The Simple Life

     I guess you could say life was simple on Potter Hill, both my dad and grandfather were farmers. They worked from sunrise until sundown, rain or shine. My mom and grandmother were farmers wives, hard working and independent ladies that could work along any of our hired help and still keep up with a household, garden and put home cooked meals on the table. Our farm included four homes,  potato and cattle barns, a chicken coop and pig pen. We also had a barn for farm equipment.  Sense we had no electricity on our farm, every thing was done by hand, and we used oil lamps for light, coal for heat and bottled gas for cooking.

     Believe it or not,  I never missed radio or television.  I grew up with books, my grandfather read to me every night before I went to bed. Grimm's Fairy Tales, Nursery Rhymes, Heidi  and Children's Bible Stories were some of my favorites. Some nights Grandpa would be tired and try to skip a page and I would say, "Grandpa ,you missed some." he would smile and go back. What a wonderful man he was, I still  miss him today.

     On Sundays after church , we would go to the soda bar in Cohocton and Dad would get the Sunday Paper and I could pick out a new Golden Book if  one was in. When we got home while mom was fixing breakfast, dad and I would go out on the sun porch and he would read me the comics. Sunday was a time for family in our home, usually my older sister,brothers,aunt and uncle, and my grandparents came over and the adults would play cards while us kids would play outside. After supper it was time to relax. The adults would visit,while us kids would play "hide and seek" until it got to dark and thus would end another day on Potter Hill.

Rockpile

     I'm sure that most of you have picked some type of fruit in your lifetime, such as strawberries,raspberries, apples,blueberries etc.but if there is one thing a farmer's kid knows about picking, it's "rocks". The funny thing about rocks, no matter how many you pick more keep popping up.They come in all shapes,sizes and colors.  Some of them are rough while others are smooth. It doesn't take long before a "rock picker" knows which ones are perfect for picking and tossing on the back of a farm wagon. All rocks take the same journey, they end up on the "rockpile". 

     Our farm had two huge rockpiles the "upper" and "lower".  This particular day Rex and I were headed to the lower one. I had my American  Flyer  packed with dad's mallet, mom's 5 gal. pail and our emergency supplies which included: 2 peanut butter sandwiches, 1-apple and 3-date filled cookies and a mason jar filled with water, which Rex and I would share in the shade of an old maple tree located next to the rock hedge. On the way we picked up my best friend-Grandpa and off we went. The rockpile was about two miles from home along dirt road.

     Grandpa pulled the wagon while we talked about the good old days of his childhood and how all the plowing was done with horses.  I loved to listen about what it was like back then. It was hard for me to think of Grandpa as a little boy and it made me laugh to listen to his stories. Before I realized , we were at the rockpile.  You have to realize rock splitting was one of my favorite pastimes. I loved the feel of the rock in my hand, placing it on a large rock and splitting it, to see what the rock looked like inside. I was fascinated by how something that looked so plain on the outside could be so beautiful on the inside. Grandpa would tell me people are like that also. Some may look plain on the outside, they may have rough edges but inside are full of love and kindness.

     I loved all the different colors found inside each rock. Some were plain with dark veins running through, others had  crystals on the inside, pink, white, purple and others were hallow with  multi-colored crystals. Grandpa  and I would fill our pail with my favorite to be taken home and resorted, cleaned and put into my rock collection. When we were finished with sorting the rocks it was time for lunch . We would sit under the maple tree and enjoy our food and feel the gentle breeze which was always on Potter Hill. On the way home we sang,"she'll be commin' 'round the mountain", one of his favorite songs.

Potter Hill

     I guess you could say I was the luckiest girl in Cohocton, my dad owned a 500 acre farm on Potter Hill. Dad was a potato farmer but we also had a small dairy of about 30 cows,pigs and chickens. I remember as a  child waking up to the smell of fresh bread baking in the kitchen and my  pet dog Rex nudging my arm. Rex was a Newfoundland and the best friend a girl could ever have. He weighted over 100 lbs. and thought  he was my nanny. Listening to my mother cooking breakfast and humming as she worked I would gave Rex a hug around the neck and jump out of bed.
    After breakfast Rex and I would be  off to start our day. Running barefoot I would head to my swing. We had large maple trees surrounding our lawn and Grandpa had made me a rope swing with a wooden seat. How I loved that swing, it played an important part in many of my childhood adventures. I would swing as high as I could,  look out over our land and let my imagination go wild.   
     Our farm was at the very top of Potter Hill, from my swing I could see for miles. I remember looking out over our fields and thinking it was the most beautiful place on earth. I felt I could reach out and touch the sky, look down and smell the rich musk of earth and feel so close to God.