From the back seat of our old Chevrolet we yelled, "I saw it first! No, I saw it first! No you didn't, I saw grandpa's first!!"
Straining our eyes, we fought, fussed and feuded with each other about which one of us had first laid eyes on grandpa's farm. The argument always lasted until we made the last turn into the driveway and we were greeted by grandpa's dog frantically yipping for joy.
As the car door opened, Ole Shep, the happy farm dog, made his usual flying leap and landed in the middle of all five of us kids. The back seat turned into a face licking, tail wagging, farm dog, Howdy Do! But Ole Shep was only the first wave of the welcoming committee, for us, the worst was yet to come.
Once we wrestled the dog out of the car, we put on our coats and hung around pretending to hunt for missing gloves and lost sweater caps. Actually we were waiting for mom and dad to distract grandma who stood waiting on the back porch. Grandma had embarrassing grandmotherly ways. She was never satisfied until she could personally evaluate each of us. One at a time, she would take our faces in her gentle trembling hands and say in her little quivering voice, "Oh my child, how you've grown." This was always followed by an embarrassing kiss.
Satisfied that we were well and healthy, grandma let us go inside. The aroma of roasting turkey, sage dressing and pumpkin pie spilled out as we opened the door. Her kitchen was a noisy farmer's convention. A crowd of round aunts in checkered aprons and rotund uncles in bib-overalls stood around laughing loudly while reeking faintly from the morning's farm chores. Each took turns lifting us high into the air and turning round and round, marveling ... "My how you've grown, just look at you!"
The lifting session seemed to last forever, each of us obediently taking our turn in the stout arms of our red-faced farmer kin. The hullabaloo of reunion ended with my baby sister shrieking in terror because she was being held high in the air by some round-faced laughing stranger.
The newness of the arrival of the city folk soon wore off and we were allowed to get down to the business of joining our cousins and setting out to explore the farm.
Miles from the nearest town, my grandparent's place was a typical Ohio farm having a white two-story wooden house with a silver tin roof and arrow shaped lightning rods. A tall spindly-legged windmill water-pump towered over the place like a watch-tower in the middle of endless cornfields stretching to the horizon in every direction. Grandma surrounded her home with beds of Hollyhocks, Petunias and Four O'clocks. Hummingbirds and Barn Swallows were summer guests. Pigeons perched on the barn and roosted in the haymow when it was cold.
Out of smelling distance was a large chicken house and the barn. Nearer by stood the wheat granaries, corn cribs and machinery sheds. The out-buildings were clustered around the big white barn housing grandpa's milking parlor. Peanut, the star-faced pony, and Cricket, her colt, grazed in the barnyard.
However, our exploring would always be cut short when the homemade rolls were golden brown and all the cooks agreed that dinner was ready. Aunt Ginny, would stand on the porch and call, "It's ready kids, better git in here!"
The dining room table sagged under the weight of overflowing dishes. The table should have been a double-decker. The homegrown turkey was surrounded by deep bowls of candied yams, home-canned string beans and a mountain of mashed potatoes heavily streaked with real melted butter. Mincemeat pie and cranberry sauce waited on a nearby card table used for the overflow. The deserts, grandma's old-fashioned cream pie (made especially for me), Aunt Stella's checkered-fudge cake and Aunty Alice's hickory nut cake had to wait their turn until a place opened at the table.
Then came the awkward moment. Our aunt, the only religious person among us, whom we nick-named the, "The Guiding Light" would ask everyone to be quiet while she said grace. Following the amen, the feast began with a re-explaining of grandpa's strict rules. First, the children had to sit with their bellies touching the table, "Not being like old Bill Waddle who spilled food all over himself," and secondly ..."Once you're finished eating, you cannot return for any reason." Water was to be served only to those old enough not to spill it. These instructions were followed by grandma's tempering statement, "Now Walter, be nice." The meal began as grandpa picked up his fork.
After eating all we could possibly hold, the afternoon was spent riding Peanut the pony and playing farmer on grandpa's big green and yellow John Deere tractor. If we were lucky, toward evening, grandpa would take us with him to feed the hogs.
Grandpa kept his swine herd in a place called the thicket about half a mile from the house. At feeding time he would hook up the tractor to a large wooden sled loaded with dried corn on the cob. We rode on top of the pile as he towed the sled down the road to feed the animals. Our contribution was opening and closing the gates.
As evening wore on we wore out. It was a long drive so grandma wrapped leftovers in newspaper for the trip. After the usual argument over who got the special privilege of riding in the front seat, dad drove off, with us hanging out of the car windows waving goodbye. Bumping down the gravel lane, we passed the exhausted pony and turned onto the paved road heading home. The car rolled along quietly as the long shadows of day's end merged into a cold, starry, Ohio night. Looking over dad's shoulder, I imagined the green glow of the dash lights to be the inside on an airplane cockpit. We were flying home.
Eventually the warmth of the heater and the hum of the engine lulled us into a child's innocent sleep. It was November 1951 and another Thanksgiving had come and gone. Life was good when you were just ten years old.

Blessings in your study of God's Word!

Marvin Hunt

There is never a charge for my articles, and if you have a good reason, there is no limit to how many you may request. However, if you find them valuable you may want to order my latest book, History, Mystery and Facts About the Bible. Order at 1-800-845-7618 (ext. 301). You may also order from Amazon.com. Proceeds from the book go to support this ministry.

Blessings!
Marvin Hunt

Http://www.biblehistory.com

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