Letters from Hillside Farm (6 page)

April 16, 1938

Saturday

Dear Grandma,

Today Pa hitched Maud and Tony to the grain drill. (Remember that Pa won the grain drill at an auction last month? It has two big iron wheels and discs that cut little trenches in the soil where it places the seed oats.) Then he sowed the big field just south of the barn with seed oats. I was afraid that because I had spilled some of our seed oats when the team ran away, Pa wouldn't have enough. But he did. With the seed oats in the ground, Pa says that we now must wait for the crop to come up. But we don't really sit around and watch the field as you might think; we are always doing other things, like fixing fence. Winter snows always knock down fence posts and wire, and we can't turn the cows out to pasture until the fences are in good shape.

Pa says you never know what you might find in a fencerow. Most of our fencerows are piled with rocks that were hauled off the fields by previous farmers on this land. These rock piles make great dens for foxes and homes for cottontail rabbits. Pa said he saw a jackrabbit near one of the fencerows where he sowed oats. Jackrabbits are about twice as big as cottontail rabbits, which are more common around here. During the winter Pa says jackrabbits turn all white, except for the tips of their ears, so they are better camouflaged in the snow. In the spring, their coat turns brown again. I'd sure like to see one of those big rabbits.

Before Pa could sow the field to oats, we had to haul off the stones. New stones rise to the surface every year. We have to get them out of the field, because if you strike a stone with a piece of farm machinery, there is a good chance you will break the machine. Pa says the stones came to our farm all the way from Canada. The great glacier brought the stones to Wisconsin thousands of years ago.

Picking stones is hard, dirty work, Grandma. We hitched Maud and Tony to the stone boat, which really isn't a boat at all. It is made from several boards that are bent up in the front and bolted together. Pa says that white oak makes the best stone boat because it's tough and doesn't wear out. Our stone boat is about eight feet long and four feet wide. It looks like a sled without runners.

It's a real trick to ride standing up on a stone boat. There is nothing to hold on to as the boat glides along the plowed ground. Sometimes when the boat hits a bump, I fly off and land in the newly plowed ground, which is as soft as a feather bed, so I don't get hurt, only dirty. After we pick stones, I am dust and dirt from the top of my straw hat to the tips of my shoes.

Pa showed me a trick for keeping my balance while I bounce across our plowed fields in the stone boat. He said I should bend my knees and lean forward a little. I tried doing that, and it helped. Most of the time I'm able to keep standing, but my bad leg doesn't help matters. It doesn't bend as easily as my good leg.

Do you know what, Grandma? We picked fifteen stone boat loads of field stones in one day. Can you imagine that?

Time to do some homework and be off to bed. I am really tired.

Your grandson,

George

April 17, 1938

Sunday

Dear Grandma,

We just got home from Easter services at church. I don't think I told you that we go to a Norwegian church on the shores of a little lake. Although the people who go to church there are mostly Norwegians, the service is in English. Pa said that if we'd been going to this church ten or fifteen years ago, the service would have been in Norwegian. Ma said she would be happier if we could go to a German church, because we are German, but it sure doesn't make any difference to me. We always sit three rows from the front, near a window. Since it has gotten warmer, the windows usually are open a little, and I can look out at the lake. I saw a fish jump this morning. I told Pa about it when we got home, and he said it was probably a black bass. He said we should take our fishing poles over there sometime and see if we can catch it. He also told me not to mention seeing the fish to Ma, because she'll say I should be paying attention to what the preacher has to say and not be gawking out the window.

I don't think little Annie cares much for church, either. I think she would rather be digging in the dirt lot out in front of the church, but she sits next to Ma, fidgeting and squirming until Ma gives her one of her looks, which is the kind of stare that will sour milk. When it comes to church, you don't disagree with Ma.

We had a big Easter dinner, and then Ma gave us the little packages you sent for Annie and me. Thank you so much for the chocolate rabbit—it's the only Easter present I got. Thanks for your letter, too.

Your grandson,

George

April 18, 1938

Monday

Dear Grandma,

Yesterday I met Grandma Woodward. She lives only a half mile from our farm and is Amos Woodward's grandmother. On my way to school I walk past her neat farmstead with its red barn, a few outbuildings, and a little white house with a porch across the front. Pa told me she doesn't have a car and doesn't get out much.

Pa had offered to plow her garden, and that's what we did yesterday after we got home from church and finished dinner. We loaded the walking plow onto the stone boat, hitched it up behind the team, and drove them the short distance down the road to Grandma Woodward's place.

Grandma, I think you would like Grandma Woodward. She reminds me so much of you. She is little—I'm taller than she is—and has white hair fashioned in some kind of knot on the back of her head. Ma says you call that a bun. (I thought buns were for eating, but I didn't question it.) She has a thin face and blue eyes and is always smiling. Pa says she is “as skinny as a split rail fence.” And she is so nice. While Pa was plowing her garden, she brought out some white sugar cookies for me, and I sat with her on the porch, talking.

She likes to talk, Grandma, just like you, and she also listens. She wanted to know how I am doing in school, and I told her about the upcoming spelling bee. I got a little nervous when she asked if I know Amos. I said I do, but I didn't tell her how Amos picks on me. She said she worries about Amos. I didn't know what to say, but I wondered what she meant.

Grandma Woodward asked me about my leg, and I told her the story. She asked me what I like to do, and I said I like reading, writing, and making leather projects. She said she'd like to see some of the leather work I've done and asked me to stop by again sometime soon. She is such a nice lady.

Well, it's time to go to sleep, so I must quit writing.

Your grandson,

George

April 23, 1938

Saturday

Dear Grandma,

Last night we had our spelling bee at school. Everyone from the community was invited, and I think most of them came, along with lots of folks from the Forest Grove School District. Forest Grove School is only a couple hills and three bends in the road away.

With all our practicing, our team thought we could spell just about any word that came along. Miss Harvey set the starting time for eight o'clock so everyone would have time to finish their evening chores. When Pa, Ma, Annie, and I got there at seven-thirty, cars were already lined up on both sides of the road. Pa said it looked like a Christmas program crowd, but I've never been to a school Christmas program, so I don't know what that's like. A lot of parents were there, and I spotted Grandma Woodward sitting close to the front of the room.

When Miss Harvey saw me, she took my arm and introduced me to the spelling team from Forest Grove School: two girls, Violet and Joyce, and a boy named Herman.

Grandma, I thought the kids in our school were poor, but you should have seen these kids. Herman's flannel shirt was so faded it didn't have any color at all. His worn-out bib overalls came halfway up to his knees because they were too small for him. I tried not to smile when I saw this big, tall, gawky looking kid with the high-water pants—that's what Pa calls pants that are too short. (He means they're so short they'll stay dry even in a flood.) The girls' clothes weren't any better. Their dresses had been washed so many times that they had no color at all. Well, I took one look at this threesome and figured our team wouldn't have much trouble at this spelling bee. It looked to me like these kids have trouble just finding enough to eat, and they surely must not have time to practice for a spelling bee.

At eight Miss Harvey stood up and welcomed everyone to our school. She spoke for a while about how important it is to know how to spell. I was so nervous I don't remember what else she said. Then she introduced Miss Johnson, a plump woman with black hair and big arms. Miss Harvey said Miss Johnson was from the county superintendent of school's office and was going to read the words to be spelled. Miss Johnson wore a dress all plastered with big red flowers. She looked like something was paining her; maybe that flowered dress was too tight.

Miss Harvey introduced the Forest Grove School spelling team and their teacher, Miss Zilinski. Finally she introduced Amos, Rachel, and me. Grandma, my stomach was churning. I knew this team was no competition for us, but I was still scared. What frightened me most was standing up in front of so many people—every seat in the school was taken. Men were standing all around the woodstove in back and clear out the entryway doors.

Our guests got the first chance to spell. Miss Johnson pulled down on her tight dress, cleared her throat, and, in a voice that sounded like she was sitting on a tack, said the first word: “library.”

Violet from Forest Grove School stood up, and in a thin voice I could scarcely hear, spelled, “l-i-b-r-a-r-y.” Miss Johnson asked her to repeat with a louder voice. Poor Violet was so nervous. I saw her hands shaking.

“Correct,” Miss Johnson said after she heard the spelling a second time. Compared to Violet, Miss Johnson's voice seemed to hit the ceiling and bounce all around the room.

Now it was our team's turn, and Amos was first.

“Whistle,” Miss Johnson said.

“W-i-s-t-le,” spelled Amos. Whistle hadn't been one of our practice words, and Amos spelled it like it sounds.

“Incorrect,” said Miss Johnson.

Amos stammered, “But, but . . . ,” but Miss Johnson told him to sit down.

Amos was steaming. His face was as red as a male cardinal, and he was pounding a fist against his head.

Joyce from Forest Grove School got “whistle” right without even stopping to think. I began wondering if this team was going to be the pushover that I had thought.

After a few more rounds, just two of us remained unbeaten, Joyce from Forest Grove School and me. The next word was “liaison.” I spelled it l-a-y-s-o-n, but Miss Johnson said that was wrong. The only chance our team had was if Joyce missed it, too. She stood up, fidgeted a little, and spelled, “l-i-a-s-i-o-n.”

“Incorrect,” said Miss Johnson. Then she told us the correct spelling: “L-i-a-i-s-o-n.”

Since our teams were tied, Miss Johnson said we would do one more round of spelling to see if there would be a winner. It was Joyce's turn to go first.

The word was “chalice.” Miss Johnson pronounced it twice and even gave its definition: “a holy cup used in church services.” I have never heard the word before, and I tried to think how I would spell it in case Joyce missed.

Joyce really took her time spelling the word. “C-h . . .” She took a deep breath and finished, “a-l-i-c-e.”

“Now it's your turn, young man,” Miss Johnson told me. I spelled, “s-h-a-l-l-i-c-e.” When I finished, I glanced at Miss Harvey, and from the look on her face I knew I got it wrong.

“Forest Grove School wins the spelling bee!” Miss Johnson announced in her big voice, her dress starting to creep up above her knees again. “Congratulations to the winners and to the losers, too. I think we've all learned something about spelling this evening.”

That was it. We lost. On the way to the car, I saw Amos Woodward's pa yelling at him and cuffing him on the head. Then I heard Grandma Woodward telling Amos that he had tried and that she was proud of him. She spotted me and told me what a good job I had done, too. But I still went home feeling terrible.

Ma said I had done well just by being on the team. But I learned more than how to spell “chalice.” Those poorly dressed kids from Forest Grove School sure know how to spell.

Your grandson,

George

P.S. I'm so wrapped up in spelling that I had to look at my name twice to see if I spelled it right!