GRANDPA FRANCIS'S FARM

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!