When I gathered eggs there were two dangers: chickens that didn’t want their eggs taken and would peck your hands fiercely, and roosters that didn’t want you anywhere near the chicken coop!
Of Tin Roofs, Hornets, Baseballs and Buckets: As the oldest of 5 children growing up on a Dairy farm with no TV in the home, We made up our own entertainment and games. Since my next oldest boy sibling Sheldon was 6 years younger than me, I had no-one “good” to play catch with as a 9 year old except for my dad who was working during the day. Our older 2 story farmhouse had a metal roof and in the back, a 1-story porch addition. The roof became my “pitcher”. By tossing balls onto the roof, waiting for it to roll down, I could run and catch before repeating the process. My Mom of course inside the home HATED this noise! The bang of the ball and the extra loud plop as the rolled 6 more feet onto the 1st level off the edge was quite loud. One especially hot afternoon after school, I began my game and noticed a large cone nest of White-Faced hornets in the corner of the lower level overhang. Since the balls were at least 15′ away from where I was catching, I paid them no mind. My Mother, on the other hand paid attention and after about 5-6 throws and catches ordered me to stop making “all that racket right now!” Always one to push the boundaries, I threw once more and as the ball landed on the first floor roof the hornets decided they had enough of the irritation too! out of the corner of my eye a black speck suddenly loomed very large and I got lit up with a swift sting next to my left eye socket. I don’t remember if I caught that ball or not, but as I ran screaming into the kitchen to get some Ice and comfort from my mother, I think I remember her saying “you deserved this for not obeying me” or if she didn’t say it as she said “I’m so sorry” I know I heard her think it! My eye swelled completely shut for the next several days and everyone at school heard the story.
My younger brother Sheldon and I used to play violent games like “throw the bucket” which compromised of swinging a 5 gallon bucket 360 degrees vertically and letting it fly to see how far we could go. We figured out we could save time with one bucket to toss if we simply threw towards each other. Somehow this then transferred to a game of “try to hit your target” for me this meant Sheldon. Of course he quickly caught on and back and forth we went. I remember hearing the kitchen window open and mother yelling that we needed to stop this right now, again as one to push things I loosely interpreted this to mean when Sheldon stopped throwing it at me. I picked up the bucket and gave it one more violent toss right towards his head. It was a good shot and Sheldon for some reason didn’t duck or move this time. Perhaps the bucket coming right towards his face mesmerized him, but the bottom of the bucket hit him near his forehead with momentum swinging upwards, resulting in a nasty bloody gash. Mom rushed him to local rural doctor Jones in Brookneal for stitches and he survived the ordeal just fine. I don’t think there is even any scar tissue left anymore. If there is it is minor and did not stop him from having a successful life. I think both he and mom have forgiven me, but I should probably ask to make sure. This happened about 32 years ago.
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My grandparents had a 100 acre farm in rural Virginia until their passing. My Mom was one of 15 children born and raised on the farm. As grandkids growing up we loved going to the farm. We slopped the pigs, fed the chickens, picked the vegtables, filled up the kitchen wood box, caught fireflies, looked for diamonds (quartz rocks), ate homemade biscuit dough, etc.
One of my favorite memories was watching my Grandmother make her homemade biscuits, which she did three times a day. In her little one-window pantry she would fold back the cheese cloth over the large wooden bowl (I never saw her wash it in all those years). She would set it on the counter and then take her sifter and create a little flour mountain. She would then add a dollop of lard (and in later years, Crisco) and then finger it in the flour. Next came the buttermilk (never measured that either) and a pinch of salt and then fingered the dough till it felt right, adding more buttermilk as needed. Finally she formed the round ball of dough, then moved the bowl off the counter and rolled out another cheesecloth, sprinkled some flour on the cloth then rolled out the dough with her wooden roller. She normally had two balls of dough, so this process was repeated twice. She would cut the biscuits with a tin biscuit cutter and then place them in one of three very black bread pans. The last pan was used for the Hope Cakes… just a larger size biscuit shapped by hand. I would happily wait for a dough corner to eat… and I still eat biscuit dough as a grandmother! The biscuits would bake in the wood burning stove for about eight minutes and afterwards, they were piled high on a couple of plates for everyone to enjoy. The biscuits were either buttered, jellied, layered with tomatoe slices or sausage/bacon. The left overs went into a an old dutch oven that sat on the warming shelf above the stove which was considered the “snack jar.” If you got hungry during the day, you could always go get a biscuit! No one, and I mean no one has ever mastered Grandma’s recipe. She never wrote it down and though some in the family have come close, they’re not the same. (NOTE: I have a photo of Grandma at her wooden bowl in the pantry too). 🙂
When I gathered eggs there were two dangers: chickens that didn’t want their eggs taken and would peck your hands fiercely, and roosters that didn’t want you anywhere near the chicken coop!
Of Tin Roofs, Hornets, Baseballs and Buckets: As the oldest of 5 children growing up on a Dairy farm with no TV in the home, We made up our own entertainment and games. Since my next oldest boy sibling Sheldon was 6 years younger than me, I had no-one “good” to play catch with as a 9 year old except for my dad who was working during the day. Our older 2 story farmhouse had a metal roof and in the back, a 1-story porch addition. The roof became my “pitcher”. By tossing balls onto the roof, waiting for it to roll down, I could run and catch before repeating the process. My Mom of course inside the home HATED this noise! The bang of the ball and the extra loud plop as the rolled 6 more feet onto the 1st level off the edge was quite loud. One especially hot afternoon after school, I began my game and noticed a large cone nest of White-Faced hornets in the corner of the lower level overhang. Since the balls were at least 15′ away from where I was catching, I paid them no mind. My Mother, on the other hand paid attention and after about 5-6 throws and catches ordered me to stop making “all that racket right now!” Always one to push the boundaries, I threw once more and as the ball landed on the first floor roof the hornets decided they had enough of the irritation too! out of the corner of my eye a black speck suddenly loomed very large and I got lit up with a swift sting next to my left eye socket. I don’t remember if I caught that ball or not, but as I ran screaming into the kitchen to get some Ice and comfort from my mother, I think I remember her saying “you deserved this for not obeying me” or if she didn’t say it as she said “I’m so sorry” I know I heard her think it! My eye swelled completely shut for the next several days and everyone at school heard the story.
My younger brother Sheldon and I used to play violent games like “throw the bucket” which compromised of swinging a 5 gallon bucket 360 degrees vertically and letting it fly to see how far we could go. We figured out we could save time with one bucket to toss if we simply threw towards each other. Somehow this then transferred to a game of “try to hit your target” for me this meant Sheldon. Of course he quickly caught on and back and forth we went. I remember hearing the kitchen window open and mother yelling that we needed to stop this right now, again as one to push things I loosely interpreted this to mean when Sheldon stopped throwing it at me. I picked up the bucket and gave it one more violent toss right towards his head. It was a good shot and Sheldon for some reason didn’t duck or move this time. Perhaps the bucket coming right towards his face mesmerized him, but the bottom of the bucket hit him near his forehead with momentum swinging upwards, resulting in a nasty bloody gash. Mom rushed him to local rural doctor Jones in Brookneal for stitches and he survived the ordeal just fine. I don’t think there is even any scar tissue left anymore. If there is it is minor and did not stop him from having a successful life. I think both he and mom have forgiven me, but I should probably ask to make sure. This happened about 32 years ago.
Hello buddy. It was hard to find this site in google.
It’s not even in top 10. You should focus on high quality backlinks from top websites in your
niche. I know of a very effective free method to get high quality backlinks and instant traffic.
The best thing about this method is that you start
getting traffic right away. For more info search in google for:
masitsu’s tricks
My grandparents had a 100 acre farm in rural Virginia until their passing. My Mom was one of 15 children born and raised on the farm. As grandkids growing up we loved going to the farm. We slopped the pigs, fed the chickens, picked the vegtables, filled up the kitchen wood box, caught fireflies, looked for diamonds (quartz rocks), ate homemade biscuit dough, etc.
One of my favorite memories was watching my Grandmother make her homemade biscuits, which she did three times a day. In her little one-window pantry she would fold back the cheese cloth over the large wooden bowl (I never saw her wash it in all those years). She would set it on the counter and then take her sifter and create a little flour mountain. She would then add a dollop of lard (and in later years, Crisco) and then finger it in the flour. Next came the buttermilk (never measured that either) and a pinch of salt and then fingered the dough till it felt right, adding more buttermilk as needed. Finally she formed the round ball of dough, then moved the bowl off the counter and rolled out another cheesecloth, sprinkled some flour on the cloth then rolled out the dough with her wooden roller. She normally had two balls of dough, so this process was repeated twice. She would cut the biscuits with a tin biscuit cutter and then place them in one of three very black bread pans. The last pan was used for the Hope Cakes… just a larger size biscuit shapped by hand. I would happily wait for a dough corner to eat… and I still eat biscuit dough as a grandmother! The biscuits would bake in the wood burning stove for about eight minutes and afterwards, they were piled high on a couple of plates for everyone to enjoy. The biscuits were either buttered, jellied, layered with tomatoe slices or sausage/bacon. The left overs went into a an old dutch oven that sat on the warming shelf above the stove which was considered the “snack jar.” If you got hungry during the day, you could always go get a biscuit! No one, and I mean no one has ever mastered Grandma’s recipe. She never wrote it down and though some in the family have come close, they’re not the same. (NOTE: I have a photo of Grandma at her wooden bowl in the pantry too). 🙂
LuAnn, you’ve won a book! Not because the website is new, but that your history is so good! I’ll archive it in my “publish folder” for future use.
Awesome George! Thank you so much!