Home On The Farm

-A Course in Miracles by Helen Schucman

On a hot July 20th in 1943, I was born to hardworking parents in Western New York. My home was in a rural township of thriving dairy farms surrounding a prosperous little village of about 1000 people named Sherman. I grew up on one of these farms. Established in 1824, after removal of Native Americans, Sherman enjoyed four distinct seasons with winter snows averaging over 200 inches. My rural farm roots became foundations for my life's development.

I came home to a large white house, set atop a hill at the end of a long gravel driveway. With breathtaking views of the valleys and meadows below, it was a wonderful and quiet place to relax and dream. To my post-depression family, financial freedom was important. During World War II, Dad failed his draft induction physical but maintained his dairy farm by day while working nights in a nearby aircraft factory. He made enough money that when the war ended, he purchased another farm across the road. Now with nearly 300 acres, nearly half being woods of maple, birch, pine and locust trees, we moved off the hill into our new house. The one on the hill became the residence for Dad's hired families. Sensing growing abundance and financial success, I often told myself what a lucky person I was to be in such a beautiful place and family.

Besides my two older siblings, three more were added over the years, another sister, and two younger brothers. As I grew, I respected my older siblings, my sister with her reddish hair and a sharp mind, and my handsome year older brother, blessed with dark hair and matching eyebrows. I had fair white skin, reddish brown hair and before long, lots of freckles to accent my blue eyes. I grew up drinking lots of raw milk and eating fresh meat from home raised chickens and cattle. Each autumn Dad normally added a few weeks of fresh deer meat. Mom supervised our large vegetable garden with us kids helping to "pod peas" before canning. Mom also cooked and canned hundreds of jars of pears and peaches to be enjoyed over the long winter months.

Education, reading and new ideas were important to both my parents who turned their visions into creative actions and accomplishments. When not working the farm and his side businesses of hauling lime, feed and coal, Dad often sat at his old wooden desk in the backroom. There he drew up measurements for other additions and improvements: a new barn and granary, an equipment storage shed, a larger garage, and whatever other ideas came each year. Other times he laid on the couch in our large living room reading magazines to find new ideas to employ his energy and fatten his bank accounts.

Dad sported a thick crop of wavy brown hair, meticulously combed and sealed with sprinkles of Vitalis hair oil. He walked with his head high, displaying his almost unstoppable confidence to succeed. His narrow Swedish nose no doubt enhanced his constant sinus issues. Endless cigarette and cigar smoking didn't help. Around 1953, when he began wheezing, his doctor explained how black tar had thickened over his lungs. Dad immediately quit. I never saw him smoke again, and I was no longer able to steal cigars out of his box under the truck seat!

Dad also loved speed. Many times he risked his own life and others with an almost addictive love of driving fast. I often thought he should have been a race car driver. My mother married him, one of her cousin's told me, since she was the only girl brave enough to ride with him! I still shudder remembering high speed rides and times he raced other cars on narrow two lane roads. Some called him a driving "maniac." We frequently attended races, loving the exciting noise and screams of roaring engines. When I was 6 years old, he took me to the Indy 500 Race in Indianapolis. All I remember is hearing roaring engines and loud "awes" when accidents occurred. One winter we drove to the Daytona Beach races where cars raced along the Atlantic Ocean shoreline. Dad parked carefully on the sand infield, close to tow trucks who waited to extract sand trapped drivers with outrageous fees! We watched cars roar past into the sand-banked curve, often scooting between race cars to get a view from the ocean. It took years to break my own speed addiction.

My parents loved Florida vacations during our long winters. Some years, they took us kids for a couple months near the small rural village of Nokomis. One year, Dad towed a house trailer while others years we rented cottages. Us kids, then five of us, either homeschooled ourselves or attended a small country school. In 1957, all seven of us (one yet to be born!) traveled to Florida in Dad's bright, new red Ford station wagon. We stayed in a little white cottage near Nokomis where we watched for Water Moccasins who might crawl up the back steps for scraps of fish remains.

Returning home to Sherman, Dad became drowsy driving through sparsely populated Georgia on a two-lane paved road through swamps and cotton fields. Dad's usual method to "wake up" was to roll down his window and stomp the gas pedal to the floor! Asleep in the rear third seat bench, which faced backwards, I awakened to see pavement flowing out behind like a wild river. To make room for us, Dad had tied our luggage to the roof. Suddenly, ropes and cords began breaking loose as luggage cases, like cows let out to pasture after a long winter, flew up, sideways and off into the blue! I shouted warnings as gyrating cases crashed and exploded on pavement like small bombs. Debris scattered along the road and into reddish clay ditches like waves. Dad muttered "Oh shit!" and screeched to a stop. Cursing, he circled around and for the next hour, some with silently suppressed grins, we gathered up suitcase parts, underwear, souvenirs and swimsuits. We finished the ride home with laps full and feet resting on fishing poles.

Mom, quieter than Dad, maintained our huge garden, washed loads of laundry, and cooked what I considered the best meals of mashed potatoes, roasts, pies and cakes. With Dad hiring seasonal help during harvest season months, Mom always made enough for all to have extra helpings. Second in her graduating class, Mom read constantly, modeling for her children our own future habits. She also, along with Dad,...