 |
| Howard Francis standing in his hayfield. Morgan, UT. |
Some
farmers go out of their way to show off their fancy new equipment and metal
barns, and surround their property with white rail fences. My Grandpa’s farm
wasn’t like that. His farm was the real thing. It was a picture right out of a
Pioneer scrapbook.
 |
| Howard and Jessie Taggart Francis home. Morgan, UT. |
The
main house was white brick which had been added onto several times as his
family grew. A door at the end of the hall, which might pass as a closet, held
a ladder going down into a dark dirt-floored cellar. Plumbing had been added
which, to the cheers of his children, made his outhouse
obsolete. The single
bathroom sported an old-fashioned standing tub with lion claw legs. I can still
hear Grandma Francis yelling at us kids for using the tub as a swimming pool
and splashing water all over the floor.
The
only source of heat was a gas heater in the center of the house. The cold
Morgan winters made the three bedrooms feel like ice boxes. On rare occasions
I would sleep in one of those ice boxes with my 14 year old uncle, Scott, who
turned out to be a cover thief! I would lay coverless with teeth chattering
until I finally gave up getting any blankets back, and go lay on the floor in front of the
gas heater.
 |
| Grandpa and Grandma Francis on a visit to Provo, UT. |
Grandma
would turn out delicious bread, pies, and fried chicken from a very fancy wood
burning stove – a wedding gift from her father, George Albert Taggart, when she
and Grandpa were married. It was also the canning center for all varieties of
fruits and vegetables. Opening pea pods and snapping beans was a great job for
us kids.
 |
Grandma Francis with my uncles, George and
Scott on the back steps of the Morgan home." |
Just
outside the kitchen door was the barnyard. A few steps away out of the ground came a metal pipe
with a spout and pump handle. With a couple of mighty strokes cool well water
would come gushing out. An irrigation ditch walled off the front yard and
continued under a sturdy cement bridge which served as an entrance to the
barnyard. Splashing and sliding in the irrigation water on the lawn was a blast. I can still
smell the mint growing near the ditch while trying to catch water “skeeters.”
Next
to the bridge, hidden in the shade of tall cottonwood trees and lilac bushes
were large wooden barrels filled with water. They were used to keep the metal
milk cans cool until they were picked up. As a youngster I had caught a prize
frog and put it in one of the barrels for safe keeping, only to later find it
squished flat as a pancake by one of the heavy milk cans.
 |
| Paul, Russ, and Joel playing in Grandpa Francis's hay barn. |
Grandpa’s
old wooden barn was a classic. It had a tall hay loft with a covered side section
used for hand milking his dairy herd. Grandpa and his boys would sit on small
3-legged stools while stripping the teats and squirting milk into metal
buckets. Sometimes a stray shot would come flying my way just to keep me on my
toes. I tried getting milk out of one of those appendages once but hadn’t acquired
the talent.
 |
Uncle George and Uncle Scott with their
prize calves. Morgan, UT. |
One
day a vet showed up. It seems a cow was having some trouble. After a serious
chat with Grandpa he pulled on some rubber gloves that ran the length of his
forearm from his fingertips to the elbow. With the cow’s head locked in a milking
stall, Grandpa twisted its tail while the vet put his arm to the shoulder up
the cow’s rear end. Need I say I stood there slack-jawed in shock? After
fishing around a few minutes the vet retrieved a 4-inch long strand of barbed
wire and went back in for more. Any ideas of becoming a vet just went out the
window. It was a pretty crappy job!
Watching
the vet wasn’t the only shocker. Surrounding the family garden was an electric
fence. Everyone except yours truly could navigate the buzzing wire with no
problem, but I couldn’t get in or out without getting zapped like an escaping
jail bird. Jail bird on the run.
Part
of the family income came from several hundred chickens housed in a long coop.
One of the jobs for youngsters was packing buckets of grain from the granary to
feed the chickens. Gathering the eggs could be a dangerous job. Often we had to reach under angry hens to snatch them, sometimes getting pecked in the process. Feeding the chickens left our sneakers
covered with gooey muck, all of which left us with no love for chickens.
Grandma's Sunday Chicken Dinners
Sunday
after church presented a show second only to gladiators in a Roman Coliseum.
Uncle Scott or George would enter a small implements shed, snatch up an axe,
take a seat before a large, round sharpening stone and their strong legs would
begin pumping. The faster they pumped, the faster the rough stone would spin. Laying
the axe blade gently against the stone caused sparks to fly and dance to the
music of the grinding blade. Soon the axe blade was sparkling, and sharp enough
to split a whisker. I could tell by the glint in my uncle’s eye he had
stepped in the chicken muck too. It was time for Act 2.
Remember
those chickens that laughed when you looked down at your shoes before leaving
the coop? Well, Sunday was not the day for them to look plump or too smug when
the coop door opened. Two or three of them Sunday-go-to-cooking chickens were
headed for the chopping block. The proud
cluckers arrived being held upside
down by their feet, their wings furiously flapping. Next the
executioner with
blood stained coveralls carrying the newly sharpened axe stepped forward. The
chosen chicken’s neck was stretched across the chopping block and down swooped
the axe. Their heads fell to the ground, but their bodies jumped up and began
running around with blood spurting everywhere. If this wasn’t enough to ruin
your appetite, Act 3 would close the deal.
The
next step for the chickens was getting gutted in the kitchen sink, then being
immersed in a vat of boiling hot water. The stench from boiling chicken
feathers was nauseating, and it didn’t get any better when the feather plucking
began.
Act
4. The next couple of hours were spent climbing trees in the apple orchard,
jumping from the rafters of the granary and sinking up to our belly buttons in
wheat, or climbing up bailed hay stacked in the barn loft, hoping to net
pigeons roosting on the cross beams. Anything to get away from the stench in
the farm house! Then the dinner bell clanged and the aroma of Grandma's fried chicken,
mashed potatoes and gravy, and her delicious apple pie drew us back to the dining room, our
minds purged of all that had gone on before. Chicken gizzards anyone?
Grandpa's Prize Morgan Horses - Bud and King
Close
to the barn was a corral where Grandpa’s two prized Morgan horses, Bud and
King, hung out. They were a matched pair of work horses and could outperform
most small tractors. Grandpa enjoyed hitching them up to his wagon when he
hauled a load of potatoes, hay or cabbages. I remember well, bouncing down the
road atop a full load of ripe cabbages, heading for the sauerkraut plant in
town. We would lay back on the pile, rip a head open and eat the sweet cabbage while listening
to the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves.
 |
| Grandpa Francis on his black Morgan horse, King. |
In
the evenings Grandpa would lay on the couch and get a rubdown from Grandma. The
long days working the fields on his 40-acre farm were taking their toll. When
he was feeling better he would move to his rocking chair in front of the heater
and read, or just nod off. On one occasion he sat me on his lap, pulled a pad
of paper out and taught me how to draw a rabbit. To this day I still draw them
that same way, just like Grandpa taught me!
RUNAWAY HORSE
 |
| Scott Francis on his Quarter horse. Morgan, UT. |
One
of the highlights of Mom and Dad going to Europe in the summer was staying at
Grandpa and Grandma Francis’s farm. It was great for me, but I’m not sure they
felt the same excitement watching over an adventurous little boy. My Uncle Scott was a few years older than me. He had a black Quarter horse that
he would occasionally let me ride. One hot summer afternoon, I slipped on the
bridle and hopped on bareback. I was king of the hill, strutting around old
Morgan like a real
cowboy. That sultry day I learned a big lesson about horses.
When you head back to the barn you better have control of your horse because it
wants to get there the fastest, shortest way possible. When he began to run I
thought, “Whoopee! This is great!” When I tried to slow him down, panic set in.
He didn’t slow down. He sped up, running through neighbors’ yards and gardens,
totally out of control. Approaching Grandpa’s property he leaped high over an
irrigation ditch launching me head over heels through the air. The back of my
head landed with a smack on the cement bridge entering the barnyard. My
grandparents found me on my back, out cold. When I came to, I was laying on my
grandparents’ couch. I couldn’t remember where I was or what had happened.
Those wonder filled
days on the farm are long gone, as is the farm, but the fond memories will last
forever!
