This summer I had my timber cut around my house and the farm. There were probably close to 20 acres of trees.
The loggers clear-cut and ground just about all the trees into chips. This means even the limbs and leaves were ground. They left our small farm with only stumps and a few small limbs lying on the ground.
Before the clear-cut grows up with bushes and trees, I thought I would walk over the old farm.
You see, when I was just a boy, most of the farm’s 20 to 30 acres was cleared farmland.
To get my bearings, I started in the backyard of my Grandparents’ home. As I walked through what used to be the barnyard, there on my left still stands the old chicken house. At one time there was a large fenced-in area for the chickens.
When I was about 5, I would go inside the chicken fence with my grandma and throw out some scratch feed. After a few times, I wanted to do it myself.
Wrong!
I got flogged by the old rooster. From then on, I threw it through the fence, and to this day, I don’t like to be close to chickens.
As I walked on, I passed where the old barn used to be. Seems like I could still hear our two mules crunching down on the corn in their troughs. All the while, our cow was chewing her cud and eating hay.
You ever tried milking a cow that kept hitting you in the face with her tail? Well, our old cow was good at that. Sometimes when I was milking her, she would stomp her back foot at flies and end up knocking my bucket over.
As I continued on down through the cut-over, I spotted the old spring at the bottom of the hill. The water trough for the animals had long rotted away but the spring was still full of clear water.
Making my way past the spring, I came across the briar patch where I used to set my rabbit box. Won’t many briars left, but back in the day, every rabbit on the place used to live there. Why, ain’t no telling how many rabbits I caught out of that box until one night a possum went in there. From then on, I couldn’t pay a rabbit to go in that box. I reckon rabbits don’t like the smell a possum leaves.
Making my way to the back side of the property, I recognized a plot of land where we used to have a tobacco plant bed. Yessir, we had grubbed up all the trees and stumps and sowed a rather large plant bed full of tobacco, tomato and pepper plants. That bed was as clean as the highway at one time, but now all I saw was tree stumps and brush.
As I walked past the plant bed, on down in the swamp, I saw what was left of the old hollow tree I used to squirrel hunt under. It had rotted down and nothing was left but a large stump. I killed a lot of squirrels under that tree and killed my first rabbit as he came hopping by.
Why, I remember one time I had Dad’s old rabbit-eared 12-gauge shotgun when two squirrels ran out and I cocked both barrels. You guessed it, both barrels went off at the same time. Well needless to say, I got what was left of one and the other got away. Never did that again.
As I crossed the swamp, I could see the remains of our old tobacco barn. We put in a lot of work at that barn and surrounding fields.
Just below the barn is where our pond is located today. When I was a boy, I helped my uncle dig out that spring head. We used the water when we planted our tobacco. It was my job to take the mule and sled, loaded with two 55-gallon drums, down to the spring. I would fill each one about two-thirds full by dipping a five-gallon bucket in and out of the spring. Didn’t have tops for the barrels, so I placed a burlap sack on top to help keep the water from sloshing out. Then I would drive the mule and sled out into the fields for the planters to use in their setters. Best not turn that sled too sharp ‘cause it might cause them barrels to tip over.
As I walked on through the newly made cut-over, I sensed the smell of a hog pen. No, not really, but we did raise our own hogs and butchered several every year. Man, that made for some mighty fine eating.
Before I could get completely out of the cut-over, I spotted what was left of an old lightered stump. As soon as I saw it, I remembered splitting kindling off this stump over 60 years ago. That kindling started many a fire in Ma’s cook stove and heater.
As I walked back in the yard of the home place, I was a little tired and sweaty but I was so thankful that I had taken this stroll.
Why, it seems over time, things and people might change, but sometimes it is so nice to take a walk down memory lane.
J.A. Bolton is author of “Just Passing Time,” co-author of “Just Passing Time Together,” and recently released a new book called “Southern Fried: Down-Home Stories.” Contact him at ja@jabolton.com.
