DOGS AND PUPPIES

I always had at least one dog for a pet. Although they really were for the entire family I always thought of them as my own friends and playmates. One reason may have been that I herded cattle more than anyone else, and when I was alone at least one dog was always with me.

Hunting for rabbits, gophers and mice was a constant activity for the dog, and its tail always wagged with delight as it searched in the grass and bushes. If a cow wandered farther away than permitted, the dog was always eager to bring it back at my command.

But a dog has to be used carefully when herding cows. If the dog chases the cow too fast, then all the milk will be lost, because as the cow runs to escape the sharp teeth of the dog nipping at it heels or trying to bite its nose, its udder will bang against its legs. A sharp glance from my father when I returned the cows for milking was always enough to let me know that I had not controlled the dog as he had wanted.

There were new puppies nearly every year. Usually they were born under the granary where their mother had made a nest for them, and it was such fun to find them and to hold their soft, warm, cuddly bodies in my hand and against my face. The mother dog always wagged her tail and never seemed to mind.

For the first few weeks the puppies' eyes were not open, and they were too weak to run around. But once this period was over, and they had the strength to run on their stubby little legs, they liked nothing better than to be played with and to play with each other.

Having so many puppies also brought times of sadness, though. Five or six puppies a year were just too much for one farm, so some of them had to be killed or given away. Almost all the farmers had their own dogs, and few of them wanted extra puppies.

My parents usually allowed me to keep one puppy from each litter, but the others had to be killed. Although it was an unpleasant task for me, I preferred doing it myself. One time after I found two small and starving kittens that had been left in one of our pastures by someone who did not want to kill them, I decided that turning them loose without food or water was much worse.

When dogs were run over by an automobile, as sometimes happened, they usually died or had to be killed because of their injuries. Veterinarians were expensive and far away in those days, and farmers only called them to heal the more valuable horses or cows.

One day when I was in our small town my dog was run over by a car. I first thought it had been killed. I had ridden to the town and tied my horse to the hitching rack, and as I started across the street for the post office, my dog ran ahead of me, and right underneath the rear wheel of a neighbor's car as it came up the street. The wheel passed right over my dog's chest, and the muddy tire track was clearly visible on its fur. But no blood came from its mouth and it was still breathing. Very soon it raised itself to its feet, and when I talked to it and petted it, it even wagged its tail. As I mounted my horse for the ride home, I thought what a powerful chest my dog had, how lucky it had been.

Another time, with another dog, I was not so lucky. I had been helping my father stack hay that had been cut in a slough near the main road to the town. Just as a car passed the place where we were working, my dog ran out of the tall grass and into the road. This time the car struck my dog with two wheels, and mortally wounded it. It tried to get up and come to me, but was unable to do so. I talked to it and petted it, but it soon died. Fortunately there was another puppy to take its place.

Poison took another of my dogs. No one ever knew where the poison came from, but one day I noticed that my dog seemed very sick. Usually, when I took my rifle down from the two nails that held it on the kitchen wall and made as if to go hunting, it would run in circles and bark, but this time it only slowly wagged its tail. Even my parents did not know what to do. When I went to bed that night, I wondered if my dog would still be alive in the morning. Sure enough, it was dead. But there was also another puppy to replace it.

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

B ecause we had a large family and not much money, we rarely had fresh fruit bought in a store. Orange juice for breakfast, or for any other time, was unheard of. Aside from apples on occasion, the only exceptions to the general rule of no fruit were a few Saturday nights, when peaches, plums and pears were in season, and Christmas, when I sometimes got an orange.

I had a great craving for fruit. When I was in the third or fourth grade I had a classmate who always had fresh fruit in his lunch bucket. Since my fingers seemed to be much stronger than his, I usually persuaded him to let me peel his orange for him. In return he would give me one of the sections. I felt richly rewarded.

In the summer I particularly enjoyed the wild fruits that grew in our pastures. Wild strawberries came in season first, and when I found a patch not yet ripe I would mark it so that I could be certain to find it when the berries were ready to be eaten. There were usually not very many, and they were quite small as a rule. I ate them as I picked them, as did my youngest sister Martha. There were times when we took some to our mother to taste, but I can recall only one or two times when there were enough to be eaten with cream and sugar. On one hot summer day that I remember, a walking peddler with a heavy trunk of lace on his back came to the house, and my mother invited him to rest and have something to eat. My sister and I went out and picked enough of our precious berries to give him a dish. That was a great sacrifice, I thought, but he truly enjoyed them, and Mother clearly indicated her approval of our action.

After the wild strawberries came the June berries. They were much like a blueberry, but smaller, and they were my favorites. Usually we could find enough to take home to my mother to cook for eating in the winter as a fruit dessert. My older sister Mary married a blacksmith in town, and much later, after my parents had left the farm, she would sometimes serve me an entire quart when I visited her. I never forgot how generous she was, for she already had a family of five children to feed, and had very little to spare of anything.

Chokecherries were ripe in late July each summer. They grew on even larger trees than the June berries, and frequently in such abundance that we could fill milk pails with them. Although I liked the flavor, they had very little meat on them, and had a fairly large seed. They were usually made into jelly. Many farmers also made wine from them. A sweet juice made from them was especially good on pancakes.

Chokecherries apparently received their unappealing name because they coated the tongue and throat if eaten in large amounts, and made you feel like choking, especially if you drank milk at the same time. I learned very quickly that the only cure for this was to stop eating the cherries. Then the coating would gradually disappear.

One summer the chokecherry trees on our farm were almost bent to the ground with the weight of the fruit on them. We filled not only pails, but flour sacks with the berries. And so did many other people, who came in their cars and drove across the edge of our fields to get to the big pasture where the cherries grew. No one ever asked permission, even though they were all from the same community.

My father and one of my older brothers expressed resentment over such conduct and discussed how they might make their displeasure felt. I listened intently and agreed with everything they said. After all, they were our berries, and we could continue to pick over a longer period if the people from the outside did not strip our trees. It was decided that I should go, unseen, to one of the parked cars and let the air out of one of the tires, and also pull the wire off one of the spark plugs.

I felt very daring as I kept low to the ground until I reached the car and did what I was supposed to do. Then I raced back to my father and brother.

As it was getting late in the day when we returned to our house, they decided that I should pretend I was playing in an abandoned car near our house, close to the road along which the berry pickers would have to drive on their way home. That way, the idea went, I would be better able to observe the berry pickers' discomfiture.

When the car came sputtering along it was obvious from the looks on the faces of the people in it that they were very angry, but they did not stop to talk with me. And that particular car never came back again.

I went back to our house and told my father and brother what I had observed. There seemed to be satisfaction over what I had done, but the subject was not subsequently discussed, and I sensed that my mother did not approve. Although I had been a willing participant in the prank, in retrospect I never felt comfortable over my role.

Even later in the summer there were wild plums to be picked, although there were only two or three plum trees. When I first discovered the plum trees, I simply crawled out on a branch that would hold me, and sat there while I ate one plum after another. I had no pail or sack with me, and I do not remember taking any plums back to my mother. They would have been a little too ripe to carry very far in my pocket, anyway, so I just ate.

That night, after I had been in bed for about an hour, my stomach began to feel very uneasy. Suddenly, saliva began accumulating in my mouth, and I knew what that meant. I leaped out of bed but it was too late. All the plums came up with a rush. They didn't taste nearly so good the second time. I vowed never to be such a glutton again.

Several years earlier, before I had even started to school, I had had a similar experience with another type of fruit. A few wild rose bushes grew on our farm, and in the autumn they were covered with bright orange-red berries. Much later I learned that they were called rose hips. They consisted of a cluster of small seeds, covered by a thin layer of something with the consistency of the inside of an orange peel. To me this was a kind of fruit, and I enjoyed it even though there was hardly any flesh on each berry. I stood by the rose bushes for an hour or so, and ate and ate and ate.

After I eventually went home, my stomach soon began to act peculiar, and a short time later I lost everything in it. My mother cleaned me and, as it was still daytime, put me in my parents' bed. Not only was that a very special treat for me, but it felt so good just to lie between those cool sheets. Members of the family came in to see me from time to time. I had never had so much attention before. I even began to think there were some advantages to being ill, but then new pains in my stomach would remind me of how it all started.

When the day ended I was moved to my bed upstairs, which I shared with one or two of my brothers. The special attention was over. I decided it was not worth another stomach ache to get it back.

CATCHING WILD BIRDS WITH SALT

I n the trees and bushes around our farm buildings one could always hear and see many different birds, especially in the summer. The only ones that stayed with us for the entire year, however, were the English sparrows. They were regarded as somewhat of a pest, but their cheerful chirping could be heard any day, summer or winter. And because they lived around people all of the time, they were quite tame for wild birds. During the winter season, it was especially easy to get close to them in the granary, because that is where they always went to spend the night. As a small boy, I always thought I should be able to catch them in my hands, but somehow I could never get quite close enough.

One day I told my parents what I was trying to do. They said the best way to catch a bird was first to put salt on its tail, and because I was small and they were serious, I believed them.

Armed with a handful of salt, I went to the granary. It was late enough in the afternoon for the birds to begin nesting on the rafters where they slept through the night. I approached them as quietly as possible, until I was certain if I threw the salt it would land on their tails. But the birds simply flew away, just as they had always done when I had tried to catch them with my bare hands.
When I told my mother what had happened, she said, without even a trace of a smile, that it was important to get the salt directly on the tail. I therefore tried again, this time with the salt shaker in my hand, but the result was the same: the birds flew away. It then slowly began to dawn on me that maybe, just maybe, my parents had played a joke on me. Later, when I was a little older but had still not caught a bird, I was certain.

B aby brothers always like to be with their big brothers. One day my older brothers were repairing their bicycles. Although I was not big enough to ride on them I thought I could help repair them. When the bicycles were turned upside down, the better to get at the gears and pedals, I amused myself by turning the pedals to make the wheels go around. Unfortunately, I decided to experiment just a little by putting a finger between the chain and the small wheel that it turned. I found out that steel is much harder than small fingers.

With blood running from one finger, I ran to my mother. Although she was busy with many chores, she stopped to see what had happened, and to wash and bandage the damaged finger. Then she did something that rarely happened: she took me in her lap and sat with me in the rocking chair. As she cuddled me in her strong and warm arms, I almost forgot my throbbing finger, but not enough to ever want to put it into the wheel again.

F ather usually smoked a pipe in the evening after supper, and on very special occasions he smoked a cigar. My older brothers all smoked cigarettes when my parents were not looking, and some of them tried chewing tobacco as well.

I became curious at an early age about this brown stuff that all of the "big men" around me seemed to be using, and I decided that I should try it, too. I was also given the idea at an early age that it was just about necessary to smoke to be a man. One of my brothers even pointed out to me that Abraham Lincoln had smoked, and that he had gone to the White House. This made a powerful impression on me, because I knew from what the census taker had told my father that, unlike my older brothers and sisters who had been born in Denmark, I had a chance to become President because I had been born in the United States.

I had no money for tobacco, so I first tried to smoke dried corn silk from the tip of the ear of ripe corn, and also the seed of a weed that looked like coarse tobacco. I rolled this "tobacco" in a piece of newspaper. It didn't look much like a cigarette, but it would burn. Unfortunately, it also burned the end of my tongue. It took many matches to keep this "cigarette" lighted; and I probably would have been better off making a bonfire to keep it going, but that would have been too hot to get close to.

One of the best opportunities to use real tobacco came when my mother took me along to visit a friend of hers on a nearby farm. There was a boy for me to play with, a few years older than I. And this was the first time I learned that big boys like to get smaller boys to do things they can ridicule.

I had only been in the boy's house a few minutes when he suggested that we go out and play in the barn. It was summer, a time when I had few playmates, and I was also a guest, so I followed willingly.

When we got out to the barn he produced a pack of tailor-made cigarettes, and matches for lighting them. At that time such cigarettes were not yet common, and they were still regarded as very special. Many adults were still rolling their own; they were much cheaper that way, although they didn't look nearly so appealing with their lumpy shapes and droopy ends. At any rate, the boy proceeded to light up, take a few puffs and pass the cigarette to me. I did the same, although my own puff was very small, because I quickly discovered that while the cigarette smelled pleasant (especially in the barn with all of its animal odors), it burned the end of my tongue and made my eyes water..

The boy took back his cigarette. Then he drew the smoke down into his lungs and made it come out through his nose and mouth. I was impressed. Then he did it again and he asked me to watch him very closely, which I did. The next thing I knew he had burned my hand with the lighted end of the cigarette.

When I jerked my hand away, he laughed. He told me that if I wanted to be a big boy I, too, would have to learn to inhale cigarette smoke. He handed me the cigarette again, and again I did as he had shown me. But when I inhaled, it felt as though I would choke. I coughed. My tongue burned more than ever. The tears came to my eyes.

We sat and talked a little longer while he continued to smoke. But very soon I developed a queasy feeling in my stomach. The saliva began to flow in my mouth, and I knew from other experiences in eating too much fruit that I was going to vomit.

I left the barn and went into the nearby garden, my stomach feeling more and more unsteady. I felt so miserable that if there had been a plant large enough I would have crawled under it, or if there had been a hole large enough I would have crawled into it. But neither was to be found, and everything I had eaten earlier that day came up.

Embarrassing though it all was, I nevertheless felt better. I vowed to myself: no more inhaling. And I never did.

Chewing tobacco also has its risks. I was riding my pony one day, when I noticed a neighbor boy plowing a field next to one of ours. I decided to ride over for a short visit, even though he was several years older than I was. He stopped his horses and we began to talk. I remained sitting on my pony because I was riding bareback and I was still quite small, which meant if I dismounted from my horse I could not get back on unless I could find a fairly tall object, such as a rock, on which to stand.

The boy took a square of chewing tobacco out of his overall pocket, bit off a piece and handed the square to me, commenting, "Have a bite. It tastes like licorice."

Now I always liked candy, and licorice was my favorite, but I rarely ever got a piece. I bit off a piece of the tobacco, handed it back and began to chew just the way he had shown me. Licorice it was not, but at the same time I did not want to spit it out in front of him. We talked for a couple more minutes, during which time my mouth kept filling with tobacco juice that I kept trying to spit out to keep from swallowing.

I began to feel more and more dizzy. Even my pony seemed to sense that I was not holding the reins in the normal way. He turned and started toward the barn, and instead of trying to stop him I just put my arms around his neck to keep from falling off, and let him go.

When we arrived at the barn without mishap I just slid off the horse's back onto my shaky feet, and looked for a place to sit down.

Gradually the dizziness went away. No one in the family saw me. Right then I decided: no more chewing tobacco, even if it tasted like licorice.

YOUNG EDDIE
In button shoes, about 1919, standing in front of the granary,
with garage at end. This is the first picture of me that I know of.

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LEAVES FROM A FARM BOY'S DIARY by Eddie W. Schodt

Story Copyright 1994 Eddie W. Schodt
All Rights Reserved
Line drawings by Frederik L. Schodt
Black and white photographs printed by Misao Mizuno

http://www.jai2.com/farm2.htm
Copyright 1998, Frederik L. Schodt
Revised -- Dec/25/98