A Trip to the Farm

If there was one thing the whole brood of children liked to do, it was to visit our Uncle George. He was our link to the country; and during those years West Warwick was quite rural.  We would pile into the car occupying every inch of available space. Sometimes I would squeeze my body on the ledge of the back seat window and watch the country roads from a somewhat side perspective.  There were signs we were on the lookout for and one of them was a small unpretentious bulletin board that announced Wrights Turkey Farm. That is where we turned down the winding road to our uncle's house.

Once there we sprang from the car like jumping jacks and headed for the apple tree. It had branches close to the ground and was loaded with green, wormy apples, free for the taking. How impressive. Then dad would call us into formation and we would make our way to the side of the farm house. It was a two story house with the mother-in-law living downstairs and our dear Uncle George and his wife Eva living upstairs. The stairs were very rudimentary, unpolished, raw wood. Dad would go first and had very heavy steps. All ten of us climbed the steps in unison which made us children giggle. Our arrival was duly announced before we knocked on that rustic, knotted door.

As soon as we entered there was a blast of warm air coming from the black top stove. We filled that little four room apartment to the brim like water in a teapot. Our dad immediately suggested we go out and play and we bulleted out of the house faster than he could finish the sentence.

There were hens, and cows, and gardens with corn and string beans, and tomatoes, and everything you saw in a grocery store, but unpackaged. I was fascinated by the hens laying eggs in the hay and got to retrieve some to bring upstairs. The boys mostly ran, playing tag, roughhousing, and seeking any adventure that had not been precisely forbidden. We climbed the apple tree and ate more of those green apples than I care to admit, usually resulting in a stomach ache. There were loads of rotten apples on the ground and we had apple wars. We got delightfully, deliciously, unabashedly dirty.

Upstairs Aunty set about toasting white bead on the black top. To be a guest is such a treat and that toasted bread was doled out to all of us and we received it with great satisfaction. There was fresh milk, and we usually took our bounty to the front porch to eat it. There was barely enough elbow room to stay indoors.

One cousin, who was quite shy, would always be in the corner of the living room, stringing on a guitar. It sounded like a warm up to me and I kept waiting for him to get the main attraction. As far as I remember, he never did.

Bu the time we left we were so tired out, we barely talked. We had the sweet earthy smell of sweat all over us, the dirt and apple remnants adorned our body and gave testimony to the wonderful time we had.