It just occurred to me, that with the death of my sister, I am now the repository of our family stories.
If you care to read them, be my guest. I just would like them written down somewhere for any grand children that may be interested.
My Dad was born in 1917, and most of these short stories were told to me by him. His right leg had been broken, when in grammer school as they played ring around the flag pole.
Somehow, they pulled hard enough so the pole fell down, my Dads leg caught between it and a rock. He ended up, his right leg an inch and a half shorter then his left.
His friend Charley, pulled him to school and home in either a wagon or a sled for at least that year. Thanks, Charlie, wish I could remember your last name.
His Dad, Wellie Cote, had a home in Ashburnham, Mass. Not really a farm, but a farm house, a field, garden, a chicken house, a small barn, with 3 stalls for milking.
Three of his favorite stories concerned the cows. One, Bessie, spent her days with the other cows, down the road at a neighbours field.
When it was time for them to come home, his little brother Earnie would go up and lead the cows home riding Bessie. Quite a site.
They had another cow that kept getting out of its stall. Dad was kept home from school to find out how she escaped.
It was a quiet morning, he was almost asleep on the hay, when he heard a noise, looked up and the front hooves of the cow were on the the top of the bottom half of the dutch door.
Sure enough, she was over it and out of the barn in a blink of the eye.
One other time they had the outside door of the barn, closed enough so she couldn’t squeeze through.
She got stuck, when she jumped through a closed window. Front half out, back side in.
Lots of broken glass, not a mark on her.
I think that takes care of the cows, next I will try cars.
I realize I should have expounded on the Spiritual meaning, but I don’t think there is one.
Hope it brought a chuckle.