In December 1931, Vernon and Vessa decided to buy Charles Speizia’s half interest (which he had with Frank) in a ranch three miles north of Duncan. They decided to try their hand at farming, so they moved to the ranch. Following is the experience in Vernon’s own words:
The fences were all bad, so one of the first things I had to do was repair them so everything we raised wouldn’t be eaten by cattle. The land was quite sloping and every time I irrigated I would have to cope with regular canyons washing down through the field.
We had around four head of horses, several cows and calves, numerous hogs, three hundred baby turkeys, which we had hatched in the incubator, and some high-class Buff Minorca chickens, beside farming seventy-five acres of land. We didn’t have a tractor, so all plowing was done with the horses and all the water for our stock had to be pumped by hand.
We bought a registered bull calf from the university at Tucson, which we named Arizona. He was a prized possession and grew beautifully. One day, when he was about ten months old, he bloated, just like any ordinary calf, and died. It was a real sad day for Vessa and me.
My father and I decided to hire a Japanese man, Skimoto, to move to the ranch to help us try truck gardening. Skimoto was a good gardener and raised a beautiful garden. About the time we were ready to harvest, the mines at Morenci closed down and we couldn’t even sell a green onion. Romney’s, to whom we had intended to sell a lot of our crop, couldn’t use our produce. We tried hauling it to Phoenix, Silver City and Baird, New Mexico, but couldn’t sell enough to pay for the gasoline to haul it there. Vessa, my mother, and I decided to can the tomatoes, label them and sell them at the store. We canned 3,000 cans. We had a bumper onion crop. After they were sacked, my father credited us with 50 cents/sack and thought maybe we could sell them at the store. The following spring he had to dump them in the wash as they hadn’t sold. Our turkeys and our chickens got the limber neck (note: dictionary says ‘inability of fowl to hold head up’), roup (note: dictionary says ‘any catarrhal inflammation of the eyes and nasal passages of poultry’), and every disease turkeys and chickens are capable of getting. To this day it turns me sick to try and eat chicken.
Our cows would get into the onions and then we couldn’t see the milk or cream for a week afterward.In January 1933, while my father and mother were in Phoenix for a few days, Vessa and I stayed at their place to care for the store. In the middle of the night we woke to find the store all afire. It was a frightening experience! The house was saved but the store, including the 3,000 cans of tomatoes we had spent so many hours canning, was a total loss. Later in 1933 things got so tough we decided we hadn’t better try to stay with the farm any longer, as we were getting so heavily into debt. We left the farm and I took a job with the Standard Oil Company at their station in Duncan.
The fences were all bad, so one of the first things I had to do was repair them so everything we raised wouldn’t be eaten by cattle. The land was quite sloping and every time I irrigated I would have to cope with regular canyons washing down through the field.
We had around four head of horses, several cows and calves, numerous hogs, three hundred baby turkeys, which we had hatched in the incubator, and some high-class Buff Minorca chickens, beside farming seventy-five acres of land. We didn’t have a tractor, so all plowing was done with the horses and all the water for our stock had to be pumped by hand.
We bought a registered bull calf from the university at Tucson, which we named Arizona. He was a prized possession and grew beautifully. One day, when he was about ten months old, he bloated, just like any ordinary calf, and died. It was a real sad day for Vessa and me.
My father and I decided to hire a Japanese man, Skimoto, to move to the ranch to help us try truck gardening. Skimoto was a good gardener and raised a beautiful garden. About the time we were ready to harvest, the mines at Morenci closed down and we couldn’t even sell a green onion. Romney’s, to whom we had intended to sell a lot of our crop, couldn’t use our produce. We tried hauling it to Phoenix, Silver City and Baird, New Mexico, but couldn’t sell enough to pay for the gasoline to haul it there. Vessa, my mother, and I decided to can the tomatoes, label them and sell them at the store. We canned 3,000 cans. We had a bumper onion crop. After they were sacked, my father credited us with 50 cents/sack and thought maybe we could sell them at the store. The following spring he had to dump them in the wash as they hadn’t sold. Our turkeys and our chickens got the limber neck (note: dictionary says ‘inability of fowl to hold head up’), roup (note: dictionary says ‘any catarrhal inflammation of the eyes and nasal passages of poultry’), and every disease turkeys and chickens are capable of getting. To this day it turns me sick to try and eat chicken.
Our cows would get into the onions and then we couldn’t see the milk or cream for a week afterward.In January 1933, while my father and mother were in Phoenix for a few days, Vessa and I stayed at their place to care for the store. In the middle of the night we woke to find the store all afire. It was a frightening experience! The house was saved but the store, including the 3,000 cans of tomatoes we had spent so many hours canning, was a total loss. Later in 1933 things got so tough we decided we hadn’t better try to stay with the farm any longer, as we were getting so heavily into debt. We left the farm and I took a job with the Standard Oil Company at their station in Duncan.
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