Oh Jo, what a sad story, poor little Harry. I do envy you though spending some of your childhood on a farm, that was my dream when I was a small girl. We did have pigs about 10 years ago, just four at a time for meat, and like you I used to go down every day to tickle their bellies. I have since realised I would have made a useless farmer's wife!
Oh Jo, what a beautifully-recounted story. Harry was very special - you obviously meant as much to him as he did to you.
I grew up on a smallholding, and was very used to having to say goodbye to the lambs, piglets and geese who'd grown up alongside me. It was never easy, but I will be forever grateful for how and where I grew up. xxx
Thanks Rebecca, There was something so special about small holdings, the variety of farming and animals. This was in East Hertfordshire. There were lots when I was a child. They have all gone now, the land is too valuable and it is so expensive to run a small holding now. Xxxxx
I agree entirely about breaking down the city - country divide. I remember taking a group of kids from East London to a country holiday. I six year old was genuinely surprised when I explained that milk came from cows they saw in the fields. That was over 50 years ago, but I wonder if it is worse now. The amount of cattle in the fields is minuscule now.
I don’t think the attitude towards farmers by the authorities has changed looking at HS2 xxx
Here in Australia, the city-country divide is much the same, despite that commodity ads on TV show things like wool and milk coming from livestock. In our latest budget, agriculture got no assistance at all, climate change is rocking the boat fiercely and there's a high level of depression amongst farmers, although I confess to being shocked at the percentages in the UK when Jeremy Clarkson organised his Hotline for farmers in mental distress.
My childhood was lived on a 1/4 acre property in a bedroom community just west of Detroit.
We had a barn for our 3 horses with a haystack outside that was almost as high as the roof.
A line of smaller wooden shacks were attached to the back of the barn, heading west. One was a playhouse for my brother and me; another was a no longer in use outhouse. The one most important to me was a small chicken coop. It provided eggs for breakfast and hens for dinner.
One hen became my pet. A beautiful round white chicken I named Henrietta Hen. I guess I was around 6 or 7. I would gather Henrietta up in my arms and sit, holding her on my lap, for hours while she made soft chicken sounds of appreciation while I smoothed the feathers on her back.
Jo, I'm pretty sure I shared this with you early on in our sharing of stories. Now that you have more friends I wanted to share with them as well. The tragic side is coming right up.
One morning I went out and Henrietta was nowhere to be found. I was frantic. I stayed inside the rest of the day, depressed.
Dinner time was coming up. I went down to the table and saw Henrietta on a serving platter. My dad had murdered her by holding her by the neck and swinging her around until she died.
I backed away from the table and ran up the stairs, dad behind me telling me to get back down there and eat. I kept running and yelled at him, "Shut up you old fart! I hate you!"
Dad stopped and softly said, "Yes, I know you hate me."
Dad died of colon cancer when I was 10. I had forgiven him for Henrietta's death but I shall never forgive myself for telling my father I hated him.
My dad did understand. At that point in our lives Ma and Dad had nothing left of their relationship. Ma was working on turning my brother and me against Dad and was succeeding. I never did truly hate him. I actually felt sorry for him except for the Henrietta incident.
Charlotte's Web was my favorite book when small, and you had your own little Wilbur. That story and your post were all about life and death and love. Thanks so much, and big hugs.
I think sometimes we wish things will stay the same forever, like our friend Harry and the farm, but inevitably change happens, whether we like it or not.
What we can do is treasure the memories. No one can take that away from us. 💕
Oh Jo, what a sad story, poor little Harry. I do envy you though spending some of your childhood on a farm, that was my dream when I was a small girl. We did have pigs about 10 years ago, just four at a time for meat, and like you I used to go down every day to tickle their bellies. I have since realised I would have made a useless farmer's wife!
Living on a farm, even for a small amount of time was wonderful. I was around farm animals a lot as a child. Sadly, it is so very different now 😢xx
Oh Jo, what a beautifully-recounted story. Harry was very special - you obviously meant as much to him as he did to you.
I grew up on a smallholding, and was very used to having to say goodbye to the lambs, piglets and geese who'd grown up alongside me. It was never easy, but I will be forever grateful for how and where I grew up. xxx
Thanks Rebecca, There was something so special about small holdings, the variety of farming and animals. This was in East Hertfordshire. There were lots when I was a child. They have all gone now, the land is too valuable and it is so expensive to run a small holding now. Xxxxx
It's because of the charming innocence of pigs, lambs and calves that I can no longer eat meat. And my husband and I are farmers!
Poor little Harry - I hate the thought of him pining. My heart breaks too, for Jim and Sylvia. How shabbily they were treated by the government.
But I'm pleased you had the farming experience during your childhood - it's so important to break down that wide city-country divide.
I agree entirely about breaking down the city - country divide. I remember taking a group of kids from East London to a country holiday. I six year old was genuinely surprised when I explained that milk came from cows they saw in the fields. That was over 50 years ago, but I wonder if it is worse now. The amount of cattle in the fields is minuscule now.
I don’t think the attitude towards farmers by the authorities has changed looking at HS2 xxx
Here in Australia, the city-country divide is much the same, despite that commodity ads on TV show things like wool and milk coming from livestock. In our latest budget, agriculture got no assistance at all, climate change is rocking the boat fiercely and there's a high level of depression amongst farmers, although I confess to being shocked at the percentages in the UK when Jeremy Clarkson organised his Hotline for farmers in mental distress.
My childhood was lived on a 1/4 acre property in a bedroom community just west of Detroit.
We had a barn for our 3 horses with a haystack outside that was almost as high as the roof.
A line of smaller wooden shacks were attached to the back of the barn, heading west. One was a playhouse for my brother and me; another was a no longer in use outhouse. The one most important to me was a small chicken coop. It provided eggs for breakfast and hens for dinner.
One hen became my pet. A beautiful round white chicken I named Henrietta Hen. I guess I was around 6 or 7. I would gather Henrietta up in my arms and sit, holding her on my lap, for hours while she made soft chicken sounds of appreciation while I smoothed the feathers on her back.
Jo, I'm pretty sure I shared this with you early on in our sharing of stories. Now that you have more friends I wanted to share with them as well. The tragic side is coming right up.
One morning I went out and Henrietta was nowhere to be found. I was frantic. I stayed inside the rest of the day, depressed.
Dinner time was coming up. I went down to the table and saw Henrietta on a serving platter. My dad had murdered her by holding her by the neck and swinging her around until she died.
I backed away from the table and ran up the stairs, dad behind me telling me to get back down there and eat. I kept running and yelled at him, "Shut up you old fart! I hate you!"
Dad stopped and softly said, "Yes, I know you hate me."
Dad died of colon cancer when I was 10. I had forgiven him for Henrietta's death but I shall never forgive myself for telling my father I hated him.
Gotta go. Blinded by tears.
Richard La France
You were only a child Richard. Could your Dad have understood why you hated him in that second. Children are so literal at that age ❤️
My dad did understand. At that point in our lives Ma and Dad had nothing left of their relationship. Ma was working on turning my brother and me against Dad and was succeeding. I never did truly hate him. I actually felt sorry for him except for the Henrietta incident.
Oh, Richard. I'm so very sorry about Henrietta, and your dad.
Charlotte's Web was my favorite book when small, and you had your own little Wilbur. That story and your post were all about life and death and love. Thanks so much, and big hugs.
I am glad it brought back memories of a loved book. Xx
Lovely story . I’ve always loved pigs and sheepdogs xx
There is something so charming about pigs, and dogs like Flo xxx
A lovely trip down your memory lane.
Thank you Rosy xx
I think sometimes we wish things will stay the same forever, like our friend Harry and the farm, but inevitably change happens, whether we like it or not.
What we can do is treasure the memories. No one can take that away from us. 💕
Thank you for sharing your memories with us xx