Previously Published Elsewhere―CHAPTER 6: “Counting Down The Yardstick”
Serialized over the next several weeks
The Farmer’s Wife
Rural Ohio Farm
Early 1900’s
If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.
RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.
One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.
Normally, I was a little skeptical at first, but after the experience, I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.
Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter by chapter, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.
Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020
Dedicated to
Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and
Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents
1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’s
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8 The After Life - Before
Here then is
CHAPTER 6
The Farmer’s Wife’s Story
Small Rural Town
Late 1800’s
BY: Michael A. Horvich
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The Farmer’s Wife’s Story
Her life was as simple and plain as they come. She had no ambitions, no hopes, no desires, no aspirations. She was content with everything that made up her life and never thought to question any part of it.
She met Bill when she was 16, he asked her to marry him, and she did. She didn’t necessarily love him or even know what love was, but since he asked and since she wanted to be a wife, she accepted.
Quickly, two children, one boy and one girl, were born. By the time she was 20, she had two children, several pets, a lovely house in the middle of Bill’s farmland, and a life that wasn’t one way or another.
She never thought about any other way it could have been, so you cannot necessarily say she was content, as she never really experienced contentment or discontent.
Bill left her well enough alone, only bothered her with the occasional need for his nighttime release, and she guessed that was what love was all about. She received him without much passion or, for that matter, without much noise. She just received him, and then he rolled over and was snoring almost before she knew what happened. She never orgasmed. She met her husband’s needs, never her own, not even realizing she had any.
Her life consisted of keeping the house clean, keeping the children clean, grocery shopping, cooking meals, canning during the growing season, repairing and sometimes making clothes for everyone, and cleaning up after the dogs. She nursed her children back to health when they were ill, rarely disciplined them, helped them with their homework, and tucked them in at bedtime. She never told them bedtime stories because she had none to tell and had never been told them in turn by her parents.
She didn’t read for pleasure, or for that matter at all, really. They didn’t have a TV, but the radio suited her fine. They didn’t go out to eat, they didn’t travel, and, for sure, they didn’t go on vacations. Bill was often gone for several days at a time, tending to his other farm properties or making deals to sell his corn.
She didn’t know much about the farm or his business; he didn’t share much, and she didn’t think to ask about the details.
She was content in her small world, but then again, she didn’t really realize that her small world was small or how small, or that there could have been other options.
Day in and day out, she rose at dawn, cooked Bill’s breakfast, got the kids ready for school, fed them their breakfast, and packed their lunch boxes. She walked Bill Jr. and Mary out to the school bus, then went back into the house for a quick cup of coffee. Sometimes she made a piece of toast, but rarely sat down at the table to enjoy it.
She cleaned a different part of the house each day, whether it needed cleaning or not. That was her routine, and there was comfort in keeping to it: vacuuming, dusting, washing windows, organizing her few trinkets on the living room fireplace mantel, and making minor repairs around the house when needed. She did the laundry, carefully folded it, and ironed Bill’s white shirts.
She grocery shopped, tended the garden during growing time, canned vegetables when the garden gave up its harvest, began making dinner, washed up afterward, and mended or made clothing for the family.
When the kids came home from school, she gave them a snack, finished dinner, and had it on the table by 5:00 promptly when Bill arrived home from the fields.
Bill’s parents had died when he was very young. She never knew them, and he didn’t talk much about them. For that matter, Bill didn’t talk much about anything. When he was not at work or traveling, there was not much conversation around the house, and that was OK, as she was not much of a conversationalist either.
Once a year, her parents visited. They ended up staying in the extra bedroom with them. Her life and her routine didn’t change during these visits; the workload just increased, but honestly, she didn’t notice. She did what she had to do without question, and that was it.
Sometimes the parents would sit around the kitchen table while she worked. They rarely asked about anything since there wasn’t anything to ask about. Sometimes she would tell them about the kids and their school or church activities, but the conversation would run out quickly. The parents didn’t seem to mind or to expect much more.
To be honest, she didn’t seem to notice much difference in her life when her parents visited or when they didn’t. Apparently, they were content that she was keeping a good house, caring well for their grandchildren, and that was enough for them. They were all about as quiet and low-key as she was, so this lack of interaction made sense to everyone involved.
In many ways, she was who she was because of how her parents raised her, and she, in turn, was creating children like her.
As a child, she had never been forthcoming about anything about herself, her thoughts, or her opinions. She wasn’t really sure that she had any thoughts or opinions about anything: herself, her life, her family, her community, her religion, her world!
Her teachers took note, and when shared with her parents at the yearly PTA conferences, the parents' response was usually a low-key, “Yes, Uhhuh.” So the teachers were content that they had done their part at the meeting, and the parents didn’t realize there was anything more to do. She just disappeared a little more each year, and a little more as time passed since she married.
She had no close girlfriends growing up and certainly no boyfriends, Bill was the first. She stayed pretty much to herself. She had no interests, didn’t enjoy reading, found nothing at school with which to get involved, and somehow passed the days without much involvement in anything!
All of this probably added up to her easy acceptance of Bill’s proposal. He asked, and she accepted; that was all there was to it. Several “on and offs” for Bill’s nighttime needs, with no protection, and she was now a mother to two. After that, Bill began wearing protection. Her days were full, but she wouldn’t think to call them meaningful or not. They just were.
On the last day of her life, at age 21, she had completed most of her day’s routine and had dinner in the oven. Bill was on a fly-about in his prop-jet. He did this quarterly to check on his other farm properties, meet with their managers, and conduct any business he needed to.
Just as she was taking the roast out of the oven, five o’clock on the dot, she heard the motor of his plane approaching, so she took off her apron and went out the back door to greet him.
The plane’s hangar was just a little away from the house in the cornfield. The driveway doubled as a runway for their cars, it turned left to the garage attached to the house and turned to the right for the airplane to head towards the hangar.
She headed out and waved as the plane set down. As it touched ground and slowed, Bill waved back, and this was the disastrous action.
Instead of turning the plane to the right, towards the hangar, at the last minute, it continued straight, and although he frantically worked at the brakes to stop it, the rain from earlier in the day made the landing a slippery one. You could see the panic in his face.
In her face, you could see nothing; no fear, no panic, no anticipation of the end of her life. The propeller reached where she was standing and spun her body, her life, her emptiness, into a mass of bloody pieces flying in all directions.
The last thing she felt in this life, if only for a second or two, was as if her life opened out to embrace everything in the world that had been and that was. Added to the awareness was everything that could have been but that never was for her. Suddenly, as small as her life had been, that is how large it became.
As empty and uninvolved as her life had been, those few seconds saw her life filled with everything the world had to offer, and could now offer with her stay on this earth over.
I Have Always Loved Small Towns and Farm Life
In my early adult years, when I first began to live independently of my parents, I moved often. I lived in a big city, a small university town, a tiny rural town, and in the country.
Living on a farm, doing minimal chores like some vegetable and flower gardening, and maybe husbanding a few smaller animals was always a fantasy, so strong that I really thought I would end up living on a farm.
For one reason or another, I never did, and at this stage of my life, having not been a “farm-boy” adult is one of my few regrets. Perhaps these feelings for farm life remain from one of my past lives.
Certainly, my involvement with life is nothing like the farmer’s wife. I am actively involved in so many things, my thoughts and wondering continue non-stop. I cannot imagine a life like the farmer’s wife being anything other than boring.
Untimely demise aside, it's eerie and uncanny how much this lifetime reminds me of my mother's. The emptiness of her/your existence is truly chilling, and I was headed down a similar path pre-coming out.