The first farm I ever lived on was a dairy farm in the shadow of Mount Jumbo Missoula, Montana. It was a dairy farm owned by my mother’s mom and dad. I don’t remember much, maybe the corral, which was full of manure. I remember the creek. I love mountain creeks, full of rocks and bubble foam water. I remember the irrigation ditch on the side of the mountain. But mostly I just remember a great big barn where the hay was stored with a swinging rope. The truth is, I might remember that because I have a picture of me swinging. Living in the country formed who I am. Formed who we all are. It’s an intricate part of our lives. Living in a small town is Ag life too.
It’s a good thing modern-day farmers have phones. They can take pictures of everything every single day. And it gives them a digital diary of memories for their children.
My memories tend to ignore the struggles of “ag living,” mainly because my parents hid them from me. I know we moved to Glasgow after I was born, living on the south side in a poor, rundown house. My brother Wade and my sister Dena were born there. But we moved back to Missoula, where my brother Jim was born, and that’s when the picture of the swinging robe was taken.
I lived on four farms while I was growing up. And the memories are still vivid. I know they made me who I am. The second farm was on a wheat farm; the third was a hay farm my father was hired to run while we worked the wheat farm. My grandfather sold the wheat farm from underneath my father, who didn’t know he was selling it. We moved into Glasgow and bought a house with two rentals behind it. After one year of town living, my folks bought a small cattle and calf operation west of Glasgow. That lasted until I was a high school senior when we moved back to Glasgow.
This is Ag week, and I had a few other ideas for articles, but with the weather and the roads, it just didn’t work. But I’m glad because Ag Living came from the void. There are so many ag memories here in Big Sandy. In the future, watch for them.
The wheat farm belonged to my father’s parents. I remember my dad would come in from working on the tractor and the combine just black because neither had a cab. He’d spend the day in the hot sun, blowing wind, and coming in totally black. The trucks were small, of course, and there was no air conditioning.
But we didn’t have a lot of water either. The cistern held 1500 gallons. We saved water everywhere and had only weekly baths or showers. Bath water was shared, but showers took place with my father holding us up into the water. One would go in while one was coming out. We didn’t flush the toilet for number one, either.
That is where we learned to jump on dead tree limbs. We had milk cows, and my mom gave me the best advice. She told me never to learn to milk a cow and I never had. We had pigs who ate my little brother’s hat when it fell into the pig pen. Mom got rid of the pigs fast. She worried my little brother would climb the fence and fall in. We had turkeys once for just one year. My mom hated the turkeys because they were so stupid. She told me the turkeys would stay out in a storm and drown in the rain. We all had baby pet rabbits, pet dogs, pet cats, and chickens. Once, my mom jumped into the pickup and ran into Glasgow to get a part. There were chickens in the back of the pickup that she hadn’t noticed. While mom was in the store, they got out and ran around the streets in Glasgow. The police showed up and volunteered to help her round up her “pets .”So here were all the police and my mother running to catch chickens. Have you ever tried to catch a chicken? Nearly impossible in open spaces!
My best friend lived about a mile and a half across the pasture from my house, and I walked across it barefoot and stepped on top of a Rattlesnake. I still hate them!
We were wealthy on that farm, not financially but rich! I got my first bicycle; it was red. It was a boy’s bicycle. But the intent was that I would outgrow it and go to my brother; he would grow it and go to my sister. She would outgrow it and go to my little brother. My brothers, sister, and I made a museum, finding rocks that looked like something. We put it in an old building, gave it a name, and then we charged people to go through our museum. My dad, who was tired of flat tires on all the worn-out farm tires, paid his children a penny for two pieces of glass or nails or anything that would cause a flat tire. We got wise and would go to the dump, get things made out of glass, break that glass, and just scatter all over. W would pick it up so we could get a penny. I’m pretty sure my dad wasn’t stupid. He knew what we were doing. But he paid us anyway because it kept four children busy outside in the summer. Grampa sold that farm without my dad knowing. It was the best year my father ever had. He had an exceptionally good crop and paid off all his bills. We would move into Glasgow.
