Childhood Ramblings

As a child, I always had skinned knees. I ran everywhere I went and constantly tripped over things. On the farm, I’d fall over roots or sticks or gravel in our driveway. In town, I’d run an errand for Mother and fall on the sidewalk, hurting my knee. Of course what hurt more than the knee, in town, was that someone might have seen me. Embarrassing! I remember finally thinking, “I am twelve years old and I don’t ever remember not having at least one skinned knee! I am going to be more careful from now on.” And I was.

Then there were the little things I remember about my father, whom I always called “Daddy.” I never outgrew that fond name for him. Until I was about ten or twelve, we had a milk cow named Bessie. Daddy would milk her morning and night, and he loved to walk from the barn to the house swinging that full milk bucket in great arm circles. As a science teacher, he felt an almost daily need to teach us about centrifugal force, and I guess it worked, since I still remember it.

He loved his herd of Black Angus cattle. When he bought the first few, they were all registered. He had certificates for them that looked like human birth certificates, and each wore a numbered tag. When they were sold at market, the ‘registered” cows brought more money than ordinary beef cows.

Sometimes Daddy would come in from the barn, eyes bright, face glowing, with a big grin. “Guess what?” he’d say. It didn’t take us too long before we knew the answer. Instead of saying “What?” as we did at first, we’d all shout, “A new calf!” And that was it. He loved finding a newborn calf.

When they first had granddaughters, Mother decided to “give” each granddaughter a calf, especially when they were old enough to visit it in the field. Kelsey loved her “Freckles” and always could pick her out of the herd. By then, they were all a mix of breeds and none were pure-bred Angus. After Daddy died in 1984, the herd was even more mixed. Mother despised the cattle when Daddy was alive—mainly due to poor fences from which they were always escaping, thus requiring her help to round them up—but after he died in 1984, she treated them like her favorite pets and checked on them constantly. One situation that cracked us all up was hearing my prim and proper mother talking about “renting a bull to service the cows.”

After we no longer killed hogs on Thanksgiving, Mother would put on a big spread and invite as many relatives and friends as she could round up. Two that usually came were Mary and Edith, Daddy’s maiden cousins, both school teachers. Kelsey often visited them when we were in town and she felt very close to them. One Thanksgiving after we’d eaten, Kelsey, around nine, wanted to go find Freckles, and asked Daddy’s cousin Mary to go with her. Mary loved the outdoors and needed little prodding. They hadn’t been gone long when Kelsey burst through the front door, saying, “Come quickly! Something is wrong with Freckles! Something is coming out of her!”

Her Aunt Liz, a nurse, immediately jumped up to go help. “She must be having a calf,” Mother said calmly. “I thought she looked like she was carrying.”

By the time they got back to the field, the baby calf had been born and Freckles was licking her all over. As the little calf staggered up on his spindly legs, Kelsey said, “I’m naming her Thankful because she was born on Thanksgiving Day!” So Thankful it was. Kelsey’s children love hearing her tell them the story of Freckles and Thankful.

So how did this begin about my skinned knees, morph into memories of Daddy, and end up with Kelsey seeing a calf being born? It just happens. That’s the nature of sitting around, drinking coffee, and sharing stories. I’ll listen to yours any time!

Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice.           Proverbs 27:9