I feel sorry for kids growing up today without a farm connection. They’re disconnected from how food and fiber are grown and distracted by modern technology — cell phones, streaming entertainment and social media. That’s far from the party-line telephone; three-channel TV and pen and paper letter writing I grew up with on our tobacco, vegetable and livestock farm in North Central Florida.
On the farm, there was little time for distractions. But we always managed to have fun. We didn’t realize it as kids, but we were having the times of our lives. And, as I look back, I’m flooded with a bumper crop of memories. It’s a wonder we survived!
Oil can and watermelon don’t mix. Working in tobacco was hard, hot work. For afternoon breaks, Granddaddy kept a stock of cold drinks and watermelons in the refrigerator. Boy, it tasted good come about four o’clock.
A bunch of us were sitting on the old farmhouse porch cutting up a watermelon when my cousin Greg — two years older than me — told me to bring him the salt box for his watermelon. He had been picking on me, so I told him to get it himself. So he got up like he was going to get after me when he stepped on a loose board.
On the other end of the board was a tin oil-can, the one with the long thin spout. The board slapped Greg in the chest, embedding the oil can. At first, we thought he was joking around, but when he moved his hands the oil can was stuck in his chest. My uncles pulled it out and got Greg into their Ford Fairlane and off we flew to my Grandparents’ house. Workers at the barn called to let them know we were on the way.
Upset that I might have nearly killed my cousin by not getting him that salt, I was distraught. When we drove up to my Grandparents’, I got out of the car just a wailing. Thinking they must have misunderstood who got hurt, they put me in the car and started off to the doctor when my uncles stopped them to say it was Greg who was injured. They got me out of the car and Greg got in. The doctors said that if the oil can had not hit a rib, it would have punctured his heart. Whew!
A pea sheller can curl your hair. Each year, we had huge gardens. When spring and summer rolled around, it was all hands on deck to harvest, wash, peel, shuck and shell all things vegetable to be put up or “canned.” One day my sister, cousins and I we were “running” the pea sheller when we decided to take a break. For some reason my cousin Robin stayed behind to finish up.
We grabbed a RC Cola from the refrigerator and sat on the back steps. We could hear the whirl of the pea sheller when all of a sudden it started making an odd sound. Then we heard Robin yelling out.
We jumped up and went back to the sheller to find Robin’s long hair wound up in the rollers that shell the peas. She had bent down in front of the machine to clean off the pea mash when her hair got caught. We shut off the machine and unwound her hair, full of pea mash. We joked that she’d never have to curl her hair again.
Rooster not playing chicken. We loved playing in my Grandparents’ big yard. We had hours of fun. But one spring, we had to beware of a big Leghorn rooster. It was odd. Sometimes he wouldn’t bother us; other times he would lower his head and run after you.
One day, we were in the yard when we saw the rooster. He set his eyes on us and came a running. We all scattered, but my cousin, Paula, fell down. The rooster jumped on her back, spurring her pretty badly. My Nana told my uncles to, “shoot that rooster.”
That afternoon, we saw the dead rooster on the carport. Relieved, we went out in the yard to play but when we rounded the corner, there was the rooster. He lowered his head and ran us into the house. What in the world?! How could this be?!
When Granddaddy drove up, we ran out and told him what happened, and he laughed real big. Come to find out there were two white roosters. My uncles had shot the wrong one!
— Scott Emerson
Alachua, Florida
semerson@onegrower.com