Winged Elm Farm

My Great Great Grandfather, JC Atkinson was a gentleman farmer.  His father, Thomas Atkinson, was a younger son who took his small inheritance, his wife and the first of his children and immigrated to America.  They landed in Wisconsin.  From there JC's older brother got some covered wagons and moved his family to the Nebraska Territory.  His younger brother, my great, great grandfather JC, came along - as a good little brother would - for the adventure and to drive the second covered wagon.

His story goes that he stayed only long enough to help his brother build a log cabin and then WALKED HOME BY HIMSELF across Nebraska and the upper east corner of Kansas until he got the the Missouri river.  Hired himself onto a boat going down to the Mississippi where he hired on to another boat going north up the river to Wisconsin.  "Got home with 50 cents in my pocket," he wrote, and a bad case of ague." (Whatever that is.)

JC never devolved into a rough and ready pioneer.  He was always the grandson of an English, country squire.  He educated himself bu reading far and wide and admidst the rough and scramble of making a living for himself, his wife, 2 sons, and 5 daughters, he wrote poetry and read the classics.

I have been reminded of my great, great grandfather by discovering one of the few blogs I actually subscribe to. Like my great, great grandfather, Brian Miller, of Winged Elm Farm is a "gentleman farmer."  He names his animals and when the time comes he butchers them.  He treats them well, writes about them as individuals, and muses on things like "mercy" as it applies to being a farmer.  I totally enjoy reading his blog posts - it is like reading what my great, great, grandfather might have written.

Winged Elm Farm: Farm Notes

Weekly musings of a Tennessee farmer

Plus his posts bring up a lot of almost forgotten memories.  Here is one that came up after he wrote about making tasty headcheese from his slaughtered hog.

I vividly remember the day one of the elderly, Greek sisters who lived next door said, “Come on in! I have a treat for you to taste.” In the kitchen steaming on a platter was the biggest tongue I had ever seen. “Now you just wait,” she told me, and proceeded to split the “cover” on the tongue down the middle and pulled the skin of the tongue off. My stomach churned. A slab of tender, fat-free muscle was left on the plate surrounded by onions. She cut me off the tip of the tongue, which is probably the best part, forked it up, and served it to me herself. There was no escape. I would NEVER have volunteered, but I had been taught to be polite to the sisters, so I opened my mouth and the tongue hit my tongue. Actually, it wasn’t so bad! A bit chewy maybe. “There now,” said the sister, “that was pretty darn good, wasn’t it!” Much surprised, I had to agree. Dhyan