Except for an occasional emergency those first days now seem slightly hazy and blurred. Soon we were physically bone tired and more or less in a state of shock, but imbued with the will to learn, survive and succeed. We slogged along in desperation, keeping a stiff upper lip. After a week we were alone and assuming full responsibility. We learned to distinguish between the various cows, both in appearance and temperament. We came to know that with care, attention and consideration, all animals show a tremendous amount of intelligence. They respond almost in direct ratio to the way they are treated. A milk hauler arrived early each morning to pick up the milk and we made a point of having it ready and waiting. With our purchase we had inherited fifteen milk cows, four heifers, two young calves, a bull, a team of horses, a sow, about fifty lying hens and a rooster. In addition to this there were some pieces of obsolete machinery, all horse-drawn, old and having seen much better days.
The herd was not purebred and consisted of some holsteins, guernseys, jerseys and one ayrshire. It took several years of intensive breeding and culling before we had achieved an entirely black and white holstein herd. The horses were a team of dappled grays, spirited, quite old and very willing. The Percheron mare was called Maude and the horse Ted. For some unknown reason the mare took an instant dislike to me. Every chance she got, when I passed in front of her she lunged forward, teeth exposed and literally attempted to remove her pound of flesh. Her erratic meanness to Al also showed up periodically when he entered her stall to harness or rub her down, and she would deliberately step on his feet.
The flock of laying hens was immediately turned over to me, lock, stock and rooster. My husband informed me that he had never been interested in chickens, didn’t like any part of them and would be much too busy with his dairy enterprise to even discuss them. Looking back I realize that I had a colorful flock: No white leghorns at all but almost all of the heavy breeds were well represented. Plymouth Rocks, Barred Rocks, Rhode Island Reds, Buff Orpingtons—a heterogeneous collection—with the proud, beautifully feathered rooster strutting, preening, crowing and fluffing his plumage, so that all could see that he was indeed Cock of the Walk. I continued with a small farm flock for about six years. After the first year I bought day-old, unsexed chicks from a hatchery and raised them in an inexpensive brooder equipped with a high-wattage electric bulb. As they grew and developed we culled and ate the roosters and raised the pullets for laying.
Any squeamishness I may have thought I would feel when called upon to catch, kill and dress a broiler and then cook and eat it, was quickly and completely dispelled because of necessity. I can state unequivocally that those who have not had the opportunity of indulging in a feast of chicken, properly fed, freshly killed, chilled and fried in butter, cannot know the difference that exists in taste and delightful aroma. This also holds true for the freshly laid egg, which when poached or fried stands up high and round, with the white albumin thick and narrowly encircling the golden yolk.
I found that I had a very hectic and busy schedule with all of the outside work, helping with the barn chores night and morning, washing and caring for the milking utensils and milk house, learning to run a house with no modern appliances or conveniences, trying to plan intelligently and not to worry unnecessarily. My better judgment told me that the outside work must come first inasmuch as we had no other income, and we were now stuck with farming come what may. So I flew at the housework with a burst of energy and tried quickly and with no expense to create a home, to try to ignore the lack of important things that were missing and to arrange and utilize what we had brought with us as attractively and comfortably as possible. The things that I couldn’t change for the present I contrived to camouflage and with a little ingenuity and daring some of the less attractive aspects took on a rustic and original effect that lent itself to the charm of the old house.
It was while perched atop a step-ladder one day, attempting to put up curtain rods in the living room that I became fully aware of the windows. Each one contained twelve large panes of glass. The frame was trimmed by a wide, ornate molding which gave a massive, formal note to the long windows. Beneath each window and reaching to the floor was solid decorative wooden paneling. A shaft of golden, late-afternoon sunlight suddenly illuminated the window upon which I was working, and my eyes lighted upon my first glimpse of a pane of original century-old glass. Here before me in all beauty was the shimmering, rippled, uneven pane, with a slightly iridescent hue and with the one small flaw appearing as a tiny, elongated bubble. This glass had withstood the vagaries of nature and humans for almost one hundred years. I found that there were many such panes in the other windows in the house, and from that day forward I tried to be alert to the things of the past that surrounded me, that only required being noticed to be appreciated. As I continued with my work my thoughts turned to the architect, builder and original owner of this home and I realized that it was the work of artisans who took a pride in their endeavors.