I was just four years old when my interesting, exciting, and profitable days started in Moccasin. What I experienced there has always been appreciated. As the song says, "How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, when fond recollection presents them to view."
I well remember father putting me on one of his favorite mares, May, and securing me on her back by putting, what he called, a surcingle around her body and over my legs. It was my job to ride her up and down the sandy lane each day to give her exercise, as she was soon to bring a colt into this world. The night before this happened, father put her in the barn where the hay was. There the colt was born, but the ordeal was too much for the old mare. She and the colt died that night. This broke my heart as I had become so attached to Old May. After taking a long look at what I thought to be a tragedy, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I looked up to father and asked if I could be the first to ride her in the resurrection. Although I was only four years old, the assurance of a resurrection brought great comfort to me.
Another old mare (the older members of the family will remember her) would come down to the house, and being so big, she would reach over the fence and drink the pig swill out of the barrel. Every time we would drive her away, she would kick up with both feet to show her resentment to what we were doing.
Being that the sand was so deep around the house, we children were required to carry water and dampen the sand until it would be packed down in front of the kitchen door.
Watching Matt Edge dig the tunnel down by the long reservoir was a most interesting event. I often think of what a wonderful thing the tunnel came to be with that clear, cold stream of water coming out of it and falling into the long reservoir. Large planks were laid in the bottom of the tunnel, under which the cold water ran. Then there were the shelves along the south wall, which were loaded with all kinds of dairy products and fruits. Everything in the tunnel was kept cool. My, how good the cool buttermilk tasted on a hot summer day. The beautiful grape vine arbor, along the west bank of the long reservoir that led to the tunnel, was an-other great attraction. Especially when the large bunches of ripe grapes were hanging down. The tall, beautiful shade trees next to the house, with a swing tied to their branches, was a beautiful scene and a pleasant place to be. The walk in the shade of those trees, then along the reservoir bank under the grape arbor to the tunnel, was enjoyed and frequently used during the hot summer days.
I wish I was a gifted writer and could do justice in making a picture with words of the beautiful, soul-satisfying scenes on the Moccasin Ranch: the vineyards, the orchards, gardens and melon patches, the fields, the boiling sand spring, and the old molasses mill with the large vats where the molasses and peach preserves were made, filling many large wooden barrels. A large box was nailed on the short end of the molasses sweep, which us kids took turns riding in as the old horse went round and round, turning the metal rollers which would squeeze the juice out of the cane that the molasses was made of.
Another interesting sight was watching the wagons or horsemen coming across the heavy sand road from the point of the mountain to Moccasin. There was no way for the travelers to let us know they were coming, so we used to try guessing who the visitors were. It would take hours, it seemed, for them to arrive. But no matter who or how many came, they knew they would always be welcome. Their horses were fed and meals were freely served to sheep or cattle men or relatives and friends who came in large numbers in the fall to bottle or dry the delicious fruits; and while doing so, many of the most delicious melons that were ever grown were devoured.
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