Lest We Forget New Pen: A Jamaican Farm Memoir

By Lenworth Henry

Lenworth Henrys story began when he was born in Walkerswood, Jamaica, to parents who already had ten children between them. Shortly thereafter, the entire family moved five miles away, to a pioneering farming community; locally called New Pen, situated on the St Ann parish border with St Marys. New Pen was a well-organized and governed community, that firmly upheld religious principles.
Lenworths early years were filled with the sights and sounds of the farm. On weekdays, people from nearby farms and villages would bring his father horses and mules to shoe at his blacksmith shop. Near the shop was a cow pen to which cows were brought on weekdays, to be counted, branded, neutered and captured for slaughter. Prior to reaching school age, Lenworth and his two youngest sisters would spend weekdays at the blacksmith shop, watching related drama unfold, under the watchful eyes of their strict parents. At first Lenworth struggled to establish an identity in a complicated world built on loyalty, unity and hard work. Ultimately, he transformed himself from a timid boy roaming the farm alone, to a member of a small clique that reveled in challenging the status quo, just for the fun of it.
Lest We Forget brings the farm back to life in its recreation of the behavior of, not only the human residents, but of every living creature on the farm: from the minutest of insects to the most imposing of animals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532019333

Lenworth Henry

Lenworth Henry is a 1972 graduate of Mico Teachers’ College in Kingston Jamaica. He taught at several institutions before becoming principal of an all-age-school. He migrated to the United States in 1990, and operated an automotive business. He resides in Maryland and has previously published two books: Gilbert the Mighty Hurricane and Laugh like a Jamaican.

Book preview

Infancy

It all started the day I was born. There was great anxiety about my arrival. My parents, by then, had a whopping ten kids between them. Before meeting my dad, my mom gave birth to two boys, and my dad fathered an identical pair of twin girls. The twins never lived with us, and although I saw them in church almost every week, I could not distinguish one from the other. It was only when they became young women – and one of them got pregnant and gained weight – that my identity problem was resolved.

Six girls followed my half-siblings. I could only guess what my dad might have undergone during those son-less years, as age-old beliefs could have made him ineligible for membership in the male club. As for my mom, she could not have fared any better, as she would have desperately wanted to help in the fulfilment of my dad’s wish. Many people were rooting for my parents.

Without the luxury of ultrasound, quite a few non-professionals could, through grass-roots practices and experience, predict the gender of an unborn foetus. From all indications, the well-wishers who had converged on my home, as was the pre-birth custom in those days, knew a boy was arriving. They pledged, as I was told, to save this one, this time, whatever that meant. Poor Momma.

As my presence indicates, I arrived apparently kicking and screaming. However, it did not end there: an over-pampered sister was born a year later. I always wonder if that was another attempt at male assertion gone awry. After my sister’s birth, my parents threw in the towel, or nature had run its course, or – as the saying goes – Momma had had out her lot. I was given a name, but only for official use. I was called One Son, and my youngest sister Wash-Belly. Our real names never really mattered in Walkerswood.

I am sure that I can make an educated guess that a nine-day confinement followed my arrival. As was the custom in those days, new mothers and babies were placed in a dark room and banned from seeing daylight or even breathing any outside air for fear that they would become susceptible…to what? I never could understand.

I must point out that a lot of significance was attached to this practice. The room had to remain pitch dark, with care taken to block out light from even a pinhole in a wall or roof. Windows were completely sealed. No one except a nurse, midwife, spouse, or close relative was allowed in that room. The saying goes that after those nine days, mother and newborn would cautiously re-enter civilization as pale as ghosts.

Migration

Whatever may have transpired for the next few years of my life is sealed in infancy. However, I will never forget the first day I discovered myself. The year I cannot confirm, nor the date. I am only sure it was my first conscious day, and I later realized I was at a place called New Pen.

All my bigger siblings were gone to a place called school, to do what I did not know. Pam, whom I follow (that is the term used in those days referring to your place after a sibling); my infant sister, Cherry; and I were at a place with our mom and dad. My dad would be in a zinc shed playing around a fire and pulling on a long stick. The stick was attached to a canvas-looking bag with a long mouth that went through a wall. Every time he pulled the stick down, a gust of wind would blow up ashes, and the fire would become redder. I later learnt that weird device was a bellows.

Papa, as I heard everyone call him, would use a double-handled metal tool in his left hand to pick up something round or flat but red out of the flames. He would then proceed to place it on a saddle-shaped piece of iron with a flat top and a round pointed tip. My vocabulary was expanding; it was called an anvil.

My dad would then hold another roundish piece of iron, which had a short wooden handle, in his right hand. He would raise that hand high and bring it down to collide, with such force, with the fiery red piece of iron that it would send luminous sparks all over the place. The sound from the friction would send rippling chimes through the whole neighbourhood and beyond. I enjoyed every moment of that exercise and wished I could retrieve some of the tempting sparks for a meal. However, Momma, as I heard everyone call her, would restrain me so hard I knew early not to dare.

My mom was always alert and appeared restless. She hardly laughed or even smiled while she was at that shop. I guess three energetic toddlers were more than a handful, especially when a huge body of water sat at the foot of the hill. This pond was a stone’s throw from the shop. At its far end was a massive tree with a majestic base that had little alleys formed by its aerial roots. That oval-shaped body of water had waves that glistened in the sunlight and dispensed crystal ripples when the wind blew. It was a magnificent sight and held a mysterious presence…and a temptation to an innocent child to visit.

My little siblings and I learnt early that we should not venture near the water unaccompanied. If we needed reinforcement, that was readily available via a branch from any tree or shrub nearby. During those first weeks of discovery, I could not recall living or sleeping anywhere. It appeared that we were always awake and moving from one scary drama to another.

The Headless Chicken

I was at the blacksmith shop one morning when my attention was drawn to a small group of adults and children assembled at a house above the shop. They were there to witness the slaughter of a white fowl. We rarely distinguished gender when it came to livestock slaughter. Every poultry was a fowl, and every bovine was a cow.

As was the custom, the live bird would be put under a zinc pan, a basket, or any container that could keep the fluttering corpse secure and prevent blood from splashing all over the place. The designated butcher, usually the one with the least affinity for the condemned, would slightly raise the container and try to get a hold of the bird’s head. As soon as that was accomplished, a sharp knife would be used to behead the chicken, while the body was fully covered under the container. That container would be held down firmly, as the force of the fluttering bird could topple it.

However, at the scene of the slaughter that day, something went terribly wrong. I heard the screams and witnessed the scrambling as a headless white fowl flew out of the small crowd. It briefly flew down the hill towards the shop. It fell, spun, and rose again, as the noisy crowd futilely tried to keep up with it. They did not. As it came towards where I was standing, too scared to move, I heard the bird cackle as the group caught up with it. The group retrieved the by-then lifeless fowl and rushed back up the hill, leaving a lot of laughter behind. For me, that was nothing to laugh at.

Hanging Out at the Blacksmith Shop

The shop visit became a daily affair, and I was learning a lot and getting exposure to everyday happenings. I was starting to have fun, despite the intermittent wave of anxiety that I experienced when adults react nervously to some development, like a thunderstorm. Without their show of fear, I could have seen the lightning flashes as just another spark from a larger blacksmith shop somewhere in the sky, and the thunder the echoes from the anvils – maybe a larger version of the ones my dad used. However, the way the adults scurried for safe shelter when the roars started, and even abandoned the fringes of the mostly zinc-covered-shed, made me know quite soon that those blacksmiths in the skies did not appear friendly to us below. I was always so relieved when it was all over and the once-subdued congregants emerged as gregarious as usual.

I always looked forward to the days when everyone at the blacksmith shop would gather around a huge fire to make large metal wheels. Those wheels were put around similarly large round pieces of wood with spokes in the middle. I was always excited as I watched the plumes of smoke rise to the skies as the men doused the flames. They would flash their hands and dance around the fire to cool the burns they received in their bid to reposition the flaming metal.

Each completed pair of wheels was put on a large, square wooden box, with a pair of long sticks in front. Horses, mules, and large humped Brahman bulls pulled the units like buggies. The horses and mules looked regal with their leather and silver harnesses attached to the board boxes, but the bulls were a remarkable sight. Their heads were always bowed, and each had a yoke around its neck. Their movement was slow, clumsy, and unexciting.

When they ploughed the fields, the bulls just tugged along because of their mass and strength, while the mules and horses struggled under the whip to do the same job. I was glad when the last bull was paraded around the farm, fully covered in flowers, while the villagers danced and sang. It did not look like a bad way for a faithful servant to celebrate its retirement – but when tradition dictated the slaughterhouse as the last port of call, it was.

Back! Back! Back! Laud!

It was just another day at the shop, and everything seemed usual – except that I could hear the name ‘Cowanze’. That name was synonymous with ready-made food and drinks. Cowanze was a grocery shop less than two miles via the shortcut that started at the shop.

But to me, something was amiss. I did not see any of the regular errand guys or hear any messages sent to anyone about going to Cowanze, so I was curious and hungry. My older siblings were off to school, and they would not be home anytime soon. For quite a while, my mom and dad were softly arguing about something. Then Momma reluctantly headed towards the shortcut gate with Cherry in arms and Pam and I in tow.

This was a huge common, with few walls dividing the pastures that at most times would be crowded with large herds of redpoll cows grazing on the short grass. On occasion, we would ride on horseback or donkey through that common. In the middle of the expanse was a small area fenced off by wire, with gates leading out to each section. They called it a cow pen. There were some large fine-leaf trees that encircled the cow pen and to which wires were attached. These trees bore some small, very tasty fruits that we call plums. We had been to that pen before to eat plums, but never beyond.

We had just reached the cow pen when Momma pulled Pam and I close and started giving us instructions about the journey to Cowanze. I became very curious as to why that was necessary, as we were just going to reap plums. It took a while before it finally hit home that not only was the destination Cowanze, but incredibly, Pam and I were to reach it alone.

As crazy as it sounded to me, gallantry took over. I did not know how we were going to do it, but if Pam and I ever managed to achieve such a feat, we would set a world record for bravery. With that in mind, I had Momma put the money wrapped with a note in my pocket. (Girls rarely had pockets in those days, so the older Pam had nowhere to secure the money.) Momma went with us to the other end of the cow pen. As we looked down into the valley towards Cowanze, we could see a large herd of cows grazing and lazing on our designated route, but trusting Momma’s judgement, we slowly commenced our journey.

Momma nervously ushered us through the last gate and closed it behind us. She then climbed to the highest point of view in the pen, from which we could hear her coaxing us on. There we were, two little dots, Pam maybe four or five, and me maybe three or four, all alone in that valley, surrounded by what appeared to be hundreds of big redpoll cows and their frisky calves. We trudged along, propelled only by the sound of our mom’s waning voice in the distance. When I stared back, she was a fading image on the horizon.

As we crawled on, no one uttered a word. We huddled together, me in silent hope of greatness, and Pam silent too. We had just descended a short steep incline into the bottom of the valley when we came upon a large cow with its back turned to us. She seemed to display a sense of unease, just chomping away at the grass blades and chewing very rapidly as she flashed her tail. She was obviously not as relaxed as the cows we had passed before.

Just as we were about to pass this edgy creature a few feet away, she suddenly made a turn towards us and, with a deafening bellow that echoed from the hills above, came at us with her head lowered, her eyes closed, and her horns sticking up. We must have made some effort to run, but before we knew it, all the other cows in the area were rushing towards us in a type of stampede, some bellowing in unison.

If my sister went up or down, I could not say. In the midst of the entire melee, our mom’s plaintive wails rang out from the distance, and ‘Back! Back! Back! Laud!’ was being shouted in what seemed to be an endless refrain. A flash glance at Momma’s dim form in the distance showed her waving frantically, moving from left to right, but not daring to leave the safety of the enclosure.

I know we were in deep trouble and our mom was captivated by fear, not daring even to try to scale the fence to rush towards us, as she would have done when we faced danger before. Whatever happened in the next few seconds was muddled.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the monstrous image of a man astride a red horse parted the herd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Whip flashing left and right, he kept shouting until the cows dispersed. That guardian angel approached us and asked us for our parents. We could not believe what had happened, for as suddenly as the incident began, it had ended. We later learnt that our knight in shining armour was the farm manager who, although he lived over two miles away and had dozens of herds and thousands of acres to manage, happened to be (by some divine intervention, everyone thought) at that very spot at just the right time to save us.

He escorted us to our mother who, by then, looked so bewildered and frightened that when our rescuer cautioned her, she could barely respond. She kept mumbling incoherently to herself all the way back to the shop. She looked so tired and broken that I felt this urge to console her. From that day on, Pam and I cursed that redpoll cow for what she did to us. Later on, when we grew older and happened to pass that very spot, we would use a stick to beat the bushes in revenge.

Our little hangout was fast becoming a sort of city centre and a hub of activity. As our childhood range expanded, so did our discoveries and curiosities. Almost every day, men from all around would bring horses and mules for my dad to shoe. It was a pleasure to watch him cut those small bits of iron, heat and beat them into semicircles, and then meticulously tap in some patterns and holes and put them into a container to cool off.

When the metal was cool enough, he would lead the animal to a flat area and secure it to a post or tree, or have someone hold the rein. He would then put an apron around his waist, turn sideways with his face to the back of the animal, and slide his hand from the upper part of its leg down to the lower part, which he would gently hold and lift. He made sure to be careful not to spook the animal. An experienced animal would lift its leg as my dad bent to raise it. Young ones could be very stubborn at first, but eventually they all fell in.

As soon as the leg was raised, my dad would proceed to place it between his legs and use a claw hammer to lift the old shoe (if there was any) from the animal’s foot. He would then clean the caked-up dirt off and use a crooked knife to pare the hoof until it looked smooth and neat.

His next move was to fit the new shoe onto the animal’s hoof and use a hammer to beat in some long, flattish, shiny nails through the holes in the shoe at an angle that would make it exit at the side of the hoof. He had to be careful not to make the nail go into the inner hoof, as that could hurt the animal.

When all the nails were safely through, he would use a clawed hammer to break the ends of each nail, and then use a flat gritty metal tool, called a rasp, to file the nail heads and hoof into a smooth shape to fit the symmetry of the animal’s lower foot. The foot would then look monumental. When all four feet were shoed, the animal would walk away seemingly with an air of pride, and the shiny new shoes would emit a rhythmic clatter at each stride.

The next phase would be for my dad to use a scissors to trim the mane, which was the name given to the long hair at the top of the horse’s neck. During such exercise, the kids present would race to collect the fallen locks. The tail would be trimmed last, but my dad would not cut the hair short as he did the mane. He would then brush the entire upper body of the animal.

When everything was completed, that horse or mule would appear to be transformed into an imposing statue of grace, beauty, and strength. I can never forget how proud those animals looked, and I had no doubt that they relished the attention they got. At times, my dad did an entire outfit, meaning all the mules or horses, the harnesses, and even the wheels of the buggy they pulled. If he were ever tired after all that exertion, he would overcome it by singing or whistling his trademark tunes: ‘Little David Play on Your Harp’ or ‘Michael Row the Boat Ashore, Hallelujah.’

The Cow Pen

Right next to the shop was a big enclosure completely encircled by