Beyond traumatic childhood

Last week I decided that many readers of my column have never had an opportunity to learn about my traumatic early childhood. So, I explained how some of my childhood trials and tribulations helped shape and direct my trajectory through my long life.

This week, I’m gonna expound and expand on some more Yield family history and its impact on me as I headed into adulthood. Here’s more of that history.

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Like most teenage boys, I aspired to appear “manly.” And, back in the late 1950s, being “manly” wuz best demonstrated by smoking cigarettes. Problem was, I knew full well that my pappy, Czar E. Yield, would think unkindly on that tobacco-inspired manliness, so I decided to take the stealth track to my manly goal.

So, I filched a new pack of cigarettes from an older neighbor’s stash and headed out behind the barn on the Yield homestead to give the nicotine vice a first try. I tore open the pack and with shaking eager fingers lit my first cigarette and took a big ol’ puff. I didn’t inhale, but blew a satisfying cloud of smoke into the air.

Alas, that proved to be my undoing. That cigarette smoke wafted into the air and around the barn right into the nostrils of dear ol’ Czar. Of course, he just followed his nose and caught me red-handed. 

I thought my goose wuz cooked and I expected him to give me a thorough thrashing with his belt. But, to my surprise, Czar merely smiled knowingly and said, “Well, Milo, since you’ve gotten old enuf to enjoy your first cigarette, you’ll really enjoy smoking a lot of them, and inhaling, too. So, we’ll sit here in the shade and I’ll light ’em up for you to enjoy as long as you like.”

And, that’s what happened. He insisted I smoke, and inhale, one after another and he assisted me by lighting each one. After a few, I began to feel lightheaded. After a few more, I began to feel sick. After a few more, I vomited. That’s when I rasped, “No more! I don’t want another cigarette for the rest of my life.” And, that’s the way we left the incident.

And, within a few years, I realized how lucky I wuz that ol’ Czar had caught me enjoying my first cigarette. But, I didn’t feel lucky because he’d kept me from tobacco addiction. I just felt lucky that he didn’t catch me out behind the barn with my first girlfriend. If he had, I probably would have lived a celibate life from then on.

***

As an older teenager, I learned a solid lesson in marital interaction from my folks. The one marriage lesson that really sunk into my psyche happened during a particularly bad winter. The snow got so deep on our farm that the best way of travel wuz by horse-drawn sleigh. 

We owned a scrawny team of work horses that Czar hooked to the sleigh. The team wuzn’t much to look at, but the horses were well broke and tough.

One day, Czar and mom were headed to town and insisted I ride with them to help carry the groceries and feed bags. On the way to town, Czar suggested that we stop at the Smith farm for a short visit. Mom suggested we stop at the Jones farm instead. So, we stopped at the Jones’ place.

When we hit the road again, Czar suggested we stop at the Browns for awhile. Mom, suggested that the Johnsons would be a better choice. So, after a few heated words, Czar pulled the team into the Johnson farmstead.

When we hit the road once more, Czar suggested a stop at the Olsons and Mom insisted on stopping at the Bensons. That’s when a full bore argument heated up between them. And, we didn’t stop at either place and Czar just headed straight for town.

Before long Mom coldly mentioned to Czar, “We could learn something from our team. Just look at our horses. They aren’t biting or kicking, sulking or acting up. They are quietly pulling together and getting their job done. It looks to me that you and I should be able to have a relationship as good as those horses. What do you say?”

Czar scowled at Mom and replied, “Well, it’s pretty easy to see why those horses are getting along better than you and me. It’s becuz there ain’t but one tongue between them!”

***

Growing up on a diversified farm in southeast Kansas let me observe a lot about agriculture in general. Some of what I learned wuz good, and much of it wuz questionable.

For instance, ol’ Czar raised what he called Red Cross beef cattle. It took me awhile to understand why he named them that. It wuz becuz it wuz a disaster the way he managed them and those cattle always look like they needed relief.

***

I observed a neighbor whose beef management style wuz unique to say the least. One day I wuz helping him work his calves and they were wilder than March hares. 

The neighbor explained to me, “I always try to raise wild cattle. The wilder the better. I breed my wildest heifers to wild bulls to get lots of hybrid vigor at calving time. I always figure it’s more profitable to say ‘there they go’ than ‘there they lay.'”

That same neighbor named his best bull Chevy because each year his calves turn out a couple of inches longer, an inch wider, and with much-improved performance. 

***

My words of wisdom for the week are: “You’ve got a vision problem when you can’t see yourself doing anything productive anymore.”

And, “The best advice I’ve ever received is, ‘No one else knows what they’re doing either.'”

Have a good ‘un