So normally I am not much for current events, but I have just received word of a story that I simply must recount. I have already mentioned that my 10 year-old cousin had some car troubles recently. What I may have neglected to mention is that my cousin lives on a farm. Perhaps this makes his story a bit less troubling, but at least you all know that it happened on a rural gravel road and not the freeway.
Anyway, I should also tell you that the farm that my cousin lives on is in the same general vicinity as the farm that my grandpa owns. Yes, this is the grandpa of the rock-picking, poultry literature reading and water microwaving fame. Technically, my grandpa is retired from farming, but old habits apparently die hard. He has been known to appear back on the farm to "help" my uncle and cousins with their work, or at least to offer up his uplifting critique of their farming style.
To be clear, no one is asking or forcing him to assist on the farm. In fact, I think that most persons involved would be perfectly content for him to remain safely ensconced in his town apartment, only venturing forth for social visits to his other retired farmer friends (who also live in town). Unfortunately, he still has the use of a car and possesses a valid license. He isn't a bad driver and certainly knows not to drive in bad weather given his slower reaction time. However, we have been enjoying unseasonably good weather for the past few months, which means that he has been quite mobile.
Anyway, apparently sometime recently (perhaps yesterday) my grandpa was out and about in his normal routine of unasked-for assistance when he had a bit of a vehicular mishap. Somewhere between the old farm and my uncle's farm, his car suffered a flat tire. As a cell phone would be both useless reception-wise and confusion-wise, he does not have one. Fortunately, the weather was nice, so he started to walk to my uncle's farm.
Along the way, he arrived at another neighboring farm. As an 84 year-old man who is unaccustomed to walking long distances, he decided to try his luck with the people at this farm. Don't worry, they weren't strangers, they are probably related to him in some fashion. Apparently, no one was home. Too bad, right?
Here is where it gets interesting. Although no one was at the house, there were apparently several cars sitting in the yard. Lest you think that this meant people were hiding from him in the house, remember that this is a farm and it's very likely that the owners were out in the field.
Always the resourceful fellow, my grandpa made an interesting decision. He checked out the cars that were parked in the yard and found that at least one of them had keys in it. With what I'm sure was supreme stealth and speed, he got into the car and took it over to my uncle's house.
Now, I do not know the full conclusion of this story, but I am guessing that the car was later returned, possibly without the owner ever knowing it was gone. However, my grandpa must have been a bit proud of his grand theft auto experience, because he called my uncle in Arizona to brag about his adventure.
So to summarize, in the past month, members of my family have experienced the following car related mishaps: rear-end collisions resulting in thousands of dollars worth of repairs, vehicle demon-possession resulting in ditch entry and tree collision and flat tires leading to car theft. Sweet.
If I had to pick a winner, I would have to say that my grandpa takes the prize. After all, they don't call him the "Mayor of Northfork" for nothing.
UPDATE! My uncle gave me the rest of the story involving my grandpa's adventure. Apparently the first truck he tried in the neighbor's yard wouldn't start (the battery was dead). The second car started, so that is the one he took, but he figured that it belonged to one of the boys because there was loud rock music playing on the radio when he turned it on. Oh, and it turns out that it WAS the farm of a relative. It's all sounding very "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" to me for some reason...
Showing posts with label Farmers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Farmers. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Rocks - Post 2 of the "picking" series
By most standards, I can be classified as a “small-town girl.” Despite the fact that I currently reside in a suburban setting with frequent (sometimes daily) trips into the urban center (of MN), my roots are definitely based in the “out-state” mentality.
As I mentioned in my first entry, my father was a man of business for work and a man of science (fiction) for leisure. While he wears business suits every day to work, his roots are, in fact, even more rural than mine. To put it simply, my dad was a farm-boy. Not like Wesley in Princess Bride. More like Little House on the Prairie. He met my suburb-raised mother in college. Although my mother grew up in “the Cities” as the daughter of a teacher and a housewife, her roots are in agriculture as well. In fact, all four of my grandparents were raised on farms in rural MN. What this all says about me, I’m not exactly sure. But it will help to explain the story I’m sharing now.
As I stated, I did not grow up in a city. Our residences were usually located in small communities of about 12,000 to 20,000 people, mostly in MN. These locations were usually convenient for visiting family, mostly grandparents. While my mother’s parents lived in the Cities (Minneapolis/St. Paul), my paternal grandfather was still on the farm. This always made for some interesting visits.
Every visit to my grandpa’s farm was always filled with new adventure. Some of them were magical and fascinating, and some were downright horror-movie material. I shall likely make more of these visits part of subsequent entries, but as I am in a “picking” sequence, I am going to share my brief foray into child-labor field work.
For true farm kids, chores and other assorted farm work are standard. I’m not sure what each and every job consists of, but if my family’s stories are any indication, it’s pretty rough. No sleeping in until noon on Saturdays and lots of lifting, hauling and getting dirty. This pretty much went against the grain of my habits as a child and teenager entirely. This is why it was important that I learned at an early age that it was not the life for me.
From time to time, my brother and I were sent to stay with our farm grandpa all by ourselves. While I’d like to think this was purely for the bonding experience, I also suspect that my parents needed a break from us for extended periods of time. Activities at the farm were somewhat limited compared to home. Translation: the TV did not work. We found other means of entertainment, such as playing with the old electric organ, chasing cats and eating crackers (my grandpa cannot cook to save his life).
One summer when I was about 6 and my brother was maybe 4, my father informed us that our upcoming trip was to include a special treat. If my father said that to me now, I would have conducted a detailed interrogation. At age 6, I was a bit more trusting.
Upon arrival, we were given the exciting news: we were going ROCK picking! I had never heard of this type of picking, but I imagined it to be something like raspberry picking where we would leisurely stroll around the farm looking for interesting stones to put in our bucket or wagon or whatever. I was intrigued.
Our uniform for this outing was a bit more stifling than I was expecting. Long jeans, long-sleeve shirt and old tennis shoes seemed a bit odd for a leisurely exercise. We followed my grandpa out to the barn where the tractors were kept. He told us to wait and returned shortly driving a tractor with a flat trailer tethered behind. After loading us on to the trailer, I was a little nervous. While I was always a fan of the tractor rides and even trailer rides, this seemed like a hefty setup for picking up pretty rocks.
Our ride took us out into a plowed field and then stopped. Grandpa descended from the tractor and helped us off the trailer. By this point, I believe that my uncle had joined us in the field. The adults then began their demonstration of actual rock picking. To my dismay, this translated to my uncle dislodging large boulders from the earth and handing them to us for placement onto the flat trailer while my grandfather drove the tractor at a speed close to molasses.
From that point onward, the afternoon was a hot and grainy blur of boredom, anger and heat exhaustion. If anyone thought to bring water or snacks, it might have been bearable. But apparently 4 and 6 year old farm kids are tougher than that. I was not.
Looking back, I’m not sure why exactly my grandpa thought that such young children would be any actual help as our puny arms could not lift most of the rocks that we found. I imagine that he saw it as an act of character building that would benefit us in the long-run. Or he just thought it would be really funny. My grandpa has a weird sense of humor sometimes.
After our long day in the fields, we returned to the house. We were immediately whisked off to the bathroom for clean-up, but we did manage a good look in the mirror before the bathing commenced. It was a horrific yet mesmerizing sight. Dirt and dust had filled in every single line and crevice of our exposed skin, mainly on our faces. I really wish someone had thought to take a picture. After we were thoroughly scrubbed and our scalps scoured with what felt like steel wool, we were allowed to rest. I’m sure we slept VERY well that night.
Oddly, we were never taken out rock picking ever again in our childhood. Nor have we been asked to help now that we are capable adults. The motive and purpose for this one time event remains a mystery. I know that the process still happens and that my younger cousins have assisted many times. My only conclusion is that it was an attempt to give my brother and I some farm/street credibility. I will therefore wear this accomplishment as a badge of honor for proof that I am not just some wussy city girl. In case anyone ever asks.
As I mentioned in my first entry, my father was a man of business for work and a man of science (fiction) for leisure. While he wears business suits every day to work, his roots are, in fact, even more rural than mine. To put it simply, my dad was a farm-boy. Not like Wesley in Princess Bride. More like Little House on the Prairie. He met my suburb-raised mother in college. Although my mother grew up in “the Cities” as the daughter of a teacher and a housewife, her roots are in agriculture as well. In fact, all four of my grandparents were raised on farms in rural MN. What this all says about me, I’m not exactly sure. But it will help to explain the story I’m sharing now.
As I stated, I did not grow up in a city. Our residences were usually located in small communities of about 12,000 to 20,000 people, mostly in MN. These locations were usually convenient for visiting family, mostly grandparents. While my mother’s parents lived in the Cities (Minneapolis/St. Paul), my paternal grandfather was still on the farm. This always made for some interesting visits.
Every visit to my grandpa’s farm was always filled with new adventure. Some of them were magical and fascinating, and some were downright horror-movie material. I shall likely make more of these visits part of subsequent entries, but as I am in a “picking” sequence, I am going to share my brief foray into child-labor field work.
For true farm kids, chores and other assorted farm work are standard. I’m not sure what each and every job consists of, but if my family’s stories are any indication, it’s pretty rough. No sleeping in until noon on Saturdays and lots of lifting, hauling and getting dirty. This pretty much went against the grain of my habits as a child and teenager entirely. This is why it was important that I learned at an early age that it was not the life for me.
From time to time, my brother and I were sent to stay with our farm grandpa all by ourselves. While I’d like to think this was purely for the bonding experience, I also suspect that my parents needed a break from us for extended periods of time. Activities at the farm were somewhat limited compared to home. Translation: the TV did not work. We found other means of entertainment, such as playing with the old electric organ, chasing cats and eating crackers (my grandpa cannot cook to save his life).
One summer when I was about 6 and my brother was maybe 4, my father informed us that our upcoming trip was to include a special treat. If my father said that to me now, I would have conducted a detailed interrogation. At age 6, I was a bit more trusting.
Upon arrival, we were given the exciting news: we were going ROCK picking! I had never heard of this type of picking, but I imagined it to be something like raspberry picking where we would leisurely stroll around the farm looking for interesting stones to put in our bucket or wagon or whatever. I was intrigued.
Our uniform for this outing was a bit more stifling than I was expecting. Long jeans, long-sleeve shirt and old tennis shoes seemed a bit odd for a leisurely exercise. We followed my grandpa out to the barn where the tractors were kept. He told us to wait and returned shortly driving a tractor with a flat trailer tethered behind. After loading us on to the trailer, I was a little nervous. While I was always a fan of the tractor rides and even trailer rides, this seemed like a hefty setup for picking up pretty rocks.
Our ride took us out into a plowed field and then stopped. Grandpa descended from the tractor and helped us off the trailer. By this point, I believe that my uncle had joined us in the field. The adults then began their demonstration of actual rock picking. To my dismay, this translated to my uncle dislodging large boulders from the earth and handing them to us for placement onto the flat trailer while my grandfather drove the tractor at a speed close to molasses.
From that point onward, the afternoon was a hot and grainy blur of boredom, anger and heat exhaustion. If anyone thought to bring water or snacks, it might have been bearable. But apparently 4 and 6 year old farm kids are tougher than that. I was not.
Looking back, I’m not sure why exactly my grandpa thought that such young children would be any actual help as our puny arms could not lift most of the rocks that we found. I imagine that he saw it as an act of character building that would benefit us in the long-run. Or he just thought it would be really funny. My grandpa has a weird sense of humor sometimes.
After our long day in the fields, we returned to the house. We were immediately whisked off to the bathroom for clean-up, but we did manage a good look in the mirror before the bathing commenced. It was a horrific yet mesmerizing sight. Dirt and dust had filled in every single line and crevice of our exposed skin, mainly on our faces. I really wish someone had thought to take a picture. After we were thoroughly scrubbed and our scalps scoured with what felt like steel wool, we were allowed to rest. I’m sure we slept VERY well that night.
Oddly, we were never taken out rock picking ever again in our childhood. Nor have we been asked to help now that we are capable adults. The motive and purpose for this one time event remains a mystery. I know that the process still happens and that my younger cousins have assisted many times. My only conclusion is that it was an attempt to give my brother and I some farm/street credibility. I will therefore wear this accomplishment as a badge of honor for proof that I am not just some wussy city girl. In case anyone ever asks.
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