The Farm

*“The Farm”, Franklin Park, New Jersey, 1942.*

For whatever reason, the Metuchen house did not suit the family. In May of 1941, the family purchased a 200 acre working farm located on Griggstown Road in Franklin Park, NJ, a short distance from Princeton and not far from the family company. A local farm manager, Leonard Vliet, was contracted to oversee the new property, to hire farm hands and provide the necessary equipment and materials. We lived at the farm from late 1941 till the end of 1942.

I recall the charming, white framed, pre-Revolutionary farmhouse located down a long dusty road on the south side of Rte. 27. Our two digit, hard line, telephone number was a “party line” implying multiple users channeled through a telephone operator.

The farm had been constructed in the mid-1700s beside a lazy brook meandering down one side of the house. A large red barn and an adjoining smaller red building for farm machinery were located on the opposite side of the driveway. At some distance and directly across from the barn was a corn crib and nearby a sturdy pigsty. Magnificent ancient oak trees provided the farmhouse with shade. As far as the eye could see, the farm’s acreage consisted of corn and hayfields surrounded by forest land.

Prescient Boy & The Pig

As recalled, the following story represents the first happening of my new life.

Prior to World War II, all respectable farms had at least one pig if only to serve as live garbage disposals. It was Bertie who gave our new pig its German name “Slopengutzel.” The entire family was enamored with this large, squealing, but responsive, farm animal. Soon I would dub her as “my pet” for she was the only farm animal that would respond to my call. I spent an inordinate amount of time around her, usually feeding her our family’s garbage.

One night I awakened weeping hysterically and terrified. My pajamas were soaked with perspiration. Once Bertie arrived at my bedside I told her I could tell that “Slopengutzel” was in trouble and in great pain. I wanted to tell my father. Nevertheless, Bertie assured me that “Slopengutzel” was alright and that I should go back to sleep and not bother my father.

Again, in the wee hours of the morning, I bolted upright this time crying out “Slopengutzel’s” name. In tears, I headed for my parents’ bedroom. Tugging at their bed I shouted that “Slopengutzel” was in trouble. Mom, in her usual, wonderful manner, went downstairs to fetch me some warm milk as Dad worked to calmed me down.

By then early morning light had begun to appear. It was then I heard faint sounds in the distance somewhere beyond the barn. Visibility from my parents’ bedroom was still limited. As I finished my glass of milk while sitting between Mom and Dad on their bed, Dad sensed he too could hear barking in the distance. Yes, piercing shrieks and high-pitched squeals likewise seemed to be coming from “Slopengutzel’s” pen.

Dad responded and ran downstairs and through the front door towards the source of the commotion. I was still fraught with fear and concerned. A while later Dad returned highly charged, saying that it seemed wild dogs may have attacked “Slopengutzel” in her pen. Dad had not intervened at that time as in their frenzy the dogs may have turned on him as well. Without hesitation, he telephoned our farmer, Leonard Vliet. On Mr. Vliet’s arrival, with rifle in hand, he located “Slopengutzel” badly mauled in her hindquarters. The dogs had disappeared. Given the severity of her wounds our special pig had to be dispatched on the site. I never saw “Slopengutzel” again.

“Slopengutzel’s” final hurrah occurred as she provided our family with precious meat at the time meat was becoming increasingly scarce in the face of World War II rationing. Though understandably, for some time I was teased by Jock for refusing to eat any pork or bacon.

This unusual, prescient experience, envisioning and the forewarning of the attack on “Slopengutzel,” has been talked about often among our family.

Swimming Hole

Deeper into the property among the woods was a wide, shallow, rocky brook named “Ten Mile Run.” At the right time of the year, large numbers of seasonal sucker fish could be seen ...and caught ...as they navigated their way up and down the rushing brook.

Early on occasional weekend mornings, with a creel slung over his shoulder and with Jock and me in tow, Dad would set out across the fields and into the woods on the way to our wonderful, natural swimming hole. We were on a mission to catch suckers full of roe in time for our breakfast.

On reaching the brook, Dad unceremoniously would remove his trousers, shirt, shoes and socks before wading into the brook clad only in undershorts. His technique was to move up and down the brook, knee-deep in bare feet in search of suckers. Once an appropriate target was identified, Dad would hurl a sizeable stone at the unsuspecting fish. Watching Dad slip and slide as he splashed about in the brook, often off balance, induced giggles and howlings among us. Of course, when he lost balance and fell into the brook, no one dared snicker. Nevertheless, Dad made fishing look easy and fun even though most of the fish got away. After an hour or so the creel was sufficiently filled for breakfast time. We proud fishermen then would return home through the woods and across the fields feeling somewhat cocky about our valuable catch. Once home, it wasn’t long before the fresh roe was mixed in with lots of herbs and pepper before being fried. A squirt or two of lemon juice, a few strips of crispy bacon, some warm toast and marmalade and a couple of our own poached eggs made for a perfect breakfast down on the farm.

Despite the mounting horrors continuing to build around the globe leading to World War II, farm life could not have been more idyllic for a four year old.

*Mom and I at the swimming hole. June 28, 1941.*

Barnyard Trauma

As a youngster, I was just becoming aware of life around me. Though still under the watchful eye of Bertie, our Swiss-German nursemaid, Jock and I were able to disengage from her occasionally. Together, we began to explore our new farm and its surrounding countryside. Just back from three years in Switzerland, when communicating between us, Jock and I used French and English interchangeably.

At the farm, we explored every nook and cranny of our new home, played inside the various farm buildings, waded through the many ponds and streams and even probed deeply into the woods located on the property. It was then I first experienced life’s many senses: happiness, sadness and feelings that were both good, bad and sometimes painful. Importantly, I began to learn right from wrong. While still a free spirit, I began to see myself as a more responsible individual. Yet, all was not idyllic.

It was a beautiful sunny Easter morning. Jock and I had discovered our Easter baskets filled with candies and painted eggs. Surprise, surprise, as Mom presented to each of us a live downy duckling. The joy was beyond description. After a quick breakfast, everyone, including Bertie with baskets in hand, carried the ducklings out to the barnyard where both were permitted to waddle about in the dirt. Endearing comments and shrieks of joy were elicited from those present as the ducklings scooted around the barnyard flapping their tiny wings all the while searching for bugs. Everyone wanted to caress them. I was thrilled to have a real, live pet. That Easter Day couldn’t have been more perfect.

As everyone was enjoying themselves, I, for some unknown reason, walked away from the group. On the other side of the barnyard I had seen a sizable stone lying at the side of the barn door. Reaching over I picked it up and sauntered back to the group. Once there, I spotted Jock’s duckling waddling about quacking. Without any reason whatsoever and without hesitation, I approached the unsuspecting duckling and threw the stone. The blow was accurate and final. Everyone froze where they stood, stunned, horrified and suddenly silent. Then Jock burst into tears. Dad quickly stepped forward and led me away from the scene.

Today I remember nothing more than what I have recounted here. Curiously, Dad never discussed the event with me and I don’t ever recall having been punished. If, on the other hand, no punishment was ever meted out, that should have been perfectly acceptable. After all, a young child should have no concept of life and death. In the end, I had to give up my Easter duckling to Jock.

It wasn’t until writing this memoir that a possible sequel to the “Easter Stoning” suddenly came to mind. I revisited the months leading up to that fateful Easter Day in 1942. As a young child, I can still recall accompanying Dad, watching him catch sucker fish on the farm’s Ten Mile Run . His fishing technique involved finding a stone to throw at an unsuspecting fish. At the time, Dad and Jock, and even I, were absolutely thrilled, not saddened, each time a fish was killed. After all, fish row for breakfast made our entire family happy. So, if stoning a fish is encouraged, why not stone a duckling? Again, why wasn’t everyone happy about that? Back then, no one seemed to raise those simple questions. Or, maybe some did but never told me. Today, I remain the only witness present at the infamous 1942 barnyard trauma.

Corporal Punishment

As Jock and I grew older, we became increasingly active and more cantankerous. Faced with these changes, our nurse, Bertie, introduced tougher standards of discipline for the two of us. Only after many years did we realize our parents were never made aware of Bertie’s heavy handedness and, even worse, that her disciplinary techniques were infused with anger. Being two years older than I, Jock must have encountered even more discipline than I. It wasn’t until we moved to the farm that I recall running headlong into Bertie’s disciplinary buzz-saw. I was four years old that summer.

Bertie’s primary tool of child intimidation was to dunk and hold our heads under water. First, Jock was told to fill the sink in our shared bathroom. In my case she would shout informing me of what I was doing wrong. As punishment I was told to stand tiptoe on a stool in front of the sink full of water. Bertie then grabbed me from behind and with her other hand forcibly pushed my head into the water all the while growling at us in French, or even worse, in her Swiss-German dialect.

Bertie had various standards of punishment depending on the severity of the offense. Of course, the one most used involved dunking our heads numerous times allowing little opportunity to breathe. Crying and complaining to our parents was strictly “verboten” under threat of Bertie’s further wrath. Both Jock and I learned how not to cry and, more importantly, not to tell our parents of our misery.

It wasn’t long before Jock and I sought to avoid Bertie by staying out-of-doors or closer to our parents. The fact Bertie was also caring for two year old Heather, only helped Jock’s and my cause.

F.B.I. Visit

It must have been in 1942, not long after America’s Declaration of War against Japan and Germany, when an official looking, black car could be seen in the distance approaching our farmhouse. From her kitchen window Mom had seen the fast moving vehicle more than a mile away. It was kicking up a long rooster tail of road dust. Dad was home that day. We three children must have been napping.

The two men in the car were dressed in suits, wearing fedoras. As they got out they introduced themselves as F.B.I agents. They told Dad they had been instructed to take Bertie away. She was Swiss-German brought only recently to America from Switzerland by our family. Of course, that occurred prior to the outbreak of America’s war with Germany. In the interim, Bertie also had befriended a German who lived somewhere in the area. It was he who was the F.B.I.’s primary focus. The German along with Bertie would have to be incarcerated at a holding camp until the end of the present conflict.

Bertie packed and left our family that day without ever saying goodbye to us children. It was also a sad day for the Edgar family. In her typical fashion, Mom used her soothing, rational approach trying to explain Bertie’s departure to us children. Of course, Jock and I were elated by her departure. In the end, there would be no more heavy handed Germanic discipline.

Secret Room

Inside our old farmhouse, beneath its front staircase and behind a concealed door was a tiny hidden room fitted with benches. It was just large enough to hold 4 to 6 people. One day during our customary tea time Mom tried to explain to Jock and me about the secret door and its connection to America’s “Underground Railroad.” Seated around her, our eyes wide in anticipation of one of Mom’s beautiful fairy tales, instead we heard a real story about American slaves.

Summarizing, Mom proceeded to explain that slave traffic moving from South to North was referred to as the “Underground Railroad.” She went on to say that the early owners of our farmhouse had played an important role in helping slaves to seek their freedom.

At four, I wasn’t able to comprehend the gist of Mom’s story. But, I sure was intrigued by the secret room located not far from where we were sitting. After all, it was a perfect location for hide-and-seek.

New Cars

Dad loved cars. He was an excellent driver and enjoyed driving fast. Over the years, our family would own various cars, occasionally exotic and often European models.

Once back from Europe our family purchased an 8-cylinder, dark grey, four-door 1940 LaSalle sedan with red markings on its wheels. It was a doozy. Large but sleek, it was beautiful and powerful. It could carry all of us and our luggage back and forth along the East coast.

Shortly before World War II, Dad bought a classic Ford (“Woodie”) Station Wagon to haul things around the farm. Eventually, after the outbreak of World War II, the station wagon would help us move our personal belongings, including crated live chickens, all the way from the farm to our new southern home, “Lux Manor,” in Rockville, Maryland.