Claude Eddleman Farm (1939-1958)

The Neighbors

One of my favorite neighbors was Wib' (Wilbur) Wiser. He was single all his life and lived on the farm south of us. That farm was owned by Bill Everdon and his wife Sarah whose two daughters married and moved away during WWII. Wib was Sarah's brother and helped with haymaking, cutting corn, and shocking wheat, but not the routine farm work such as milking the cows. In return he had a room upstairs and his meals. Sarah's other brother was Albert and he never married, but he worked year-round on another farm a mile away where he did all the work. Albert walked across your field every Sunday for Sunday dinner with his brother and sister. He must have been a shy man for he walked the fields to the Archibald farm where he worked, but it would have been a quarter mile closer to walk on the asphalt highway which had very few cars and I walked regularly as a six-year old.

The worst chapter in Wib's life began one day when he returned from cutting wheat and found a draft notice for World War I. He served in Europe and never spoke of the ordeal, but everyone knew the story of how is was lying outside a hospital with all the dead wounded and someone came in and said, "I think one of them may be alive." Medical aid began and Wib survived. Wib was the one to call when you need some hired help at any farm job. While Dad and Bill Everdon ran the wheat binder, Wib and I shocked the sheaves. In fact, Wib found the binder for us. He had followed it (shocked sheaves) at a farm a few miles away and knew it did excellent tying and was for sale.

I spend a few days every year working with Wib shocking wheat, setting fence posts, and pitching hay. Two men working together, using lightweight hayforks, could swing an entire small haystack up over their heads onto a hayrack while the team driver placed it and drove the team to the next haystack, usually by voice commands to the horses. It was hard work, and the scratchy hay fell down your shirt collars and the sweat was streaming down, but occassionally a breeze offered a little relief. Still I enjoyed those those days for Wib had lots of interesting tales to tell--mostly about hunting, working with his fox hounds, or working on some distant farm (2 or 3 miles).

    Our pet Crow

Wib spent most of his free time hunting, in season, or running his two fox hounds. The three would set out on foot for fox city. I listened eagerly to his tales of seeing a fox, for I had never seen one and seeing a fox, our largest wild animal, seemed the most unusual thing one could hope to attain. Once I had a pet crow and Wib suggested the pet crow would decoy wild crows within shotgun distance. I eagerly agreed but never heard any more from him. A few days later, Wib showed up saying the rain shower that had just passed overheard would make good crow hunting weather. Yesterday we had just such a rain shower and I could heard crows calling and I remembered that day of 50 years ago. We proceeded to the border of a woods. I tied the pet crow by his leg to a stake and he struggled to free himself. Wib made the distress call of a crow and the sky soon filled with a dozen circling crows. I had never seen so many crows so close. Clearly Wib knew a thing or two about crows and most other animals. One of my favorite times was trying to catch cottontail rabbits as the field of wheat was almost all cut and the binder was making last passes across the field and the rabbits if any were present had to strike across the open field for the fence row cover. Sometimes I caught one, Wib enjoyed watching the chase and had spend much of the day psyching me up for the chase just as a coach does before a big game.

A few times each year, Wib just dropped by to spin yarns with dad. One would tell a hunting story and then the other would try to top it. All the stories were true and I had heard most of them before. Dad told of a day forty years earlier when he went hunting with his young pup. The pup was chasing a rabbit across the field of view. Dad fired with leading windage, he missed the rabbit, but the dog dropped yelling in pain. Dad was a good shot and how could he shoot his own dog. He quickly arrived beside the dog to offer any aid possible, but found no blood or damage, yet the pup was unable to stand and in deep pain. Then Dad noticed dog hair on the base of a small tree 6 feet back on the path. The pup had hit the tree with his shoulder. Dad said he could never again get the pup to chase a rabbit.

to be continued.

to be continued.

Suggestions, corrections, and comments are appreciated: Contact Harold Eddleman indbio@disknet.com