Coveralls, work gloves and a pair of pigs offered lessons in life - Agweek | #1 source for agriculture news, farming, markets

As a youngster, I liked to watch Dad take his shaving cup from the bathroom’s mirror-fronted cabinet. The cup held a whisker brush and what little was left of a bar of soap, which when mixed with hot

It took a long time before he finished shaving, at least it seemed so while waiting with a baseball glove and ball.

I decided — after the first peach fuzz appeared — to use Dad’s razor and cup. The soapy lather burned my face, and the razor accomplished nothing. Dad, who rarely got upset, didn’t like it that I was messing with his razor without permission.

The journey to adulthood has its big and small missteps, but he helped so much along the way. For example, he gave me a pair of bib overalls and insulated leather gloves that confirmed I was a good helper.

He also gave me two pigs to raise and sell provided I showed him I would do a good job caring for them. I would, once the pigs reached 200 pounds and sold for 22 cents a pound, open a savings account at the bank. Part of the windfall would be spent on a fancy bicycle with fenders.

The bright financial future darkened considerably due to negligence. There wasn’t always enough time to feed and water them. The fence wasn’t good, and more than three times the pair escaped and rooted in the lawn.

Dad took back the hogs, sold them with some others and I did not profit a penny. There were other bumps along the road, but none amounted to much more than a hill of beans. Dad and I became friends due to our shared interest in Minnesota Twins baseball and television’s pro wrestling.

Dad set limits and expectations. He didn’t allow me to sample his Red Man plug tobacco. My older brothers — without his knowledge — had taken to chewing snuff. I came across their stash in the hay loft, which caused them to warn that tattletales would pay a steep price.

Shelter from these storms was found not far from Mother’s apron strings. However, being close to her carried its own risks. She and my older sisters were determined to civilize me. It was a daunting task given that, as Mother said, her youngest son likes above all else to play in the mud.

She often caught me using twine as a belt, and wearing pants so dirty they could stand up by themselves.

Mother and my female siblings did not give up even though the odds were stacked against them.

For her part, Mother continued to make school pants and shirts on the Singer sewing machine and made sure I was presentable for school and church. When my hair threatened to become too unruly, Mother wielded a dreaded manual clipper that pinched and pulled nearly as often as they cut.

She remained calm after sitting through an unhappy parent-teacher conference that revealed I often showed up with uncombed hair. My sister — perhaps motivated to inflict more pain — took over hair-cutting duties.

I didn’t get the first barbershop haircut until she got married. The barber was nice enough as evidenced by the fact that he said nothing much after discovering two wood ticks in my scalp.

The second half of the sixties was a time of rebellion, which in the barber’s mind was proven by the long hair worn by rock-n-roll bands. He warned with a scientist’s certainty that males with long hair were certain to be bald in middle age.

Mother didn’t necessarily agree, but nonetheless I became a crewcut kid for a long time. As one, I used Brylcreem, a hair product first sold in the 1800s that gained immense popularity with its “A Little Dab’ll Do Ya’’ advertising slogan.

After the crewcut era ended, Mother made sure my hair never reached beyond the collar. Contrary to the barber’s belief, keeping hair short did not prevent me from balding later.

Mychal Wilmes is the retired managing editor of Agri News. He lives in West Concord, Minnesota, with his wife, Kathy.

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