Story Telling Time

October/November 2005

As I write this article it is the first of September. Our state fair is over and only two county fairs remain. At this time of the year my wife, Thelma, always judges the Centreville Fair’s 4-H Style Review. We enjoy the day off before the evening style show. Thelma has been judging these shows and teaching sewing for 54 years. I enjoy telling her that I’m the one that should be doing the judging, as I can spot the pretty girls and have learned a lot about the popular fashions.

The Centreville Fair lies on the border of Michigan and Indiana, and is still one of the great county fairs. The last local county fair is in Hillsdale, which rests on the border of Indiana, Michigan and Ohio. This is one of the oldest fairs in America. Many of the buildings have been restored, and attending this fair is like going back in time. My sons always judge the sheep or some of the 4-H events, so this is another great fair I get to attend.

At these fairs there are always old men…some my age, but many in their late 80’s. Some of these old fellows are blessed like I am with a son taking over their farm. Most are not as lucky—they are renting their farms or have sold them and are living in town. It seems I am the only person they know, or at least they have heard of me years ago. These men were respectable farmers or outstanding livestock men. It’s sad to say, but they are lonely and can hardly wait to visit with me and talk about the years when they were in their prime…when life was a joy just to get out of bed in the early morning to meet the many challenges a farmer and livestock man could face.

We share many stories—some of them true, while we have told other stories so many times they have grown into great tales. After the stories and gossip we talk about how farming has changed since the Great Depression of the 1930’s, when all work was done using horses. A favorite topic is how livestock has grown, especially the sheep. We decided that most of the sheep breeds are a good foot taller today than they were in the 1950’s. We laugh about most of the beef breeds becoming black to look more like Angus, but they are returning to the size they were in the 1950’s. We worry about the decline of breeding stock being shown at today’s fairs. Why aren’t more 4-H kids showing breeding sheep? Have the market lambs taken over the sheep shows? In short, what has happened to the strong herds of beef or dairy cattle, and what has become of the great flocks of sheep? Are they a thing of the past…will this great old custom and culture come to an end?

I received my Suffolk News today. The main article featured Bill Hurst of Indiana, while George Hunter of Pennsylvania had a write-up in the June/July issue. Written by Peg Peterson, of Washington, both articles featured the life story of these men raising Suffolks. These outstanding men are older than I, but I remember them both as a part of our great Suffolk history. In fact, we purchased a ram from Mr. Hurst in the 1960’s. I’ll never forget this ram—not for his great breeding skills and how he helped us those years, but because he was just plain ugly. To this day, I remember this old stud ram. He was actually dangerous. My twin brother, Fred, and I always bragged about how quick and agile we were around this ram. We kept the ram for many years, although we never conquered his hate for people. He was one of a kind.

When I think of those old men with their extensive knowledge of farming and livestock, not to mention their great stories, I wonder if the wisdom of this business will end when they reach the pearly gates. I find it sad that they have all the answers, yet nobody is asking the questions.

While on the subject of old times, I thought you younger sheep people might be interested in what times were like for a young boy during the Great Depression. You can be sure there was no money. In fact, the only thing we had was plenty to eat. To this day I can still remember men knocking on our door, begging for food. My mother always made bread, and I can still see those poor men pulling her fresh loaves apart, jamming it into their mouths and drinking milk so fast it covered their long, dirty whiskers.

Our main worry was getting enough money each year to pay taxes on our 240-acre farm. For years I had nightmares that we would lose the farm. Seeing the worry on my father’s face was enough to make me drip with sweat. Somehow we survived, and you can be sure that the things we have today are not taken lightly.

Some of the good stories I remember of those times involved everybody working together. My father was a master at getting us to work. We would kill ourselves to hear his kind words. This reminds me of a time in 1934, when my brother and I were six years old. At the time we were paying our hired man one dollar per day. One hot summer day we had eight acres of hay ready to be put in the barn. Eight acres of hay in those days is like 280 acres with our modern day balers and tractors. The hired man informed my father that he wanted $1.25 per day because of the extra work. To our amazement, my father fired him on the spot. He then put his big hands on our shoulders and said, “Think what we can do with $1.25 per day.”

In those days we had a big hay wagon pulled by two good horses. Behind the wagon was a hay loader that brought the hay to the wagon. When the wagon was full, we would take the hay to the barn and unload it with a huge fork pulled by two horses. By some miracle we finished at dark. My brother and I were two proud kids, and of course our pay was my father’s kind words.

Another memory I chuckle about involves the day my father purchased a pack of Marble cigarettes and stashed them in our kitchen cupboard. In those days, a pack of Marble cigarettes were the cheapest find, costing a dime. The big brands ran between twelve and fifteen cents. When my dear mother found them all hell broke loose. I can still hear her telling my father how dare he pay ten cents for some smokes when we were so poor. He never smoked again, but once in a while he would buy a plug of chewing tobacco for seven cents. You can be sure he kept them in the barn.

My father knew nothing about getting a sheep ready to show, but you can be sure he knew the sheep business. His 150 great old Shropshire ewes helped get us through the Great Depression. It was 1939 and things were looking up. We were finally making a little money. There was to be a regional Shropshire show about 40 miles from our farm. All the big breeders from the Midwest were going to enter sheep in the sale. We had somehow saved $250, which we thought would buy the best ram. We had an old Buick car that was not very dependable, but we tore out the back seat and filled the car with straw. In those days we hauled a lot of sheep this way. In fact, we didn’t own a truck until the late 1940’s.

We arrived at the sale early, and my brother and I were in awe of the many big-name breeders. You can be sure they thought we were prime prospects to buy a ram and were more than happy to show us their sheep. After looking at the sheep, my brother and I knew our father was not happy. In fact, he was disgusted. He quickly told us these rams couldn’t help us because they were too small, and being wool blind, we would have to cut the wool from their eyes three or four times per year. As my father told the breeder, “how could you destroy this great breed?” He was right, as the Shropshire breed went downhill until two breeders imported bigger, open-faced rams in the late 1950’s.

In 1934, the Shropshire breed registered over 800,000 sheep—more than all species of livestock combined. In short, the show ring killed them almost overnight. All breeds should take a history lesson on the damage a show ring can do. When breeds make big changes, they must have some correlation with the commercial business.

My father never saw us show an animal until he was 72 years old—he just couldn’t handle the pressure. We finally convinced him to go to one of our big county fairs. At the time we had a strong herd of Angus cattle and Suffolk and Shropshire sheep. We assured our dad that we would win every class, not sparing a single blue ribbon.

The few times my father left our farm he was a class act. Everyone wanted to visit with him, especially the ladies. It was a hot day at our big county fair, and every female from age eight to eighty was offering my father something to drink, eat, or a special place to sit. While my father enjoyed all the attention, my mother was not pleased with my dad’s special charm. He never saw us show again. He remarked that he didn’t want to upset “mother”, which he always called her.

My father passed away suddenly the following year. To this day I regret not being able to tell him he was a master livestock man, and thank him for his wisdom and knowledge—and most importantly, for loving us.

Hey—this is only Story Telling Time.