Across the Fence #358
I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.
The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.
All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.
As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.
Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.
Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.
One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.
Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.
Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!
I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.
(Continued next week)
*
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 1
Across the Fence 357
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Let's Park for a While
Across the Fence #356
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Days of Summer Are Fading
Across the Fence #355
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
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