My, oh my, what a citadel for a brood of rambunctious country boys. The Ferguson place, three miles from Moorhead on Highway 3 … at the time a gravel road, was a rented piece of farmland/house that was the temporary abode for my family as the War of Wars wound down. We moved in and the vermin and wildlife that had encamped around the old house scattered like they were running from a wildfire. A big barn at the back of the house had a second floor loft that served as a hay repository for a team of horses that pulled the plows for my Dad’s limited way of making a living. The hay also fueled the old half Jersey/ Guernsey cow that provided bone fixing calcium for four growing boys. Yes, you guessed it …my hero father was a cotton farmer and we were his little farmers and we loved the place. The barn loft, the dilapidated lean-to blacksmith shop, the big wrap-around porch, the big kitchen, the cast iron stove, the big plank kitchen table, the absence of electricity and the early darkened evenings and the smells of a soot infested fireplace melded to make the adventure unforgettable, In our aged years, we, the Griffin brothers, always refer to that passage and that sojourn in time simply as “the Ferguson Place Years”. In its simplicity and remembrance, it was our “Narnia”.
Posted on: Fri, 30 May 2014 14:31:27 +0000
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