Boyhood Experiences with Animal & Pets

We had many adventures and close calls with the farm animals.  One time I was riding my pony, Sweetie Pie, chasing all of our work horses that had broken out and were in a far field near the sand hills. We chases them up a hill at breakneck speed.  As we came over the top of he hill, I was surprised to see a pond o water about thirty feet ahead of us.  I jerked on the reins and hollered “Whoa!”, causing the horse to put on all four legs stiff-legged. The grassy ground was fairly wet, so we slid toward the pond.  We stopped at the edge, but I slid forward up its neck until I was sitting astride her neck clear to her ears.

The horses got out another time, probably due to the great skill of Bird, who could open most gates. All of the horses had gone east toward Bear River.  Dad told me to go after and bring them home.  So I took off running in a light rain. The horses had crossed the river at the bridge and up the hill to Fairview.  When I finally caught up with them, they were eating juicy grass at the top of the hill.  Then they ran right for about block before the road turned east again. I thought I could cut across the hay field and get ahead of them. In angry frustration I started to hurdle the one wire fence, only to find out in mid air that the fence was electric. What a shock! But the shock ust have given me increased energy, because I ran like fury through the wet alfalfa to head off the horses and turn them for home.

One of my most memorable memories was the time that the horses broke out of the corral and into the pasture across the road from our house.  We were eating breakfast, when, all of a sudden, Dad jumped up and out the door on the dead run. We watched him race across the road and over the fence into the pasture out of sight.  Pretty soon the work horses came up the hill and turned into the corral.  Then we saw Snowball come up and veer away from the gate and back into the open field. Just as she turned, Dad caught her by the tail, and away they went down the hill with Dad holding on to the tail and taking giant strides caused by the pony running scared at top speed.  A moment later we saw Snowball and Dad come up the hill, with Dad swishing her tail from side to side. This time she didn’t head back to the pasture.  Evidently, she had had enough of Dad hanging on to her tail and swishing her from side to side.

Following this amazing performance, I asked Dad about the danger of flying hooves by handing on to a horse’s tail. He told me that when he was young, at celebrations or fairs, one of the contests was for men to hang onto the tails of quarter horses (which are the fastest sprinters among horses) for as long as possible. So he had confidence that he wouldn’t be hit by our pony’s hooves.

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Other stories involving the animals can be recalled.  My mother was deathly afraid of snakes. One time a snake, wither garter or blow, got into our house.  As I recall, I was sent to capture it and take it away, but I could not find it (presumably it departed as it had arrived, certainly afraid of humans), so I pretended to capture I and take it outside, far from the house to appease my mother.

Usually we milked the cows by hand, which I disliked.  Some of the stalls near the door had broken mangers, so the cows were free to move about, or out One time Dad had finished his cows at the far end and had released them from the stalls, while I was still milking near the door.  When the cows began filing out, my cow got excited and backed out, throwing me across the aisle in the path of the oncoming cows, which made all the cows excited.  They rushed toward the door with their hooves hitting and missing me. I was stepped on several times, including my head. I was scared but unable to do anything until they had all exited. Was I relieved to be in one piece!

One year, big rats invaded the area.  They made nests under a large woodpile in our barnyard.  In the morning milking session, I would peer out the barn door to see the baby rats playing and eating from the pile of horse manure.  There were so many rats around that Dad decided to destroy them once and for all.  We got our dogs out and armed ourselves with clubs. Then we started to dismantle the woodpile. One by one the rats tried to escape, but the dogs were afraid of them. So it was up to Dad and me, and perhaps Dennis, to club them.  We must have been successful because I don’t remember having seen the rats again.

I recall one day in the barnyard seeing a chicken hawk flying over us. Then all of a sudden, he dived from maybe 150 feet up straight down to pullout at high speed and clip a chicken on the neck, severing it cleanly.  Unfortunately for him, I go the chicken, and we had it for dinner.

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One of my most vivid memories of the farm was the time that I was raking up tumbleweeds in the field east of our home. Old Maud was pulling the big dump rake.  We would go back and forth to rake up the weeds that I would dump in a row so that we could burn them.  The ground was hard so that the big iron wheels would bounce around as we moved back and forth across the field. In order to finish this task as soon as possible, I conceived a plan to start a small fire in the tumbleweeds caught by the rake so that the burning could take place while I was raking.  The flaw in this plan became apparent when I tried to trip the big tines that held the weeds but the weeds were so tangled that the tines wouldn’t lift high enough to release the weeds. There were two ways to raise the tines: by stepping on round trigger with my foot; and by reaching back to a long steel handle and pulling it forward.  Neither of these methods seemed to free the weeds that were burning right below my iron seat.  The fire was very hot on my legs and the smoke was suffocating.  Since I was concentrating on trying to raise the tines, and to avoid the heat, I pretty much ignored Maud.  With the reins rather loose, Maud started to trot (maybe she felt the heat on her hind legs too) which meant that the rake was bouncing around.  It was getting so hot under me that my rear end was too hot, causing me to stand up, all the while stepping hard on the foot pedal and/or reaching back to pull the lever…with no success.  Meanwhile, Maud was trotting faster, in fact she even started to lope, so that I was fearful of being thrown off the rake that was bouncing all over.  But finally the weeds were dislodged through our racing around the field in an area where we had already gathered the weeds. Following my getting control of Maud and stopping the rake, I sat there, contemplating my good fortune in surviving this crazy escapade, and vowing that I would not try it again.

Grade School Years

Grade School Years

In April 1936 Dad bought a farm at a price of $7500 across the river in Weston, where Uncle Art Moser’s family had lived a few years previous.  It was an exciting place with a nice home and a big barn.  There were 40 acres of irrigated land, 60 acres of dry farm, and 20 acres of lower pasture. We raised sugar beets, peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and alfalfa on the irrigated land, and wheat and barley on the dry area.  All of our farming was done with horses. We had a small herd of cow that I would take to and bring back from pasture. We always had a good dog which could be a big help in bringing in the cows. There was first Jeff, then Napoleon, and Wolfe. I rode a pony to bring in the cows and horses. I preferred bare back and was a good horseman.

There was always too much work, resulting in big weeds in the beet and potato fields. Since Dad was often busy with other things, I spent many long days pulling giant weeds all alone. On these long time I thought about the places around the world where I  had stamps in my collection. I poured over maps and the news where World War II was being fought, hoping some day to see these places.

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Grandpa Lundquist smoked until a few years before his death. I would join him ono the sunny side of the house or the smokehouse, where he loved to sit in the sun. He would roll up his cigarettes in a most adept manner. He used Prince Albert, Half and Half, and Bull Durham tobacco.  He loved to sit in the kitchen, where he would prop his legs on the over door and drink his coffee.  He would pour the hot coffee in to its saucer, blow on it through his big white moustache and drink it from the saucer. All of these things were fascinating to a young boy who loved his grandpa.

Grandpa Lundquist

                                                    

But the most memorable for me was the oft-repeated story he told me about the picture of the ship Titanic about to hit the iceberg. Somehow he would make the telling of it so compelling that I would listen raptly, and then ask him again and again to tell it again. I would be sitting on his lap, feeling his gentleness and love.

Another activity I enjoyed with Grandpa Lundquist was fishing in Bear River, just below our farm.  He loved to fish and taught me to thread an angle worm onto a hook, then throw the hook and sinker into the river.  He urged patience and quiet, saying that the fish would hear us talk and would swim away.  We caught many carp and suckers, and an occasional catfish.

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My first grade class picture. Can you find me in the middle row, right side?

In the fall of 1936 I attended first grade in Weston, and my teacher was Mrs. Nelson.  It was about this time that my dad bought me a .22 rifle, which held 21 rounds (bullets), making it quite heavy for a six year old.  Then in the second grade my teacher was Mrs. Schoells, who held spelling and addition contests frequently.  I excelled in and enjoyed these contests, usually in final competition with my friend, Cleve Neuenswander.  My teacher in third grade was Laurel Jones. At about this time I became very active in playing marbles in a circle ring at recess.  Each player would put up so many marbles in the ring, and then lag toward the ring at the far side to see who would shoot first.  I won most of the time and eventually won the tournament as the champion. We played another marble game where there were a series of holes in the dirt, which we shot our taw into, and then progressed on until we became “poison”, then to seek out our opponents to hit (poison) them.

                                      

Another game that we played often at recess and noon-hour was “last one on the bridge is it”.  On a signal we would race toward the far side of the area.  The last one to reach the far side, was declared “it”, so it was his task to catch someone and pat them on the back so that they could join him in catching others. Eventually several kids were caught, making it easier to catch the faster kids. Usually it was the bigger kids who were last, but they finally were caught and patted on the back.

Barry's 3rd grade report card

Barry's 5th grade report card. You'll notice in the comments that he skipped to 6th grade mid-year, and adjusted admirably.

When at home from school, there was always plenty to do around the farm.  We always had cows to milk night and morning, plus feeding them and taking them to pasture during the spring through fall.  There were other animals to feed: pigs, chickens, horses and sheep.  We also hauled the winter supply of manure out to spread on the fields. In the years when we had silage in the pits, we had to haul it to the cows. When they knew it was nearing the barnyard, they would throw their tails in the air and come running, because it was partially fermented and delicious to the cows.  Because we always raised sugar beets, we had a quota of beet pulp and molasses for purchase.  We would go to the sugar factory in Whitney and haul a load back to a pit new the feed mangers. The cows loved both the pulp and the molasses, especially the latter. They would have even eat straw if it had been covered with molasses.

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One of the reasons for Dad buying me a .22 rifle was the big problem of ground squirrels in our fields. The squirrels were eating our sugar beets and other crops.  So Dad agreed to give me 1 cent for every squirrel tail, obtained by either shooting or trapping.  I grew pretty good at setting out traps, and was able to shoot a few.  The .22 shells cost 25 cents for 50 rounds. I enjoyed matching wits with the squirrels and in saving our crops.

There was quite a problem with magpies in Franklin County, so the county agreed to pay 5 cents for each magpie head. Magpies were clever scavengers that ate chicken and pheasant eggs, and robbed grain and other crops.  I was always ready to try to shoot them with my .22, but they were leery of people.  One day, on the last day of grade school, Carroll Whitney and I walked home from school in Weston down Weston Creek toward our homes. On the way we robbed magpie nests of baby magpies. We wrenched their necks, and snapped off their heads. We probably secured 20 heads that day, paying us $1—a lot for boys during the depression.

One of the most interesting times for me as a boy was skating on the frozen ponds in the river bottoms.  Some of the ponds had gas bubbling up from the pond bottom. I don’t know if it was natural gas or swamp gas.  In any event, we could set it afire to warm us on really frigid days.  Our skates had a broad strap that would cover our instep, with our toe caught under a hook in the front.  Needless to say, the skates could be a little wobbly, and skating was not easy, but we had fun in the very cold weather, sometime below zero.

                                         

Similarly, I had a pair of long broad skis that had a strap over the instep.  I would carry them to the top of a hill in our pasture and then ride them down. It was a lot of hard work for a few seconds of dash to the bottom of the hill. One Saturday a friend and I carried our skis up the slopes of Big Hill south of Weston.  We walked for several hours on the deep crusted snow, sometimes falling through the crust. Finally we hopped on our skis and raced down the long slopes of the grain fields covered with snow toward town.  It was all over in about 10 minutes. Too much hard work for the quick pleasure of the descent!

Everything in Weston revolved around church and school activities. I recall participating in a Christmas musical program where I was dressed in a crepe paper clown’s costume and played a water whistle.  It was hot in the recreation hall over the grade school and I must have brushed my face with my hand, which was wet with drops from the water whistle.  The result unknown to me was that red coloring from the crepe paper was spread across my face. What a sight and a matter of enjoyment to the audience.

Another event of ready recollection was a Primary program in which our class did a dance to music.  My partner was Joan Olsen. Our dance required us to kick over the bowed head of the partner.  We practiced without a flaw, but the night of the performance she must had lost concentration because she kicked me in the head.

In grade school we always looked forward to the high schoolers coming to announce some play or music program.  They would snake up and down the aisles chanting:  “Your pep, your pep, you gotta go get it or you’re going to lose it, your pep, your pep, your pep”.

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We always looked forward to holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, because we usually got together with our cousins for a big dinner. All of the mothers were great cooks, so we had wonderful things to eat.  And then the men would sit around telling stories, which we boys really enjoyed.

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While I was slow to learn to swim, this didn’t deter me from joining other boys in going swimming with friends at the West Cache Canal just above our home or down to Bear River a half mile below our house.  We skinny-dipped.  Some of the older boys would run atop the big wooden flume across the gully rather than wade against the swift current inside the flume. Since the road to Weston ran below the flume, the boys could be seen by occupants of the cars driving by.

At Bear River there were big sandy beaches that sloped away from the river where we could sun bathe or play in the sand. But the insects were fierce due to the sloughs that abounded there.  The worst pests were deer flies, followed by mosquitos and other small insects.  When I learned how to swim, I especially enjoyed swimming in the river as it wound around with deep hole and shallow places. As there were stories of people who had drowned in Bear River, this gave the experience a touch of danger.

Sometimes in the hottest days of summer, Dennis and I would sneak off from our weed hoeing to get a quick dip in the river just below our fields.

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Dennis and Barry. 1938

A vivid experience in which I did not observe the action, but felt the gravity of the consequences, involved my .22 rifle and my brother Dennis. I must have been about 13, and Dennis about 8. He had wanted to shoot my .22 but I had resisted for a long time. One day I relented to his pleading as we were finishing milking the cows.  I told him he could take the .22 to the house across the road from the barn. He wanted to shoot some sparrows that were always pestering us. 

Evidently he stopped at the side of the road between the barn and the house, seeing plenty of sparrows in the box elder trees in front of our house.  He probably raised the rifle up to sight on a sparrow, but before he could line up the gun sighs with the sparrow the weight of the gun caused it to sag downward, thus foiling his lining up the bird with the gun.  After several attempts, he apparently pulled the trigger, sending the bullet off right toward our house.  The bullet went through our big front room window, on across the living room and through the doorway into the kitchen, hitting the door of the refrigerator, and then bounced back across the room to the feet of Grandma Lundquist, who was standing at the sink.  Dennis has claimed that the bullet dropped into Grandma’s tea cup.

When Dad and I got to the house following milking the cows, we were surprised at the alarm caused by the realization of the close call of Grandma and others.  Needless to say, it was a long time before Den got to shoot the .22 again. The hole in the window was not repaired for years, reminding us of the Lord’s blessing on our family.

I recall several occasions when Dad and I would cross Bear River to visit our two farms in Fairview.  Rather than take the gravel road across the bridge, it was maybe less than half the distance to swim the river directly to our pasture on the east side.  We would ride bare back to the river and plunge cross with the horse swimming.  The water would come up over the back of the horse, so that our legs and maybe our sit down would get wet.  If we were brave enough, we could stand up on the horse’s bac during its swimming across the river.  Needless to say, this was an exciting experience for a little boy, and one of admiration for my Dad who seemed so much a super man to me.

Welcome to the first installment of the Ivan Barry Thompson personal history! We'll be posting it one juicy chapter at a time, hoping for oohs, aahs and other comments from his adoring family and fans. If you have a photo that fits with a particular chapter that you would like to share, please do. With a drumroll. please...back to the beginning....

The Pre-School Years

Mom and Dad were married in Logan on January 7, 1828, and then sealed in the Logan Temple  the following January 7. I was born December 31, 1929 at the Budge Hospital in Logan. Evidently it was a difficult delivery, because Mom had some corrective surgery several months later in Salt Lake City.  She had read my name in a magazine, so that I was given the name of Ivan for my father, and Barry for Mom’s preference. However, as was quite common then, Bishop Thomas Rose was voice in my blessing at church.

While Mom and Dad had lived with Mom’s folks after they were married, they then moved in April 1929 to Preston into the red brick home owned by Grandpa Thompson on 6^th South.  The next two years, beginning in November 1930, we lived on the Taylor place in Fairview near Bear River.  My earliest memory was in the Taylor house, where I would race around the covered porch in my cart.  We had a big black walnut tree in back. Mom tells of being out of patience with my learning to potty-train. So she took me outside and put my bare bottom in a pan of snow.

 

Since we were way out in the countryside, I had no playmates. My pal was Fido, a half-breed Boston terrier who had many pups.  One time she had a litter of eleven, so Mom was forced to put the pups in a gunny sack and throw them in Bear River to drown.  A neighbor reported that a dog had killed his pig, and apparently he was sure that it was Fido, and wanted her destroyed.  So she was shot. It was a sad time for me, because she would follow me around as I wandered around the farm. 

Since we lived in Preston until I was about two, we must have been down on our Fairview farm when this event happened because it was reported that I was only a baby.  Anyway, we had gone down to the banks of Bear River to get a load of sand. As we were going up the steep dugway from the river to the road at the top of the hill, the pin cam out of the doubletree so that the horses with Dad holding the reins went on up the dugway, while the heavily loaded wagon first stopped and then started back downhill. Mom was sitting in the high seat on the wagon with me in her arms.  Evidently Dad yelled to her to jump because the wagon was headed straight for the river.  She probably did not feel able to jump with me in her arms, so she threw me over in to the side of the dugway next to the hill. I have never learned how it exactly happened, but the wagon veered into the side of the dugway, averting going over the embankment, to be retrieved in a few minutes by Dad coming back down with the horses.

On December 1, 1933, we left Idaho in a new 1929 Chevy car to go to California to look for work.  We rented a little house in Hollywood, with a couple (Ken Nielsen) from Weston next door.  I recall our going to an orange grove, where we picked huge oranges.  It was the depths of the depression, so Dad was unable to find work. At Christmas time we went to the May Department store to visit Santa Claus. I recall that he looked and acted very convincingly, causing me to say that I knew that the other Santas were phonies, but he was the real one. I received a red police car that shot sparks from  Santa that Christmas, and I was pleased that he would remember me.

 

The following spring we moved back to Idaho, and then lived in Preston in an apartment owned by Dad’s Aunt Sadie Jenkins. My brother Dennis, was born 20 February 1935 in Preston Hospital. In the spring of 1935 we went to live in a log cabin up the hill from the Taylor place in Fairview. It was the log house where my Dad was born. That fall Mom took me to Fairview to see if I could enroll in school there.  I assume that I was not old enough to attend first grade. It was the summer  of 1935 that Uncle Grover Duff gave us a Buick cloth top roadster—a pretty fancy car.

In April 1936 Dad bought a farm at a price of $7500 across the river in Weston, where Uncle Art Moser had lived a few years previous. It was an exciting place with a nice home and a big barn. There were 40 acres of irrigated land, 60 acres of dry farm, and 20 acres of lower pasture.  We raised sugar beets, peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and alfalfa on the irrigated land, and wheat and barley on the dry area.  All of our farming was done with horses. We had a small herd of cows that I would take to and bring back from pasture. We always had a good dog which could be a big help in bringing in the cows. There was Jeff, Napolean and Wolfe.  When I was older, I rode a pony to bring in the cows and horses. I preferred bareback and was a good horseman.

One of my fonder memories is of Grandpa Lundquist. He had such an engaging personality. One time when I was perhaps 3 or 4, he invited me to join him and Sy Gassman to go to the mountains to prospect for gold and other minerals. I faintly remember looking down into a big hole in which they were digging. It was very exciting for me. But when I got back to their home, my Mom gave me a real licking for not asking before I went.

It seems that about the Christmas before entering grade school that I was determined to see Santa Claus when he came to our home.  Mom and Dad thought that was a good idea, so they let me stay up on Christmas Eve.  No doubt I fell asleep pretty soon, since our bedtime was always early to that we could arise early in the morning to milk the cows.  When I awoke on Christmas morning, Santa had come without waking me.  The gifts under the tree helped moderate my disappointment.