Sights, sounds, and smells on the farm

A farm has its own sights, sounds and smells. I can’t imagine the things I’d have missed, had not my mother, soon after Pop’s proposal of marriage, told him, “I want to be a farmer’s wife!” Thus it was, instead of working in the mill, Pop learned the trade of farming. Me, I reaped abundantly on the farm of my growing up years.

Oh how I loved a freshly plowed field and the earthy smell of upturned earth. Whether in a garden or field, running barefoot, while dirt scrunched between my toes, was exhilarating.

Only on Sundays, after church, and after a good night’s rain, Pop and I -both barefoot -- hunted arrowheads. I myself never found an arrowhead, but many times I showed Pop a stone, asking, “Is this one?”

Pop did find a tomahawk in the fields, which was used in the kitchen as a doorstop all the years I lived on the farm. In the early 60s, when Mom and Pop retired and had a public sale, Pop had accumulated three bushel baskets full of arrowheads and sold them.

I also loved the sweet smell of manure Pop spread on the fields and gardens, to help make soil produce better crops. I never helped clean up the cow manure, but it smelled a lot better than the chicken manure.

My sister, Gladys, and I, scarfs wrapped around our hair and one around our nose, had to shovel out the manure in the chicken house in spring. Pop had a manure spreader outside, near the window, so we could shovel the manure right through the window.

Whenever I wanted a much better fragrance, all I had to do was walk around Mom’s flowers and bushes in the yard, where there was a plethora of smells. Every time Mom had company, she’d invite the ladies on a tour of the yard. She had a story to tell about each flower. I often tagged along on these walks.

The earliest flowers to bloom were the tulips, snowdrops, and daffodils, but the aroma I loved best was from the lilac bushes. They came in shades of pale lavender, deep purple, and some whites. They bloomed for a short period in May. The way I enjoyed their fragrance, was to lie on the ground and bury my face into the blossoms, taking in deep inhales.

In moving to Allentown, I brought some of Mom’s yard with me. We bought a lilac bush for our back yard, so I could still bury my face in its enticing aroma. And when I can’t enjoy my outside aroma, I purchase all kinds of lavender mists and linen water, from Paisley and Co., in Kutztown.

I do enjoy spring, perhaps for the newness and freshness of everything. During winter, clothes were hung on a line, in the cellar, and always smelled dank and musty. With the arrival of spring, if it didn’t rain, the wash was hung on the clothesline, with wooden clothes pins. Even as a teenager, I didn’t mind this chore. It was a peaceful time -- just me and my thoughts.

Sometimes, if a breeze was blowing, I’d sit on the side steps just watching the clothes blow to and fro. I’d leave them out as long as possible, so the sun could drench them in its warmth. Later, I’d take them down and place them in the straw wash basket and carry them into the house. It was hard not to smell each piece of clothing of that crisp, clean smell of fresh air. And you can’t beat that first night of crawling in bed and being smothered in fresh aired bed sheets dried in the sun. To this day, I still hang wash on the clothesline as long as I possibly can.

And then came the sounds. I was always blessed to have my bedroom on the side of the house where the pond was located, when the windows could be opened. Here is where I fell asleep and awakened to the sounds of nature.

Mom, who was always up before me, told me, “You should get up earlier. The birds have been chirping for an hour already.” I never knew which songbird -- robins, thrushes, skylarks -- woke me ever so gently with their songs.

Then there were the nocturnal creatures, like the spring peepers, with their high-pitched chirps that lulled me to sleep. Crickets, who made their mating sounds by rubbing their forewings together, sometimes had sing-a-longs with the peepers.

Other songs from nature were the rain dances on the tin roof, in front of the house, next to my bed. Raindrops could be soft and gentle pitter patters, or they could be loud drops with a pulsing cadence keeping me awake and fearful.

And then came the sights that are still with me.

Both spring and summer, after Pop finished mowing the tall grass behind the barn, I’d lay in the aroma of fresh mowed grass, soaking in every bit of its breath-taking scent.

Nothing escaped me from the magic vista of blue sky and clouds. You’ve heard the phrase, “a rose is a rose,” -- in my eyes -“a blue sky is a blue sky.” What more can one add to the sheer beauty of a blue sky. Mom often said this old folk tale about the sky: “If there is enough blue sky to make a pair of Dutchman’s breeches, it won’t rain.”

Never was I bored lying on the bank. Some clouds floated fast as if being chased. Others rested, waiting for me to make them into something -- a hat, a dog, or a house. I didn’t need any toy, a sled, or a bike. My sky gazing memories were always free.

Summer weekends, I could hardly wait for dusk to approach and catch lightning bugs, in one of Mom’s mason jars. Mom warned me every time, “Carole, stay off the porch. Walk slow to the yard. I don’t want you falling with a glass jar in your hand!” I listened, too, because one time a tantalizing firefly flaunted its light and I followed it onto the porch. Mom found me and took the jar for the whole weekend.

Once I caught a number of them, I’d keep my hand across the top of the jar. I’d sit on the step nearby and just watch. It was mesmerizing to watch these awesome, tiny critters, who knew how to turn their light on and off. Once Mom called “It’s bedtime!” I left my blinking friends go, to enjoy their freedom once again.

Since Pop was a farmer of many trades, he also butchered a pig in the fall, once it got cold outside. The butchering was done in the big shed that we called the garage. Actually, the pig sty was on the right side and the car on the left.

Butchering was a sight to see, that is, the process I was able to watch. I only showed up after the pig was killed. I saw the pig hanging by its feet attached to chains. It was then maneuvered to scalding water in big, black pots. Once out of the water, I ran away again when I saw a knife in Pop’s hand.

I’d like to say, aside from eating the sausage, bacon, ham and scrapple, during the winter season, the pig’s tail was the best part. Pop would clean it off and give to me. I’d take it in the house and push a safety pin through the thick part and pin it on the back side of one of my siblings. Now that was my idea of a “good butchering day!”

Farming is year round work, from planting to reaping. Even during the long winter months, there were jobs to be done -mending fences, feeding animals and repairing machinery.

The big, dark red threshing machine roared loudly as it blew the straw out the front of the barn door, from the second floor. We jumped in that pile of straw for hours.

Planting season started with plow and harrow. No matter where Pop was in a field of our 80 acres, one of the siblings delivered his mint tea and sandwich. I didn’t mind doing this. After Pop devoured his food, he’d hand me the mason jar and brown bag. Instead of rushing home, I’d sit a spell and watch. I did that well. Watching the plow as it turned over row after row of fresh earth is exhilarating.

I did learn something about husking corn as a teen. For some awful reason, one day, Pop decided to finish off a field of corn by hand. I was upstairs when he called, “Carole, come down, you’ll have to help me husk corn.” I ran downstairs in tears, “Pop, I can’t husk corn. I just bought these new nails and pasted them on my fingernails.” I guess, if you knew Herb, you’ll know whose nails ended up in mulch that day.

One of the jobs I did like, after the husked corn was in the crib, was using the corn sheller. It was a wooden hand-cranked machine, maybe 3 feet high and 8 inches across. As I fed the corn cob in the hole, kernels fell in the bucket below. The cobs came out at another opening and were saved to start fire in the kitchen stove. The corn kernels were fed to the chickens and ducks.

I’m still fascinated at the sight of farm machinery, vintage or new, when I visit the folk festivals or farm museums when traveling.

Our farm in Berks County was always “barn red.” I never thought much about the color until I was a teenager. Pop decided to cover the barn in white shingles. It just wasn’t the same after that. While I lived at home, my parents had a large painting done of the farmstead with the white barn. I’ve had a small copy of this painting, but placed it in my photo album. Later, my sister, Dorothy, found a photo of the farmstead when the barn was still barn red. She had it enlarged for the sisters. This red barn photo hangs in my study, not in an album. I simply can’t explain why a red barn is more meaningful to me.

Today my husband and I on our travels prefer driving the country roads. I love the sight of red barns painted into the landscape. There were times we noticed a barn painted green, even a yellow one. The sight of any color but barn red sends chills up my spine.

I’ll end this article on the sights, sounds, and smells of the farm with something that I feel speaks for all of the children. It’s the ending of Pop’s eulogy, by Pastor Dick Wolf: “Indeed, Herb loved the sights, sounds, and smells of the countryside. To him, they were the best, the God-given things.”

Indeed!