Richard L. Fluker

A Few Words About the "Tales"

 

The Cows Are Out
Holler “The Cows Are Out” on a farm, and you’ll see just how fast the farmer can move. That’s family income on the loose and a big liability heading for the county road! With ponds frozen and the cows stampeding through the yard in search of water, that’s the alarm Mom sounded one Christmas Eve—right in the middle of a long-awaited bowl game.

Bucket Babies
When an old heifer we called the Standard cow wasn’t able to nurse all the orphan calves we’d acquired, we turned to the “calf bucket.” Pour some water into it, stir in some milk powder, and hang it on the corral gate. And here they’d come, heading for the nipple on the side of the bucket. One problem. Afterward, we had to watch how close we got to the calves. Do I look like your mama?!

 

Those Cotton Fields Back Home
The smoky fragrance of cotton burrs burning at nearby gins signaled the arrival of fall, even before the school bus first appeared. The farm kid who got onto that bus remembers it as a fun and exciting time, mostly because his studies took priority over stuffing cotton into a sack. Summertime, however, was a different story. Cotton has to be hoed. And Dad saw those empty days as a good time to teach his 10-year-old son about honest-to-goodness, boring work.

Hitchin’ Up and Hangin’ On
A teenage boy never gets the Mo-Ped motorbike he wishes for. An old wagon rots away under a pecan tree. Then one day, excitement for the youngster and new life for the wagon—if he can just get it out to the big hill in the pasture. But without brakes, what about the fence post, trees, and feed trough at the bottom of the hill?

The Creek Is Out
The bus ride from the farm to school was usually pretty straightforward. With Chambers Creek flooding a quarter mile of the road, the ride was neither straight nor forward. It did provide some unique entertainment—and a great opportunity for a bus driver to make the front page of the newspaper. Another creek wasn’t quite the news maker, but it did make quite an impression on a teenage boy driving home from school.

A Two-Row with Four on the Floor
The tractor is the “workhorse” of the farm. In the spring it chugs up and down the rows, planting the crops. In the summer and fall, look for something trailing along behind as the farmer gathers in the harvest. Dozens of other tasks are made easier by a tractor. It’s also a fun way for a farm boy to learn to drive well before he’s old enough for a driver’s license. But that leads to other possibilities that might not be as much fun.

Sleeping with My Head at the Foot
A “window air conditioner” in the 1950s might well have been nothing but a window left open so a breeze could flow across the room. Getting most of your body in that stream was essential to cooling down enough to sleep. Mom knew what to do, short of rearranging the whole room twice a year. And being closer to the open window had a bonus—the sweet smells of “pasture potpourri” and the sound of night creatures in the weeds and woods. Pleasant dreams!

Chicken Stuff
Most farms have a few chickens, just enough to provide eggs for the table. Big hands would hold an entire day’s output. Not on our farm. We used large wire baskets, several every day, because Dad was in the egg business. Hundreds of layers filled three chicken houses, consumed 50-pound bags of feed, and drank gallons of water. And when chickens are finished laying the egg, they have something else to lay—pickup loads of “fertilizer” to spread on nearby fields. Debeaking the chickens? That’s a story unto itself.

Four Horses
Dad figured that a boy on a farm needed his own horse. A stallion named Smokey had been in our pasture for a few years, but he was too big and I was too little for more than a ride around the yard. When I was 10, Dad sold him and bought me a sad-looking mare I named Black Beauty. Feed and a curry comb made her worth keeping, and together we explored every acre of the farm. Her first colt, Apache, was too wild for me to ride. Cochise was a little milder, so I taught him a trick that was cute at first but had me very wary of entering the pasture as he grew larger.

Right Out of the Book
Odd as it may seem to today’s youngsters, we kids in the 50s made it just fine without Facebook. We found it quite enjoyable to put our face in an actual book. Add a little imagination and the book might even come to life, allowing us to take part in the story we had read. That’s how a book about a Maine teenager building lobster traps became the story of a farm boy making chicken-wire fish traps. And this adventure had results you could take to the kitchen table!

 

Early Television
I was eight years old when we got our first TV—black-and-white, three stations, no remote, and if you missed a show, you hoped for a summer rerun. Still, the Palace Theater had come to our home! Winky Dink was such a favorite that I named my dog after him. Captain Midnight had me drinking Ovaltine so I could send off labels for a secret decoding badge. And how could we miss an episode of I Love Lucy? Supper was sometimes a TV dinner, which we ate on a TV tray, of course.

Best Birthday Present
Birthday parties at small country schools were common in the 1950s. Excited students played  games and enjoyed the Kool Aid and cake that moms toted to school. Then it was time to watch the birthday kid tear into presents everyone in class was expected to bring. But what’s this? What are three unwrapped, used comic books doing beneath the other presents? The answer provided a life lesson for the recipient.

Water Worries
Farmers lose sleep over water—not enough rain, too much rain, rain at the wrong time. During a drought Dad worried the well would go dry. Or the tanks would dry up, leaving the cows to die of thirst. He panicked when a heavy rain filled his brand new tank before the dam could settle. Later, the threat was nutria he put in the tank to control vegetation, only to learn they burrow into dams. Winter had its own worry. Pipes could burst if we didn’t turn off the water during a freeze. So we filled up buckets. And remember, as in times of drought, flush only when really necessary!

 

The Garden
Summertime meant vegetables fresh from the garden. This cornucopia kept us well fortified for weeks and even allowed us to share. Much of what we didn’t eat fresh Mom “canned” (in glass jars) and put up for the winter. For this she relied on an iron pressure cooker heated on a gas burner, some years canning way over 300 jars. Her pantry was an old cellar until the walls started bulging in, and then she just scooted the jars under a bed. Mom and Dad always preferred an early start in the garden, but even they weren’t “up” to the schedule set by my aunt and uncle!

Recess at Petty’s Chapel School
Recess at our country school wasn’t just a brief chase around the playground after lunch. Nor was it a P.E. class with a teacher and a whistle. We really played, a lot—at midmorning, after lunch, and a short break in the afternoon. Scrub softball, touch football, marbles, swing “wars,” and kite flying were some of the boys’ favorites. With the girls, we might have played jacks, jump rope, hopscotch, Red Rover, London Bridge Is Falling Down, hide and seek, and tag. For sheer excitement, could anything beat fighting wasps on the first day or two of school?

Fishing from a Tube
I grew up believing that farmers don’t take real on-the-road vacations. For us, leaving the cows and chickens wasn’t an option. By August, though, Dad felt he could at least spare a morning to take me fishing at a power plant lake. We were off at 3:00 a.m. to seine for minnows in the pre-dawn, then paddle out over the catfish. Our “vessel” was a canvas-covered truck tube with a saddle that allowed our legs to dangle in the water. What a joy it was to see Dad smile as he or I pulled in a big one. Even better was just being a part of what little leisure time he had.

The Pig Won the Award, I Got the Money
According to experts, Duroc hogs “put on weight rapidly and have large litters.” So Patsy showed promise as my 4-H project. Anyway, she was free, with two stipulations. I had to enter her in one hog show and, at the end of the program, give back a baby sow. Patsy didn’t allow me any choice on which piglet to pass on, but it seems that all the new prospective owners had their fingers crossed they’d draw her. As for the show, Patsy won a ribbon and several weeks worth of allowance.

Taking Out the Slop
Mom never saw any need to get a garbage disposal just so she could use up electricity and water while rinsing the garbage. A one-gallon syrup bucket and a son to take it out to the hog trough seemed sufficient. Even after the last hog left the farm, the slop still had to go somewhere, and that was over the barbed wire fence near the trash barrel—my first lesson in “composting.” Even today, taking peels and such to a far corner of the yard seems preferable than rinsing it for a trip down the sewer.

Going Through the Wringer
Compared to the tubs and rubboard it replaced, Mom’s Maytag wringer washer was pure luxury. To a kid, it resembled a War-of-the-Worlds monster, its head—a cubical tub—hovering on four wheeled legs. A neck running up the left back supported the wringer, two rollers that looked like a smirky mouth ready to bite down with 800 pounds of pressure. Wet laundry was the preferred fare, but it did not mind an occasional finger. Maybe an automatic washer would be better. Ever try to convince Depression-era people to buy anything new when the old one works just fine?

 

Picking up Pecans
At first we thrashed pecans from the lower limbs by heaving sticks or by flailing with a bamboo fishing pole. Then Dad taped two poles end to end and wired on a hayhook so he could snag limbs farther up.  Eventually, I’d climb into the tree and reach the pole all the way to the top. Some of the delicious nuts ended up in pies and other goodies, but most we took to town and sold. Sometimes we’d head right down the street and order hamburgers for all. The rest of the cash disappeared too, long ago. But not the memories of a pleasant fall day outdoors with family.

Be Sure Before You Shoot
Uncle Bill saw a pasture as the perfect place to teach his son Bobby about gun safety. A short distance into the hike, Uncle Bill spots a rabbit and brings the hunting party to a halt. Certain of his target, he takes aim and fires. Suddenly, the rabbit springs into the air, sprouts wings, and falls to the ground. As if that news isn’t bad enough, it gets even worse when they return to the house.

My Cousin Bobby
Bobby taught me a lot of things, ranging from fun and useful to mischievous and downright dangerous. He let me drive his family’s new car when I was 10 and taught me to play a ukelele when I was 18. He showed me how to play tunes with my tongue. And what we did with cherry bombs was probably against the law. He kept me spellbound with his tales of hunting and trapping. At other times, I had to keep an eye out for his mean streak. Works both ways, I guess. I’m really sorry about the brick!

Old Chevys
Learning to drive the ’54 Chevy wasn’t so hard after I figured out how to coordinate the clutch, gas pedal, and stick shift. The knobs and gauges were self-explanatory. And no beepers, buzzers, warning lights, and icons as explained in my current 536-page owner’s manual. Most cars were made by the Big Three, but Dad didn’t care about the Other Two. He went to town and picked out a used Chevy. All our cars were probably junked years ago—but not Dad’s ’56 pickup. I’ve had offers, but how could I sell it? That steering wheel is a memory I can wrap my hands around.

Hay Boy
I never had a real, income-taxable summer job until I was out of high school. If I wasn’t helping with chores on our farm, I was free to work for other farmers, mostly hauling hay. The pay was 50 cents an hour until I became skilled at stacking hay on the trailer. Then I got a two-bit raise. A fringe benefit—wrestling hay bales all day was a total body workout for an off-season athlete. My time clock was sunup and sunset, my work site a patch of fertile earth, my supervisor Mother Nature. Now that I look back—not a bad deal, except maybe for the day it was 103 degrees!

Why Half the Petty’s Chapel Pupils Had Good Handwriting
The kids who attended our country school were spread over a large area and in three directions. One year some “high up” decided it served no purpose for a few kids to ride the bus all over, only to pass by the school again. So those of us who lived to the east stayed after the bell. But could we just read or go out and swing? No. Mrs. Pevehouse passed out little paperback handwriting books, and we focused on perfecting our cursive curves. It bordered on punishment, but let’s just see now if the early riders can scribble their P’s and Q’s as well as I and the other detainees!

Silent Night on the Farm
It was the same Christmas story I had read to my children with all three of us squeezed into Pa’s chair. Suddenly, I could no longer escape the reality: the homestead was cold and dark on Christmas Eve for the first time ever. With the home fire no longer burning, I searched for a way to fill the void. Dreams—they can carry me back! So I took a fanciful trip, recalling our tree, the decorations, Mom and Dad in their places, the mantel, my stocking, the red wreath above the sink, the food, the joy, the warmth. Then I remembered the gifts—and the best one my parents ever gave me.

Last Time
From the time I was little, it was assumed I would go to college and not return to run the farm. Nor would my sister, who settled in the big city. It was inevitable: one day we’d have to make a decision about absentee ownership. The phone call came a few weeks after my brother-in-law’s lawn mower accident on the farm. Suddenly, family ownership that in scarcely three years would extend into its third century was on deadline to expire. What would it be like to say good-bye, as if to a departing loved one? What’s it like to leave behind a piece of your heart?