The Land and the People

By John W. Gordon

A fast moving yarn of the Cox Family and their Catskill Mountain farm on the eve of the agricultural industrial revolution. Well-developed characters take you through a year in the lives of three generations of the Cox family. . Family relationships are rich in detail, the civil war veteran, his father and founder of the family farm Grampa Hobie, the stay at home mother Vera, the rebellious eldest son and others.

Jack explores the issues of rural farm life in the late 19th century. life. Surprisingly similar to those of today they include Man vs Nature, Man vs Man, drought, blizzard, fire, and flood. Pre Woman Suffrage issues such as the right to vote and hold political office are dissected. Health issues of the time apply to the world of today. Post-traumatic stress syndrome and healthcare for the aging are among the health subjects brought to the reader.

Politics, community infrastructure, trade, transportation, and commerce are developed in gripping and believable detail. Introduction of immigrants challenging the status quo provide an unexpected story line and plot leaving the reader in suspense. Stay tuned for part 2, the conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504914451

John W. Gordon

Jack Gordon left Yale at 19 years old to enlist in the Canadian Armed forces. After training as a navigator-bombardier he deployed to the UK. Post Battle of Britain, he deployed to Egypt flying Wellington bombers in Montgomery's campaign against Rommel's Afrika Corp. Following Rommel's defeat he deployed to India serving under General Orde Wingate. In March 1944 he joined the USAAF 27th Troop Carrier Squadron. At the completion of his missions flying the "hump" in unarmed C-47s he was awarded the US Air Medal and the Distinguished Flying Cross. In 1945 he bought the historic David Williams farm (one of Major Andres captors preventing Benedict Arnolds betrayal of West Point) where he lives with his growing family of four generations.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The sun beat down unmercifully on the sultry August afternoon. It was Sunday and a roast chicken dinner, new potatoes, sweet corn with homemade butter and blackberry shortcake with heavy cream had brought Del Cox to a stage of extreme lassitude. Slowly he rocked on the porch of the two-family house, relaxed so completely that he slipped into a momentary doze, head fallen back against the well-worn cane of his creaky rocking chair.

After several minutes he came back to consciousness, concentrated to notice a small cloud of dust rising from the north on the turnpike from Middleburgh. His mind wandered back the best part of twenty years. Instead of a yellowish cloud, he visualized the red-brick dust of northern Virginia. In 1863 he’d been only a youth of seventeen when he’d walked through Middleburgh to Schoharie to enlist in the 134th New York State Volunteers, Schoharie’s Own.

Of New England stock Adelbert Cox was tall and lean, his muscles earned from a life of unceasing hard work in barns, fields and woods. His hands were heavy-veined and powerful from unending hours of milking cows. About to enter middle age the dark-complexioned man was capable of twelve to fourteen hours a day of the most arduous labor – pitching off hay, sawing wood on the end of a cross-cut saw or swinging a grass scythe in the mid-summer sun.

To the Town of Broome New Yorker, the cloud of dust brought back the feeling of the march. The hours of steady walking, the shifting and adjusting of rifle sling and pack straps. The ten minute breaks when a soldier could allow himself just a few sips of water even though he felt like draining the whole canteen. Twenty years ago it hadn’t been too bad by nearing forty now he sensed physically he couldn’t take it.

Some of his boyhood Schoharie County neighbors lay in parts of Virginia, Maryland or Pennsylvania. Others missed arms or legs. Annually they would attend the encampments in Schoharie on Memorial Day and discuss former commanders and shared experiences. The majority of survivors had returned to their native county and some areas carried names like Federal City in the Town of Broome or Patria in Richmondville.

The awakening Del was snapped back to reality by the sight of a dusty buggy, a spirited light driving horse with monogrammed and polished harness turning off the main road and heading up the lane toward the two-family, white, Cox farm house. It was a substantial building, recently completed, and intended to last for generations. The frame was of hand-hewn hemlock beams cut in the farm woodlot and fashioned by a skilled hewer who travelled from farm to farm. The beams and joins had been assembled horizontally on the ground and pulled to the vertical by teams of horses. The test was that the joints of each of the four sides met and could be locked together without adjustment by ashwood pins.

All the material, from fieldstone of the foundation to the shingles of the roof, was of local origin. The flat nails, the slaked lime for plaster and the window glass were produced nearby. Otherwise the investment was of family labor and neighborly cooperation. The sawed labor, hemlock for the rafters, pine for the siding and millwork, ash for the floor boards, had been cut in the family woods, teamed on sleighs in the winter to a water-powered saw mill.

Fully awake now Del placed his large heavily veined hands on the arms of his rocking chair and pushed himself stiffly to his feet. He walked down the porch to the screen door of the other half of the house, called in, Looks like Reverend Coons is comin’, Ma.

My God, from the porch Del could barely make out the grumpy voice of his father rising from the open door at the head of the cellar stairs complaining, Man can’t get no peace to take it easy on a Sabbath afternoon! Stooped by a lifetime of the heaviest farm labor, nearing 70 years old, Hobart Cox’s arthritic hands were brown, heavy veined, gnarled and powerful. His right hand held fast to the high, splintery railing to help each grunting steps up the cellar stairs. In his left he carefully balanced a glass of last year’s hard apple cider. The aging farmer’s hair was turning from the last shades of grey to pure white.

He’d opened his uncomfortable Sunday shirt and collar to reveal a weather-beaten, bronzed neck and throat.

At the top of the stairs, Hobie paused recovering from the effort of climbing, straightened as much as possible and savored a sip of the bracing, local brew. Here, he muttered, handing the diminishing glass to his wife Gertrude, hide this till the Domine’s gone. Thoughtfully the old man watched his wife automatically carry out his instructions, considered that his supply of cider was almost out before the apples were ripe, Gotta put down more this fall.

Might dry ain’t it, Reverend, Del walked down the porch steps and greeted. He looked toward the high hills to the west, Just wonderin’ if them thunderheads will make up and give us a shower. I’ll take yer horse and water him. Sure is fine lookin’ gelding.

Why, thank you, Adelbert. I always say, the Lord knows what we need and I’m sure he’ll send rain at the proper time. Dominie Coons could always put the best face on whatever situation arose. See the rest of the folks are in the parlor, guess I’ll join them. Coons gave the polished leather reins to Del. He removed his dark fedora hat, mopped his florid face with his handkerchief, and patted the top of his head, reassuring himself that long brown hair covered an incipient balding spot. With a deep breath the darkly clad minister heaved himself up from the cushioned buggy seat and cautiously lowered a foot to make contact with the powder-like dust of the ground. When he straightened, the top of the man-of God’s head reached only as high as Del’s nose. Adjusting his suspenders to bring his trousers’ waist band to cover an expanding stomach, the reverend glanced past the younger farmer, fanned with his hat and started for the porch.

Unhooking the fancy gelding, the thought occurred to Del, man with education could find a reason for anything, just like Lawyer Trafford down in Schoharie. All Del knew was pasture was all burnt up in the rainless August. Buckwheat was drying up, oats were light, the leaves of corn plants shriveling and rolling up, the hay mows weren’t anywhere near full. Cows were shrinking fast on their milk and they’d probably have to sell off some cattle in the fall when the price was low. Even the hop crop looked poor and the vines hasn’t climbed the poles and flowered the way they ought to. Leading the light horse to the water trough he watched a cloud of flies buzz up. Anyway, he mumbled to himself, them flies doin’ good in this weather.

As a gangling youth, Del had gotten though the eighth grade at the one-room schoolhouse over on turnpike. The lady had taught her students to read, write and what he liked most of all, to cipher. He’d always been quicker than most with his sums and seldom made a mistake. Quick with figures still didn’t explain how the hot, dry summer provided by the Lord was an advantage to the local farmers. Del waited for the gelding to have his fill at the horse trough and then led him into the stable to tie in an empty stall.

Cogitation on the Lord’s provisions hadn’t given Del any solution for the dry weather but reverence for the man of the cloth was so ingrained that it didn’t occur to him to pursue the subject. Stepping into the darkened, cooler parlor, he was unnoticing of the main feature of the room. At this season of the year the large, black Kalamazoo wood stove seemed out of place. It sat on a shiny fire-retardant mat. Stove blacking gave it a dark luster and the nickel sections were well shined. The stove was a monument to and a reminder of the extremes of weather of mountainous Central New York State. In the latter part of the summer, the humid heat was almost tropical. Three months later, the trees would be bare, the ground brown and a cold northerly wind spitting snow flurries. Survival of near Arctic climate would be the main concern of both humans and animals. Wordlessly, Del seated himself and listened to the conversation in the cooler parlor.

Since Hobie, his father, was one of the elders of the church in Franklinton, the object of the pastor’s visit was more than social or religious. There were several mundane subjects to which the Reverend wanted to get around. First, the elders should consider that a special collection be made for the money to buy paint for both the church and the parish house. Opening his dark coat and fingering his gold watch chain, Coons intimated, Since this is both a local and country-wide election year, he smiled ingratiatingly at Gertrude, maybe the ladies of the church should consider a supper for the purpose of raising paint money. Always a good turnout in the last part of October. He didn’t need to mention the needs of aspiring politicians to cultivate the voters. The seed was left to germinate.

Now Coons took a deep breath, turned toward the Elder Cox. The second purpose of his visit was even more delicate and the Rev. Coons began a considerable effort to prepare his ground thoroughly before planting the next seed. The farmers had had several prosperous years.

Prices at the Franklinton store were rising, his family was growing and the time seemed to be at hand for the congregation to show its gratitude for all these favors of the Lord by giving the Lord’s servant, namely the Reverend Coons, and increase in his yearly $200.00 salary.

Sitting in the cool parlor, Del had been so carried along with the smooth logic and easy speech of the Reverend that he came up short when he realized the object of the visit. His first reaction was: we work hard for what get, men, women and children. It wasn’t really his place to speak up not being one of the elders but he was well aware of how Hobie would react to such a proposition. All the elders of the church were selected not only as upright pillars of the community but as practitioners’ of thrift who laid away a little for a rainy day.

Well, Hobie drawled, a gnarled hand quivering slightly, he’d always found that beating around the bush in money matters was better than direct approach, guess it’ll have to be took up with the elders. ’Course, things don’t look too good this year. Lotta people gonna be squeezin’ come tax time. He fell silent, creased bronzed face a dark cloud.

Yes, I think the elders should give it serious consideration and I’m sure that all of you will be as generous as possible. Coons knew better than to approach his flinty parishioners with a hard sell. He turned again to Gert, smoothed his brown hair over the growing bald spot with an uncalloused hand and reemphasized how opportune this fall would be for a dinner and what county-wide reputation their food and cake sales had.

The fortyish Dominie made the effort to push himself from a wooden chair. With his messages delivered, Reverend Coons fished from a vest pocket his large gilded watch. Well, folks, he pocketed the watch, good to visit with all the Coxes. Guess I’d better be on my way to see elder Myron Becker before chore time.

Del rose and went out into the August heat to hook up the spirited gelding. Huh, he mumbled to himself while he backed the animal between the shafts of the buggy, gonna be no talkin’ to Pa tonight. He’ll be burnin’ when he starts to think of givin’ the Dominie a raise. It’s lucky I got eight of the cows, my own team and wagon and fifteen sheep. Got my own money comin’ in and the old man can’t say nothin’ ’bout what I do with it.

Del’s anticipation of his father’s reaction was absolutely accurate. As soon as the buggy was out of earshot, the stooped farmer started limping up and down the porch. His first demand, Git my cider, Gert, was immediately met. He’d never been able to stand straight since he severely twisted his ankle and wrenched his back carrying that heavy stone thirty years ago. The deeply seemed and weathered face and neck were flushed. The powerful, heavy-veined and calloused hands, accustomed to infinite hours of using every kind of farm tool – grass scythe, grain cradle, pitch fork, dung shovel, crosscut saw as well as unending hours of milking – twitched.

The self-made farmer began his familiar oration. The family having heard it many times before tried to make themselves as scarce as possible. Come into this country from down Kingston way when I was 12 years old. Hired out to old man Tallerday for $4 a month and keep. Slept on straw in a loft over the old wood shed. Worked 14 hours a day for the old skinflint and half starved to death. Bought this place when I was 20 years old from his widow, Sina, with the $100 I’d saved up. Hobie fueled himself with a deep draught of cider, Took me another 15 years to pay off the mortgage, $400. Lotta money back in them days. Things were lean then. We wintered on taters and whatever game I could git. Gert and I dried apples on the fire to sell. Couldn’t afford to eat none ourselves. Had to sell everythin’ we growed. Momentarily he recognized his older son. You was jest a boy then Del but ya was a big help.

Now, this here Dominie, Hobie momentarily came to a halt in his limping walk up and down the porch, don’t know what hard times is! If ya ain’t got the money, ya do without. That’s the way it’s always been. Hobie paused, contrasted himself with the man of the cloth. I got money in the bank and a mortgage on the Say brook place. I saved that money. Don’t see why the farmers should pay him more than he’s getting’ just fer his fancy education. Hobie slowed his compulsive walk for more cider. I only had two years of schoolin’ but I can cipher better in my head and I can read the paper once a week. Man don’t need all that book business. He jest needs to be strong, work hard, spend nights restin’ so he can be ready to start at daybreak the next day…ain’t that right Gertie?

Must be, if you say so, Hobie, his toil-worn wife agreed through the screen door from the kitchen. In cotton dress and stockings, high black shoes Gertrude Cox listened patiently. Her hair was heavily grey. Like his, her hands were heavily veined and powerful from the incessant round of laborious manual jobs that were necessary to keep her house running and to help with the farm work. Stoking wood stoves, maintaining a vegetable garden, feeding the chickens, milking cows, the multitudinous chores in addition to child bearing and other wifely duties had failed to reduce her to a physical wreck but made her strong to meet whatever crisis or disaster came.

Del had never interrupted his father’s ramblings before. Very rarely did he challenge the domineering, self-made man’s opinions. Being in the midst of the responsibility for an ever-increasing family himself, he looked up from his cane rocker, ventured, Look, Pa, the man’s right. Prices are going’ up. Even though this don’t look like much of a year, everybody can still afford to help the Dominie out. He’s a good pastor and I like him. He rocked and gazed steadily at his father.

Hobie turned in amazement at a contrary opinion on his own front porch. Who’d this young fellow think he was? Then the reality came through. He was too old, bent over with rheumatism to run the farm alone. Maybe his son was right. Everything cost more. If they wanted to keep a good pastor, they’d have to pay him more.

Anyway, continued Del, the man has got an education and I like to talk to him. He knows about places that I have never been and people all over the world. I been to Virginny, marched all over it and up into Pennsylvania. Marched in the big parade in Washington and another in New York but I ain’t seen very much. Reverend can tell me about other countries and peoples; sez someday he’ll lend me a book about all them places.

Listen son, Hobie became a little anxious that perhaps his main source of labor was becoming restless, ya got everythin’ ya need right here on the farm. New house, wife and family, we can grow up everthin’ we need to eat. Can git along without buyin’ it if we really have to. Don’t worry about no book learnin’, just stick to the farm. This place is built up pretty good. Man can live good here and still have a little extry to save.

I ain’t got no book learnin, the old man launched into his peroration, read the paper once a week but I’m worth a lot more than that smooth-talkin’ Dominie. You know the agreement, you and Vera take care of me and Gert and ya git the farm free and clear. Gotta be fair. I’m leavin’ a little money to your brother and sister but you and Vera take care of us and you’ll get the big thing. Lawyer Trafford got all the papers down in Schoharie; it’s all done legal-like.

Yes, Pa, I know and you know we’ll do right by you and Ma. No need to worry ya can trust us. I know my brother Ben is busy teamin’ it to Catskill on the turnpike. Don’t want no part of the farm and all the hard work. Sister Katie’s happy with her family up on East Hill. Guess they’re doin’ all right. Del stopped rocking, stiffened in his chair justifying himself as his parent’s main inheritor.

Listen son, Hobie confided for the thousandth time the secret of his success, ain’t no way of gittin’ ahead without workin’. Just keep yer nose to the grindstone and ya’ll do good like me. That advice concluded, the old man remembered the half glass of cider in his hand, compulsively took a long draught.

Hobie eased himself into his favorite cane rocker, looked at the familiar view from his front porch. Mentally he congratulated himself, relaxed in the pleasant enjoyment of totaling up the values of his half century of toil and self-denial. The fields, although brown from lack of rain, were carefully mowed. Along the stonewalls, many of which he had helped to lay, all the brush had been cut. They were straight and immediately repaired if they should fall down. The wooden stake and rider fences were also well maintained. Cox’s cattle never got out. Nobody ever knocked on his door to complain about the damage his cows had done to their crops and to demand payment.

His winter wood was split, stacked and seasoned behind the house. Potato vines were dying and they’d be ready to dig soon. Looked like the mainstay of their winter diet would see them though even with the growing family. Behind the house Hobie could hear the pigs squalling. Be ready to butcher around the first hard frost. Nice and fat. Make plenty of fat-back for cold winter mornings. His need for material security was reassured.

Oats looked light. With two teams and a driving horse might have to buy some this fall. Gotta gave oats fer the horse if we’re gonna get our work done on time, he mumbled. Maybe, the old farmer thought, he ought to look around to buy some right after thrashin’, be cheapest then. So dry…corn for the hogs and chickens probably be poor, that didn’t matter so much. Well, tomorrow they’d start cradling the oats; Hardenburgh boys were comin’. They owed him work, wouldn’t cost no cash. He’d probably be able to keep up swinging the heavy grain cradle for a few hours but when it got hot in the middle of the day he’d give out. By God, when he was young he’d have kept goin’ till they all fell down, ‘cludin’ Del! Men just wasn’t what they usta be, too many new-fangled machines. Hear they even got a machine that cuts the grain and binds the bundles. All men have to do is set up the shocks in the fields. Machine costs over two hundred dollars. Sure can hire a lot of men to cradle grain for two hundred dollars. Hobie tipped the glass to drain the last of his cider, rocker slowly, savored the stinging drink.

The inventory of his resources turned to the field over to the west that seemed almost a snow-white. He watched the swarms of bees flying over a path from their hive to wear there was an incessant hum as they pollinated the white flowers of the board-leafed buckwheat plants. Hope we don’t git no frost to blast the buckwheat ’fore we git around to cradle it, Hobie mumbled to no one in particular. Oughta be able to reap enough grain to pay taxes and have plenty left over to have ground for flour. He thought of the heavy buckwheat cakes with maple syrup and salt butter. That would line a man’s stomach so he could work all day in the woods with axe or crosscut saw.

He knew the wood was seasoning up at the saphouse to boil down next spring’s syrup. By God, he stiffened, offended at the falling market, if he couldn’t get fifty cents a gallon for it, he wouldn’t sell his syrup! Too many people workin’ in the sugarbush nowadays. The final crop he surveyed was his two acre hopyard. Always did it just like old man Tallerday showed him. Now the vines were running up the long poles. The fragrant flowers were in bloom. Always liked the way his hands smelled after they’d been picking hops. Price was good this year: $0.60 to $0.70 a pound. If the dry weather hadn’t cut the crop too much, he’d really make money. After they were dried, maybe he’d hire Ben to team ’em down the turnpike to Catskill. Got a lot better price that way than sellin’ ’em to some dealer around here. Goin’ to have to get the hop house cleaned out first rainy day come along.

A rehearsal of his assets always gave Hobart Cox a warm feeling. ’Course his cows were another big money maker. Sold his butterfat at the creamery in Franklinton. Left a lot of skim milk to feed to the calves and pigs. Only trouble, with pasture all burned up the cows would be going dry pretty soon. Then no milk till March or April when the calves started to come again. Price of butterfat already over $0.30 a

pound. A farmer had plenty of ways to make money. What did a man need a lot of books fer? Just keep yer nose to the grindstone. That’s the way it had always been and the way he’d always done it.

Hobie picked up the empty glass. Sure wish there was more. He tipped it up to drain the last dregs. It reminded him that the apples hung heavy on the trees, Be able to put down plenty this year. Now he began to evaluate the wool and lamb values of his sheep. He savored the last of the stinging taste still in his mouth.

CHAPTER 2

Del broke into his father’s pleasant reverie, Pa, time to git the cows. I’ll send Marty down to open the barway. I put the pails down in the stable this morning. Separator’s all together too. No response was needed to this preparation for the twice daily routine.

Marty, a tall, gangling youth almost fourteen, whistled toward the porch. This brought forth a medium-sized dog that showed considerable Border Collie in his make-up. Red tongue unraveled to its fullest extent, the longhaired animal suffered from the traditional August dog days.’ A shake of dust from his long black hair, the cowdog followed through the barnyard. Get ’em, Shep, get ’em!" the boy took down the long wooden poles of the barway which made the pasture gate.

Panting at a dispirited dog trot, Shep made it up to a shale knoll where he knew the cows would be in the shade of a clump of stunted oak trees, cooled by whatever slight breeze might be stirring on this debilitating day. The large animals stood nose to tail, swishing to ward off the flies which buzzed in droves. From the constant pummeling of their cloven hooves the area was devoid of grass, the many years of accumulation of manure had turned to a dry dust except for recent liquid, green additions. The first old cows raised their ears, came alert. Here were two instinctive ancient enemies, both domesticated by man, their natural instincts put to his use. They were successful species who had been able to subordinate and adapt themselves to human need.

When the dog started to cows out from the shade, suddenly a first-calk heifer raised her tail vertically, broke into a dead run for the barnyard. Bot flies really botherin’ today, Marty muttered. Now the tails of all twenty-two head rose. Downhill they made for the barn outpaced by the heifer but all at the best speed they could muster.

After a hundred yards, the older cows quickly slowed to a walk. Within minutes the herd was locked in the barnyard, pushing and shoving to get to the water through.

Damn! Lucky if one of ’em don’t break a leg steppin’ in a woodchuck hole! The old famer had stood with his older son at the barnyard fence; watched uneasily, relaxed when the last of the gate bars went up. Look at them first and second calf heifers, Del, father and son started toward the stable, bigger bags and heavier than their mothers. Had to pay the cattle-dealer Theron VanZandt fifteen dollars for that bull when he was just a calf. Hobie nodded in self-congratulation, Guess I made my money back already." Proudly, the old farmer surveyed his herd.

Pa, ya done right buyin’ that bull, Del agreed, fat test on the cream is up too. Maybe we oughta grind some grain to feed and keep ’em milkin’ longer. Del brushed at a diving bot fly, led into the stable. They say butter’s goin’ to thirty three cents a pound. Should be able to make some money if we can keep ’em from goin’ dry. Ain’t much pasture left except down in that wet swale, need all the hay we got fer winter.

Look, son, Hobie was primed for another of his lectures on farm economics, "gotta grow everythin’ we need right here on the farm. Can’t buy nothin’ we really don’t need. Grass will come green again in the spring and the cows will flesh u again; we’ll have a few corn stalks to feed but nothin’ else till the snow flies.

Now the door to the cow stable was opened and the animals pushed and jostled to get in and escape the heat and the buzzing bot flies. There was the click of the latches of the wooden stanchions securing the red necks.

Except for hardware and windows, the materials of the stable were the products of the farm woodlot. The floor was of iron-hard elm lumber, the stanchions and building of heavy hemlock timber. Overhead were hand-hewn beams a foot square, supporting the load of a mow of sweet-smelling, meadow hay. The massiveness of the construction gave an indication of the wealth of the renewable natural resources of the farm woodlot. Only door latches, hinges and nails were of wrought iron fashioned at the local blacksmith shop. Painted with whitewash the stable was, in effect, a small factory. The raw material entering the cow’s mouth, either in pasture or in the manager in front of her,

processed through the rumen. The waste excreted in the gutter and the manufactured product, steaming white milk, drawn by hand from the cow’s udder.

Quickly, the labor force expanded. Besides the men and Marty, Vera appeared followed by Donnie her twelve-year old second son. In spite of not yet reaching his growth spurt, from the constant exercise of milking, the boy’s hands were already large, heavily veined and muscled.

Sure do like them Red Durham cattle, Hobie repeated. Pail in one hand, three-legged milk stool in the other, the old farmer pushed between two of the closely stanchioned cows and sat down. Here now, he grabbed a swishing tail which had almost taken his cap off, clamped the long, coarse hairs of the switch under his knee between his thigh and calf. Without being conscious of making a physical effort, Hobie drew the first streams of warm, white liquid rattling onto the bottom of his pail, which he held between his legs. The length of the stable were the only sounds were the constant rumination of the cows, milk being dumped into ten-gallon steel cans and the milkers moved from one cow to the next.

Come on, Tommy, Hobie called to the sleek, orange farm tomcat who’d confidently entered the increasingly fetid stable, stood swishing his tail. From his stool the old man shot a stream of warm milk toward the half pet. there ya be, he half-laughed at the cat. Peevishly, Tommy licked off and smoothed his wet fur. Now the cat moved closer to the sitting milker, rose up on his haunches and opened his mouth to receive a squirt of warm milk.

Whadda ya spoil that car fer, Pa? Del rose, poured some milk in a dish for a throng of this-year’s half-grown kittens and several of their mothers, Hobie didn’t bother to reply.

Listen, Del, Hobie scraped some liquid green manure into the gutter as the last of the animals passed out the stable door, almost time to turn the bull out. Wanta have calves comin’ soon as the weather starts to warm up in March. Plenty of skim milk then. Gonna keep raisin’ all the heifer calves we get. Gotta sell them three old cows this fall when cattle dealer Van Zandt comes around. Suppose he’ll be all full of stores about how bad the market is and only want to give me twenty-five dollars a heard for ’em? The old man shook his head and cogitated, He must be getting’ rich off the farmers. Managed to get him up five dollars last year. Gonna be an awful job in this dry year.

With a hand on the railing, Hobie half mounted, half pulled himself up the porch steps. He paused on the top step, listened to the hum of the large DeLaval cream separator coming from Del and Vera’s kitchen. Marty cranked the centrifugal machine steadily while Del poured warm milk into the large metal bowl on the top. From one spout poured a stream of yellowish rice cream into a ten gallon can. From another large volume of bluish skim milk spurted into pails.

Guess that’s it, son, Del emptied the last pail of the evening’s milk into the bowl, waited for the final streams of cream and skim to diminish to nothing. Perspiration heavy on his forehead, Marty let up from the regular turning of the handle and wiped his face.

You take two pails of skim down to the hogs. I’ll put the cream can back in the spring to cool, Del pushed the top on tight. The order was so routine that he didn’t glance to see if his son understood or started to obey it. I’ll bring down the corn meal and the rest of the skim in a few minutes. Del heaved up the ten gallon steal can of cream.

Boy, Marty dumped the first two pails in the wooden trough, smiled, watching the mud-caked pigs fighting, squealing greedily each trying to get the largest share. Sure wish I growed as fast as them hogs. He laughed when a half-grown cockerel tried to steal a drink of the warm milk, barely escaped the angry thrust of a barrow to catch and devour him. Marty held the second pail of skim out of reach of the four squealing animals, teased above the empty trough with the food.

What’s the matter with them pigs? Del yelled from the springhouse, his attention turned from easing the steel can into the cooling water of the stoned-up vat.

Quickly the youth poured the second pail into the trough, watched the pink noses submerge and compulsively sucking up the skim milk. From enjoying the angry struggling of the animals the adolescent subsided into speculation and observation. In the few short months since spring, from a weight of fifteen or twenty pounds, the piglets had increased to over two hundred. Ya know, Pa, the thirteen year old turned in the fading light toward the approaching silhouette, If people growed like pigs, think of how big I’d be.

Well, they don’t. Del was hot and tired and in no mood for such fantasies, Here take the pails up to yer mother to wash soon as I get the swill fed.

Approaching the porch, Del wiped the sweat from his forehead. Hobie stood surveying the unclouded sky, Days gettin’ shorter quick now, the old farmer ruminated while he made his nightly weather forecast. Gonna be a heavy dew tonight. Father and son became conscious of the first cooling evening air. Have to wait till eleven o’clock ’fore we can start cradlin’ oats tomorrow. He continued his searching of the hazy sky, unnoticing of the sunlight creeping up and leaving the high hills to the east. Glad I told them two Hardenburgh boys not to come too early. Don’t want ’em just settlin’ around to pay off the work they owe me. He recognized his son who had stood patiently waiting for the old man’s weather ritual to end. Ya got them cradle blades all honed up and everythin’ ready, Del?

Pa, Del answered, offended, ya know I always git everythin’ ready. Hobie didn’t reply. It was hard for him to realize others were capable of carrying out the farm routine. To change the subject, as he started up the porch steps he finished, Weather looks good. Each family went to its own side of the house for supper.

The shadows of the trees and buildings lengthened and then disappeared. Twilight quickly followed across the valley from east to west. Soon the heat for the wood cookstoves drove the people from both sides of the house back to the front porch. In the gathering dusk, small patches of ground fog began to form in hollows and depressions. A deep red, the moon rose almost full. It was so brilliant that it cast shadows. In the silvery light with the falling dew, the countryside took on a snow-like glisten.

In the moonlight Del turned toward the night pasture. From his cane rocker he could see the cattle unbothered by flies and insects, industriously nub on what little remained of the parched grass. Life seemed secure. One by one the different generations rose to retire. No one needed to be reminded of the seriousness of the job and exertions scheduled for tomorrow. One by one the kerosene lamps were blown out. Both sides of the house grew silent. Occasionally a cat stalked. On the limb of a tree behind the house, a chicken adjusted itself and clucked on its roost. Shep luxuriated, stretched out in the dooryard. There was only a slight rustling of leaves in the changing shadows of the moon. From the hill pasture far above came the distant blat of a ewe calling her lamb

CHAPTER 3

In the east the morning star still shone brilliantly. In the first lightening of daybreak, it was barely possible to make out the three stars of Orion’s belt, the rising constellation which would dominate the winter heavens. It seemed almost as though a light rain had fallen the grass was so drenched with heavy dew. With the reddening eastern sky the first to rise was Gertrude Cox. Kindling, paper and several sticks of well-seasoned birchwood in hand, the greying farm wife was momentarily jerked up short. She put an arthritic hand to her abdomen, grimaced putting down any thought of surrendering herself to self-pity or weakness. She straightened to ease herself. Uh, she resumed laying the fire to cook breakfast. Soon a column of blue smoke rose straight from the red brick chimney.

Wordlessly, still fuzzy with sleep, father and son, each carrying a conglomeration of pails and cream cans, appeared on the porch. Rapidly a repetition of the evening chores took place. Both sides of the house were alive. From the two kitchens came the clash of metal lids replaced on the woodstoves and utensils being moved about. Evie Mae, Vera called her seven year old daughter, throw the corn out fer the chickens. The poultry came at a flapping run from their daylight harvesting of insects.

Don’t wanna feed them horses too much grain this morning, Del, Hobie mumbled as they entered the horse stable. Not gonna use ’em much today, could get the blackwater. They both looked with critical and solicitous eyes at the four powerful draft horses and the smaller driving mare. The major source of farm power, the animals were too essential, too valuable to be allowed loose at pasture but were confined in individual stalls. Just give ’em a few handfuls of oats, Del, while steel-shod hooves resounded on the wooden floor, the old man stood admiring and evaluating the sleek, curried beasts.

By God, Del, while Hobie’s eyes were fixed on the animals, he was unnoticing of his son hanging up a pitch fork with which he’d just pushed the morning feeding of hay down a chute from the mow, that team ya raised up and broke is lookin’ real good. Worth a lotta money if ya wanna sell ’em!

Now, Pa, Del answered, wiping the first day’s beads of sweat from his forehead, "like to have a little somethin’ of my own. Then Katie and Ben can’t complain so much when me and Vera git the farm.

Time for breakfast, Hobie avoided the subject. The two Coxes turned for the house.

Monday morning, as soon as he’d finished his coffee, the young farmer hooked up his spirited team, backed the light wagon up to the springhouse door. Water at forty five or fifty degrees always bubbled up the year round into the stoned up vat. Del felt good when a little splashed up on his hands, cooling him as he pulled the three silvery cream cans out. Spring half makes a farm, Del mumbled to himself, lifting the cans onto the wagon bed. Still runnin’ good, he watched the overflow drain into the wooden pipe which they had rigged up to supply the trough in the barnyard. Springs dried up some places, he thought, remembered that down in the Middleburgh they had ice houses but none around here.

Can we go, Pa, can we go? Del’s older sons ran out.

Bring yer sister, too, Del pulled his young team to a stop. No time to go to the store today, gotta git right back.

Evie Mae, Evie Mae, you can go to the creamery, too! The flaxen haired girl of seven ran out barefoot and jumped on the back of the wagon between her older brothers, Marty and Donnie.

The young team, well rested, pulling a light load settled willingly into their collars and the wagon started off at a fast trot. Like his father, Del reveled in pride of ownership. Pass neighboring farms, he waved and shouted greetings to the proprietors and their wives. He enjoyed the looks of appreciation.

In spite of the dust, the half hour drive was relaxation. When the rig turned onto the turnpike, already two wagons waited to unload their cans of cream. Hear you boys are cradlin’ oats today, the farmer in the wagon ahead called back. Earthy joshing and neighborly gossip was the mainstay of rural conversation.

Yep, Del agreed, holding the leather lines slackly in his hands.

Musta got yer oats in around the Fourth of July, the man called back and laughed, we’re almost done. Oats real heavy too!

Del had never been quick, always thought of a reply later. Those sloughters, he thought to himself, always braggin’ never half do their work. Bringin’ two cans to creamery when they could easy get it all in one, I’ll fix him. Hey, Newt, he yelled ahead, ya need help liftin’ them heavy cans?" The butter maker and his helper laughed, enjoying seeing Newt’s pretensions punctured. They chuckled when Newt drove away without looking over his shoulder.

Del watched closely the test and the weight of the heavy, rich cream. Gotta git back, boys, no time to talk today, he said as he swung the cans of buttermilk onto the wagon bed.

Pa, I want some licorice, Evie Mae began to holler when they passed the store.

No time for that today, little girl, her father replied matter-of-factly. She subsided, knowing that neither tantrum or coaxing would gain her anything.

CHAPTER 4

Hobie’s toil-bent body leaned over a brown calloused hand stripped along an oat stem, testing. Still some dew left, the sixtyish farmer looked up meeting the eyes of the first one and then the other of the muscular, blonde Hardenburgh. Not anticipating any dispute of his judgment, he continued, Too damp yet, start to mildew, ’bout another half hour. He balanced the loss of man hours against the spoilage of his grain and shrugged, You boys might as well set, we’ll make it up later.

The older Hardneburg judged the field critically, Looks like ya done a good job pickin’ the stone, Hobie.

Always do, young man! The tone of the reply conveyed the offense that the Cox family might be the least slipshod in its work. And I’m a-gonna tell ya one thing right now, young fella, Hobie fingered the scythe-like, knife sharp grain-cradle blade. Ya can swing right down close and ya don’t need to be afraid of nickin’ yer blade! The assertion of how he wanted his standing grain harvested reinforced his sense of authority. He couldn’t help himself from adding, If I was forty years younger, I’d make ya all sweat! From the side of the field of ripe oats he looked up at his son, Del, striding up the road followed by his two grandsons.

Good and sharp, Del, in the intensifying morning sun he tested his blade again, then felt another of the long yellow stalks, the kernels heavy with white goodness. Guess we can git goin’ now. He nodded to Del to lead off with his cradle in the first swath around the standing grain. I’ll keep up, don’t worry about me. To reassure his sense of self-worth he finished, ought to be able to keep goin’ till noon.

Through the mind of the old farmer flowed many memories. He remembered cradling behind old man Tallerday when he was only thirteen. By the time he was sixteen, nobody on the farm could keep up to him. His arms were hard as steel. His chest and back muscles were hard as field stone. He could work all day, walk to Franklinton after chores in the evening to set in front of the stores and talk with the other boys.

Now he knew that a couple of times around the lot and his back would ache. Never been the same since he’d tripped carrying that big stone years ago. He’d have to straighten up slowly. Before noon his arms would feel like he could hardly move them but he’d keep going. By then Del would be coming up behind the next time around, catching up to him on the swaths around the standing grain. His son would urge, Pa, take it easy, me and the boys are doin’ good. Ya don’t need to kill yerself! By God, he’d keep goin’ till noon, show these young bucks how a real man could work.

The shirts of all the men were soaked. Sweat ran down their faces and off the ends of their noses. They couldn’t take a hand off the grain cradle handle, wipe it off. Only an occasional refreshing break for a little cider, otherwise the four men kept going with the mechanical regularity of machines. Soon Hobie’s grandsons, Marty and Donnie, started tying the bundle of grain, setting them in shocks.

Muscles hardened from a lifetime of repetitious toil, Del and the Hardenburgh moved ahead step by step, arms swinging rhythmically laying the yellow stalks and grain in piles to be tied and set up. For the three men in their prime, the labor was discomfort but not agony. For the old farmer only stubbornness drove him. Soon he began to see black spots in front of his eyes. He stumbled and the steel blade of his cradle nicked a stone on the ground. Furtively he glanced around. No one had noticed. He’d drive himself to make it till noontime. He felt dizzy. Del noticed it.

Look, Pa, take a rest on the stonewall, his son urged. You’ll be the richest man in the cemetery if ya don’t! I tell ya, boys and me are makin’ good time. We’ll be half done by tonight. Look, ya nicked yer blade! I ain’t got time to hone it now. Go ahead and sit down!"

Admitting only to himself the logic of the argument, Hobie silently picked up the fifteen pound grain cradle and, without looking, walked over to the stonewall. The others kept their eyes lowered to their tasks. Nobody wanted to rub in the old man’s inability to sustain labor in which he’d previously gloried.

Approaching its zenith, the sun burned fiercely. None of the cradlers wanted to show how desperately they waited for noontime break. Clang! Through the breezeless humidity, the bell on the top of the woodshed rang out. Cradles were carefully hung on the branches of the trees to preserve the edges. With anticipation, men and boys turned toward the white painted homestead. A farm dinner when men were changing work was not just a question of stuffing calories into the human machine. It was a social event at which the culinary skill of the farmer’s wife was displayed for the neighbors in addition to her industry in keeping house.

The men, led by Hobie, repaired to the horse trough where a tin basin, bar of soap, a towel and a comb had been laid out. As host, the old farmer washed his hands and face, wet down his hair, and combed it. Throwing away the dirty water, he turned to the older Handenburg boy, invited, Here, Zeke, you go next. The ritual was repeated until everyone had used the facilities.

As proprietor, Hobie led the way to the house. The combined efforts of the farmer’s wife and her daughter-in-law, Vera, had gone into the preparation of the single meal for the men who seated themselves wordlessly. The table was a tribute to the abundance and husbandry of the farm. Mounds of mashed potatoes to be covered with gravy accompanied the chicken, vegetables in season from the garden. The beverage was purchased, coffee. When the cradlers sat back, their plates cleared, Hobie’s wife, Gertrude, produced a blackberry pie, then another of early apples. Silently she served the workers from the fields. She knew what was served and in what quantities would quickly circulate around the neighboring farms.

Relaxed and replenished, the conversation centered on subjects of local interest: the most important to all farmers, the weather and its effects on crops, animals, and ultimately pocketbooks. As usual, Hobie felt that experience and longevity had given him a special insight into farm economics. He announced, Well, man who’s got enough hay and feed will make money. Old Tallerday used to say, ‘Dry year will scare the farmers to death. Wet year, good crops, they’ll go broke!’ Too much of everythin’ around. I’ve watched it and the old tightwad was right. Turning to Zeke, he asked, Yer Pa got enough hay and grain to get through?

Pa sez, the young man answered, we’ll probably have enough to git through. Gonna have to sell off some cows and maybe a couple of heifers.

Hobie sensed distress selling, possibly a bargain. Tell yer Pa I could probably do better for him on the heifers than any of them cattle-dealers. Ya know them tightwads won’t pay nothin’ if they think ya gotta sell. I gotta sell three cows and it’s an awful job to git anybody to pay near what they’re worth this fall. Don’t fergit to tell yer Pa, I’ll do better’n anybody else around. To himself the old man ruminated, Ain’t fergot how to buy and sell cattle yet! Zeke nodded but evaded committing himself any further on such a touchy subject. He’d probably said too much already. But old Hobie was probably right, cattle dealers would have it all their own way in a dry fall.

Now the old farmer rose and the men followed him out to spend the rest their hour’s nooning on the cooler porch. Gert and Vera surveyed the remains of their morning’s labor. Sure looks like they liked it, Vera concluded to her mother-in-law, brushing back a wisp of perspiration soaked hair from her forehead. Not much left fer us, just a few ‘taters, chicken and gravy just about gone. Not many of them buttered carrots either. They cleaned up yer bread pretty good too, Gert. They both sat down to do the best they could with the remnants. Vera called her daughter, Evie Mae, to bring the two-year-old baby Harold. Marty and Donnie, having been accepted into the world of men, sat on the porch step listening quietly but attentively to the conversation.

Sure is a smart young team ya got there, Del, one of the Hardenburgh commented appreciatively. Ever think of enterin’ ’em in the horse pull at the fair?

Naw, too busy, ‘least fer this year, Del fanned with his straw hat.

Now Zeke turned to a more delicate subject which would increase in both interest and intensity as fall wore on. Goin’ to caucus this year, Hobie?

The old man immediately turned cautious. Although he’d never held political office in his life, too much reading and writing, he’d been the Republican Town Committeeman for many years. This had involved him in both the selection of candidates for office and the dispensation of whatever few jobs town or county patronage generated, Ain’t missed a caucus fer forty years and I don’t intend to start now! Guess Del and me will both go. He pulled out the large gold watch he’d bought thirty years ago at Stevenson’s Jewelry store in Middleburgh, One o’clock, boys, better get back to it if we’re gonna git done by tomorrow night.

The day’s heat was approaching its maximum as they picked up their hats and descended the porch steps. Zeke regretted that he’d mentioned politics. If he’d just left the old man alone, they might have had a few more minutes in the shade. The sun was brutal. In the dry dust each footstep kicked up a miniature cloud. All animal life, wild and domestic, seemed to have concluded that exertion at this time of day was not only foolhardy but suicidal. Occasionally there was the shrill whine of the locust.

Look, Pa, Del reasoned as they unhooked their grain cradles from the tree limbs, you help the boys set up bundles of oats. We can have it half done by chore time, easy.

Whadda ya think I am, boy? Hobie bridled at being relegated to such a low level job but finally accepted with, Well, if ya get behind I’ll help ya catch up! His pride satisfied, he stooped over, picked up a bundle, knotted a strand of straw around it. The cradlers braced themselves for a backbreaking afternoon, began their slow, rhythmic trips around the standing grain. Only occasional stops at the cider jug interrupted their progress. Sweat soaked their clothing, rolled off their foreheads, arms and shoulders ached but by the time the sun was falling toward the western hills, the field presented a greatly changed aspect.

Instead of looking at the lines of windrowed grain shocks, Hobie went to the edge of the unmowed, standing grain. From there the old farmer calculated where the center of the field he’d worked for half a century was. Well, boys, he announced, ya done good. Always say one third into the lot is half done. Every time around now yer trip gets shorter. Pretty good job of mowin’ too, oughta go easier tomorrow.

Del and the Hardenburgh were too hot, wet and thirsty to care. Del opened his shirt and fanned with his straw hat, mumbled to his sons, You boys git the cows, we’ll do chores in a little while.

It was fifteen minutes later when Zeke stood up, hung his cradle in the branch of a tree and said, Be around a little earlier in the morning, Del, gotta give that blade a good honin’ ’fore we start. His brother did the same and both set off down the