“Up and Adam!… Let’s go boys! Let’s go!”
Actually, Dad rarely had to roust me like he did my younger brother Clark many years later when he was a teenager. Good boy me was almost always up and ready to do my chores by the time Dad got back from his morning run. The old man ran at least five miles before dawn every day.
It was the smell of fresh baked bread that got me up and going.
I have this wonderful memory of me and Dad standing behind Mom, looming over her and gleefully rubbing our hands as she pulled a hot loaf out of her brand new and modern oven. It was not long after the family had moved from that cramped old thing in which we’d spent all winter, spring and most of the summer. The six of us were now occupying the three bedrooms of our brand new and modern walk out basement house. Dad would eventually build a second floor on top of it.
After Bruce and I had gone of course. Heh…
Anyway, the morning of my memory (a memory, I’m sure of many mornings) Mom was slapping at our hands as we grabbed for the steaming hot bread that smelled sooo good! We had to get it hot so the butter would melt on it. There was no need (or time) for toast. We’d grab a chunk, slather on the butter and shove it into our mouths on our way outside to do chores. Then Bruce and I could have our full breakfast while Dad was on his way to work.
No teenager likes doing what I had to do every morning. But I did it. Shoveling shit (and snow in the winter) feeding chickens and eventually pigs, horses and cattle, checking fences and calves in season and… milking the cow. Yep, we had a milk cow and for the first year we milked her by hand. It’s hard work but… man did we eat well! Fresh milk and cream, Mom even churned our own butter (for that hot bread) and… yes, you guessed it. Homemade ice cream.
Yes, homemade ice cream. But that was only for special occasions as it took quite a bit of effort to make. Snacks at our house were veggies from Mom’s HUGE garden and apples from a local orchard owned by one of my Dad’s many friends and the meat we ate was from animals we raised ourselves or bought from family or friends. To repeat myself from an earlier post… I grew up in a self-sustaining, organic family long before those words were common.
So my dear reader… when I say in these pages, things about my farm-fed well worked midwestern youth, you’ll know what I mean.
After chores and breakfast of course we had to get on the bus.
Again, the bus, the bullies and… a few friends.
More on these when this is again…
To be continued…
