All hat, no cattle, 1964
Lead Summary
By
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By Jim Thompson
HCP columnist
(Special note: This columnist is taking a break from voicing his opinion on contemporary topics until he once again feels it is safe to exercise his First Amendment rights.)
As I have mentioned before, we moved to the Beaver Farm, about three miles east of Marshall on S.R. 506 in January 1963.
It was a beautiful farm in those days, with about 100 acres of pasture straddling Franklin Branch.
Mr. Beaver had raised cattle. After his passing in 1962, the cattle had been rounded up and sold in preparation for selling the farm. Except three were left: Old Crump and two of her offspring, Blackie and Red. They were too wild to be caught. With these three, we would start our herd.
That summer, while Dad was away working in Troy during the week, after supper, Mother would go down to the hill behind the barn that overlooked Franklin Branch and the beautiful bottomlands of the pasture. She would sit out there and call the cows.
Usually, they were hiding in the maple woods that bordered the Head farm to our east; but eventually, they came out and were no longer skittish. I was impressed with her efforts.
Mrs. Beaver had left a few things when she moved to the new house she had built in Cynthiana (she was the principal of the school there).
One of the things she had left was an old black felt hat, which I presume had belonged to Mr. Beaver. It had the brim pinned up on one side, sort of like those old pictures you see of Teddy Roosevelt or perhaps the uniform hat you see on Aussie soldiers. I wore it around the farm most of the summer.
We wanted more cattle, but funds were short, and it was expensive to build up the herd. Along the next winter, I am going to guess perhaps January or February of 1964, we went to an auction where a few beef cattle were to be sold.
I suspect I could find the place again; it was in the southwestern part of Highland County. We bought a mature beef cow and a 2-year-old heifer, both pregnant.
We made arrangements to get them to our farm with a gentleman who, in those days, lived in Hillsboro and hauled livestock for a living. He couldn’t get to this farm to pick up the cattle until later so it was decided I would stay, wait for him (because he did not know how to get to our farm) and my dad and brother would go home.
It had been one of those dreary, dark, rainy winter days like one often sees in Highland County (if you can’t get enough of those, watch “Hoosiers” – the southern Indiana winters are just the same).
The elderly folks who lived in the house invited me in to stay warm. They were getting up in years and were moving in with other family in the neighborhood, which was the whole reason for the auction in the first place.
They directed me to the living room and a chair behind a nice, warm wood-fired stove. The grandmotherly lady offered me a cup of hot chocolate. I was sitting there minding my own business when some other people came in.
A daughter and granddaughter.
I could hear them talking in the kitchen. The granddaughter said she was cold, and they suggested she come into the living room where I was while she waited for her date (!) to pick her up.
I am minding my own business, when this creature glided in. For the sake of my current marriage and all the ladies I know to this day, I will make the following statement: Up to that point in time, this girl, not much if any older than me, was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Long strawberry blond hair dressed nicely but not overdone, I about passed out.
Being shy, I never said a word to her.
I sat there, conscious of my dirty farm clothes, conscious of my week-old bath (it was Saturday night, but not bath time yet), conscious of my muddy clodhoppers. I was embarrassed, mortified and likely, red as a beet.
I had not been around girls much and never in such a private setting.
These days, I dream a lot, and people from various times in my life show up in my dreams. Once in a while, SHE does, but now I have the nerve to wave at her across the room – and she smiles and waves back.
Jim Thompson, formerly of Marshall, is a graduate of Hillsboro High School and the University of Cincinnati. He resides in Duluth, Ga. and is a columnist for The Highland County Press. He may be reached at jthompson@taii.com.
HCP columnist
(Special note: This columnist is taking a break from voicing his opinion on contemporary topics until he once again feels it is safe to exercise his First Amendment rights.)
As I have mentioned before, we moved to the Beaver Farm, about three miles east of Marshall on S.R. 506 in January 1963.
It was a beautiful farm in those days, with about 100 acres of pasture straddling Franklin Branch.
Mr. Beaver had raised cattle. After his passing in 1962, the cattle had been rounded up and sold in preparation for selling the farm. Except three were left: Old Crump and two of her offspring, Blackie and Red. They were too wild to be caught. With these three, we would start our herd.
That summer, while Dad was away working in Troy during the week, after supper, Mother would go down to the hill behind the barn that overlooked Franklin Branch and the beautiful bottomlands of the pasture. She would sit out there and call the cows.
Usually, they were hiding in the maple woods that bordered the Head farm to our east; but eventually, they came out and were no longer skittish. I was impressed with her efforts.
Mrs. Beaver had left a few things when she moved to the new house she had built in Cynthiana (she was the principal of the school there).
One of the things she had left was an old black felt hat, which I presume had belonged to Mr. Beaver. It had the brim pinned up on one side, sort of like those old pictures you see of Teddy Roosevelt or perhaps the uniform hat you see on Aussie soldiers. I wore it around the farm most of the summer.
We wanted more cattle, but funds were short, and it was expensive to build up the herd. Along the next winter, I am going to guess perhaps January or February of 1964, we went to an auction where a few beef cattle were to be sold.
I suspect I could find the place again; it was in the southwestern part of Highland County. We bought a mature beef cow and a 2-year-old heifer, both pregnant.
We made arrangements to get them to our farm with a gentleman who, in those days, lived in Hillsboro and hauled livestock for a living. He couldn’t get to this farm to pick up the cattle until later so it was decided I would stay, wait for him (because he did not know how to get to our farm) and my dad and brother would go home.
It had been one of those dreary, dark, rainy winter days like one often sees in Highland County (if you can’t get enough of those, watch “Hoosiers” – the southern Indiana winters are just the same).
The elderly folks who lived in the house invited me in to stay warm. They were getting up in years and were moving in with other family in the neighborhood, which was the whole reason for the auction in the first place.
They directed me to the living room and a chair behind a nice, warm wood-fired stove. The grandmotherly lady offered me a cup of hot chocolate. I was sitting there minding my own business when some other people came in.
A daughter and granddaughter.
I could hear them talking in the kitchen. The granddaughter said she was cold, and they suggested she come into the living room where I was while she waited for her date (!) to pick her up.
I am minding my own business, when this creature glided in. For the sake of my current marriage and all the ladies I know to this day, I will make the following statement: Up to that point in time, this girl, not much if any older than me, was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Long strawberry blond hair dressed nicely but not overdone, I about passed out.
Being shy, I never said a word to her.
I sat there, conscious of my dirty farm clothes, conscious of my week-old bath (it was Saturday night, but not bath time yet), conscious of my muddy clodhoppers. I was embarrassed, mortified and likely, red as a beet.
I had not been around girls much and never in such a private setting.
These days, I dream a lot, and people from various times in my life show up in my dreams. Once in a while, SHE does, but now I have the nerve to wave at her across the room – and she smiles and waves back.
Jim Thompson, formerly of Marshall, is a graduate of Hillsboro High School and the University of Cincinnati. He resides in Duluth, Ga. and is a columnist for The Highland County Press. He may be reached at jthompson@taii.com.