The first five years of my life were spent living on my grandparent’s farm. My mother, Irma, was their only child and my father Matthew Wilson, had four babies in thirty months, I was the fourth, and three years later another brother was born, soon to be nick-named Hunky.

We lived in two rooms up stairs which consisted of a large kitchen with a silver and gray cook stove, a slate sink with a long handled pump on one side. The roof slanted toward the dooryard which left enough space for two square windows low to the floor. The other room had two big beds, one for mom and dad, one for Rita and the twins Doug and Donna.

My big crib was in front of dormer window. A smaller crib for Hunky was placed randomly around the room depending on whether he needed to be warmed or cooled. A wood parlor stove was near the back wall. I remember on one occasion, Hunky’s crib got too close to the stove and flames quickly ate up the small blanket draped over the side.

My mother, known to me by that time, as the screamer, yelled “Matthew!” While she yanked Hunky from his crib, threw the blanket to the floor and stomped with zealous vigor until the fire was out. My father, known as a laid back kind of guy, arrived on the scene, to a wild eyed, sooty footed Irma who collapsed onto the bed in tears, still clutching Hunky to her side.

In the evenings we would run to the windows, when we felt the house shake, because that meant grandpa was leading Larry to the well pump. Larry was a huge, white work horse whose shod feet were covered in long white tasseled hair.

We would wiggle and giggle for space at the window for the grand finale, when Larry would turn toward the barn, crumple his legs, fall to the ground, roll onto his back and kick his legs into the air while scraping his back on the gravely dirt in the yard.

Suddenly he would roll to his side and with an earth shuddering grunt heave his huge body onto his feet and grandpa, who stood silently by, would lead him to the barn. The show was over for another day.

As I recall summers seemed to last forever, everyday was sunny and warm with lots of things to do. We did have chores to do on the farm which “Us kids” as we called ourselves, would have fun doing them, except for one dreaded chore, collecting eggs. The chicken house was out to the side of the barn and could not be seen from the busy kitchen.

We would push and shove and dare each other to go into Satan’s den which was guarded by an angry Rhode Island Red rooster. He was mean as mean could be with his bent over crop and scrawny yellow feet we knew his mission was to gouge our eyes out As the door opened he would fling himself off the top roost and fly at the timid egg picker, sometimes me.

I would cover my eyes with one arm while I ducked and blindly felt for the laying boxes. He leaped into the air crowed and flapped his wings in a manic rage. I hurriedly grabbed his future children and made a quick exit, believing I was lucky to be alive and have both eyes in my sockets, once again.

The chicken coop roof slanted nearly to the ground on the back side; so one day we took full advantage of this easy access to seek revenge on the insane rooster. We climbed to the top of the roof and when the strutting, demon came into view we sent a barrage of rocks hurling toward him, oh how we laughed as he tried to run away from the pieces of sky that was falling on his head.

However, our joy was short lived after grandpa heard the terrified squawking and caught us scrambling off the roof. Apparently he was to angry to speak because he stood with eyebrows knitted together and pointed toward the stairs that led to our home.

Mom stood at the top of the stairs with a well worn leather strap in her strong right hand. With grandpa still straight and pointing outside we had no other recourse but to take our punishment, one wallop on each small butt as we scurried past and into our beds for the entire afternoon. The entire afternoon!

Carole Richards of Livermore raised her family on stories of the past. She is now sharing those stories with our readers.

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