Third in the Helping Dad series

My size have me some grief on another occasion while I helped Dad. Being little was a “small” problem, not like some of the other issues Mom and Dad faced. I was short and skinny.   Scrawny was the word used by my older siblings, but I have always been strong. Fifty-some years later, I am still short and strong, but I no longer resemble the term scrawny.

The hard work growing up, the good food my Mom prepared every day, and my genes gave me more strength than most girls then and other women now.   My sisters were strong as well and my Mom, she was the strongest! And stamina-  I could play, walk, or work for a full work day.  That ability was almost certainly from working on the farm. 

The four females in the family did a lot of farm work in hay, tobacco, the dairy, the garden, and the pastures and corn, Where there was work, you would find the ladies with the men.

Dad had me help with different projects of his from the time I hit double digits until I left for college. Many times it was simple like fetching tools or holding them while he worked. That was worse than physical labor. I stood in one spot, waiting for Dad to ask for a tool like the crescent wrench or a big Phillips screwdriver. Three times out of four, Dad would not have it in the toolbox. So I had to rummage in the dimly lit garage. Count on two or three trips back and forth from Dad to the garage, false starts to finding the right tool. Dad waited, laying on the ground under the broken-down equipment, occasionally calling out that daylight was burning.

I am curious, to a fault if you ask certain people. I asked Dad questions about everything. I know the name and how to use many hand tools. I have my own toolbox and I have a few of my own power tools. My husband’s “honey do” list is shorter and I admit I like to tinker just like Dad did. Thanks, Dad, for teaching this girl about tools.

The project that is the subject of this story was stripping bark from long poles. It was autumn when I was about 14. There were about 20 poles, on average around 15 feet long and 6 inches across. The poles were cut last year, so the bark was looser than on a freshly cut tree.

Dad cut trees on the farm for the poles for a pole-barn type building. He stripped off the branches as he felled the trees. He needed a tool shed and he planned to build it himself.

I had a small axe that Dad sharpened to an edge that would cut into your flesh if handled wrong. I didn’t use a two-handled planer knife, I am not sure why because Dad had most of the hand tools you could name.

I started a cut by putting the edge of the ax under the bark in a little section and then worked the ax under a bigger area of bark. One hand on the handle and one on the top, blunt side of the ax head, I pulled the ax down the pole cutting between the bark and the hardwood. The bark would separate from the pole in long strips, but I needed to repeat the action a few times to go the length of the pole. It wasn’t hard, but it was tedious.

The poles were laying on the ground, so my axe work was done while bending over. No wonder Dad assigned it to me. When several poles were stripped along one side, I would find Dad. He and I turned the poles to an unstripped side.

This day was going smoothly. I had on everyday clothes, of course. The weather was chilly and breezy so I had a jacket that I wore to work in the dairy barn and a cap on my head. Admitting the obvious, my clothes were unisex. OK, they were masculine and a little too big. The cap was a newsboy that covered long, dark wavy hair. I was a real girly girl when I wanted to be, but not while doing farm work.

A pickup came up the drive, one I didn’t know. Dad was not with me, but he was nearby, so I called out that we had company.    Dad recognized the man as he got out of his vehicle. He was a neighbor that didn’t come by very often. When he did, it was for a purpose, not for a visit. I had not met him before. I kept working while the two men talked several feet from me. I was concentrating on the ax and not cutting myself when Dad and the man walked nearer.

The man said to Dad, without speaking to me, “This must be your son. It must be a great thing, having a boy to work with you”. I stood up, shocked at the fact that I did not even resemble a girl in my work clothes. Remember, I was a fourteen-year-old girl, prone to drama.

Without a word, I took my cap off and let my hair fall down around my face. I jammed it back on my head and stomped to the house.

Dad didn’t laugh at my reaction in front of the neighbor. He waited until that evening at the kitchen table when he told mom a different perspective of the story.