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.