I know there are days when we all long for the simpler times of our youth, when our biggest worry was whether or not it would rain and confine us to the house for the day.
When I was a kid, we found a way to enjoy even those stormy days. On the farm where I was raised were several outbuildings. One of these was the corn crib. This was just a two-room shed raised up off the ground, and Daddy used it to store corn and grain. At the end of summer, it was filled with ears of corn hand picked by my family in the field, transported by wagon and then unloaded in the corn crib. But the corn was used all winter to feed the livestock, so by spring the little building was empty of everything but a few shucks and a stray kernel or two.
So on rainy days, my nephews and nieces -- my childhood playmates -- and I would load up a bunch of supplies from the house, wait for a break in the rain and head out to play house in the corn crib. It was so exciting to be able to set up housekeeping in that snug little building while the rain beat down on the tin roof. We would set up a kitchen area where we would store the snacks we had brought from the house, and we would hang up an old sheet or two for room dividers. We would scrounge blocks of wood for chairs, or maybe a rusty old tractor seat from the barn would also serve the purpose. Our beds would be piles of straw carted over from the barn and covered with some of mom's old quilts. Part of the fun was finding things to "make-do" with. Our imagination knew no limits, and we could play for hours on end in that little building that smelled of moldy corn and aging wood.
Another little building we made use of as children was the pig pen. Now when I was very little there were pigs in the pen, so we didn't play inside it; we played on top of it. It was just a low little building that no adult could even stand up in; and it was sort of built into the hillside, so the roof at the back was only a foot or two above the ground. I remember hauling toys and other things up onto that roof.
I had a very small metal, child's rocking chair that had at one point been painted green, and this little chair was light enough for us to hoist up onto the roof. We must have been very young because I can remember that it took two or three of us to get this little chair raised up above our heads. But once we had it up there, that rooftop became a living room, and we would be content to let our imaginations run. Sometimes there would be wild animals in the grass surrounding the building, and we had many narrow escapes, clambering up onto the little rooftop just before the tiger's jaws snapped shut. Or, sometimes we were in a boat on the ocean and there were piranhas and sea monsters below that had to be avoided at all costs. We relied on no one but ourselves to entertain us and, when the day was over, we were tired, dirty, but satisfied with our day, and more than ready to be called home to supper.
We were outside more than inside in those long-ago days of my childhood, and trees of all kinds played a big part in our daily lives. One special tree still stands in the yard of my parents' old farm. The old mulberry tree was ancient when I was little, so I would venture a guess that it is well over a hundred years old now, maybe nearing 150. Most of the mulberry trees I have seen are small or medium sized, but ours was huge. It towered over the yard, sending out branches that created wonderful shade and also made perfect places to install rope swings. At some point, the old tree was hit by lightning and split down the middle. Whoever owned it before we moved there had installed some large hooks and chains to hold the two halves together and prevent them from falling. Amazingly, this worked and the two halves of the trunk continued to grow in opposite directions, so it was sort of like two trees in one and both pieces leaned at about a 45 degree angle. Those hooks and chains stayed in that tree for years. The trunk was one piece for six feet or so above the ground, then it branched out into the split, and this made for a great climbing tree. And, of course, there were the mulberries! Great big, purple, juicy and sweet. We ate them by the handfuls every summer. Our hands, faces and clothing were stained purple constantly, and I'm sure our mothers despaired. But we didn't give it a second thought. In fact, we sometimes carried mulberries down to our "house" in the corn crib to add to our larder there. The bottoms of our feet were also purple because, for the most part, we went barefoot all summer.
Another tree around which some of my memories revolve was the catalpa tree, not far from the mulberry tree. Now the catalpa tree didn't have any fruit, but, to us kids, it might have had something even better, worms! Every year after it bloomed, these big fat, black and green worms would appear on the leaves, and they made the best fish bait ever. We would grab a mason jar, stick in a few catalpa leaves, then start filling it with worms. You know, I never thought about it until now, but I wonder if those worms eventually turned into moths or butterflies. I will have to do some Internet research and find some answers. But whether or not the worms ever became anything other than just that, they served their purpose to us by providing fish bait. And it was also fun to just put one on your hand and let it crawl around while you admired its velvety black back.
I sometimes hear kids today complain that they are "bored," and there is "nothing to do." I realize, at times like this, just how lucky I was to grow up on a farm and also to grow up without -- without video games, without constant television, without cell phones. We were never bored, and we could always find something to do.
Some of my grandchildren recently moved into a house on a property with several outbuildings and my son-in-law cleaned one of them out so the kids could have a playhouse. I am told they enjoy it greatly and can spend hours out there using their imaginations. And guess what? They even have a mulberry tree, a big one, in the backyard! I think they are some very lucky kids!
Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at [email protected]. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 04/16/2014