Sunday Night Popcorn and Fudge, Milking Cows and Riding Pigs
Although I haven’t lived on a farm for decades, I come from a farm family. In about the1840s my fourth great-grandfather, Nathan Hensley, came to McDonough County—having resided before in Kentucky and Indiana. His son, Henry Hensley, and grandson, John Hensley, were also both farmers. John sold his farm to my grandparents, Howard Charles Hensley, Sr., and his wife, Nellie. My earliest memories are about growing up on that farm, located near Blandinsville. I lived there until I was six, and then I was also there during various summers.
Many childhood memories are lost, but I still have a great many related to that farm—perhaps because those were such happy times, especially because I knew that I was loved and secure. I have a distinct memory of sitting in the yard at that farm and thinking that being five years old was the perfect age—because I didn’t have to worry, and I was taken care of. Such a view of life may seem improbable, but I have remembered that thought over the years, and I have a very clear picture in my head of exactly where I was (in the yard under the maple tree) when I realized that.
I feel that growing up on the farm was a kind of perfect childhood, especially because I loved being outside and seeing all the animals. Also, my uncle bought me a pony— and why, I do not know—but I was naturally excited. It was a female, and I named her Powder Puff. Unknown to us all, she was also pregnant at that time. So, I shortly had a colt, too. Naturally, it was a joy for me to relate to those two horses. I also recall having a pet pig that I could often sit on and ride around outside the barn.
Life on the farm, though, was not without some animal- related mishaps. I noted that several of the family’s dogs and cats got in the way of large farm machinery, for example, but fortunately none of them were killed. I also recall being in a barn with my uncle, and he lifted me up very quickly as a large sow who had just had piglets was charging toward me. Also, I still have a scar on my knee from trying to climb over a barbwire fence—and my pony then came along and stepped on my foot and broke my toe.
My most salient memory about animals on the farm was hearing a cow in the barn lot, mooing over and over—and my grandmother then telling me that it was because the men were weaning her calf from her. I then walked out to the barn, and I saw that the female calf, while running away, had gotten stuck in a swinging iron gate and had hung herself. I will never forget seeing that—and then crying and running back home.
My grandparents had several farmhands, and the big meal which included them was served at noon. My grandmother cooked through most of the morning, to have plenty of food for my grandfather, my uncle, and those farmhands. I recall that my favorite dish was ham gravy (made with fresh cream) over pancakes. Supper for me was often a light meal in the evening—usually cereal with toast or an egg. My grandfather always had a glass of fresh milk after supper, and he dipped pieces of bread into it.
The only time that I recall being reprimanded was when I talked during the midday meal while the farm report was being heard on the radio during the noon hour. Among other things, the reporter gave the crop prices, and no one was allowed to talk during that broadcast.
There was always a Guernsey cow on the farm, and of course, the milking was done twice a day. I loved to help milk the cow—until she lifted her tail one day and sprayed me! I recall running to the house crying and telling my grandmother what happened. She actually laughed—but I did not think it was funny.
The cow supplied two large containers of milk each day, and I helped my grandmother skim off the cream, which went into a wooden churn. And she would sit me on top of a tall chair, to help churn the butter. And as it was being made, the butter was pounded into a round ball that was a darkish orange color—not like the light yellow butter that we get from stores today.
The distinctive food we always had on Sunday evening was homemade fudge and popcorn. Because that was a Hensley tradition, when I was a kid, I thought that everyone had popcorn and fudge on Sunday. And I still make the same recipe that my grandmother did—although I have to buy heavy whipping cream, which is a dismal replacement for fresh cream.
I was also lucky that on many days I went with my grandfather in is truck, to Blandinsville, as he was running errands to the bank, the hardware store, and my favorite place, Tink’s Café—one of the only two restaurants in town. Tink’s is still there, with the same stools and counter where I drank my first chocolate Coke. And they have had the same menu for over sixty-five years. Also, the owners are very traditional: they still only take cash or checks; they have no internet, and they continue to use an old rotary phone on the back wall.
My grandparents worked together to make the farm profitable. I don’t recall that they were ever struggling. Among other things, they had a dishwasher that was loaded from the top—which my grandmother mainly used as a place to stack the dishes to dry, after she had washed them in the sink. So, she was very traditionally oriented, with her housework. They had an early television, too, on which I was allowed to watch morning shows. I can recall being thrilled when The Romper Room lady said that she saw “Lisa” in the mirror.
I started kindergarten when I was four, and it was just a short ride down from the farm to where the school bus came, at the road corner, and took us kids to Blandinsville. I recall being asked if I wanted to go to the morning or afternoon kindergarten, and I quickly picked the morning. That probably says something about my disposition: I didn’t want to miss anything.
Like most farm families, my grandparents were also church-goers. My grandmother was very involved with the First Christian Church in Blandinsville, and she taught adult Sunday school. Of course, she also explained many things to me. One day, after kindergarten, I asked her where babies came from. She gave me a straight answer—and a short description. By that time, I had seen certain things in the barnyard, too, so I wasn’t very shocked.
There were frequent card parties with the neighboring farm wives. They often had prizes associated with those gatherings, and I happily remember winning a wooden plaque—which I still have today. And it says, “Kissin’ don’t last; cookin’ do.”
Each year there was also a Hensley family reunion at the farm, and that always featured homemade ice cream topped with homemade chocolate sauce. Of course, like everybody else, I loved that. (Chocolate was definitely a staple in our family.
There were several girls my age who lived on farms down the road. My grandmother would sometimes drop me off at their houses, or they would come to our place. My “best friend,” Vicky, lived on the nearest farm. She had contracted polio as an infant, so she had some movement problems. But we did what most young farm girls did, including played with plastic horses and made dolls out of hollyhocks. And all of that annoyed her older brother, who was naturally not included.
Unfortunately, Vicky later passed away, in the eighth grade, on the school playground. Of course, that was very sad for me. It led to my first funeral for anyone who was younger than my grandparents’ generation. Her mother gave me the pin that Vicky was wearing when she died. I still have it, and I also carry her grade school picture in my wallet, to this day.
I’ve heard people say that the first five or six years of your life inform your selfhood, your personality, in meaningful ways. So, I was lucky to have an early childhood filled with interesting animals, enjoyable playmates, and adults who cared for me and loved me. Looking back, I now realize that farm life was an introduction to what I would experience over the years—the ups and downs as we make our way. And even as a child, I realized that it is important to have a sense of gratitude for friends and family.
The McDonough County Historical Society developed this series, focused on experiences told by residents, from the mid-1940s to the 1970s. It will appear twice a month. Other short memoirs, extending one to three pages, are still welcome, and contributors should submit those to John Hallwas ([email protected]) or Kathy Nichols ([email protected]). This series will probably extend beyond our 2026 bicentennial year.
