OTHER LOG STRUCTURES

Another log structure, as big as the one with the fireplace which was now our kitchen, was about 20 feet west of the house. What this was in former years, who knows? We used it as a smokehouse. Every year at hog-butchering time, the middlins' (bacon slabs) were salted and placed to cure on a wide shelf at the rear of the building. Hams and shoulders, salted or sugar-cured, were wrapped and hung from a beam above this shelf. There were no windows in this building but it wasn't dark inside because some of the chinking had fallen out here and there which let in light.

In one corner of this building, a corner cabinet had been constructed of rough-sawn boards. To us it seemed a peculiar architectural feature. Perhaps some housewife of long ago had longed for such a folderol and someone who loved her fulfilled her dream, but where were any windows?

Our hulled walnuts and hickory nuts were also kept in the smokehouse. Hanks of sage that seasoned our sausage were hung from beams to dry. Onions dried on the floor.

About 150 feet north of the house was another log structure which must have been the barn before the big "modern" barn had been built in front of it. A lean-to shed had been built on the north side of this log barn. Here, from time to time, some piece of farm machinery was housed, but in the main high log part we kept the surrey, a handsome two seated carriage, complete with fringed top and kerosene lights on either side of the front seats. It was black with black leather upholstery. The surrey required a hitch of two horses. It was probably one Dad rented from the livery stable for special affairs.

Log structures, denoting pioneer days in our locale, were common. A half-mile southeast of our farm home was another one-room log cabin. It stood on about a two-acre, cleared, grassy site. It had long been abandoned. No one remembered anyone having lived there. The dry dusty floor marked the passage of wildlife and little inverted cones of the doodle bugs could be found. This structure was always referred to as the Little Log Cabin. It would seem that it would have been a perfect place for a playhouse, for little girls, but this building, with its vacant staring windows, deathly still, was always approached with some timidity. We stepped through the doorway with rapidly beating hearts, half expecting to find some residents. If not residents, surely there must be some unfriendly Indians lurking in the surrounding woods!

Log buildings could be found elsewhere at neighboring homes, especially parts of barns and outbuildings. Neighbor Wallens actually still lived in an ancient log home.

The blacksmith shop

The blacksmith shop was rather dilapidated, with a board missing here and there. It was some sort of shed or small barn already in existence when Daddy moved his blacksmithing equipment into it. The fire bin and bellows were installed. The anvil, mounted on a sturdy wooden platform stood in the middle of the dirt floor. There were tubs to hold water into which were plunged the red-hot horseshoes or wagon wheel rims to be tempered. There were lots of other tools, including a press drill mounted on a wall. This was operated manually by turning a big wheel. My sister, Lucille, whom I shall hereafter refer to as Lou because that is what I called her, learned how to change the bits on this piece of equipment, and with both of our arms' strength, we could turn the wheel to make the bit go through pieces of iron or steel. To see the little, curly, silvery bits of metal winding up around the bit was fascinating, although I don't think Daddy approved of our thus dulling his drill bits.

The horse and mule shoes were bought, factory new, in various sizes, then processed by the blacksmith to fit individual hooves. They hung on nails around the walls of the shop. Sparks would fly as the hot iron shoe was hammer-tortured into the proper shape and size. This was as exciting as any Fourth of July sparklers.

There was a distinct odor, not unpleasant, when horseshoeing was going on. It was a combination of the steam arising from the water as the red-hot shoe was plunged into it. The smoke from the coals in the fire bin, the sparks hitting the dust of the floor.

The horse to be shod waited patiently outside under a mulberry tree. The hoof had to be filed off a certain measure. This was done by a long cross-hatched file, somewhat like a fingernail file that had been on steroids! The little semi-dump pile of hoof filings that mounded up on the ground had its own faint odor too. I always cringed when Daddy, holding the horse's hoof between his knees, did the filing, although he assured me it did not hurt the horse. If the cooled horseshoe did not exactly fit the filed hoof, it was heated and formed again, then nailed on with a special big-headed nail that was driven through holes in the shoe into the thick hoof. This caused me to double-cringe, although the horse stood patient, maybe even sleeping.

Sometimes Daddy or even Lou and I would bend the horseshoe nails around a suitably sized chisel to form a ring for one of our fingers. The nail head would be the "jewel." We wore them proudly and found them to be much more durable than the paper rings taken from Dad's or Grandpa's occasional cigars.

One of our hens, hearing a different drummer, would abandon the neat, straw-lined nests in the chicken house and lay her eggs in a corner of the blacksmith shop amongst some shavings of wood and maybe a few coal ashes or clinkers.