Footprints in the Ozarks, page 4
“I live just through the timber on the Morgan Road,” said a short black-haired woman. “I'm sure proud to have you young folks for neighbors. If you need help papering the room, be sure and let me know.”
“I sure will,” I answered, still ignorant of her name. From my description later Lane told me she was Lois Beard. She proved to be an excellent helper when we redecorated the living rooms, and though old enough to be my mother, we became best of friends.
My guests around the walls began to show signs of fatigue after standing for more than an hour as I unwrapped packages. Looking through the arch into the other room, I noticed several small children asleep on the bed.
Charlie, Florie's tall, white-headed husband stalked into the room and said in a loud drawl that silenced everyone, “Florie, they tell me our pickup is blocking the drive. We'd best go home so all these folks can leave.” Then to me he said, as his wife paid no attention to him but continued her conversation with Ruby, “Mrs. Lane, my woman can talk your arm off, then curse you for being crippled.”
Everyone began to leave. After much confusion the cars turned around and bumped down our long lane that was full of pot holes. How could they have arrived so noiselessly?
“Goodbye, Lane and Ellen, you better come go home with us.”
“Can't do it this time. You better stay all night,” Lane answered.
“Thanks for the tea towels,” I yelled after the last car.
“Lane, why did you ask them to stay all night when we've got only one bed?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “that's just the Ozark way of saying goodbye. I knew they couldn't stay and they knew we couldn't go home with them. Shows they hate to leave us.”
We watched until the tail light of the last car disappeared. Alone once more, we walked arm-in-arm back into our house. The weeds in the lawn were all flattened down now.
“It was nice of all those people to come and bring us presents,” I said, “but I'd just as soon they'd thrown me in the river.”
Where Hoot Owls Roost with the Chickens
Soon after I married and moved to our little farm on Wildcat Hollow near Morgan, it didn't take me long to fit into the routine of farm work. Though we had a cat, two dogs, Lane's horse and ten cows, Lane's mother thought we needed some chickens. She gave us a small flock until spring when we could raise our own.
Lane killed the big black rooster for Thanksgiving. He was an enormous bird about six pounds when dressed. He was arrogant--who wouldn't be with fifty females and only one other male and he smaller? He thought he could do as he liked with me. He came behind me one day pecking at me. When I kicked him off, he came with renewed effort. I was really mad then. Not having anything else in my hands, I threw a whole bucket of feed at him. I really gloated when I saw him de-glamorized and cooking in the oven.
In the Ozarks in the late 1940s most farmers continued their traditional, self-sufficient farming methods. Every morning and evening Lane and I milked and fed the stock and chickens. Each fall we planted wheat and gathered corn. In the spring we planted corn and oats, and every summer cut and threshed the grain, plowed the corn, and put up hay.
The routine was not even disturbed by David's birth, two years later by Ruth's, or in 1954 by Frances'. Lane worked twice as hard then, doing all the work until I was able to help again.
In the winter we frequently slept late. Our only work was the daily chores. We finished early at night and while the temperature fell outside, we lounged by the heating stove reading a new book from the bookmobile. The chickens were shut up, the cows warm and dry in the barn shed, Redwings sheltered in her stall, the dogs asleep in their houses, and Cindy, purring loudly, dug her claws into my faded jeans as she settled in my lap.
In hot weather we didn't get our work done until dark. We worked long hours then, Lane coming in at dark after threshing or haying.
When Lane was late, I did most of the chores. Even though I started early, with the children in the way, I rarely finished before he came. Often when I carried water to the chickens, David wanted to help. I tried to explain that he shouldn't have his little bucket as full as mine or he would spill it. I set down my buckets to hold the gate open for David, repeated the process at the hen house door, usually waiting there for toddler Ruth to catch up, before I finally poured the water into the metal waterers and returned for more.
After the children were fed, bathed, and put to bed, Lane and I took a few minutes to relax and then crawled into bed ourselves before nine thirty.
Each season's newness removed all trace of monotony from farming. In the delight of spring, we were eager to begin work. When the first winter squall kept us indoors, the joy of doing nothing made us believe we would never tire of bad weather.
Each season was different; some springs were wet or early, some autumns were dry or warm. Each night we wanted to see if we could get more milk, or if the hens would increase the number of eggs they laid. We noticed how quickly the tiny wing feathers on baby chicks developed, and we marveled that the baby ducks towered above the chicks of the same age after just two weeks' growth.
We kept a close watch on the next cow that was to calve, hoping for a heifer from the Jerseys to increase the herd, or for a bull from the beef stock. We frequently inspected the garden to see when the beans would be ready to can, and we speculated on when the tiny green tomatoes would ripen.
We enjoyed working hard during a good season when the results of our labor were easily seen. A poor season discouraged us temporarily, but we were optimistic that next year would be better and were heartened by Dad's tales of much harder times. In spite of the death of a cow, a low hog market, or a flooded river bottom, we were glad that we had some fine heifer calves, a barn loft full of hay, and a cellar stocked with home-canned fruits and vegetables.
Each spring I was struck anew by the beauty of the woods after the wild blue-stem grass covered the rocky burned ground. Some of our neighbors set fires in the woods. Carried by the March winds through the timber, the fire burned as long as there was a leaf left. Our boundary fence meant nothing to fire, except something more to destroy.
We looked forward to the April morning when Lane decided the grass was tall enough. We had our first sense of achievement at the end of winter when, instead of throwing down hay, we opened the gate to the pasture and called the cattle. Ann and Gracie, aware from past years' experience of the sweet tender grass beyond the fence, rushed through followed by the other cattle.
In November, when grasses and legumes were gone, when the corn was gathered, the silo filled, and hay and small grains long since stored in the barn, we herded the cattle into the feed lot to begin feeding them the crops we worked all summer to produce. It was satisfying to shut the pasture gate behind the cattle for the last time, knowing there was plenty of feed until spring.
On the farm we had the same jobs year after year, but they seldom became tedious. Just as I discovered later when I started teaching school and taught the same subjects each year. It wasn't monotonous because I had new students. On the farm we also had different students each year. Some calves were friendly, while others bounded off holding their tails high whenever we came near. One flock of chickens differed from another. Once I raised some chickens that were so tame I had to shove them out of my way to get through the hen house, and they would land on my back when I leaned over to pour out their feed. The flock the next year would fly in terror to the corners of the house, filling the air with dust and alarmed cacklings.
But if the repetition did become tiresome, there was the ever-present Osage Fork River running beside Dad's fields. It sometimes left its backdrop position and became a dominant figure in our farming operations. During high water it cut new channels and deposited gravel on rich farm land. In dry years the river ceased to flow over the riffles, leaving the normally clear water of the eddies stagnant, spoiling fishing for a time.
Early each March we brought home from the hatchery five hundred day-old chicks and lifted them tenderly from the shipping boxes onto the straw floor of our new brooder house. In the ninety degree heat, a welcome contrast to the chilly March weather outside, I loved to sit on the fresh straw, drowsy from the warmth, and watch the antics of the chicks. Two frisky chicks would run together, eye each other for a second, and then jump up angrily, hopping in circles and pecking beaks until something else distracted their attention.
As the chicks feathered out and the temperature warmed, an adventurous fellow would peek through the opened doors. He bravely jumped outside, then dashed back as fast as he could, terrified at the hugeness of the world outside. It wasn't long, however, until the chicks all flocked outdoors.
At eight weeks we would wring the neck of the biggest cockerel. For supper the four of us relished every bite, fried brown and crisp, and tossed the bones to Butch and Queen. At five months, I'd find the first tiny pullet eggs in the corners of the brooder house. We moved the pullets into the clean hen house.
My visiting nephew loved to gather eggs for me. The first night he came in with a dozen eggs in his basket.
“Gee!” he said in wonder. “There's one hen that laid thirteen eggs!” I explained that a hen lays only one egg each day, but when she gets on the nest she pushes the eggs already there under her and sits on them while she lays her egg.
For several years we hatched ducks, using old setting hens. Ducks are awkward and gangly from the time they lose their soft baby down until they are fully feathered. Their short legs and heavy bodies are not designed for dry ground. The minute they get to water the wobble disappears as they glide gracefully, ducking their heads and shaking water over their backs.
I loved to watch them learn to walk when they were tiny orange balls of fluff just out of the egg. They kept close to the mother hen, obeying her clucks and cackles, for they learned quickly that she gave them protection and warmth. With fifteen ducklings running between her legs, she had difficulty walking. I knew just how she must feel. I often had David, Ruth, the dogs, Cindy, and a couple of her kittens underfoot, with Redwings trailing behind.
At night the ducklings crawled under the clucking hen. She spread out her wings and ruffled her feathers to shelter all her brood. Tiny heads with long bills stuck out along her back and wings as some frisky ducklings played hide and seek in her feathers.
Compared to the active, thoughtless chicken, the duck is a philosopher. He takes life easy. His basic tenet is, don't stand up when you can sit down. When not moving in search of feed or water, he lies in the shade. The flock of ducks will line up on either side of the feeder to eat, all lying down. After they stuff on the feed, they go for water, and squatting, wash down their grain.
I didn't like to pick ducks, even though the feathers brought about as much as the ducks did when sold at Thanksgiving. A duck grows a new coat of feathers every five weeks, giving several opportunities for picking during the summer and fall.
I drove the ducks into the shed, grabbed one by the neck and, sitting down, clamped it upside down between my legs--a position that prevented it from biting my arms. With quick, short jerks I pulled the feathers out and put them into a clean sack tied to the wall next to my chair. It takes many handfuls from many ducks to get any weight of feathers.
One summer I picked eighty ducks three different times, realizing only fourteen pounds of feathers. At a dollar a pound I wondered if it was worth my effort. My legs were sore the next few days from clamping the squawking birds, and my shoulders tired from the innumerable trips my arm made to the sack with a fistful of feathers.
Lane said I wouldn't have done anything anyway if I didn't spend the time picking the ducks. True. I complained to Lane's mother about the scant fourteen dollars feather money that took so much labor to earn.
“It takes hard work to make money any way you can make it,” she said. “I guess we on the farm get sort of work brittle. We get so used to doing a certain amount of heavy work that we sometimes work at things the hard way. Nobody told you that you had to raise or pick ducks. If someone ordered us to work as hard and as long as we do on farms, we wouldn't stand for it.”
Again, true. I loved being our own boss on a farm in the hills of the Ozarks where, “Hoot owls roost with the chickens and women cut wood.” Only I never cut wood!
Chickens and Ducks
Something that I could do on the farm to bring in a regular income was working with chickens. I'd buy 500 day-old chicks from the hatchery and raise them in the new brooder house Lane built. I sold the young cockerels as fryers and I kept the pullets as they began to lay to sell their eggs.
Lane's first big construction job was a big hen house for 500 layers. Since Lane was a veteran, he was eligible for on-the-farm classes. His cousin, Homer Massey, taught the class at Lebanon High School each Saturday morning. Lane attended from 1948 to 1952. The men in Lane's class helped us pour the foundation and floor for the big hen house. My job was to bring buckets of water from the spring to use in mixing the cement and gravel. We had already hauled wagon loads of gravel from Parks Creek to have ready for the men. This hen house was built according to plans from the University Extension Service with a partition down the center so we could close off part of the house. It was long with an open front on the south, which was covered with chicken wire. For very cold weather I made two long curtains from feed sacks that we rolled down over the windows. There were little door openings in each room (which we could close) so the hens could go outside into one or the other of the two fenced-in lots. The lot we didn't use that season for chickens we used as our garden plot. This way the chickens fertilized the garden.
Selling eggs and milk was our weekly income. We stored the eggs in egg crates in our cellar. Each week we took them to trade at the farmer's exchange. After straining the milk into a large can, Lane set the milk can in a tub of water from the well to cool it. It was ready for the milk truck that came to the farm every morning. Our milk was grade C milk, the quality that was made into cheese. This weekly income supported us until our major income from the sale of the stock--hogs twice a year and steers annually.
While Lane was responsible for the milking, I took care of the chickens.
Chickens are really stupid. They scare easily and when they do, they panic and pile up in the closest corner.
Baby chicks are the worst. As soon as I'd enter the brooder house they'd run to the far side. As I put out feed or water for them they'd continue crowding together until they climbed on top of one another two or three deep. Sometimes the bottom ones smothered to death before I could get them out of the corner. After being scattered, they'd only run to the next corner to pile up again. I've often wondered what they would do in a circular brooder house. I expect they would run around looking for a corner until they dropped dead from dizziness.
But perhaps they are not so stupid after all. If 500 of us were together in one quiet, warm room with plenty of food and water available at all times and suddenly a being 24 times bigger than us stalked in rattling enormous pails and stomping in with feet that could cover ten of us at once, I guess we'd panic. With no place else to go, we'd run to the corner too. Especially if we were wise enough to foresee our ultimate reason for being. The shelter from the winter weather and the good things brought to eat with plenty of fresh warm water to wash them down wouldn't fool us. If we had that foresight into the future, we would know that we will all end up in a frying pan or stew kettle. Help! We would probably pile up in the nearest corner also.
A grown hen learns not to be afraid and lets me move her around in the hen house and even pick her up frequently without undo excitement. Of course by then she is in a much larger building with much more space, an enclosed nest just for her, and, if worse comes to worst, a little door to escape outside into the lot. But her future is still the same. “Old Biddy,” I'd say when one was especially troublesome, “you feel pretty smug that you've missed the frying pan and come to this nice home. But as soon as you stop laying eggs, into the stew kettle you go.”
Maybe baby chicks foresee that future when they pile up in corners? Naw. They're just stupid.
Hens don't outgrow the stupidity even if they don't pile up in corners. Let them get out of their usual outside fenced-in area with little doors leading back safely inside, they will work themselves into a nervous breakdown trying to get back in.
I put three old hens outside to break them from setting on the nest. They went around the three sides of the hen house they had access to until they wore a path around it. When a rain storm came up, I decided they had learned their lesson and wouldn't set on eggs anymore. I opened the big hen house door we used for them to enter--a door they never used. Two dogs, the children, and I ran those hens around and around trying to drive them back through the opening. They would go right past it and never enter. I caught one hen by her tail feathers and tossed her in. What did she do but turn around and run out when she had been trying all day to get into the hen house. By the time I finally got them all in, I was the one ready for a nervous breakdown.
For a time I raised ducks for their feathers. Ducks aren't much smarter than chickens, but they have their own characteristics. I bought a pair of ducks and saved their eggs. I'd put the duck eggs under a setting hen. One time a hen hatched only one duck. I put him in the brooder house with 200 two-week-old chicks and a couple of ducklings hatched a week earlier. He stumbled and wobbled around like a drunken sailor on land. The chicks were curious at first but with a peck or two they disregarded him as of no significance.
But Junior was amazed. He ran as fast as his wobbly legs and webbed feet would permit him. He looked on either side but always bumbled into a chick or duckling. He sprawled clumsily on his back, wildly waving his short legs trying to turn over. Once back up, he was off again on a bit of exploring. Junior was about three inches tall and a ball of orange-tan fluff with a long neck protruding, bulging slightly from the head and tapering off for the flat bill. His cousins a week older were losing their orange color and though more adept at navigating, looked more awkward than ever.
