It Happened Like This: Musings by Bob

By Bob Kellison

My writing is best described as bed-time stories. There is no theme to the book and each of the accounts is the result of a random thought process. Some of you will wonder what 'thought process?' and others will wonder why he concentrated on such zany topics. My response would be that my brain works in mysterious ways. It remains active on long airplane flights where sleep comes sporadically if at all or on long car trips where fits of sleep come more easily than on airplanes. In some ways, the contents of the book are a history of my life, from boyhood to advanced years. The years have been good ones, with only a disruption thrown in here and there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491871102

Book preview

AuthorHouse™ LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2014 Bob Kellison. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/28/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7109-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7110-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014904461

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

PART I: FORMATIVE YEARS

UNCLE GEORGE

MADISON AVENUE GIMMICKRY

WOOD HICKS WERE A STRANGE LOT

THE WORM TURNS

MILK COWS DEFY POVERTY

SCRATCHING A LIVING FROM THE SOIL

REX COMES INTO OUR LIFE

MEAN DOG, REX

THE VEGETABLE GARDEN

SEEING AROUND CORNERS

THE COACH’S CALL

TUCK AND THE HOG

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

GRANDMA SHARP

SEQUEL TO THE BEST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT EVER

BRINGING HOME THE GAME

NORTHERN LIGHTS

SPARE ME FROM THE WPA

SIGHT UNSEEN

MUMBLY PEG

WEST UNION

PART II: HIGH SCHOOL AND BEYOND

CHASING NORTHERN LIGHTS

MY MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT

CAUTIOUS COP

REFLECTIONS MARLINTON HIGH SCHOOL 1945-1949

THE BIG SNOW

BUCKY

LIFE IN A LOG CAMP

DEVIL TO GET HIM

PART III: MILITARY, COLLEGE, FAMILY

WATCHING GRASS GROW

THE AFGHAN HAINT

BULLYING

DELMAS JONES

THA’ REDBIRDS

CHESTNUT RIDGE

AN ODE TO BRUCE ZOBEL

OF MOTORCYCLES AND ADAM’S APPLES

MILADY

TRUCK DRIVER… an OPTION

WHY DO WE HAVE TOOLS?

CHRISTMAS EVE IN EURE

SENECA CREEK REVISITED

A PROMISE TO MY MAKER

COMRADES IN ADVERSITY: ADVERSARIES IN POLITICAL PERSUASION

OPPOSUM CONTROL IN PINE SEED ORCHARDS

IF I WERE A COW

VERTIGO… or CUSSEDNESS

ON CANCELING APPOINTMENTS

SERENITY OF A THUNDERSTORM

DRESSING DOWN

FLIM FLAM

LAKE CUMBERLAND

FADED MEMORIES

DEATH AND ALL THE FIXINGS

OBSERVATIONS OF INDIA

WATCH WHAT YOU WISH FOR

STATION No. 4

LIFE ON THE ROAD

BASEBALL’S SPITTER

AIR TRAVEL AND LOST LUGGAGE

IN THE EAR OF THE STORM

THE LAND OF LEMURS

JOYS OF JOGGING

RENTAL CARS IN A FOREIGN LAND

WATER SIPPERS

AROUND THE WORLD—AND MORE

MEMORANDIUM

THE SECOND MORTGAGE

GRACE OF THE WREN

PART IV: POUPRII

BROWN BEANS AND CORNBREAD—GOOD FOR THE SOUL

JAKE’S REVENGE

AN ODE TO BROTHER JACK

PATIENCE IS VIRTUE

TREES HAVE SEX

HERE COME THE TREES

LEAF LANGUAGE

PAVEMENT DEFIES CRANIUM

THOU SHALL NOT STEAL

NOSE JOB

MIRACLES

SHINGLES

LANGUAGE BARRIER

PERSONAL-SPACE VIOLATIONS

LADDERS

OUR BACKYARD—A MENAGERIE

MY FRIEND MELODIOUS

A MALE BLUEBIRD WITH NO SHAME

I DIDN’T DESERVE THAT

HENPECKED

COUNTRY SQUIRRELS AND THEIR COUSINS

SQUIRREL HUNTING

ROADKILL COOK OFF

IF IT LOOKS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

ROCKIN’ ROBINS

THE BEEPING SMOKE ALARM

ANGST AT THE AIRWAVES

CHIPMUNK CREATES A STIR

HALF FULL, HALF EMPTY

GUARDIAN ANGEL

ANOTHER HOG OFF THE CORN

EXAGGERATIONS

POSTLUDE

PREFACE

It has been my habit to write accounts of items of interest whenever something struck my fancy such as would occur from being a professor of forestry at NC State University for over 30 years. My major job was initially to be a staff member, which was a stepping stone to becoming the director of one or more of the many forestry cooperative programs that were a mainstay of the forestry college. To that was added the organization and teaching of classes, mentoring undergraduate and graduate students, attending staff meetings, organizing and moderating workshops and conferences, writing scientific papers and authoring books.

The composition of a forestry cooperative was to engage forest product companies and state forest services to work toward a common goal, such as genetic improvement of an important timber tree such as loblolly pine. The members of such an organization would span a large territory of the U. S. South, from Delaware and Maryland south to Florida and west to the Mississippi River. Visits to members in such a wide ranging territory required lots of time in travel by car and plane. It also brought me into contact with lots of interesting people. It was also during those trips that an idea for a story would surface. Those local trips were complemented by trips abroad, to Brazil or Indonesia or South Africa or wherever plantation forestry was practiced.

The long and productive career with NC State came to a close just short of my 65th birthday. The reason for the separation was that a forest products company, Champion International, recruited me to organize a forest research organization for them. Good progress was being made on that goal when the company was bought by a competitor, International Paper Company. The one year spent with the new company extended my stay with forest industry for the better part of six years. The next job was to head up a forestry foundation, the Institute of Forest Biotechnology, for the better part of four years. Since then I’ve kept my finger in the forest pie, both in the United States and abroad. I’m still on the go and still writing non-sense stories that satisfy my ego.

In the compendium of stories in the following pages you will note that there is no major theme. Some relate to boyhood days, some to family, some to travel, some to working relationships, and even some to tom-foolery. The question could be asked, What does that guy think, or does he think? Anyway, it struck me that you might want to read one of the stories before you turn out the light at night. I don’t think the practice will give you chills or nightmares, so why not try one for the road?

PART I

FORMATIVE YEARS

According to my parents I was born on Dry Creek, near the community of Swago (Pocahontas Co. WV), in 1931. While still an infant our family, inclusive of Dad and Mother (Clarence and Lilly Sharp Kellison), and siblings Norma June (Jean), Lucy Claire, and Jack Burton, we moved across the mountain to Beverage Run, near the community of West Union in 1932. The family was expanded by the birth of Rose Ellen in 1934. The house and 30 acres of surrounding land that was to serve as our home until 1945 belonged to Uncle George (George Wallace Kellison). In fact, Uncle George was my great uncle from being a brother to Grandpa Kellison (Averill Porter). Uncle George had bought the property in the early days of the Great Depression from money he had earned by working in logging camps. Being a confirmed bachelor, the arrangement was for us to have complete control of the house and property except for his own private room and two small parcels of land on which he would maintain his apiary and berry patch. All he asked in return was for free room and board. Laundry was originally part of the ‘board’ portion of the arrangement, but that tailed off until it was the exception when something was added to the dirty-clothes pile. The following stories relate to my early years in the West Union community, including my relationship with Uncle George. At times the stories will be interspersed by a humorous or telling event.

UNCLE GEORGE

The room was always full to overthrow. In one corner was a sagging bed with the covers pulled loosely to near the head. The linen covering the pillow was a dirty yellow that screamed for a watery bath. The suggestion was that the sheets, even if they existed, were of the same hue. Clothes were draped over each of the bed posts and a pair of worn-out bedroom slippers peeked from under the exposed side of the bed. To the right of the bed was a night stand of rough hew that housed a kerosene lamp, which provided the only light during nighttime hours, a whetstone for knife sharpening, pocket change and a plethora of bottles with items that were purported to be good for aches and pains. Holding center stage on that stand was a loaded 45-caliber pistol, which was frequently fondled with care and passion and ready for use in case of an intruder.

Complementing the pistol was a Model 97 Winchester shotgun that occupied the corner behind the door on the opposite side of the room. The well-worn gun glistened from a fresh coat of Neatsfoot oil that made it ready for the next hunt in the local woods. To the right of the door was a trunk that remained locked except for special occasion. The rest of the room was filled to capacity with stacked clothes and implements of work. The only item of leisure within the confine was a radio of early vintage that sat on a bracketed shelf near the foot of the bed. Due to the remoteness of the area in which he lived the only stations that could be accessed were those of high wattage, and the signal from them was usually unavailable during daylight hours. Taking advantage of improved reception at night, Gabriel Heater shared world news during weekday evenings and Uncle Dave Makon of Grand Ole Opry fame was a constant on any given Saturday night.

The room was the abode of Uncle George, my great uncle on my father’s side. In fact, the whole house, all five rooms of it, belonged to Uncle George. He had bought and taken up residence on the hillside property in the midst of the Alleghany Mountains from money he’d earned from working in logging camps. Never one to trust banking establishments he paid cash for the property at the time the banks were failing near the end of President Herbert Hoover’s reign. Even though his profession once had him cooking for a slew of wood hicks in log camps Uncle George did not take readily to doing household chores. The appearance of his room added credence to him being a confirmed bachelor.

Uncle George was lean in weight and ramrod straight in stature. He was without addiction to tobacco and was free from the consumption of alcohol, at least in our company, but he was well educated for a person of his time and place. His writing was impeccable, with the most beautiful English scroll affixed to his signature of any person in memory. He was clean shaven, and his dress was of a mountain man with one set of clothes for cold weather and another for warm weather. Even in the hottest days of summer he could be found laboring away in his berry patch while wearing a long-sleeved shirt of cotton or wool twill buttoned to the cuff and to the neck. Atop the shirt were suspenders that held his pants above the waist, leaving the tops of his calf-length leather brogans exposed and giving him that Ichabod Crane appearance.

Being penurious his clothes were worn until no more use could be made of them. That included patch upon patch, all affixed for utility rather than appearance. The hat he wore, both summer and winter had no remaining form or shape. It could be worn both frontwards and backwards with no change in appearance. Regardless of the rotation the brim was turned up in front, leaving one to wonder why the fedora was worn in the first place since it offered no protection to the eyes either from the sun or from falling weather. I came to believe that it was more for habit than for protection of the head.

I was a babe in arms when first contact was made with Uncle George. Due to the onset of the Great Depression my father found himself out of a job. With four children to feed, and another one on the way, it didn’t take my parents long to accept Uncle George’s offer to take up residence while providing him with meals and other amenities. The deal was for us to be responsible for the hillside farm and its contents save for two patches of land on which Uncle George was to practice his fruit production and apiary skills. No rent was to be paid and any gain from farming the hillside acres was to be expended at the discretion of our family.

The deal that appeared to be made in heaven had a short lifespan. Having two dominant males in the same household resulted in tensions. Even though no strings were attached to operation of the farm, exclusive of the two patches of land, Uncle George was sometimes critical of land management decisions. The rift that developed caused the two men to shy away from one another. Uncle George would retire to his room when not working his berry and fruit crops and his bees, and Dad stayed in his own side of the house when he was home from work.

Despite the soiled feeling between the two men, the rest of the family maintained a reasonably good relationship with Uncle George. For whatever reason, he took a shine to me and my life was enriched by the association. When I was big enough I would waddle after him to his reserved patches of land where he taught me about nature’s ways. I also spent time in his cluttered room plying him with questions that he would patiently answer. That camaraderie went on for the better part of 13 years at which time our family moved to another community several miles away.

The move came about rather quickly. It resulted from the death of our grandfather, Uncle George’s brother. For reasons unknown to us, Uncle George didn’t attend the funeral, which we thought a bit strange because no apparent bad blood existed between the two. We chalked it up to another of Uncle George’s peculiarities, which we had come to accept. A few days after the funeral, Uncle Forrest, dad’s younger brother, came to visit. Meal time was usually a strain on relations anyway because of the different philosophies held by Uncle George and Dad. That had been overcome to an extent by the two principals agreeing not to talk about their differences at the table. On this occasion, however, Uncle Forrest, fortified by a shot or two of John Barleycorn, quizzed Uncle George why he hadn’t attended Grandpa’s funeral. One thing led to another and some harsh words were said, including the threat to shoot the visitor the next time he was found on our property. Dad, being a man of integrity, concluded immediately that he couldn’t live under the condition that visitors, of whatever ilk, weren’t welcome to our household. A search was started the next day by our parents to find alternative housing. Within two weeks we took up residence in a rental property some miles removed from the place of my formative years.

I continued to maintain the relationship with Uncle George and would often go back on weekends to spend time with him on hunting trips for local game. At the new location, I finished high school, and then went away to college and Uncle Sam’s military. That separation restricted me from frequently seeing Uncle George, but I did exercise the opportunity to visit him when I was in town. During that time he sold the old hillside farm and took up residence in a two-room shack near town. The small parcel of land adjacent to the shack allowed him to house a few chickens for his own use and to produce vegetables from his garden plot. Under those conditions he thrived until his death from the infirmities of age just past his 80th birthday.

To the legacy of Uncle George, the following stories will give the reader an idea of the relationship I had with the man and his dog Rex.

MADISON AVENUE GIMMICKRY

Little boys and, yes, even little girls are mesmerized by television commercials to an extent greater than by programs specially produced for them. This realization on my part will come as no surprise to the Madison Avenue advertisement industry.

As a case in point, the only thing one small boy could recall from a children’s program was the commercial extolling the virtues of a nationally known insurance company. His vivid account covered a collision between two cars with the driver at fault being a mother accompanied by her small son. The innocent driver and his car ware left stranded atop a column of water spurting from a broken fire hydrant. The scene closes with the offending driver calling the insurance company, leaving the impression that all problems have been solved.

The second scene opens with the offending driver’s son giving his new toy airplane its maiden flight. He makes reference to the plane’s ability to do the loop-de-loop. But the plane hits the crossbar of a child’s swing and plummets to earth. The scene closes with the boy on the phone, plaintively asking for the insurance company. The moral of the story is that the small boy watching the commercial will probably remember the insurance company long after he has passed the stage of short pants, boy scouts, and senior proms. Each of us needs to develop a jingle for posterity.

WOOD HICKS WERE A STRANGE LOT

In the late 1800s and early 1900s the Appalachian Mountains were a hotbed for the logging and lumber industry. The want was for raw materials to build an expanding America and the needs during and following World War I. A first step in the process was to harvest the timber and transport it to sawmills for the manufacture of lumber. The motley crews that were responsible for the laborious tasks were commonly referred to as wood hicks.

The heyday of the logging operations was before my time, but I had the good fortune of having a former wood hick, Great Uncle George as a mentor for the first 13 years of my life. He was prone to share memorable experiences about his life in log camps. Some of the accounts have stuck with me lo these many years, and I share them with you.

Pay in the log camps was not particularly good in that day and time, but the competition to retain a good work force rested with the food that was served morning, noon, and night. Information circulated by the grapevine about what log camp had the greatest selection and quality of food. Other things being equal, the laborers would gravitate to the camp with the best reputation at the expense of those with an inferior menu. At one logging camp, owned and operated by a local man with some distinction in the community, the individual tried to increase his profit by being cinchy with the meals. Complaints to the cook (chefs didn’t exist in log camps) brought no improvement. The issue came to the fore at dinner (the noon-time meal) when the owner was on site and had joined the work force at the table. All the old timers wore their hats at mealtime, but on this occasion one of the complainants waited until all were seated at the table. Taking a piece of bread and slathering it with butter before taking a bite he made a show of removing his hat and placing it under the bench where he was sitting. The owner inquired about the action. The response of the agitator was that his parents had taught him to respect age and that butter deserves my respect. The agitator was promptly fired, which caused an exit of other people key to the operation. Soon thereafter the company went ‘belly up.’

Because of the steep and rough topography of the Appalachian Mountains logging with horses was a standard practice. Teamsters were an integral part of any logging operation and they had a competitive spirit for the team of horses for which they were responsible. Bragging rights were reserved for those that delivered the greatest amount of logs to the log deck and for the team that had the best appearance. Bridles and harnesses were adorned with colorful plastic clips and textile ribbons, and manes and tails were curried, brushed, and occasionally plaited. But the most desired trait of all was the spirit of the steeds as they exited the barn each morning for the new work day. Judgment was based on heads being held high and tugging at the bit to get on with the job. The achievement was reached by the seasoned teamsters by mixing a measured amount of strychnine with the morning-feed of oats. That additive worked so long as the horses were prohibited from consuming water for two hours after their breakfast.

The new teamster on the job, a neophyte, didn’t understand why the other teams came out of the barn each morning tugging at the bit while his horses plodded along without a glint in an eye nor head held high. None of the teamsters would divulge their secret, but he finally learned of their practice from the cook’s helper. The next time he went to town he bought a bottle of the poisonous and addictive chemical and added it to the horse’s morning ration of oats. Failure of the yap to tell him about restricting the intake of water had its perils. You guessed it! Both horses went to horse heaven after a visit to the watering trough soon after the morning feed and the neophyte teamster went looking for another job.

To my surprise drugs were not uncommon in the logging camps of yore. Each camp had their own company doctor and the drugs could be obtained from the medic or his helper at a price. Uncle George related the story of one employee who was prone to deal with the medical staff to get his fix nearly every weekend. One weekend he got so juiced up on cocaine, called ‘snow’ by the loggers, that he climbed into the upper story of the camp barn. Standing in the entrance to the mow, the opening through which hay was deposited for subsequent feeding of the horses, the affected one announced that he could fly. After jumping he waved his arms a couple times before landing in a horse-manure pile and breaking his leg. The camp doctor set the affected leg, but the end result was the same as for the killer of horses; he was out of a job—broken leg and all.

Uncle George also told about the weekend activity of some of his comrades. After the long work week they would collect their pay and head to the nearest ‘joint’ where wine, women and song awaited them. Some of the hicks would get so juiced up that an accident would befall one or more of them. The accidents could be fatal, such as the one where a comrade was making a pass at a member of the opposite sex and was dealt asunder by a jealous boyfriend. Law and order was thinly stretched in the remote regions, so it was uncertain if the perpetrator was ever apprehended. It was certain, however, that the felled one was given a burial. Some question might arise about whether it was a proper burial or not, but at least it was a burial.

The ceremony was to take place on Sunday afternoon after the Saturday night fiasco. The two buddies of the deceased were so saddened that they continued to drown their sorrows in the liquid of John Barleycorn. By the time the noontime hour had arrived the two compatriots had dug the grave, all the while fortifying themselves on alcoholic spirits. A Samaritan had been delegated to say the last rites for the fallen one. With his amen, the two bleary-eyed hicks began to cover their fallen buddy with the excavated soil. After shoveling a while, they concluded that their buddy needed to be comforted with the remnants of their bottle, so they guzzled the fiery liquid until only enough was left for a toast. That they deposited with their fallen comrade, inclusive of the bottle. The shoveling continued but at an ever-slower pace until one of them toppled into the grave. In addition to the blunder he was hit in the face with a shovel full of soil. Rolling out of there as best he could under the circumstances he accosted his buddy about the dastardly act. Some strong words were spoken, but they soon came to the conclusion that their fallen comrade deserved their attention. With time they finished the task. The last seen of them was aboard a railroad flat car being towed by the steam-driven locomotive to the wood-hick camp where they would work until the following weekend when the excitement would start anew.

And so it was with the log camps of yesteryear in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. Work was hard, pay was meager, drugs were common, mistakes were made, speakeasies beckoned, hilarity prevailed, and death took its toll. The people involved took it all in stride.

THE WORM TURNS

Wood hicks need diversion from the humdrum life in a logging camp. Uncle George was no exception. He was not given to heavy drink, and a card shark he wasn’t. However, his chosen life style as a bachelor often left time on his hands from Saturday night to Monday morning when working in logging camps. Hunting and fishing were his favorite hobbies for diversion.

Henry Ford cut into but never replaced the seasonal diversions with his assembly-line production of the automobile. People in all walks of life could become the proud owner of a horseless carriage for $600, which was a huge sum of money in the early decades of the 1900s. Regardless of its cost Uncle George invested in one of the contraptions. To enjoy his purchase, he and two buddies, operating from a log camp in the high spruce country near the West Virginia-Virginia border, set out for a tour of the countryside one fine fall day in the early 1900s. Their ramblings over roads built for horse-drawn conveyances brought them eventually to a highway of unparalleled standards for the mountainous area. They surmised correctly that the gilded road was none other than the Staunton (Virginia)-Parkersburg (West Virginia) Pike which had been constructed to allow delivery of goods and services to and from the mountain people. After immensely enjoying themselves on the Pike for the better part of the day they concluded that the quickest way back to the logging camp was to exit on a back road, which lay some distance in the reverse direction from which they had been traveling. The newness of the car gave cause for concern about extended night travel so they sped down the super-highway at speeds up to 30 miles an hour. Spirits were soaring high!

Entering one long stretch of road with exits neither to left nor right, they encountered a barricade. Further investigation revealed that the contraption was a tollgate and that the turnstile was operated by an employee of the Staunton-Parkersburg Pike Authority. The price for passing through the gate was twenty-five cents. Accustomed to taking from Nature’s storehouse without charge, the three refused to pay. They contemplated alternative routes to their destination but rejected that idea because of the time and distance involved. The next step was to cajole the toll keeper for free passage but the man stoically stood his ground. A huddle among the three travelers brought forth the decision that they would present the keeper a fifty-dollar bill for the twenty-five-cent fee. They reasoned that failure to provide change for the proffered fare would justify their passage without payment.

The keeper was hesitant to accept the fifty-dollar bill, all the while asking the three for a smaller piece of money. Each of the travelers vowed and declared that the fifty was all that lay between them and poverty. Sensing a ruse, the keeper took the large bill to a one-room shack on a knoll overlooking the tollgate. Several minutes later he reappeared, bearing forty-nine one-dollar bills and three quarters. The rogues stammered and stuttered and tried to get the keeper to return the large bill for one of the twenty-five-cent pieces that had been warming their pockets. He responded by raising the tollgate and retreated to his cabin. The travelers delayed only long enough to catch the glint of the rifle barrel as it was exposed to the rays of the waning sun.

MILK COWS DEFY POVERTY

At the dinner table the subject arose recently among family members about milk products. The topic hadn’t crossed my mind since I left the farm years ago but, upon reflection, we should be aware of where milk and its products originate. They just don’t miraculously appear in grocery stores as we are wont to believe. And with the exception of selected products the source is cows. The exceptions would be from goats, and in selected parts of the world from camels, horses, and alpacas. But today, 99.44 percent of milk and its products come from cows.

It is probably obvious that milk originates only from females, be they women, cows, hogs, mares (representing horses and camels), alpacas, and nannies. It might not be so obvious that a female of any mammal does not begin to lactate (produce milk) until the birth of the first born. It is also probably not so obvious to the general populace that lactation is not continuous. It continues to decline and even to cease (go dry) several months after a birth and doesn’t start again until there is another birth (freshening). That is why the dairy operators breed their milk cows as soon as they are receptive; to keep the milk flowing with high regularity.

The cows on our hillside farm were kept mostly for subsistence of family members. For our complement of eight people three milk cows supplied our needs. The intent was to scatter the freshening so that a steady supply of milk and its products were available throughout the year. The exception occurred only when there was an excess of milk from the freshening of two or more cows within a span of two months. The excess was then used to make butter for which there was always a market among town people.

Milking of cows was by hand during the era of my youth, as milking machines were things only of vivid imagination. The practice was simple enough for a cow that had been ‘broke’, which meant that she had succumbed to the taking of milk following her first born. The procedure was to secure the mother in a stall with a measure of feed to occupy her attention during the milking process. Some cows with their new born were docile enough to allow milking without a big hullabaloo, but others would kick at the intruder for all of their worth. Among the latter group a ‘kicker’ would have to be used.

A ‘kicker’ was a short length of chain that was intertwined and secured between the two hind legs so that the cow would tend to lose her balance when she tried to kick. She soon learned that it was more convenient to let her milk be extracted than it was to right herself after listing. With time even the most obstinate cows could be taught to allow milk to be taken without fighting the process.

Following ‘freshening’ the calf would be separated from its mother except during two or three times during the day when it was allowed to take its fill. It would be sold at eight to ten weeks on the veal market. The income from the sale plus the added milk from its mother would be a double benefit to the household.

It is obvious from the appearance of cows in a feed lot that they are not the most sanitary creatures. Mud and other detritus would accumulate on the bag and teats. Thus, those body parts of milk production had to be cleaned before starting the extraction process. Even more important was the securing of the tail. Otherwise the switching of the appendage to ward off flies could leave dirt marks on the milker, and even pain when hit in the eye or other sensitive spot around the head with a dirt-clogged tail.

It is also pretty obvious that a calf could not be born without the presence of a male to form the union about nine months before the arrival of the newborn. In a farmer’s parlance the male was referred to as a bull, but in high society the term ‘gentleman cow’ could be heard. Today the consummation is largely done by artificial insemination but in our time it required the presence of a bull. Since our subsistence farm could not financially support a bull, the cow had to be taken to see a suitor when she was in ‘heat’. When that event occurred it was the responsibility for Jack and me to lead old bossy to the pasture of a neighbor who had sufficient cattle to support such a bovine. That event was always a trying experience because it involved leading the haltered cow over hill and dale to see a boy friend. After the service was completed the cow had to be returned to her home pasture. So often these events occurred at the most inopportune time, such as before school hours. But we survived the ordeal and lived to tell about it.

The milk from our cows, which was not consumed with the next meal, was stored in large containers in the spring house in the presence of cold running water. The process then was to allow the cream to rise to the top of the container from which it would be skimmed. The accumulation of cream was placed in a churn, a large porcelain upright container, and worked up and down with a wooden dasher. The process resulted in a portion of the cream being turned into a near-solid mass that was molded into butter. The liquid portion of the process was deemed buttermilk, which was drunk in the place of whole milk or it was further processed into cream cheese, which some people would label cottage cheese.

Cream cheese was made by placing the buttermilk on the wood-fired kitchen stove at low heat so that the liquid portion slowly evaporated, leaving the near-solid portion to form a white mass. Cream was then added to the white mass to form the delectable side dish that could be stored in the spring house along with butter, both of which had a much longer life span than raw milk.

With time our finances evolved to allow purchase of a separator. By pouring raw milk into a large container atop the apparatus and turning a crank handle the heavier portion of the milk (cream) would be separated from the lighter portion (milk). Today the milk portion would equate to the 2 percent milk that is available in grocery stores. Some of us disdain that substitute for whole milk by labeling it ‘near milk.’

Eventually electricity together with refrigerators came to our neighborhood, which obviated the necessity of a springhouse where milk and its products, together with other spoilable items, were kept. Those conveniences are deemed essential today, but we made do with the old process quite well, including consumption of non-pasteurized and non-homogenized products and lived to tell about it.

Ours was the good life. We just failed to realize it until reflecting on the days of yore. Cows, chickens, sheep, and hogs along with the produce from garden and meadow allowed us to thrive during the times of the