The first cool weather of the year, replete with a snappy north wind has me longing for the heat of a wood stove, which then lent itself to a burst of nostalgia. I am the perfect age to bridge the time warp from the comfort of today’s conveniences to the era of coal oil stoves in the south and cast iron wood burning stoves in the northland.
I can remember my grandfather’s step side ‘56 Ford pickup equipped with 3 on the tree, vent wings for comfort and suspect brakes that would demand rapt attention when driven in the rain. He was a tobacco farmer and an entire year’s effort would fit on a pallet in the back of that truck. Along the way I’ve owned several very basic old trucks, including another old Ford, with a simple switch on the dash to turn the heater on as the original equipment was broken. I ran recaps on a set of recalled wheels taken from a junked truck adorned with recapped tires. I name my vehicles, and I named this wood hauler Fred Sanford in honor of Fred and LaMont’s old truck on television.
Traveling over decades old gravel roads to favorite ponds or to a secluded river put-in in always held the promise of a successful fishing adventure. They were also the way to farms that were home to several coveys or that careless whitetail that would fill our freezer. The sound of a gravel road, traversed at a reasonable speed brings back those memories.
Footwear in my grade school days was delivered to our door courtesy of a thick Sears catalogue. Sizing was iffy and they account for several problems with my feet today. My first pair of boots were unlined leather on a straight crepe sole. They were nearly indestructible and took a year or so to break in. I remember the “speed” laces adorned with a sack full of beggars lice and cuckelburs. Dispensing with a great pair of boots at the end of their life cycle has always been all but an emotional experience for me. It is akin to saying goodbye to an old friend.
Old dogs are a special treasure. You are their life and the reward is a special kind of loyalty that cannot be matched by any human being. We may never understand their mental acuity, but I suspect it is shocking if the truth were known. I have been blessed by hands-on experience with night hunting hounds, energetic beagles and wonderful bird dogs, all of which whined at the prospect of being loaded for another hunt. That special smell comprised of dog, straw and an old wooden dog box is comforting in ways only dog men understand. My days afield are likely over but we have shared our home with a number of Labradors, all providing their immeasurable affection for their humans.
I end today with a thought or two about old ways. Setting a nail with a hammer, cutting a board with a hand saw and splitting wood with an axe come to mind. Changing oil, setting points, using a wagon jack, greasing bearings and changing spark plugs are mostly a thing of the past. Sharpening a saw chain and adjusting the chain on a bar are replaced by a phone call for a load of wood cut and stacked in your yard. Replacing the mantle in a Coleman lantern, sharpening a mower blade and replacing the line on a reel are being replaced by a keyboard and computer game. Fescue is destroying the quail populations in Missouri and night hunters face posted property when chasing the hounds, at every turn. Many folks do not know how to build or bank a fire and don’t know the difference from a post oak and a red cedar.
I am fortunate to have lived in a time that was much simpler and required skills not in demand today. There was something honest about those days and I am sure I slept better every night. The old ways gave you a remarkable sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. Things you do not get in an air conditioned office laboring over a keyboard. I thank the Lord for my good fortune…
