The Good old Days

 During these months of quarantine in our condo because of the Covid-19 virus, I’ve had plenty of time to think back through the years we call life. From this distance, I realize my journey has been an interesting one—much more so than I thought while I was living it. Dull was the word I used then.

Life on a farm in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains was not easy, and I often envied my town cousins. Now, I realize what a good life John and Carrie Lovelace gave my siblings and me on those 25 acres during the 1940s and 1950s.

The Beech community near Weaverville didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment. However, life wasn’t all work, even when it was work. Hog-killing time, for example.

Early on a cool autumn morning, Daddy would slaughter our hog, then men from other farms would help with the scalding, cleaning, and butchering, while the women stayed busy in the kitchen. In the following days, they repeated the process at different farms. We kids stayed out from under foot, but we could never go far enough to avoid the smell of rendering fat. That didn’t stop us from enjoying the cracklings which Momma put in cornbread later.

One pig remains in my memory. It disappeared a few weeks after my brother-in-law brought it home. Dan searched but couldn’t find it, and finally decided a bear had taken it. Time passed. One day, a large porker waddled into the barnyard and went directly to the feed trough, empty for months, and no food odor remaining. Dan checked around neighboring farms, but no one had a boar missing. He reached the conclusion his piglet had come home in time for butchering. Certainly accommodating of him.

The two churches, Baptist and Presbyterian, combined to have a fall festival party complete with “fishing” for prizes, bobbing for apples (I managed not to drown) and various other games. Trick or treating did not exist.

Our annual Christmas pageant was the highlight of the season for most farm families. We finished our chores early and our tiredness disappeared as we walked the mile to the Presbyterian church. Walking the mile back up Maney Branch Road left us tired enough to sleep the few hours before the roosters reminded us it was time to start another day.

Community life centered round the school, which had grades one through six. It had an auditorium and four classrooms. By the time I reached school age, only two classrooms were in use. The auditorium was the site for poetry recitations, spelling bees, and community meetings. Oh, the number of times I stood on trembling legs and recited poetry before a crowd of what I was sure must be 500 or more. If I had bothered to count them, I might have reached 75.

Probably the most important day, then and now, in the Beech community is July 4th. There has been an Independence Day celebration every year beginning in 1884. It began as part of an end-of-school celebration and involved the entire community. We are justly proud that the community has never needed to raise or spend money on it. The day was complete with a patriotic program, a parade of children on assorted wheels, sack races, climbing a greased pole, and other games before the huge potluck dinner. People still digest their food sitting on bleachers watching a baseball game. Each year is much the same as those preceding it. One thing changed through the years, for reasons I don’t know. Adults took over the parade, complete with tractors, volunteer fire truck, etc. People who grew up there and those who visited the two guest houses and the boys’ camp come from many states. Between 500 and 600 people converge on the community center every year.

Unfortunately, the Covid-19 pandemic changed the celebration this year. No large gathering, no parade, no food, no games. Yet the community didn’t forget its heritage. A short memorial service occurred with a few people maintaining distance, wearing masks, in the community center grounds. Perhaps, next year we can go back to the fun of our Independence Day celebration.

In the 1960s, Daddy divided the farm among the eight of us. By that time, we were dealing with adult problems of family, jobs, and the economy, not to mention the Vietnam War. We mostly ignored the feminist movement of the 1970s, probably because we were each doing what we chose to do. The eighties and nineties are a blur. We lived our lives and met our responsibilities as Daddy and Momma taught us to do.

Now well into the 21st century, only two of us survive to remember life on the farm in the forties and fifties. Ruth lives on her acres, her six kids, now middle-aged, live nearby. Her husband, Dan, farmed Ruthie’s share until he was no longer able. Her sons tend the place, but don’t farm it. Bob, Jim, Jack, and Judy sold their property to outsiders; Bill (a bachelor) sold his to a nephew; Fred and I owned the home place jointly. Upon his death a few years ago, I gave my share to his daughter as a way to thank Fred for taking care of our mother in her last years. Robin sold the home place to Judy’s son who, in turn, willed it to his nieces. They don’t live there. The house, built in 1902, needs renovation and the land lies fallow.

I wonder if children will ever again live there. Perhaps so, but in this electronic age, they won’t have the privileged childhood we had. They won’t hide in an apple tree and drop small green apples on the unsuspecting victims occupying a glider underneath. They won’t escape the July heat into a pine stand, sweep pine needles into the shape of a house containing several rooms, and play with their dolls as Judy and I did. They won’t climb a tall pine tree, hug the trunk, and sway with the breeze. I won’t talk about the pine resin on my clothing.

Life goes on. It’s been a long road, full of surprises, some good, some not so good. However, those years with good or bad crop seasons, competing with wild turkeys for grapes in the arbor, one blight or another attacking the fruit trees—all prepared me for whatever life offered.

Do I want to go back to what we call ‘The Good Old Days’? Sometimes. Then I remember the difficulties and realize how fortunate I am to have the life I have today.

On our early morning walk, Jim and I hear a rooster crowing on adjoining property, watch bunnies peek from under shrubbery, keep a sharp eye out for Momma Bear with her three cubs especially near the apple trees, and wave to neighbors walking their dogs.

Highland Farms Retirement Community is about 15 miles from Daddy’s farm. These 75 acres are a former working farm and much of its character remains. Thankfully, Black Mountain ordinances limit buildings to two levels. We have huge oaks, poplars, and hemlocks, dogwoods, crab apples, and flowering cherry. A small lake stocked with bass and carp attracts the attention of residents’ visiting grandchildren. We walk on long stretches of green space as well as on paved roads.

Miscellaneous birds serve as an alarm clock each morning. The Canada geese have migrated south already. Momma Mallard and her two surviving of twelve ducklings will follow in a few days. She and her life partner will come back in the spring just as they’ve done the past ten or so years. Until then, I’ll miss her squawking at our patio door when birds, squirrels, and chipmunks have eaten all the food. We will still have blue birds, cardinals, and several other birds at our feeders along with the squirrels and chipmunks. Bears never hibernate completely, and will visit on regular occasions throughout the winter. We don’t bother them and they don’t bother us.

All things considered, this is a pleasant place to spend my remaining years, and remember my barefoot days on Daddy’s farm.