UNION CITY, INDIANA.
And, of course, it became even more clear to me when Iron Man
Norman Gibboney explained that some neighbor up the way had given
him the big load of straight hickory logs, just because he
hadn’t found a buyer for’em. And for a sawmiller with a new
sawmill out in the openand nice spring weather coming up, what
better way to spend his spare time than to saw out a new sawmill
building to shelter the precious innards.
Then too, the new sawmill building which is taking shape at such
huge proportions of 150 by 25 feet, will be all the more productive
in helping Iron Man Gibboney and his family to saw out the
dimensional lumber for some of his forthcoming projects as filling
orders for field gates, hog panels, feed bunks and the like for
which he is contracting.
‘I make up models of these things and then factory
representatives come by to look ’em over,’ says Gibboney.
‘They’re simple, strong and useful. And, if they meet their
approval, maybe I will get the contract.’
‘Just worked out a new idea for the backyard
picnickers,’ muses Norman. ‘It’s a picnic table that
you tilt the top down and it becomes a bench. Set the two benches
together, tilt the backs up and it becomes a table again.’
Just a few timely suggestions from Iron Man Gibboney that other
home-type sawmillers, a bit discouraged, might take note. (Using
the ol’ bean to drum up business, that is.)
But the family-style sawmill, with sonny boy yanking throttle on
steam, and Pop buzzing logs into heavy beams which Mon helps stack
is not the only unique thing that transpires around the Norman
Gibboneys’ eight acres of fertile Darke County soil.
For sometimes when Dad and Lad are busy buzzing wood, Mom just
takes off, milks the family cows, stirs up a batch of top cream
adding vanilla and sugar for flavoring and cranks out a freezer
full of real countrfied homemade ice cream. All of which tastes so
mighty good to tired ‘n hungry sawmillers that Mom’s soon
forgiven all her ‘sins’ for not staying on the job.
Also there’s that fresh country butter which Mom sometimes
churns, with buttermilk to bootall lending both calories and
poundage to Iron Men’s biceps and waistlines, the better to
heave those heavy logs and wood slabs.
‘We still do our own butchering,’ says Iron Man
Gibboney, in a day when it’s rare to see the hog hang high by
the steam in’ ‘kittle’ down on the farm.
‘Raise as much as a hundred pounds of ‘taters in my
garden,’ explains the hardy Norman who believes in getting his
‘vittles’ the farm-fresh way.
‘Think I’ll get me a horse to do the gardening
with,’ says he.
Thank you, Iron Man Norman Gibboney for keeping things going
‘down on the farm’ the good old-fashioned way.
And now we’ll be tip-toeing out of here, lest we disturb
young Jim Gibboney who’s writing a school theme on ‘How To
Run An Advance Threshing Engine.’