hF9pXeZewGCQgqQxlcwyM5EWs6nW_FE_F0gvePs8KMM1PBD6zCSuWQI97hHIN05CisfZthrkKoEy_DQFilYHOcYrtur0bE/s1600-h/Media0008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353964307459249650" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 216px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yiWpLyWK6xF0DIohsGQ8SPkbeSinvaPrQvDyEAqGWU4R3hF9pXeZewGCQgqQxlcwyM5EWs6nW_FE_F0gvePs8KMM1PBD6zCSuWQI97hHIN05CisfZthrkKoEy_DQFilYHOcYrtur0bE/s320/Media0008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpS0C39dapIN7oS5e21Ol2Y1Az9Vd6kc2bQSHwE-j1wcPQwJ1kvEtPfYl9ulFhP6_5bBmIjBZsE93vpncB40OvDWTvA4g4jBhiBLB2CpO5G0yQWf3-ZKmN1ZYJZT6JLHfB4LsYDYCuYA/s1600-h/Media0005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353964308045620674" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 162px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpS0C39dapIN7oS5e21Ol2Y1Az9Vd6kc2bQSHwE-j1wcPQwJ1kvEtPfYl9ulFhP6_5bBmIjBZsE93vpncB40OvDWTvA4g4jBhiBLB2CpO5G0yQWf3-ZKmN1ZYJZT6JLHfB4LsYDYCuYA/s320/Media0005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkkpcymEFjHaIGxwxwk5NyPjPrjLRoO4Fkg0QfUlTyzex8VF7-nj_0Ey6MtpVlQdmoRYU86KCmN_gTEn5bJLo7Y-EoR3EGD0UAeDA8Hj2iPg-7h8Toemyc258FlIQZ9upV7Uspgc-ryk/s1600-h/Media0004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353964300890162866" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 211px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkkpcymEFjHaIGxwxwk5NyPjPrjLRoO4Fkg0QfUlTyzex8VF7-nj_0Ey6MtpVlQdmoRYU86KCmN_gTEn5bJLo7Y-EoR3EGD0UAeDA8Hj2iPg-7h8Toemyc258FlIQZ9upV7Uspgc-ryk/s320/Media0004.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Father's Birthday was the 29th of June. My last post has a great picture of them both. Father will have been deceased for ten years this September (16th) and I do miss seeing him! He always could answer a question about history, particularly European history; he had a green thumb and loved plants and animals; he was always there!</div></div></div>Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-51525096590109786932009-04-28T23:30:00.004-04:002009-04-28T23:48:36.185-04:00Mother's Birthday Was The 17th of April...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXBLAa7tscVVKZevfJQfjKrlvoznsQIjMPTcAhpEprjtJhnScCSwTpweRP-3d-1DKl7nI8I1ws3dPGLNfBErA0btM08Y-R3qe-F2bXgjH10l7QqS47ZkhLbmI5BvsXRed_OdiKPsBqas/s1600-h/Motherandfathersailinglakeontario.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329955139948268594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 296px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXBLAa7tscVVKZevfJQfjKrlvoznsQIjMPTcAhpEprjtJhnScCSwTpweRP-3d-1DKl7nI8I1ws3dPGLNfBErA0btM08Y-R3qe-F2bXgjH10l7QqS47ZkhLbmI5BvsXRed_OdiKPsBqas/s400/Motherandfathersailinglakeontario.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Just a quick entry to share the fact that Mother's birthday was April 17th and she would have been 91 were she still alive today. She loved her birthday and the weather, just like this year, was always very nice on that day for as many years as I can remember. Father planted Crocus bulbs and Tulips in the garden so she would always have something pretty to look at on her birthday. </div>Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-22011998261534155522009-03-07T13:36:00.007-05:002009-03-07T14:49:35.790-05:00Goldie (and Christian's Flying Shoes etc...)Goldie was our beloved yellow <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Labrador</span> retriever and came to the farm in Christian's car after he stopped by the animal pound in Kingston. Goldie was big, boisterous and beautiful with the most amazing brown eyes you could ever imagine. She was a very curious dog, and always had her nose in or around something. She loved Christian and would follow him around the farm wagging her long tail and with a 'girlish' spring in her step.<br /><br />Christian was ten years older than I was and left the farm when he was 21 if I recall correctly ... maybe it was earlier - I know when he reads this he will email me if I am <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wrong</span> :-) ! His age is important because there was quite a difference in age between us and so when he brought Goldie home in his car I was at first excited and happy to see her but wondered what Mother and Father would think of another dog. No worries. They welcomed her into the family with open arms and so she became one of us. The only hitch was that she would sleep in Christian's room and be cared for primarily by Christian. (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hmmmm</span>...it sounds like something a parent would do.)<br /><br />Christian, in addition to his love of animals, or perhaps, more to the point, his inability to visit the dog pound without leaving with one, also loved his sleep. He was a bear when it came to sleeping; snoring loudly, and ensuring his bed was piled high with covers, often at the expense of the rest of us. Some evenings the farmhouse was cold and often you would wake in a chill only to discover that the quilt Mother had made for you had mysteriously <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">disappeared</span>. If you checked Christian's room you would see that he had not only his own quilt warming him, but those of as many unsuspecting siblings as he could rob that particular night.<br /><br />Christian did not like to be woken from his sleep, loved to sleep in and was very grouchy when you woke him for anything! So, you didn't...but then there was the matter of his roommate, Goldie. She was a sweet, sweet dog but needed to go out at night to pee and when she got out, it was never a simple matter of her getting to it and coming back in. Oh no! She had to sniff around the grounds, check on the chickens, run to the garage which was a good fifty <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">yards</span> from the house, and, generally, do a few things before she was ready to come back in. So Christian would invariably not wait for her to finish but would return to his warm bed and resume (or try to) his sleep....<br /><br />Problem was , when Goldie had finished her rounds, she wanted to come in! She longed for the comfort of her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">sanctuary</span> in Christian's room, the, to her ears only, sweet mellow sounds of his breathing and snoring and the warmth of the foot of his bed. She couldn't imagine where he was, why he had not waited for her, and she knew (somehow) which window in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">farmhouse</span> was his! Her only choice was to sit under his window and bark, and howl, and bark and bark and bark...she never stopped barking hoping he would come and save her from the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">loneliness</span> of the farmyard at 4 am. Christian's answer to the problem - throw a shoe down at her, first one then she would sniff at it and move it around a little wondering if this were some human signal that said he was coming to get her - her beloved Christian! More barking...then another shoe....more sniffing, more waiting, more silence then more barking...another shoe ... more barking ...another shoe....more barking... an endless waltz of wills between man and dog!<br /><br />Oh for goodness sakes! Finally someone let her in from outside and she was happy, all was silent again and Christian could sleep...but only Christian, since the rest of us typically had no covers on our beds and had been awakened by the calamity that was Christian and Goldie. In the morning, under Christian's window on the lawn, we could always find our shoes if they were missing from under our beds.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-41978301910020305522009-01-01T15:59:00.007-05:002009-01-10T14:06:19.042-05:00Christmas on the FarmChristmas was Mother's favorite holiday and it was particularly magical on the farm. We had two big work horses; one black, Jim, one white, Queen; and two riding horses called Tina and Tamara. A couple of weeks before Christmas Father would hitch up one of the horses to a sled so that we could go out to the woods to find the best Christmas tree. It would always seem very cold, somehow there was always snow for the sled to glide along and somehow the tree didn't take that long to find. I suspect that my Father had found the perfect tree during his many hunting trips in the fall and could take us right to it when the time came.<br /><br /><br />I recall one such time when Fred, Tony and I were with Father and I fell off the back of the sled into the deep snow - not too far from home, because Tony and I were laughing so hard at something silly. Tony and Fred tried to get Fathers attention to stop and let me catch up but the sound of the horse pulling the sled, the jingling of the sleigh bells and the rustling of the tree in the wind drowned out their cries. The more the gap widened between me and the sleigh the more we all laughed. After a short while Tony jumped off to walk with me the rest of the way home so I would not be alone. It was very funny and when we got home the hot chocolate Mother had made to warm us up and the feel of the warmth by the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wood stove</span> were very welcome indeed.<br /><br /><br />Once the tree was home, Mother, with our help of course, trimmed it with many home made decorations and a few precious glass ornaments that she had collected along the way. There were hearts made of shiny red and white paper woven into a small receptacle that would hold candies while it hung on a tree branch. And there were pink or white paper nets , cut expertly from folded tissue paper that were also filled with candies. The lights were the old bulb variety in beautiful colours of green, yellow and red but no blue. (Mother didn't like the blue ones.) They got very hot so we had to be careful not to touch them and not to leave them on too long.<br /><br /><br />It always seemed to be snowy for Christmas and the farm seemed somehow a little magical at this time of year. Mother made chocolate candies and she baked cookies and bread. She cooked roasts, hams and turkey. And there was always Christian's favourite red cabbage on Christmas eve. We had an old friend of the family visit on many Christmas eves, a bachelor who lived on Amherst Island where we had a beach lot for summer fun. His mother was a Baroness in Denmark but you wouldn't know he had such noble roots because he was a very plain, and quiet man who lived an almost hermit like <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">existence</span>. He always brought along a bottle of beer for each of Mother, Father and himself. In those days with five children and one paycheck, beer was a luxury that Mother and Father rarely enjoyed. Christmas was one of those occasions and then only because it came as a gift from a friend.<br /><br /><br />Mother always wanted us to sing before opening the Christmas presents. Usually it was the hymn Silent Night, Holy Night because it brought the true meaning of Christmas to the celebrations. None of us sang very well as I recall, but it didn't seem to matter....Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-11629492336484773692008-12-28T07:45:00.019-05:002008-12-30T12:26:41.781-05:00Nellie Has Puppies!...Many, Many Puppies...Nellie was a dog that came to be at the farm the way most of our dogs came - Christian or Fred went to the dog pound and rescued an animal! Usually there would be something about the animal that "spoke" to them, that appealed to one or more of their senses. They must have had a cold the day they picked Nellie because she was a smelly hound dog. We nicknamed her Smelly Nellie! She was as sweet as she was smelly and we all loved her! When we learned she would have puppies I, for one,was very excited...I could hardly wait for the big day and it was a certainty that I would be in the barn when it happened.<br /><br /><br />Nellie was a black and tan hunting dog who enjoyed running in the woods and through the long grass. She could go very fast and was really a true hound dog. She had the longest ears and when she ran through the grass all you could see was the flopping ears over the tops of the grasses. She had a voice that one could only compare to an opera singer's soprano; piercing, projecting and full of wonderful and varied tones. She loved the farm, not so much the farm animals but the space to roam free. Our dogs were never on a leash on the farm. The one thing that Nellie really disliked was water, not to drink, but to run through. In fact, if she came to water she would <strong><em>not</em></strong> run through it - she would stand and whine until someone helped her across. This made it difficult - no, let me correct that - <strong><em>impossible</em></strong> to bath her which only added to the smelliness of Nellie! Nellie was so smelly that when we took her to the vet, people around us would get a particular expression on their faces and move far away from her.<br /><br /><br />Nellie's puppies were close to arriving and I was sick with the measles - how awful - I was devastated. I asked my Mother if I could go to the barn to be with Nellie and she said "Absolutely not! You have a fever and you must stay in bed!" I begged and pleaded with her, but the more I begged the more she stood her ground and the further away it seemed my chances of seeing the newborns would be... Nellie had chosen a place in the barn to have her puppies, a place I knew very well and if I couldn't go there then I wouldn't get to see the newborns for a long while...Father said that the puppies could not be moved until their mother was ready to move them and there I was, stuck in bed. I was actually very sick and only felt like sleeping most of the time but my heart was breaking over the distance between me and the puppies once I heard that they had , in fact, arrived safely, all <strong><em>six</em></strong> of them.<br /><br /><br />One Saturday morning, soon after the puppies arrived my brother Fred came into my room where I was resting in bed, the grip of measles now slowly leaving my body. I was starting to feel a little better. I thought Fred was coming to bring me a drink of orange juice or ginger ale or to play a game of cards with me, but, the real reason for his visit was much, much better than any of that! He came into the room with his barn coat still on. That was strange since it was nice and warm inside - the wood stove was roaring with heat. He pushed the door closed a little so Mother's watchful eye would not take in what he was concealing. He sat down on the bed with me and motioned that I had to be quiet by putting his index finger to his lips and uttering a very quiet "shhhh". ... then he slowly and carefully pulled the littlest, furry creature I had ever laid eyes on from his jacket and said "here have a look, and you can pet her gently, but she can't stay because I have to bring her back before Nellie misses her too much." I was too excited for words...she was so precious, so tiny and so black. Her ears were tiny flaps of soft skin and her eyes were not open yet, she was so soft. She had the tiniest nose and nostrils the size of the holes in a button - she was a perfect little puppy and, oddly enough, she didn't smell bad! She was a little less than three days old.<br /><br /><br />When Fred left to take her back to the barn and her mother, I was content. He gave me the best gift ever that day. I knew that soon I could visit the puppies any time I wanted and it would be often!Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-88941264104815093172008-12-28T04:17:00.014-05:002008-12-30T12:27:16.406-05:00Mother Is Baking Bread....On the farm there were so many wonderful experiences for children; some were daring and a little dangerous; some taught humility, patience and reason; some were strenuous and tiring, and some were down right delicious. Mother was a wonderful cook and baker and worked hard every day to make healthy meals for the family; her five children and her husband, my Father.<br /><br /><br />She was particularly adept at baking homemade bread. The process was a long one and involved a pinch of this and a shake of that and there was never a cookbook in sight. I loved to "help". Sitting on a stool in the country kitchen and watching the flour and the other dry ingredients get mixed while the yeast was growing, bubbling and turning in warm milk in another bowl was a very pleasent experience indeed. It included chatting with Mother about the pets, the day ahead and just anything that popped into my head. The contents of the two bowls came together into the biggest bowl I have ever seen, then or now! It had to be big - there were many of us who wanted to eat the bread and the buns that were the result of this work. They were so good with the fresh butter and the jam that Mother also made from the fruit growing on various bushes and trees around us on the farm. All this, accompanied with fresh, rich and natural cow's milk to drink, was truly delicious.<br /><br /><br />Once the mixtures came together the batter had to be kneaded, not once - but twice with a rest period in between to allow the dough to rise. I can still remember my mothers' gentle hands, pulled into fists and unrelenting at this work. She used to say that the bread would only be good if one was not lazy anout the kneading. Mother worked this magic in one of the two kitchens on the farm - one used in winter and one used in summer. My favorite place was the summer kitchen because the two big screen doors at either end would let the summer spill into the house. Fresh air, and sounds of birds and other farm animals, flowed in as a wonderful backdrop to the chatter of Mother and I baking bread. While the dough was rising we would go outside and check the garden for vegetables or we would do a little cleaning in the house; make the beds or dust the wood that seemed to be everywhere in the old farmhouse.<br /><br /><br />The dough was ready. It had risen a second time and now it could be formed into whatever we wanted; braided bread, loaf pan bread, or large dinner rolls. The forming meant that the big kitchen table had to be dusted with flour, so that the dough would not stick to the surface - there seemed to be flour everywhere, on the table, in the pan, on Mother's apron, and her hands and on my nose somehow...I realize now how hard it must have been for her to work on the kitchen table, bent over, straining her back. In those days everything happened on the kitchen table - there were no counter tops in the farmhouse kitchen.<br /><br /><br />The row of pans, laden with the dough formed into it's intended shape and risen in place one final time, could soon be popped into the oven. This was not an oven like we have today where electricity drives the heating element. No it was a big wood stove. It was twice the size of today's stoves, where water, for tea, could boil on top; where water, for bathing or washing dishes, could heat in a large reservoir on the side; and where wood had to be fed into round, covered holes the size of dinner plates on the top of it. This wood heat was ideal for baking bread - it was not too hot and it was evenly distributed in the large square cavity, that opened on the front, that was the oven. The wood stove was not a place for children to be too near. It was hot on almost every surface. It radiated heat into the room as well. As the bread was baking, the wonderful smells and the radiating heat were very soothing indeed and made the work involved in getting to this point seem all, undeniably, worthwhile.<br /><br /><br />Anyone who approaced the farmhouse on a day where bread was baking was almost overcome by the wonderful aroma. They would come to the kitchen, sit down at the table, chat with Mother and sip on coffee or milk while they waited, patiently, for a slice of the cooling, delicious home made bread.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-65956267992338591252008-12-26T18:53:00.011-05:002008-12-30T12:28:08.166-05:00The Close Call ...It was early summer on the farm and the fruit trees were green and laden with the fragrant blooms that would soon become tasty treats. The barnyard was messy after an early morning rain and I was excited to be going to the barn with my Father. The early morning was my favourite time, before anyone else was awake. Spending time with Father in the barn, in the gardens, really anywhere was wonderful for me. I was the baby of the family and the only girl. He never said much but he always had a little smile for me and my contentedness comes from him; of that, I am sure.<br /><br /><br /><br />This morning was like many others. Bootsie, the Collie cow dog had rounded up the cows for milking and they were filing into the barn, one by one. My station was the centre aisle, in front of the cows faces as they stood in their stanchions. That is where they put their heads between two wooden posts and one moved over towards the other to latch around their necks so they would be tied as they were milked. Father latched them starting from the back of the barn to the doorway. But, in the third spot from the door he came to a very old cow that had been in his herd for the longest time and he scratched her head and said "not you bossy! you can stand free because you know your job is not to move and to eat your hay in front of you". Some of the younger cows needed calming down and needed the security of the latched stanchion. All was as it should be - I was playing in the center aisle, telling my stories to the big black and white faces that mooed, and stared and chewed. It was heaven.<br /><br /><br /><br />Once the cows were secure, Father was just about to begin the milking process when a huge commotion on his side of the barn startled me - he was shouting , the younger cows were swaying and dancing from side to side in fear. This was not at all what it was usually like - usually milking time was calm and peaceful, the cats mewed for milk, the cows munched on their hay and I played where it was safe for me to be. I ran over to peer through the cows and was horrified to see that the big bull had come into the barn, nostrils flaring, pushing and screaming at the tied cows. He had been locked in another paddock, away from the cows and the milking. He had broken free. He was massive - his head was as big as my Father's chest, and my Father was a very big man in his younger day. He had huge, sharp horns and a big shiny ring in his nose. He stomped and snorted and made the most horrifying sounds. I was scared.<br /><br /><br /><br />Father had hold of his horns, the cows were stomping and swaying in their stancions - all except old Bossy. She was eating her hay and standing very still watching the calamity as it unfolded. All of a sudden Father lost his grip on the bull's horns and his balance and the bull backed up to take a run at him with horns lowered, aimed at his midsection. I was screaming with fear. No one could hear us. Just as the bull was about to plunge a horn into my Father , as he was clambering for a better position and foothold, Bossy backed out of her stall and with her teeth bared, grabbed the bull by the tail, bit down hard and pulled backwards, slowly taking one... two... then three steps back. The bull was so surprised that, as he turned to see who was inflicting such pain on him, Father was able to grab hold of the ring in his nose, give it a twist and get the huge, angry beast under control.<br /><br /><br /><br />As Father led the bull to a stall in the other barn, I watched Bossy put herself back in her place for milking and continue her eating. She waited patiently for her turn to be milked. I waited for Fathers safe return to us. She was a favourite cow of Fathers always, before and after she saved his life that chilly morning.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1239153383786275756.post-24057731570963924492008-12-24T09:29:00.003-05:002008-12-30T12:28:57.576-05:00The Pigs in the Pen and Peter's PantsWhen I was a little girl I lived on a farm with many animals, barns and sheds and beautiful forests. I lived there with four older brothers and my mother and father. One beautiful, sunny day Peter, Christian and I were walking through the barnyard and we stopped at the Pigpen. Father had just "slopped" the pigs - that is giving them their breakfast of sweet feed, potato peelings, carrot peelings and something very watery that I have no idea what it was. We decided it would be fun to stop and sit on the fence and watch the pigs have their breakfast. In the pigpen was a mother pig - a sow - and her 8 little piglets and the sow's sister. We were never allowed to name the pigs but the mother looked like a Hazel and her sister, a Bertha...<br /><br /><br /><br />Father had moved on to the main barn to milk the cows and he was well out of earshot from us. We were laughing at the little piglets scurrying and pushing to get at the trough and the slop...they were snorting and grunting and generally making lots of noise... We laughed so hard that Peter slipped off the fence and into the Pigpen! One thing to be aware of is that when sows are feeding it is no time to be near them because they can mistake you for dinner! In a split second Hazel had grabbed Peter's pantleg with her snout and was pulling ! We were scared and I was screaming "Get out of there!" Peter was losing his balance and just when he was about to fall down and be part of a pigs breakfast Christian swooped in, one hand on the fence, and grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up! However, Hazel was not letting go of Peter's pantleg and the more Christian pulled , the more she held fast. Christian was very stubborn and he gave a big yank that left he and Peter tumbling to the other side of the Pigpen fence on safe ground. Hazel was upset and when I looked back at Peter and Christian lying in safety on the ground I saw something very funny! Peter had lost his pants to the Pigpen and Hazel!<br /><br /><br /><br />We were relieved! Whew! Because I was the youngest and should not have been so near the Pigpen Christian said "Peter, we have to tell Mother that you threw your pants in to Hazel and Bertha otherwise she will be upset that Christina was with us for such a calamity!" And that is how Peter lost his pants to the Pigpen.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06611700318209333721noreply@blogger.com0