Some Observations From the Hill
By HH (Hub) Brown of Owego

When we were kids, we lived for several years in a neighborhood known as German Hill. In fact, that's where we lived when I started to remember things. Some of the conversations sounded different than talk heard at home and I used to get bawled out for repeating things heard at nearby farms. There was a family of Weavers and they had a son near Bob's and my age so we used to visit there quite a bit. Mr. Weaver, Tilman by name, had a small flock of sheep and every week he would butcher one and load it in his wagon and peddle it around the community. This was usually after the weather had started to cool off and he would take orders. If someone wanted more meat, he would provide it for them. I can remember the front of their house and a big watering trough at the edge of the road. I know they kept cows but how many or what color they were, I can't remember. I always seem to associate Mr. Weaver with the sheep and Mrs. Weaver with the dairy because of the churning of the butter.

She had a dog powered churn. This had a treadmill made of light material and fixed so that when the dog was led onto it, and if the brake was off, the dog would start to drift down toward a bar at the edge of the incline. If he drifted to the bottom, he would hit his behind on the bar and would start up the incline and that is how they got the dog power. A wheel at the top of the treadmill had a handle which was fastened to the top of the dasher of the churn. There was a hole in the cover of the churn that let the dasher move up and down in the cream. The churn was a tall container made of hard wood as was the dasher which fit loosely in the churn.

I remember their dog was a long-haired shepherd type and some times during the hot weather he would get to thinking there were things he would rather be doing than walking fast on that journey that took him nowhere. He knew where there was a hole in the swamp with lots of old rotten leaves that stunk bad enough so that no one would want him anywhere near a butter churn. Mrs. Weaver would have to go to the swamp, call him, and then wash him in a big galvanized tub.

Most times she would remember to shut him up so that he couldn't get to the swamp, but every time she churned she had to comb and brush the loose hair out of his coat for she didn't want to take a chance of anyone finding dog hair in her butter.

Here lately, something happened that made me remember a story Dad had told one time. About five weeks ago, I had surged on a barn door that was frozen and since then had been carrying my left arm in a splint. Getting dressed mornings was sort of a joint effort. My wife would either button buttons or snap snaps, whichever the case may be, to help make my shirt look presentable. Then last week she tripped on something in the house, fell flat, and broke her right arm high up near the shoulder. So now I have to wait till our daughter stops in on her way to work at the florists on Main Street to finish getting dressed. Anyway, the story I mentioned is this. An Irishman told his son, "Danny, try to get used to trimming your nails with your left hand for, God forbid, you someday may lose your right."