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!
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.
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.
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
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!
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.
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
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.
Lovely story . I’ve always loved pigs and sheepdogs xx
A lovely trip down your memory lane.
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