“Two more courses to go,” Harvey said as he headed for the hayfield.
The luscious green hayfield was infested with tasty crickets. Spying a big one, we’d dash after it. Joe followed on his stout legs, waiting for his meal. Seeing us make the catch, he came and snatched the cricket out of our hands.
“Joe’s favorite dish comes last,” Esther sang out.
She knew that Joe loved fat, slippery tadpoles. He almost couldn’t get his fill. A small farm pond provided these. Joe flew in ahead of us, landed beside the pond, and tilted his head. He peered in the water for what he knew was there. A few sweeps of the net extracted his dessert, and then the tired band of children and their pet crow headed home, where Joe went to his perch in the maple tree and we went in the house.
In the days ahead we learned that crows can be easily tamed, but being clever, they at times become mischievous or a nuisance. Joe always wanted our undivided attention, and when we’d doze off in the yard Joe would take a tuft of David’s hair with his powerful black beak. He’d brace himself and tug with all his strength.
David would wake up to flail around. “You rascal, let go of me!”
At other times, Joe would fly in to watch me work in the shop, perching on the workbench. “Looks like you’ve got mischief hidden under those black feathers,” I’d tell him. “Don’t you snatch the parts I’m working on and fly off.”
Joe hopped closer, observing my work with a clever eye. His black beak pointed toward the object I was working on, his head following every movement.
“Cut it out; I can’t afford to lose a part.” I batted at Joe, but he bounced right back.
Then it happened. I looked out the window at a passing team of workhorses hitched to a plow. Joe knew that this was his moment, and he snatched a small part from my workbench. But he didn’t fly away. He wanted some fun first. I grabbed at Joe but he deftly side-hopped out of my reach. I pursued, but every time I thought I had him, he’d hop out of reach again. After many frustrating minutes of this game, Joe would drop the part and fly up to the rafters where he’d cackle his victory song.
Joe also stole toys from little Rueben. He’d watch his chance, dive in, and snatch a favorite toy. The black thief would then take wing and perch on a nearby limb. Rueben would jump up and, with arms flailing and legs pumping, he’d pursue the thief.
“You can’t have my toy!” he’d cry.
Standing under Joe, Rueben coaxed until Joe dropped the toy and peace was restored.
One day David and I told Dad, “We need to teach Joe how to talk. We’ve tried to teach him to say hello, but all he says is crow talk.”
“Well…one of our customers has a Myna bird she’s taught to speak. Maybe she can help,” Dad suggested.
So the next time the lady came our way she took Joe along home with her, where she had a programmed tape player that repeated the word hello at periodic intervals. Three weeks later she brought Joe back.
“He doesn’t seem to want to talk your language,” she said. “I haven’t heard any words yet.”
But she was wrong.
“Who was that?” David asked one day with a puzzled look on his face. “That hello that came from the treetop. Did you hear it?”
“That must be Joe!” I said in amazement.
We ran over to the tree and sure enough, there was our Joe looking down at us.
So Joe began to greet the people who arrived at our place with his cackling “Hello.” They’d stop and peer around, bewilderment written on their faces. Usually someone came to their rescue and told them it was only a crow. Another trick of his was to follow us to school at times, and with him around there were no dull moments.
One Saturday evening my family had completed their usual work and we children were munching on popcorn under the maple tree while Dad and Mom finished the final preparations for church in the morning. Joe swooped in for his portion of popcorn. I sat there taking it all in as the sun slowly dropped behind the west hill. On the opposite side you could see the silhouettes of deer grazing in the field.
These would be among my best memories of country living while growing up, and of Joe, our pet crow.
A Girls’ Silo Filling Day
Grace Ann Yoder
She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness (Proverbs 31:27).
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SEPTEMBER MORNING. THE WHOLE COUNTRYSIDE was bathed in a coat of white frost that was fast disappearing under the sun’s penetrating rays. The colorful tree leaves and grass glistened with melting frost, and the dripping dew revealed the true noble colors of the trees. Even the nippy wind was reluctantly giving way to a balmy breeze that held the promise of a warmer afternoon.
I noticed all this beauty as I stepped out on the porch donned in a coat, scarf, and gum boots. I inhaled deeply of the fresh morning air, which both invigorated me and made me thankful to be alive.
Today was silo filling day. Our family had no older brothers and our community was too small to organize a silo filling crew, so my two sisters and I would make this a girls’ silo filing day. But we were up to it.
Lassie, our trusted farm dog, eagerly greeted me with eyes begging for attention. After a quick pat, she and I walked to the barn where our Percheron mares, Queen and Doll, were quietly waiting to be harnessed and hitched to the hay wagon. Silo filling was in full swing in the community, and we were anxious for our day to get started. We wanted to get it all finished by evening.
As I pitched the harness over Doll’s dappled back, one of the tug chains whipped up and hit my cheek. How that smarted! I gingerly rubbed it.
Doll, being the more ill-natured, puffed out her side when I fastened her bellyband so it wouldn’t be too tight. After pulling and heaving, I finally got it in the proper hole, but not without feeling a bit disgruntled.
“Your disposition matches your Roman nose,” I muttered.
Queen, being more gentle, was soon harnessed and paired up with Doll. I hitched them to the forecart and was just ready to drive behind the barn to hook the cart to the hay wagon when the house door opened. My two sisters, Rose and Regina, appeared, ready to join me.
“Do you have your jersey gloves?” Rose called to me.
“No. Please bring a pair along and also the water jug,” I answered.
By the time I had everything ready to head out to the field, the two girls were ready to go. They quickly scampered aboard and we were off, bouncing and rattling down the cow path so violently that Rose laughed merrily and joked, “Shake well before using!”
“It’s bumpy all right,” Regina agreed, “but it’s lovely this morning. I’m glad we can be out in the field on such a glorious day. I’d much rather work out here than do the laundry.” Regina wrinkled her nose and we all laughed. Rose and I knew how little she enjoyed housework!
“I’m not sure which I’d prefer on a day like this,” Rose admitted. Being an avid cleaner, housework held much more charm for her. “It’s a good thing we’re not all the same,” she concluded.
“Whoa,” I called out after guiding the horses between the rows of corn sheaves. “Think this’ll do?” I asked, wrapping the reins around the forecart bar.
“Should keep us busy for a while,” Rose replied as she jumped off and dutifully bent over to pick up a sheaf. “Ugh, they’re so wet it makes them heavier than normal.”
“They should dry off soon,” Regina said, glancing toward the sun while dragging a sheaf to the wagon.
We worked in silence for a while, every so often telling the horses to go forward a ways when we caught up with our stretch of sheaves.
Regina soon broke the silence, “Grace Ann, does the corn stack on the wagon look like the way Dad does it?” She didn’t wait for an answer before offering her opinion. “It looks as if it could fall over on the left side.”
“I noticed that too,” I answered. “It looks like a lopsided teepee.” I quickly jumped on the wagon and pushed the offending side until it stood straig
hter. Dad had taught us to start in the middle and stack the sheaves teepee-style while working toward the outer edges. This usually worked very well, but sometimes we girls had a hard time getting it started properly.
As we picked up sheaf after sheaf, going down one row and up the next, we sang and enjoyed sisterly talks about the Sunday singing the evening before. Slowly the wagon filled up and the water jug nearly emptied. The sun’s warm rays were doing a wonderful job of forcing off our thick coats and our scarves tied behind our ears. We rolled up our sleeves as the sun climbed higher. Soon our arms became scratched and rashy and our steps were no longer peppy.
“I’m about exhausted,” I finally said, leaning against the wagon to take a breather. “It takes so long to fill up.”
Rose and Regina pitched their sheaves on and took a little rest as well.
“I wonder what time it is?” Regina asked.
We glanced at the sun. “It must be around ten-thirty or eleven,” Rose guessed. “I don’t think we’ll even get two loads done before dinner. How nice it would be to have a silo filling crew here. We could be done in short order. Too bad we’re not boys with lots of energy,” she added almost wistfully.
“I’m as hungry as one, though,” I added. “Remember how Mom said she has to cook as if we’re boys?”
We chuckled as we returned to our job.
“We’ll do our best,” Regina replied optimistically. “Actually, I think by the end of this row, the wagon will be full.”
Sure enough, 15 minutes later we were on our way to the barn. The harness jingled and jangled as Queen and Doll dug in to carry the heavy load up the hill.
“Good girls,” Regina encouraged when they came to the top. Rose and I were barely visible as we sank in the top of the loose corn sheaves.
Regina skillfully guided the horses over to the silo filler, aligning the wagon with the filler. Then she wrapped the reins securely around the forecart bar. We had great respect for this dangerous machine and took all precautions possible.
I crawled off my perch and climbed up on the old trusty Farmall tractor. As I turned the key the tractor sputtered and purred to life. After waiting a couple seconds to ensure it would continue, I slowly pulled the throttle till it was wide open. The silo filler belt picked up speed, spinning and turning until it reached its max. A feeling of thrill and awe swept over me to see this powerful thing in action.
Just then, Dad appeared around the corner of the barn. He checked everything to make sure it was working correctly. With a smile and a wave he left to climb into the silo. Rose and Regina were already throwing the corn sheaves into the filler. The ever-ready knives hungrily ate up sheaf after sheaf, blowing the end results up the filler chute and down into the silo where Dad was busily packing it down.
When the last sheaf was thrown off, Rose jumped down and ran over to stop the tractor. Two of our little brothers, Harry and David, came running out to let us know dinner was ready. What welcome words!
The boys begged for a ride on Queen’s and Doll’s backs. We quickly unhitched the horses and pitched the boys up, all the while smiling at their delighted squeals. Then we drove Queen and Doll to the barn where they too were watered and fed.
By the time we were finished with the horses, Dad had appeared from the silo. We walked to the house where the aroma of a tasty meal awaited us. After washing up, I sank into my chair as a feeling of deep contentment welled up in me. Ah! This is life on the farm for a girl! A lot of hard work and toil from sunup to sundown, and often much later; but the reward from working with animals and the soil far surpasses any other occupation to me, even though the monetary return is meager. This farm life leaves memories far richer than money could ever buy.
I Ran the Red Light
Levi F. Miller
Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God (Romans 13:1).
OH, THOSE STOPLIGHTS WHEN ONE IS DRIVING A BUGGY! I LIKE TO DO most of my business in our small town. The bigger towns make me nervous, and not only for safety reasons. Shopping in the big towns seems to take a lot of money. I also believe that spending too much time in a bigger city gives more reason for temptations. One can see and hear more things of the world which aren’t good.
Occasionally though, some business needs do require a visit to the big city. So I make the trip a few times each year with my horse and buggy.
On this particular summer day I was traveling alone, having hitched up Teddy, our black driving horse. He was of a more lazy nature, and disliked going the miles to town. He’s often tempted to try out many driveways between here and there.
Once in the city, I take advantage of the side streets and can easily bypass the busiest parts of town. I also get around most of the stoplights before getting on Main Street heading for Aldi’s grocery and the always busy Walmart shopping center.
What bothers me the most is one very busy intersection between Aldi’s and Walmart where there are many red and green lights with arrows pointing left and right. I’m told that if a car comes up to the crossing line, it automatically activates the light system which soon changes the signal to green. A horse stopping on the same line will not do this, and many times a buggy gets sandwiched between the vehicles. So one is always thankful for a patient driving horse.
On this particular day, I had this hard-to-understand intersection on my mind as I neared it. I was surprised as I drove up to find the lights were red, and quite a number of vehicles were lined up on the far side waiting to cross. But the highway to my right and left was clear, with the only approaching vehicles still at a distance. Quickly my mind began to reason. Here is my chance, I thought. I well knew the trickiness of the situation once the light turned green and all that traffic started to move.
I urged Teddy on, and we sailed right across that red light at a brisk trot. I took a deep breath of relief. This time had been so very easy, I told myself. But abruptly I heard a shrill siren sound, which quickly became longer, re-err, re-err, followed by shorter and snappier ones; seemingly drawing closer behind me. I was now in a bewildered state of mind, glancing out my back buggy window.
Immediately I saw the flash-flash, flash-flash, flash-flash of the bright lights of a police car. It was right behind me in full pursuit. My heart sank as I quickly pulled Teddy to the side of the street, and he skidded to a stop on the hard downhill concrete surface.
By now the policeman had veered in immediately behind my buggy. My mind was spurred to fast action. Was I about to receive a ticket from the policeman, taking all my hard-earned cash that I had saved for the shopping centers? Next, more meaningful thoughts passed through my mind, suggesting that a more humble attitude might just save the day.
I didn’t have much time for thinking, but I did remember certain things that had been said in one of the Sunday sermons a week or so ago. The minister had admonished the congregation on the importance, power, and far-reaching effect of two little words: I’m sorry. He said this was a good way of ending a dispute, or in coping with some misunderstanding with a neighbor or friend. Rather than a lot of excuses and arguments, one just said, “I’m sorry.”
In my predicament, the minister’s admonishment came alive, and as the policeman stepped up to the side of the buggy I thought at first I was going to meet a not-so-happy law officer. Instead he had a smile on his face, and much to my relief the first words out of his mouth were, “Your horse has good brakes.”
He then asked if I realized I had run a red light.
“Yes,” I admitted. And I confessed several times that I had been wrong and said, “I’m sorry.”
I felt like a child when he informed me, “Green is go, and red is stop.”
All of this was happening while many vehicles were passing us. Some of the folks craned their necks to see why this cop had stopped an Amish buggy. Briefly I explained about the tricky crossing. He informed me that he is usually stationed watching this crossing, and today as he sa
t there he saw me approaching and knew the light was red. He watched in amazement, he said, and held his breath as I crossed right on over against the light.
Yes, he noticed that the highway was completely clear, and he realized that buggies had a hard time getting around here in town.
“But just be careful,” he said. “That’s the important thing,” he continued. “Just be careful. I want you to get home safely.” Then he added, “You’re the first Amish man I ever stopped.”
And with a friendly wave he let me go. I now felt greatly relieved and very humbled at the policeman’s politeness and concern. As I continued my shopping I also decided to strive to do better next time in all respects, as far as I can conscientiously obey our government officials.
How to Have Good Neighbors
Mose E. Helmuth
And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself (Matthew 22:39).
THERE’S AN OLD SAYING ABOUT NEIGHBORS THAT GOES SOMETHING LIKE this: If you want to have a good neighbor, you have to be a good neighbor. And as I think back over the years on the neighbors we’ve had, I do remember that some of them, try as we might, were a bit hard to get along with.
So our recent move to Wisconsin gave us a fresh opportunity to meet more new people and of course new neighbors. We decided after our move here that we’d take time to meet most of our new neighbors in short order. With this in mind we’d take a walk in the evenings, usually with a loaf of bread, pie, or some other tasty dish to give to our non-Amish neighbors. We found most of them receptive to our visit and nice people to talk with. Our home is a little outside of the Amish community, so most of these folks knew very little about the Amish.
One of our neighbors lives a little north of us, less than a quarter of a mile. When we stopped in he acted somewhat surprised, but we had a good visit. We talked about the area, how long he’d lived there, and so on. I asked him if he had good neighbors before we came, referring to the former owners of our property.
A View from the Buggy Page 9
