Hands on the Lines

by Rick Thomas B.S., C.J.F., of Craftsbury Common, VT

Have you ever seen a ghost?
I have
Tonight
In the pasture
Flash, wait, was that my horse?
The rumble of thunder, all at once
Frightened
Move, find shelter, you could be hurt
Find your friends
I urge you
Will you be alright?
I will come to you, after the storm

Today, as we dodged the quick-moving thundershower under the protective canopy of tall sugar maples soon to be bathed in the hallowed glow of a double rainbow cresting over the Lowell Mountains, I realized that my partnership with this land and these horses is sacred. I wonder: how I have come to be in this spot, at this time, working the woods on the high ground of Mark Dunbar’s hilltop farm in northern Vermont, calming a willing but nervous team of horses as thunderbolts and lightning rattle the woods all around. How have I learned to be with these horses? I think a decade of spending my daily routine with them is surely not enough. How does knowledge become instinct? How does understanding transcend into immediate, thoughtful and deliberate action?

I was not born with a pair of team lines in my hands though my ancestors certainly were. We come from what was once known as Indian Territory, later to be named Oklahoma; my kin scratched out a living sharecropping cotton, logging and dairy farming always with a team of good workhorses or mules. As I look through the family photographs, it is the hands of my forefathers that attract my attention. It is not the size of their hands, for they were all small men, but their gentle strength and wisdom as the men to which they belong work their chores, hold their children, scratch the ears of their favorite coonhounds or gently intertwine theirs with the calloused hands of their wives on a cool summer evening. Often, as I tend the farm or work in the woods, I feel the presence of my ancestors as they wrap their seasoned, skilled hands around mine keeping me and the horses safe as we navigate the day’s work. Is this the source of guidance I seek?

The sun of my youth appeared today
It was an Oklahoma sun
Red, glowing, through the haze
Sweat across my brow
Maybe I should think about the horses
Yes, today they should rest in the shade
Maybe tomorrow we will go to the woods
Where our bodies compete
Against timber and deer flies
It is not a game, really
One hitch at a time
I cannot remember when water tasted so good

According to the Cherokee Nation census of 1900, John “Banty” Daniel, my great grandfather, was born in 1868 somewhere in Missouri. Banty John met and married Rosie Morrison and following cotton field work, moved to Indian Territory living in an area later to be known as Ray, Oklahoma. John and Rose had four children, one of whom, Fred Lee Daniel would become my grandfather. John was a farmer, logger, and as he became older a storekeeper in McBride Switch, Oklahoma. His exploits on the baseball field as a prolific catcher nearly matched his ability to catch fish and beat most at a fair game of checkers. My mother recounts a story about Banty John, told here in her words:

“…he would rise early, like we all did, and put on a pot of coffee, you see, he and grandmother, your great grandmother lived in a building next to our house, they were all connected you see, pretty much all our kin lived together. Banty John always wanted to get up first so he would have a cup of coffee ready for “mother”, he always called his wife “mother”. We were sharecropping for some fellow, I can’t remember his name now, maybe old man Talley, yes, I think we were living on the Talley place then, anyway, Grandpa always saved special-like a bit of milk for grandma’s coffee, separated you know, we sold the cream to the store, he would keep it down the well, we didn’t have an icebox, so we used the well to keep things cools. Well, I remember one morning, might have been his birthday, grandma played a little trick on him. Oh mercy I remember this, we all knew about it so we got out of bed to watch, you see. Grandpa kept the “coffee milk” in a little cup with a lid on it you see, that way it wouldn’t spill when he drug it up out of the well. Grandma had snuck out during the night and taken the milk and replaced it with a bunch of juicy worms she had dug from the garden. Well, I tell you what, when Grandpa got back to the kitchen what a holler he had when he spun open that cup. Grandma came a running with her best face on and looked a fright really. All us kids came running in too. Grandpa just stood there, not really knowing what to think. Well, grandmother just kissed Banty John on the cheek and told him “well, might as well go fishing since you all redy dug the bait.” You see, she wanted him to take the day off from chores and enjoy it fishing. I remember on his way out to the creek, Grandma wrapped up some potatoes and turnips for his lunch then handed him a cup of “worm coffee” with the fresh milk in it.”

Banty John Daniel worked horses. In 1906, John and his son Grover Cleveland were photographed on their way to Frank Charboneau’s sawmill. According to mill records, John and his horses harvested a sizeable amount of timber from the Fourteen Mile Creek basin during the early 1900’s. Discussions with relatives and anecdotal evidence from mill records and letters housed in archives suggest John Daniel had the ability to raise and train good work horses. Drawing from notes, I discovered the following: During the winter of 1909, Bill Thornburg wrote “…used Banty’s team to work timber in the summer of ‘09”, and, “…logs drawn to the mill with a team worked by John Daniel”, and “…January, 1912…purchased two well conditioned skid horses from John Daniel and brought out logs all winter:, and “…bought two well broke colts from John Daniel summer of ’13, worked the bottom of fourteen mile creek with Russell Thornburg, good sized Sycamore along creek.” Photographs of John and the old homestead are minimal in the family archive (a well tended shoe box), of the pictures that do exist, one thing is strikingly present – horses. I can sense John’s patient hands as he brings along a young horse into harness and introduces them to work.

I have learned how to sharpen a felling axe and crosscut saw and how to drop a tree using these tools. Some days, I prefer to go to the woods with the tools of my forefathers. I feel Banty John’s hands wrapped around mine as the cutting teeth of my saw tear the fibers on each side of the kerf, the rakers peel the cut fibers into the sawdust gullets and carry them out of the cut, and the pile of shavings accumulate at my feet. Once the tree is felled, I hear the song of the axe as I swing into a limbing rhythm. Bucking next, different saw, different rhythm. Finally, I take up the lines and call my patient team to work as we draw the logs out of the woods to the landing. From John I hear: “no hurry, cherish this moment for few others on this day know this moment, this magic.” The last picture I have of John is from around 1940. He is hauling water with a one-mule sled, he would have been in his mid-seventies—if you look closely, you might see a little tin cup with a lid on it—maybe he was getting ready to fix mother a cup of worm coffee.

By the time I really understood my grandfather, Lester, it was too late, he was buried in hard Oklahoma dust. “LR”, as everyone called him, grew vegetables—strawberries and hot peppers mostly, he fished most days, and was a die-hard baseball fan as long as the St. Louis Cardinals were winning. Otherwise, it was just a “fools game that takes up too much chore time.” Although, even if the Cards were losing, he would have a transistor radio in his workshirt pocket just in case “a divine intervention might occur.” My grandfather had a keen sense around farm equipment. During the summer months, I would spend time with him, tending the large strawberry patch and just waiting to hear the words, “well, durn, too hot to weed, I suppose we might as well go fishing.” Once an ample amount of crappie or small mouth bass were on the stringer, we would go visiting. Now, “visiting” is a fine art form practiced only by those who are at peace with themselves and the greater universe. Grandpa and I would pull up into the dooryard of a neighbor, crank down the old Chevy’s windows, and jump into the middle of a conversation that may have begun weeks ago. I don’t recall ever hearing grandpa say “hello”, just rolling down the window and start talking. If someone had trouble with a piece of equipment, Grandpa could surely fix it. What I realize now is that the equipment he was so keen on operating was all horsedrawn. The first time I saw him harness a team of mules I was about ten years old. The idea, as I was told, was to get this team of mules ready for the spring plowing. “Now, the pull is even and hard so we have to train them to walk slow and straight,” I remember grandpa saying to me. That day, standing in that barn, I felt as if I were in on some amazing secret—hidden knowledge—as I watched grandpa harness and drive two mules out the barn door and hitch to a stone boat. What is it about events in our lives that seem magical and well beyond our physical ability at the time to later become a life-directing force in our future? Could this be the origins of instinct? The years moved along, I stayed interested in farm life and enjoyed going visiting with my grandpa. I never saw him work another team but many times remember standing by his side as we watched other farmers in his town do their field work with horses. He would quietly tell me what the teamster was doing and how the equipment worked then usually recall some story from his days on the farm. Finally, he would look at me and say, “well, too hot to be standing here watching someone work, let’s go fishing.”

My father grew up on a farm, sharecropping cotton and milking a few head of Jersey cows along with tending the family’s kitchen garden before World War II called him to action. If repairing equipment is genetic, then my father inherited this trait from his father, LR. It seemed that dad could repair anything. My father enlisted in the Army the summer of 1943, a way to get out of Oklahoma and off the farm. Of all the gifts my father gave, allowing me to spend time with my grandparents was the most precious. He understood that the stories of my ancestors were important to know and would be lost unless I listened. I believe he knew what I now seek: that one’s instincts are closely connected to the family stories that weave the web of life into a person. A few years ago, I was plowing a field with our Oliver 23. The day was not going well, the plow was out of adjustment and I could not seem to find the right recipe to gain proper alignment. Being the modern era of farming, I called my dad from a hilltop farm in Vermont on the cell phone. Dad, sitting on his porch in Oklahoma, was patient with me as he walked me through changing the setting on the vertical clevis and advancing the position of the plow in the frame. “Ok, give it a try now,” I remember Dad saying. These words would echo through my thoughts as I sat at his funeral four years ago and recounted this story to a gathering of his friends, all nodding in agreement and reminding me that my Dad always could fix things.

I sit upon the logging arch watching the storm lift over the mountains, the logs are too wet now, the skidway sloppy with Vermont mud. Pete and Rex respond to my thinking, their ears prick up and listen, time to head home boys and dry off. It seems we just started our work today; actually, we’ve been here several hours. Friends have stopped by to visit and watch a good team of horses skid logs; our daughter, age 11, has driven a thousand board to the landing today. Wayne, Mark’s Dad, has sat in his truck and watched us work—he knows about farming with horses. I’m not sure I know the answer to my question, perhaps I will grasp it’s vastness; maybe I never will. I watch Pete and Rex take us home, they seem to know the way without my input—instinct maybe.