The end of Crump, 1968
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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.
Environmentalists think they invented their principles and concepts just a few decades ago. I have news for them.
Folks called conservationists, with similar ideas, predated them by 100 years or more. Teddy Roosevelt was a famous conservationist. My dad was one, too.
In our little farming enterprise, we had well over 150 acres of trees. It killed Dad to cut the “pretty ones” even though we could have had a good cash crop from them every year. Although he was tough when it came to many things, including raising his kids, he was soft in many other ways.
January of 1968 opened with my grandfather, Poppy, in the hospital in Portsmouth suffering from a massive stroke. My mother went there several days at a time to be with him and help out. Since he was a widower with 10 adult children, in some ways the job was light (except it was her father who was dying). However, many of my mother’s brothers and sisters had already moved to Florida by that time, so there weren’t so many close to home.
These absences left Dad, my brother and me at home. I took on much of the cooking chores, although I didn’t like it. My cooking has always been an experiment, even to this day. I find the task boring and am always trying to spice it up. During this time, I remember making gravy one evening (don’t remember the rest of the meal) but Dad and my brother declared it to be wallpaper paste. Hmm.
At the time, I was a senior at Hillsboro High School, and in Mr. Kenny’s famous senior English class. This situation at home was during the weeks we were required to memorize the prelude to Milton’s "Paradise Lost." My brother sat on a chair beside the heating stove in the kitchen and would prompt me for lines as I cooked. After a night or two I nailed it.
I attempted to say it a couple of years ago at HHS’s class of 1968 50th reunion but flubbed it about halfway through. Still have a good chunk of it, though; and still remember when I first learned it.
It was very cold that January in 1968. Dad had moved the cattle (we had close to a 100 head by this time) to the freshly picked corn fields so they could glean what might be left. He was keeping an eye on Crump. She was about my age, 17 or 18 years old, but amazingly still produced a calf every year. Dad said she would never be sent to the slaughterhouse.
Crump was all skin and bones, and Dad had been hand feeding her ground corn every day. Her teeth were poor, and she was having lots of trouble with hay. So, when he took a load of hay to the cattle every day, he took along a bucket of ground corn and hand fed her. She was a far cry from the skittish cow of 1963-64.
Mother called one evening and told us Poppy had died. It was very cold that night about 10 below zero if I remember correctly. When Dad went to the cows the next morning, Crump had died, too. Dad got a load of dry firewood, stacked it around her, and shall we say, cremated her in situ? Another farmer may have forced her into a truck a few months earlier and gotten a few bucks for her, but Dad wouldn’t do it. He said she needed to finish her days on the land she loved.
The acorn does not fall far from the tree, they say. There are some issues and personalities I deal with in a tough manner. For other situations, I am a softie. The example for my life was set in Highland County in the years on the farms by a conservationist.
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.
Environmentalists think they invented their principles and concepts just a few decades ago. I have news for them.
Folks called conservationists, with similar ideas, predated them by 100 years or more. Teddy Roosevelt was a famous conservationist. My dad was one, too.
In our little farming enterprise, we had well over 150 acres of trees. It killed Dad to cut the “pretty ones” even though we could have had a good cash crop from them every year. Although he was tough when it came to many things, including raising his kids, he was soft in many other ways.
January of 1968 opened with my grandfather, Poppy, in the hospital in Portsmouth suffering from a massive stroke. My mother went there several days at a time to be with him and help out. Since he was a widower with 10 adult children, in some ways the job was light (except it was her father who was dying). However, many of my mother’s brothers and sisters had already moved to Florida by that time, so there weren’t so many close to home.
These absences left Dad, my brother and me at home. I took on much of the cooking chores, although I didn’t like it. My cooking has always been an experiment, even to this day. I find the task boring and am always trying to spice it up. During this time, I remember making gravy one evening (don’t remember the rest of the meal) but Dad and my brother declared it to be wallpaper paste. Hmm.
At the time, I was a senior at Hillsboro High School, and in Mr. Kenny’s famous senior English class. This situation at home was during the weeks we were required to memorize the prelude to Milton’s "Paradise Lost." My brother sat on a chair beside the heating stove in the kitchen and would prompt me for lines as I cooked. After a night or two I nailed it.
I attempted to say it a couple of years ago at HHS’s class of 1968 50th reunion but flubbed it about halfway through. Still have a good chunk of it, though; and still remember when I first learned it.
It was very cold that January in 1968. Dad had moved the cattle (we had close to a 100 head by this time) to the freshly picked corn fields so they could glean what might be left. He was keeping an eye on Crump. She was about my age, 17 or 18 years old, but amazingly still produced a calf every year. Dad said she would never be sent to the slaughterhouse.
Crump was all skin and bones, and Dad had been hand feeding her ground corn every day. Her teeth were poor, and she was having lots of trouble with hay. So, when he took a load of hay to the cattle every day, he took along a bucket of ground corn and hand fed her. She was a far cry from the skittish cow of 1963-64.
Mother called one evening and told us Poppy had died. It was very cold that night about 10 below zero if I remember correctly. When Dad went to the cows the next morning, Crump had died, too. Dad got a load of dry firewood, stacked it around her, and shall we say, cremated her in situ? Another farmer may have forced her into a truck a few months earlier and gotten a few bucks for her, but Dad wouldn’t do it. He said she needed to finish her days on the land she loved.
The acorn does not fall far from the tree, they say. There are some issues and personalities I deal with in a tough manner. For other situations, I am a softie. The example for my life was set in Highland County in the years on the farms by a conservationist.
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.