Hook 'em and Pull 'em - Video

Related Link: Hay is for Horses

A story about haying in Pleasant Valley in the late 1960's.

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Hay is for Horses

Related Link: Hook 'em and Pull em - video

¬July, 1967

Nancy, David, Daddy, Gramps July 1967

"See there, girl. Jets!" Gramps points upward. Three fighter jets fly over the back field, really close together, like geese heading south for winter. But it's not winter. It's the middle of July. The sun is shining. The sky is blue. There are no clouds.

"That there is Air National Guard, hundred forty-second fighter group." He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose. "Oscar would like a jet like that."

He is talking about my Uncle Ozzie, his older boy, who died under mysterious circumstances a long time ago, before I was born. I don't know what mysterious circumstances are, but I heard my cousin say it, and now I like to say it again, because it has big words that sound important.

Gramps had two boys, and both of them were pilots. Uncle Ozzie joined the Air force, and Uncle Jimmy is in the Navy. Several of Gramps' girls don’t even know how to drive a car, but both his boys can fly planes.

Uncle Jimmy comes to visit when he is on leave, and I don't like that, because he tickles me. Sometimes Uncle Ozzie used to visit by buzzing the house. That’s what my aunt told me. Buzzing means flying your plane really low to the ground and near to the house so that all of your family looks up and says, “Oh, my goodness.” Everybody misses Uncle Ozzie, but I don’t know if I miss him, because I don’t know if he would tickle me.

Uncle Ozzie in his plane.

We are harvesting bales of hay. Last winter Gramps announced that this year we would plant oats out in the back field. We all live with Gramps at his house. After my step Grandma died, Gramps asked us to move in and cook for him and do his laundry and pay the taxes, because taxes cost a lot of money. He has a barn and a tractor and lots of things you can hook up to the back of the tractor, like a plow and a disc, and also this thing that looks like a giant rake called a cultivator.

Last spring, way before first grade let out for the summer, he got out a special piece of equipment for the tractor. It was called a seeder, and this made sense because you put oat seeds in a trough on the back. Then as the tractor drove along, these little arm things went round and round and pushed the seeds out the bottom, where they fell to the ground. I know because I got to ride on the standing board that was mounted across the back of the seeder. My job was to make sure the seeds didn't get clogged up and that the arms kept pushing the seeds out, just so. Mommy wasn't sure I should ride back there, but Gramps said, "Nonsense. The girl is safe. I'll drive slow."

Now the hay is all grown up, and the baler came this week to cut and bale it all, and that was really good. I watched from the yard. There is one man who drives around from house to house, and on the first day he will cut and rake your hay, and then after that, probably the next day I think, he will come back to bale it. He comes with his baler machine, and it sucks up the hay, and it squishes it into a rectangle, and it automatically ties it up with string that’s hidden inside the baler somewhere. Then it spits the hay bale out the other end.

You have to hope it does not rain after the man cuts it and before he bales it. I heard Daddy say so. He said, “I sure hope it does not rain and ruin that hay.”

And then Mommy said, “Oh, Bill, don’t worry. The forecast is for sun.” And she was right.

Today Daddy helped Gramps pull the sled out and hook it up to the tractor. The sled is a special kind of trailer that doesn’t have any wheels. It is flat and made of boards. We grab hold of the bales of hay with this special hook attached to a wooden handle and pull them over to the sled and stack them on it. Gramps, Daddy, and I are doing the grabbing.

Daddy and Gramps lifting the hay bales.

After we get all the nearby bales, Gramps drives the tractor to the next section of the field, and we grab some more. I am too small to stack the bales onto the sled, but I can grab and drag. When the sled is full, with bales stacked on top of bales, we drive to the barn and unload.

I am getting very hot, and it feels like we have been working forever. We are going to go back to get more bales, but Mommy says first go get a drink out of the hose and get your handkerchief wet to keep you cool. I go to find the hose. The water is cold and good and from our well, which tastes lots better than the water in the fountain at school.

I am wearing my farmer girl clothes. Some of our people used to be farmers. I know that because we studied about occupations in school. So I asked Daddy about our people and their occupations, because the teacher said to.

Daddy said, “Occupations? That’s a big word for a first grader.”

And I said, “That’s why I’m in school, to learn big words!” And he couldn’t argue with that.

I asked Daddy if any of my grandparents or great grandparents were firemen or anything exciting. He looked at Mommy and they both shook their heads. Mommy and Daddy are teachers, and Gramps is a carpenter. We are all kind of boring, except for Uncle Ozzie and Uncle Jim.

Daddy said, “My grandfather was a blacksmith. The rest of the family were farmers.” Then he looked at Mommy. “Your great-grandfather was a police officer, wasn’t he, dear?”

Mommy nodded. Then I heard her say, really soft like she was talking to herself, “A police officer, and a drinker.”

I looked in the library at school for books about farmers or blacksmiths or drunk policemen, and I found a book called, “Farmer Boy.” In chapter one they slaughter a pig. That means kill it and cut it up. We won’t do that, but I could still pretend to be a farmer girl today. I’m not sure exactly what a farmer girl would wear. I asked Mommy, but she said just play it by ear. That means, imagine what to wear and then find something like that in your dresser.

On the bottom I have blue jeans. It is my first pair of blue jeans, and I wear them almost every day. On the top I have a short sleeved shirt. This morning on my head I had a straw hat, but I took that off because my head got hot, plus the straw poked me. And also I have this handkerchief. It was  around my neck, but it keeps falling off. I get it wet with the hose and then wring it out so it isn’t all drippy.

Gramps driving tractor. Nancy riding sled full of hay bales.

We are going back out to the field. I am riding on the sled. I am singing to myself a new song that my friend Cheryl taught me. She lives across the street. I’m trying to remember all the words, but I can only remember part of the chorus. It goes kind of like, “La-la lah lah lah, now I’m a believer.”

The singers of this song are four boys on TV who are called Monkees, and they are very funny. I tried to watch them last week, but Daddy said, “Oh dear, is that Rock and Roll?” And I shrugged my shoulders because I didn’t know, and he said, “Rock and Roll is filthy. The origins of the phrase have to do with sexual ---“

And Mommy stopped him and said, “Oh, Bill, she doesn’t even know what that is!” And then I thought maybe I could still watch TV, but then she said to me, “Nancy, change channels. That’s junkie music.” So I had to switch to the Gomer Pyle show, because that’s all that was on, even though Daddy doesn’t really like that show either. Mr. Pyle says “Golly” a lot, and that is a substitute swear word. But Mommy lets me watch it, because Mr. Pyle also has a pretty singing voice.

Mommy and Daddy know a lot about the origins of words because of being teachers. I think if I’m going to learn the Monkees song, I’ll have to do it by listening to my clock radio at night before I go to sleep. I will turn it down very soft and keep it up close to my ear.

The tractor stops, and I climb off to drag in more bales. We fill up the sled and then Daddy says, “Look, this is the last bale!” I am excited, because I have been working and working and I am tired. I think I worked just as hard as Farmer Boy when his family cut up the pig.

We drive back to the barn and unload the hay. Gramps picks up the last bale and puts it on the stack in the barn. Then he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his billfold, and takes out a dollar bill. “Come here, girl, and get your pay.”

I am flabbergasted. I don’t know the origins of that word, but I heard it on TV, and I really like it. Flabbergasted. The most money I ever got before was a quarter for washing the car. I look at Mommy, and she nods her head, and I take the dollar and say, “Thank you.”

I push the hair out of my face. I’m dirty and thirsty and so tired that my legs and arms might stop working, and also I feel really good, way down inside my bones. I am seven, going on eight, and I just earned a dollar.

David and Mommy.

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Family of Origin

The rest of my family is at Willamette National Cemetery on top of Mt. Scott near Portland, Oregon. It's the perfect resting spot, with views of Portland, Kelly Butte, Rocky Butte, Mt. Tabor, Mt. Hood, and Mt. Saint Helens.

Back in the day somebody in Portland decided to use acres of prime real estate for cemetery plots. Of course it wasn't prime real estate at the time. It was out in the boondocks on top of a steep hill, and in 1906 it was a lot of work to get your horse and buggy all the way up there.

The steep hill is technically a volcanic butte. It hosts two cemeteries: Willamette National and Lincoln Memorial. I have family in both locations. I didn't care for either cemetery as a child, because it reminded me of dead people and funerals. These days I visit whenever I'm in town. 

Bill, Shirley, David Carver. Willamette National Cemetery. Portland, Oregon

Uncle Ivan

My father was the youngest son of a youngest son, and he didn't get married until he was almost 48. That's how I ended up here in 2016, still more-or-less middle-aged, with a great grandfather who was born in 1810.

Dad was a good-looking fellow, and by all accounts he had a number of lady admirers. When I asked why he waited so long to marry, he told me that he was just particular. He wanted a pretty girl who wasn't ignorant, and while he met many pretty girls in college, they were all much younger. He started college late and then took time out for World War II, so the age difference would have been significant.

Bill Carver, back left. Ivan Whitehouse back right. WWII. Pacific theater.

In the war Dad served with a man named Ivan Whitehouse. That's Dad on the left with the jaunty hat. Ivan is the youngster in the back on the right. Dad and Ivan became very good friends. They were both members of the same religious denomination, Seventh-day Adventist, and shared the conviction that they would not take a life if at all possible. They served as medics and did not carry guns. This was not uncommon for members of this denomination at that time, although it wasn't a religious requirement.

After the war Dad finished college in Lincoln, Nebraska and taught school for a few years in the mid-west. At some point he decided teaching was not for him. Ivan was in Portland, and they had been corresponding over the years. Dad went out for a visit and stayed. Ivan worked at the Portland Sanitarium and Hospital ("The San"). Dad applied for a job there as well.

Middle-Aged Stalker-Ladies

As Dad got older, the pool of eligible husbands got smaller, and some of the interested single ladies were more assertive in making their interests known. OK, truth, at least one of these women was a stalker. Letters. Phone calls. Notes on his door. Showing up at his church and accidentally sitting in the same pew. If smart phones had been invented back then, this dear lady's number would have been blocked. Bless her heart.

A man in uniform. Who can resist?

Dad was eating lunch with Ivan one day at The San, and he explained his predicament. "This women left another note on my door. What's a fellow to do?"

Ivan said, "I've got two single, pretty sisters-in-law. Which one do you want to meet?"

I know this is what he said, because in the last few years of his life, Uncle Ivan had a smart phone, and he knew how to use it. He liked to call and tell me this story. If I wasn't available to take his call, he would leave the story in a message. Uncle Ivan's wife and my mother were sisters. They are all up on Mt. Scott now, and I really miss Ivan's phone calls.

Mom grew up in Portland and went to college in Walla Walla, Washington. She was ten years younger than Dad, but by the time they were 36 and 46 the age difference was no longer unsuitable.

According to a reliable source, she was engaged once, but it didn’t work out. She never mentioned this to me, but I do have an odd letter to Mom from an unknown person where the topic appears to be mentioned, carefully, in code. This was done on purpose, no doubt, in case a future snoopy daughter ever went through Mom's things.

Shirley Olson, a pretty lady, and not at all ignorant.

The version of the story I heard was this: She was engaged to a pre-med student, or was it a ministry major? Anyway, she went home with him to visit his parents one weekend, and when they got back, the wedding was off, but she didn’t ever say why. Hm. Mum’s the word.

When Ivan decided to play matchmaker, Mom was teaching elementary school in Condon, Oregon, so I guess she and Dad had a long distance courtship. Like Dad, it took Mom a while to get through college. She went through a two year program, then taught in a rural school where several grades were all in one room. She saved her teaching money, then returned to college to finish her bachelors degree.

When your parents are teachers, your English gets corrected on a regular basis, for all the good it did. Dad once corrected one of my letters home from college, in red pen, with circles and notes. Then he mailed it back. It was meant as a joke, I think, probably.

The Wedding

Bill and Shirley got married on Ivan's birthday, June, 2 1958, at Mt. Tabor Seventh-day Adventist Church. Ivan was the best man. Here they are. Ivan is fixing Dad's bow tie.

Ivan Whitehouse. Bill Carver. Bill's wedding 06/02/1958.

I shouldn't make fun of my family, but if I don't, somebody else will. What do you think of my step-grandmother's outfit? This cracks me up. It's not her fault. She was a slave to fashion. (My kids do the same thing to me when they see pictures from the 1980's. Can't imagine why.)



Elmer and Lorena Olson. Shirley and Bill Carver. 06/02/1958.

The Family

Bill and Shirley lived in the Portland area from 1957 to 1979. I was born in 1959. My brother was adopted in 1966. Here we are in 1969. I guess bow ties were still in style, and what was going on up there in my bangs?

Bill, Shirley, Nancy, David Carver. 1969.

David William Carver was wild and sweet and funny and cute. He was killed in an accident in 1971 at the age of five. He had just gotten his first pair of bell bottom pants, and we were coming off of a rollicking summer where we spent plenty of time running through the sprinkler in the lawn out back of the house. I was teaching him how to hit a softball. He had to choke up on the bat, but we were making progress. It was a privilege to have him as a brother, and I'm grateful for those five fun-filled years.

Losing him was very hard on my parents. I look back on the earlier generations and note how often they lost children. Dad says his mother was inconsolable after her son Ralph died, and then later two more of her children died of influenza on the same day. My mother's parents lost their first baby after just a few days and little John Thomas when he was just a toddler.  My heart goes out to all the parents, but I also admire their fortitude. They kept on. They took care of the rest of the kids. They survived.

Later On

In 1978 I decided to go to college in Tennessee. It was a long way from Portland, and I wanted to see another part of the country, so it sounded perfect. I would have moved back home after a couple of years, most likely, but the next year Mom and Dad decided to sell the house and move to Tennessee as well.

I think they needed the fresh start, to move away from the memories. They lived there for a number of years and had a great time exploring all the states on that side of the country. They drove to Florida, Alabama, Louisiana, Washington DC. They had more energy than I'd seen in a long time, more interest in life. I think these were good years for both of them.

Bull and Shirley Carver, 1981, Collegedale, TN

In 1984 they stopped to visit me in Atlanta, taking some time to play with their new grandson, who was three months old. They were headed to the mid-west to visit family and friends. In Topeka, Kansas on a dark rainy evening they got lost, and Dad pulled out in front of oncoming traffic. The police report says visibility was very poor, if that's any consolation. It wasn't much consolation to Dad.

We lost Mom that day, Friday, October 5, 1984. It was instant, and she felt no pain, nor do we think she had time to know anything was wrong, so we did find consolation in that. Dad was in intensive care in Topeka for a few days. Dad's brother Bob and wife Mildred drove down to stay with him, along with their daughter Betty. They were a great comfort.

Dad was resilient. He had a tough childhood by all accounts, yet when he told stories about his childhood, he always managed to find positive stories to tell. His nieces and nephews tell me that he was a cheerful young man. Several describe him as their favorite uncle. And after Mom died, he missed her very much, but he didn't wither away.

He stayed in touch with his church family, spent time with his grandchildren, and corresponded with relatives. He went to the local elementary school and told the children stories.

And, yes, once again several single ladies were very interested. But he shook his head and said, "A fellow will probably be in diapers pretty soon. One shouldn't marry under those circumstances."

He passed away in 1998 at the age of 88. Here he is with my kids in 1993. They adored their Grandpa, and he was pretty fond of them.

Bill Carver with grandchildren, 1993, Collegedale, TN

Keywords: IvanWhitehouse OrlandCarverJr ShirleyOlson

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