Spring Planting

SPRING  PLANTING“Ter-r-r-y. Time to get up! Got a lot of work to do today.” Even though my alarm ensured I was always awake when he called, I would lie there and wait for his call from the bottom of the stairs. Although still dark, robins were singing, and a light rain was leaving streaks of moisture on my window, reflected by the pole light that Dad had just turned on outside. The cows would be wet this morning, and unpleasant to milk.

Spring always came in spurts as though unsure of its welcome. I hated the arrival of spring – but only for a little while. It was a time when frozen barnyards, fields and lanes gave way to ankle deep mud. In a few short weeks though, the soil firmed up and the whole countryside smelled of green grass, emerging foliage and gentle April rains.

It was a time of the year looked forward to by our 100 or so leghorn hens. After being cooped up all winter indoors, they were now free to wander around outside, scouring the yard for emerging earthworms and whatever else dared peek its head out from winter hiding. With no dearth of natural food within the 10 or 15 acres they normally ventured around, it always came as a bit of surprise there was no corresponding drop in prepared food requirements. They still seemed to require their pail of laying mash in the morning and an equal amount of whole oats in the evening. If we were late by just a few minutes, a scouting party consisting of a dozen or so hens maintained a determined vigil near our doorstep until one of us appeared. As though these scouts had some kind of unexplained ability to communicate, a blur of hens’ legs could be seen surging from all directions toward the henhouse when they were but mere specks in the distance. Within moments close to a hundred hens would follow the swinging pail of feed as it made its way to the henhouse.

Livestock were out on pasture now and there would be fewer stables to clean. The very first ritual cows performed when turned out on pasture was to follow the perimeter of the fence to verify the extent of their new fields. It was crucial, therefore, that fences which had sagged over winter or became damaged by fallen trees be repaired.

There were essentially three different styles of fences – barbed wire, page wire and my personal favourite, the split rail fence. Anyone with half a wit could erect a barbed wire fence, and to a certain extent, a page wire fence. But it took a craftsman with years of experience under his belt to build a rail fence, and keep it in good repair. Rails were generally of white cedar, although red cedar rails, and even ash, while much heavier, were not uncommon.

The rails used in these fences must have been split from raw materials centuries ago as I never knew anyone around our area who actually made rails when needed. Rails always seemed to be around somewhere, either procured from a fence no longer needed and reincarnated as a new fence, or purchased from a neighbour who had them stockpiled in some remote section of the farm.

Rail fences also came in three basic styles. There was the old-fashioned snake fence, self-supporting and constructed centuries ago in a zig-zag fashion across fields before the invention of fencing wire to secure the rails together.

Most commonly constructed and still standing tall after decades of use were the rail fences built in a cradle fashion with crossed stakes acting as a support for the main body of the fence. These were especially useful on those fields where lack of soil prevented a post from being buried in the ground. Fences supported by buried posts were far neater and more space efficient, but were possible only where deep soil prevailed. Although each style of fence was different in appearance, they all had one thing in common – each panel of fence was about 11 or 12 feet in length because that was the customary length of fence rails since time immemorial.

Whether constructed of wire or wooden rails, fences did a commendable job of keeping cattle on the desired pastures. But checking fences for their state of repair was almost a full time job. If cows could reach over, through or under for the greener grass which was surely on the opposite side they would certainly make every effort to do so.

Electrified fences became very popular in areas that were offered as temporary pasture. Quick and inexpensive to install, the single strand of wire released a harmless jolt of electricity to any cow that dared to sniff it. Fence testers were commercially available to ensure the fencer was putting out the proper amount of current. However, I was proud to be included among the few who never hesitated to test the current manually. The electrified jolt was welcome therapy for the nagging arthritis in my arm, and I would grasp the wire tightly for several seconds while welcome surges returned my circulation to normal.

Turning dairy cows out on green pasture did, however, have a few rather repulsive disadvantages. In addition to now being somewhat reluctant to enter a barn after tasting the freedom of the outdoors, the cows’ gastronomic workings had not yet become accustomed to the abundance of lush, green grass. They were still programmed to process dry, bulky hay. Cows in May usually entered the barn with varying degrees of diarrhea, and they were not the least bit hygienic in their habits. Everything from the rib cage to the back end, and within reach of the tail, had transformed into subtle shades of green. Only the foolhardy would ever stand behind a cow for more than a few seconds lest she cough.

With indoor animal care now at a minimum, there was more time to spend in readying the farm machinery for spring planting. The machinery had spent the long, hard winter packed away in machinery sheds, barns and outbuildings, sheltered from the ice and snow and relentless spring rains. Much of it had been serviced and repaired before winter storage so that it could be pressed into service at a moment’s notice. While space and other nooks and crannies for the most part governed which pieces of machinery could be stored where, placement was also dictated by urgency of use – spring tillage closest to the door, harvesting equipment toward the back of the building.

Spring tillage generally got under way by late April or early May, as soon as the land was dry enough to work. The wait to commence was often frustrating but one could not rush Mother Nature. Clay fields often took painfully long to dry up sufficiently to work. They had to be caught with the right moisture content if the machinery was to process them into a proper seed bed. If they were worked too early, the heavy machinery packed the ground to impenetrable concrete. Wait too long and the machinery did little more than leave pitiful scrawls on the surface of the baked soil.

Determined spring rains often delayed the process even longer. As a result, there was a mad rush to finish planting the grain crops before the end of May. By late May headlights would glare well into the night accented by the acrid smell of field dust and the mellifluous scraping of stones against machine. May 31st was arbitrarily circled as the cut-off date for the planting of oats and barley; there was still corn to plant and in earlier years, tomatoes – and hay to cut in late June.

Heavy clods of earth, sometimes thick sod and a generous sprinkling of stones made it impossible simply to drive into a fall ploughed field and break it up with a cultivator. The first time over a field of ploughed sod was a job best tackled with a disc, a heavy piece of machinery that consisted of four individual sets of 12-inch disc-shaped blades.

Each set was angled and through sheer weight alone, sliced the sod and reworked it into manageable pieces. I must have spent far too much time in my youth on the tractor seat pulling that disc for its image is firmly etched in my mind. I doubt if I ever knew the manufacturer or even the implement’s original colour. Only the front of the disc revealed a hint of murky green peeking through the layers of accumulated grease and field dust.

Shallow trays thoughtfully placed on the top of the disc by its manufacturer allowed for the placement of flat stones to provide additional weight. Some of these stones had been a part of the disc for so many years that the constant jostling had worn deep grooves into their surface, holding them securely to the disc. A maze of fence wire wrapped, patched and replaced many times around the stones and the framework provided additional assurance that the stones would never stray far.

The tongue of the disc was constructed of a double length of smooth angle iron, its front gently rounded to accommodate the clevis that attached the disc to the drawbar of the tractor. Unhitched from the tractor, the heavy tongue was supported by a block of wood which, when not in use, rode faithfully for more than 15 years in the framework of the disc. The hand crank which determined the working angle of the discs swung uncontrollably back and forth above the tongue, its momentum governed by the roughness of the field.

A second time crossways over the field generally prepared the field well enough for the cultivator, a piece of equipment whose sharp teeth tore into the ground, ripping up still rooted grasses, and working the seed bed to a proper depth.

Other fields that had contained grain crops the previous year could often be worked without benefit of the disc. I also have vivid recollections of the cultivator I used to pull behind the tractor when I was but 12 or 13, a relatively small implement which slid from field to field on a framework of skids. Once in the field, a set of three adjustable levers lowered the cultivator into the soil, leaving the framework to glide lightly above the soil surface. A couple of times over with the cultivator and once or twice up the furrows to fill them in generally had the field level enough for sowing.

The grain box on the seed drill held about three two-bushel bags of grain and one soon possessed an uncanny accuracy at determining locations in the field to drop off subsequent bags for refilling prior to sowing. There were several schools of thought on the proper method of sowing a field. Some would start on the outside and keep going in circles until they reached the centre. The disadvantage with this method was the narrow crescent of bare ground left each time the drill made a corner.

This unsightly blemish was covered up by making a pass with the seed drill from each corner of the field to its centre. From the air, a finished field appeared as a mosaic of concentric circles accented by a large X.

Our preference was to circle the field four times, and then pick a direction and sow from one side of the field to the opposite side. After each sweep the drill was lifted out of the ground by a trip mechanism controlled with a rope from the tractor seat. The four initial passes around the field provided plenty of turning room to enable the operator to return on the same track. Dropping the drill to commence seeding again became a fine art as engaging it too soon on already seeded ground wasted grain, and dropping it too late did not allow sufficient time for the grain to trickle from the grain box to the unseeded ground.

Even with this method there was an additional decision to ponder. If one seeded in the same direction as the last pass of the cultivator, it was often difficult to distinguish the seed drill marks from those of the cultivator. Sowing a field crossways of the tillage marks made more sense although two or three hours of crossing furrows and cultivator marks had the operator’s head pumping back and forth after the manner of some barnyard chicken.

Most seed drills had another long rectangular box of smaller capacity to hold clover seed, allowing the operator to “seed down” a field of grain. Seeding down was a method used to create a field of hay for the following year. Both the grain crop and hay crop sprouted together, the more vigorous grain crop providing welcome cover for the more sluggish clover crop. After the grain was harvested in the autumn, the clover still had a bit of growing season left to prepare it for winter dormancy.

One of our earlier seed drills had one such seed box, but we could never get the fool thing to work properly. For most of our farming years any fields we wished to have seeded down was done on shank’s mare with a small cyclone spreader slung over the shoulders and operated by a hand crank. With any amount of luck, the pouch on the spreader would hold enough seed to allow the operator to walk to one end of the field and make the return trip before having to fill up again.

The whole operation was almost as archaic and outdated as that suffered by the United Empire Loyalist pioneers, the only difference being that the seed was now distributed by means of a hand crank which turned at a speed proportional to that of the gait.

The mileage my father clocked up over the years by this method must have been phenomenal, but I heard him complain only once. “There is something wrong in life when I have to stumble over chunks of clay while people drive by with their arms hanging out the windows!”

After sowing and seeding down, a drag buried any uncovered grain and levelled the field further. It never occurred to either of us that small flat chains were available from most machinery dealers which attached to the rear of the drill and were towed along behind to accomplish the same purpose. I always wondered what those little hooks on the back of the drill were for.

The drag had to be the most aggravating piece of equipment ever manufactured to do a simple job. It caused more grief and caused more people to cuss than any single piece of machinery could ever hope to do. Drags came in sections, usually four in total, each about four feet by three feet, and containing approximately 15 thick six-inch spikes each. Each section was loosely hooked with short chain links to a length of hardwood two by four which in turn was hooked by another chain to the tractor’s draw bar.

On stone-free, well-worked fields, the drag did an admirable job of levelling the surface of the soil and ripping out the last remaining remnants of weeds and quack grass roots left behind by other pieces of machinery before it.

On rough, stony fields, however, drags had the annoying habit of becoming unhooked after snagging rocks or clods of earth. Corners were especially frustrating when turning, causing the hook-up chains to slacken on the inside of each turn and release their hold once again. Dragging a field was often a monotonous ritual of hopping on and off the tractor.

Drags often became “lost” from one season to the next, and one had to recall where it was last used. Left in frustration where it was last unhooked, the drag soon became hidden by a carpet of summer growth as it lay in wait with its 60 or so spikes for the first unsuspecting implement tire to pass over its forgotten remains.

Fields were often levelled further by a final pass with a steel drum roller or packer to force the smaller stones deep into the soil. For a simple structure the roller remained unchallenged as the noisiest implement ever to lay tracks in a farm field. Transported from field to field over stony township roads, its passage never failed to draw curious people to windows to investigate the infernal din that had awakened them on a quiet Saturday morning.

Rocks too large to be handled by the roller were picked up later manually. By then, the scenery of the field had become rather monotonous.

I seem to remember tomato fields more vividly than anything else. I guess it’s because my earliest recollection is of being lowered as an infant into a large tomato crate under a tall elm tree, and stored there in the company of my dog, while my parents spent the day in a field of tomatoes. I’m not certain if I were placed there for convenience, or stationed there in the hopes that if I stared at tomato plants early enough in life I might receive some sort of permanent tomato plant imprinting. My brain has conveniently blacked out some of the details, but it didn’t seem long before I was actively involved in the planting myself. Whether I volunteered or was commandeered remains cloudy in my mind.

Tomato plants arrived in May from the greenhouse as nursery stock securely root bound in shallow wooden flats measuring approximately 24 inches by 12 inches in size. The flats were transported to the field on the hay wagon along with bags of specially prepared tomato plant starter, several milk cans full of water, and a galvanized stock tank in which to soak the plants prior to planting. The wagon was parked at the end of the field where it remained until the field was completely planted.

Other tools critical to the operation also lay in expectation on the wagon, the most important of these being the “spud.” The spud was a tool as simple as the name by which it was fondly referred.

Essentially the spud was a three-inch diameter piece of wood, finely honed to a smooth finish with a pointed, metal cone at the business end. By placing one foot on a peg which protruded from the tool, one forced the instrument into the ground creating a convenient hole to receive the seedling tomato.

Tomato plants were planted in rows, at right angles to each other, to facilitate cultivation from both directions. Prior to planting, a wooden marker equipped with properly spaced wooden skids was towed behind a tractor lengthways and crossways over the field to create the marks in the soil which would serve as a guide for the planting operation.

In addition to the operator of the tractor, a second person was needed to physically reef on the marker at the end of each run and get it aimed straight for the next pass down the field. At all other times this person rode on the marker to provide some extra weight, maintaining balance by hanging on to a couple of reins attached to the back of the tractor. The operation was done at a relatively high speed, and to curious passersby must have seemed like some sort of new terrestrial skiing sport as the person on the marker with his feet firmly braced in position and leaning well back into the reins tore back and forth across the field in a wake of dust.

Where the lines in the prepared field bisected, a tomato plant would grow. It worked out to about 3000 plants to the acre. If we planted four acres, as we often did, this translated into 12,000 tomato plants, individually transplanted from the flats to as many holes, the latter all lovingly poked in the ground by the man on the spud – my father.

My mother and I were the two figures crawling along behind on all fours, dropping the plants into the holes and firming up the soil around them. The flat containing the tomato plants was dragged along behind. A long length of fencing wire with a wooden fish net float for a handle was fashioned to drag the flat of tomato plants behind us. As each flat was planted, another was waiting back at the wagon in a bath of water and plant starter. If there was no hurricane, tornado, hail or late frost during the first week or two while the plants settled in their new environment, then the planting was a success.

For about 20 years, my parents planted tomatoes each spring in this manner, up to 20 flats per day until every last tomato plant was poked into the earth. I was involved in the operation for only a fraction of that time. Once I turned 14 and headed off to High School and more academic demands, it was agreed we should retire from the tomato business, at least for one year to see if we could survive without the income.

The final year in which we grew tomatoes, a tomato planter was used to do the planting. The planter dug a narrow trench and two operators seated on either side dropped plants into the trench. A foot pedal released a squirt of water beside the plant, fed from a large metal barrel which also served as a back rest for the operators.

Tomato planters were common enough in the county – we just never had any use for them. The final planting was a half hazard affair, accented by crooked rows, unevenly spaced plants which leaned in every direction but straight up. We liked our old way better, and although a long and tedious back breaking affair, it provided several days of family esprit de corps that no automated planter could ever offer. The planting of tomatoes ended in 1959. We never looked back.

At public school, no season was more anticipated than the arrival of spring. It was time for baseball, swings and teeter totter – pretty much the only entertainment we had to look forward to at recesses and noon. When the road grader appeared we knew that the roads were firming up and bicycles could be seized from the garage.

And then there was Arbour Day. Even though that certain day set aside each spring meant school yard raking and a general clean-up, and the traditional planting of a tree which never lived, it also meant a trip to the Big Stone.

The Big Stone was about a mile from the school, at the back end of a farm near a woodlot, but could be reached from a road by crossing two or three pasture fields. We would leave the school just before noon, arriving at a nearby wooded area in time to get a small fire kindled for a feast of hot dogs. Cold drinks were available in cooler jugs, thoughtfully prepared by the teacher the previous night.

After the wiener roast, we’d trudge off across the fields and spend an hour or two at the Big Stone. It was located in an open pasture field and just 10 feet or so from a woodlot. Beside it grew a small hickory tree under which some of us would rest while others clambered atop the stone or played hide and seek among the clumps of red cedars which grew sparingly over the field.

The Stone was special to us in other ways too apart from it being an annual escape from the drudgery of school work. At five feet in height the Big Stone did indeed look big, but gradually tapered to ground level where even first graders could manage to climb aboard with little difficulty. Its breadth was about eight feet, its length about 10.

We never gave much thought how it got there. Certainly no other stone existed on Big Island to compare with the dimensions of the Big Stone. It had likely been a tradition to visit this stone many years before my arrival on the scene, but who knows what other creatures passed by in the previous 12,000 years since it was deposited there by the retreat of the last glacier?

Another ritual on Arbour Day was to hand pick bouquets of wildflowers which blossomed in grand profusion in the wooded areas. No one taught us that picking clumps of trilliums was wrong, and that repeated pickings could measurably reduce the opportunity for future generations of school kids to enjoy the diversity of colour we had come to enjoy over the years.

Only one boy in our school refused to pick wildflowers, and it is doubtful that it was due to any concern for the environment. This lad was in Grade 8 and considered himself something of a “Macho Man.” To be seen holding a bouquet of flowers would be grave indignity to the reputation he had tried so desperately to portray.

I shall always remember his classic comeback when someone on our return trip to the school asked him why he was the only person without the traditional bouquet of wildflowers.

With a look of absolute disdain on his face he drawled back, “Who in HELL wants FLOWERS?”

Perhaps it wasn’t so much that he had programmed himself to dislike flowers, but rather, had an awareness of what lay ahead. As a farmer’s son himself, spring wildflowers were an irrefutable reminder that summer haying was not far in the offing.