Letters from Hillside Farm (3 page)

March 26, 1938

Saturday

Dear Grandma,

When we finished the barn chores this morning, Pa asked if I'd like to go with him to a farm auction that was going on today near Willow River, which is a town about eight miles from here. I had never been to a farm auction so I didn't know what to expect. Pa said he needed some farm equipment and a team of horses. We have cows and chickens, but with the spring work coming up fast, we'll need horses to pull the machinery necessary for putting in our crops.

We weren't the only ones at the auction. Cars were lined up on both sides of the road when we got to the farm. As we walked up the road I could hear the patter of the auctioneer selling farm tools—hammers, saws, wrenches, that sort of thing. I've never heard an auctioneer before. This one sounded like a singer and a speaker combined. It was fun to listen to him and to watch the reactions of the people in the audience as he held up each item and began his spiel, trying to fetch as much money as possible.

Pa bid on a grain drill—that's what he called a machine that looks like a long box with wheels on each end and a series of disc-like things hanging from its bottom. Here's how I remember it went:

Auctioneer: “And what am I offered for this good grain drill? Do I hear twenty-five, anybody twenty-five, anybody twenty-five dollars for this good drill?”

Pa: “Twenty-five.”

Auctioneer: “And who'll make it thirty? Do I hear thirty, thirty, thirty? This drill is ready to go. Just dump in some grain, hitch up your team, and you are sowing wheat or oats or whatever you want to sow. Who says thirty dollars for the drill?”

Another farmer: “Thirty.”

Auctioneer: “And who'll make it thirty-five? Do I hear thirty-five? Anybody thirty-five?”

Pa: “Thirty-five.”

Auctioneer: “And now forty. Who'll make it forty? Anybody? Anybody make it forty? I'm gonna sell it. Last chance. Once, twice, three times. Sold to that fellow standing in the back. And mark it cheap.”

Pa won the grain drill. He also bought a four-wheeled hay wagon and a team of horses. Their names are Maud and Tony. We put the grain drill on the wagon and pulled it home behind the car. The trucker who delivered our cows was at the auction, and he told Pa he'll haul Maud and Tony to our farm. He'll get here around chore time (for country people that means around five o'clock, give or take a half hour).

Looks like we're all set to farm—at least that's what Pa said on the way home. He told me he's going to teach me how to drive the horses and how to harness them. He says I am old enough.

I don't know if I'm looking forward to driving our new team. They are big horses, Grandma. Really big! I guess they have to be big in order to pull a plow and all the other farm machinery that we have on Hillside Farm.

Your grandson,

George

March 27, 1938

Sunday

Dear Grandma,

When we got home from church this morning, Pa asked if I was ready to try my hand at driving our new team. What could I say? I mostly was worried about one of them putting its big foot down on mine. I mentioned that to Pa, and he kind of smiled and said, “They won't do that—at least if they are like other horses I've known.” That didn't do much to take away my fear.

As Pa harnessed the team, he said I should watch what he was doing, because next time I'll be doing it by myself. First he put big padded pieces of leather around each horse's neck. He called them collars.
Then he gathered up a leather harness and pulled it across Maud's back and fastened it to her collar with a little strap. He buckled a couple more straps, then turned to Tony and did the same thing. Before I knew it he was finished harnessing the team—and telling me that it's easy to do. It sure doesn't look easy to me. But I guess it's one more thing I'll have to learn.

Pa led Tony out of the barn and I led Maud, fearing every minute that the big horse—did I tell you, Grandma, that both horses are brown with black tails and black manes (that's the long hair that grows on their necks)—would step on me. But she just walked along without even coming close to stepping on me.

Once outside the barn, Pa walked the horses so they stood next to each other, and then he buckled a couple of straps so they would stay that way when they walked. He handed me the driving lines, which are two long pieces of leather attached to the horses' bridles. Then he said the only way to learn how to drive a team is to do it.

So there I stood, holding the driving lines with these two gigantic horses standing a few feet in front of me. To get the horses moving, you say “giddap.” Pa said, “Shake the lines a little when you say it.” To stop, you say “whoa” and pull back on the lines a little. To steer, you just pull on the lines in the direction you want the horses to turn.

I must say, it all worked pretty well. Driving a team is not as difficult as I thought it would be. I marched Maud and Tony around the yard a few times, stopped, started, turned left, turned right. Nothing to it. I even forgot about my bad leg. Pa said they are a well-trained team.

Another school day tomorrow, so I better get to bed. I didn't tell Pa this, but it was kind of fun driving our new horses.

Your grandson,

George

Dear George,

You and your family are surely busy. Let's see, you now have milk cows, laying hens, and a new team of horses. Just think, here you are driving a team of horses, and you are only twelve years old. That's not easy to do. And you've learned how to milk cows by hand. That's even harder than driving horses. I'm so proud of you.

Did I tell you that I milked cows by hand when I was a little girl? It was one of my chores on the farm by the time I was ten years old. We had only three cows, and I milked them every morning and night. It was not a bad job, but our log barn wasn't very warm in winter. In summer I milked them outside when the weather was nice.

We didn't have a team of horses on the home farm like you do. My father had a team of oxen that did all the heavy work, like plowing the land and pulling a big high-wheeled cart. I didn't have much to do with them, as they were big and clumsy and moved very slowly. Their names were Fritz and Joe. They didn't wear harnesses, like your horses. All they wore was a wooden yoke that fit over their necks. When my father wanted them to turn right, he said “gee,” and if he wanted them to turn left, he said “haw.” There were no leather lines like you have to turn your team of horses.

Father always said Fritz and Joe were dependable. I guess that meant that they did whatever they were asked to do without complaining. Your great-grandfather never liked to hear anyone complain. He said everyone has problems, and it doesn't help to complain about them.

It's getting late, and I must go to bed. Be sure to keep writing.

Love,

Grandma S.

March 28, 1938

Monday

Dear Grandma,

I had another go-around with Amos Woodward today. It all started when we formed softball teams at morning recess. Because they are in eighth grade, Amos and Rachel Williams are the team captains. They took turns choosing kids, until everybody was on a team except me. Amos came right out and said that a kid who can't run shouldn't be on a team. You can imagine how I felt. Miss Harvey said that I should have a chance to play if I wanted to. But Amos held his ground and said that if I couldn't run, I was not going to be on his team.

Everyone just stared at me. I didn't know what to do. I felt like running off and hiding. Finally Rachel looked at me, smiled a little, and motioned for me to be on her team. I hobbled over next to the rest of the kids she had chosen. Rachel is a tall, soft-spoken girl. She wears her black hair in braids, and she smiles easily. All the kids like her. She doesn't seem to care that I'm from the city and walk with a limp.

By the time the teams were chosen, recess was over—no time to even start a game. Miss Harvey said we'd have a ball game during noon break. She also told us that in a few weeks we're going to play against Forest Grove School, which is a few miles from here, and that we'll need lots of practice to beat them. The best players from Rachel's and Amos's teams will become the Rose Hill ball team. I sure would like to be on the school team, but I doubt I have much of a chance.

After lunch we took our places on the ball diamond. Our school doesn't even have real bases, just empty feed sacks that sit in the middle of bare spots on the ground. And none of the kids has a softball glove. You've got to have tough hands to play on this team, because the ball is always caught barehanded.

Amos's team took to the field first, and my team got ready to bat. Rachel pointed to a fourth-grader named Fred, and he stepped up to the plate to face Amos, who was pitching. Amos rolled the ball around in his hands, glared at the kid, and told him to look out or he might hit him in the head.

I could see fear in the kid's face as he held the bat. He swung wildly at three pitches and was out. Same with the next two batters. Then it was our turn to take the field. Rachel put me in right field. I hoped no balls would come my way, and none did.

Amos's team got a couple of runs before they were out and it was our turn to bat again. Rachel pointed to me and said I should bat first this inning. I grabbed the bat, held it like I learned to do in Ohio, took a couple of practice swings, and stood up to home plate (which is just a flat piece of wood from the woodshed). I thought to myself, this guy doesn't scare me with his glares and threats. Deep inside though, I'm scared of Amos. He's bigger than I am and can throw harder than any other kid in school.

The first pitch sailed past my nose, missing me by only a couple inches. I tried not to let Amos know that it bothered me, but it did. I wasn't sure I could move fast enough if he decided to throw a ball at my head.

The next pitch flew right across the plate. I swung, but I caught only a piece of it. Even so, the ball flew over the second baseman's head and fell in centerfield. I started out for first base, forgetting about my bad leg for a minute. I hadn't taken three steps when I fell in a heap, giving the second baseman plenty of time to throw me out. I got up and limped off the field.

Grandma, everyone laughed at me. Amos pointed his long finger at me and said, “See why you're not on my team? You're no good. You can't even make it to first base, even when you get a lucky hit.”

I was afraid that Rachel would toss me off the team, but she didn't say anything, and the game went on. I stood off to the side. Nobody wanted to talk to me. About ten minutes before the end of noon break, the game was tied 4 to 4, and it was my team's turn to bat. Rachel was up first, and she hit a high ball that the center fielder caught. The next player struck out. Rachel motioned at me to step up and bat.

All I could think to say was, “You mean me?”

“Yes, you. We need a hit.”

I grabbed the bat and limped up to the plate. My leg was throbbing.

When I took my place at home plate, Amos looked right at me and said, “Well, if it isn't Limpy Struckmeyer. Gonna fall down on the way to first base again? Or are you gonna stand there and let me hit you in the head?” I wish our teacher had been outside to hear him. Maybe she would have told him to shut his mouth.

I felt like dropping the bat and running into the schoolhouse. But I stood my ground, something Pa has drummed into me. He always says that when you face a tough situation, you should look it right in the eye. And that's what I did. It helped that Rachel stood up for me and told Amos to stop teasing me. Sometimes Amos listens to Rachel.

Amos whistled a fastball past me that I should have let go, but I took a mighty swing at it, almost falling down in the process. I must have twisted my leg, and now it hurts even to stand on it, let alone walk.

The next pitch was fast and right across the plate. I had my eye on the dirty gray softball from the moment it left Amos's hand, and I was ready. I knew I hit the ball squarely the minute my bat made contact. Rather than start for first base, I watched the ball go higher, higher until it flew over the schoolyard fence and landed in the middle of the dirt road that runs past our school.

Can you believe it, Grandma? I hit a home run. I still had to make my way around the bases, and I did, hobbling to first, limping on to second, then on to third, and making it home just in time. Our team won, and I had made the difference with my home run. This was the best I have felt since moving to Wisconsin. But then Amos came up to me, looked me right in the eye, and told me that I'll never hit another home run and he'll make sure of it. Then he said, “No limpy city kid is gonna make fun of me.”

I didn't say anything as I hobbled away. Some of my teammates walked with me to the schoolhouse. A couple of the kids even patted me on the back.

Grandma, I think Amos hates me more than ever. I don't know what to do. When I told Pa about Amos, all he said was that I should behave myself and stay out of trouble. But he also says I should stand up for what's right. What do you think I should do?

Love,

George