From the age of eight, I had a longing for the outdoors. A feeling like successful business men get, around the age of fifty, and become a gentlemen farmer. I didn't aim that high for obvious reasons. Charles Tamplin, my father-in-law had been a farmer, and he worked at the Briggs factory in Detroit. He always had a feeling of wanting to get back to nature. We got together and decided to buy a farm and he was to farm it with my help on weekends and holidays. As I was an artist, I wanted lots of hills, valleys and easel subjects and he wanted good farm land which means a flat place with some water and a good barn. We did a lot of looking and I found that a swayback barn was ideal for an artist, but a farmer didn't like them for some reason. It's funny, but the most rugged beautiful pieces of nature are no damn good for farming. We compromised and bought a farm off the Manchester road, south of Chelsea, Michigan with artistic possibilities, but the soil was a little run down-weak blood we'd call it now. It seems the old timers took everything out of the ground and with their profits moved into a small town to spend the rest of their lives--kicking about school taxes and how badly the country was running. This farm was a part of the old Weidemeyer farm - which made enough out of it to educate and elect his son to the United States Senate - so it must have been a pretty good farm before they bled it to death.

Owning and running a farm makes a beautiful mind picture, especially if you don't know anything about the soil or farm animals. The experience is great and you learn a great deal in a short time the hard way. One thing I learned was that animals are like people. They get colds, have poor eyes and some of them are characters that you will never forget--often you would have been better off if you had never met them. The only thing they don't do is borrow money.

One of the horses I met was as two-faced as any politician I ever met. Looking at him from the right hand side he had a pleasant and serene look with the eye of a Grandma Moses. When you moved over to the other side, you go the impression that he was a gangster, as he looked like one of the guests on the labor investigation stand. These looks went all the way through his system, from his teeth to his hoofs. You had to roll a log against him to harness him, and put the bridle on over the end of the stall and he could step on your feet with a look of satisfaction. When he was harnessed, and hitched up to a farm instrument he worked all right, but he hated the other horses as much as he did human beings. His mother might have spoiled him, or somebody along the line ignored his ego, but by the time I met him, he was as set as a Democratic Senator. These bad qualities were to be found in all the animals, from the chickens right up to the cows. I often detected it in plants and weeds and in the soil itself.

I distinctly remember four female pigs that lived with us. I wanted some young pigs, so I started to drive them down to the neighbor's farm after telling them of my idea and what a pleasant trip it would be. All of a sudden, after grunting to each other, they turned and made for home. I tried to head them off at the bridge over the stream, but all they did was dive in to the stream and went on home. Why they changed their minds, I never knew, as I did not know they could swim. I tried often after that to get them to the stream for a bath, but they never would go into the water for the purpose.

With the farm, I got a Collie who thought he was a pig. His mind was constantly on pigs and he refused to help me hunt or get the cows form the meadows and I eventually gave him away. I couldn't sell him as a pig, as he was the only one who thought he was a pig.

As a farm is not complete without a dog, I decided to buy a shepherd dog. After a visit to the kennel, I found there is no pure-bred shepherd--they were all cross breeds. He showed us some puppies that were a cross between a collie and a German shepherd which he said would be ideal for a farm. One of the puppies was cute and seemed to like me, so I bought him for five dollars-a price dog lovers said must have hurt his vanity and spoiled his true self. That first night was a tough one, as he whined when I put him in the basement, whined on the first floor, whined under the bed and didn't quit until I put him in bed with me. I didn't enjoy it, but he was as happy a puppy as you ever saw. I found out later, that putting a hot water bottle in the basket with the puppy is just as good as putting him in bet with you--I'll try to remember that whenever I buy another pup.

My father-in-law tried to train him, but he grew up with his own ideas and opinions and became a one man dog who knew what he liked. He acted something like a union official. The only difference was he hated guns and refused to get the cows unless you went with him, but he would not let anybody on the farm property unless he was properly introduced. Some things he learned fast and one was not to chase skunks, not to wear himself out chasing rabbits and to leave the barn tom cat have his own way. We called him Carlo and he grew into something that reminded you of many dogs. He was long and low and had long black curly hair with a natural wave in it, wicked teeth, big head and ears like a bloodhound and eyes like a British Diplomat. He was nobody's pet, but he was loyal to my father-in-law, and he could locate Carlo if he was miles away. He was a good watch dog, and though I didn't love him, I respected his ideas and ways of life. It was sad when I had to turn him over to the sheriff when I sold the farm as he refused to live with anybody else, and he would never have learned to live in the city.

A big sow I had showed me how to handle people. She had a habit which is very often found in employees and is really a good quality. This sow, with a family of nine, lived under a large straw pile which was enclosed in a log fence about three feet high with a doorway on one side. This pigpen broke down from the weight of the straw and left just enough room for the little ones to get out, but the sow was imprisoned. We soon found out what happened and we decided to work fast. Charlie got a straw saw, a new instrument to me, and we sawed a hold in the straw stack and got the sow up to the fence and then our real troubles started. The more we helped, pushed and pried and I even lifted her rear-end (which is not a job for a civilized man) while Charlie pried with a fence post, but we couldn't get that pig over that fence--I had the impression the pig wasn't going to do her share. Charles, as is common with farmers used vile language, and even threatened the pig. The affair became noisy enough to attract my wife and my mother-in-law, and they came down to help. Their suggestions didn't help, and finally we gave up tired and mad. We decided to go in to dinner, renew our energies and figure the thing out. Just as we finished the coffee and pumpkin pie, we heard a grunting on our side porch and low and behold, there was our problem all settled--as that sow had just climbed over the log fence all by herself. It was a good lesson to me and could be a good lesson to Uncle Sam. The idea is that animals, people and nations can do a lot for themselves, and do a better job, if they are not helped too much and given too much advice.

My personal opinion is that the government is trying to do things that can be done by the individual better by making him do his own thinking and planning. We fought for these freedoms away back, and now we don't appreciate the.

I did lots of things wrong on that farm. I remember one time in particular when I drove the tractor too close to the fence when plowing and the hub of the tractor caught on the fence. When I stopped, I had the fence up in the air between two hills--it was a funny sight with a fence like a telephone line with fence posts hanging along it like a bunch of underwear on a wash line. Charlie was so provoked; he didn't talk to me for a week. I planted potatoes in the muck and dug them that fall in rubber boots, dug them out like a clam fisherman, then had to dry them and clean them with a burlap bag. Hasenfeffer was a dish I always liked and my mother-in-law, being English, told me to prepare it myself. I tried and even the dog refused to eat it. I plowed a clay field while it was wet, and raised a crop of clay boulders. Needing a strong fence post on one corner of the farm, I build a cement post (10' x 8" x 8") close to the house as it was easier to mix cement there. When it was finished, I had to hire two men and an extra team to pull it into place and set it. It cost some money, but I'll bet it's one of the finest corner posts in that county. Neighbors talked about it, but not to me - they just looked at me kind of funny.

Another time I bought a ram from a farmer. He was a Deacon in his church, and looked like a reliable farmer, so I believed him when he told me about the critter and its masculine qualities and his many grandsons and great grandsons. He proved to be a very friendly ram, but had no social ambitions at all and ignored my sheep. Another lesson I learned was when dealing with a successful farmer, forget about truth, religious background and use common sense and make him put it on paper and be sure he signs his name. This advice is also good when dealing with real estate dealers, lawyers, builders and insurance men.

Ducks like water and as we had a stream on the farm, I bought twenty-five ducklings and boy were they cute. I figured what a profit they would turn into when full grown. They ate everything, swam in the creek and put a flesh like a lazy housewife, but something happened again. They got arthritis, or something, in their legs and couldn't walk. We had to bring them food and water them. I called the veterinarian and all I got was the Latin name for the sickness and a bill for ten bucks. I couldn't sell them, and we were afraid to eat them so I had to get rid of them with tears in my eyes.

I dove under water to release a large pig, who had tried to get under the fence in the stream used to keep them on our property. If you know what I mean, it was a hell of a job with Charlie hitting him on the rear end with a club, while I tried to release him and hold my breath at the same time. I saved him, and he was worth twenty dollars in the fall and I was proud of myself.

A funny thing was that the only animal that feared me with a gun was our dog. The other animals ignored me--crows cawed at me, rabbits paid no attention to me, woodchucks kind of whistled at me, pheasants winked and the skunks didn't even point their tails at me--they all treated me like I was one of them. One day I fooled a couple of crows that had been cawing at me quite a spell. I upped with the gun and got them both, but they didn't prove anything as my wife and Charlie said they must have been sick or just too tired of this old world.

My pet way to get rabbits was to trail them in the snow, find the drain pipe they were hiding in, put a gunny sack over one end, run a long stick in the other and then tie a strong string around the sack and take them home. This made for a very active and jumpy gunny sack.

Of course, city folks are not the only dumb people on farms as I can prove. This experienced farmer bought a bull about a mile and a half from his farm and walked him slowly home as it was a very hot day. A bull is no race horse and can only move fast when chasing somebody, so he rested whenever he found a shady spot. About a half mile from his home he took a rest under a beautiful oak tree, tied the bull to the tree and laid down on the soft cool grass and went to sleep--he woke up in the hospital. To be fair with the bull--he must have lay down and gone to sleep himself and had a bad dream and rolled ever the poor farmer a few times. I leave it to you--that is worse than anything I ever did on the farm.

To be a good farmer, you have to be muscular, a competent house painter, blacksmith, plumber, veterinarian, have a few years of engineering, bookkeeping and some law and a green thumb which I think you have to be born with. I loved that farm and always will, especially since I don't have to run it any more.

Spring with the wheat coming up green in the fields and the cows on the hills, like ornaments on a Christmas tree, lambs like animated toys, robins singing and the fresh smell that goes with this season.

Summer with its golden wheat rustling in the breeze, the little brook inviting you to take a swim, pigs getting fatter and noisier, pheasants teaching their young how to fly, the covey of quail in the swale corner, apples getting good color in their cheeks and lots of good healthy work.

Fall with the wheat in the grainier, corn ready to shock, rabbits scooting around, squirrels chasing each other, crows getting ready to migrate, bees laying up honey so the farmer can rob them, the apples pretty nearly ripe enough for the cider press (boy, have I got the wonderful method of making a wonderful beverage out of cider) and putting up the fruit, pickles, and the potatoes, cabbages, beets and onions ready to store in the basement. Some frosty day the smell of butchering, rendering the lard, stuffing the pork sausages, smoking the hams and putting down the pork ribs, side meat, pig knuckles and feet. Don't forget the grits and all good eating ahead of you--you can forget that there are taxes, politicians and too much government.

Winter comes with the snow, frosty mornings, wild rabbit trails all over, good hunting, the sight of a cardinal with its flashy color in the snowy swails, getting the bob sleigh ready, popping corn and the beautiful sight in the basement of the row upon row of canned fruits colorful as a painting and the homes with their appetizing odors. A hardwood fire in the kitchen, a checker board, a deck of cards, homemade cider, and apple pie in-close reach, the sears Roebuck catalog and your gun in the corner--you have a picture hare to beat.

That farm was not a money making investment, but an investment in happy hours, contentment and health. It cost me money that I could have played the stock market with, but I'll argue with anybody that it was a better investment. I have often heard and read about the gentlemen farmers, but that does not ring true to me. I don't see how you could be both as being a gentleman is rare enough to achieve without being a farmer at the same time. I think we should coin a new name for the guy who makes a lot of money, buys a piece of land, buys some animals and hires a few men to do the work--he's just retired or tired--Amen!

The age to be a farmer is between twenty-five and forty-five to really enjoy it and make it worth while. With me the idea was different. I knew I could never be a gentleman (my habits, desires and associates made that impossible) and as far as being a farmer, I never intended to be one. I wanted to paint the scenery, which I had always hoped to do, not to sell but to satisfy myself. It didn't work as I painted just two pictures the whole time I was out there. It is almost impossible to paint, write books or poetry or compose music and have to run a farm at the same time. The reason is simple--to do these things you would have to have a capable, ambitious hard-working farm hand and if he had all these qualifications, he'd go to town and work for Ford Motor Company, and get sick benefits, vacation with pay, insurance, sick leave, holidays and birthdays off and lots of little things that the union can think up.

The best way for artists, poets, writers and composers is to buy a tent and marry a dumb girl with a father who has money or some widow who has just collected some insurance.