Learning To Drive On The Farm

Cliff Morrow
 Midwest Producer

I've been driving a long time. I can't remember the time I didn't know how to drive. It started with a 1940-something, Willys Jeep. The brother next oldest to me in age, by four years, taught me how to start, shift and steer the old rig. He was about 11 at the time. You're right, I was pretty young but it was in the days before the words "child endangerment" had been thought of and I was the last of seven children spread out over nearly 20 years. Looking back I don't think it was some kind of evil plot to reduce the number of children in the family but rather it was the fact that kids who could drive were handy.
My dad was pretty disgusted the day he found out that I'd been taught to drive. He had the Jeep sitting along the lane where it was being used to pull a wagon full of seed oats. He was alternately seeding and walking back to get the wagon. I pulled it up for him and he came unglued.
"Who taught you how to drive?" He already knew, but parents are required to ask questions they already know the answer to. "Well, don't do that kind of stuff again and while you're here you might as well pull it up; count off about 10 fence posts, and then shut it off.
"And don't slip the clutch."
From that point on I learned to find things to do that would require the Jeep and a driver. One was driving around the farm delivering lunch. Lunch back then meant the two breaks between breakfast, dinner and supper. The problem being I wasn't tall enough to be able to see out any of the windows. The old Jeep had a full cab and a vent door that opened wide, in the center of the dash. It was just below the windshields and that allowed me to lean to my right and see what was coming.
Our cocker spaniel, Taffy, always accompanied me and would sit in the passenger seat in the upright position. Yes, she sat up and leaned back like a human, and that made her taller than me and so she could see out. She was looking for rabbits and I was straining to see through the hole in the dash to see what was up ahead. I think she liked the way I drove because she never said anything about my driving. To this day, my older siblings remind me that they knew who was driving when they saw the Jeep coming with no apparent driver and a dog in the passenger seat. I'm sure it looked like a rural mail carrier dog.
I soon graduated to an Oliver 77 pulling a spike toothed harrow with all of the warnings that went with that and of turning too short on the end of the fields. I was soon raking hay and doing anything and everything else that required a child who knew how to let a clutch out without burning it. Looking back I probably should have stayed in the house and watched black and white TV on one of our three channels. Life got pretty busy for me after I learned how to drive.
I was seated in the back with the dog the day Dad taught one of my sisters how to drive the Jeep. She was probably about 13 at the time and I was the "smart aleck" little brother who already knew how to shift that vehicle. I watched as Dad carefully explained about giving it a little gas with your right foot and letting the clutch out with your left. "Not too fast…but not too slow either."
The Jeep was pretty short in the available torque department so it had a tendency to lurch and almost die and then lurch and then almost die again, causing the driver to also violently go back and forth making the problem with the pedals even worse. Over and over this went on while Dad practiced patience, something he had very little of, and he sat back and got out a cigarette and his lighter.
The lighter he had back then was more like a hand-held bonfire. When he would spin the wheel the entire top of the lighter would be engulfed in flames. He held it carefully by the bottom of the lighter. I know it didn't work correctly but it was effective in a strong wind. While my sister was trying to keep from killing the Jeep, Dad's hands went back and forth with the jerking of the Jeep while the fire licked his eyebrows and eyelashes, and the flame even temporarily cured his nose hair problem. It was the only time I ever saw Dad get a cigarette out, try to light it, and then put it back in the pack.
I've since decided that in these days, teaching young children to drive is not a good idea if you're concerned about the child. My reasoning comes from what my mom told my wife when she drew her aside almost 40 years ago and whispered, "Whatever you do, don't let either one of those two men teach you how to drive a truck. You'll be driving one the rest of your life." My wife took the advice to heart, so I taught my daughter how to drive the semi. You can't start them too young.

A Class Act

I think this article is a must read. Just one page. It'll just take about two minutes but you'll be glad you did. Go have a look. It pretty well explains why I've always been a fan.

Doing Their Homework

Like the Federal Government, the people of California have been scoffing for years at those who have said you need to be careful not to spend more than you can pay for.
It would seem the grim reaper is honing his cutting edge with the State of California in his sights. I hope the citizens of the state take a look at their local governments and schools as well as the state house, decide who has been in charge while this wild spending spree took place, and then vote the bums out.
The same will apply for the rest of America in November. Paying everything, for everyone, is a cute way to get votes but the day of reckoning always comes. It can't be avoided.
I would reject any attempt of the feds helping the states out.  They are facing the same problem of wild spending by an out of control regime, with no one to hold them accountable.
I think having a space for a garden and enough room to raise a couple of hogs will eventually pay off for those who do.

Easter Sunday at Grandma and Grandpa's Farm

"Okay girl, I don't care if you are my little cousin. I'm going to count to 3 and when I open my eyes, that green egg had better be back in my bucket!"

The Candelabra War

Cliff Morrow
Midwest Producer

I’ve always been a fan of southwestern U.S. history. The so-called Lincoln County War has been of interest to me for some time now. It took place in Lincoln County, N.M., and had to do with different cattle barons and bankers and lawmen. The feud resulted in the death of a young hoodlum named Billy the Kid in the small town of Fort Sumner. He was gunned down one evening in a dark room by Sheriff Pat Garrett of Lincoln County. Interesting to study if you wish to look it up.
I bring this up because of the title of this column. I have dubbed it the Candelabra War and it took place in the First Baptist Church in our small town. I was a small child at the time and the easiest way to explain what happened is to convey the crux of the Sunday dinner conversations that went back and forth between my parents.
I first was made aware of trouble when the folks began to discuss, with some consternation, that two elderly ladies in our church were having some disagreement about the set of candelabras that adorned the top of our baptistry. The baptistry was set in the wall in the front and center of our sanctuary and the top was about the size of a sheet of plywood and for all I know it was just that, a sheet of plywood. It was adorned with our churches big Bible and two candelabras.
When the Sunday School dismissal bell sounded, the class that seemed to have most of the elderly women of our church would file from their classroom and be seated in the pews just outside the door of their room.
On this first Sunday of the war Blanche had set the candelabras even with the back of the Bible, one on either side. They were straight with the world.
Sunday 2: Suzanne came to Sunday School and on the way in, stopped over and pulled the candelabras forward and slanted them both toward the Bible.
Sunday 3: Blanche came out of Sunday School and pushed the candle holders back and straightened them out knowing full well she had foiled Suzanne. It was obviously too late to do anything else before church started.
Sunday 4: Suzanne came out of Sunday School and as the organist played the prelude, pulled the candles forward and turned them just so. I’m sure the same logic applied here as was used last Sunday.
Sunday 5: Blanche pushed the tapers back and straightened them out before Sunday School.
The same day: Suzanne went up again during the prelude and pulled them forward and turned them again. By all appearances, she got the best of Blanche again.
The same day: New rules of engagement are obviously being written on the fly because after the prelude, the opening prayer, and during the last verse of the first hymn, Blanche marched up, pushed the candelabras back and straightened them out. Suzanne rose from here seat, shuffled to the aisle, turned toward the door, threw her head back and went home.
Truthfully, I’m unable to declare the winner here and even though there is definitely a lesson to be learned, I’m not sure what it is. I don’t think any corrective action was attempted because the Deacons and the minister were all men and well, you know … something was probably mumbled about ‘choosing your hill to die on’ wisely.
As of late, the trend in larger churches is toward big media centers that immerse the senses in sights and sounds and are meant to aide worship and in some cases, provide entertainment. Small congregations across farm and ranch country are usually left out of these improvements because of the hefty price tag for the equipment. The Candelabra War proved the “entertainment” part has, and always will be, available to small congregations.

Belly Up To The Trough

The pigs at the trough, having gained control, have asked for and recieved unlimited slop. 
The fact that the local auctioneer stopped to talk to the farmer, and left with a long list of equipment, seems to have escaped the pigs notice. The poor pigs. Their future looks grim.

The thrill of survival

Midwest Producer

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

I've been watching the Olympics in Canada. Watching the curling events to be a bit more precise. I felt like I needed to sit down and type a while and let my nerves unwind from the excitement. I've never understood why I am not a big fan of these Winter Games but I suspect that it has partly to do with the fact that I'm from Nebraska - where the greatest winter opportunities are to brag about how far south you went on your winter vacation or how you survived that fall on the ice last week. But it hasn't fazed your thinking a bit. You still want to live here.
And you're here partly because of your strong will and belief system. The basic tenet that life shouldn't be too easy. Remember, this is building character. Surviving here will put hair on your chest.
The Winter Games are a combination of grace, strength, beautiful lifts and moves, and the hope that gravity will somehow take over so they can get those skis back on the snow and make that next turn going 70 miles per hour. Just like living in Kansas and Nebraska in the winter, success in the Olympics is sometimes measured in mere survival. Just try to be the only one who didn't land in a twisted pile of humanity and you'll be the winner.
Opportunities to improve our character have come in many forms this winter. We've had several power outages. Mostly they were brief, but one lasted into the next day. Not bad by most accounts and ice storms standards. We've had copious amounts of snow fall and freezing rain. The locals have pushed it, scooped it, thrown sand on it, spread salt on it and even blown it up into the wind by mechanical means just to give the neighbors more character building opportunities. The season has elevated our snowplow operators and electric company lineman to legendary status. It has closed schools and postponed a great number of games, concerts and social events.
We live where hope springs eternal in the hearts of all Midwesterners. We know that if we persevere, that if we can somehow just "wear this winter out," spring is right around the corner with its warmer temperatures, muddy roads and flooding. The adversity will be there but we won't need to wear so darned many clothes while we face it. By then we'll be thinking about planting, raising crops and killing weeds and we'll have the comfort of knowing that last winter was about as bad as it could have been and next winter will be better. At least we can hope.
But through it all, we must survive. We find entertainment where we can. It might consist of a diversion at the local schools with their games and concerts, or going out to eat on occasion if we think we can get home before the wind blows the road closed again or we stay home, invite the neighbors over and watch television. That's when we realize that even though the satellite serves up 200 or 300 channels, there's really nothing to watch. Two nights ago I narrowed the choices down to the Winter Olympics or an infomercial called "Get the Body You Deserve." Since I already had the latter… I watched the games.
Wow! How does sweeping make that curling stone move like that and should I start carrying a broom in the truck for my wife to use when we're trying to stop on ice?
It really has been a long winter.

A Mere Miracle--I Think Not

You need to read THIS ARTICLE from our local paper. It's about my sister Mary. You'll likely not forget having read it.
Besides this incredible story, I must say that the journalist who wrote this did a masterful job.  Katie is the gal who sits through all of our county board meetings and reports it to the local paper. She's a friend of mine and talented indeed.

Just Wondering...

..what Ralph is going to do in the morning after he gets Char out the door and on her way to work.

I have a sister in-laws father who didn't go to work one Monday morning. He hadn't missed a day in years. A lot of years. His wife asked him if he wasn't late for work. He said, "I retired Friday."
News to her.  
Char knew about this one.

Bike Show

Yesterday was pretty interesting. We went to a motorcycle show in Lincoln Nebraska.  It was huge. I never realized the interest there is in this sort of thing. The main reason for us attending was to see our sons entry into the restored bikes section of the show with his 1947 Indian.  This first pic is a pic of a picture. It shows him sitting on the bike circa 2002 when he first began working on it in his spare time.

The next pic was taken yesterday at the show. Same bike. Same kid. 

This is the one who did my Allis D-14 along with my other son.

The above red bike is also a 47 Indian and was also painted by him. It belongs to a friend. Most of the bikes in that 'Old Indians' display were infact painted by him. The ones sitting behind the red bike.

The red side-car that you can't see very well is the same one featured below holding two of my grandchildren. The family photo is missing the youngest. Georgia was sleeping like a...well a baby. I think mostly because she is. We stopped at our other sons place to see if Hudson (green shirt) could come out and play with Grandma and Grandpa. We took him back home sporting a leather vest and a tie dyed head scarf. They agreed to let him go with us again, anyway.