I write this blog for various reasons. Sometimes I like to rant, sometimes I like to reminisce. Today is one of those reminiscing days. You may not be interested in my childhood memories, you may have already clicked away, or you may be rolling your eyes and thinking “this guy is really weird”. I won’t dispute that last, but I will tell you why I am writing this story today. I have found as I get older that certain childhood memories have faded, and others are gone. I have found that on occasion, something will go click in my head and resurrect an old child hood memory. I have decided when these resurrections are about a particular fond event, I will document the memory in this blog and share with any who care to read it. This way, when the time comes that I can no longer relate these experiences, they will still be available for others, should they be interested. That being said, here is the story of “The Farm”
When I was a boy probably around seven or eight, my older sister and I had the opportunity to spend a week or two, for several years running, on a small farm. This farm was owned by my Mother’s best friend . I believe the farm was somewhere in the vicinity of Loveland, Ohio. I think the farm actually had a name, but that name eludes me, as does a lot of the memory of the place. But I clearly remember the farm-house as having a rustic kitchen with a lot of hardwood paneling, pegs on the wall, and curios on shelves and hanging from the pegs. They probably even had gingham curtains in the kitchen windows, but I cannot say for sure. Maybe my sister, who is not only older, but is smarter than I, can fill in some of the blanks. I have strong memories of her and I hanging out in the barn, wandering in the fields and pastures, and most importantly of all, hanging out with the two horses that lived on that farm. The horses were more like pets than just horses. They would follow us around (probably because we would frequently give them apples), At the time we were too young to saddle up and ride without adult supervision, so normally the horses were just tag-along companions.
This memory stays with me for various reasons, but probably the most significant reason is that one of the horses was named Dammit. Dammit was somewhat high-spirited and I do not believe we were ever permitted to ride him (or her). The name of the other horse, which was gentler, eludes me. I do remember that the gentler horse was a Tennessee Walking Horse. As a boy of seven or eight, I was enthralled by the idea that I could say dammit anytime I wanted to, as long as I was addressing or speaking of the horse. At the age of seven, the idea of being able to use a cuss word with impunity was something of a rarity. You have to remember, this was in the early 1950’s and the use of profanity by children, or even by adults in the presence of children, was considered in very poor taste. Back then profanity was not heard on television, in popular songs, and rarely spoken by a woman. It was truly simpler times. But I spoke of the horse, and I addressed the horse by his proper name, as often as possible. The only other memory I have of the farm is that they owned a dog named Mike . . . or was that her husband’s name?
Those are my thoughts, what are yours.
Thank you for patronizing the Townehouse Phoenix blog. I encourage you to use the comment form below. If you enjoy the Townehouse Phoenix, please consider subscribing. There is no charge to subscribe, and you will receive notices of each new blog article by email.