Thanksgiving Down on the Farm

Growing up around great farm families brought countless blessings I often think about around Thanksgiving. From the value of hard work to understanding the harsh reality of trying to carve a living out of the land in the face of trying economic times and the fickle whims of nature, I learned enormously from my neighbors. For one small example, I discovered very early I wasn’t cut out to be a farmer, just ain’t tough enough, but still profited greatly from associating with fantastic people who “stand out in their fields,” the sort who stick around when lots of others don’t. One of them made me cry, but that wasn’t her intention.

Aside from homework, which I avoided if at all possible, there isn’t much to do on a 45-minute bus ride to school. Fortunately, while I tended to gravitate to less than appropriate bus behavior as did a lot of other knuckleheads, I was marginally smart enough to appreciate the real class acts I lived near; Sue Rouse is a perfect example.

Sue (Class of 69) shattered so many stereotypes a city kid often has about farm life in general as well as demonstrating, as all the Rouse girls I know did, that women are just as capable as men, if not more so.

Being three years older and like most school-age girls, far more mature than her actual age, Sue was light years beyond my nascent understanding of just about anything. Of course, at the time I was absolutely oblivious to this critical difference and her intellectual and social superiority, so I simply viewed Sue as a good friend I could trust as a sounding board for a million insane ideas I always had, to which she provided reasoned guidance I appreciatively accepted.

Many times my off-the-wall notions just made Sue laugh and shake her head, but never in condemnation. In a lot of ways, Sue conducted her own etiquette class for me before the first bell rang at school, and the education, not to mention the friendship that developed, priceless. She was also great company, and this made going to school a lot more palatable for a kid who thought he was being delivered to central lockup.

I could see the Rouse farm from our front yard in the Town of Jackson, the backyard of their Colonial-era red brick farmhouse clearly visible as was the clothesline out back. This scene frequently showed how farm gals multi-tasked. In Sue’s case, her laundry chores doubled as choir practice. While over a quarter a mile away as the crow flies, Sue’s magnificent voice soared over the corn, hay fields and maple trees to spill enchantingly into our yard when the weather was warm. Sue’s outdoor practice announced spring as much as the song birds did and made me smile even more.

Cambridge produced many exceptional musicians and the Rouse family was full of them. Sue’s dad Eldridge played guitar skillfully and also had an excellent signing voice, ditto for Sue’s cousin Charlie just down the road from us. Sue, however, took music to a rarefied level very few can achieve. A crystal clear soprano, Sue also had the vocal power to project across the distance I often listened from while sitting on cement steps by a front door we rarely used. Up close Sue was, and I’m sure still is, magical when she’s inclined to show her enormous talent.

Later, Sue had a lot of help with her musical magic via husband Roman, an exceptionally talented concert pianist. Together, they’ve toured the world as professional entertainers, and in the Rouse farmhouse many years ago, nearly blew Mary and I through a solid brick wall. The only time I was close to being equally moved by music was sitting in the second row of a Bonnie Raitt concert, but still not struck as profoundly.

We were all on visits back home when Sue and Roman invited us over to the family farmhouse. At some point Roman sat down at an old piano while Sue stood beside it. The couple proceeded to transform the living room into a concert hall where we were the only audience.

It felt as if we’d been transported into another dimension where nothing else existed, a sensory overload I’m incapable of accurately describing as to do it justice would require sounds so emotionally overwhelming it’s almost frightening. I glanced briefly at Mary and saw she was crying. I guess I had to join the party too.

On the other side of our property lived the McMorris family, also dairy farmers. I had the pleasure to visit with Mary Ann this past summer at the All Classes Reunion. Sadly, her younger brother Will and parents Florence and Bill are no longer alive, but I’ll never forget them.

Bill and Florence had a “made in heaven” marriage I could sense anytime I was around them, and this was frequent. I guess I knew Florence the best as she was far more vocal than Bill who tended to be on the quiet side. Florence was the family communicator and for many years worked as an antique dealer, converting a barn into her shop. I still have a perfectly working Philco vacuum tube radio she gave me and think about her fondly every time I look at it.

Every summer brother Pat and I worked bringing in hay for both the Rouse and McMorris families, a great economic boon for two kids who didn’t have many other job opportunities. I think our favorite part was riding on top of the stacked hay bails back to the barn, but one job in particular was most memorable, a painting job I did for Will.

Will hired me to paint the inside of his milk house due for its regular inspection. I knew the milk house well. At least once a week I was tasked to carry a couple of stainless steel milk containers that I’d fill from the big milk bulk tank at Will’s farm and then mark what I took on a sheet a paper for later payment. Like a lot of kids in Cambridge, we grew up drinking raw milk, as fresh as you can get. I also recall being scolded for drinking the cream off the top which I often did when no one was looking.

During the instructions for the painting job, Will told me to only paint down to the baseboards as he planned to replace them. He pointed out a hole in one baseboard we both assumed made by a barn rat and had to be covered in order to pass the inspection.

I was nearly finished with one wall and down on my hands and knees to complete the bottom of the wall. My feet and legs were about a foot from the rat hole when something warm and furry ran up my right pants leg, the access made easy by bell bottom jeans so popular during my hippie days. At first I just froze in stark terror waiting for the rat to bite and equally revolted beyond anything I’d ever experienced.

Further movement up my leg broke my frozen terror and I jumped up and began shaking my leg while hopping up and down madly on the other. Still, I couldn’t dislodge the rat, which then made a sound I recognized.

My “rat” turned out to be a barn kitten looking for a nice warm place to curl up and rest. When I started shaking my leg with every ounce of effort I had, the poor creature cried out and locked its claws, most fortunately for me, on my jeans and not bare skin. Terrified as much as I was, the kitten wouldn’t let go.

I had to drop my pants to coax the kitten out. I was more than moderately concerned Will would walk in and see me standing in my underwear, but relieved beyond measure when I managed to coax the kitten to release its claws, now knowing my rat attack was just a figment of a very vivid imagination, much aided by my new furry friend.

In style or not, I don’t recall ever wearing another pair of bellbottom jeans.