MY GRANDFATHER'S FARM

THE "ESTABLISHMENT"

My Grandfather's Farm

by Richard Drake, guest writer

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GRANDFATHER ATE ALL THE CRAWDADS!

"Out of Africa" is probably one of the best films that I can remember watching.   I have seen it many times over the years and I always look forward to the opening lines written by the author, Isak Dinesen, and spoken by the actress, Meryl Streep.  "I had a farm in Africa".  When I first heard these lines, I immediately thought of my Grandfather's farm.  He had been born into a dirt-poor family in Arkansas and lost his Father at age 2.  He always wanted to own a farm.  After many years of saving, he and my Grandmother bought a small farm north of Paris, Texas.  The farm filled up a large portion of my childhood memory bank. 

 I always was begging my parents to let me go to the farm.  My Grandfather continued to work at the Paris Flour Mill. On Friday evenings, Mother would take me to the mill at quitting time and I would ride with Grandfather to the farm.  He would return me on Monday mornings to go to school.  I went every weekend that my Mother would allow. 

It was a small farm in Powderly, Texas which is about half way between Paris, Texas and Hugo, Oklahoma.  It was less than forty acres.  It included a small grocery store with a gasoline filling station, a Gulf Station.  To the family, it was more than just a farm.  It was an "Establishment".  Shortly after they purchased the farm, World War II started and the government built Camp Maxey directly across the highway from the farm.  The small grocery store in the front of the station became a place for the G.I.s to gather within walking distance of the base front gate.  It also had three cabins which they rented to people who fished in the nearby Red River. During the war, many families stayed in the cabins while visiting their loved ones stationed at the camp. My Grandparents grew a little cotton and had a large vegetable garden with a very large pea patch.  They had a few cows which gave fantastic milk and, of course, they raised several hogs. Plenty of chickens had the run of the place and.   Oh, how I remember my Grandmother's fried chicken.  

My Granddad had a plow horse named "Tony".  He was a very gentle animal and my brother, Donald, and I were allowed to ride him around the yard.   One day we were on horseback, pretending we were cowboys when Tony decided to take a swim.  Granddad had built a large pond which he had stocked with catfish, another thing my Grandmother was great at cooking.  On that day he decided to wade into the pond to cool off.  The water was not deep but for nine and six year old kids, who did not know how to swim, it appeared as deep as the Atlantic.  We sat there and yelled and yelled.  No matter what we dId, Tony would not budge.  Just before our voices gave out, our Uncle, Mack, heard the commotion and came out to see what was up.  He had to wade into the pond and lead Tony and passengers back to shore. 

The farm had a number of large walnut trees.  In the fall, I loved picking up the walnuts for family Christmas baskets.  The prior owners of the farm had cut down most of the trees and used the wood to build a barn.  I haven't been by the farm in many, many years but I believe that barn would still be standing.  Behind the barn was a large native tree forest.  It was the most wonderful play ground that a young boy could hope for.  I spent many hours exploring the vast forest.  I would look for Indians. I still hear my grandmother's warning "Watch out for the snakes" as I left the houses to go exploring.  I always carried a big stick as a weapon.  I never had to use it. 

There was a small constant flow stream flowing in the trees.  It had minnows but no big fish.  It did have lots of crawdads.  I loved catching those small creatures.  One day I took a bucket full to my Grandmother and asked her to cook them for me.  I did not like them but Grandfather ate all of them.  

One week end our extended family, all of our aunts, uncles, cousins  had planned a gathering at the farm.  The main item for the dinner menu was fried catfish.  Granddad and I drove up to the Red River where the local fishermen would bring in their catches to sell their extra fish.  Granddad had a Negro friend "Gooch" from whom he always bought his fish.  As we stood on the pier waiting for Gooch and his partner to row in their boat, we heard very loud yelling. Evidently, they had caught something very big.  It took quite a while for them to reach the pier where everyone helped land the fish.  It was one of the largest fish anyone could remember.  When it was hoisted up, it was much larger than I was.  I will always remember the monster.

One of my favorite stories about my visits to the farm was the weekend that my Uncle, Mack, was leaving to go into the Navy.  On his last Saturday night at home, Mack wanted to go to Hugo, Oklahoma for one last beer as a civilian but all of his friends had already volunteered or had been drafted.  I told Mack that I would go with him.  He took us to a bar in Hugo and I sat on a bar stool eating peanuts and drinking a Pepsi Cola.  The bar maids took great care of me.  I certainly had a great time and I was seeing my Uncle off to the war.  The next Monday morning, I made the mistake of telling my Mother of my great adventure.  She was a strict Southern Baptist and the thought of her little boy sitting on a bar stool was just too much for her.  It was a good thing that Uncle Mack had already left town or I think Mother would have put a big "hurt" on him.  My Dad got a big laugh out of the story and told it around the mill.  

In the fall it was always hog butchering time.  All of the extended family came for the big event.  One at a time the big sows were headed into the butchering area under a large tree.  Uncle Mack dispatched each with a shot to the head.  An "A" frame hoist was erected and each hog was raised up to bleed out.  It was then lowered down into a 55 gallon barrel in which water was boiling over a open fire.  I learned that dipping the hog into the water not only cleaned it but made it easy to skin.  The hog was then moved over to the cutting table which was only a piece of plywood on saw horses.  Several people got busy cutting the hog into the various pieces.  It was an assembly line.  My Grandfather was very proud in telling everyone that was the way it had been done in Arkansas.  Nothing was wasted from each hog.  All of the scraps went into the sausage grinder.  The best part was every family took a lot of meat home.  If anyone ever ran short, a phone call to Granddad would result in another butchering.  There was never a shortage of hogs in northeast Texas. 

My family moved to Clovis in early 1943 because my Dad was hired to be the Miller at the Clovis Mill and Elevator.  The significant raise in pay even overcame my Mother's fear of moving to the wilds of the west.   Leaving Paris and my friends was sad but I hated to leave my Granddad's farm.  It  will always be a piece of heaven in my mind. 

My Grandmother and Grandfather

FOR MIL'S 

by Richard Drake, "Bard of '53"

10-3-13