Category: Nonfiction writing

Days Gone By

Days Gone By

Sandy Snider Stahl

This old tractor sits above the house in clear view every day.

But in today’s early morning hours (while corralling the escapee horses) seeing the old Farmall H made me wonder about its arrival on the ranch. Can you imagine how excited the original owners were, how proud, yet how doubtful that it was a wise purchase even though it would have cut their work to a small fraction of what it had been before? At that time,  the convenience of labor saving machinery rarely outweighed the expense.

The Head Honcho bought the H from Dan Gilmore for $300 in the early 60s. And he tells of buying a new AC15 in the late 60s – the first new tractor he ever purchased. He was so excited that after a long day of work he’d get on it in the evening and drive it around the yard, cutting cookies and showing off for his wife, then giving the kids a ride.

He so loved that AC tractor that he had it refurbished a few years ago and it’s still pulling a rake during haying. The grandsons aren’t excited about raking with the AC – after all it doesn’t have a radio, a plug in for their cell phones – or even a cab!

With a smile, the Head Honcho argues with his sons about which tractors deserve to be stored inside. The AC gets to live inside the shed, but not in the heated garage – a compromise they can all live with.

The Old Heston, on the other hand, lives outside year round. It is a generation newer, as hard used but not yet refurbished. No one, OK – no one but the Head Honcho – wants to use it, but it always starts and is miserably reliable. It’s hooked up to the old hydro-swing swather right now, but the Head Honcho’s neck doesn’t turn very far anymore and everyone else has a more modern outlook on haying. The Heston is more like the emergency back up that requires a real emergency to be considered.

The Head Honcho and I had worked all morning hooking the Heston to the swather. Well, we worked all morning, got sweaty, tired and horribly greasy. The elder son came in from the field and took pity on us. As he drove up, smiling, he said, “What are you going to do with THAT?” But he finished hooking them up, aired up the tires and parked in position so the Head Honcho sees the duo and knows they’re ready to go in the sad event they’re needed.

This attachment to his old tractors is nothing compared to what he feels for his old horses! Those stories will have to wait for another day – the AC and rake are waiting for me. And did I just hear the Head Honcho start up that old Heston?

Up to our elbows…

Up to our elbows…

Sandy Snider Stahl

I picked more chokecherries than I needed, relied on our great neighbor Beverly’s juicer/steamer and now Sonny and I are swimming in chokecherry juice. The berries were bountiful and easy to pick – contrary to my memories of picking in the distant past. I’ve never been tempted to relive those experiences so for years only ate a handful at a time as I rode by horseback, ignoring canning possibilities. Don’t know what got into me this year, what prompted me to spend an afternoon picking. Whatever it was, now I’m counting jars, figuring how much pectin will be required, checking for lids and rings…

And we’ve ordered a miraculous juicer/steamer of our own! This thing makes getting the juice amazingly simple and we’re like little kids who keep pointing out to each other that the juice is still dripping. That sounds silly, but oh! what a difference from trying to get juice out of crab apples last year.

Our reaction to this invention, the juicer/steamer, reminds me of our reaction to the first solar well we saw. We were like little kids then, too, putting a hat, or a hand up to shade part of the solar panel, then grinning like idiots when we removed the item and the water started flowing again.

We have also talked about what a difference a juicer/steamer would have made to our ancestors, the ones who had to rely on berries, garden produce – whatever they could “put up” for the coming winter. We have it so easy, so very much easier than our great grandparents, grandparents, and even our parents. And in my memory, Grandma Snider’s jelly always jelled, unlike mine. But what the heck – we love syrup, too!