The Rural Voice, 2000-06, Page 56HRYSLER • DODGE • JEEP • CHRYSLER • DODGE • JEEP • HRYSL • • ' .1) E • JEEP • CHRYSLER • DODGE • JEEP • CHRYSLER • DODGE
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52 THE RURAL VOICE
Guest Column
Memories of picking stones
By Barbara Weiler
Picking stones is a hot dirty job,
one that seems never finished on a
farm, a task undertaken in the
summer, in between other, more
pressing work like haying or
harvesting grain. When I was'a child,
this was family
work and even
young children
could help with
the smaller
stones. The rocks
were pulled out
and loaded on the
stoneboat, pulled
by a team of
horses or later on
the tractor. The
load of stones
was then hauled
to what we
referred to as the
fence bottoms,
the fence and trees surrounding the
fields, and dumped there in a pile.
The piles of stones already there
attested to the labour of unknown
past workers.
The stone picking was necessary
in order to maintain fields that were
smooth and easily cultivated, as these
obstacles were hard on machinery
and made field work difficult.
Picking stones is, as I said before,
a hot dirty job. We did not wear
gloves and our hands were soon sore,
our faces streaked with sweat and
dirt, clothes covered with grime.
Dinner time could not come too soon,
and then there was still the long, hot
afternoon. Usually we loved the long
sunny days of summer, and with
haying and other tasks, we could see
progress, could say "There, that field
is finished," or "another load in the
barn." But there always seemed to be
more stones. After a day or two of
picking stones, we were scanning the
sky hoping for a nice three o'clock
shower to bring us relief.
One particular story is always
retold in our family when we think
about picking stones. My mother had
a special friend, a nun, who was a
missionary in some far off exotic
country, like China or India. She was
thought to be visiting with friends
Our hands
were soon sore,
our faces
streaked with
sweat and dirt,
clothes covered
with grime
near Lindsay, and my mother longed
to see her before she returned to her
remote posting. We were picking
stones that week, and I fancy that
after a few days of it, even my father
was weary of the task or at least knew
that we were. After our noon meal, he
suggested that we should drive the 20
or so miles to Lindsay so that mother
could visit her friend.
We four children were smiles from
ear to ear, as the old saying goes, as
we washed and scrambled quickly
into clean clothes. When we reached
our destination, mother was
disappointed to find that the
Missionary Sister had already left.
However, we had a nice drive, an ice
cream cone and some respite from
"picking stones."
The next day as we prepared for
our day in the field, my brother asked
hopefully, "Mom, you wouldn't have
any other friends goin' to China,
would you?" Over the years, the
question was repeated whenever there
was work that we were weary of
doing, a sort of shorthand family
message to signify the longing to
hang a "Gone fishin"' sign on the
door.°
Barbara Weiler is a freelance writer
from St. Catharines, Ontario.
25 Years of serving farm
and rural families in
western Ontario