It is strange how old photographs bring back memories. This picture taken by me sometime in 1934 shows Dad near the end of his farming career. He did stay on the farm another ten years, but it was a fight for survival. The fig grove in the background was a blessing. Year after year it produced baskets of tasty figs. Mom would put up jar upon jar of fig preserves laced with walnuts. Many of my school lunches contained fig preserve sandwiches. Once, a severe winter killed the fig trees down to the stump, but they recovered in a year or two and produced again. I have talked quite extensively about Dad and our life together on a previous page. Here.
Dad is shown wearing a tailor made suit, made some years prior by Earle Pike. I can remember Dad and Earle going over bolt after bolt of woolen cloth to make a fabric selection. Earle Pike, and his wife, Fanny, had a nice two story home in downtown Norfolk on Olney Road, just west of Duke Street. They were good friends of many years, and when I was selling produce on market street, I would occasionally spend a night at the Pikes' and walk down to the market early in the morning. Earle and Fanny would visit us on Sundays, and once he entertained me by hanging by his toes from the limb of a walnut tree in our front yard. At another time, he brought me my first pocket knife which I thought was just the grandest thing.
Our chicken yard was just down hill from the fig grove. Growing in the chicken yard were a cornucopia of things to eat. Our Scuppernong grape arbor was a delight in the fall of the year. The vines were draped over a framework of cedar poles surmounted with joists. In the fall, we could walk under the vines and pick the big golden brown grapes, or small children could climb on top of the arbor and pick the grapes from above. The Shumadine children were always glad to stop by after school on their way home and get a tasty treat. Scuppernong grapes grow large and do not hang in bunches. They are thick skinned and when eaten, you just pop them with your teeth and suck the sweet juice from the grape and then spit out the skins.
Farm kids can find joy in the simplest things. We had a large apple tree at the far end of the chicken yard. It produced a bountiful crop of apples most every year. When the apples were of golf ball size, we used them as missiles. We would impale them on the end of a whip fashioned from a four foot long apple branch and propel them great distances with a snap of the whip. The tree was prolific, and we left many apples to mature to be enjoyed at a later date.
We had three nice paper shell pecan trees in the chicken yard. They did not bear particularly well, and so we appreciated what they did yield. One day while Dad was examining the trees, he was stung by a large wooly caterpillar. I can remember how much it hurt him and how he complained. There was much ado about this incident. Since then I have learned that caterpillar stages of moths often have spines with barbed hooks. Generally, these are for show and are quite harmless. But there are a few stinging caterpillars of various shapes, sizes, and colors. Stinging caterpillars possess hollow quill-like hairs, connected to poison sacs giving them defensive weapons. When these hairs are touched they break through the skin releasing the poison. Reactions can range from mild itching to more severe pain. Now I know why dad complained so.
Who would expect rose bushes in a chicken yard? But, we did have some nice rose bushes that enjoyed a symbiotic relationship with the chickens. One rose bush grew adjacent to our backhouse. In season its fragrance provided some welcome abatement of the odor from the outdoor privy. Mother was particularly fond of the Red Radiance. It was a beautiful rose, and I can see now see the delight in her eyes as she cut and displayed the flowers. On memorial day, Mom used to sell roses and other flowers to the colored folks who wished to decorate the graves of loved ones.
A giant sycamore tree stood at the marsh's edge in the chicken yard. For many years it flourished, and it's splotched white limbs glistened in the moonlight. The hoot owls liked to perch in the tree at night, scouring the fertile landscape with their penetrating eyes. Aunt Mary, my part time Nanny, was fretful when she heard the owl's eerie hoot, and she cautioned me that in order to escape pending trouble, I should "spit in my left shoe and place it under the bed." If you want to read more about Aunt Mary, click here.But, I digress from the sycamore.
A strong Northeaster blew in and the ground became sodden from the prolonged rain. The roots loosened, the wind gusts were severe, and the lovely sycamore fell. Innocent and inexperienced, I thought the fallen tree would make good firewood, and I set about with saw and axe. While green, it sawed easily, but the real work was yet to come. I got my first surprise when I began splitting the sawn blocks. With the heavy splitting axe, I gave the upended block a mighty wallop. The axe bounced back to my face. Take it from me, don't ever try to split sweet gum or sycamore for firewood. It just isn't worth the trouble. Another surprise for me, the sycamore stump sent forth vigorous sprouts that grew into small trees in just three or four years. Life is certainly a learning process.
While still a child, I loved to roam the woods and the fallow land to catch glimpses of rabbits, possums, and coons. Rabbits were quite plentiful, and occasionally Dad would harvest one for the table. I had heard of rabbit boxes, and asked Dad to make me one. And he did. He fashioned an elongated box just large enough for a rabbit to enter. On the front end, he made a sliding door that lifted like a guillotine. The door was suspended by a string attached to an overhead pivot bar. A string at the back end of the pivot bar entered the rear of the box and connected to a trigger where a tempting piece of carrot was placed. The hungry rabbit would investigate the box, smell the food source and enter. When he nudged the trigger, it would release and allow the door to drop, thus trapping the rabbit. I placed the box in a desirable location at the far end of the chicken yard. For several mornings, filled with expectation, I would arise early and check the box. One morning with a cry of joy I found the box door was down. I had trapped my hapless victim. It made an impression that has lasted nearly eighty years. Dad did many things to humor me, and I took them for granted. I wish I could say 'Thanks' now.
A large cedar grew in the lower part of the chicken yard. It grew there unmolested until a 15 year old boy had a grand idea. This was at the time when I entertained being a farmer for life and doing great things. I had studied agriculture and shop in high school and was intent on improving the farm property. Our gate to the barnyard had loosening and was dragging after long years of usage. I decided to build a new gate that would never drag. I built the gate of six inch cypress boards and crossed the structure with a long diagonal board that spanned from the lower outer corner to the upper end of the hinged side of the gate. The gate was rigid and sturdy. What I needed then was a fitting gatepost. Watch out cedar tree, you are just what I need. With Julian Ross's help, I cut a nine foot section of the trunk, and with axe and adz squared it to about 12" square. It was a huge gatepost, just what I wanted. Cedar lasts a very long time in the ground. With Ross's help we moved the post on the wheelbarrow to the barnyard. See here for a picture of the wheelbarrow Dad made. We sank the post deep and guyed it with twisted wire. When the job was complete, I could ride the gate to and fro without any suggestion of sag.
When I was around eight or nine years old, I read the little ads in the back of farm magazines which said that a fortune could be made by selling chinchilla fur. The ads were so convincing to my young mind, that I just had to try it. I pestered my Dad week after week to help me get started. I even found a schoolmate at Kempsville grammar school who would sell me a pair of young chinchillas. That was the final urge that Dad needed. He broke down and constructed a dandy rabbit hutch for me. The floor was waist high and a portion of it was covered with wire mesh for obvious reasons. It had two swinging doors with the openings covered with hardware cloth so the rabbits were visible at all times. Dad drove me to Paul McKown's (my schoolmate) , and I selected two beautiful bunnies with luxurious soft thick fur. Dad taught me how to gather broadleaf plantain and crimson clover to feed them. I cared for them day after day and watched them grow with great expectations. But nothing happened, they did not give birth to a brood of little bunnies. Alas! Dad did a little close inspection and determined I had two female rabbits. Maybe it was just as well. My ardor had waned after six months of gathering grass and cleaning cages. And, besides, I could have never killed and skinned these precious animals.
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