SS Blackham
“I remember fondly your dad's farm. As I remember you hated it. Farm Chores! I remember the stories of the state prison escapees breaking into the farmhouse. Such Fun”
Steve Blackham was my first friend. I could turn up at his door through our backyard, and we were constant playmates until our teen years when we drifted into our own social circles. Recently Steve found my weekly Boosts and we have reconnected again after fifty years. He holds memories of a me from another time, when I was a rebellious and wayward boy. That is why his comments are so personally interesting.
I loved flying kites but was not particularly good at understanding the physics. I did know that kiting is best when the breeze is mild and the kite flies with ease, catching the currents and thermals like a tethered bird. You let the line out further and further knowing that the tether holds less and less influence. Anything can happen. The wind can take your kite into a tree or it can suddenly fail, sending the kite crashing down. The kite is a bird of sorts but unlike the bird, the kite cannot flex her wings to overcome gravity.
My first box kite came in a kit that I took with me one Saturday to our family farm near Bluffdale, Utah. At ten or eleven years old I was an unwilling participant in farm life. Saturdays we were expected to do our chores but all I could think about is how all my other city friends had the luxury of staying home for Saturday cartoons. Yes, I liked the land, the two canals, upper and lower that cut through the fields. I loved the barn and animals. And I particularly revered the wild Jordan River bordering the farm. What I did not like was being told what to do. That usually meant chores and work.
One of my father’s primary reasons for having the farm was to teach his kids about meaningful work. If you don’t feed the calf it will die. If you don’t irrigate the soil, the crops will wither and blow away. Thinking back, I don’t quite understand why the beauty of that reciprocal lesson did not make an impression on me. Life gives life. What is more meaningful than that?
But I didn’t get it. I was too caught up in the belief that I had been born without discipline and so stubbornly held on to whatever gleamed brightest in my eyes. It hurts to admit it but that was my attitude at school, in church and in our family. I was a wayward kid and I’m not sure how I survived it.
All I cared about that late spring day was how I would put my new box kite together and take it out in the fields away from all ensnaring trees and make that kite fly. I suppose I made false promises that I would complete my chores before flying the kite. That didn’t mean much.
I can almost see my father and brothers going off to complete a task leaving me with a simple assignment to clean a stall or grain a horse. But no, I got to work assembling my new box kite. When it was completed, I walked out to the big field just south of our modest farm house with a nice long spool of string.
The field had recently been plowed and the dark earth was still moist from spring rains. The furrows were beautifully sculpted, curved and smoothed by the sharp contour of the plow blade. I remember running up the row pulling the kite as it bumped along. It was a breezy day, probably stronger than ideal for kite flying but without much difficulty the kite took flight. The string pulled hard as the kite went upward. I let the string out, further and further. Then I spied a particularly fine furrow that was carved perfectly into the earth and I climbed in, reclined on the cool earth, sheltered from the cold wind and watched my box kite against the blue sky. It was perfect.
Too soon, I heard my father call my name. I knew I was in trouble but I believed I was invisible down in the plowed furrow. Just as I was feeling satisfied with my hiding place, Dad and my brother Roger peered down at me. Surprised to be discovered, I blurted out, “how did you find me?” My brother looked down disgustedly and said, “are you stupid or what? Don’t you know you are attached to your kite with a string?” I guess I didn’t think about that part. Just then there was a lull in the wind and my new box kite came crashing down, breaking apart on the newly plowed ground.
Yes, Steve, I hated chores. But I did learn a few things about life on that farm. My brothers and sisters learned the value of hard work. But oddly enough, I took in other truths from the farm. I’m the only one of my siblings who went on to make small scale agriculture a part of my life. My eldest brother, Joel, did earn a degree in Agriculture Economics but that meant an an office job with Utah-Idaho Sugar. It has been a tradition in my family for several generations to have one foot employed in the commerce of city life and one foot in crops and animal husbandry. I followed that path.
In retrospect, our family’s efforts at farming and raising animals were always haphazard. Teresa who comes from a multi-generational ranching family has always been torn by our attempts. She loves having livestock but the truth is that we don’t have the devotion it takes to get our fields in top shape because our lives are divided in so many directions. And we have decided, after a life of juggling, that we want to attend to things with more singular focus. After a decade with a small flock of sheep and a few summer steers, we are done. We’ve turned our sheep shelter into Teresa’s art storage.
Steve, do you remember in grade school when we vied to be the poorest students in class? We were two very independent boys and I believe that both of us took some pride in being renegades but also being way too smart for our own good.
We were very different sorts of boys, and it was purely proximity that made us friends. That waned as we got into high school. I regret we lost touch. I do know you are a gear-head. We share that love of fine vehicles. And you are learning a bit about my life through these weekly ramblings. I’m curious about yours.
I do want to thank you for all the adventures we shared in our youth. I’ll never forget your father, the icon of our neighborhood, Doc Blackham. He fixed our bikes. He was the Ward greeter. With our parents’ permission he practiced hypnotism on us. He was a quirky explorer of health and well-being, and questioned the theology around us. I never knew your mother and frankly, I was a bit afraid of her. It was an interesting neighborhood on the edge of the City of Zion.
You ended your comment by saying, “such fun.” I could hear you saying that phrase with a tinge of irony in your voice. So long ago, we were friends in our most formative years. Thank you for that.
We’ll, that certainly brought back memories of my misspent youth! Spent many formative days milking cows or goats, slopping pigs, fighting off the turkeys, gathering eggs, and, oh yes, forking shit.
I had the smallest hands, so I was designated to put my arm up Geri’s backside to turn the calf - an image and tactile experience I’ll die with.
Love the article and the fact that you connected with a past friend.
Many thoughts:
Your dad's farm has made me want to be a gentleman farmer all my life. Fond memories of chasing frogs on the Jordan and rats and Mice in the granary.
Lately, I've been thinking how lucky we were to be raised by a group of such great role models: Your dad, Warren, Lon Richardson, Allan Moffat, and especially Dave Horne. "It takes a village". Kid's today don't have the growing and learning experiences we had. Sadly!
The trips to Linder and Wood fostered my love of mechanics. Lon giving me a job at Gillhams got me into advertising and marketing. I always wanted to emulate Dave Horne and I did for a few decades as a home builder. Allan was such a sweet lovely man. We didn't grow up with one father. We had half a dozen or so!
We weren't dumb as kids. Just didn't fit the schedule. Remember the 5am early shifts at Elementary school. I'm a evening person. I don't even wake up until 10 am. That means I slept through elementary school and suffered for it later. Found out there is a medical reason for that and why I was so screwy as a kid.
Keep up with your prose. I enjoy reading them!
Blackie