We were taught that our family should work together to make a more abundant life for all in the family, and now I was beginning to see families working and playing together to bring a better life to all in the community.
The Stevens family lived about a mile from us and one day one of the boys got married. The whole neighborhood knew that the newlyweds were spending the night there at his parents' home.
I was only about nine years old, and I can't remember much about that one and only chivaree I ever attended. In fact, I don't think there was much to remember about it. But when they explained to me just how a chivaree was carried on, naturally I wanted in on the action. Any country kid could beat a bucket with a stick. And it seemed that all the little kids and big kids and grow people were there with buckets and pans and sticks.
We waited until all the lights were out in the Stevens' house. Then we silently surrounded the house and when the signal was given we all marched around the house drumming up all the noise we could make.
After a few minutes, someone came out of the house with a lighted kerosene lantern. Then the newlyweds came out on the porch. I suppose they figured we wouldn't go away until they came out. The groom came out into the yard and said something like, "Ah, come on that's enough noise, leave us alone." The older ones in our bunch exchanged a few friendly words with them and then we all told them goodnight and went home.
Like all farm families, we had animals. And when a cow found a new calf out in our pasture, one or the other of us kids would claim it for our own. We would beg, "Papa, can I have it?" or, "Mama, can it be mine?" Yes, they said it could be ours. And so, it belonged to one of us kids.
Just about everyone of us had a calf or a colt all our own—until it came time to sell it. Then guess whose it became. Papa's, naturally. But then, those of us who were young enough to believe it was really ours in the first place, were young enough to forget our loss easily. After all, there was no harm done. It had been ours while it was little and cute.
We had one old mare that we called Old Ribbon. She was not only called Old Ribbon, she was old and her name was Ribbon. She was gentle and slow and patient with us young ones and didn't seem to mind if four or five of us rode her at one time.
To get up on Old Ribbon we had to lead her up beside a stump or a tub or a wagon tongue or something else we could climb up on and then jump on her back.
Along with her other admirable characteristics, Old Ribbon was also smart. When she didn't want us to climb up on her, she would move away just far enough that, when we tried to jump on her back, we would land on the ground between her and whatever it was we jumped from.