Remembering Harold . . . .

Harold rode horses, tractors and occasionally a kid's bike. 

Harold's habit of smoking Bull Durham roll-yer-owns may not be too politically correct  or correct health-wise these days, but his technique mesmerized most folks who knew him------one of them being Chris Pietch, who took the bike photo and the sequence of preparing a smoke. 

Harold riding Toby I when he cleaned up with the major awards at the first-ever National Appaloosa Show in Lewiston, Idaho. 

From Pocket Girdles . . . .featuring memories from when Harold Tibbs joined our family on our North Boyer farm as our mother's new husband and stepfather to Batch One of what would eventually be six siblings.



Our new dad was an outdoorsman and a cowboy who had ridden forty thousand acres of range in the mountains of Montana's Madison Valley.  He walked with a limp because of a logging accident years before, when a team of horses had run away with him.  

Before marrying Mother he had lived down the road at the Racicots', where he kept his Appaloosa stallion named Toby.  A shared love for horses attracted him to Mother, but along with her came three half-grown kids.  Harold didn't seem to mind.  If he had fears, he didn't show them as he assumed his job as a father.

Soon after they were married, the kitchen table became the family center.  Mother fixed three ample meals a day.  Breakfast always included cereal, toast, and homemade jams. Harold milked Bossy night and morning, so he enjoyed the bounties of that chore with his meal. 

Each morning he poured thick cream over his Wheaties breakfast cereal and loaded six to eight teaspoons of sugar on the top. My brothers watched his routine and soon followed suit.

After sumptuous dinners of beef, potatoes, veggies, tossed green salads and freshly prepared desserts, we sat for at least an hour around the table discussing the day's events and making plans for what we'd be doing to improve our family farm.

When Harold first came, he set about clearing more land to expand the farming operation.  Once stump piles were burned and cleared away, he plowed, disked, and harrowed the fields in preparation for planting.  Then the whole family spent days picking up sticks, an activity that was meant to demonstrate Harold's calm, logical approach to work. 

We had 3,056,219 sticks to pick up in a six-acre field designated for hay.  Harold hooked the hay wagon to the back of his Ford tractor, and the entire family rode out to the field. Mother brought along a thermos of Kool-Aid to quench our thirst during this fruitful day of blood, sweat, and sticks.  

Parents smiled, thinking, "This is the life." Kids learned the value of a good day's toil. 

On stick-picking days, all went well for the first fifteen minutes or so.  That was about as long as Mike and Kevin could manage to work side-by-side without something setting them off---Kevin getting to one of Mike's sticks first, for instance.

The minor incident led to inefficient loading of items onto a farm vehicle.  As the boys walked beside the wagon and stooped down to scoop up the stick crop, the temperature and their tempers soared simultaneously.  

With glares and unkind remarks, they released their frustration by hurling handfuls of sticks . . . aimed just off-target from the wagon but with bull's-eye accuracy on each other. 

The action got better by the minute.  Sticks flew.  Insults increased.  Parents yelled. 

Family bonding suffered. Harold's disgust at the failure of his plan to clear the field harmoniously eventually engendered a plan to teach these boys how to rid themselves of antagonistic feelings.

He bought some boxing gloves.

As an enthusiastic fan of the Saturday Night Fights, Harold borrowed the idea, figuring Mike and Kevin ought to resolve their differences in a controlled atmosphere rather than out in the field where God and all the neighbors could see (and hear) them trying to kill each other. 

Whenever their sibling anger got too aggressive, the boys were sent to the box stall in the barn. They stood in opposite corners until Harold laced up their gloves, then let them go at it. They could pound each other's snouts and Harold could not only referee but also enjoy and amateur version of his favorite TV show. 

The plan worked for a while, but not in the long run.  Years later, during haying season, Mother encountered the battles similar to the stick episode as she drove the flatbed around the field while Mike and Kevin loaded bales of hay several tiers high.  

Something about work, hot weather, and the out-of-doors brought out the worst sibling rivalry, and Harold's Release Aggression Through Boxing plan never quite cured their tendency to throw things at each other.  

The projectiles changed into sixty-pound bales, flung from one brother on the ground toward the other standing on a seven-foot-high load.

Doubling as chauffeur and referee, Mother's tolerance for the hay field war did not last long.  Yelling at them and demanding that they stop rarely proved effective.  

When she couldn't take it any longer, Mother launched her own offensive:  slamming on the brakes, dumping several bales and maybe even a teenage boy in the process, all of which had to be reloaded.  Fighting stopped and brother bonding began.

Except for the occasional family feuds in the fields, we really did love farming because we got to ride on the wagons or in the tractor loader. 

Anytime Harold started his equipment, he could count on a kid showing up to beg for a ride. Even if it was just a ride across the barnyard, we were willing to wait for the chance to climb aboard.  We especially loved it when Harold raised us up and down in the loader . 

With the farm, life took on new meaning and a greater sense of order . . . .


Thinking of you, Harold, always on this your special day.