I believe in child labor.
I am a farm girl, the oldest of five, and I have always had a fervent commitment to equal rights (even as a young girl), which meant that I had to work right along with the the men (and boys) on the farm. That commitment, I am sure, came from the reality that in our home, there was no distinction between women's work and men's work. Chores were a constant need, ever incomplete, and when they needed to be done, we all had to do them--regardless of age or gender.
One chore that everyone disliked was de-beaking turkeys. When poults were a couple of weeks old, their top beaks had to be partially removed for future protection: turkeys have a tendency to peck each other violently as they grow, to the point of death, so debeaking is a preventative and protective measure. Turkeys also subscribe to herd mentality, so when one starts pecking something, its peers join in. We needed a big crew to debeak thousands of turkeys in a single session, so my grandpa and uncles and cousins came to help. The smaller kids herded turkeys into small pens and then the debeaking crew stepped in and snipped beaks (using dog nail clippers) while the penning crew got another group ready. It was all perfectly orchestrated for maximum efficiency.
I was pretty proud when I advanced from the herding crew to the debeaking crew. My first time, though, I was a little reticent. The turkeys squirmed, the clamping down of the clippers required force as the material and shape of the beak resisted, the beaks bled, and the turkeys stumbled around dazed and confused when we set them down. I was also nervous because I had been warned repeatedly about the importance of cutting in exactly the right spot: a millimeter too short and the turkey's breathing would be stifled; a millimeter too long and it could still be used as a weapon, defying the purpose. Grandpa, the patriarch, took it upon himself to inspect each team member's accuracy, and he was not shy about pointing out error.
I got pretty fast (because I got plenty of practice) and I ended up hiring myself out to other farmers. My goal was always to be as fast and accurate as my mother, who held the title of most proficient debeaker.
Another farm chore that had to be done was feed transportation. We had an enormous ten-ton bulk truck, and when turkeys were large, we often needed to haul more than one load a day. My mom and dad didn't get off work until 5:00 pm, it took a half hour to get to the feed mill, and the feed company closed at 6:00 pm, which made it difficult for them to get and unload what they needed, especially when they needed more than one load. The minute I could legally drive, I was seen as a solution. They would send my sister and me for a load of feed after school.
I could reach the pedals if I stood, resting only about an inch of my behind on the seat. The gear shifter was as long as my leg and it required the strength of both my arms and most of my back to shift gears. The steering wheel, also enormous, required my full strength to move. Kelly provided coaching, moral support, and two extra arms for shifting as I fought with all my might to drive that beast.
My friends often laughed when they passed us. They joked at school that I was standing on the seat steering the beast while Kelly sat on the floor working the pedals. We truly were tackling a job that was physically bigger than the both of us.
While I remember complaining about how hard I had to work (a lot), I'm certain no child labor laws were violated. I'm also certain that my mantra, "no job is too large," was nurtured in those turkey sheds and on the road behind the wheel of that big bulk truck.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Sunday, June 19, 2016
My Dad
Today is Father's Day, which is the day that we as a nation collectively honor fathers. While I often hear women speak negatively about the hype surrounding Mother's Day and its propensity to make them feel inadequate, I do believe one day a year devoted to gratitude for mothers and fathers is symbolic of the bedrock of our national values: the family.
In my religion, we teach that families were organized in the pre-existence and that we had some say in that organization. I'm certain, knowing me, that if I did have a say I carefully chose my parents, both of whom are well deserving of at least one day of celebration a year--today I devote this piece to my dad.
When I try to focus on specific memories with my father that are indicative of the kind of father he is and the depth of our bond, the specifics are blurred. Instead I am drawn to a general but overwhelming feeling of love, support, tenderness, and trust. I have always known I was the favorite child--the fact each of my siblings makes the same claim is indicative of the kind of father he is.
(I'm still working on a transition here, so just throw one in!)
One summer not long after Mitch and I married, we took a family trip to visit relatives in St. George. My dad and his brothers grew up on a farm and share a passion for horses. My uncle has a small horse ranch and he decided to take us on a family ride. Now, I don't like horses much; I didn't ever inherit or absorb the passion my dad and his brothers share. Perhaps that is a result of a throw we took when we were small: both of my sisters and I were riding with my father when the horse was spooked and before we knew it, we hit the ground hard, despite my father's attempts to somehow catch all three of us and soften the fall. I also knew that his attempt to protect us had actually prevented him from protecting himself as I watched him mask pain the next few days. I have been afraid of horses since that day. Consequently, I wasn't all that excited about my uncle announcing a family ride. However, I also struggle a bit with pride. I refused to voice my trepidation and somehow admit weakness or incompetence, so I jumped on a horse behind my husband (and behind the saddle).
Things were going fine until we headed up a hill. The horse we were on decided to pick up his pace and trot. The gait was bouncy enough that I was soon struggling to stay astride. Since I was seated essentially bareback behind the saddle (the widest part of the horse), I had no stirrups nor saddle horn to brace myself, so my only recourse was to wrap my arms around Mitch and hold on for dear life. Each time I came down on the horse, he took what felt like a leap and I was thrown back into the air. By the time we reached the top, my arms were wrapped around Mitch, my belly was flush against the horse's rump, and my legs were flailing behind the horse in sync with its bouncing tail. It seemed that the harder I held on, the harder the horse tried to rid himself of whatever it was bouncing up and down on his hindquarters. Needless to say, I was terrified. When we came to a stop, my uncle asked if I was alright. I sheepishly replied that I wanted to switch horses and ride with my dad.
It is, perhaps, the biggest insult I have ever hurled at my husband, but also indicative of the trust I have in my father. I'm nearly 50 years old and still when I need support, I turn to my dad; when I need praise, I call my dad; when I need advice, I ask my dad. While I'm always grateful for my dad, Father's Day gives me a little extra push to express it, a little reminder to pause and reflect.
To celebrate this year, I plan to tell my dad how much he means to me. Afterwards, I also plan to ask for a bit of advice.
Written Father's Day 2015
In my religion, we teach that families were organized in the pre-existence and that we had some say in that organization. I'm certain, knowing me, that if I did have a say I carefully chose my parents, both of whom are well deserving of at least one day of celebration a year--today I devote this piece to my dad.
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| The Larsen Family Circa 1968 |
When I try to focus on specific memories with my father that are indicative of the kind of father he is and the depth of our bond, the specifics are blurred. Instead I am drawn to a general but overwhelming feeling of love, support, tenderness, and trust. I have always known I was the favorite child--the fact each of my siblings makes the same claim is indicative of the kind of father he is.
(I'm still working on a transition here, so just throw one in!)
One summer not long after Mitch and I married, we took a family trip to visit relatives in St. George. My dad and his brothers grew up on a farm and share a passion for horses. My uncle has a small horse ranch and he decided to take us on a family ride. Now, I don't like horses much; I didn't ever inherit or absorb the passion my dad and his brothers share. Perhaps that is a result of a throw we took when we were small: both of my sisters and I were riding with my father when the horse was spooked and before we knew it, we hit the ground hard, despite my father's attempts to somehow catch all three of us and soften the fall. I also knew that his attempt to protect us had actually prevented him from protecting himself as I watched him mask pain the next few days. I have been afraid of horses since that day. Consequently, I wasn't all that excited about my uncle announcing a family ride. However, I also struggle a bit with pride. I refused to voice my trepidation and somehow admit weakness or incompetence, so I jumped on a horse behind my husband (and behind the saddle).
Things were going fine until we headed up a hill. The horse we were on decided to pick up his pace and trot. The gait was bouncy enough that I was soon struggling to stay astride. Since I was seated essentially bareback behind the saddle (the widest part of the horse), I had no stirrups nor saddle horn to brace myself, so my only recourse was to wrap my arms around Mitch and hold on for dear life. Each time I came down on the horse, he took what felt like a leap and I was thrown back into the air. By the time we reached the top, my arms were wrapped around Mitch, my belly was flush against the horse's rump, and my legs were flailing behind the horse in sync with its bouncing tail. It seemed that the harder I held on, the harder the horse tried to rid himself of whatever it was bouncing up and down on his hindquarters. Needless to say, I was terrified. When we came to a stop, my uncle asked if I was alright. I sheepishly replied that I wanted to switch horses and ride with my dad.
It is, perhaps, the biggest insult I have ever hurled at my husband, but also indicative of the trust I have in my father. I'm nearly 50 years old and still when I need support, I turn to my dad; when I need praise, I call my dad; when I need advice, I ask my dad. While I'm always grateful for my dad, Father's Day gives me a little extra push to express it, a little reminder to pause and reflect.
To celebrate this year, I plan to tell my dad how much he means to me. Afterwards, I also plan to ask for a bit of advice.
Written Father's Day 2015
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