My youth was not normal in any sense of the imagination. For you city-types, you’ve no idea what can happen on any given morning on a farm. You can lose a drive train on the tractor during harvest, blow a tire, birth a lamb, and irrigate all before 6 AM. Trying to be prepared for anything, life comes fast and furious from every angle. You put out fires as fast as they come your way.
One day, your vineyard looks healthy with a great crop. A rain storm comes activating dormant fungus, causing your crop to wither and die. Mites and spiders are in a war to the death. When mites are sucking the profits out of tender leaves, you spray. Then, spiders die of starvation. The mites explode in numbers and laughter, with the predators gone. The cycles are a dance the outside world cannot and will never understand. Farming is a universe all it’s own. You need to possess a skill set that the average city dweller just doesn’t.
Number 4 in a group of five daughters, each birth held a bit of disappointment. Every farmer dreams of having a team of boys to help with the work. My dad got girls and girls and girls and girls and girls for 16 years in a row. By time I came along, the entire community was rooting for the long awaited boy. Nope. A Christmas present of ruffles and bows.
My mom, Esther, was a seamstress, master chef, butcher, gardener, bookkeeper, law enforcement patrol, and part runner. She was an amazing woman that could’ve run an entire country if my dad had asked her to. She kept her girls in dresses and patent leather shoes. Easter bonnets and Christmas curls. The community named us “The Skoegard Girls”, because of the sheer numbers. Remembering our names was too much. At one point in life, we were each in a different school. From Kindergarten to College, we marched through life, respectable, Good-Girls. I don’t know how Mom kept her sanity. By the time I came along, I raised myself a good deal of the time.
Mornings were always busy. The olders drove across town to the big college we’d all attend someday. The youngers stood outside in rain, snow, fog, or sleet, waiting for the big old school bus.
Meals were on time, balanced and hearty. Everything was grown fresh. Meal preparation for seven was something about which my mother never complained. She never a repeated meal or served left overs, because there was nothing left on the table by the end of each meal. There was no waste. Not a hint of “I don’t like it”. Everyone was hungry and ready to enjoy the delicious food she prepared.
There are two meal time visitors that stand out as memorable. I’ll share them both with you, my beloved readers.
My dad, Elmer, was known around the county for being able to fix anything broken. If wiring or welding, or wire welding was needed, Dad was the go-to guy. His side business was called Implement Hospital, and he supported our girly shopping trips by fixing the neighbors plow or spray rig. Over the years, he was exposed to every single chemical known to mankind, including, but not limited to, Paraquat, DDT, Cyanide, Seven, and a host of others that make people freeze with horror. He didn’t shrivel and die of cancer, nor did any other the other hundreds of farmers I knew throughout the years. He died of Alzhemier’s at 93, longing for the opportunity to give one more city kid a tractor ride.
Lunch was at 12:00 noon. Sharp. Anyone needing something fixed knew Dad would be at the kitchen table enjoying a meal with his girls. If something needed fixing, people knew to come to the house to find him.
On this particular day, my mom’s sister pulled in driving her luxurious car. This particular aunt didn’t visit on a regular basis. As she got out of the car, she had a stressful expression on her face. A woman was on a mission.
“Hi there. I’m sorry to barge in on lunch, but I need you to fix something for me, Elmer. Something important.”
Now she had our attention. Farm wives didn’t have their own personal tools or shovels. They were cared for by their attentive and protective husband’s. Everything they needed was handled, while they did woman things in the house. My dad, being the exception, could cook, clean, or help with the laundry with the best of them. But, today, his expertise was needed for another problem.
Out of her bag, she pulled out something that brought us all to tears and a collective roar of belly laughs. For, in her hand was her favorite bra.
“Elmer, could you weld this? My wire broke.” To this day, this memory makes me laugh again. The thing is, my Dad replied, “I’ll try, Marie. You can just leave it on the counter.” He was always the guy to help in any situation. And the matter of fact look on Aunt Marie’s face saying she KNEW that Dad COULD weld it was priceless. He did, by the way, fix her bra.
The other visit involved a very colorful neighbor who came to find my Mom for help with a sticky situation. Bertha was one of the most wonderful women I’ve meant in my life. Hair died a Hazel/Red, she flamed. Kindness in a waist cinching girdle, she had an hour glass figure, the envy or talk of the neighborhood. Bertha’s makeup and hair were always perfect. She was in church, front and center, every Sunday with the brightest of smiles. Bertha was a memorable angel in my life.
Well, on this particular day, she had a scarf around her considerable smaller hair-do. In those days, hair was done big. The bigger, the better, and Bertha had the hair to go Big.
“Esther, I need you help,” was her soft plea as she entered the kitchen to find us practicing lunchtime manners.
Removing her scarf, she had perfectly formed curls on her head. It seemed that the new rage involved wrapping hair around curlers, after soaking hair in gelatin. That’s right. Jello. She had used too much. Her rock hard curls sat stone-like on her head. We all lost it. Laughing so hard I thought we might all choke. And with that, Bertha started to cry through her own laughter. She had done it now. Her hair would never recover.
Dirty looks from Mom AND Dad stopped the laughter. My little sis and I had to just look away. At any moment, we would start again, and it would be curtains for us. At the ranch, you were never disrespectful to adults. Ever. But, let me tell you, it was the funniest darn thing I’d experienced for a very long time.
Life on the farm. Rich. Wonderful. Eventful and Unplanned. I can’t speak to city life, because I’m a country girl, through and through. Lunch is ready. Don’t be late, or you’ll miss out.