A Dear Couple for Dear Acres

Ken­neth and Flo­rence Ward, a Valen­tine Story
Ken­neth and Flo­rence’s wed­ding pic­ture, Feb­ru­ary 15, 1941

By Sharon Lakey
“Nev­er a child born that bawled as much as Andy. I tried to tell Flo­rence that the boy was hun­gry, but she was fol­low­ing the lat­est doc­tors’ books and using their rec­om­men­da­tions. I raised calves all my life, and when they bawled, I fed them! That’s what he need­ed as far as I was concerned.”
What a way for Ken Ward, one of Danville’s pre­miere farm­ers, Town Lis­ter for 35 years, Vice Pres­i­dent of Vermont’s Soil Con­ser­va­tion Ser­vice, father of three and hus­band of one to start our inter­view. We sat in the liv­ing room of what used to be the Pump­kin Hill School, nes­tled at the foot of the farm that has been in his fam­i­ly for five gen­er­a­tions. Ken will be 92 on his next birth­day in March. With that many years behind him, there were many sto­ries told in the ensu­ing hours, one for every pho­to that filled the small box in front of us. But this is a Valen­tine sto­ry, and that will be our rudder.
We’ll start with the boy Ken­neth, who went to Pump­kin Hill School. He and his bud­dy walked the tracks of the St. J and LC tres­tle above the school where each placed a nick­el on the tracks, then wait­ed for the train to smash them. Late for school, they became swingers of birch­es, grab­bing a sapling and rid­ing it down to the next sapling, Tarzan-like, until they reached the bot­tom and raced to school. Late, they had to “run the gaunt­let,” said Ken. Direct­ed by the teacher, the chil­dren held switch­es and made two lines. “Like the Indi­ans used to do. Some­times I went home with ten­der shins.”
In the town of Kir­by lived a girl, one of ten chil­dren in the Stu­art fam­i­ly. Her name was Flo­rence. “She was bul­lied,” said Ken, sit­ting for­ward, ani­mat­ed, still incensed at the injus­tice. “She had a way of walk­ing that most girls don’t come by nat­u­ral­ly. The oth­er girls thought she was show­ing off, and they made fun of her walk and her clothes. She became shy of peo­ple and wouldn’t go to school. She gave it right back to them, though.” But the effect of the bul­ly­ing was to shad­ow her for life.
Ken­neth grad­u­at­ed from Danville High School in 1937. In 1938, he and five oth­er boys from his class attend­ed Ver­mont Ag (now Ver­mont Tech) in Ran­dolph Cen­ter. “I went to learn bet­ter ways of farm­ing,” said Ken. “They ran a farm there, and we were put to work as well as learning.”
Right away, the boss, who was the prin­ci­pal of the school, took a group of stu­dents to the barn. “Who among you can dri­ve hors­es?” he asked.
“I’d been dri­ving hors­es since the age of 12,” said Ken­neth, “so I raised my hand.”
“Har­ness those hors­es,” said the prin­ci­pal, point­ing to the team and then the har­ness­es hang­ing on the wall.
“I went to work. You see, the reins are done up dif­fer­ent­ly for each horse,” said Ken. “The nigh horse har­ness is dif­fer­ent than the off horse. I asked which horse was which and har­nessed them accord­ing­ly. I guess he thought I did a good job. From that point on, I got to dri­ve the team.” Ken­neth smiled. “That was a ben­e­fit,” he explained. While the oth­er boys had their hands on shov­els, he had hold of the reins.
Amer­i­ca was just com­ing out of the Great Depres­sion when he grad­u­at­ed in 1938. Accord­ing to Ken­neth, Pres­i­dent Roo­sevelt was try­ing to improve the lives of farm­ers, help­ing them make a liv­ing on the land. “Farm­ers were good spenders, and he want­ed to encour­age new ways of doing things. The think­ing then was to remove the stone walls and hedges and increase the size of the fields so you could use a trac­tor to do the cul­ti­vat­ing.” He lis­tened care­ful­ly to the col­lege president’s final address. “He told us that we should go out into the world, run our farms and take jobs in the asso­ci­a­tions. It was our duty!” Ken looks over. “I took that to heart.”
That sum­mer, back at the farm, Ken­neth met Flo­rence for the first time. A man up the road (the Chap­man farm as we might know it) got mar­ried at home and intend­ed it to be a qui­et affair. “The neigh­bors decid­ed oth­er­wise and got togeth­er a chev­er­ie. We brought the par­ty to them,” said Ken. “Flo­rence was doing house­work for a fam­i­ly on Route 2 and she showed up at the par­ty. I was fresh out of col­lege and didn’t know who she was.
“So I sidled up to her and intro­duced myself. Lat­er, I asked how she was get­ting home and offered to take her in my Model‑A Ford. She agreed and when we got to the house, I asked her if I could give her a kiss good­night. She thought that would be okay as that was the cus­tom then,” said Ken. One can tell this is a sto­ry he has remem­bered often. “They say you’ve got a mate that’s made for you, and when you think you’ve found them, you can’t be shy.”
After going togeth­er for about a year, he was invit­ed to her house in Kir­by for din­ner. Her uncle ran the farm, and he was behind on his hay­ing. “It was August, and they need­ed to get it done,” said Ken. “I grabbed a fork and offered to help.” Since Ken­neth was in his good clothes, he reports he removed his shirt. “I think she liked what she saw,” he added.
Lat­er, a job well done, her Uncle Irish told her in front of all present, “If that young man ever asks you to mar­ry him, you’d have to have your head exam­ined if you refused. Any­one who can come back from col­lege and still use an old pitch­fork like that shows he’s a good man.”
Ken­neth asked her that very night. Flo­rence said she’d think it over. “I guess she want­ed to find out if I real­ly meant it.” That win­ter, she took a good job in New­port, VT, doing house­keep­ing. One time when Ken­neth was vis­it­ing, she asked, “Does your offer still stand?”
They were mar­ried in the Danville Con­gre­ga­tion­al par­son­age on Feb­ru­ary 15, 1941. “It was a sim­ple affair,” said Ken­neth. Flo­rence had sewn her own dress, made of a deep, blue vel­vet mate­r­i­al with soft gath­ers in the front, two shin­ing rhine­stones on the bodice. “She would nev­er let any­one else touch that dress,” said Kenneth.
The cou­ple joined his father, Wes­ley (known as Gene), and moth­er, Ruth, in the brick farm house. In 1942, lit­tle Bar­bara came along, named after Kenneth’s first girl­friend. “My grand­fa­ther took me aside and asked if some­thing was wrong with her,” said Ken­neth. “She nev­er cried; she was always hap­py.” In 1944, Andy was brought into the world, named after Kenneth’s Uncle Andy, who was blind but a great man with chil­dren. In 1948, one year after the Wards got their first trac­tor, Ida was added to the fam­i­ly, named after Kenneth’s grandmother.
Andy remem­bers that first trac­tor well. He had the measles when they brought it into the yard to try it out. Flo­rence came into his dark­ened room and said he could get one peek of it before going back to bed. He stood at the front win­dow with his moth­er behind him watch­ing the mar­velous machine push­ing snow out of the dri­ve­way before she shep­herd­ed him back to bed. It still upsets him when he thinks about it. Trac­tors were rationed after WWII and the Wards applied for all kinds. The first one avail­able was a ’47 Ford N.
Ken­neth and Flo­rence bought the farm, half at a time. “I did my share of the work for my half inter­est,” he said. “Then when we paid that off, we bought the oth­er half.” Flo­rence, like many farm wives, could milk if she had to, but she tried to stay out of the barn. “Her part of the busi­ness was the calf barn,” said Ken­neth. “For those who know Jer­seys, it is no small task to keep them healthy. She used to be good at run­ning the dump-rake, too. I can still see her out there with Dick, her Mor­gan, hitched up, clean­ing up the droppings.”
Even­tu­al­ly, after the Pump­kin Hill School closed, the Wards bought it. The school­house was sit­ting on land that was orig­i­nal­ly part of the farm. “There was an option to buy the school back should the school ever be closed,” said Ken­neth. Gene and Ruth remod­eled it, adding on where need­ed, and moved there, giv­ing the fam­i­ly full own­er­ship of the space at the farmhouse.
Ken­neth, true to the duty spo­ken of by his col­lege pres­i­dent on grad­u­a­tion day, accept­ed lead­er­ship roles in the Soil Con­ser­va­tion Ser­vice. The orga­ni­za­tion was cre­at­ed in 1935, after the tragedy of the dust bowl, when the U.S. gov­ern­ment real­ized the val­ue of good farm­ing meth­ods and the dis­sem­i­na­tion of those meth­ods through edu­ca­tion to farm­ers all over the coun­try. He duti­ful­ly attend­ed meet­ings and con­ven­tions, learn­ing from oth­ers and shar­ing his knowl­edge. “I learned the most from Soil Con­ser­va­tion meet­ings. I would always find a stranger to sit next to, ask them what their prob­lems were and how they solved them. Flo­rence went along to these meet­ings, even though I don’t think she liked them much,” said Kenneth.
This neces­si­tat­ed man­ag­ing work on the farm while he was away at these meet­ings in and out of state. “I had two full-time hired men work­ing with me.” At the peak of the farm, the Wards milked 80, with a herd of 150. By that time, they had decid­ed to go with a reg­is­tered herd, choos­ing Jer­seys because of their milk, which is high in but­ter­fat. “Hood was pay­ing a bet­ter price for Jer­sey milk, ship­ping it all over the North­east.” That’s when they had to upgrade the facil­i­ties to include the bulk tank and a cement-floored barn. At that time, he and Flo­rence were asked to come up with a legal name for their reg­is­tered farm. “We tried to get Deer Acres,” said Ken­neth, “but that was tak­en. So, we changed it to Dear Acres.”
The farm changed hands again in 1983 when their daugh­ter Bar­bara and her hus­band David Machell bought it, and he Flo­rence moved into the old school­house. Farm­ing went into decline short­ly there­after with ris­ing costs and falling milk prices. Ken­neth shakes his head in sad­ness, “We had no inten­tion of that hap­pen­ing to them.” Bar­bara and David even­tu­al­ly sold off the herd, but they still keep beef cat­tle. They do a busi­ness in the rais­ing and sell­ing of beefa­lo. The bulk tank was removed and a large freez­er installed where they sell the beef they have raised and butchered. The Machell’s renamed the farm “Pump­kin Hill Farm.”

In 2008, Flo­rence passed. She and Ken­neth had been mar­ried for 67 years. He still enjoys life in the snug, lit­tle house at the foot of farm, but every day he miss­es his dear mate, who so long ago accept­ed his offer to share a life together. 


This arti­cle was first pub­lished in the Feb­ru­ary, 2011, issue of The North Star Monthly.


For the pho­to album that relates to this arti­cle click here.

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