Feed Store

Going to the feed store was very interesting. I was raised on a farm. We grew lots of corn, alfalfa, clover, oats, rye, and grass. I knew every inch of our land and I knew a lot about the surrounding farms. In the spring and summer months, I had a trap line. No, It was not to catch the well renowned beaver or the fox. Those were caught for their pelts. I did not do that. I trapped gophers.

So, I did know a lot about our little part of Heaven on Earth. I could tell you where there were some beautiful spruce trees that made a private little tent for me. Of course I could tell you about them if I wanted to. I probably would have kept it secret from you because I always believed God made this super special place just for me. 

I could have told you where the frogs grew the biggest. I could have told you where the crows nested and dropped their left over bones from the nest. I could have told you where the pine trees grew so close together that they would support you only if you did not lean out as you climbed. Of course I would lean out once I got quite high. At that point the skinny little pine would slowly bend and lower you gently back down to the ground. I really liked doing that.

What I did not know much about was how the products we raised on our farm were used by others. Say, all that corn that grew tall in perfectly neat rows. Or, the oats that were hauled away and sold. 

I got a glimpse of the answer whenever I went with my dad or grandpa to the feed store. If you walked into the front door of the feed store at the right time of year you would see a window into another room. Inside the room were people taking eggs and holding them up to a candle. After each was held to the candle they were then put into certain places based on what the person saw when the egg was held to the light. Candling eggs, it was called. Seems reasonable.

The neatest thing at the feed store was the big hole in the ground with the grates over the hole. Trucks would arrive and position themselves so the tailgate of the truck would spill into the center of the grated hole. Very few trucks had a way to hoist their bed up, so they would swing open the tailgate and let the load fall to the hopper in the ground. big trucks had to be careful not to open the gates all the way at first or they would overwhelm the hopper. 

The mystery of the feed store was how a truck could dump corn into the same hopper that soon would receive a truckload of say, oats or rye. Yet, when you wanted to buy cracked corn from the feed store, you got just that. nothing but cracked corn. No, there were no grains mixed in. Just, cracked corn. Over time I started to relate the answer to the many tubes rising up in helter skelter fashion from the roof of the place. You never noticed these tubes if you were at the feed store. You could see them as you approached. If your curiosity was strong, as mine was, you looked back at them as you rode away. 

The feed store always had a lot of dust resting on everything. There were places that the dust was just perfect to write my name. Of course, I wrote my name in the dust. Never once did my name remain visible until the next, oh so fun, visit to the feed store.

Kayak Bandit