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Memories of Grandfather and the Farm
By Bob
Chubon
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Regrettably, my only memory of granddad (Peter) is
from the time of his funeral. He was laid out in the
living room of the farmhouse as was still a common
practice in those days. I was about five years old, and
for us kids, it seemed like a festive occasion. Seeing
relatives was a special treat as travel was difficult,
and visiting infrequent. Granddad's death was a truly
momentous happening insofar as the family was concerned.
Because it was at the time of America's entry into World
War II, military recruitment and drafting were at a
frenzied pace. Virtually every young man was being
pressed into service. With all of Peter's sons enlisting
except Peter Jr. (my father), there was no one else left
to care for the farm. So we moved from Bradford, where
dad was as a molder in a foundry that made engine
blocks, pump housings, and other castings for
submarines, which was why he was not drafted or
permitted to enlist. So dad spent the war years working
the night shift at the foundry and maintaining the farm
during the day. He was fortunate to have a dear friend
and neighbor, Frank Bergman, to commute with him because
the trip to Bradford was quite arduous in those days,
especially during the winter.
Taking up
residence on the farm was fortuitous, in a sense,
because I learned a lot about granddad's lifestyle.
Although the house had electric lights, there were no
modern conveniences. In fact, despite the electric
lights, the original gas lights were still in place and
functional. The kitchen contained a large cast iron gas
cooking range, which was used for heating water, as
well. The heated water was sometimes used for bathing,
which was done in a large metal tub brought into the
kitchen. A pitcher pump was mounted to the sink attached
to a wall and drew water from the nearby spring house. I
still have memories of dad thawing the frozen water pipe
with a blow torch during the often sub-zero winter
weather.
The house was heated by three coal-fired
pot belly stoves located in the kitchen, living-room,
and upstairs common area. To survive the cold winter
nights, the beds were fitted with "feather ticks," that
is, hand-made natural down-filled comforters, that were
6-12 inches thick. There was a traditional country
outhouse, but also, each bedroom was equipped with a
porcelain finished pot for nighttime relief. The cellar
had a coal bin, root cellar, and a storage area for
canned goods. The root cellar also contained barrels for
vinegar and cider. Granddad and his Slovak friends often
got together and played pinochle and drank hard cider.
Granddad's death and the subsequent move to the farm
resulted in some insights about his life that I feel
privileged to hold. However, his death has left its
share of painful memories, as well. Unfortunately, he
died intestate, that is, without a will. When the war
ended and the family gathered to settle the estate, as
so often happens in such situations, disagreements
arose. The disagreements quickly inflated into a major
family feud that ultimately had to be reconciled in
court. The outcome was that the farm was put up for sale
and eventually purchased by the Trulick family. So after
a five-year stay, in 1948 we moved up the road and could
only watch granddad's place weather and change. In
closing, I am comforted by the fact that, although it
took decades, the family feud has finally been laid to
rest. And that leads to an incidental lesson I learned
about Slovaks from the experience: They sure can hold a
grudge!
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