Farm life on the midwestern prairie was rough in the thirties. This single picture conveys a lot about the hardships of Nebraska farm life.
Take a look at that massive pile of chopped wood, but also notice the background. See any trees? Hmmm, is this cause-and-affect or another mystery?
I wonder how long that pile of neatly-stacked wood lasted assuming that was their only source of heat. Probably not a lifetime supply, so where would the next pile of wood come from? Maybe they knew something about global warming and didn’t worry about it.
I love the fancy border around this old photo, gives it a lot of character. So does the writing on the back, naming my two uncles and their dog, Pootsie. Pootsie? Seriously? Pootsie doesn’t sound like a rough-and-tumble farm dog. Sounds more like an ankle-biting Chihuahua carried around in some Diva’s purse! Every dog I remember at Grandpa’s farm was named “Rex”. He was always big enough to look me right in the eye, owned the farmyard and shared it with no one, had a deep low voice and was very smart … he could speak his own name every time you came down the lane, “rrrrRex! rrrr,Rex! Rex ! Rex! Rex!” He wagged his tail a lot, pretending to like you, but that was just to get close enough to bite your head off.
I loved going to the farm.
Thought for the Day: If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of influence, try orderin’ someone else’s dog around. Old Farmer’s Advice