Part 2 of 5

Dad was born to be a farmer

My father, Gilbert never Gil, was a pure example of what it means to be a farmer. He had no hobbies to speak of and he had little time for leisure activities. Having a dairy herd is a job with a commitment like no other job I know. You have to be in the barn to milk the cows in the morning and in the evening, every day of the year. There are no sick days, no vacations, and no holidays off. That is enough to scare off the generations of potential farmers that came after my father’s generation. Family farms are rare now and family dairy farms are scarcer still. I remember Dad saying that he did what he knew when he was asked why he chose to be a dairy farmer. He sort of laughed when he said that, like he hadn’t really thought about it. There was no question, in my mind, that Dad loved what he did.

Dad’s father, my paternal grandfather, was a farmer, a dairyman who had to work hard as he could to support a family with eight children. My grandfather did not own the farms where he worked. He was what was known as a tenant farmer, one who lives on and works on a farm for payment or for a share in the profits from the crops.

My father was born in 1921, the third child of eight in a farm family. Dad’s childhood and young adult life was never easy and was plenty hard at times. Dad remembers meals of cornbread and potatoes “with thickening”. Dad dropped out of school in the eighth grade so he could help his father full time with the farming.   He would have been about 13.   It was around 1934 and the country was in the middle of the Great Depression.    Times were hard for most families and many boys his age were working if they could find work.   He and his older brother, Wesley, learned to be farmers out of necessity.

Dad said that when he was a boy, sometimes his shoes had cardboard in the bottoms to cover the holes in the soles. One particularly bitter winter he and Wesley were helping on the farm with their father. Their shoes weren’t meant for the weather and both boys got frostbitten feet.

Dad hated cold weather the rest of his life, but he didn’t complain too much about the winter work on his own farm. Our family looked forward to colder weather usually. The work load was much less than in the growing season. But there are chores that take you out in the cold. The barns weren’t heated, so working in the barns was a cold job. The milking cattle stayed in the milking shed. The heat of 40 large bodies took the bite out of the cold during miking but you could still feel it. The rest of the herd was outside. They had to be fed and checked to be sure that all were well. Dad had to chop ice at times to open up the pond so the outside cattle could drink. Finishing up the tobacco crop was a joint effort that was done in the barn and stripping room in early winter. Several family members or friends got together to get the tobacco ready for market. Raising tobacco is a big enough topic for its own story.

Dad and his brother and their father farmed together until my uncle was drafted into the Army during WWII.  Dad was exempt from serving, being the only son old enough at home to help on the farm.   My uncle chose to make a home in Colorado after his stint in the military was over.  He met a girl near where he was stationed for basic training and he married her.   He never farmed again.   

Dad stayed on the farm with his family, even after he married Mom, Louise, in 1946.     As newly weds, he and Mom stayed in the house that was full to bursting with Dad’s four sisters, two younger brothers, Dad’s father and Dad’s father’s sister. (Dad’s mother died in her early 40’s. Dad’s father’s widowed sister, Aunt Hattie, moved in to take care of the younger children and the housekeeping.) Mom and Dad were ready to strike out on their own after a year or so. My older sister was coming, they were going to have their own family.