Identify several smells that bring back memories. Since I am working on my grandparents, I am going to list several smells. Of course, the main one is . . .
1. the woodstove. I wrote about it for the taste exercise
2. fresh manure. I still smell that occasionally when I go to the farm
That's about it for now. Nothing else stands out, although there must have been foods, and the smell of warm milk and the cows.
I guess it will be
Cow Patties
It permeates the landscape, at least as far as the bottom of the hill. Processing cow dung for fertilizer is a way to reuse and recycle. I don't know how healthy it is, after all I hear about methane, but it sure made the vegetables grow in our garden. Nowadays, the barn is history, but the smell lives on in my memory, revived occasionally when our neighbours up on the hill do something with it. I'm not quite sure how it's done, although I seem to recollect a machine at the farm which was used. Perhaps I have blocked that memory. It's not a lovely subject, is it? But, truth be told, it's not a smell that I find offensive. It's a good, clean, smell to me. Mind you, I generally stepped around the patties in the field, but the odd crumbs that landed on my sneakers were rather gross. The cattle in the modern farm up on the hill never leave the barn or their paddocks, so the manure is contained. Being the clean, sanitary barn that it is, and being that they give tours of the milk room and host community games night, it is imperative that it is cleaned up. All of the people around are accustomed to the odour, and I suppose are rather nose-blind.
It's a smell I often smell as I step outside my air-conditioned car and make my way through the hay field that used to be a dirt driveway and manicured lawn. I know I have arrived. I am in the present and in the past. I am walking with my Dad (1922 - 2005) into the barn which housed the cattle stalls, watching him shovel cattle dung into a wheelbarrow. Sometimes he even put it in a box and brought it home in the car with him, to add to his garden. After all, it's only recycled grass and hay, for that's all the cows eat. It's a natural process; we are just used to wiping and flushing. But . . . I remember the outhouse. It did not have the good, clean smell of the cattle manure. It was a quick fix for a little girl who was to busy to go into the farmhouse and up the stairs.
This is a free write; it's rather "crappy" writing.
FYI - the smell that I now smell comes from close to where I am standing and looking down the hill at our farm, in my blog header photo. Well, it used to be a farm. It is to be cremated this spring. My heart breaks.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Saturday, February 11, 2017
A TASTY EXERCISE
We are to describe a taste. We are to sit down with our ancestors to a meal. I did not sit down with my grandparents for many meals. We children sat in the dining room , which I never saw used as a dining room except for the kids, at TV trays, watching Bugs Bunny. Often it was macaroni and tomatoes, which my family called "chop suey." Or baked beans. Always bread made in the wood stove. But there is one meal that stood out. My mother has argued with me in the past: oatmeal porridge tastes no different when cooked on a wood stove than on a regular stove. I beg to differ.
Gram's Oatmeal Porridge
I wonder if Mum thought I was daft. "Mom, Grammy's oatmeal tastes so much better because she cooks it on the wood stove." Mum told me there was no difference in the taste. I know there was. Now, in 2017, after watching commercials for a spray smell product, I know she was "taste blind." She grew up in that little farmhouse. Oatmeal porridge was just oatmeal porridge. Same, lumpy brown stuff as the oatmeal porridge a la hurry and eat it or you'll be late to school oatmeal porridge, or I couldn't think of anything else to make for supper oatmeal porridge - her oatmeal porridge specialties.
I grant her this: oatmeal porridge a la wood stove needs just as much brown sugar to make it palatable as does her two kinds of oatmeal porridge. Otherwise, it is just a bland, yucky, full of fibre mess. But Gram's oatmeal porridge, cooked on top of a hot morning fire, just tasted better. I'm sure it had a woody taste to it. I'd swear on the wonderful memories of that kitchen that it did. And, my cousin Bob agrees with me. And he knows, for he spent ten years of his life there, and he didn't go taste blind. Me, I was a weekend visitor with the folks and a one week a summer with my cousin Sue at the farm, girl. The thing about Sue was, she always got homesick. So, a day or two after her arrival, my uncle came up to get her and take her home. It was just me, Gramp, and Gram.
And the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-doo," he called me when the sun peeked over the Graves Settlement Road. Here I was, lying on top of a feather tick, underneath a quilt made with the remnants of my ancestors clothes turned into rags, and over all, a tin roof: warm and cozy. But I could smell the wood stove, and I knew what was bubbling on top of that fire. I shivered out of my bed and carefully navigated my way down the teeny tiny steps and into my grandmother's kitchen. You want to know what made that porridge taste so good? It was having my grandmother all to myself porridge. It was being in my favourite spot in the whole world porridge. It was the anticipation of "helping" my Gramp with his chores and the animals afterwards porridge.
But most of all, the wood smoked oatmeal porridge tasted like wood smoke, and that's the smell of my grandparents.
Gram's Oatmeal Porridge
I wonder if Mum thought I was daft. "Mom, Grammy's oatmeal tastes so much better because she cooks it on the wood stove." Mum told me there was no difference in the taste. I know there was. Now, in 2017, after watching commercials for a spray smell product, I know she was "taste blind." She grew up in that little farmhouse. Oatmeal porridge was just oatmeal porridge. Same, lumpy brown stuff as the oatmeal porridge a la hurry and eat it or you'll be late to school oatmeal porridge, or I couldn't think of anything else to make for supper oatmeal porridge - her oatmeal porridge specialties.
I grant her this: oatmeal porridge a la wood stove needs just as much brown sugar to make it palatable as does her two kinds of oatmeal porridge. Otherwise, it is just a bland, yucky, full of fibre mess. But Gram's oatmeal porridge, cooked on top of a hot morning fire, just tasted better. I'm sure it had a woody taste to it. I'd swear on the wonderful memories of that kitchen that it did. And, my cousin Bob agrees with me. And he knows, for he spent ten years of his life there, and he didn't go taste blind. Me, I was a weekend visitor with the folks and a one week a summer with my cousin Sue at the farm, girl. The thing about Sue was, she always got homesick. So, a day or two after her arrival, my uncle came up to get her and take her home. It was just me, Gramp, and Gram.
And the rooster. "Cock-a-doodle-doo," he called me when the sun peeked over the Graves Settlement Road. Here I was, lying on top of a feather tick, underneath a quilt made with the remnants of my ancestors clothes turned into rags, and over all, a tin roof: warm and cozy. But I could smell the wood stove, and I knew what was bubbling on top of that fire. I shivered out of my bed and carefully navigated my way down the teeny tiny steps and into my grandmother's kitchen. You want to know what made that porridge taste so good? It was having my grandmother all to myself porridge. It was being in my favourite spot in the whole world porridge. It was the anticipation of "helping" my Gramp with his chores and the animals afterwards porridge.
But most of all, the wood smoked oatmeal porridge tasted like wood smoke, and that's the smell of my grandparents.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Overcome
Starting over with my grandfather, Floyd O Holmes
First a little mulling. I don't think it's so prevalent now, but back in the day, parents often decided upon the career path of their children. I think of so many classical composers, whose fathers were dead set against them choosing the musical field. How awful it would be if they had settled upon the careers their father's chose for them. All that music that we enjoy, stifled and non-existant. But, I think, some of them paid dearly; both financially and in family relations, for sticking to their guns. So many had to take over the family business, or be punished in some way or other.
What obstacle did Floyd Orren Holmes have to overcome?
What did Floyd want to do with his life? What did he want to be? Mom thinks, a soldier. He so enjoyed his time in the army. That may be because he joined in May of 1918. Six months before the war ended, and he stayed in England. Could have been worse. My cousin thinks he would have loved to work in his saw mill. He loved the woods. What did he not want to be? A farmer. "Stupid beasts, cows," he thought. He did not act upon his thoughts; he treated his cows well. Just so you know. Except for one, but that was a poor aim.
On with the rough draft - that was the preliminary.
Charles, his father, sat Floyd down for a man to man chat: a very important talk. A command, actually. It had to do with his not getting any younger, and the fact that all the sons and sons in law left the area, and Floyd was the only man left, and someone had to take over the farm. Floyd knew farming well, he'd been doing farm chores for twenty years . He knew how to milk a cow and keep the milk sterile and send it along to the dairy for processing. He could reach under the hen and collect her eggs. He could help a cow or horse birth a calf or colt. He could harness the team and lead them where he needed to go. He could split a log and maintain the tools and vehicles necessary to run a farm. It seemed only natural, since he was given the house, that he should take over the farm. But, Floyd hated the life of a farmer. Up early every morning of every day of every week of every month of every year, for the roosters crowed early from their perch to greet each day; the cows mooed from the barn to be milked; the horses neighed to be let out in the pasture where the green grass grew.
He'd enjoyed his time with the military. He had no trouble, as a private, taking commands and doing what he was ordered to do. He enjoyed taking apart and putting together his rifle and shining his bayonet. He didn't mind taking a shot with it every now and then, although he preferred a ringed, bulls eye paper target to a live one. However, the war was over, his new bride awaited him, and his father needed help on the farm. He left that dream behind and came back home to Hillgrove.
The brook wended it's way from Anagance to the North River, where they amalgamated and gurgled off to join the Petitcodiac, passing right through the community of Hillgrove. Cows fed and milked and equipment tended to, off Floyd would go, hiking about a mile up the Salt Springs Brook where his saw mill stood. From his pile of logs he picked out a long, straight one that he'd chopped a few days before, over the hill, and started sawing it into long boards to sell. How he loved the woods, and the grains of the wood, and the feel of the wood as he sawed it into pieces.
His train of thought, though, was not on his boards. It was his father's proclamation. "You have to take over the farm, Floyd. There's no one else." Floyd was a good son, an obedient son. He saw no way out of this predicament. There was nothing else for him to do but to become a farmer.
The busy little saw mill, like any other wooden structure left to it's own devices, began to deteriorate. The roof sagged where once it proudly sheltered the walls below. Windows shattered in the cold winds that blew over the fields. Mould grew in the corners. Saws rusted. Walls imploded and fell into a heap. Alders grew in the crannies. Finally, only the basement was of any purpose. It held the walls and dreams of a young man down the Cornhill Road, who did what he had to do.
First a little mulling. I don't think it's so prevalent now, but back in the day, parents often decided upon the career path of their children. I think of so many classical composers, whose fathers were dead set against them choosing the musical field. How awful it would be if they had settled upon the careers their father's chose for them. All that music that we enjoy, stifled and non-existant. But, I think, some of them paid dearly; both financially and in family relations, for sticking to their guns. So many had to take over the family business, or be punished in some way or other.
What obstacle did Floyd Orren Holmes have to overcome?
What did Floyd want to do with his life? What did he want to be? Mom thinks, a soldier. He so enjoyed his time in the army. That may be because he joined in May of 1918. Six months before the war ended, and he stayed in England. Could have been worse. My cousin thinks he would have loved to work in his saw mill. He loved the woods. What did he not want to be? A farmer. "Stupid beasts, cows," he thought. He did not act upon his thoughts; he treated his cows well. Just so you know. Except for one, but that was a poor aim.
On with the rough draft - that was the preliminary.
Charles, his father, sat Floyd down for a man to man chat: a very important talk. A command, actually. It had to do with his not getting any younger, and the fact that all the sons and sons in law left the area, and Floyd was the only man left, and someone had to take over the farm. Floyd knew farming well, he'd been doing farm chores for twenty years . He knew how to milk a cow and keep the milk sterile and send it along to the dairy for processing. He could reach under the hen and collect her eggs. He could help a cow or horse birth a calf or colt. He could harness the team and lead them where he needed to go. He could split a log and maintain the tools and vehicles necessary to run a farm. It seemed only natural, since he was given the house, that he should take over the farm. But, Floyd hated the life of a farmer. Up early every morning of every day of every week of every month of every year, for the roosters crowed early from their perch to greet each day; the cows mooed from the barn to be milked; the horses neighed to be let out in the pasture where the green grass grew.
He'd enjoyed his time with the military. He had no trouble, as a private, taking commands and doing what he was ordered to do. He enjoyed taking apart and putting together his rifle and shining his bayonet. He didn't mind taking a shot with it every now and then, although he preferred a ringed, bulls eye paper target to a live one. However, the war was over, his new bride awaited him, and his father needed help on the farm. He left that dream behind and came back home to Hillgrove.
The brook wended it's way from Anagance to the North River, where they amalgamated and gurgled off to join the Petitcodiac, passing right through the community of Hillgrove. Cows fed and milked and equipment tended to, off Floyd would go, hiking about a mile up the Salt Springs Brook where his saw mill stood. From his pile of logs he picked out a long, straight one that he'd chopped a few days before, over the hill, and started sawing it into long boards to sell. How he loved the woods, and the grains of the wood, and the feel of the wood as he sawed it into pieces.
His train of thought, though, was not on his boards. It was his father's proclamation. "You have to take over the farm, Floyd. There's no one else." Floyd was a good son, an obedient son. He saw no way out of this predicament. There was nothing else for him to do but to become a farmer.
The busy little saw mill, like any other wooden structure left to it's own devices, began to deteriorate. The roof sagged where once it proudly sheltered the walls below. Windows shattered in the cold winds that blew over the fields. Mould grew in the corners. Saws rusted. Walls imploded and fell into a heap. Alders grew in the crannies. Finally, only the basement was of any purpose. It held the walls and dreams of a young man down the Cornhill Road, who did what he had to do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)