Making Bricks

Threshing oats was a dirty, labor intensive operation in the 1940s,
that is if  children did not burn down your oat field before harvest!

     Bricks seemed like simple things or so we thought based on our lessons at school.  It was nearing the end of a hot, drowsy summer.  My brother and I were in the lower grades but our younger sister would not start school for another year.  We were all bored.

     Our summer entertainment required ingenuity, but we usually ran out of ideas by mid-July.  We had had electricity for a few years but no television.  The stacks of books we brought home each week from the local libraries were our primary means of escape from boredom.  But I had already read most of Zane Gray Westerns I could find.  My brother  Clarence had run out of mechanical things to do and had not yet reached the age where he could "take it apart and overhaul it".

     During the summers, we seldom saw the other farm kids from our school.  Our socializing consisted of church on Sundays and visiting the adult friends of our family during the evenings after the farm chores were done.  

     I am sure Clarence was the instigator of the "brick making project", although he would probably deny it.  Certainly, I cannot imagine Valerie or I being interested in making bricks.  Mr. Kerry had taught us the basics in school.  We knew that bricks were made of clay and a binder like straw or horsehair, molded into shape, and baked in a kiln.  The difference between a kiln and an open fire  or even an oven was lost on us.

     We knew we had plenty of clay because Daddy frequently complained about it.  Whenever he had to dig for any reason, fence post holes, laying water pipes, or burying dead animals, he would begin to cuss (like a Methodist) when he got through the loam topsoil and hit the sticky clay beneath.  We knew that all we had to do was dig down a foot or even less and we would have all the clay we needed.

     There was plenty of straw in the little barn loft and perhaps we used that as binder.  I'm sure we did not use horsehair.  Our horses were not pets and I would remember pulling hairs from a horse had we done so.  It is also very possible that we skipped the binder altogether, a little short cut, and worked with the clay alone.

     Our choice for the location of our brick making operation indicates to me that we recognized that parental approval was not likely.  We chose a sparse grove of trees across the small alfalfa field behind our house.  The trees ran the entire length of the field, separating it from the cornfield on the other side.

     Both fields and the farm yard were bordered on the south by a low, gravel road.  It had not yet been graded like many other rural roads which made the road much higher than the ditches on either side.  A higher road in the wintertime allowed the wind to blow the snow off the road, resulting in a much easier job for the snow plow.  Of course, the higher road also resulted in a nasty accident if anyone drove a car or tractor off into the ditch.

     Clarence assigned Valerie and me to the digging detail while he gathered wood and built the fire.  I remember complaining that Valerie and I were doing the work and he was doing the fun stuff.  The digging for clay was hard work and our efforts quickly became half-hearted.  Furthermore, the clay was not as sticky as it was supposed to be.  Our rectangular bricks looked more like round cow patties (cow manure for you city dwellers).

     Even with matches, Clarence's attempts to build a fire were disappointing.  The wood was either too wet or green and did not burn well.  We were very hot in spite of the strong breeze that was blowing from the north.  Whose bright idea was this?  I wondered.

     If we had built the fire in the hole where we had excavated the clay, our whole project would probably have fizzled harmlessly.  We would have sneaked back home, safe but disgruntled, and still bored.  But the sputtering fire, although useless for curing bricks, quickly spread to the dry grass around the wood.  We beat on the flames to put out the spreading fire, but the wind quickly made containment a losing battle.  Nothing we had done that afternoon had demonstrated any particular intelligence, but what we chose to do next saved the day.  We immediately ran for help.

     Daddy, Mommy, and Grammy came running.  They said not one word as they frantically beat on the flames and threw dirt on the fire to stop the spread.  The north breeze, unusual during a hot summer, was potentially devastating on that day.  Worried, Daddy kept looking to the south across the low road at our neighbor's huge field of ripe oats and straw.  Had the wind been any higher, we would never have been able to stop the flames from jumping the road, catching the large oat field on fire, and burning anything in its path for a half mile thereafter.

     I guess our obvious terror at what we had caused and the devastation narrowly missed must have been punishment enough.  I remember no substantial scolding, only a reiteration of the potential consequences of our actions.  That was the last of our brick-making efforts.  I have a healthy respect for  wild fires to this day because I know first hand how quickly they can spread.