Across the road from my grandmother’s farmhouse, stood a weathered barn. It was used for storage of broken farm equipment and all large items that had to be saved for reasons only God and Depression survivors knew. When I was young, hay was stored on the upper floor. I’m not sure why this mowed grass was kept, but I do recall joyfully riding, with my cousins, on a tractor-pulled, hay wagon during cutting season. We were strictly forbidden to climb the rickety ladder and hide in the collected hay. We usually obeyed. Only our heads would poke above the loft’s floor, with a hope of seeing some hidden surprise.
A farm is supposed to have farm animals. My grandmother’s farm probably had them once-upon-a-time. My memories of them may very well be false or ones based upon old photos. There is a snapshot of my father riding a cow. I’m sure his mother-in-law objected to that action. I also vaguely recall a pig and piglets in a pen behind the barn, a site at the bottom of a mound upon which the barn had been built to make it level with the road in front of it. There was also a chicken coop, although it may have been the home for what would later be called “free-range” birds. No cows, pigs or chickens lived on the farm when I resided there for a year. Only the dogs remained.
There was “Blackie,” a vicious Doberman-pincher controlled only by my grandmother, and, if there was an emergency, by my father. Blackie was chained outside the door to the barn. No one would dare get too close. However, if you timed it well, you could run into the barn while he stood barking and snarling at the full limit of his chain. It broke only a few times when we lived there.
My grandmother’s dog was “Mickey.” His breed was indeterminate. He was less than half the size of Blackie. He had semi-curly hair with a color ranging from dirty-white to yellow or grey. He had an upturned tail constantly in motion. Mickey could be petted, but he was always my grandmother’s dog.
Then there was “Duke.” He was my dog. He came to the farm as a cuddly brown and white collie, who grew up to look like “Lassie,” really a “Laddie,” as had been the original movie star. Duke and I explored the land around the farm. We took long walks through the back fields and undergrowth in the surrounding woods that led to an old stone-quarry. We sat and played near a stream separating the trees and the quarry. In midsummer the water might disappear, but even when it was gurgling past, the width was only a few feet at best, sufficient to keep Duke busy and happy chasing floating leaves and sticks.
Occasionally, we entered the nearby mine that once supplied coal for my grandfather’s use. A small railroad cart still remained, rusted onto its original rails from which it could not be budged. The larger coal and iron mines of Mineral Ridge had long ago been played out. Only symbolic sites in danger of collapse remained. We could not venture far into the mine which had been closed by an earlier cave-in. It was pleasant to daydream outside, on a warm, summer afternoon. We always returned home in time for dinner.
Sometimes we were joined by “Boots.” She was my kitten, who grew into a non-curious cat. Her body and head were deep black, except for a white face. She had four white paws that gave her the classical feline name. She preferred to ride on my shoulder or, when she was a small kitten, on the top of my head. Usually, she did not come on adventures with Duke and me, but if she were in the right mood, she might tag along looking for field mice.
Duke and Boots, as well as Mickey, were outdoors inhabitants. Duke and Mickey had their own doghouses. Boots would find a comfortable spot in the summerhouse and sometimes would be joined by her canine friends. They all knew that Blackie had his own, limited territory all to himself.
I’m not sure what happened to Duke or to Boots. She did not show up for dinner one evening toward the end of my year on the farm. When I moved back to the old neighborhood in Niles, Duke remained on the farm. Not too long after the move, I was told he had run away. Like the origin of the stag’s head in my grandmother’s front parlor, the story was never confirmed. He still roams through my memory where he frolics in a stream we once shared on warm, summer afternoons.