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Post by bretf on Nov 13, 2015 19:39:30 GMT -6
My wife, while not a fan of the Post Apocalypse fiction I’ve been trying to write, wants me to try writing something lighter, and possibly humorous. Somehow following our discussion, I came up with this idea. It will be just short little tales, most based on my life. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to comment. I hope it might trigger memories from others that you will share here. Things that helped mold us into the people that visit self-sufficiency, homesteader, prep and survival sites. I’m sure that we all have our own stories about this.
I’m still working on “The Ashen Horse”, and it will be the focus of my writing efforts, but somedays, I need to get away from that world for a while to recharge my batteries. So here are the first couple of installments that I’ve been sitting on.
Bret
Reminiscences of a Farm Kid Reminiscences of a farm kid – well, kind of. I grew up in a semi-rural area with livestock, tractors, open spaces; but we never lived on a farm per se. The home where I grew up was about an acre and a half, but that never stopped Dad. He got a lot out of that place, as well as renting pastures, and doing custom hay work for many years.
We always grew a substantial garden, had a bunch of laying hens, and a milk cow. Dad had other cattle that were his savings account; one of which would make a deposit each fall into the freezer. Most years Mom and Dad purchased from fifty to one hundred Cornish cross chicks that we raised and butchered. Remember the saying, “Chicken Every Sunday”? That was our Sunday dinner for many years, and I still find home fried chicken hard to beat.
Dad had other livestock over the years; sheep, pigs, goats. But the Jersey cow was the constant, and most important of them all to our way of life.
Years later, at the culmination of a party; party being defined in that period of time as a group of young people getting together and drinking enough alcoholic beverages to get stupid. We had to get stupid, since at that age we knew everything; there was only one way to go. Anyway, a friend of mine asked if I wanted to take some of the left over beer home. It’s true; I’m not making this up. We really did have beer left over. Clearly, we were rank amateurs at partying at that time. As we progressed in our education, we managed to avoid repeating that particular dilemma. Even the times it would have been much more prudent to save some for a later day. But oh well, we bounced back quickly back then. So, after that one party, my friend asked if I wanted to take some of the leftover beer home. I told him, “No, I can’t. We don’t have any room in our refrigerator.” He was puzzled at my response, and asked, “Really, what’s in your fridge?” In all seriousness, I told him, “Milk.” You see, he was a city boy that had recently moved to the area. He looked me over, trying to find the joke, and then busted out laughing, and said, “Welcome to Idaho!”
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Post by bretf on Nov 13, 2015 19:40:46 GMT -6
How Not to Start a Tractor, and a Salute to Dad
My dad took care of a lot of hayfields for a lot of years. There were a few years that he supported the family by doing custom haying in the local area. When he was back to work full time, my brother and I took on a lot of the fields. I thought it was great summer work during junior high and high school; it left my brother and me with lots of time for fishing and backpacking. We just had to make sure we got the work taken care of when it was there.
While the bigger custom hay guys ran swathers and larger balers, Dad’s machinery was small so we could get into the smaller patches and narrow entries. Dad had an Allis Chalmers WD that he used to handle a sickle mower and the baler. Windrowing was done with a Ford 8N and side delivery rake. I left a lot of paint from the rake on a number of corner posts; some of those entries were quite narrow.
What some people call progress happened in our area; more and more fields grew houses instead of hay and the places we took care of dwindled. Eventually, Dad was only doing a few fields on shares; taking half the hay for putting it up. As the owners died off, of course “progress happened”. Their offspring didn’t want to mess with a field of hay.
By that time, Dad had sold off most of his cows, but had a few mules he liked to mess with. He never liked to buy hay, but loved working the fields so it was a great arrangement for him. The last place we did, was owned by a woman that was 96 years old when she passed on. Her daughter had tried to get her to sell and move into a home; she countered that taking care of the place was the only think keeping her alive. I look the other way when I pass her place now; a new subdivision is coming out of it.
Dad still has one mule, but can’t get on the AC any longer. My brother - that recently retired - mows, rakes and bales, two small patches in our neighborhood. They produce just enough for the old mule to get through the winter.
All of Dad’s equipment was well used before he ever got it, so it seemed there was always something in need of repair. A chain around the frame of the AC held the mower mount in place for years. The place where it mounted to the frame, had broken and been welded too many times (we were pretty good at making hay but needed a lot of improvement with the welder) so we had to add extra support. The chain did the trick.
There are skeletons of old mowing machines in the back of Dads’ place; he would pick them up at farm auctions and put the best pieces together to make them last as long as possible. The old baler is still there, along with the rake I managed to break the tongue off of.
One of the more memorable things I saw him do was “carburetor work” on the AC. When it started coughing and spitting, he would take the hammer out of the tool box and beat on the side of the carburetor, freeing up whatever junk the sediment bowl let pass through.
Dead batteries seemed to be the norm. During haying season, along with the tool box, we always kept a pair of jumper cables and a chain in his pickup, and after I was on my own but still helped with the hay, in mine also. I’ve never had an American Express card; jumpers and chains were what we didn’t leave home without.
One particular summer, the Ford just didn’t want to start. It refused to start with jumpers, but with a pull start, it fired right up. Dad said he’d figure it out in the fall. In the meantime, we would usually go to the fields together, so one of us in the pickup and the other on the tractor, we could pull start it.
One day, no one was around to help, so Dad did what he always did; he figured out a way to get it done. The field was pretty long, so he hooked the chain from the pickup to the tractor, got back in the pickup and had it idling across the field in second gear. He jumped out of the pickup, and got onto the moving tractor. Mind you he was around sixty at the time, but he had work to do and was set to do it.
Once on the tractor, he put it in fourth gear, let out the clutch and it started right up. Then he took it out of gear and stood on both brakes, stopped the pickup killing its engine. Leaving the tractor idling in neutral, he moved the pickup out of the way, and then he raked the field.
When he told me about it later, I said he was nuts. So of course he had to take me out and show me how it was done. While I admired his thinking of a way to get the job done, I was also terrified of him tripping, or missing his step. So much could have gone wrong, but, Dad never let problems stand in the way of doing a job that needed done.
Well, about a week later, he needed me to rake a field for him. The tractor still wouldn’t start and I was on my own. I figured if Dad could start the tractor that way, well I could too.
Uh Huh!
I missed one not-so-minor detail when I did it the first time. I didn’t have the tractor in neutral. I hooked the chain to it and started towing it across the field. Like always, it fired right up, and then I realized my mistake. While I expressed my displeasure at myself in words I won’t use on this site, the tractor slammed into the back of the pickup. I hit the brakes, and forced the tractor’s engine to die. I could have cried when I saw the rear bumper on that S-10. But I didn’t, I don’t think, it’s been too many years ago. I had a field to rake. I put the tractor in neutral, and started it the right way that time.
Dad is slowed now, due to the ravages of time, and can’t do near what he used to do. But still, I marvel at what he could do when he put his mind to it. I thank him for teaching me to think through things, and I know I’ll never be the man he was and is.
Bret
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Post by bretf on Apr 6, 2021 10:02:44 GMT -6
Tales From Home: Dangerous Livestock
When I was growing up, cows and chickens were a constant at our home. At one time or another, we also had livestock of nearly every standard variety available. Thank Goodness this didn’t include any huge birds, bison, and I don’t know what else. The “exotics”.
I got my bruises, some my fault, some due to slow reflexes. More often than not, they came from milking the cow when I was lost in my head and wasn’t ready when she kicked. Some were from trying to ride the calves. Others just from general work around the animals.
From day one, it was obvious I had to watch out for the shorthorn bull. Dad warned me to keep an eye out for him any time I was in the pasture and barnyard. At one point, we put a ring in the bull’s nose, (I’m reminded of him often when I see young people who do that to themselves). We hung a three-foot piece of chain from the ring. That length could be off a bit, you know, fifty years or so have passed. It took experimentation to get the chain just right. The bull figured out how to flip a slightly longer chain over his neck. And chain was an expenditure, so Dad didn’t want to use any more than was strictly necessary. Anyway, the final touch to the project was a single strand of electric wire around the pasture.
I’m afraid in the modern world, I might have to get counseling for admitting to the glee I felt when we sat back and watched the bull touch the hot-wire with the chain. Counseling or not, after that day, I could do the chores without being prepared for the thirty-yard dash at any instant. However, I checked the fence for shorts every couple of days to be certain. Dad and technology had made it safe.
Another animal I had to watch out for was a buck sheep. He never liked me and I never liked him. Being primarily into cows (they were Dad’s bank account most of the time), we’d built the hay manger for them. That *#@% buck would come through the slats in the manger when I was feeding. One day, he pinned me against the back of the hay yard, his unyielding head against my thigh, trying to drive me through the planks. I was small but tough, but I couldn’t get away from him. It took Dad with the pitchfork to free me. The buck limped away with blood streaming from four puncture wounds. Thank God Dad got out of the sheep business after that year.
It seems hard to believe but we had other evil creatures that inflicted more pain and had me warier than the bull or the buck: geese. They seemed to delight in attacking me when I did the chores. I can’t imagine how many eggs broke in the bucket when I was hot-footing it to escape. I started carrying an ax handle when I did the chores. When the hissing fiends came at me, I’d do my best Harmon Killebrew imitation. (Harmon grew up in a small town an hour from home, and throughout my youth held the number five spot in home runs in MLB). I’d swing for all I was worth, right at the goose’s head. I don’t know why, but I never killed one no matter how hard I made contact. They got smart and would duck and weave so I had to adjust my swing. Often, the confrontation ended in a stalemate, each side grudgingly giving ground. Damn birds.
One morning, they proved just how mean and dangerous they were.
Dad always milked the cow in the morning, and I usually milked in the evening. One morning, Mom woke me and said I needed to milk. I know she said more, but I can’t remember what it was. I dressed and went to the kitchen. Dad was at the table in obvious pain. As I got my coat, the milk bucket, and wash water, he warned me, “Watch out for that damn goose.”
Dad had gone out as usual and the goose was in the entryway to the barn. She had a nest somewhere there and was intent on guarding it. Neck extended, wings outstretched, she hissed at him, warning him to back off.
So, he tried to kick her. Big mistake.
She flapped her wing down at the offending foot, catching it solidly on the top where all the small bones are. Dad saw stars and certainly uttered words I can’t put in this story. He grabbed the planks lining the entryway to keep from going down. Dad, usually able to make the right decision, made a wrong one then, his second big mistake of the morning.
Barely able to stand, he tried to kick the goose with his other foot. It was as ineffective as the first attempt and had the same end result. The goose whacked him on the top of his second foot. Somehow, while he clung to the planks, he was able to grab the goose by the bill – she must’ve realized he was hurt and moved in to deliver the decisive blow. He heaved her up over the planks into the hay yard. Then, unable to walk, he crawled to the house.
No bones were broken but Dad was on crutches for several days.
It still seems bizarre, that with all the animals we had, including various bulls over the years, it was a bunch of birds that were the worst.
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Post by admin on Apr 6, 2021 16:13:38 GMT -6
There's only 1 farm animal I absolutely hate - Geese. I feel (and have felt) your dads pain. One year we had a goose that liked to chase the calves and nip them in their legs. I was watching one day when one of the calves got nipped and kicked his rear legs out at the source of his pain and connected. The goose went down and I thought that was the last of him, about a minute later he stood up, shook it off and stopped bothering the calves.
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Post by texican on Apr 6, 2021 19:22:18 GMT -6
Country boys being country boys, late one Halloween night, the boys decided that the farmer that loaned all of his equipment and plows out to other farmers did not have them was a great guy, but caused the boys more work than you can imagine. The worse was the monster turning plow. So it was decided to pull and tie off the turning plow up into the old oak on his property which was done. Nothing was heard about this and as time flowed by, spring rolled around again and it was plowing time.
One of the boys was sent by his dad to borrow the turning plow and off he went. The old farmer took him out to the old oak and pointed up into the tree and said there it is from last Halloween. Watched you boys and got such a good laugh at yall struggling to get that plow up into the old oak. Go get the rest of the boys together and get it down and you can borrow it or do I need to call yalls dads to come help?
The boys got called and told to show up to get the plow down or the old farmer would call our dads. Didn't take long for the boys to show up.
The boys struggled nearly as hard getting the turning plow down as putting it up. The old farmer sat back and watched us strain and work to get the plow down and laughed all during this time. Once the boys were finished, the old farmer said, You boys do know that there is a hoist in the barn that you could have hooked up to the plow and just lowered the plow to the ground. He was laughing all of the time. The old farmer said, Watching you boys, have made an old man feel young again.
It was a hot spring day. The old farmer's wife did bring out iced tea and just baked cobbler for the group, so sometimes even bad deeds or is it bad deeds undone are rewarded. It took that long to get the monster turning plow down for the old farmer's wife to make and bake a gobbler.
Texican....
Moral: Be careful of what you do for it just might bite you in the butt.
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Post by arkansascob on Apr 8, 2021 9:39:29 GMT -6
Loved the stories bret.
around 25 years ago wife and I had ducks and geese. One day she wanted an African goose because she thought they was pretty and they was supposed to be the most docile of the geese breeds. After a couple years you couldnt even go out back if that darn goose was out there. Turned out to be the meanest nastiest animal we ever owned.
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Post by bluefox2 on Apr 9, 2021 18:13:08 GMT -6
These stories (especially about Dad and the farm stuff) make me smile and bring back old, good memories.
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Post by bretf on Apr 13, 2021 16:52:00 GMT -6
A few years ago, I stopped in at the library and saw this notice:
Read Me Treasure Valley Event
For the month of February, the library will accept submissions of original fiction, memoirs, reflections, poetry, photography, artwork (or any other medium) to be included in a book compilation expressing what the Boise River means to you. All entries will be published for use by river advocacy groups to educate others about how important the Boise River is to our community. Prizes awarded for the best submissions! Involve your kids, too!
Then, join us on Feb. 22nd to meet people from a few local organizations, including the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality, the Boise River Enhancement Network, and Idaho Rivers United and learn the easy things you can do today to preserve the Boise River!
So I went home and did my chores. By the time I was finished, I had a number of notes floating around in my head, so I sat down and wrote them down. I worked on it off and on for a few days, and this is what I came up with.
Memories: A Boy and the Boise River
Bret Friend
The Boise River is prominent in many memories from my boyhood. It was a major playground and place of exploration for me, and I roamed up and down the river and the adjacent area every chance I got. Most of the memories from that time are good; however, a few of them aren’t. But I cherish them all, even the ones that caused discomfort or pain at the time. The river was enchanting, and its magic drew me in time after time.
I grew up between Boise and Eagle when the area was still rural. When I was a kid, wide-eyed and curious, my dad rented a large piece of land right along the river where he pastured a number of cattle. It was paradise for a kid like me that loved the outdoors, the perfect place for me to access the river and the cottonwood filled floodplain.
As the water made its way through the area I roamed, it brought new adventures with it. Each of the four seasons along the river offered something different, something new and exciting. And each new season was my favorite, until it gave way to the next season and then that was my favorite time, at least until the next season rolled along. It really didn’t matter, anytime at the river was a good time.
Spring usually brought high water flows, with the water leaving its banks and flooding the low lying areas adjacent to the river. It was common to see fields underwater. One spot in particular that seemed to flood every year without fail was Dr. Lange’s veterinary clinic on Eagle Road at the South Channel. It was interesting to drive up to his facility, and wade through water part way up our rubber boots to get into the clinic.
Dad’s pasture, where I spent so much time, was high enough that only one small portion right along the river would be under water. But not always. One notable spring, the scouring action of the high water ate away the bank and exposed the roots of a large tree. With its support weakened, the tree toppled across the river, creating a diversion dam that directed the high water right into our rented pastureland. Our fields, as well as the surrounding fields, were flooded.
The man who had the home near the entrance to Dad’s pasture had a brilliant idea for alleviating the flood water. A dirt lane led from State Street to his driveway and our pasture. A drain ditch crossed the lane right in front of our gate, and the culvert under the lane was partially obstructed, preventing the flood water from flowing through fast enough to suit the neighbor. It could carry a lot more water if that obstruction was cleared out, he reasoned. Wanting to be rid of the water surrounding his house, our neighbor devised a plan to float a stick of dynamite into the culvert and blow the obstruction out. It was such a simple plan, how could anything possibly go wrong. Well, of course it did go wrong. Instead of clearing the obstruction, the blast collapsed the culvert. The flow through the culvert went from slow to a mere trickle, and the water level rose higher. But eventually, the high spring water receded as it always did, although the repair work required a backhoe and a replacement culvert.
Each year when the water receded, it was always fun to search the area where the water had been to see what had washed down the river and been deposited or hung up in the brush. There were always interesting things to find, including a whole picnic table on one occasion. Pools left in the flood plain often contained fish that were stranded, unable to make it back to the current.
Once the water dropped, there was access to the patches of asparagus that grew along the river. That was always one of my favorite times along the river, to brave the patches of wild roses that grew thick, and come away with a delicious vegetable addition to our supper.
Summer along the river was the time to enjoy the water itself. There was a deep pool in the river channel at one point beside the pasture. Dad extended a large plank out over the pool, and weighted the end down. It made a great diving board to launch myself into the water. If I was at the pasture changing irrigation water or just goofing off, I’d be drawn to that pool in the river. I’d take my shoes and shirt off and run and jump off the end of the plank to cool off. It didn’t matter if I was wearing cut-offs or pants, I was going in. That plank and the pool of invigorating water, such a contrast to the hot summer air, pulled me in like a magnet.
A few times each summer, Dad would drop us off and we’d tube down the river, and he’d pick us up at the Eagle bridge. Long before Eagle Road was widened, it was a narrow truss bridge with a deep pool of water below it. It was a popular place for kids to gather and swim and play in the water. The brave kids, or foolhardy ones depending on personal opinion, would jump and dive off the bridge’s steel girders. Not me; I’d only jump from the cement support piling, which was plenty high enough for my taste.
The water always felt so refreshing on a hot summer day. Now, decades later, the water feels cold, dang cold. It’s hard to believe I ever spent so much time in the frigid river water. Wading in that freezing water is the extent of what I do now.
We fished in the river some back then, but not very much. There was always so much other stuff to do, swimming, floating, rolling rocks over in search of crawdads. Fishing required more patience than I had then.
Fall along the river brought duck and pheasant hunting, and that became my new favorite time of the year. Hunting extended from fall, deep into the winter. Though occasionally we set out duck decoys and stayed in one place waiting for the ducks to come to us, most of the time I’d walk along the river looking for birds, and then try to sneak up on them. There were trails going through the cottonwood trees and wild rose thickets to the places most likely to have ducks. I went as stealthily as possible along those trails, watching ahead for birds, with my other senses fully attuned to the area. With fall, the leaves dropped from the trees and we often had rain. From the treks on those narrow paths, so aware, the smell of rain on the cottonwood leaves is imprinted in my memories.
With the end of irrigation season, the river flow was reduced. There were several places I could wade across the river wearing irrigator boots and hunt the sloughs and ponds on Eagle Island. It wasn’t always fun. There was a time or two that I slipped and fell while crossing, getting thoroughly soaked and cutting the day’s hunt short. Other times, I picked a crossing too deep for my boots and ended up filling them with the cold water. I would tip them up and drain them, but the damage was done, and I had to slosh around in wet socks. My activities came with a fair share of slips, bruises, scrapes and cuts, even a mishap with Dad’s pickup.
There was one unfortunate, but educational event, I can’t forget. I was at the river duck hunting in the wee hours of the morning and needed to answer nature’s call. It was later that I discovered I’d gone into a patch of poison ivy to take care of my business. The unfortunate incident led to itching, rashes and . . . discomfort I guess I’ll call it, in places I’d prefer to never experience any of that ever again. Up until that morning, I was always on the lookout for wild rose and getting scraped. Afterwards, there was another hazard, a worse hazard, to steer clear of.
The most prominent of those less than pleasant memories is from December 1972. It was a Saturday and no school, so of course we went to the river and do some hunting. It didn’t matter to me or my brothers that the temperature was negative 23 that morning, a record breaking cold for Boise. On that particular day, we decided to set up the duck decoys and let the birds come to us. However, the ducks were smarter than we were that morning. Wherever they were, they stayed there, and we didn’t see a single duck flying. So after sitting long enough, the bitter cold working through our insulated coveralls and heavy coats, we decided to pack up and head home. Although we had a pair of waders with us so we could go out into the water and pick up the decoys, one of my brothers was impatient, and ready to get somewhere warm. Slowly, he worked his way out on the ice that rimmed the water and extended his shotgun barrel to hook the string holding a decoy in place. With a loud crack, the ice broke and he plunged into the freezing water. After helping him out of the water and into the pickup with the heater going full blast, my other brother and I hustled to get the rest of the decoys out of the water and thrown in the back of the pickup. We had to get him home in front of the fire in dry clothes.
It was a sad day when the rented pasture was sold, and a tall chain link fence put up around it, cutting off my access to the river. The new owners planned to dig the gravel out of the ground. I believe it has been termed “develop the resources”, and I would argue long and hard that development doesn’t mean improvement. The place where I ran wild and free now required stealth and sneaking to enter. Trees were knocked down and the ground dug up. It was never the same to me again. Each time I went there, I came away saddened to see what had been done. My trips to the river became fewer and fewer, until I no longer went there at all.
Today, this special place of my youth is the site of a large gravel pond, and much of the remaining ground is barren where nothing grows, not even wild rose thickets or poison ivy. It bears no resemblance to the lush pastures where Dad’s cattle grazed.
A section of the Greenbelt passes through that area. On occasion I ride my bike along that section, where I spent so much time roaming as a youth. I slow down and look at the areas where we used to find and harvest bagfuls of asparagus, sometimes getting off my bike and poking around, but never finding any.
I look in the areas where I walked the paths and hunted, the few paths that remain anyway. I haven’t seen a pheasant along there in many years, but there are plenty of ducks, more in fact than when I hunted for them there. Not that they can be hunted there now, with all the development and people using the Greenbelt. But that’s alright, I enjoy seeing them.
I look in the places where I swam, but the river channel has changed over the years. My swimming hole is long gone. I look at the plants growing beside the bike path and cringe when I see the shiny leaves of poison ivy.
To this day, the smell of rain on fallen cottonwood leaves takes me back to those fall days along the river. When I smell that distinct odor, and when I ride my bike along that once familiar place, I picture it how it was so long ago, and I’m filled with the memories of that time. The memories of a boy and the Boise River.
As an aside, tonight, my Venture Crew is picking up garbage along the stretch of the river from my memories. I hope we don’t find any. But …
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Post by 9idrr on Apr 13, 2021 20:01:51 GMT -6
Excellent piece, Bret. Thanks for sharin' the memories.
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Post by arkansascob on Apr 14, 2021 10:56:19 GMT -6
Thanks bret. Reading this latest input sent me on my own journey down memory lane. Progress and improvement sure changes things and not always for the good.
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Post by bretf on Apr 21, 2021 9:36:52 GMT -6
Dad’s Stoves and Water Heater
One morning, Dad heard a knock on the front door. He answered, and the uniformed man said he was from the natural gas company and was there to change out his meter. It appeared to the company that the meter no longer worked.
Dad asked him how they came to that determination. The man said it was based on consumption. As cold weather came on and everyone’s gas usage was increasing, his was an anomaly, dropping off to minimal amounts used. It could only be a non-functioning meter.
Dad smiled and invited the man into the house. “Come in and let me show you around.”
Dad led him first to the living room. The house has a large fireplace which Dad had remodeled. He made a huge woodstove that we slid into the opening, and then made sheet metal fillers to enclose the rest of the opening. The fillers have louvers built into them. At one side, he encased a blower to shoot air into the fireplace cavity and send heated air back into the living room.
Next, Dad led the gas man to the kitchen and showed him the wood kitchen range. Then he explained how he only used wood for heating. Yes, he did have a furnace but it hadn’t run in over fifteen years.
“What about your water heater,” the gas man asked.
Again, Dad smiled. “See that tank standing beside the stove? Put your hand on it.”
The man did, pulling his hand off quickly. Dad took a lid off the stove and pointed out the water jacket. Then he explained how the cold water flowed into the water jacket in the firebox, got heated, then flowed into the holding tank. It went from there to the “normal” hot water heater. Dad explained how depending upon how much he burned the fire in the kitchen, which was most of the time from late fall until late spring, about the only gas used was for the pilot light on the hot water heater.
The gas man was amazed. But being a good company man, he had to make sure the meter worked.
They made the furnace accessible and the man lit the pilot light. Then he went out to the meter to monitor it while Dad cranked up the thermostat. Low and behold, the meter started clicking off the gas usage just like it was supposed to as the furnace ran.
The man told Dad he couldn’t wait to get back and tell everyone at the company all about Dad’s set up.
I couldn’t help but tell a couple of friends at work about it.
A week or so later, one of the friends told me a good follow-up story to this. He was sitting in the local watering hole having a beer and told his friend this story. The man cocked his head and said, “That sounds like Clay Friend.”
Yep, it sure was. That’s Dad.
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Post by 9idrr on Apr 21, 2021 19:15:43 GMT -6
Kinda stories I love to hear. Thanks.
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Post by arkansascob on Apr 22, 2021 10:42:02 GMT -6
Thats a good one bret. Thanks
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Post by bretf on Apr 24, 2021 15:12:16 GMT -6
April 24, 2021
I invite you all to join me and raise a glass in toast to celebrate the life of Al Murphy, November 15, 1936 - April 15, 2021 (age 84). If Murph was pouring, we’d all be having Black Velvet.
Al was a United States Air Force veteran, a mentor, and a friend.
I met Murph in 1980. I was a college kid on summer break and I took a job in a sign shop. Murph was a salesman there, a former owner of the shop. When it was time to go back to school, I found I liked creating things better than sitting in a classroom, headed for an unknown future. So I stayed on.
Murph was different than the other salesmen. When we got busy and had a hard time meeting schedules, he put his coveralls on and joined us, doing all he could to get the job out on time.
Years passed. I saw a lot of our country, delivering and installing signs wherever Albertsons did business. I became a half-decent sheet metal worker, then became a journeyman neon tube bender. I spent time as the production manager. Along the way, our company changed focus. Murph left. A year or so later, I saw the writing on the wall. I had to get out too. I called the owner of the shop where Murph went and asked for a meeting. I learned later, Murph told him to do whatever it took to land me. That was 1997 and I still don’t know whether to thank or curse him. I’m still with that job, although with changing duties over time. I guess I’m a sign-lifer partially because of his influence.
I could relate so well with Murph. Besides work, we both loved to fish. Root for the BSU Broncos. We spent the summer in the hayfields or cutting firewood. We may have even drank a bit of whiskey and beer together.
He retired several years ago but still stopped in to visit. The last years were hard, as Alzheimer’s stole the vibrant man we knew.
It’s been two years since I saw him, but I didn’t recognize the body in the coffin. The disease had stolen more than his mind.
I left the funeral home bawling like a baby.
Here’s to you, Murph. Thanks for helping this kid, still with straw in his hair, out. I love you, man!
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Post by 9idrr on Apr 24, 2021 18:39:40 GMT -6
My next one will be in his honor. He's a lucky guy to've had a friend like you, sir.
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Post by texican on Apr 25, 2021 13:50:05 GMT -6
bret,
It is tough to loose a life long friend. For those of us that live a long life, this will be common and sad.
Texican....
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Post by arkansascob on Apr 26, 2021 9:17:51 GMT -6
raising a glass in toast to Al Murphy. Cheers !!
Remember all the good times bret just like you are doing.
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Post by solo on Apr 26, 2021 9:36:00 GMT -6
Here's to Mr. Murphy and to all the solid mentors in our lives! RIP!
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Post by texican on Apr 26, 2021 13:11:01 GMT -6
Skunks and Rural Living.
When my sis and I were younguns, we lived on a farm ranch with our grandparents. We returned one Sunday from church and I heard the rat dogs in the chicken coop raising hell. I went to investigate. Shorty and Peggy had a skunk corned in the chicken coop. I grabbed a stick and swatted the skunk which proceeded to spray me and the rat dogs killed the skunk. My clothes were buried. I took baths outdoors in the galvanized tub with soap and water and tomato juice until the stink was not bad.
Went with the rat dogs down to the hay barn at the bottom of the hill behind the big horse and cow barn. The rat dogs treed on a hole in the hay about head high to me. I sicked the rat dogs and Peggy dove into the hole in the hay and came backing out and dropped a skunk on top of me. Sprayed again and the rat dogs killed the skunk. Clothes got buried again and I got to use tub again.
Don't like skunks.
Texican....
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Post by texican on Apr 26, 2021 13:41:15 GMT -6
Goats and Rural Living.
On our grandmother's and grandfather's farm/ranch, my sis had a nanny and I had a billy goat I called Billy. I could get the Billy to ram the bodark posts in the main corral and bits of the bodark post and horn would fly off. He would do this generally twice and when I told him to do it again, he would look at me with that look that said was I stupid twice was enough.
One day my father was walking across the corral and I told Billy to butt him and he did. Father face planted in the corral dirt and Billy was wise enough to run off. Father would have killed him, if he could have caught him. I turned and ran off laughing. Grandad was also laughing.
The goats would climb the stairs up into the hay loft and try to jump out of the hay loft on Corky, granddad's quarter horse. Only took one try and Corky would walk to the door and look up to see if the goats were there and would go out the rear door if they were.
When my sis was little, she was out in the corral and our grandmother called out to her to see where she was. Sis raised up under Corky and told grandmother "Here I am." Corky was very aware where we were whenever we were around her.
One day, I was out with Billy and the rat dogs which were my shadows were with me. Billy would not follow my orders and sicked the rat dogs on Billy. Now if you sicked the rat dogs on anything, they would attack. I let out a scream when I couldn't get the rat dogs off Billy for one had Billy by the nose and the other had Billy by the throat. Granddad said that grandmother heard the scream in the house, she hit the screen door and once on the porch then on the ground at a dead run. The porch was about 4 feet above the ground. Grandmother stood about 5 foot. She came out and grabbed me and asked me if I was alright and stated that I was and the rat dogs were killing Billy. We went thru this several times and grandmother got the rat dogs off Billy and told me that if I ever sicked the rat dogs on Billy again she would let them kill him. I never sicked the rat dogs on Billy again.
Grandmother and grandad decided to move to a small city and got rid of all of the animals. Now grandad was friends with a older black couple and gave the old man Billy. I went with grandad when he delivered Billy. Grandad told me of the time that the old lady was out working in the garden with her tush sticking up in the air. The old guy was sitting on the front porch and saw Billy eyeing the tush target in the air and proceeded to butt the old woman and she plowed the garden with her face, arms and legs. The old lady got up and grabbed a hoe and went after Billy and they circled the house twice with her screaming at Billy. The old guy was laughing so hard he was crying. She stopped on the third circuit and sat down next to the old man and laughed too. Grandad asked the old man if he wanted him to find another home for Billy and the old man said no way he hadn't laughed that hard in years and Billy kept all of the kids out of the yard and the old woman always kept a lookout when she was working the garden.
Texican....
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Post by bretf on Apr 26, 2021 17:08:54 GMT -6
Nice, Texican. Even if your first story stunk. And your story about Billy makes me miss my goats. Thanks for sharing!!
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Post by solo on Apr 27, 2021 10:44:28 GMT -6
Our house and land occupied about 4 acres initially but soon shot up to between 7 to 8 acres when my father acquired the pastures and old pole/hay barn next to it. This had been the original set up when this house was first built in the early sixties. When my family bought it around 1973, the land had been split up from a fairly large 20 acre cow spread. This property was only about a mile outside of the town that served as the county seat for the rural county in south Mississippi. Summers were hot and humid and the winters were only less so. (Side Note, the compound in Diver's Down was modeled after this property.)
After acquiring the new land, proper fencing was put up and my father started to raise hogs, Chickens and three meat cows. I remember some of the cold mornings when I had to go out at 4:30 in the AM with a bucket of warm water to mix the calfs’ formula and then fill each of their special bottles and then feed them. You learn a lot about yourself when you are 7 – 10 years old and you have to do this. Afterwards, we made sure the hogs got their morning slop and we feed the chickens, let them out and collected the eggs. Then we had to get ready to wait for the school bus by 6:45. Believe it or not. I miss it. When those cows, one at a time, filled our freezer along with the hogs one at a time, which was some of the best tasting meat I’ve ever had. And we had our choice of how the meat was cut. Think sliced bacon, Thick Ribeyes, well, you get the picture. Even the Sausage and Hamburger were impeccable.
One Cow story: When my uncle, aunt and some second cousins (their grand kids) visited us from Germany (My mother grew up in Germany), we decided to butcher the last cow ourselves. He talked us into it. So, after dispatching the cow, they used a hoist to lift it in the rafters of the barn. Luckily, they held. And then slit the stomach to take out all of the gut material. This was caught in two halves of a 55 gallon drum and then loaded up in the truck and taken off to dump. Knowing now what I do, I would have insisted that it be buried in the old garden plot to help fertilize future crops, but I digress. The tough thing was, when my uncle split the cow’s gut, they accidently pierced the stomach or intestines. That was the foulest odor I have ever encountered and lingered a bit after the entrails were carted off. That night, my uncle had saved some of the more, what he called delicacies, for dinner. He prepared for the family, cow tongue and sliced testicles. Being on the young side, I declined, though my father got a chuckle when I opted for a bologna sandwich instead. I didn’t get that joke until much later.
Down the hill and off to the side of the barn, on the next parcel over, was a medium sized pond. I would do a lot of fishing there, fighting off water moccasins and what have you. It was full of snapping turtles, that begged to be used for target practice with our .22s. The predominate fish was bream and they were big, good eating, though tough to eat with all the small bones. There were a few bass but that was it. Catfish were introduced but they never took. The pond's main purpose was to be used for our land mark. When we would take off in the mornings, we’d tell my mom that we were going (Insert Preposition here) Pond. IE: To the Pond, Behind the Pond, Around the Pond. It was a great reference. On occasion, when there was enough cool in the air to keep the mosquitos at bay, we’d camp there, Fish, clean, stick into a paper lunch sack full of cornmeal and fry them in an iron skill filled with oil over the fire. Best Eating Ever. Still have never tasted better.
Behind this pond, there was a small head of woods. It was fairly large then, probably about a half mile wide and up to a mile or two deep, heading toward town. I spent a ton of time there, hunting, hiking, exploring and just going there for my mental health breaks. Now that I enjoy bushcrafting so much, I wish I had known that then and could have enjoyed those woods for that. Thinking back on it, I can’t remember spending one night back there. Huge missed opportunity. Still, it wasn’t uncommon to get in from school, grab my shotgun and head back behind the pond. Mostly it was just to get off and think. Sometimes, I’d shoot a squirrel or two. Usually, it was just to get out of the house and explore. In the early spring, I’d roam around our property and find all the bird nests and keep track of the eggs and hatchlings. It was a wonder I never tired of.
Our summer times were filled with chores and exploring the neighborhood and when we were a bit older, the country roads on our bikes. When we reached teenage years, we’d cut grass, mainly the church cemetery that would take two days. We’d cut early in the morning, then go to the local swim hole, called the Trussel, until late afternoon, then we’d go back and cut until dark. If we weren’t cutting grass, we were hoeing watermelon fields, or hauling hay. Didn’t take too many of those days for me to decide I wanted an office job when I grew up. So many stories that could be told and maybe I’ll use this as a springboard to doing just that. Yet, I miss those simple times. Some days we’d load up and go rent canoes and float the Black Creek or hang out at the Big Creek Boat landing or hiking in Desoto National Forrest.
Soon I reached high school and my late summers were filled with hot and humid days at band camp and then I headed off to college. Since this time 30-40 years ago, those woods behind the pond have shrunk as houses began to pop up in there and you can no longer hunt there. My father passed away in December of 2019 and we are in the process of selling his property. My nephew is buying it, but it just isn’t the same. It hasn’t been the same since I grew up there. Carefree. It was the best learning experience.
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Post by 9idrr on Apr 27, 2021 18:30:02 GMT -6
It all went into makin' the Solo we know and love. Thanks for postin' these.
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Post by texican on Apr 27, 2021 22:03:07 GMT -6
Down the hill and off to the side of the barn, on the next parcel over, was a medium sized pond. I would do a lot of fishing there, fighting off water moccasins and what have you.
solo,
Enjoyed your posting.
When I was a teenager, a group of us guys would go to the pond to the west of our housing and use willow poles to fight with the water moccasins. One summer day and the guys were all gone, I decided that it would be fun to fight the moccasins by myself. Got a willow pole and saw the first moccasin which was fairly large and the fight was on and he would not turn back and as he got to the bank, the flailing really commenced, finally was able to turn him back into the pond.
Decided that going it alone or was it solo fighting moccasins was not the wisest thing to do. Never did tell mother about fighting the moccasins nor my sis for she would have told mother.
Surprising what stupid things guys will do without thinking about it, but we survived.
Texican....
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Post by bretf on May 5, 2021 10:28:37 GMT -6
Sounds like good times, Solo!
Tex, Surprising what stupid things guys will do without thinking about it, but we survived. So, so true!
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The place right behind my home was a dairy farm when I was young. An old fashioned dairy, where the cows actually grazed on pastures, not the feed lot style of today. After the family closed the dairy, they entertained various options for selling the land. One was to become a gravel pit for a nearby highway project. That didn’t happen. One was for a subdivision. Whew, that didn’t happen. One was for a Mormon church. Finally, it was sold to the city, and the Optimist Club developed it into a sports field / city park.
Besides all the use the fields get in football and soccer season, it is very popular for people to walk their dogs. My chickens are a popular attraction. When I had goats, they were as well. So was the old mule before he died. We rotated him between various fields in the neighborhood, keeping them all trimmed.
One evening, following a stint with the mule next door, I was doing the chores when a lady walking her dog called to me.
“Do you know what happened to the horse that was in that field? Did he die?” she asked.
“No, there wasn’t a horse there,” I said.
“Yes there was.”
It could have gone on for quite a while, so I told her it was a mule. Then I had to try to explain the differences in horses and mules to her. I really threw her off when I told her a mule is just a half-assed horse.
Then she started admiring my chickens. She pointed at one, and asked, “Why doesn’t that one have feathers on her back?”
I said, “Because I have too many roosters, and she’s popular.”
She was as confused with that statement as the one about the “half-assed horse”.
I had the egg bucket with me, and she saw the araucana eggs in it and wowed over them. I had to point out a couple of the hens to her. One of the roosters came walking near, and she asked what eggs I got from that one.
“None, that one’s a rooster.”
“You don’t get eggs from roosters?”
“No, they’re the males.”
“So what do they do?”
“You know, the male duties, they fertilize the eggs.”
“So you don’t get eggs or anything from them?”
Being careful of my egg bucket, I said, “No, they do the nasty,” and I clapped my hands together lightly, “And then roll over and watch ESPN.”
The light of understanding turned on. “Oh, I see,” she said. As if on cue, the rooster demonstrated why some of the hens are missing feathers.
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