My dad used to use this word, ruminate. His interpretation of words were sometimes different than the norm. He was thirty-eight when I was born, my mom forty. My experiences as the baby of the family were very different from my three older sisters. And like every youngest child, I heard the, “you’re spoiled because you’re the baby” criticism. I prefer to think I had the advantage of seeing their mistakes and not repeating them. No one likes to be punished and I tried to avoid it at all cost. I wouldn’t say fear, exactly, but there was a belt used for sharpening razors hanging up for all to see as a warning. It was the last result I guess. If my mom was really angry, she would send us out to the yard to get a switch.
Parents were busy then, had a lot on their minds. Some things took a lot more time and effort than they do now. My dad worked our dairy farm in the early morning and evening. He was a machinist during the day. I don’t remember him ever just sitting down when I was little, unless playing the banjo or fiddle.
Times were certainly different then. Dinner or family time did not involve answering the phone or being transfixed at the laptop, or tablet. Of course they weren’t available to us, but…. If anyone talked, it was dad. This behavior continued after we sold the farm and moved into a house in town. Still working the machinist job and no farming, dinner the same, and then records were played, and rare tv watching. But even if all this was not the “Father Knows Best” or “Ozzie and Harriet” you’ve heard about, it was a good life and I’m glad of it. And it’s not over, I just like to ruminate.