Cindy Was A Nag

I got my first horse, Cindy, when I was about ten or eleven years old.  We did NOT name her after my brother's wife, Cindy.  We hadn't even met his wife yet.  I remember we liked a song in school and we were always singing it while we did chores.  How the name became transferred from the song to the horse, I have no clue. 

She was a knot-head nag, always trying to scrape me and my siblings off on a fence, under a tree, under the top half of the barn door, or, if that didn't do the trick, she'd just lie down and roll over, while we were on her back.  Sometimes she would just stop walking suddenly and we'd fly over her neck to the ground, if we weren't hanging on tight. 

One summer, I got the bird-brained idea to have a horseback-riding party with some of my friends.  They all came riding on their own horses, and we rode around the farm for a while, then took a break to chat for a spell, had a cool drink, and the horses got a few sips in before we were off riding again.  Cindy was being a real nag, trying to turn the party into a rodeo, nipping at the other horses, and trying to kick and buck.  We finally called it a day, and my friends left.  I never tried that type of party again. 

Before we got Cindy, I stayed one summer with my cousin, Rita, over by Esbon, KS.  We rode her horses every day, and I fell in love with horses then.  I cried when I had to come back home, where there were no horses yet.

After I married my husband, I gave up on riding for a long time. There were four little children to care for, and no horses available to ride.  Then in the late seventies, a family moved to town with several horses.  They were always active in horse shows, parades, trail rides, and just riding as a family.  After they discovered that I had an interest in riding, I was often invited to ride along with them.  I was even taken along when they rode for business, helping other farmers and ranchers herd cattle.  Once I rode all over a pasture looking for a  lost wallet. 

Riding horseback was a hobby that I really loved. I felt on top of the world sitting on the back of a horse. I loved their smell, the feel of their hides, the sound of their hooves clomping as they walked, and the wind flying by me while we cantered and galloped.  Even the occasional bucking was a little fun.  Who knows, I might have been a rodeo contestant if I'd had the opportunity earlier in life.

I guess I'll never know.  But I still love watching a horse running free, watching rodeos, and parades with the clip-clopping of the mounts, the camaradarie of the riders.  

I can't ride anymore, due to my back issues, but I'll always love horses.
 

Cindy and Cinder

From the time I was a toddler,  I loved horses. Big ones, little ones, I loved them all.  I remember as a child about 5 or 6 years old, visiting a neighbor who had shetland ponies, and clamoring to ride.  One of the teenage boys who owned the ponies, put me up on that pony and I was in Horsey Heaven!  He led me around the yard for quite a while. I think I might have cried when I had to get off.

I also collected horse figurines and toy horses. My favorites were kept in a shadow box on my bedroom wall. I was devastated when some rowdy cousins visited and knocked my horses to the floor, breaking them in tiny pieces.  

I especially loved palomino horses back then, with the golden bodies and white or cream manes and tails. Roy Rogers rode one of them, and although he was my hero, Trigger was the celebrity I especially wanted to see. My parents took me to the state fair in Topeka when I was about 8 and we stood in line for hours to get in. I was disappointed that we couldn't get any closer to the Rogers family or their beautiful horses, but it was still a treasured memory for many  years. 

When I was 10, we got our first horse. We named her Cindy. I really don't remember why we picked that name, but I can remember singing the song "Cindy" while I rode her around the pasture. But the first time I got on her was rather embarrassing to me. 

I was too short to jump up on her back, so my dad cupped his hand, I stepped on it and he boosted me up and over.  Unfortunately, he boosted too far, and I flew over Cindy's back and landed in a pile of manure on the ground on the other side.  Daddy thought it was hilarious, and so did my siblings, but I was not impressed.  Daddy insisted I get back on, and didn't boost me quite so far this time.  

We rode that horse around for a long time. She was half quarter-horse, a eighth Arabian, an eighth appaloosa, and a quarter Shetland.  She was white with a brown cap on her head, a brown spot on her chest, and a long brown saddle on her back.  

My dad talked about having a colt from Cindy when she got older.  Someone Daddy called over brought in an Appaloosa stallion and the horses had a romantic interlude. The result was a dark brown colt with black mane and tail.  We named him Cinder.  He was always tagging along when we rode Cindy.

Cindy was an ornery nag.  She knew we girls weren't strong enough to make her mind, so she'd do things like lie down and roll over to make us have to jump off or get smashed.  If there were trees or a barn door, she'd try to brush us off under them.  Fences were another way to rid her of our annoyance.

When Cinder had grown to a yearling, he had a terrible accident that almost killed hun. He was always running around, chasing butterflies and kicking and bucking up a storm.  Well after one particular wet storm, he slammed on his brakes and slid, right into a barbed wire fence.  The gash he received on his chest was about 8 inches long, to the bone. His chest was gaping open and bleeding. It became badly infected.  The veterinarian gave us medication to give him  and we had to give him epsom salt baths to the wound twice  a day.  It was quite painful for him because he'd quiver and shake while we did his treatments.  But he did heal, although with a large scar.  

He never did get broke to ride while we had him.  When I left for college, my dad sold the horses, and I never saw them again.  I had a few pictures of them at one time, but I don't any longer.  I never outgrew my love of horses though.

Next time, I'll write about riding with my friends.

Work on the Farm: Nasty or Delicious!

Although there were a lot of good times on the farm, there were also plenty of times that weren't as nice.  Sometimes, I felt like the day would never come when I could leave for good. 

For instance, cleaning out the grain dryer after the grain had spoiled and there were maggots crawling around in the moldy, smelly grain.  There was a hole in the dryer, about 3 feet by 4 feet that we had to crawl through to get inside the dryer.  It was hot muggy work.  We carried a sturdy stick.  Not too big, but it had to be sturdy enought to not break when we shoved it down inside the bottom of the dryer, shoving the maggoty grain down through the holes at the bottom.  

It was awkward in there. There was a small area inside where we could lean against the outer wall, but had to twist to one side or another to get down close enough to the holes to poke at them.  The inner walls of the dryer ran horizontal to the outer walls, leaving a space about two and a half feet for our bodies to maneuver around in.  It was always hot, humid and smelly in there.  Once we got all the grain poked through the holes in the bottom, we could finally crawl around and get back out the same hole we entered through.  That was always a huge relief.  That was one of the nastiest chores we had to do.  We were very relieved when we grew big enough that we could no longer fit through the holes.

Another chore we hated was leveling the grain in the grain bin. This was back before they realized the danger of entering a full grain bin.   They had no clue that there might be air holes in the bottom of the piles of grain, that might collapse and suck us down into the bottom of the bin, smothering us, or even worse, pulling us down into the twisting, grinding auger that was running outside.  Luckily, we were never injured that way.  However, I had horrific allergies that made me have respiratory difficulties. I still have them today. The dust coming up from that grain was so stifling, it was hard to breathe or see.  Just entering the bins from the top of the roof of the bin was dangerous enough.  Another chore we happily outgrew.  That hole in the bin door was tiny, too.

Another of our nasty chores, mucking the pigpen, was pretty horrendous too. We'd be standing in the sloppy, slick, and sticky mud and manure of the pigpen. Our dad was running the tractor with the front end loader.  He'd lower the loader into the bottom of the pen, and we'd shovel the manure/mud into the loader.  Often we would lose our boots and/or socks in the muck and end up with frosty feet.  Eventually, we'd lose feeling in our feet and fall down. We'd get to crawl out of the manure/mud for a while to get warmed back up.  But eventually, we'd have to return to finish the job.  The shovels were heavy when filled with manure/mud.  And my balance has never been the best. But falling down in that mess was never very pleasant.

We learned at an early age that it didn't pay to argue with each other, or with our parents.  Their favorite punishment for our childhood mistakes was to send us out with a corn knife or a shovel to chop weeds, or clean out a shed or something.  

We also did a lot of irrigation chores in the summer.  We helped carry the pipe to the field, putting it into place. Always wearing heavy gloves to protect us from the hot metal and scratches and blisters.  The reward was getting to turn the water on finally and cooling off in the icy cold water.  After a few days, we were allowed to drink out of the pipes and tubes, after they had run for a while.  I'm sure it's a miracle that none of us became seriously ill from drinking out of that water.  It tasted so good though.

Herding cattle was challenging. The dumb animals never wanted to go the direction we were trying to push them.  So we'd have to run around in circles, trying to herd them in the right direction.  It was good exercise, I guess. 

Mama was pretty much in charge of the garden. Daddy would plow and plant the sweet corn with the big tractor, and he'd prepare the ground for the rest of the garden too.  But Mama was the one who planted the green beans, peas, carrots, lettuce, strawberries, and other produce.  Then we'd weed around them after they grew up enough to be identifiable.  They tasted so good after all the irrigation, weeding, harvesting, and preparation.  Mama canned a lot of veggies, but she froze the sweet corn, strawberries, and any peaches she was able to find.  We also had watermelon and canteloupe some years.  Nothing like farm produce when it's fresh. But it is a lot of work!

Earliest Memories and Farm Life

What are your earliest memories?  In my last post, I talked about the clothing I wore, and I mentioned standing on the front seat of our car while Daddy drove us to Concordia.  That is just a "flashback" memory. I remember the car, and sitting between my parents while they talked together, and what I wore.  I knew where we were going, but little else.

Another flashback is Mama taking me out to the outhouse behind the house, to go potty. I was probably about three or four, I only remember using that outhouse a couple of times, and then suddenly it seemed we had indoor plumbing, or at least a toilet and a bathtub. I think Mama must have put her foot down about it. It was pretty scary out there at night. There were no lights and we had to feel our way around with our hands. In the summertime, sometimes there were snakes in there, and there were always lots of nasty flies.

I remember Lassie. I watched Lassie on tv when I was little.  I loved how that beautiful collie was always saving someone or some animal from danger.  I remember noticing how she would lead her "project" to safety by walking ahead, then stopping and looking around and barking.

Our dog was also a collie, and her name was Lassie too. And when I was about four or five, she began acting that way one day.  I just knew she was trying to lead me somewhere. So I followed her. She led me through the yard, through the neighbor's pasture, around the pond, and over the hill to the neighbor's house.

I knocked on the door, and Mrs. Jacobsen, our neighbor, let me in while she called my mom. In a very short time, my mom was at Mrs. Jacobsen's door, and she was very angry with me, but she hugged me tight and I saw tears in her eyes as she begged me to never do that again.  I didn't. But it was a fond memory for me, anyway.

Our farm was once a dairy farm. We had quite a few Holstein cows, big black and white cows. They were pretty, most of the time, but they often wore their own feces and urine, because they walked around and lay down in it.  I always wondered why they lay in it when there was higher ground with grass.  Stupid cows.

Anyway, my dad had machines to hook up to the cows' teats to get the milk.  But he had more cows than machines, so there were always a few he milked by hand.  He'd squeeze and pull and milk would come streaming out into the bucket he held under the cow.  The cats like to hang around during milking time, because occasionally he would aim the milk stream into their open mouths.  They loved that fresh milk. 

After collecting the milk, he fed the cattle and released them back outside the barn, then carried the milk to the house where the milk separator was located.  I grew up with the sound of that noisy machine separating the milk from the cream, and seeing the big milk trucks coming to pick up the milk.   Some people had milk delivered to their houses in bottles, we sent the milk to the pasteurizer to be bottled and sent to others.  Of course, we kept some.  We never lacked for fresh milk or cream, and the ice cream...it was out of this world!  I still have my mom's ice cream recipe and love it!

Mama's garden was always a lot of work, but we had fresh sweet corn, green beans, peas, carrots, lettuce, and  much more to eat. We spent most of our summers canning and freezing the rewards from her garden.  Even after I grew up, she'd share her produce with us.  We ate really well.

Life on the farm was often good.

Wearing a smile or a frown with our old clothing?

I'm standing on the front seat of my parents' sedan, I believe it's a 1951 Chevrolet, dark gray in color. I'm about three or four years old, and I'm wearing a blue/red/green plaid dress and my favorite black patent pumps with ruffled white socks. I'm feeling very pretty.  At least Mama tells me so.

My mom and dad are talking together, while my dad is driving us to Concordia.  Daddy works for an electrical appliance business in Concordia.  Mama is a housewife.  She takes care of the house and helps with the farm chores.  It's not common for wives to work outside the home.  

Mama wears dresses or skirts and blouses most of the time, except when she is taking care of the livestock or working in the garden, then she wears blue jeans or old slacks.  In the winter, she wears layered clothing, with several layers of clothing under the coveralls, followed by at least one layer of heavy coats, gloves, boots, scarves. It gets  very cold doing farm chores in the winter. 

Now I'm about  eight or nine years old.  Mama stays in the house with Linda and Tom, my younger sister and brother.  I'm starting to help outside with the farm chores every day.  At first it seems like fun, but sometimes it's hard, especially in the winter.  In the summer, I can always spray water from the garden hose to cool off.

In the summer, clothing worn is much lighter in weight.  No more heavy clothing. The temperatures are often over 100 degrees in the summer. There is no air conditioning, and only one or two fans for the entire house, so they are strategically placed for maximum advantage.  My siblings and I often put a bowl of cold water behind a fan and lie down in front of it, so the air that hits our bodies is hopefully at least a degree or two cooler than what is normal. 

The  clothing we wear is almost all hand-me-downs, or handmade by our loving mom.  She tries so hard to make clothes we'll like. She buys  patterns and fabric all the time to make new clothes, and when we go to visit our cousins' house, we get new hand-me-downs from them that they have outgrown.  Buying new store-bought clothes is something that rarely happens.  

When I look at a Sears or J.C. Penney catalog, it's to look for clothing for my paper dolls.  My sister, Linda, and I  play with paper dolls all the time. The magazine, McCall's, has a monthly feature with Betsy McCall, as a paper doll with a collection of clothing designed just for her.  I love that feature.  I'm always watching for McCall's Magazine at the laundromat where we wash our clothes every week.  I pray that the page is still there, and if it is, I nab it before anyone else can get to it.  Stealing? I suppose it might be.  But the temptation is so great, and we can't afford store-bought dolls. 

One of my wishes is for a pair of saddle shoes. They are black and white, and all the girls are wearing them.  I'm very picky about my skirts.  They have to flare in just the right way.  I'm a real pain in the butt to my mom, who struggles to sew them the way I like them.  I'll regret that later, I'm sure. 

Clothing must be fashionable, you know, as well as comfortable. Even if you can't afford new clothes from the store.

Vignettes Of My Life Introduction

It's been quite a while since my last post.  I'm getting the urge to write once more.  Feeling reminiscent, I'm wanting to write some early childhood memories, to go along with my blog title, Living Fossil Images.  

These will be little vignettes of my early childhood leading up to and including my life today. They may not always be in chronological order. I'm sorry about that. My life hasn't always been neat and organized. 

I hope you will enjoy them.  I'm writing these mostly for my grandchildren, as part of my legacy to them.