Growing up Colored

Chapter 3 ? Country Living

Warning ! (The following story contains graphic depictions of life in rural Virginia)

I think by today?s standards, wemay have grown up on a farm. It wasn?t really a farm and we certainly would nothave admitted it back then, but the only thing we lacked was a barn and a herdof cows. And all we had to do to find those was cross the road, go between thebarbed wire fence that separated our property from our grandparent?s and we would be standingin our grandfather?s cow pasture. It never seemed like a cow pasture like Mr.Penn?s property because there didn?t seem to be the volume of manure everywherelike it was on his land. Grandma and Granddad had a beautiful place, especiallyin the spring, cool green grass that you could lie down on in the shade andimmediately fall asleep. And then there were the orchards, apples, pears, peaches, by the time we came up, most of the trees no longer existed, but there were at least 3 or 4 of each still there and we took avantage of them.I had found a place I kept all to myself up in their woods that hadgrass surrounded by thickets and once you crawled under those, it opened upinto a cool meadow. I had gotten mad at my mother one day, announced I wasrunning away from home, packed a knapsack and spent the better part of a day upin my secluded meadow. Finally, around dinnertime I got hungry and decided thatI had punished my parents enough and traipsed back home expecting them to comerushing out of the house glad to see me still alive and well, but no one seemedto notice I?d ever been gone?

	Photo/Stan Brown The "Old Homeplace", built in 1907 after a fire destroy the original structure. New home was relocated at the crest of the hill. The house was renovated in 1999 by Robert Brown and wife, Charlotte.

Just up at the top of the hill a bit off from mygrandparent?s house was a large barn that we, and the neighborhood kids spentmany a summer day jumping out of the hayloft. Well, honestly, I was the onlyone too small and scared to make the more than ten-foot jump. There was an artto making that leap (the ?land with your knees bent, fall forward and roll?technique), but I couldn?t muster up enough nerve to try it. While the olderboys (including Baby Ray) were going through the cycle of jumping, falling androlling, springing to their feet, proclaiming that they hadn?t been hurt,running back into the barn, climbing back up to the loft, then standing aroundthe next jumper, egging him on and expecting that he wouldn?t have the nerve todo it and then starting all over again. Well, while all this was going on, Iwas usually busy with other more important things like running about, waving myhands and arms frantically in the air trying to keep the barn swallows fromattacking me. If you have any experience in barns at all, you?ll know that theswallows are very protective of their young and will attack whenever anythinggets within 50 feet on their nest. My grandfather paid absolutely no attentionto their mock dive bomb attacks, because he knew it was just for show, veryseldom did one swoop down and actually make contact, but for some reason theyseemed especially attracted to me and well, ?Doink!? right on the noggin... Nowmy cousin Anna Ruth couldn?t go up to my grandparent?s house, because everytime she attempted to make the trip up the hill, she?d get right in the yardand then we?d see her scampering back down the hill as fast as lightening, she?dzing right by our house, not bothering to seek shelter behind us, as we stood outsidewatching all this transpire and then we found out why she was running so fast, right on her heels came ?Shep?, Grandma?s whiteGerman Shepard. For some unknown reason, Annie Ruth was not welcomed up thereby Shep. The dog loved us, but hated her. We?d end up going to get her and walkher up the hill to keep the dog off her, so she could visit Miss Lula as AnnaRuth called her.

??????????? We?d getour butter and milk from the man who lives up at the end of our road, Mr.Bowen. For about 50 cents a week, he?d bring whole milk, butter, buttermilk andeven sometimes eggs. Momma would look over the presentation with an experienced eye, deciding what was acceptable and what she wanted to turn down. And then the ?Fish Man? came on Fridays, some days thefish was fresher than others, but then there were the times when someone in theneighborhood would buy up a big batch and have a ?Fish Fry?. The fish fry was a lot like the ?Lawn Parties? weused to have from time to time in our front yard. Music would be blaring, therewas food for everyone. Lawn parties were free; usually fish fries meant someonewas trying to raise money, because you had to pay for the fish sandwiches. Theydon?t have those kinds of neighborhood parties around here anymore, I don?tknow if they have then anywhere anymore.

Except for the barn and the cattlewe had all the trappings of a working farm. Of course there were the chickens,the pigs, the vegetable garden and most times there was a dog somewhere underfoot. Our father would buy about 50 chicks in the spring and several pigletsand we?d raise them through the summer. The chickens roosted in one half of theshed and in the mornings we?d go out and collect the eggs that had been laidover night, clean them and place them in the refrigerator for breakfast thenext day. The other half of the shed was where we had our the canned vegetables and cured meats,anything from the garden that didn?t get canned would end up in the freezer on the back porch. The pigs had to be fattened up for the fallslaughter so we took turns slopping the hogs. This was a task that we alldreaded, but it had to be done. We kept a big five gallon bucket on the porchand whatever did not get eaten from the dinner table was scraped into thisbucket and saved for the hogs to eat (we kept this bucket covered). The pigswere fed twice or three times a day.? Wegave them corn and grain feed for breakfast and ?ze feast de resistance?, agood slopping in the evening. That full 5 gallon bucket was no treat to carryand deciding who?s turn it was to slop the hogs was a big sticking point eachday. But we took our turn because we knew we?d be rewarded later in the fallfor all our hard work. Unfortunately for us (me and Raymond), at some point intheir lives the male pigs came of age and something not unlike a bar mitzvahwas held for them, only without the pomp and circumstance. There was somethingabout the testicles, which if allowed to remain with the pig, would make themeat taste pungent and (for lack of a better word)? ?pissy?. So, I had to hold the hog while my father removed his testicles.? As little piggy was busy chomping away at thetrough (for this he got the best meal having no money could buy), while hismind was a million miles away, I grabbed hold of him around the neck and thendad got behind him, sprayed some disinfectant on his privates, took out therazor he?d probably used that morning to shave with and sliced and diced untilthe sack was devoid of any notables. The pig jumped and squealed for about 5seconds, my father sprayed something either to numb or to keep the infectionout and before you knew it the pig seemed to forget that he was now somewhatless of a man than when he began his day. I really can?t tell you what happenedto his ?family jewels?, but let?s just say it was snack time for his littlebrothers and sisters who eagerly watched the ceremony from the confines of themain pen.

Now feeding the chickens was noeasy task either, there was always at least one ?Banty? (Bantam) Rooster thatwas just as mean as could be and the moment one of us stepped out into thebackyard we?d get chased around in circles, yelling and screaming at the top ofour lungs. Once or twice we had some that were so bad that they would jump upon your back and commence to pecking you on the back of your head and wouldn?tget off until someone came out to the rescue. Oh, but we got even, whenever momdecided to have chicken for dinner, we were the ones who helped her pick outwhich one would be served up. And as soon as mom said he was big enough, wewould choose the one that gave us the most trouble out in the yard. The rooster didn't often get the blade, but if one got too tough to handle because of the constant attacks on the kids, then it was 'bye-bye birdie' for him. But pickinghim out was the easy part, someone had to chase him down and hold him. Usuallyit was mom who finally caught up with it and it was mom with the axe. We had achopping block always at the ready whenever an execution had to be performed.We anxiously stood waiting for what we knew would be the grand finale. With the disapprovingchicken in one hand and the axe in the other, momma would lay the chickenacross the chopping block and with one good WHACK! ?Off with his head!? andthen she?d let him go because he wasn?t dead yet. That chicken would take offrunning around the yard, bumping into things and the three or four of us wouldtake off trying to run away from the headless chicken to get the thrill ofbeing chased by him one last time. Then Mom would grab a foot tub (not the sametub we took our Saturday night baths in, mind you) and put on some scolding hotwater for the de-feathering and cleaning that was about to take place. As time went on and our household continued to grow, we would have to kill twochickens for a single setting. Somebody once said, ?Colonel Sanders might kill morechickens in a day, but Earlene can catch them quicker? ?Okay nobody said that,but she was fast out there, chasing after them yard bird. They don't raise anymore chicks at the house, now when I go visit there is only a yard full of cats.Mom doesn't cook as often as she used to, so I don't ask any questions when she does decide to cook a meal, but you know what they say: "taste just like chicken".?