88 It Happened in Iona

and ceiling beams giving the place its rustic character. The second layer of floor was spruce and in places like in front of the stove and near the table that floor was completely worn down to the wide boards below. The reality of that still baffles me. An old Waterloo stove graced the centre of the kitchen with the chimney extending from that floor. The stove was an eye catcher with its low carriage and long spindly legs, large covers, round spacious oven high above with round end doors. Topping it off were a large black iron kettle and boiling pot and long round lifter. Joe used the latter not for lifting but for dragging the covers to their places and for constantly tapping the stove pipe elbow where it entered the chimney. As a tiny tot I used to be at Farrell’s extremely often, fascinated by the modest house and its occupant. It seemed no matter how often I was there, he would soon open the cellar door in the kitchen, slowly descend the steps and in a moment slowly ascend them again with measured steps and carrying a red apple or two for me. That ritual so frequently repeated was naturally very much appre- ciated by me.

Farrell took life easy and was never the type to worry. For most of the years I knew him he had a horse and cow as well as a dozen or so hens, mostly Rhode Island Reds. He usually had some cuttings of hay, not many rows of potatoes and a few acres of grain, enough for an annual threshing which made him feel good. He had a long low barn with leaky roof and a shaky barrack. For transportation he had an oldish side-spring light wagon, a cart, a wooden truck which was a collector’s item and a wood sleigh. The last three he built himself slowly and neatly. At the back of his farm he had a dozen acres of small white birch which he chopped only as needed and never stockpiled. He had no pump and that brought him to our house daily for a bucket or two of water and to pick up his newspaper. Joe was a basic cook and served as barber for many of the near neighbors, free of charge of course.

Farrell was an excellent fiddler of the old school. Always shy about his musical ability he had to be coaxed to play even in his own kitchen. When he agreed, he would stroll down to the parlor, pick up the fiddle case, open it gently on the kitchen table and unwrap the instrument from the black cloth around it. The music he brought forth was indeed a' relish making the kitchen timbers ring and bringing joy to many hearts. Joe sang morning Mass for over forty years, missing very few days in all that time. In this way he served a number of parish priests who held him