|
Transition
My father and I were members of the
‘transition generations’.
In the early days of the Republic, some eighty-five
percent of the nation’s workers were actually needed to
feed themselves and the other 15% of the population.
Over the next century and a half, this condition
gradually changed. By 1980, no more than 10% of the
population was required to feed all Americans and a
large portion of the rest of the world.
‘Down On the Farm’ is an American expression that
refers to the place where most of our forebears were
born and lived their entire lives. For them, it was a
task just to survive to middle age. They accepted their
trials and tribulations without too much anxiety. In
their retirement years, they referred to their past as
the ‘Good Old Days’.
Several things pop into my mind about those ‘good old
days’. We know they worked long, hard hours every day
of the year. Even then, not every year was a productive
one. I can only surmise that they must have been
comfortable with the routine that was so much a part of
their daily lives. Surely, they must have partly
enjoyed what they were doing. Their knowledge of what
an easy life consisted of was limited by the fact that
they were more trying to survive than accumulate
wealth. They must have been proud of many things they
did. They were self-sustaining, and adjusted easily to
things over which they had no control. They understood
and practiced moderation. Most were religious folks who
relied on their faith to get them through the tough
times. They learned to respect, and lived with nature.
They knew how to care for their animals, especially
their teams of oxen, horses or mules. Their teams of
animals were treated as well as their family members. I
suspect there were situations when the teams actually
received better care than family members did!
By having large families, they increased their workforce. Eventually, the increased production allowed
them to purchase more land. Soon, there was sufficient
grain for them to be able to sell some for cash. By the
middle 1900s, those farmers who had tractors were
outdoing their neighbors. It became evident to the rest
that they, too, would have to modernize in order to
survive.
Because we were members of the transition generation,
my dad and I were exposed to many unique physical and
emotional experiences. The following are but just a
few.
We mowed hay with a team of horses and the Farmall F-20
tractor. We hand-loaded hay with a hay-frame and
hay-loader and later baled hay with the tractor and
baler. We cut corn with the horse-drawn binder and
shocked it, shucked corn with team and wagon and later
picked corn with the corn picker. We milked the cows by
hand and also with a milking machine.
None of the changes from horsepower to tractor-power
increased our free time though. We immediately started
farming more acres and milking more cows. Of course,
the extra income improved dad’s lot, and we started
buying more modern conveniences. I remember, as an
example, that dad bought his first (and only) new car
in 1949, a Chevrolet 4-door Deluxe and another used
tractor, a Farmall ‘H’ in 1950. He was so proud of
them. Mom got a new washing machine, stove,
refrigerator, vacuum and other household gadgets about
the same time.
All of a sudden, we felt we were a part of the well-off
community.
There was something sad about the changes though. Dad
and I missed the close relationship we’d had with our
team of horses. He didn’t talk much about things like
that to us kids, but I knew deep-down that he already
missed the good old days when he started the fieldwork
in the spring of 1951 without the team.
Now, I understand why he was saddened. He had spent at
least 45 years with horses being an integral part
of his life. He liked them. He depended upon them all
his life. They got him to where the change took place.
He cared for them and they rewarded him with loyalty
and hard work. It must have seemed as if he was letting
them down when the horse trader picked them up that
spring. He would no longer be sharing that horse sense
with them. He would miss the smell of the sweating team
- an odor which wasn’t offensive to him because it was
the indicator that they were giving him all their
effort. He missed feeding them twice a day and lovingly
grooming them with the currycomb. He was no longer able
to rub their soft velvety noses while feeding them
their oats. The trips to the local blacksmith, John Foederer in Pierron, to get the horses shod were no
longer necessary.
Shoeing took several hours, during which he visited
with other farmer and town folks. Things like that
might seem trivial in today’s world. To understand and
appreciate them, one can think about how they feel
about their pets and add the importance of one’s
livelihood to them. I experienced the same feelings as
he did but, by then, the nation’s population was being
well fed by the farmers, and there existed a new need
for factory workers and service personnel.
Because of my age, it was easier for me to accept
change.
Dad continued with modern farming until the three of us
boys had left home and were making a living elsewhere.
He did well for himself, but never realized his dream
of land ownership. In 1962 he sold out, and moved to
Highland where he worked at several different jobs
until he retired fully.
I went on with my life in the city. There was a time
when I considered myself lucky to have escaped the
farm. Maybe it was for the best - I don’t know. As I
grow older though, I’m realizing what it was that made
those days the Good Old Days.
Read
the poem that goes with this story
- Dennis Buchmiller
Chesterfield, Missouri, USA.
|
