Blood, Sweat and Tears
When the old man purchased the farm in Dearborn, I thought to myself, “Okay, this’ll be fun. It’ll be a lot of work for me ‘cause I know how the old man is, but since he likes to raise a little hell and I was his sidekick, ie: laborer, it’s fairly likely I could have a pretty good time.”
Knowing very little about agriculture and always on the hunt to learn, he loved new projects and jumped into things with both feet first; trial and error was his motto.
The farmer down the road had two brothers; together they owned and sharecropped a fairly sizable chunk of the available tillable acres. They were pleasant, not very talkative, hard workers though and they liked their Skoal.
They all used International 766 tractors with turbos. Beautiful machines, powerful, black smoke shooting from the chrome exhaust when they pulled the throttle back. It was their equipment that handled the big chores: the wheat, the beans and the corn.
Our farm came with Ford machinery, not near as sexy back then as the IHs. The old man wouldn’t let me use the 9000 with its enclosed cab, FM radio, AC and thick padded seat; instead I got the 4000 with the AM radio on the fender. I was responsible for the 30 acre patch of alfalfa: mowing, raking, baling and bucking the bales into the incredibly hot – never a whisper of a breeze barn.
There were three families up the road spread out about a mile each. They didn’t burden themselves too much with mingling among the general society as a whole, but they would put in an honest day’s work for an honest dollar. They were polite and friendly and enjoyed teaching us their ways. The old man and I were very attentive.
They taught us how to castrate the young calves and piglets, but never – under any circumstances should that be done two days prior to or two days after a full moon; too easy for ‘em to bleed out and die we were told.
The old man wanted to learn how to slaughter and butcher. For Charlie, the head honcho and spokesman for the “three families,” this was kind of comical. This is something they did regularly for survival, it wasn’t a passing fancy. But of course he obliged and a few days later we’re preparing for the lesson; a sow whose better days were behind her is chosen.
A large iron vat of water that’s used for scalding the hair is brought to temperature; propane would have worked but the old man and Charley wanted wood for tradition’s sake. The water is ready when you can’t hold your three fingers in the boil for more than four seconds.
I’ll skip all the other details before, during and after, but long story short – we learned another skill and that might be important to know how to do someday.
Several muskrats were becoming a problem in the northwest pond. Charley said that too many of the critters creating too many burrows and holes and such could weaken the dam and cause it to collapse.
A hose was attached to the tailpipe of the beater truck. Charley tweaked the engine a little so it smoked a lot, and the hose was then jammed into a hole, dirt piled around it. “When the varmints come out for fresh air and swim across the water, ya plink ‘em with the .22,” he told us. It was a necessary evil.
I was just about ready to turn 16 and Charley’s 19-year-old boy Chucky was getting married and needed some cash. He decided to sell his 1972 3-speed Duster, souped up with duel carbs, wide tires and a jacked up rear end. It was immaculate as was his bride-to-be.
The price was agreed upon and the old man began writing the check. Just about that time, Chucky said, “Yep, you’re gonna love this baby. It’ll go faster than any car in the county.”
The old man looked at Chucky for a second and then back at me. Putting the checkbook into his front pocket he said, “Sorry boys, the deal is off.”
Thanks a lot, Chucky. Thanks a lot.
