David P. Campbell
I grew up in rural Iowa in the thirties and forties, close to the land, close to reality. I was born at home, as were my two sisters. We milked our own cows, gathered our own eggs, pumped our own water. There was still a blacksmith shop, where horses were shoed, on Main street, and every day a coal-fired steam locomotive made a round trip up from Creston, which was on the main Chicago-Denver C.B.&Q. rail line, with the local freight.
Every week or so my mother would say to me, “David, go out in the backyard and catch a rooster. Cut off his head. I need to fry him up for dinner.” “Running around like a chicken with its head cut off” was not just an expression for me.
Although I don't ...