THE GRAPES

(photos of grapes by my esteemed son in law Robert Miller)

It wasn’t a vast vineyard, but to a very young boy it seemed endless. I suspect the gapes took up about an acre of land, perhaps a bit more. It is possible it was larger before prohibition ended the commercial wine making…long before I came on the scene. There are many things I remember fondly from my early childhood, the persimmon and pear trees, my pony, the family cow… but more than anything else, I miss the grapes. I loved to walk between the rows in the late summer when the grapes were ready for picking. The broad leaves reached above my head keeping out the sun while creating the perfect summer hide away for a little boy. But the real treasure was the delectable fruit, just hanging there waiting for me. My favorite grapes were in the first 3 rows, large yellow and light red grapes (Niagara?) that I could squeeze and pop the pulp out of the skin into my mouth. OMG they were good! The rest of the vineyard was given to the deep blue concord variety, also quite tasty right off the vine, but smaller and less juicy.

(Grandma Rondinelli visiting from Philly)


(The vineyard was located in the fields behind the barn which later became grazing land for the sheep.)

I have the faintest memory of harvesting the grapes…I was probably 5-6 years old and I remember a a lot of people walking through the rows with baskets filled with grapes. To pick the grapes my father put a funny ring on his middle finger; it had a curved blade on the top that was used to cut the stem with a simple swift flick of the wrist. The grapes were carried to the yard between our house and one of the barns where the press had been set up. Much to my dismay I cannot remember the actual pressing and the steps that obviously followed. I can say with authority that I never saw anyone stomping on the grapes. Another distressing gap in my memory is when the vineyard was removed, but maybe that’s good.



Ostensibly I am writing this to leave a record for my daughters, but the truth is, I relish the opportunity to replay these memories, always hoping that in the process I can dredge up one or two more that have been tucked away in the recesses on my mind. I remember talking to one of my uncles very late in his life, and how he seemed to confuse me with someone from his younger days and would talk endlessly about his distant past. If I live to be that old and my mind reverts back to those long ago days, I think I would be very happy.

Next....The Wine

THE CHICKS

Every February we would receive a batch of newly hatched chicks which were placed in the freshly cleaned-and I mean scrubbed cleaned- coop. It is worth taking the time to describe that cleaning process.

The first order of business was to remove all the chickens and chicken shit in the coop. It was simple mindless labor. The truck was backed up to one of the doors and the CS was shoveled onto the truck bed. The first half of the job was relatively easy because the CS in the body of the coop was loose and dry. But once cleared, we had to clean out under the wire racks where the slept, and here everything was wet, heavy and packed, in addition to being further away from the doors to the truck. It was also home for numerous rats, so our little rat terrier had a grand old time. The dust was awful, and we didn’t know enough then to wear protective masks. I was not surprise some 40 years later when my chest xray showed signs of old histoplasmosis.

After the last bit of manure was removed, the coop was washed down with soap and water, removing all remnants of manure and dirt in preparation for the final stage of cleaning. In the 40s and 50s creosote was not considered hazardous, and was readily available for my father to use to “disinfect” the coop. In typical fashion, he had a special contraption made to complete this task. A large galvanized trash can was fitted with wheels and handles so it could easily be moved about like a wheelbarrow. Within the can was a hand pump and sprayer, and when filled with the nasty creosote, it was possible to spray the entire interior of the coop. As I remember, I did most of the pumping and my father handled the sprayer. It did not take long for us to recognize an obvious problem with creosote, it burned the skin, and thereafter we covered all exposed skin with a heavy application of noxzema which proved to be only partially effective. I’m not sure just what “germs” my father hoped to eliminate with the creosote, but I can’t imagine anything surviving after our “treatment”.

With the coop all cleaned (sterilized?), the next step was setting up the stoves to keep the newly hatched chicks warm. For a few years we used small coal burning potbellied stoves with a large round galvanized hood, but later replaced them with special heat producing lamps. Around the stove and extending out about 24 inches from the edge of the hood a bedding of Staysdry was spread over the concrete floor. (a thick straw and fine wood chip combination that I don’t believe is available any longer.) The bedding was contained by a twelve inch high metal ring with a diameter of about six feet encircling the entire area. We usually had six to nine of these “nurseries” set up, always in the same coop.

With the heat on, the young chicks were literally dumped out of their boxes into their nurseries where they immediately gathered all together beneath the hoods producing a carpet of yellow fuzz. They quickly discovered where the feed and water containers were placed and would venture away from their self imposed cluster long enough to fill their tiny gullets.

Of all my memories from the farm, nothing compares to the the pure joy of going into that coop on a bitter cold February day and experiencing the combination of the warmth and the sweet smell of the chicks, enhanced by the sound of their peeping and the touch of their fuzzy feathers as they clamored around the hands that provided their feed and water. It was easy to wish you could climb in there with them and lie down under the cozy hood.

LEARNING TO WORK

One of my father’s oft repeated admonition to me was, ”learn to work” by which he really meant learn how to work, and on our farm that meant knowing what to do and when to do it. It was also important to understand why the work had to be done, and the consequences of not doing it and/or not doing it right.

I’m not sure how old I was when I was officially expected to perform certain chores, as well as being available to my father to help with the constant demands of the farm. I would guess about 9-10 years old. During the school year I was expected to perform after school chores, usually lasting about one and a half hours, as well as Saturdays and occasionally Sunday mornings. The amount of work varied with the time of year-less in the winter and more in the summer. During summer vacations my father asked that I be available to him for a half a day, so I could usually have part of each day to myself. Looking back I can appreciate how he balanced my need to accept responsibility with my need for childhood freedom.

The usual daily chores consisted of collecting eggs after school and on weekends, feeding the chickens (I’ll have more to say about the chickens later), and milking the cow. I loved milking the cow, especially in the winter when I could lay my head against her flank and feel the heat of her body as she warmed the barn. I still believe a barn and its animal during the cold winter days is just about the coziest place one could be. There were always cats and kittens around, and I enjoyed squirting them with the milk to watch them lick each other clean. Another routine chore was helping my mother grade and pack the eggs, something that had to be done daily.

On weekends and during summer vacations there were numerous jobs and projects that demanded attention in addition to the routine chores. But that’s another story.

HARD BOILED EGGS

The eggs were routinely collected in the mornings and again about 3-4 o’clock in the afternoon. Wire baskets-later with a protective rubber coating on the wires were used, each holding about 4-6 dozen eggs. Before they were weighed and packed they had to be washed. This was easy enough...a basket would be suspended in a bath of heated water containing a special detergent and gently agitated from below. One of my chores was to collect the eggs in each of the five coops and take them into our cellar and wash them. Not very difficult, however on one occasion I inadvertedly set the temperature gauge too high (I don’t know why or how that happened) and while the first basket was being washed I noticed a change in the sound of the eggs as they gently bumped against one another in the bath. It was heavier and “clunkier”, and I knew imediately what I had accomplished. I also knew, correctly, that my father was not going to be pleased.

As was often the case, my mother came to my rescue. She called all the neighbors who routinely bought “cracked eggs” from us and quickly sold off all the hardboiled eggs.

I HATE ROOSTERS

I hate roosters...I’ll admit they have an almost regal bearing about them, as they strut about the yard or the coop...but I still hate them. Roosters are mean, vicious, and worst than that, they are cowards. Every year we would place several roosters in with the hens in the breeding coop, and the eggs from there would be sent to the hatchery. I learned very quickly about those devious, miserable cowards the first time I went in to collect the eggs. They would stand back and stare at me, unmoving, as long as I was facing them and staring back. But as soon as I turned my back they would attack...comming at me feet first with those large spurs, intent on doing some real damage. I would turn quickly and kick at them as violently as I could without droping the basket of eggs I was carrying. I never told my father about that...I don’t think he would have approved. I had another way of geting revenge...Whenever I found an egg without a shell (the egg is held intact by the thin membraned that is found just beneath the shell in a normal egg.) I would take careful aim at the closest of those awful creatures and let it go. If I was really pissed I would throw a good egg. I never told my father that either.

I'm not sure of the connection, but the ram we had to "service" the sheep behaved in the same way, turn your back and he would charge with his head down, honing in on your butt, turn around and he would stop.