My Swing

By Stacey Britton | August 29, 2007 | 

My Swing on Grandpa’s Farm

My swing wasn’t an old tire, the seat was made of wood – old wood. The kind that is weathered and cracked. The kind that sings a song when you swing.

The rope was old too, so it had a song of it’s own.

They would sing in harmony when I would swing back and forth, back and forth. One song for getting on, another for the ‘start to push’. Yet another for the high in the air swing.

I don’t think may people heard the songs. I think they were just for me and 

My Swing…

I.WAS.FIVE!

February 10, 2019 | Grandpa’s Farm Blog Entry

It was big, red, made a lot of sound and I was supposed to drive it!! Manual shifts, steering and braking. I couldn’t even reach the seat, nor the pedals and forget about turning the large, hard, black steering wheel. Was my Uncle serious?

He WAS serious about teaching me how to drive a tractor.

He climbed up beside the huge tires, lifted me up with him and plopped me down in his lap. I could nearly reach the gear shift, but no way with the floor pedals. The steering wheel I could somewhat reach but the manual control meant my five year old littles arms would need to show a power all their own.

NOT

The engine rived to a rattle, buck and lurch and off we went across the bumpy field. Did my parent’s know about this?

Turn!! He yelled over the engine clamor, Turn.

NOPE, not happening. Try as I might there was no way I was going to redirect this moving contraption that was rattling my teeth so the tooth fairy would bring the a haul under my pillow.

Then I saw it… the big ditch near the fence to the pasture land. Of course he will turn the wheel for me. Of course we won’t go in the ditch.

Closer, closer, he didn’t move his hands. Turn!! He shouted, as if I would be able to move the large wheel control just because a looming disaster was upon us. I could not. I shouted back, “I can not turn the wheel!”

Just as the last moment he turned the wheel, resulting in a ‘near miss’ story at my expense during the evening dinner story time.

To be nice, he was a bachelor and kind of clueless about kids.

Stacey

Chasin’ Cows!

By Stacey Britton | February 10, 2019 | Blog Chasin’ Cows

Dreaming and pretending are a large part of an only child’s survival toolkit. I was no different. My imagination took me places that a young girl of 7 or 8 probably should not have gone. Like – the cow pasture, all alone, wearing tennis shoes and one piece short shorts. What?!?

Grandpa’s farm held many opportunities to create a world all my own. There was an empty pasture where the tractor was stored. An inclosed area with cow barn, hay barn and chicken house including the little well house. That back area of the property contained a creek that ran the length of two sides of the farm, it was more like a big ditch with Oklahoma red dirt and water, slow moving and warm. Finally the next area sectioned off contained many Pecan trees, they have their own melodrama.

For today, this story will be about my cows a horse and a little girl all alone in a pasture.

Grandpa had beef cattle (the cattle in the picture are dairy cows). He would move them from enclosure to enclosure depending on the area of grass and water that needed ‘mowing’ or rest. I loved those cows. I was not afraid of them. Gpa only told me one rule: don’t stand behind the cows and spook them – they kick. These cows were very gentle and often allowed me to greet them face to face, pet and talk ‘made up stories’ with them – they didn’t mind my endless chatter and seemed to like my small, sweet childlike voice. I trusted them and they trusted me.

I imagined my horse, brown bay with the black sox on his four legs, black mane and tail, beautiful eyes. I rode bareback in my story and hurled those gentle cows, often they would slowly move the cool trees near the border creek. Squish, squish, somehow they knew I would not follow them in the mud, I avoided cow pies and mud – those were MY rules. (teehee)

I often tried to rouse the cows to a stampede, but never did I experience a group effort fast enough on their part to be considered a stampede. Even my imagination was not colorful enough the change the character of those wonderful cows.

It really was amazing how gentle they were with me flitting about them, chattering and pretending to ride a horse that did not exist.

I am thankful for those cows. I am thankful I missed stepping on so very many pies 🙂 I’m thankful that I had an uncle who indeed had REAL horses to ride, but that is another story.

Story many stories.

Stacey

The Pecan Trees?

By Stacey Britton | February 10, 2019 | Blog Pecan Trees?

Grandpa’s farm had a grove of Pecan trees. The grand kids had the responsibility of picking up the multitude of dropped open shelled pecans and place them in brown paper lunch sacks. IF we filled the sack G-pa would take us down to the country store a half mile down the country road and buy us a candy bar of our choice, maybe even a bottle of ice cold pop!

I was the youngest of the grand kid crew and my job was to fill the paper sack at least half way and I always receive much more that my share. My cousins were old enough not to compare and they pampered and spoiled me as well. Teaching me how to collect the pecans, pick the ripe ones and leave the husk on the ground. No cows, so no need to worry about the pies they might have left behind. (teehee)

Riding with Grandpa in his pick-up truck was always an adventure, he would tell me stories and silly jokes. The best trips were when he would extend the trip by visiting the other pasture lands, bringing hay and salt licks. Salt licks were exactly that – square blocks of salt the cows would like so they would not dehydrate in the Oklahoma heat. We would check the water levels in the drink tank, drive around and throw pieces of hay for the rectangle blocks in the back of his pick-up truck. He would stop and gaze at each cow, silently counting and checking.

The most memorable moments came before and at the end of these visits. Opening the gates and closing the gates. Walking along the cattle crossing was difficult for me because my feet were so very small. But opening the gate and making sure it was latched shut was a graduation point in time. A level of trust far past picking up Pecans and pretending I was herding cows with a make-believe horse. Opening and closing the gate for Grandpa meant I was growing up.

It was my last summer with Grandpa, I was ten. But I remember well our last trips to the pasture lands. I remember the cows, the outbuildings and even the lay out of the farm house. So many stories, they bring smiles to my face when life gets tough and allows me to cry when needed.

Grandpa went through his cow gates until late that spring, until he left this world and entered another land and through a golden gate. No more suffering for him, I was sad and glad that spring. I was ten.

Stacey