Spring would roll around and it would be time to put in the garden.
The little David Bradley walk behind tractor would be brought out and the hood tipped forward for the spark plug’s annual physical. Removed from the flat head Briggs engine dad would look at the plug, rub his fingers on the tip, then get out his pocket knife and scrape the contact areas. A pair of pliers would be enlisted to gap the plug with the exact distance between the two surfaces set through years of experience starting back with the Model T. The spark plug would be returned to the hole and then snugged down, stretching the threads just enough to hold it in place. It was time to “give ‘er a try”
This was not an easy task, because you had to understand and be able to operate a choke. “A choke you say?” Yes my dear readers, a choke. All the guys my age will understand what the hell a manual choke is. So…you advanced both the choke and the throttle by thumb activated cables located on the handle bars. Dangling from these same handle bars was the starter rope.
The starter rope was a nylon cord with a wooden handle on one end and a knot in the other. You had to carefully place the knot in the rounded slot, and then wind the cord around the shaft. Next you wrapped your fingers around the wooden handle and pulled with all your might. And then, if you had offended the gods, the engine would cough and send the shaft in the opposite direction ripping the wooden handle out of your fingers.
“Hey dad, can we use starter fluid or somethin’ This thing hasn’t run since last fall.”
“Run in the shop and get me the squirt can.”
Dear god I thought, not that.
I ran into the shop and found the oil squirt can. A really well built one from the 40s. Its cylinder was copper with silver bands around it and a levered pump handle. This one had one slight difference, it contained gasoline.
I walked back out and held it while dad opened the hood and took out the recently seated spark plug. One good shot of gasoline. Back went the plug. The wire twisted around the contact and the little smooth nut turned down to hold it in place.
I handed the cord to Dad. He wound the cord, put his foot on the tire, and spun the engine. Woof, cough, woof….spinnning….running…… Oh thank god it didn’t quit.
Once running, you could attach a variety of tools to drag behind it.
My dad would get the David Bradley all set up and running. He’d grab ahold of the handlebars, push the lever forward and cultivate the land. He’d wear a gray work shirt, white fedora had, blue jeans rolled up, and no shoes. He would navigate that tractor up and down the rows with a sublime look of a man satisfied with his place in the universe. He loved the feel of the fresh turned earth under his feet.
One of the things we all helped dad with was “hanging the net.” It was kind of a joke because instead of hanging a net, attaching the web to the lead and cork line, we hung an old net on a wire strung over post. This was my favorite garden vegetable, peas. By the end of summer the net would turn into a wall of green peas. I loved the peas, you could pop ‘em open and eat ‘em like candy.
We grew everything that I can imagine. We grew pumpkin, carrots, radish, beans and more things than I care to list. I had favorites. I loved the cucumbers and I loved the potatoes. I should say I logged digging the potatoes in the fall. It was like opening a present every time we dug a hill. I loved baking the potatoes either in the coals wrapped in tin foil or even in the oven. I’m here to tell you….that potato broken open fresh, slathered in home churned butter, and covered with fresh cracked dungeness crab we’re talkin’ bounty of the earth here brothers and sisters.
But the harvest time was also serious business. The men were often busy switching gear from salmon to crab and the women were canning. My aunts, Laura, June, some times Lil from Everett or May from Seattle would all wind up in the Walsh kitchen with pressure cookers and Mason and Ball jars.
Our shelves were full of canned vegetables and fruit. Dick and Laura had great purple prunes. Into the jar. They also had Bing and some type of black cherry trees. Into the jar. Everything from the garden, into the jar. Salmon, into the jar. Writing about it now, I look back in wonder. I guess thats why the hippy back to the soil movement didn’t seem so exotic to me as it seem to for other kids. Hell, I’d never left.
The culmination of the fall was our annual Thanksgiving dinner. One year it would be at the Amundson’s place, the next year at the Walsh’s place. The family would wander back from places like Thompson Falls, Montana and Queen Anne hill in Seattle. The great Stephanson Clan with a sprinkling of Walsh thrown in for spice.
Dick and Laura were ace in the kitchen and spun out meals that were both ample and delicious. All the stuff that you see in a Norman Rockwell painting plus some Seagrams 7 high balls. Kids were occasionally know to be allowed to drink watered down versions. I tried hard but I didn’t like the taste of whiskey. I guess gin hadn’t been on offer. But the one dish that graced our holidays that was very special was the vinarterta, the Icelandic celebration cake. This was always made by my gramma Disa and was her contribution to the feast.
Years later when I was teaching down in Marysville, the Rorick family, who had come from Blaine, brought me a vinarterta at Christmas. Ya know its kinda difficult to be a hard ass teacher with tears in your eyes.