Childhood Memories

childwel.jpg (25691 bytes)

We all have special memories of our childhood.
Please allow me to share some of mine with you.

childbarn.jpg (11181 bytes)

THE OLD RED BARN

Thoughts of childhood days on the farm in rural, southern Ontario often come to mind.

On a cold winter’s day, I would push open the wooden door of the old, red barn and bask in the coziness of its dim interior. Pungent smells greeted me. As I made my way down the aisle, I would stop every few stalls and greet my animal friends.

The black and white Holstein cows stood, twenty-eight in number, along the corridor. Some were ornery creatures, some meek and mild. Much like humans, each had her own distinct personality and each had been given a name. I can’t recall all of their names. Grandpa bought and sold cows frequently. But there are a special few that remain as vivid in my mind today as they were forty years ago.

My favorite was Betty, the best milk producer of the dairy herd. Like most cows, she had big brown eyes and long lashes. She had distinctive black markings on a white background - unusual markings in large splotches down her sides and rump. On her forehead, was a large black spot with a white star in the center.

Whenever I entered the barn, Betty would give a low moo, as if saying hello. As I approached, she’d turn her head, watching my every move. I would step in beside her and scratch her forelock. She would close her eyes and rub against me; delighted someone was giving her attention.

Behind the cow stalls, old Oscar, the Holstein bull stood next to the window to the horse barn. Now Oscar could be an ornery and temperamental creature, but he had a soft spot for this wee girl. Often, I would go into the horse barn and let myself into Oscar’s stall. He would turn his head, blow through his nose and snort. He never moved. This was somewhat miraculous as when the men tried to move him he would snort, kick and shake his head angrily. I have seen him lift my uncle off his feet while trying to lead Oscar to the creek for water. Today, I look back on my foolishness and wonder why I wasn’t killed. Possibly Oscar understood that I was only a child. Or possibly there was a soft side to his nature not understood by adults.

The calf pen was always a delight to visit. I loved to pet the calves and take them their daily pail of milk after they were weaned. They would suck the milk through their noses and when finished, butt the pail urging it to produce more, just as they had their mothers while they were suckling. One day, a calf pulled the pail from my hands pushed her head into it and it became stuck, the bail clinging to her ears. I chuckle remembering the time I had retrieving that pail.

At the back of the barn was the pigpen. Usually there were three to four sows housed here. One of my favorite things was watching the mother pig suckling somewhere from eight to ten piglets. She’d lie on her side, eyes closed, while her babies squealed and fought over a teat.

The only thing I didn’t like about the barn was the silo. Each Fall, the corn was harvested, put through the corn chopper and blown into the forty-foot silo. This would provide ensilage for the cattle during the harsh Ontario winter.

One cool November day, my uncle asked me to go up into the silo and throw down the ensilage. I agreed. When the task was completed, I stepped to the entrance to descend the ladder. As I looked out, the ground swirled. Fear slithered along my spine. I stood, paralyzed. There was no way I could get down. I waited, rather impatiently, until my uncle came to my rescue. I never entered that silo again.

The haymow was one of my favorite places. When I was very young, the hay was cut, thrown onto a wagon with racks, taken to the barn and pitched into the upper level of the barn by hand. In later years, it was baled. I remember helping stack the bales in the mow. Even today, the fragrance of freshly mown hay carries me back over the years to the haymow of the old, red barn.

The straw stack behind the barn was a delight to us children. When playing hide-and-go-seek, we would wiggle into the prickly straw and cover ourselves. This was the best hiding place of all. When found, we would emerge, straw clinging to our clothes and hair. If Grandpa found us burrowing into the straw stack, we would get a sound scolding. This never stopped us from returning to our refuge time after time.

One memory that I look back on with fondness involved my favorite cow, Betty. It was a dark, rainy day. When I entered the barn, instead of the usual low, gentle moo, Betty was bawling ferociously. I approached slowly, wondering what on earth could be wrong. One glance told me that Betty was in trouble. She was in hard labor and her calf was arriving in a breach position.

I burst through the door of the house and in short, panting gasps told my uncle what was happening. We hurried to the barn and with some hard work, shared by human and animal, a healthy young heifer was born.

That was my first glimpse of the birthing process. What a thrill to watch a new life enter the world. The calf stood on shaky legs. Betty heaved to her feet and coaxed the calf to suckle. An awesome experience for a small girl of ten.

Recently, I took a drive to the rural community where I grew up. I stopped my car on the gravel road and sat, looking at that old, red barn. Yes, it’s still standing, though the red paint has faded and it is somewhat in disrepair. But for a few moments, the sounds and smells of that cozy structure whirled through my mind. I will never forget the good times I spent in that old, red barn.

WINTER HARDSHIPS

I sat at my window watching the first snowflakes of the year drift slowly to the ground in the glow of the streetlights. How peaceful and serene the world looked. Memories of other winters crept into my mind. Winters that weren’t so easy - winters that caused many hardships.

As a child, I lived in a rural community in southern Ontario. Our house sat on a lot of land in the corner of Grandpa’s farm. Living next door to Grandma and Grandpa was a blessing for me and even today I am thankful for having the experiences that can only be found on a farm.

I can remember one exceptionally cold winter. The sub-zero temperatures had lasted for days. Mom bundled me up in my winter garb and let me go to Grandma’s. When I entered the house, my uncle was there, pulling on his boots and heavy overalls.

“Want to come along?” he asked.

“Where?” I replied, wondering what adventure I would take part in today. Uncle Willie always had something interesting to do.

“I have to take the cows to the creek to water them. We will be quite a while. Are you dressed warm enough?”

After assuring him I was snug in my warm snowsuit, hat and gloves, we set off to the creek to open the ice, an axe slung over Uncle Willie’s shoulder.

The steep hill in the lane was covered with ice. The cows would have to go down this hill, so Uncle Willie stopped and began to cut through the ice with the axe to clear a path.

We continued on our way to the creek, where Uncle Willie cleared a path for the cows to descend the bank. If they slipped on the ice and broke their stride, they would be butchered and used for food. Not one thing on the farm was ever wasted. Everything had a purpose whether it was to put food on the table, work the fields or produce young.

After Uncle Willie had cleared the creek bank, he began chopping a hole in the ice. This was a lengthy procedure, as he had to make the hole big enough so that a number of cows could drink at one time. The ice was six inches thick and by the time he was finished, my fingers and toes were cold.

When we entered the barn, it was warm and cozy. The heat from the animals kept it at a reasonable temperature. We stood around for a few minutes, stamping our feet and
blowing on our fingers to get them warm. Much too soon, Uncle Willie asked me to start letting the cows out. Though I dreaded going back out into the cold, windy weather, the stock must be watered immediately. Even now, after such a short time, they would have to break the surface ice with their noses in order to get a drink.

The trip down the lane was uneventful but when we got to the creek bank, the more dominant cows started bumping and hooking the more passive creatures. The fight was on. Each animal wanted to be sure that they got their fill before the others were allowed onto the frozen creek.

After all the cows had drunk their fill, they left the ice and headed back to the barn. They had no more desire to be out in the elements than we did. Soon, they were all securely tied in their stalls once more.

Uncle Willie told me I had better go to the house. He had to take old Oscar, the Holstein bull to the creek for a drink.

“Can’t I watch,” I asked.

“Only if you promise to stay well back,” Uncle Willie told me. “Old Oscar is an ornery cuss and if he happened to get away from me, no telling what would happen.”

“I promise,” I said.

I watched Uncle Willie take the staff and hook it in the ring that had been inserted through Oscar’s nostrils. This was the only way to control an unpredictable bull. But on that day, you would have thought old Oscar was a pussycat. He walked along slowly, taking his time, looking at me and mooing softly. Uncle Willie couldn’t believe it.

“I wonder what’s up with him?” he said.

A smile crept onto my face. No one must ever know that I spent hours in the horse barn, slipping through and old window, playing in Oscar’s stall. We were the best of friends and now, Oscar was trying to give our secret away.

Oscar snorted and shook his head as his nose broke through the surface ice, protesting the freezing temperature of the water. He drank his fill and turned, looking me in the eye. I shook my head, hoping he wouldn’t try to approach me.

We returned to the barn without incident and Uncle Willie scratched his chin, a puzzled look on his face. “I have never seen him so docile,” he said. “Hmmm! Maybe old age is creeping up on him. Anyway, we have to get to the house and drag in buckets of snow
for Grandma. She has to melt it overnight in the copper boiler so she can do a washing tomorrow.”

I knew what Grandma had to go through to do a wash. First, we’d carry the snow into the house in pails and dump them into the copper boiler. When it was full, Uncle Willie would lift it onto the old woodstove in the kitchen and there it would stay overnight. In the morning, Grandma would put the clothes in it, one load at a time and boil them, then carry them out to the line and pin them fast. Within minutes, they would be frozen stiff. She would leave them there for a couple of hours, take them into the house, thaw them and iron them with her flat irons that she heated on the stove.

“Just one more job,” Uncle Willie said, “And we are through. We have to fill the woodbox.”

As we stepped into the yard, the fragrant smell of hardwood permeated the air. The chimney was belching smoke. I stood and drank of the wonderful aroma. How invigorating it was. The smell of home.

Today, no one has cookstoves or copper boilers but when I step outside in winter, I stop and drink in the wonderful fragrance of chimney smoke that comes from my neighbor’s chimney. I close my eyes for just a moment and I am home once more - home to Grandpa’s farm.

Hosting by WebRing.