Letters from Hillside Farm (7 page)

Dear George,

How I enjoyed your long letter of last Saturday! Thank you for sharing with me all the details of the spelling bee. I'm sure you learned a lot from it. Those were some very difficult words you had to spell.

I know you've thought a lot about this, but when you meet people like the students from the other school who are obviously very poor, it's easy to make judgments about them. I'll bet you've heard the saying, “You can't judge a book by its cover.” There is certainly some truth to it, especially when it comes to people, and I suspect especially when it comes to poor people.

I'm learning a lot about poor people these days when I volunteer at the soup kitchen. Some of the smartest people I've ever met are now standing in lines waiting to get a bowl of soup and a slice of bread. It's terrible what this Depression is doing to people. So many good people have been made to feel worthless.

You mentioned Amos and how his father cuffed him on the head after your team lost the spelling bee. Do you suppose that the way Amos's father treats him is one of the reasons that Amos acts like he does? It's something to think about.

Keep the letters coming.

Much love,

Grandma S.

April 30, 1938

Saturday

Dear Grandma,

Sorry I haven't written, but we have been busy with spring planting and fixing fence so we can turn the cows out on pasture, at least on the warm days.

The grass is “greening up,” as people around here say. In church last Sunday, I heard frogs calling in the nearby lake. Pa calls them spring peepers. I even heard a red-winged blackbird—saw it, too—perched on a cattail. Red-winged blackbirds look like someone fastened a piece of red cloth to each wing. Pa told me that only the males have red on their wings; the females are entirely brownish black. I asked him why women and girls always wear colorful dresses and skirts, and men and boys look plain and drab. He smiled and said he guessed people are the opposite of birds. Another thing for me to ponder, I guess.

Remember Polly? She's the cow that tipped me over when I was learning how to milk. Polly had been dry for several weeks—that means she was getting ready to have a calf, and I wasn't milking her. She finally had her calf a couple days ago, a beautiful little heifer with a nearly all-white face and big dark eyes. She was standing up nursing inside of an hour. Pa said I should pick out a name for the little calf, and I decided on Jane.

Polly seemed okay after the calf was born—she was standing up, eating hay, and letting Jane nurse—but Pa says things aren't right with Polly and that we should watch her closely for a few days. I told Pa I'll keep an eye on her, but I don't really know what I'm looking for.

Every time I watch Jane nursing, I have to smile, because the little calf seems so eager to eat. She pushes her muzzle into Jane's udder and sucks like everything. While the calf nurses, her tail—white with a black tip—swings back and forth. It is something to see, Grandma.

Yesterday we took Jane away from Polly and put the little calf in a pen. I am milking Polly again. Pa said she gives a lot more milk than Jane can drink, and we need the money from the milk we sell.

It is my job to teach Jane to drink from a pail. What a project! Pa taught me to straddle the calf, which means I put a leg on each side of her neck. Then I hold the pail of milk in one hand and gently push the calf's head into the pail with the other hand while at the same time letting the calf suck on my fingers. That little calf has a tongue that feels just like sandpaper.

Once Jane tasted the milk, she gave a great push with her head. She almost spilled the pail, and she splashed milk all over me. Pa stood there laughing. He told me to keep trying—sometimes it takes several tries before a calf learns how to drink from a pail.

By about the third time, Jane figured out that she has to keep her muzzle in the pail to drink.

Polly still isn't doing well, and Pa is worried. She didn't give near as much milk today as she did yesterday, and she isn't eating much. I surely hope Polly isn't getting sick.

I haven't told you about Depot lately. Is he ever growing! He's outside a lot now, and whenever I'm home we are together. He even comes into the barn when we're doing chores. Just the other night, after I had poured some milk in the cat dish and the barn cats had gathered, Depot decided he wanted a drink of milk, too. Big mistake for Depot. He pushed his way up to the cat dish, and a barn cat scratched him on the nose. He yipped and ran toward me where I was milking a cow. I think he's learned not to mess with the barn cats.

We got the barn cats from our neighbor, Mr. Williams. He had more than he needed and gave us four. These cats aren't pets, though—far from it. According to Pa, barns cats have one purpose, and that is to catch mice around the barn.

Has spring come to Ohio? We are all happy to be through with winter here in Wisconsin. At least, I think we are through with it.

Your grandson,

George

May 2, 1938

Monday

Dear Grandma,

When I got out to the barn this morning, Polly looked like she was sleeping. Then Pa told me she had died sometime during the night. She had complications related to Jane's birth. That's what Pa said when I asked him what happened. She looked just like she did when she was resting. But she was dead. I felt her, and she was cold. It was awful, Grandma. I started to cry, but Pa said I shouldn't cry because it's a fact of life that farm animals die, often when we least expect it. He said we have to accept death and move on. Then he said something that I'll always remember. He said that especially on a farm, we run into birth and death regularly.

Farm life may be like that, but it doesn't make me feel any better. I loved Polly. She helped me learn how to milk her when I didn't know how. She let me sit under her and tug and pull until I figured out how to make the milk come. Polly and I had our problems, too. But she became my friend. Whenever I went out to the barn, she looked at me and mooed—her way of saying, “Hello, how are you?”

Even though I knew I shouldn't cry, I had my handkerchief out of my pocket and I was wiping my eyes. I noticed that Pa was blowing his nose, too. He wouldn't let on that he felt bad about Polly, but I know he did. He liked this cow. She was gentle and gave lots of milk. I wonder if a calf feels bad when its mother dies. I fed little Jane this morning, and she didn't seem to act any differently than on other mornings. But can we always tell how animals feel? I thought about that a lot today. Even Depot didn't seem to be his bouncy self today. He saw Polly dead in her stall just like Pa and I did. I think Polly's death is affecting him, too.

A big truck came later in the day and hauled away Polly, and now there is an empty stall in the barn. I asked Pa where the truck was taking her. He said she was going to a rendering plant. When I asked what that is, he said I should look it up in the dictionary.

It's been a sad day, Grandma.

Love,

George

Dear George,

You can't know how sorry I am to hear that your favorite cow has died. Death is never easy to understand, but it is a part of life, George. Every living thing—cow, chicken, tree—must die, some sooner, some later.

You never knew your Grandfather Struckmeyer, who died in 1919. He was only fifty years old, far too young to die. He went off to his job at the bank here in Cleveland, and he never came home. The doctor said he had a heart attack.

This happened nearly twenty years ago, and I still have trouble writing about his death. You probably are noticing the smudges on the paper—they are caused by tears. I still think about your grandfather every day, and I probably always will.

One way to make things a bit easier when a person or an animal you love dies is to think of all the good times you had together. It's hard to go on, but thinking good thoughts helps.

Your letters help me to keep going. Thank you so much for writing them.

I'm so sorry, George. Death is never easy.

Much love,

Grandma S.

May 6, 1938

Friday

Dear Grandma,

I had a hard time studying this week, but I must, because the seventh grade county tests are coming up in a few weeks. Still, all I can think about is Polly. Pa says he wants to buy another cow, but we just don't have enough money. It seems we are always short of money. I asked Pa about that, and he reminded me that the whole country is in a Depression. Lots of people have no work at all, and they have to stand in bread lines to get food, just like you described, Grandma. Pa said that we were fortunate living on a farm because we always have something to eat and plenty of milk to drink. I helped Ma plant our vegetable garden the other day, so we'll have lots of fresh vegetables by midsummer—green beans, peas, carrots, potatoes, lettuce, and tomatoes.

I'll quit asking Pa when he's going to buy another cow. Even if he does, it won't keep me from thinking about Polly. I never thought I'd miss a cow so much. Miss Harvey seems to understand. She hasn't bawled me out for looking out the window when I should be practicing long division or studying geography.

Jane keeps growing. When I go out to the barn, the little calf runs up to the side of the pen, sticks out her tongue, and licks me. It's a strange way of saying hello, but I sure look forward to it. Jane takes my mind off Polly and reminds me of her, too, isn't that strange? She is starting to look just like her mother, especially around the eyes and muzzle. Sometimes she butts me with her head when I climb into the pen to feed her, a calf's way of having fun, I suspect. When I try to scold her, I just can't. Jane tips her head to one side and looks at me with those big dark eyes, and all I can do is laugh.

Jane seems to like Depot, too. Sometimes they stand looking at each other. Depot cocks his head to one side, and so does Jane. Is this one way animals talk to each other?

Your grandson,

George