Jody and I were standing on top of the manure pile, using our pitchforks to dig down and level the pile by making the mound flatter and wider on top. A manure pile had to be kept neat until the end of each month when Sal would come with his truck and front end loader to haul it away. I often wondered if it all ended up in Kennett Square for mushroom growers. Mushrooms were the number one cash crop from Kennett.
As we dug deeper into the pile, thee straw was stained a deep orange. We could feel rise and its heat warm us, even though it was a cold and crisp January afternoon. The pungent smell was disgusting, but if you worked at a stable, it went with the territory. The pile had become a small mountain, and it was difficult - no, next to impossible - to push a loaded wheelbarrow up the wooden ramp to the top to empty it. So we were flattening the top to make the pile wider and lower.
January air nipped at our noses and ears, freezing our breath in tiny clouds. All of a sudden, a barrage of snowballs pelted us. I put my one arm up to ward them off, backed up, and lost my balance. The next thing I knew, I was toppling into the manure pile. Jody had to use both hands to pull me out of the muck. Her father snapped the picture – my woolen sweater and woolen hat decorated with strands of gooey straw.
The enemy – all the kids who rode with me. They scattered like leaves before a storm. Only a lone photographer, Jody's father, was left standing in the courtyard to snap the pictures!
I had several pictures that showed this entire event, but I used them over thirty years ago when I taught fourth grade at Woodlawn in Willow Grove. My students were writing an "Every Picture Tells a Story" piece based on a photograph. We displayed them in the hall for all to see. Of course, my writing was displayed with my class's writing. They were a big hit with the kids, the parents, and teachers. I wish I knew what happened to the piece I wrote and those photographs!
As we dug deeper into the pile, thee straw was stained a deep orange. We could feel rise and its heat warm us, even though it was a cold and crisp January afternoon. The pungent smell was disgusting, but if you worked at a stable, it went with the territory. The pile had become a small mountain, and it was difficult - no, next to impossible - to push a loaded wheelbarrow up the wooden ramp to the top to empty it. So we were flattening the top to make the pile wider and lower.
January air nipped at our noses and ears, freezing our breath in tiny clouds. All of a sudden, a barrage of snowballs pelted us. I put my one arm up to ward them off, backed up, and lost my balance. The next thing I knew, I was toppling into the manure pile. Jody had to use both hands to pull me out of the muck. Her father snapped the picture – my woolen sweater and woolen hat decorated with strands of gooey straw.
The enemy – all the kids who rode with me. They scattered like leaves before a storm. Only a lone photographer, Jody's father, was left standing in the courtyard to snap the pictures!
I had several pictures that showed this entire event, but I used them over thirty years ago when I taught fourth grade at Woodlawn in Willow Grove. My students were writing an "Every Picture Tells a Story" piece based on a photograph. We displayed them in the hall for all to see. Of course, my writing was displayed with my class's writing. They were a big hit with the kids, the parents, and teachers. I wish I knew what happened to the piece I wrote and those photographs!
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