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BARBARA McFADDEN |
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 CHARLES AUSTIN, tending his grape vines, circa 1944. |
Warm and cozy memories
By BARBARA McFADDEN
of TheColumnists.com
The young farmer’s
instincts told him that the weather was changing. As the sky
grayed, he sensed rain was on the way and as the temperature
dropped, he feared hail. He hurried from the field to the barnyard
to secure the animals, hen house, and barn for what might come.
As he lay in bed that night beside his lovely young wife, he
shivered with the increasing cold and feared for his beautiful
corn crop. Before dawn, he awakened from restless sleep to the
sound of rain on the roof, which quickly increased its beat.
Then it grew even colder. Hail began to pelt away at the shingles
with increasing fury.
At first light, he hurried to the back door, flung it open, and
stared in horror at the
devastation of the corn crop he had been relying upon for cash
and food for his animals and flock of chickens.
Without a word to his wife or a bite of breakfast, he purposefully
dressed, hooked his horse up to the buggy and drove into town.
By the time he returned, everything on the farm had been sold
and he had nothing with him but two one-way train tickets and
a great big trunk.
They were leaving Toledo, Kansas, with its cruel summers and
winters and going to California.
Upon arriving in Stockton early in the 20th Century, these Westward
Ho pioneers found themselves the butt of laughter at their old-fashioned
clothes. Charl, as his wife referred to him, found work on other
folks’ land, building houses and barns. In time this resilient
man, who later became my grandfather, accumulated enough money
to invest in his own land next to a irrigation ditch bank (the
sloping outer side of the dirt wall), down a country road from
a wide spot on Highway 99 between
Modesto and Turlock called Keyes.
While Grandma and Grandpa loved that place they called the “home
ranch” and the fertile land that supported their family,
my folks slipped beyond the surrounding mountains and created
a far different life in a much different place. They followed
my dad’s parents to coastal Santa Cruz, after discovering
that my brother Bob’s asthma nearly disappeared each time
they visited the coast. Nonetheless, we grandchildren went back
for visits during summer vacations.
While it may be an agricultural cornucopia, one thing we had
to acclimate ourselves to each time, was the fact that the great
San Joaquin Valley of California bakes during the summer months.
And, some times, it just sizzles. In the Golden Olden times before
air conditioning, folks relied upon open windows and doors in
the evenings to let the hot air that accumulated during the day
pass through the
screens and the slightly cooler air to enter.
Not only did cool air come through the wire screens, the rumble
of the night train, as it whistled through the single crossing
down the country road at Keyes entered as well. So, as I lay
in bed at Grandma’s house, my vivid imagination was filled
with visions of men and women in suits and hats, swiftly moving
through the night. And, of course, I was filled with curiosity
about their destinations and the reasons for them.
Were they traveling to big cities for new careers, loves, vacations,
or to flee old ones? Was it possible they were traveling to port
cities where they might be taking ocean liners for all of those
possibilities or were they headed for large airports for any
of the same reasons?
As I fell asleep to the sturdy tick-tock of the big clock on
the corner shelf in the kitchen, I tumbled into wonderful dreams
about all these assorted possibilities. No wonder I’ve always
dreamed in technicolor.
One of the realities of country life back in the 30s, 40s and
50s was family. Since my grandmother had been orphaned and lost
one sister by the time she married Grandpa, she had most of her
family fiercely attached to her apron strings. And, since her
flowered aprons were made of large cotton sacks sturdy enough
to hold feed for her flocks of chickens, those strings held.
So, during the day, my aunts, Irene, Betty and Vi would drop
by. Another aunt, Mary Lee, and her family lived with Grandma
on the ranch after Grandpa died of asthma and probably lung or
esophageal cancer.
Most of the time when Betty and Vi came, their kids joined them.
So, there were a lot of us to go outside and play. Play, like
work, started in the barn, where the great trunk that my grandparents
brought with them from Kansas was stored. It was filled with
the most wonderful old clothes and my mind was stuffed with the
most marvelous scenarios for all of us to act out. No wonder
I developed such a love for drama!
Customarily, the only interference from the back porch would
be calls from Mary Lee, worrying about whether there were any
black widow spiders hiding in those old clothes. Mary Lee worried
about a lot of things.
Nearly everything we ate there came from the ranch and there
really is nothing like farm-fresh fruit and produce. Uncle Johnny
was so proud of his fruit and vegetables and fussed about the
fact that Aunt Mary Lee really preferred the nice, clean produce
in cellophane bags from the grocery store. Actually, I think
it was the dirt that clung to the carrots, onions, etc., from
the vegetable garden behind the barn that bothered her so. In
addition to spiders, Mary Lee worried a lot about about things
like germs.
Oh, and then there were her concerns about all of us falling
into the irrigation ditch on our way to the bank of nearby mailboxes
where the rural delivery mailman filled a bank of those old fashioned
gray metal mailboxes with red flags that you put up if there
was mail in your box to go.
These fears led to our family’s very
own version of the fairy tale about the Billy Goats Gruff. However,
this one only featured the troll that would leap up and drag
you down to the very bottom if you got too close. There were
no heroes here. Since I had the very strongest imagination, I
worried about this the most. So, each time I reached the ditch,
I stopped and took a very deep breath and ran like blazes right
down the middle of the road. To this day, I have marvelous lung
capacity. I also have a lingering suspicion that my aunt used
to stand at the dining room windowand giggle at my antics. Farm
life could be a bit dull and folks found their fun where they
could.
However, once past the ditch on my return trip, mail in hand,
I could stop and pick some of “Doc” Sergis’s big
black figs. When he emigrated from the Middle East, he must have
brought cuttings from all his favorite fruit trees. And, as my
grandfather sampled them, he, too acquired loquats, persimmons,
and pomegranates. Stuffed with those glorious figs, I returned
much more slowly toward Grandma’s park-like
yard. There was a hedge with flower beds between it and the great
green lawn with the two large Christmas trees, which were like
our grandparents. One was tall and thin and the other was short
and stout. The only blemish was the huge butane tank-there were
no natural gas pipelines leading to farm houses.
There was also a wonderful pond filled
with water lilies and goldfish. When I reproduced that in my
own yard at the bottom of a waterfall decades later, raccoons
destroyed everything. First they upended and tore apart the plants
while looking for grubs. And then, they ate my beautiful koi.
However, Grandma’s goldfish led much longer and happier
lives.
Recently, I learned that the lovely yards around some of the
farmhouses were the result of articles in the monthly farm magazines,
encouraging farmers to beautify the area around their homes.
The more successful the farmer, the more splendid the yard.
Towards the end of the Summer, the big event was the County Fair.
In addition to the rides and booths offering prizes for various
feats, there were the individual booths for all of the small
communities, which competed for the coveted first prize blue
ribbons. Not only did places compete, the farmers within them
tried to out-vie each other. My cousins and I would pile in our
uncles’ cars and ferry plates of magnificent produce back
and forth between the Keyes booth and the judges. Uncle Dick
and Uncle Johnny were the most competitive of all.
As I grew older, an added attraction was
riding on all of those rides at night with my favorite broad
shouldered boy of the Summer. And, of course, there were those
wonderful square dances in Uncle Bill’s big garage. There
was also house work to be done. Even though farmers removed their
boots on the back steps, dirt found its way inside the house.
As I think back upon how purposeful my grandmothers and most
of their daughters were, I think it helped protect them from
the isolation of farm life.
The routine of laundry, on a certain day, ironing the next, etc.,
provided a framework for their lives. Women who rebelled, like
my mother and one of her sisters-in-law, succumbed to fantasy
land, depression, and agoraphobia. (One service station owner’s
wife even ran off with a truck driver.)
Like all good things, Summers came to an
end. And, in time so did that park like yard. It succumbed to
the rapacious needs of modern farming.
Now, the diminished yard is surrounded by fencing instead of
a hedge. Aside from a row or two, the grapevines have been ripped
out along with the walnut trees and berry vines. I’m probably
the only member of the family who misses that wonderful yard.
However, it and the people who filled it still vividly exist
in my mind.
©2012 by Barbara McFadden.
The photo is the property of the author. All rights reserved.
This column first posted Jan. 23, 2012.
You can comment on this column online via our TALKBACK page. Please address your e-mail message to either "The Editors" or Barbara McFadden at Syndpack@aol.com
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