Life on the Farm in Howell Valley

      As I was looking for another bio to post on Cordell's side of the family, I came across some writings of Cordell's that he composed for his parent's 80th birthdays .  I know the grandchildren will enjoy  reading their Grandpa's stories just as much as they love to hear them, and in the process learn about life on the farm with their grandpa,  his parents and siblings.   

     "My earliest memory of of being on the farm and going up to Uncle Paul's place to get a puppy that we ended up naming Rover.  I think it was Dad that took me along to pick out a puppy from a litter of collie pups Uncle Paul had in his shed.  Rover grew to be a beautiful dog and was very smart and well behaved.  He was a family dog that we all enjoyed having around but deep down inside I always thought of Rover as my dog because I got to pick him out.  I can still see him as a puppy, a real ball of fun, when we first brought him home and had him in the kitchen.  We were all fussing over him and how cute he was when he all of a sudden ran over and peed behind the water heater that stood by the stove.  When Mom saw the pee come trickling out from behind the water heater, Rover was quickly banished to the back porch.  It was at an early age that I realized that Mom wasn't fond of indoor pets.
     Another early memory is of getting to go with Dad up to the head of the creek to go duck hunting.  I must have been about four years of age and was thinking I was pretty big stuff to get to go with Dad on a duck hunt.  I realize now that he was probably just babysitting me and thought he'd run up to the creek for a short hunt.  I can still picture the big sagebrush we were sitting up against trying not to be seen by the ducks as they were supposed to be flying along the creek.  After awhile we hadn't had any activity and Dad decided to take a short walk to try and jump shoot some of the ducks.  He told me to stay right where I was and not to move, and that he'd only be gone for a little while.  I don't recall how I felt at being left alone but it didn't take me long to get up and go looking for Dad.  I soon found myself lost and wandering around in the sagebrush trying to find my way back to the truck for what seemed to be an eternity.  I finally did find the county road but turned the wrong way and was soon walking away from the truck.  I remember walking and walking and crying and crying not knowing where Dad was.  I finally came to the reservoir and recognized the little cinder block house that the water master stayed in.  His name was Irie and I always thought he was kind of an odd little character but on this day it didn't matter.  I knew where I was and I was going to be safe.  I walked (probably ran) down the lane to his house and once I got to the house it took me awhile to realize he wasn't home.  I banged and kicked on the door hoping he was just asleep or something and that he'd come out.  Finally it dawned on me that he had probably left for the day so I just started crying again and began my walk back to the county road.  I hadn't gotten too far down the lane when Dad's truck turned in and came toward me.  I was one happy kid when he pulled up and I climbed inside and knew I was safe.
     Since we moved to Logan the year I started school, I don't have a lot of memories about living on the farm.  The 57 Marindale house became what I considered home.  We would spend the summers at Howell on the farm but to me it was never home.  As I grew older and made friends in Logan going out to the farm in the summer became harder and harder.  It seemed like the farm spelled work and staying in Logan meant fun and games.  As I look back now I realize that the farm and farm life was full of fun and exciting experiences for a kid.  I remember playing farm in the yard and using the welding rod stubs as fence posts, climbing trees, going to the big wash with Forrest and and caving in the eroded sides of the wash and watching the clumps of dirt go crashing down the sides and damning up the creek for a short period of time.  We even used to get sticks of lumber or old fence posts to help pry the sides loose if we couldn't get them to fall when using our feet.  Killing sparrows and robbing their nests were always a kick.  Sparrows were a dreaded bird because they ate the wheat, but it was always 'hands off' when we saw a robin.
     As I got older I became a little more involved in the work, but now even the memories about work seem to turn to the fun side of things.  Irrigating the crops soon turned into mud fights or wading in our underwear to try and beat the heat of the summer or getting Dusty to eat mud off the shovel.  When riding the tractor it always seemed like a mouse or two would be uncovered in the fields so I would stop the tractor, jump off and catch it so I could throw it in the fan of the tractor's engine and watch the mouse become beheaded, detailed and disemboweled all at once.  (Yuk!)  We used to keep al ot of rocks or dirt clods on the tractor when we were plowing.  I can remember having a seagull hit me on my new straw hat with its' droppings and being so mad.  I don't think we ever did kill any seagulls since they were the state bird and to do so carried a $100 fine.  Burning weeds was always a lot of work but fun also.  The tumbleweeds had been rolled into big dry looking cigars and we would go rom pile to pile carrying burning weeds on a pitchfork, setting one pile on fire and then moving to the next pile.  It seemed like we would always uncover mice when we did this and then a chase would begin.  Which one of us could stab the mouse with a pitchfork before it could find a hole to run into?  Once we had it stabbed, we would then proceed with the ceremonial "roasting of the mouse" on the end of a pitchfork's tine over a burning pile of tumbleweeds.  I don't know how many pitch forks handles we inadvertently burnt off doing this, but I do remember Dad getting after us time after time for ruining his pitchforks and telling us not to leave them in the pile of weeds as we transferred the fire from pile to pile.  I must confess that it was the mouse roasting activity that caused most of the damage.
      I think I was about seven the summer I first got to drive on the farm.  I remember being in the truck and driving around in the hay fields as Mel and Forrest loaded the bales of hay.  The truck had a throttle so I didn't have to use the gas pedal but would merely steer the truck from bale to bale.  As we got to the bales, I would push in the clutch so the truck would stop while the bales were loaded and then we would move to the next bale.  It seems like I got a lot of teasing from Forrest and cussing from Mel as the clutch would be let out too fast or too slow for their liking.  The summer that I was nine I started to drive the tractor and did some of the raking of the hay.  It was about this time when Dad would have me riding the tractor on our farm and Forrest would be up on Grandma's land plowing or weeding.  Dad would come and get me just before dark and we would ride up to Grandma's to get Forrest before we headed back to the house for supper.  As we would ride along in the pickup and were still a couple of miles away from Forrest, Dad used to say, 'See that dust up in the field?'  I would respond with a tired 'yeah' and then Dad would stick out his chest and say in a proud voice, 'Well, that's my boy?'  I can remember thinking to myself,  'Well, who the heck am I?'  I know now that Dad was only teasing but it absolutely crushed me inside.  I would wonder about being adopted or maybe Dad thought of me as just a hired hand.  I would go to bed thinking about it and being jealous of Forrest. 
     Some of our spring vacations were also spent at Howell trying to get a jump on the spring plowing.  I remember one year when Karen, Forrest, Dusty and I along with Dad were the only ones to go.  Mom and Deanna stayed in Logan.  Karen was to do the cleaning and cooking for us and the three boys were to help in the fields.  One night it was extremely cold when we went to bed tired from a long day.  Dad must have gone to Tremonton for parts or something because I remember he wasn't home at the time.  Forrest, Dusty and I had all climbed into one double bed and we were all complaining that it was too cold to sleep.  Karen must of gotten tired of our whining, since I remember her coming in and taking the quilt off the bed.  When we went to see what she was doing we discovered that she had put the quilt in the oven of the old coal stove to warm it up for us.  I remember thinking what a clever idea that was and how smart my older sister must be.  It didn't dawn on me at the time how dangerous her idea might have been if the quilt happened to catch fire.!
     One other spring vacation I remember being with Dad, Dusty and Forrest and we had been trying to get the tractor started.  It didn't want to cooperate but after two or three hours of Dad's tinkering he finally got it to run.  As Forrest put it into gear and moved it forward, Dusty and I discovered a mouse nest under the one big tire.  In the nest there were about six little baby mice.  Their eyes were still closed, and their skin was a pink as pink could be.  I think it was Dad that suggested we have Mom and Karen fix them for our lunch.  With that suggestion, it seemed like Dusty gathered them up in his hands and marched off towards the farm house to pull his trick on Mom and Karen.  Now days whenever I hear my daughter, Teresa, scream it reminds me of the similar sounds that came out of the farmhouse that day as Dusty proudly presented those baby mice to Mom along with Dad's request that we have them for lunch.
     One summer (it seems like it was just before I started seventh grade) I was plowing up on Grandma's land riding on our old diesel tractor.  We always called it the big tractor and for an eleven year old kid it could be very difficult to steer.  Forrest and I have laughed many a time over the years about how the front tires would hit a rock or a clump of dirt and about break our wrists.  Anyway, on this day I was plowing and as I came down a slight hill the tractor got going too fast and the disk plow jumped out of the ground and that made the tractor go faster.  When I realized what had happened I pushed in on the clutch to bring the tractor to a stop but that only made the tractor free wheeling so that it started going even faster than before.  In a matter of just a few seconds the tractor was completely out of control, coming to the end of the field which was bordered by a big sagebrush draw.  I remember trying to make the tractor turn but by this time the tractor was in control.  As the tractor started over the edge of the wash I put my foot on the wheel cover and jumped for the other side.  As I landed I looked back and saw both tractor and plow falling over in the wash.  Fortunately for me, the tractor didn't tip completely over (or my memories would have stopped right here), but it fell straight down and landed on its side.  When I finally found the strength to stand up and survey what damage had been done, I can remember seeing this big tractor and plow lying on their sides in a ten foot wash and thinking, 'Well, if the tractor didn't kill me, Dad probably will when he sees what I have done.'  As I walked up to the county road looking for Dad, all I could think about was how hard and long Dad was going to kick my butt and then Mom would top it off with one her 'awkward airdale' lectures.  I'll never forget when I finally found Dad and came walking up to the pickup his first words were, 'What did you do, tip the tractor over?'  I couldn't believe it?  When I confessed that I had, along with some pre-spanking tears, Dad put me in the truck and we drove back to where the tractor was.  When he arrived at the scene, Dad hardly said a word, looked around to see if the equipment was bent or broken, and then drove me back down to our farm house for lunch.  I guess when your number five of six kids a Dad has learned when to spank and when not to, because this time there wasn't any spanking.  It was an accident that just happened and apparently he knew it.  I must have been pretty scared about the whole incident because I remember that Dad let me stay in the farmyard the rest of the afternoon and it was a couple of days before I had to get back on a tractor.
     As a reminicse about days on the farm, I am reminded about how it seemed that Dad was always fixing things.  As a young boy I couldn't understand why we just couldn't go buy a new tractor, or combine or baler.  Finances were something I had no comprehension of and in my young mind I thought that the only reason we didn't have all this new equipment was because Dad liked fixing things.  When it became time for Dad to repair the equipment, Forrest, Dusty and my involvement was one of 'gofers'.  We would hold wrenches, wash parts or jump in the pickup to go back to the farmyard for additional equipment/  As we waited for Dad for Dad to make the repairs, it seemed like we always ended up in a dirt clod fight.  I have often wished that I had a dime for every dirt clod I had thrown as a kid.  Dad always had stories to tell as we were helping him with the repair work, or on the way to Howell and the hard work and hardships that they faced.  Now a days my children are always requesting that I recite one of Grandpa's stories.  I only wish I could remember them all and be half as good a storyteller.  ( I think our grand-kids would agree that their Grandpa is a great storyteller!)
     One summer I remember learning a lesson from Dad in helping others in need when I was still a young boy and we were still farming in Howell.  Dad and I (Dusty may have been along) were returning to Howell from Pocatello Valley where Dad was cutting grain or baling hay for another farmer.  As we traveled along the newly completed section of the interstate that ran through the southern end of Blue Creek, Dad looked ahead and saw two women who had a flat tire on their car.  Dad pulled to a stop and said, 'Well, we better see if we can give these ladies a hand.'  I about died.  Here we were, dirty, dusty farmers in our old work clothes stopping to help these ladies.  The ladies were in dresses, their car was a big shining new one and even though they were elderly in appearance, I knew they were probably millionaires.  I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even get out of the truck to help.  Dad quickly changed their tire and had them back on the highway.  It wasn't until years later that I appreciated his gesture of lending a helping hand to someone in need.
     There seems to be so many memories of life on the farm, getting to stop at Eva Baer's store for an Ironport pop and a Cherryalet candy bar; staying overnight at cousin Mike's; racing Smokey around the big corral; having Dad hit us flies as we played 'five hundred' in the alfalfa next to the house; batting rocks with homemade bats (Forrest invented that game); or going up to Chan's store in Blue Creek and listening to the Hawks' boys cuss and and watching them drink their beer' trips to Tremonton on Saturdays and going to the city park while Mom and Dad did their shopping.
     I'm sure I received my fair share of discipline over the years but getting spanked or punished doesn't really stick out in my mind except for a couple of notable exceptions.  I've told the squirt gun story that was number 1 on the list, but holding down the number 2 spot on the spanking list would have to be the time Vaughn Strong and I picked all of Mrs. Quinney's peonia buds just before they were ready to bloom.  I don't think we left one unpicked and had filled our pockets with some great throwing material.  After Dad spanked me, he found a couple of the buds in my pocket and he rubbed them in my face as an additional reminder never to pull anything like that again.  Now, every time I see a peonia I cannot only sense the smell of that flower, I can still taste it!  Rounding out the top three picks would have to be the spanking I got for throwing a rock at the flock of domestic geese we had on the farm and hitting one in the neck and killing it.  I remember trying to run from Dad that time and going right through a big mud puddle thinking Dad wouldn't follow.  I was wrong.  He came right after me and had me caught in a flash.  I don't remember Mom doing much spanking, but lots of threats though, with the dreaded sentencing to 'sitting on a chair' and waiting until Dad got home.  How I hated sitting on a chair.  I think I would have rather had a spanking than spending time on a chair.