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

Oh, That Tractor

Have you ever lost a tractor? I have.
It all started when I was late to get the cows home from the pasture for milking. Most days you do not have to go get the cows, but some days, only known to why to the cows, they choose to stay out in the field. This day was one of them. We had them in a pasture that we did not often use. I was far away in the northeast corner of our farm.
To get to the spot where the cows were, you had to cross the swamp. Today I was not in the mood to cross the swamp on foot. A brainstorm. Since dad was away, he would not know that I had used the tractor to fetch the cows. After all, dad had this spot where he crossed the swamp. I had driven the tractor across that spot myself. And sure enough, the crossing went fine.
So I crossed the swamp and continued to where the cows should be. No cows. So I widen my search until I find them out in the swamp. I called for the cows, but they will have nothing to do with leaving the swamp. After a frustrating while, I chose to drive the tractor into the swamp after them. It seemed that if the cows were supported okay on their small feet, a tractor would also do fine.
The cows were slow to start moving. You know how cows are. Instead of hurrying out of the way, they just stand there with that cow look until the danger stops for them. Well, when I stopped for the cows to get moving, that was as far as the tractor would go. It was sitting there on slippery grass, but would go nowhere. Reverse did not help.
So, I shut the tractor off and followed the cows home. The milking went fine.
The next day, I went to school. As I got off the bus, returning home, my dad wanted to know where the tractor was. So I told him. He was not happy. I could see that he believed it was mired down. I tried to explain that it was not mired at all, but just sitting on slippery grass. To this day, I still can visualize the look of disbelief in his face.
Dad and Larry went and retrieved the tractor. All went fine, but to hear them tell how badly the tractor was stuck, was, and still is hard to accept. I wanted, but did not get, credit for shutting it down before I mired it.
Kayak Bandit

Driving With Grandpa

My Grandpa Hess was a warm, wonderful man. I remember fondly the times we shared. As most old people do, he had some interesting truisms. My favorite is on my letterboxing website. "You will not get stuck if you just keep moving." Another one was his admonition to someone shoveling grain into the granary. "Don't worry at all about the toe of the shovel, concentrate on filling the heal and the toe will take care of itself."
Visiting at grandpa's home was special. He had a windmill. A lot of things happened at the windmill. The obvious, was the water would get pumped up into a trough that led to the cattle tank. When the wind blew steady for quite a while the tank would become full. Grandpa had a knack for knowing how close to full the tank was. When it was nearly full, grandpa might ask me to go to the windmill and release the lever which in turn stopped the windmill from turning. Even though the wind would blow whether or not the pump was turning, grandpa did not want to wear out the bearings on the windmill.
Another happening at the windmill was washing grandpa's 1950 Chevrolet. Grandpa was very pleased with his car and kept it clean. It was exceptionally clean compared to our car. Why, dad would drive our car across a rough field to get a closer look at a herd of deer. Or deliver a greasy part to Ole's repair shop. If grandpa needed to haul something, he would put it in the trunk wrapped in a gunny sack.
Often, I would help wash his car. We would suds it up real good and then throw buckets of water onto the car to rinse the suds off. When the car had adequately dried, Grandpa would let me sit in his lap and drive the car. He would choose a short route for me to drive, ending in parking it inside the garage.
Even though I was accustomed to driving tractors, a car was a big deal. And doing anything with grandpa was special.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'

I Can Pee Better Than You!

Since, as long as there have been towns and cities, there has been competition between city slickers and country bumpkins. I happen to fall in the latter category. And, truth be known, I am a bumpkin.
There have been numerous times that I did not measure up to city standards. How was I supposed to know that you have to cross a street near the intersection, for instance. By the way, why do they call that infraction "J Waking?" Could it be the way us farmers perceive a jay? After all, city dwellers, jays do strut around in a random fashion. And which farmer gave the city folks permission to use our verbiage? Did you notice I used the word verbiage? Pretty impressive word for a bumpkin, wouldn't you say? I hope I spelled it correctly.
Well, my cousins lived in town. They would come to the farm for visits. They were exposed to things in their town of Silver Bay, that we were not. I remember how interesting their lives were. But, they liked coming to the farm for equal and opposite reasons.
My memory of cousin Chuck always intrigued me. You see, I remember challenging him to compete with me to see who could pee and make the stream of pee hit the fence wire. I do not know how I learned not to pee on a fence. I do not think I ever did. Also note that the fence we were attempting to pee upon was an electric fence.
The way I remember it, is that my aim was not as good as Chuck's aim. He won the competition. His reward for winning was a jolt of electricity through a sensitive part of the body. Congratulate him if ever your paths cross.
Admittedly, the question crossed my mind whether this could lead to serious reproductive harm. In time the question was answered with the birth of his wonderful girls. Speaking of these girls, I traveled back to Minnesota about fifteen years ago to visit Chuck and his family. We had a wonderful visit.
Chuck stayed true to his Christian upbringing. He raised his daughters to be Christian too. Because I was aware of his faith, I was taken aback when he said to me as we were preparing to leave, "Take care you old turd." His daughters were shocked to hear their dad say "turd", which was obvious to me from there harmonious "Dad???"
Chuck replied to his daughters by adding "Well he is a turd. Do you realize that your uncle Steve tricked me into peeing onto an electric fence?" I was so embarrassed that he would discuss this in front of his family. I was always too embarrassed to discuss this with him, even when no one else was around.
I collected myself enough to ask (since he had breached the subject) if his memory was the same as mine. I said that I remembered tricking him twice. My very honorable cousin, Chuck, admitted that it was twice.
Chuck, I am glad that you were not injured by my prank. I hope you can forgive me.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'