Work took precedence over play, but our parents were mindful of carving out sufficient time for us kids to relax and have fun. While summer mornings were for work, summer afternoons often afforded us free time to play. Many of my happiest moments from childhood came during these leisure times, which didn’t require any money or the attention of our parents.
“Put an egg in your shoe and beat it,” Mom would say as we dried the last dish and put it in the cupboard. With morning chores complete, out the screen door we ran, eager to enjoy a carefree afternoon while roaming the farm and doing whatever our imaginations conceived. Mom’s five directives were: the house is off limits, entertain yourselves, solve your own problems, no tattling, and keep your shoes on. One final directive was that, if we were bored, we could sweep down all the cobwebs in the barn.
Left to our own devices, we were boisterous and inquisitive. Rambling through pastures and woods, we examined wildflowers, observed birds and wild habitat, identified sounds in nature, shouted in the haymow, and skipped rocks in the pond. We were always on the lookout for a four-leaf clover or gold dust. There were unlimited things to explore and interesting stuff to be found. Discarded farm objects and an old junk dump kept us occupied for hours. We could take up one play activity and drop it at any moment for something else that appealed to us more.
We learned many life lessons on those summer afternoons: working out our own problems, negotiating how to get along with each other, and treating each other fairly. Although we bickered, physical violence was not tolerated in our family, and I do not remember any of us engaging in it. We did not tattle on one another because we had learned the futility of being a tattletale; Mom refused to listen anyway.
The Pasture
Mom and Dad warned us repeatedly not to go near the big stock tank of water that the cows drank from. Roving through the pasture, we stuck to the single cow path. Although we collected cockleburs on our socks and pants, we avoided the burning weed and Canadian thistle. Tearing off milkweed leaves, we watched milk ooze onto our hands. Tiny goldfinches perched on purple flower heads of Canadian thistle as we walked along the cattle trail. In August we stopped to admire wild asters and goldenrod. We ambled by lounging cows, some standing, some lying down, flicking their ears and tails to chase away flies as they raised their heads to stare at us and moo before returning to chewing.
The Haymow
To cool off from the blistering afternoon sun, we took cover in the barn, where we could drink the ice-cold water from a hose that ran continually to keep water in the milk cooler cold. The barn, which had a lot of character and was a great place to explore and play, echoed with silence on summer afternoons, except for the buzzing of flies and bees. Filled with hiding places, the barn was a perfect spot for hide-and-seek, especially if we were daring enough to find a hole and cover up with hay.
My siblings and I climbed a ladder of boards nailed to the wall and heaved ourselves through an open hole in the straw loft floor to get to the haymow, one of our favorite places to play. We spent hours upon hours on rainy days and cold winter days playing in the hay and straw mows.
One of the best things about the haymow was a rope that hung from sturdy crossbeams on the ceiling. That simple rope kept us entertained for hours as we jumped from the beams over—or into—the softly mounded hay below.
We climbed to the platform at the east end, our prime launch site, grabbed the rope, took a deep breath, and lunged out across the hay to the wall at the other end of the haymow. After kicking the wall, we flew back across the mountain of hay and lighted on the starting platform. The heavy hay carrier, intended to bring loose hay into the haymow, was anchored on the rail to allow for maximum swinging from one wall to the next. Depending upon your nerve and the amount of hay harvested, this jump could be anywhere from ten to fifteen feet. The trick was to get from the top of the ladder to the center of the narrow beam before jumping.
Over the years, we performed countless flying stunts such as releasing the rope in the middle and falling twenty feet into the hay below. We could have broken an arm or leg—or worse—as we practiced swinging far out into the wide open space of the center barn, but I don’t recall any of us ever getting hurt.
The Cupola
On sunny days, we yelled in the empty silo to hear echoes of our voices before going outside to climb the steel tie bars along the silo’s wall. Halfway up, we jumped on the slanted barn roof, then we crawled to the peak to perch ourselves next to the cupola where we had a spectacular view of the farm and surrounding fields.
After we tired of the view, we descended and continued wandering. We kicked stones on the gravel driveway, stopped to scratch pigs, and wandered through the empty corncrib. We dared each other to hold a long blade of grass on the electric fence, aware that a jolt would make its way up our arm to our shoulder.
Machine Shed
We entered the machine shed, which smelled of oil and grease, to examine the various items on Dad’s workbench: a grease gun, an oil can, pliers, screwdrivers, saws, spades, drills, a hatchet, gopher traps, wrenches, and coffee cans full of nuts, bolts, and nails.
There was a lot to discover in the machinery shed since much had accumulated there over the years. A horse’s collar, bridles, a hooded black buggy, a hand-powered fanning mill, and a hand-operated corn sheller were leftovers from the days when horses pulled the machinery. We sat on a metal seat and pedaled a round grindstone mounted on an axle used to sharpen knives. Dad said we were free to play with the “old junk” because it had no value.
The Mysterious Granary
We raced up the five granary steps to check on Warren’s ant farm, which was constructed from two old windows. He warned us that a bump might collapse the ant colony’s tunnel system.
“Why did you put it in here?” we asked, gathering around to watch the little creatures working in their tunnels and carrying away dead ants.
“It has to be dark so the ants feel like they’re underground.” Warren said. We concurred because he knew this kind of stuff.
The granary held some mysteries for us kids. Grandma told us that when someone died in winter when the ground was frozen, they would store the body in the bottom of the granary until spring. Dad embellished the truth by telling us that when spring came, the body was gone. It was so easy to believe Dad’s stories.
Indian Mounds
Sometimes on a summer afternoon we crossed through the cattle pass, a cement tunnel under a township road that allowed our cattle to walk single file to pastureland on the other side, so we could explore more fields, a haunted island, and a quicksand swamp. Dad warned us that if we ventured too far into the swamp we would disappear into the quicksand. He swore it was true. Believing him, we retrieved cattails and explored around the border, but never risked going too far out.
The island was a place of secrecy, a magic world we entered with trepidation. We speculated that three low rounded hills on the island were Dakota Indian burial mounds, and we marveled that Indians had once pitched tepees and hunted on this land.
Dad said the Indians loved the land and would never damage it. They fished and traded with the settlers. We liked to imagine what it was like for the Indians with no roads, and we discussed what utensils they used for cooking. We even found flint arrowheads on the fields.
“If you dig in burial mounds you will uncover human bones, peace pipes, pottery, and more stuff,” Warren told us. “We can’t disturb a burial site; it is sacred ground. We better leave these woods alone. Indian spirits live in there. This island is haunted.” Many years later, I realized that the stories about the Indian Mounds and quicksand were ideas encouraged by our parents to keep us out of certain places, but at the time we believed what we were told and acted with the proper respect for nature and a culture we didn’t fully understand.
The Woods
The woods had many connected trails, which we kids used so often that we wore them into paths. Entering the woods between the house and the pond, we glanced up to see sunlight peek through breaks in the dense ceiling of hardwoods. I savored the solitude of the woods with its cool canopy of interlacing trees. We heard woodland animals before we saw them. A slithering sound alerted us to a garter snake and the rustle of leaves brought our attention to a squirrel or a chipmunk.
Pretending to be Boxcar Children (inspired by the books written by Gertrude Chandler Warner), we cleared brush to transform spaces into houses, outlined rooms with sticks or rocks, constructed furniture of stumps and planks, and searched for treasures to complete our woodland homes. In a dump at the back of the woods, we discovered an old discarded stove, chipped granite pots, utensils, and broken dishes. We cleared pathways from one house to the next and pushed kittens in our doll carriages along these paths.
One day, Warren invited us girls into the heart of the woods to see his “boys’” tree house twenty feet up in a tree. He agreed to build us girls a tree house closer to the ground if we hauled the wood and nails. He showed us how to fasten long string to two tin cans to make a telephone, so we could talk to each other from our respective tree houses.
Mud Pies and the General Store
We made mud pies from sand, clay, seeds, and leaves. Occasionally, we felt compelled to steal a couple of eggs from the brooder house to add to our mud pies, which sat in the sun for several days to bake. We loved to climb trees, but whenever we found a nest with bird’s eggs, we heeded Dad’s warning not to touch the eggs because our human smell might cause the mother not to return to the nest. Some days we played “general store” on the big porch, using flat green lilac leaves for dollar bills and acorns for quarters, nickels, and dimes. We sold hollyhock petals as doll dresses, Queen Anne’s lace as umbrellas, and rhubarb leaves as blankets.
The Pond
We wandered down a well-worn path to the thirty-acre pond to watch turtles basking in the sun on a log. A great blue heron escaped in graceful flight over the pond and, looking up, we marveled at its nest atop a tall tree. We saw muskrat houses, four-foot-high dome-shaped nests of roots, reeds, and mud, partially underwater. A rump sticking up indicated a mallard or a blue-winged teal foraging for food on the bottom of the pond. A streaked brown hen quacked as she encouraged her ducklings to follow her.
Our shoes sank in muck at the edge of the pond while we searched for flat smooth rocks to skip across the water’s surface. I skipped the first one, producing three bounces as it caused the water to ripple. The next toss yielded five bounces. Dad, a gifted stone skipper, told us, “Throw with your wrist, not your arm. It’s all in the wrist.” Trial and error—and practice—improved our skipping.
A Cattle Dog, Horses, and Tiger-striped Cats
Every farm had a helpful cattle dog. Our lovable longhaired dog was named Jake. He was gentle, and we kids played with him a lot. Animals were not allowed in our house, so Jake spent his life outdoors. We fed him table scraps in the dog dish right outside the backdoor three times a day. Jake went along each summer evening to get the cows for milking time. And he always barked when someone drove into the driveway, which Mom and Dad liked because they were alerted to visitors. If Jake barked at night, Dad went for his gun, assuming some wild animal was after the chickens.
Cats were good pets, too, and good workers as well. Dad said every farm had to have cats to keep the mice population under control. Our tiger-striped cats, all variations of orange, black, gray, and white, always found a good spot in the haymow for having their kittens. We would find them and gently pick them up by the fur on the back of their necks. After we put them back, we knew the mother would move them to a new spot; but we were always able to find them.
Our horses were definitely only for pleasure. Some afternoons we choose to ride Flicka, a high-spirited quarter horse with a white blaze on her forehead. Our other horse was a complacent sandy-colored Shetland pony named Sandy.
Flicka snorted her dissatisfaction when I put a metal bridle bit in her mouth. I saddled her, grabbed the saddle horn, put my foot in the stirrup, and swung myself into the creaking hand-tooled leather saddle. Nearing the end of a ride, Flicka cantered; and soon she galloped, expelling loud heaving noises. Exhilarated and terrified, I could not slow her down as she galloped toward home for food and water.
Occasionally, I was allowed to spend an afternoon with two friends who had horses. We loved to hear the clicking sounds of hooves as we walked our horses on the pavement in Dalton, and we enjoyed racing our horses on the gravel roads outside of town. Flicka loved to race, and she always took the lead.
The little kids rode Sandy, a small brown Shetland pony. He was a babysitter on many washdays when we were too busy working to play with the younger kids. We would plop Daryl on Sandy, and they would circle the house ten or more times. When Sandy got tired of this routine, he trotted down the steep slope of the front yard, stopped abruptly, lowered his head, and Daryl went flying off. Daryl picked himself up without a whimper, and Sandy trotted to the barn for food and water.
Distinguishing Sounds
Stretched out on our backs in the cool green grass, gazing at white fluff drifting across a powder-blue sky, we identified figures in the billowing clouds. Then we closed our eyes to identify sounds.
“I hear a tractor puttering in the field,” someone said.
“I hear a cow bellowing and a pig scraping,” someone else offered.
“I can hear the telephone wires humming.”
“I hear the screen door slamming.”
We played this game many days and were adept at identifying poplar leaves fluttering in summer breezes, flies buzzing, a distant woodpecker pecking, and sheets flapping on the clothesline. If the wind blew from the north, we might hear a distant train whistle.
With an innate sense of time, we entered the kitchen at 3:30 to make a pitcher of ice-cold root beer, or orange, cherry, or grape Kool-Aid. We soaked metal trays of ice in hot water and lifted the metal lever, forcing individual dividers to loosen the cubes. Adding one package of powder and one cup of sugar, we filled the pitcher with water and ice cubes. Listening to the whir and creak of the kitchen fan, we sat by the kitchen table and savored our cool drinks and cookies.
“What did you do this afternoon?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” we said contentedly.
Soon lazy summer afternoons gave way to the hustle and bustle of evening chores, bringing cattle home from the pasture and helping Mom prepare supper.
You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.
–Isaiah 55:12 (NIV)