In my days of growing up on that sand hill farm; My granny would insist on us putting in a garden big enough to feed the whole family.
She often told me that I was "little and mean, with no sense of family" when I'd complain, as we hand cultivated that full acre by ourselves. But even today, I call myself a "realist", as if you aren't there for the breaking of the ground, the planting, watering and tending: Then there's no need for you to be there come the harvest. But I digress.
We were dry land farmers. For those that don't know, we'd put three or four seeds in a mound and remove all, but the healthiest plant when they came up. We also would rotate plots each year; burning the old plot to return the nutrients to the soil.
Jim Pike worked as a ranch hand on the Allen Spread, that neighbored our property. He was a no account, whiskey drinkin, card playin man of the road. He was my hero and I wanted to be just like him, when I grew up.
I think my granny was sweet on him, though she never had a kind word to say on his behalf. She was always sending me down to the bunkhouse with pies, cakes and cookies and would ask what he said, when I gave them to him. I never told her that "Pike" as he was called, had given me my first taste of whiskey and had rolled my first cigarette. She would have had his hide on the barn door, if I had.
It was the end of summer. The garden had long since burned to a crisp by a sweltering sun. My uncle had his tractor in the area and my granny thinking to avoid us having to turn over the ground by hand, decided to burn the garden.
It was a small controllable flame. One we could quickly put out with our water buckets and wet burlap bags. Then the wind picked up. What was a small fire, hit the tall dry grass and flames reached for the sky.
It was different people in those days, as total strangers would stop on the highway and run to get one of the buckets of water, I was furiously pumping. But to no avail, as the wind took that fire through dry pasture and wooded areas.
After several hours on the pump, I was beat. The fire was gone and so were the firefighters. I went into the house to check on Poppa and sitting down, was soon asleep.
Of a sudden I hear yelling to bring more water. Rushing out, I saw that the fire had started again and was heading right for our house.
There was Pike. Alone and covered in soot, beating at the flames with a damp tow sack. I brought a couple of buckets and another sack and together, we put out the fire.
The rest of the fire stopped when it reached the creek, a mile from our house. When she returned, I told my granny what Pike had done and after letting things get back to normal for a couple of days; she sent me with an invite for him to come for Sunday supper.
When I got to the bunkhouse, I found a burnt ruin. Asking at the main house, I was told that Pike had been fired.
Later I found out that he had been sent to the feed store to get more tow sacks, but had not returned quick enough to save the bunkhouse, so they fired him.
When I told them why he was late getting back, they felt all bad and everything, but not knowing where he went, nor how to get in touch with him, it was a moot point.
I never saw Pike again, but have often thought that if one day we did meet; I'd shake his hand, buy him a bottle and a carton of "ready made" cigarettes.
She often told me that I was "little and mean, with no sense of family" when I'd complain, as we hand cultivated that full acre by ourselves. But even today, I call myself a "realist", as if you aren't there for the breaking of the ground, the planting, watering and tending: Then there's no need for you to be there come the harvest. But I digress.
We were dry land farmers. For those that don't know, we'd put three or four seeds in a mound and remove all, but the healthiest plant when they came up. We also would rotate plots each year; burning the old plot to return the nutrients to the soil.
Jim Pike worked as a ranch hand on the Allen Spread, that neighbored our property. He was a no account, whiskey drinkin, card playin man of the road. He was my hero and I wanted to be just like him, when I grew up.
I think my granny was sweet on him, though she never had a kind word to say on his behalf. She was always sending me down to the bunkhouse with pies, cakes and cookies and would ask what he said, when I gave them to him. I never told her that "Pike" as he was called, had given me my first taste of whiskey and had rolled my first cigarette. She would have had his hide on the barn door, if I had.
It was the end of summer. The garden had long since burned to a crisp by a sweltering sun. My uncle had his tractor in the area and my granny thinking to avoid us having to turn over the ground by hand, decided to burn the garden.
It was a small controllable flame. One we could quickly put out with our water buckets and wet burlap bags. Then the wind picked up. What was a small fire, hit the tall dry grass and flames reached for the sky.
It was different people in those days, as total strangers would stop on the highway and run to get one of the buckets of water, I was furiously pumping. But to no avail, as the wind took that fire through dry pasture and wooded areas.
After several hours on the pump, I was beat. The fire was gone and so were the firefighters. I went into the house to check on Poppa and sitting down, was soon asleep.
Of a sudden I hear yelling to bring more water. Rushing out, I saw that the fire had started again and was heading right for our house.
There was Pike. Alone and covered in soot, beating at the flames with a damp tow sack. I brought a couple of buckets and another sack and together, we put out the fire.
The rest of the fire stopped when it reached the creek, a mile from our house. When she returned, I told my granny what Pike had done and after letting things get back to normal for a couple of days; she sent me with an invite for him to come for Sunday supper.
When I got to the bunkhouse, I found a burnt ruin. Asking at the main house, I was told that Pike had been fired.
Later I found out that he had been sent to the feed store to get more tow sacks, but had not returned quick enough to save the bunkhouse, so they fired him.
When I told them why he was late getting back, they felt all bad and everything, but not knowing where he went, nor how to get in touch with him, it was a moot point.
I never saw Pike again, but have often thought that if one day we did meet; I'd shake his hand, buy him a bottle and a carton of "ready made" cigarettes.
