SOME CALLED IT THE POOR FARM- I CALLED IT THE COUNTY FARM ..

“I don’t remember what it was I  said one day. I must confess, from a very young age I was prone to say things without thinking. Whatever it was, it offended (her).  I was banished from the farm for a year when I was twelve.”

I don’t remember what it was I said that day. I must confess, from a very young age I was prone to say things without thinking. Whatever it was, it offended her. I was banished from the County Farm for a year when I was twelve.

What a wonderful lady! Mrs. Kelly and her husband and family came to be caretakers of the farm which was across the street from my childhood home.

Me, my tricycle and our clothesline with the County Farm in the background.

Concerning clotheslines….Your clothes to be ironed will be much easier to deal with if you hang them all on one clothesline.( Installing your clothes posts so you are getting a strong West wind will also be helpful.) When your clothes are dry, you can sprinkle them with a garden hose all at the same time. As you remove them from the clothesline, you can roll each one up in preparation for later ironing. If you cannot iron within a day or two, place them in the freezer

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I was young when the Kelly family came to live in our neighborhood. I adored the majestic old buildings easily seen from our front yard. The house was a very large, very old two story building in which elderly folks who couldn’t afford a home came to live.

Some townspeople called it the Poor Farm. But to me, it was never poor. It always displayed a dignity which deserved the regal title, “County Farm”.

When I was very young and began my visits to the Farm, there were seven people living there. A section of the large house was set aside for their comfort. Mrs.Kelly cooked the meals for the residents. One of the more able ladies, whose name was “Rilla”, helped with the table settings on the long dinner table in their special dining room.

Rilla always turned the plates at each place upside down when setting the table before each meal. First the plate, then the cup was placed upside down on top of the plate. Mother wasn’t happy when I tried to set the table at home in the same style. It seemed quite picturesque to me. I could never understand Mother’s disdain for it.

On the front side of the house, which I passed on my way to visit Mrs. Kelly, there was a porch. The older ladies often sat there in rocking chairs, watching the world (and me) go by. On one such occasion, I noticed one lady had a newspaper spread out across her stomach as she sat quietly in her chair. I asked her why she had the paper placed there and she said, “It’s to keep my bowels warm.” Now that’s a remedy I would never have thought of on my own.

The Kelly family had a grown son and daughter pursuing careers in far off parts of the country. Their youngest daughter, Jeanne, still lived at home and was soon to graduate from high school.

I don’t remember what it was I said one day, I must confess. But from a very young age I was prone to say things without thinking. Whatever it was I said, it offended Mrs. Kelly. I was banished from visits to the farm for a year when I was twelve.

It was to be a lifelong lesson. Be careful what you say. Be aware, if you can, of how the other person may be receiving your words. For the next year I didn’t follow my favorite path to the County Farm. At thirteen, I ventured a return. No ill feelings were shown toward me by Mrs. Kelly. Our friendship continued.

Many times, I watched Mrs. Kelly kneading a very large pan of dough in the County Farm kitchen.

Her homemade bread was wonderful. I now bake my own bread and would never be able to knead such an enormous amount of dough at one time. My recipe dictates kneading the dough for ten minutes. I’m sometimes able to stay with it until five minutes have passed. Mrs. Kelly would no doubt suggest to me that the bread would be finer if I followed directions.

When visiting at just the right time, the aroma of her baking bread greeted me near the kitchen door. Not far behind me, there were bread customers waiting to purchase a wonderful loaf of Mrs. Kelly’s homemade bread. As I recall, she charged $1.00 a loaf.

Mrs. Kelly’s long gray hair was always braided and carefully wrapped around her head. She never walked anywhere slowly. Always on the move, she hurried to get things done. The kitchen and her family’s living quarters were always neat. The dishes were done; everything in place. In the pantry next to the kitchen,always sat a basket of eggs waiting for customers who wished to purchase the freshest eggs in town. Sometimes, Mrs. Kelly allowed me to go the chicken coop with her to gather the eggs. I loved it.

I once observed Mrs. Kelly preparing a bountiful meal for the eight men who had come to help Mr. Kelly with the threshing. Never have I seen nor smelled such a wonderful array of food. I remember the table and men filling their plates again and again. No one ever left Mrs. Kelly’s dinner table hungry.

As years went by, Mrs. Kelly and I became closer friends.

When I graduated from high school near the top of my class, as had her own son and daughters, Mrs. Kelly invited me into the room where graduation pictures of her children were displayed on an old upright piano. She was very proud of her children. She had displayed my graduation picture next to those of her children. This was her way of showing how much she cared for me and was proud of my achievements too. There couldn’t have been any clearer proof.

After high school, I became employed in the same town in which I had grown to adulthood. Mr. & Mrs. Kelly still lived at the County Farm. Arranging to arrive for work a half hour early, I could spend time visiting with Mrs. Kelly in the County Farm kitchen. She was often baking bread for her special customers. The aroma of those wonderful baking loaves greeted me as I left my car to approach the kitchen door.

A few years later, I married and moved to a neighboring town. Opportunities to visit Mrs. Kelly were few. I often felt lonely and sad without friends I’d left behind in my home town. It was easy, as always, to share my feelings with Mrs. Kelly. She offered me the understanding of a caring friend.

After the birth of our first child in the hospital in my former home town, Mrs. Kelly came to visit me. That is the only occasion on which I ever saw Mrs. Kelly outside the walls of her home at the County Farm.

Putting her hand on my arm as she stood near my bed, she said; “Now you’ll never be lonely again.” I needed to hear that.

Time passed.

One day, while I was visiting in my former hometown, I decided to go to spend time with Mrs. Kelly. She wasn’t home. I was told she was in the hospital. Going directly to the hospital, I sat down in the waiting room. Just then, Mr. Kelly came through the inner door. He was crying. I was informed by the nurse, Mrs. Kelly had suddenly gone into cardiac arrest, and died.

Our times together had ended, but my memories of Mrs. Kelly remain in my heart.

HE CARED ENOUGH TO SEND THE VERY BEST..

Knowledge of her presence has allowed us to face the seemingly insurmountable challenges of life…

IN THE BEGINNING…

Musings Newspaper Heading (1)

“When I was young”..hmm..how I dislike the phrase. I “am” as young as I think I am. So much for my feelings on the subject. When I was a young HOMEMAKER,  27 to be exact, I had an opportunity for two and a half years to write a column in our weekly newspaper.  (The Houghton Lake Resorter) The friendly editor was kind enough to give me a by-line, MUSINGS OF A HOMEMAKER.

The little picture at the top was always placed above  my weekly offerings.

 I wasn’t sure what a by-line was at the time. It was nice of him to offer it to me.  I was told I could write on any subject.  People were invited, by me, to share favorite recipes to be printed at the base of my column. It’s so much fun to look back on those articles realizing where my thinking was in my late twenties. The years were 1962-1964 and  a few in 1965 before I ended my newspaper career.

Perhaps you will enjoy reminiscing about my HOMEMAKER years with me. If you do, please let me know.

1964

He Cared Enough To Send The Very Best

One day each year is not often enough to proclaim the affection and love we hold

for the one whose apron strings we liked to be tied.

Mother!

We can never repay her, nor does she expect us to, for the hours of love, labor and devotion so happily bestowed upon our little heads.

How many times have childhood cares of monumental stature, been patiently reduced to a size easily handled with the love of our thoughtful and caring Mother?

“Mother is here.”

 Knowledge of her presence has allowed us to face the seemingly insurmountable challenges of life, growing up and learning to give. One day we will find a new and different kind of love.  Mother’s love will carry us through many more of life’s challenges and decisions.

From diapers to dates, it’s mother to whom we turn for loving advice.

  Marriage and family may renew our impressions of mother.  She always cared and always loved.  How did she manage?

Ever changing times have altered the role of motherhood.

  The mother who works outside the home still manages, loves, and cares for her family.

When all is said and done, whether or not she works inside or outside the home,

Mother finds a way to be there for us when needed.

Whether she is young and vigorous or silver haired and content,

she’s Mother and we’re pleased that when He sent our Mother,

He cared enough to send the very best.

Reminiscing

2018

I never saw her angry.  My mother was a pleasant woman, a nurse by profession. 

She cared as much for her patients as she did for her family.  I don’t remember ever hearing her talking about anyone in a negative way.  Everyone was her friend and to this day, many who remember her do so with love in their hearts.

Mother died thirty years ago.

Never a day goes by that I don’t think of something she said to me or shared with me.  She cared for my sister and me and our Dad just as she did her patients, with love.

When I was seventeen, our family moved away from the home in which I was raised. We settled in a town thirty miles away. (Houghton Lake, Michigan)  I was crushed. I had attended school from kindergarten through the eleventh grade in my home town. Now I wouldn’t be able to graduate from that same school with my friends and my memories.

Mother decided to seek employment as nurse in a doctor’s office in our former town. That allowed me to finish school and graduate from there. It didn’t impress me at the time, but my parents had to pay a tuition in order for me to continue my schooling there. I learned, in later years, the price was $200 for that year. (Calculating to $1,888 in 2018). Two hundred dollars doesn’t seem like much in these times, but calculating the difference in the value of money now,  it was quite a bit then.

Mother and I drove the miles back and forth every day until I ended my school years at graduation. The uninterrupted time we spent together in the car and the chance to visit with each other alone, offered a special opportunity to share which we would never have known.

The passing years now filled with memories will live forever.

We don’t often think about the hours of love and hope and caring which our mother shares with us.

I was truly blessed to have a mother like mine.

copyright©2018

 memoriesaremadefromthis.com

Mary Anne Whitchurch Tuck

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. (John Lennon)

 

THE SHEPHERD CALLED THEM HOME

   The OLD SHEPHERD’S Barn

 

 The quaint old man in knee high boots prepared to call them in.  

“Get behind the barn,” he said. “If they see you they won’t come.”

“How many sheep?” I asked.  “‘Bout 300, lambs ‘n all.” 

  Now, gesturing toward distant field, no movement was revealed.

Obligingly, I took my place behind the aging barn.  Waiting, watching as I hid, chuckling as I did his bidding.

Toward a crumbling fence he moved upon a trampled path. Now he stood near leaning gate and I began my wait.

With steady steps, he walked and called.

No words escaped his weathered lips, just eerie, high toned wailing sounds known only to his flock.

Behind the barn and waiting,

I peeked toward leaning gate.  All I saw were rolling fields.

He stood alone to wait.

Suddenly a far off hill was filled with moving masses; now out of sight, no movement seen.

 A quiet moment passes.

Another hill and nearer now, all racing through the fields toward Him. There, he waited, calm and still.  His presence did not yield.

Three hundred creatures fell in line behind the One whose voice they knew.  Now through the gate, into the fold, safe at last.

The Shepherd brought them home.

“My sheep listen to my voice;I know them, and they follow me.”

(John 10:27)

 

copyright©2019

Photography by Mary Anne Whitchurch Tuck

Mr. Bischoff’s Sheep

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