It was fun sharing the memories of ‘’the farm’’ at West Bend with you last week.  I decided to continue with those stories this week.

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Dad had a Kodak camera from when he was younger.  It was a Little Brownie Special.  It was made by Kodak Eastman from 1939 to 1954 and used film number 127.

Dad gave me that little Brownie when we lived at the farm.  It was quite the gift to give to a young 3 to 4-year-old child.

I took many pictures with that camera on the farm and for many years thereafter.

There was only one problem I had with the camera when I used it.  I had to look through the little red circle on the back of the camera.  Each film print was numbered and I had to manually turn the little white knob on top of the camera to advance to the next numbered print.

That was my problem.  Sometimes, I forgot to advance the film.  Then I would get a double or triple exposure to the same frame of film.  It made for some VERY interesting photos.

We had a dog named Shatzi while we lived on the farm.  He was something I liked taking pictures of.  There were a few pictures of him looking rather odd and he was double exposed with some other picture.  I think there is even one where he has a head on each end of his body.

I finally replaced that Little Brownie camera when I was 11 years old.

That Little Brownie camera had served me very well.  The thing that made that camera even more special to me was, it was Dad’s when he was younger.  And then he entrusted it to me when I was so young.  I still have that camera and it sits on my shelf in my office.  And it will be there until I am gone.  Too many special memories of it to part with it.

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This is a silly memory.  It made me chuckle as I thought of it.

I had a sandbox when I was little, like a lot of children.  It was to the left of the milkhouse.

One summer, we had a very big storm that toppled a large tree next to the house.  The tree tipped over and landed on my sandbox.

My little three-year-old self was devastated.  I am sure there must have been other damage done by the tree and the storm.  But the only thing I knew; my sandbox was gone.  LOL  So sad.

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Mom and Dad had a paddle that lay on the kitchen counter.  It had a round little picture of a little boy and girl leaning forward.  The words, ‘’Board of Correction’’ were painted next to the picture.  It was very clear what that board was used for.

I didn’t get spanked often.  It was clear, though, if Mom or Dad said, ‘Get the paddle’, it was too late.  I had gone too far.

There was only one time that I fully remember getting spanked with that paddle.  Although, if you ask my 3 older siblings, they would say I never got spanked.  I know they are wrong.

Mom was trying to take my temperature for some reason.  I must have been sick.  It was one of those old stick-style mercury thermometers.  I must have kept spitting the thermometer out of my mouth.

I remember Mom saying if I didn’t leave it in my mouth this time, I was going to get a spanking.  I don’t remember spitting it out again, but I DO remember her telling me to go get the paddle.

She put me over her knees and spanked me once with it.  That HURT!!  So, then I put my hands over my butt to protect my butt.

That didn’t help as then she spanked my hands.  It wasn’t hard enough to damage me, but hard enough that I knew that wasn’t a good idea.  Getting my hands spanked hurt also.

I was in a no-win situation.  I moved my hands away and wump, my butt got spanked.  Hands went back, hands got spanked.  Mom didn’t give me many slaps with the paddle, I’m sure.  But it must have been somewhat comical watching me get spanked.  I must have been flapping my arms and hands behind me like I was trying to fly.

Some people reading this might want to condemn my parents for spanking us kids.  Claiming that our spankings will cause us to beat our children.

I know I got spanked more than the one or two times I remember.  You know what it taught me?

It taught me respect for authorities, respect for my parents, obedience, truthfulness, and not to tell lies.

Do you know what it DID NOT teach me?  To be aggressive, to want to beat others, to be angry, or to want to get even with others.

By giving me and my siblings spankings, our parents loved us enough to set boundaries.  These boundaries weren’t to control us but to keep us safe.  I love my parents for loving me enough to do that.  It showed they cared about us and loved us.

But at that time of the spankings, I am sure I didn’t think it was loving or caring when the paddle spanked my butt or fingers.  LOL

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My oldest sister Candace was in 4H when we lived on the farm.  4H is a program that helps kids learn skills and have fun.  At the end of the summer, the child’s project is usually shown at the county fair.

Candace’s project that year was a lamb.  It was her responsibility to raise the lamb over the summer so it could be shown at the fair in the fall.

I don’t remember the reason or for how long, but that lamb lived inside our house for a while.  It liked hiding behind the same sofa I hid behind when listening to Jack and the Bean Stalk.

The funny thing is, that wasn’t the last farm animal to be in our house.  Through the years, various other animals would wander into the house at one time or another.  Most did not stay in the house like that lamb, though.

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There are a few more stories from the farm.  They aren’t my memories.  But they are stories I have heard many times over from my parents and older siblings.  So, by that rite of passage, they have also become my stories from the farm.

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Occasionally, Mom and Dad would sell cows from the farm when we lived there.  They often worked with a Jewish cattleman named Henry.  Mom always described him as being about as round as he was tall.

Henry was at the farm one day picking up a cow or two.  Dad was at his day job, so Mom was trying to help Henry load the cattle.  There was one cow that just did not want to go up the ramp into the cattle truck.  They tried leading it up and pushing it from behind.  Nothing was working.

Mom decided to help move the cow by slapping it with a thick milking strap.  A milking strap is a hard leather strap about 2 inches wide and ¼ to 3/8 inches thick.  It goes over the back of the cow when it is being milked.  The milking machine would hang from this strap.

So, Mom brought that heavy stiff milk strap down on the top of the cow’s rump.  That should have got the cow moving up the ramp.  There was a problem with her doing that.

Just as the strap was about to connect with the cow, Henry put his hand on the cow’s rump to slap it to get it to move.  Mom brought the milk strap down hard on Henry’s hand.

Of course, that hurt Henry.  A LOT!

Henry immediately started jumping up and down, swearing in Yiddish.  His face was red, he was shaking his hand and giving Mom nasty looks.

Mom felt horrified about what she did.  She felt so bad she wanted to cry.  But, according to her, Henry looked so funny dancing around and swearing in Yiddish, that she was laughing.  I suspect part of it was nervous laughter at what she had done.

Dad got home from work just after they finally got that cow in the truck.  Henry walked over to the car by Dad, looked at him, and pointed towards Mom.  ‘’Next time she stays in the house,’’ Henry said.

Mom always had a look of chagrin when she retold that story.  She really did feel bad about smacking Henry’s hand with the milk strap.  Every time she told the story she still laughed about how Henry danced around swearing in Yiddish.  It didn’t matter how many years had passed.  It still was funny in her mind.

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There was a time while we lived on the farm it seemed like we might lose Mom.  This wasn’t long after I was born.  I have heard this story many times from Mom, Dad, and my older siblings.

The doctors thought Mom had a brain tumor.  There were all sorts of tests and procedures done on her.  Being in 1962, there weren’t all the modern tests and imaging we have today.

Mom had a couple of spinal fluid taps and many other painful and dangerous things done to diagnose the issue.  At one point, the whole family and the pastor was called in as it looked like mom might not make it.

But it turned out that it wasn’t a tumor.

From my understanding of what I have heard through the years, it was severe exhaustion and fatigue.

Mom was working full-time overnight.  During the day, she did things around the farm that she had to do while Dad worked his day job.

Besides that, she was trying to be the best wife and mom.  The house was constantly nearly spotless.  She made most everything we ate from scratch.  Bread, noodles, meals.  Plus, she was always making special desserts.  All these from scratch as well.  Cream puffs, eclairs, puddings, cakes.

Eventually, it just got to be too much for her and her body broke for a while.  She would have been 27 at the time.  Thankfully, she got through it and lived to be 84 years old when she passed away.

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Mom was NOT fond of snakes.  Ant there were plenty of snakes at the farm.  They were just garter snakes, but Mom still didn’t like them.  She was afraid one of us would get bit.  Especially me, since I was so young and just a toddler.

One day there was one right at the bottom of the steps where we went in the house.  It was in her garden next to the bottom step.

Mom had been working in one of the other gardens and had a hoe in her hands.  She knew she had to kill the snake so it didn’t bite me.  So, she started hacking at the snake with the hoe.  The problems was, the ground was soft in the garden next to the steps.

So instead of hacking up the snake, she was beating it into the soft soil.  She did finally chop it up a little and killed it.

About that time, a utility man came along to read the meter or someone like that.

Mom was crying from having to deal with the snake.  She asked the man if he would dispose of the snake in the weeds on the other side of the driveway.

He was a nice guy and did that for her.  When he gave mom back the hoe, he told her she shouldn’t kill snakes.  There are very beneficial.

Years later, mom still appreciated him very much for disposing of the snake.  But not so much about his advice.

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Well, that is the end of my memories from the farm at West Bend.  Hopefully, you enjoyed my little trip down memory lane with me.

The stories may be random.  They are also memories from someone who was younger than four-years-old at the time.

Although, many of my thoughts now are still random.  Maybe, I just don’t change through the years.  LOL