blackie parlin

World War II created Pudding Island Farm.  The national exhortation was to increase farm productivity.  Both little Joan in Connecticut and I in New Jersey had “Victory Gardens.”  I believe my radish production and Joan’s lettuce production seriously threatened Hitler.

 

The property which Dad had acquired at Silver Bay had the vestiges of Colonel Mann’s farm--- the two barns, the root cellar, and sugar house on the mountain.  Dad hired Henry Watts to manage the farm.  Henry had lost an eye in a firecracker accident so he was 4F, exempt from the military draft.  His mother on “Watts Hill” was too elderly to continue her farming, so her Guernsey cow made a dramatic walk down the hill and into the Pudding Island Farm barn.

 

At its height the farm had hundreds of English white Sussex chickens, three or four cows, some pigs and a wonderful team of work horses, Dot and Jack.

 

The farm was a wonderland for me as a kid.  While very young I could gather eggs and dole out chicken feed.  In time I had total responsibility for some of the chicken houses and could butcher chickens for eating.  But my proudest job was to ride Jack, to steer his course and control his pace as he pulled the cultivator through the corn fields. (Corn was grown across from the present post office, in the crescent, and in the field across the road from the home of Kathy and Ruth.)

 

I loved Dot and Jack.  The farmer who truly loved animals and who became close friends with me was Ralph Denno.  Ralph would talk gently to the team and I truly believe the horses understood him.

 

The tragedy occurred when Dot became seriously ill.  She lay helplessly on her side in the pasture (now completely overgrown) to the south of the horse barn.  Arrangements were made for a farmer who lived at some distance away to shoot Dot.

 

Mother contrived to shield me from the tragedy.  She made a job for me to whitewash the interior of one of the chicken houses.  While I was preparing for my assigned job, Ralph came to me.  He told me that Dot had to be put out of her misery, that a farmer would come from a distance to fire the gun so nobody near to Dot would have to do that.  Ralph told me that he thought I should have the decision as to whether or not to be with Dot as her life was ended.  I have often wondered what Mother would have done had she learned of Ralph’s words to me.  I rather think she would have realized the compassion of Ralph’s words.

 

I stood on the road and watched as the oldest car I’ve ever seen drove up, the man got out with his rifle, the killing of Dot was quickly done, and the man drove away.  A grave was dug and Dot was buried there in the pasture.

 

I’ve said that Ralph loved animals.  Henry, by contrast, was at heart a mechanic.  Once when he was feeding Jack hay in the stall, he poked Jack with a pitchfork to get him to move over in the stall.  Ralph saw this and there was a frightful confrontation.  I shrank in terror as I heard Ralph say to Henry, “Do that again and I’ll kill you.”

 

​

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

​​