Currier & Ives Memories

My grandmother Ruby once told me that the width of a cat's whiskers tells it the width of space that it can safely navigate through without getting stuck. Too bad only cats have whiskers, she told me with a wink. This bit of homespun wisdom was the result of my getting stuck between the spokes of a wagon wheel, luckily unhitched at the time but just far enough away to be out of hearing range of the house. Ruby heard me when she came out to feed the chickens and had to drop her apron full of seed to make her way up the rocky incline to the pasture and free me. I expected, at the least, a strong talking to if not a trip to the woodshed, but what I got was a lesson about cats and small spaces and a mild pat on the backside.

I was a city child and the farm was like a never ending adventure to me. Each day was a chance to explore and imagine and discover - the hay loft was a sweet smelling, secret wonderland where sunlight filtered through the cracks of the roof in narrow beams. There was light enough to read by and listen to the sounds of the cows in their stalls. Uncle Byron had them all fitted with cowbells which were attached to wide leather straps around their necks and the bells jangled and echoed with their movements, making slow, sweet music as they made their ponderous way to and from the barn. The old workhorse had a stall to himself - all manner of harnesses and reins and bits were hung on the walls - there was a comforting, leathery smell to the stall and to the patient old horse who was happy enough to let me pretend he was a gallant steed and sit on his back for hours, face buried in his mane, legs hugging his sides and dreaming of races to be won. The woods surrounding the farm were patchy with moss covered rocks and they smelled of sunshine and shade and Christmas and except for the constant chatter of the birds, they were as silent as still water. I would sometimes hear the rustle of a small animal in the underbrush but never caught sight of one no matter how quickly I turned or how quiet I tried to be. I was a trespasser in the woods and tried to step lightly so as not to disturb or frighten the creatures who lived there. Even the pigs in their pen fascinated me - they were pale, oversized animals with muddy snouts, corkscrew tails and small, greedy eyes and they had a sharp, sour smell that carried heavily on the air.

It was years before I realized that there was another side to living on the farm, a side made up of hardship and hard work, sacrifice and struggle. There are no days off on a farm, no hired hands, no sleeping late, no quick runs to the corner store for a quart of milk. All the things that I remember as almost magic - the vegetable gardens, the animals,
the hay wagon, the old cast iron stove - they meant work to my family and although Ruby told me that work was it's own reward, it didn't lessen the labor.

My daddy said it was the best growing up you could ever have.