Glashütten #70 (see description)

Glashütten #70 (see description) Our home on the left with the barns. Directly next to the house is
where the cows were housed. A door opened from the kitchen directly
into it. One night my mother woke me up and said I had to go out to
the barn with her. The cow was about to birth a calf. I was to
watch. That was the extent of my sex education.

Visible all the way on the right is a light-colored building, that
isn't part of our farm, that's a new building built in the 1950's
across the street from us by the Yanka family. They had a son named
Manfred (more about him in my trip to Germany album) who came over to
play guitar with Walter Berger when the Bergers visited with us.

To the left of the Yanka home and out front of the barn is a
low-growing bush. That's where I almost lost my legs. I had some
thin washing line or string and tied it up to make a swing without a
board. My weight bent the branch in such a way that I lost my
balance. I turned upside down and twisted in such a way that my legs
were caught above the knees and tangled in the line. I tried to get free
and couldn't. It was painful. I kept screaming for help but no one was near
to hear me. After a while I saw the postman coming and called to him
for help. He untangled me and carried me in. I don't remember what
happened after that.

To the left of the bush is a tall tree that reaches up past the
roof. That was our "Lindenbaum" (a Linden with purple leaves). Because of that tree I enjoyed
learning an old folk song called "Am Brunnen bei dem Tore" (at the
well by the gate). It's a song about one person's growing up and the
bittersweet memories attached to the Lindenbaum throughout life, then
leaving home and remembering the tree and what it stood for. I can
still remember the first verse.

To the left of the Linden are several smaller trees. Between two of
them our "misthaufen" (dungheap) is clearly visible. You can't see
it, but just to the right of it is the open septic reservoir that
caught the liquid drainage from the dungheap. That is where I lost
my first doll. It dropped in and I can still see how it's face slowly
faded away under the stained, brownish, water. I learned that day to
stay far away from that evil wetness. I didn't want to fall in there
and never be seen again. This is the misthaufen that became famous
after Brigitte, Walter, and the Berger boys would in turn launch
themselves from the second story window and jump into it. The goal
was to see who could sink in furthest. Imagine jumping into mud knee
deep and trying to get out.

The fenced in area is where, I believe, the chickens were kept. We
also had pigs, they were out in back of the house towards the
street.

I have time for a couple more memories attached to the front of the
house, churning butter and pig slaughter.

Making butter was simple enough I thought. Mother was out there
churning away and I asked if I could try. She told me it was a
difficult job and not for children my age (however old I was at the
time), nevertheless I begged until she let me try. Lesson learned:
Not everything that looks fun is easy to do.

For the pig slaughter at least one or two other families came. It
was an all-day affair. I was to watch the event, I suppose, like the
calfing, to learn what was expected of me when I grew up. The men
hauled out a huge trough in front. The pig was brought, held down,
and amongst the squealing it's throat was slit. Men kneeled and
pushed on the pig to keep the blood flowing as long as possible. A
bucket under the throat caught the blood so none was wasted.
Everyone had a job to do and mine was to stir the blood with a
long-handled wooden spoon to prevent it from coagulating. A tough
job for a twerp, nothing like churning butter, but difficult enough.
Once the blood stopped flowing the pig was lifted into the trough.
Boiling water was brought out by the pot and bucketful and poured
over the pig. That was done to make scraping the bristles off
easier.

I didn't see the butchering as then it was time for me to go into
the kitchen and help there. I don't remember actually working at
anything. I watched blood sausage being made. Since that day I
never cared for blood sausage again. I watched other sausages being
made but didn't take away the same dislike for them as for the blood
sausage. Intestines were brought in, cleaned, stuffed, and tied
off. Some meat was jarred, some, I think was prepared for smoking.
I remember women standing around the kitchen table with mounds of
boiled pork. Mother got the salt and put a small hill of it on the
table and we took bits and pieces of the meat, dabbed it into the
salt and ate it. Perhaps that's why to this day I can't enjoy any
kind of pork unless it's heavily salted.

It just occurs to me that perhaps no meat was smoked because I
remember the women chopping the meat. Perhaps all the meat was
turned into sausages. I know the sausages were smoked to preserve.