Who am I, really? Introspection is but one feeble method for seeking an answer. Tracing of tracks on the ground known as personal history is another. I shall attempt to combine the two with a spirit of the Quest to generate some answers. Join me if and when you may be so inclined.
NOTE: This blog series is dedicated to the quest for understanding who I am and how I came to be me.
My mind is a mosaic of memories, snapshots of experiences—or, more honestly, homemade records of perceived experiences. Early memories and memories of traumatic times are especially suspect of fidelity; but they are all the memories I have of these times.
I remember my fourth birthday party. Well, specifically, I remember that there was a party, that it was a celebration of my becoming four years old, and that I got some small red trucks as presents.
One particular toy tractor is a clearer memory, a plastic scale model of a Farmall H with real rubber tires and a rubber steering wheel. It was one of my favorite toys of all time. I cannot remember receiving it but I remember it being taken away once.
It seems I got angry at my sister and threw a fork at her. My dad didn’t seem to think that was appropriate behavior and took my tractor away and set it up high, on the cook stove I believe, where I couldn’t reach it. I learned early that I had a volatile temper.
My older brother had a metal scale model of an Allis Chalmers C, but it was not to the same scale as my H. So, even though a Farmall H is bigger than an Allis C, his toy was bigger than mine. Even so, I played with both. I liked my H best.
In the 1970s, I owned a real H for awhile. My brother has owned lots of tractors on the farm including about a hundred accurate scale models, some in original boxes. I never have, although I gave a true scale model of an Allis Chalmers 190XT to my oldest daughter.
I learned to drive our real Farmall H when I was about four. More specifically, I learned how to start it in low gear and steer it straight while somebody loaded a wagon behind, then kick the switch off to stop.
Our neighbor’s Ford 8N or 9Nwas more fun for me to drive. I could use the clutch because it was horizontal so I could step on it. This one I could really drive like the big boys. I now own a Ford 9N which I use on our land and road in Wisconsin.
I never owned working horses or even learned how to drive them the way my dad did. He farmed with horses until I was about four. That’s when he bought the Farmall H and, I expect, my toy model of it.
Not all important memories are primary, meaning some were told to me. One story is how my dad got started farming with horses after being a hired hand. The only team he could afford was one so rank that nobody wanted them. He had very specific training methods that, in his words, would not break a horse’s spirit. To convince these horses that he was boss without beating them, he threw them each to the ground with a rope (a technique I never learned) and sat on their heads. Horses cannot get up without throwing their head up first. It is basically the same thing as the puppy submission training hold.
I can still remember our two working horses, draft horses we called them, King and Porky. They were huge, filling their stalls near the front of our barn, but I do not remember ever being afraid of them. I’ll have to check with my brothers to see how accurate my memory might be.
King being appropriately regal was a tall and lean golden chestnut with a blaze of some sort on his forehead. Porky was darker, bay I believe, with dark mane, tail and feet. In my mind, the memory created when I was three to four years old, King was sort of the boss, the serious one, but Porky was the steady muscle with a sense of humor.
I do not know who I was before these memories, but I am certain such early experiences contributed to the person I have become. I still have a powerful connection to the land, love animals, and would often rather drive tractor or garden than fish. Perhaps more importantly, I still admire my dad. I was a lucky boy.