The Limestone Quarry

Farther up the road , at the top of the 2nd or third hill was a cut off track that led to the pond and the limestone quarry.  I don't remember exactly how to get there because we never walked that far.  It was always a trip in Daddy's dusty blue ford pickup.

The cut off track was really nothing more than a heavily traveled cow trail that ran along the barb wire fence.  The other side of the trail was a slight imprint in the prairie grass.  The gate was barb wire attached to an old tree branch which hooked to the fence.  Often times it was our job to get out and open the gate and then to stand watch so the cows did not get out.
To this day I'm not sure if it was really a job for us or a way to keep us out of trouble.  All I know was we were left all alone with the gate open to make sure the cows did not get out till Daddy came back.  We took that job very seriously and did not budge from our guard duty  while Daddy was off checking the cattle or feeding them.

Sometimes we would choose to walk instead of riding 4 abreast with Daddy in the truck.  We would travel the cattle trail.  The dirt would be fine and soft on our bare feet.  Cow hooves had pounded it to a fine powder that would poof up as we trudged up the hill.  It felt fine on  our feet because there was nary a sand burr, a goats head( ie puncture vine or in kid language a sticker!), cockleburs, buffaloburs, devils claw, prickly pear cactus, sharp pebbles, or fire ants to look out for on the path.

We roamed those pastures and fields on barefoot.  We wore thongs if we could find them.  (and yes we called them thongs not flip flops)  The only other shoes we had were our Sunday church shoes. Those shoes only made an appearance on Sundays! We were very aware of every plant, animal, insect, rock that was out to get us on the farm.  The dirt on the trail felt like velvet to our calloused feet.  We only had to watch for the cow pies.  The fecal dropping of Hereford cows could be fresh, soft and gooey, or dry frisbees.

As soon as we ascended the hill, our crooked bangs plastered to our freckled foreheads, we could see the dip between the hills and the pond.  It was an oasis in the Kansas summer heat.  It must have been another spring because I don't remember the pond ever drying up.  It was flanked on one side by a rusty, tattered windmill that fed into a stock tank.  The windmill would creak and groan as the wind would buffeted it first one way than the other.  On the other side was a grove of cottonwood trees. 


to be continued....