One of my favorite pictures of Christmas morning is of my 9 year old son. He is sitting on the stairs, long legs on the step below with his knees jutting up around his ears. His head is propped on his hand and his face exhibits the most woebegone expression. We have called it the "angry grasshopper" for years. You see, I used to torture my children on Christmas morning.
The first rule of Christmas morning was that they absolutely, definitely, could not get up before 5 am. They slept upstairs and our bedroom was right below them, so it wasn't unusual for me to hear them meeting in one bedroom about 4 am. Then they would giggle, groan and check the clock for another hour. Then would come tip-toes to the head of the steps to listen. Then they would start down the steps.
Then comes the hard part. They could come to our bedroom and wake us up but they could not go into the living room. Oh, the agony of it. Knowing that all those Christmas wishes were just beyond their reach. The waiting gave me time to jump into my robe and get to the living room and turn all the Christmas lights on. Then I would grab my camera and get myself positioned so I could get the look on their faces as they came around the corner. It was one of those mornings that I caught the picture of my son waiting, in frustration, for his mom to finally get ready so he could get to the presents.
My daughter called early Christmas morning with a laugh in her voice. "I just wanted you to know that I have officially become my mother!" It seems that that she had perpetuated the same torture on her 3 year old and 5 year old this Christmas. Upon hearing their feet hit the floor she headed them off and put them in bed with their dad. "You can't come out until I tell you!" she announced firmly. "Why not?" mumbled a groggy dad dealing with the attack of two wildly excited girls. "Because I have to get the lights on and get the camera ready" she called as she tore down the hall. It must have taken a little while because she said by the time she let them know they could arrive, all three were waiting by the door with identical mutinous expressions on their faces.
All survived....and the torture just makes the Christmas excitement more appreciated. (Also the pictures are priceless!)
Monday, December 26, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
I Must be Shrinking
We always celebrate Christmas Eve with hubby's brother's family. We gather early in the afternoon, eat, drink and visit until time for Christmas Eve service. We started out at my mother-in-law's, but over the years we have migrated to our house. Each year I tend to feel like I am getting shorter and shorter. You see we managed somehow to raise a group of very large children.
My brother-in-law and his wife took their time figuring out how to make babies, but once they started they did a really thorough job. They produced three boys and a girl. He once said that he sure was delighted that the last one was a girl, because he was pretty sure his wife was going to keep on trying until she got one! They all seemed pretty normal until about junior high school, then they started growing. The three boys grew to 6'3" or 6'4". Their sister probably is close to 6' herself. Two of the boys played college football and the third choose to attend a school that didn't offer him a football scholarship. The little sister was recruited heavily by several schools as a volleyball player. They weren't just jocks either (nothing against jocks). They all did well in their studies and are now a chemist, stockbroker, marketing specialist and the oldest is a farm manager like his dad.
They all are married now and of course, all but one, married tall people. The daughter married a guy as tall (if not taller) than her brothers. I slip around refilling drinks and passing nibbles and dodging belt buckles! Especially when you add my children to the mix. My son is 6'4" and my daughter is a measly 5'7". She's the short one in the bunch. Of course, they also both married tall people. Just getting a hug from everyone can seriously compromise my back or theirs! I've considered just getting a stool and standing on it by the door when they arrive. We're a huggy, loving family but it can be hazardous and challenging.
You see hubby and I are average in height. I am 5'4" he's 5'10". His brother was slightly taller and his wife probably 5'6". Whatever the cause, I feel like I'm shrinking when I'm surrounded by all these tall children.
It must have been all the pre-natal vitamins we took.
My brother-in-law and his wife took their time figuring out how to make babies, but once they started they did a really thorough job. They produced three boys and a girl. He once said that he sure was delighted that the last one was a girl, because he was pretty sure his wife was going to keep on trying until she got one! They all seemed pretty normal until about junior high school, then they started growing. The three boys grew to 6'3" or 6'4". Their sister probably is close to 6' herself. Two of the boys played college football and the third choose to attend a school that didn't offer him a football scholarship. The little sister was recruited heavily by several schools as a volleyball player. They weren't just jocks either (nothing against jocks). They all did well in their studies and are now a chemist, stockbroker, marketing specialist and the oldest is a farm manager like his dad.
They all are married now and of course, all but one, married tall people. The daughter married a guy as tall (if not taller) than her brothers. I slip around refilling drinks and passing nibbles and dodging belt buckles! Especially when you add my children to the mix. My son is 6'4" and my daughter is a measly 5'7". She's the short one in the bunch. Of course, they also both married tall people. Just getting a hug from everyone can seriously compromise my back or theirs! I've considered just getting a stool and standing on it by the door when they arrive. We're a huggy, loving family but it can be hazardous and challenging.
You see hubby and I are average in height. I am 5'4" he's 5'10". His brother was slightly taller and his wife probably 5'6". Whatever the cause, I feel like I'm shrinking when I'm surrounded by all these tall children.
It must have been all the pre-natal vitamins we took.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Tobacco Stripping
Well, it certainly looks like we won't be needing a sled this Christmas but we may need a boat. The rain is coming down in buckets and more coming. It makes last minute errands a mess. Somehow shopping in a snow is much more fun than slopping in the rain.
On the farm rain also means something else. It means tobacco is in "case" and everyone is busy "stripping". For those of you who have followed our son's adventure into tobacco farming, I'll try to explain.
After the tobacco has grown and been cut it is "housed" or hung in the barn to air cure. Over time the tobacco becomes dry and brown and is "cured". Then it is time to take it from the barn and remove the leaves from the stalk in preparation to be sold. To do this without causing it to crumble to dust, you wait until it rains and the moisture has softened the leaves. When it is soft or in "case" the plants can be handled without damage.
So on rainy days you take down the tobacco you hung in the fall and load it onto a wagon. This is called "bulking" tobacco. ( See how much you are learning?) Now begins the process called "stripping". In this the leaves are "stripped" from the plant by hand and sorted into piles depending on their quality or location on the plant. These are then put into a large box and compressed into a bale. The bale is taken to the warehouse and sold to the tobacco companies. At least you hope they buy it.
All of this means that you spend a lot of time in a semi-heated space cornered out of a barn or shed, stripping tobacco. It's not hard work but it is tedious and tiring. You spend long hours standing and doing monotonous repetitious movements. If you are doing it by yourself it is very boring, but thankfully it is mostly done in groups. When a group of farmers get together to help in a stripping room you can bet the tales will be long, tall and frequent. Sometimes I'm not sure if they are working or partying from the sounds coming from the barn. Gales of laughter and whoops of mirth tend to drift from the door. No one is immune from being the butt of the joke or the point of their story. If you have a thin skin I would strongly advise you not to enter the space.
Believe me, spending 8 hours a day in a small space with no entertainment but each other builds a bond and closeness that rivals living in a sorority house!
I would repeat some of the stories that are being told but my computer would probably melt.
On the farm rain also means something else. It means tobacco is in "case" and everyone is busy "stripping". For those of you who have followed our son's adventure into tobacco farming, I'll try to explain.
After the tobacco has grown and been cut it is "housed" or hung in the barn to air cure. Over time the tobacco becomes dry and brown and is "cured". Then it is time to take it from the barn and remove the leaves from the stalk in preparation to be sold. To do this without causing it to crumble to dust, you wait until it rains and the moisture has softened the leaves. When it is soft or in "case" the plants can be handled without damage.
So on rainy days you take down the tobacco you hung in the fall and load it onto a wagon. This is called "bulking" tobacco. ( See how much you are learning?) Now begins the process called "stripping". In this the leaves are "stripped" from the plant by hand and sorted into piles depending on their quality or location on the plant. These are then put into a large box and compressed into a bale. The bale is taken to the warehouse and sold to the tobacco companies. At least you hope they buy it.
All of this means that you spend a lot of time in a semi-heated space cornered out of a barn or shed, stripping tobacco. It's not hard work but it is tedious and tiring. You spend long hours standing and doing monotonous repetitious movements. If you are doing it by yourself it is very boring, but thankfully it is mostly done in groups. When a group of farmers get together to help in a stripping room you can bet the tales will be long, tall and frequent. Sometimes I'm not sure if they are working or partying from the sounds coming from the barn. Gales of laughter and whoops of mirth tend to drift from the door. No one is immune from being the butt of the joke or the point of their story. If you have a thin skin I would strongly advise you not to enter the space.
Believe me, spending 8 hours a day in a small space with no entertainment but each other builds a bond and closeness that rivals living in a sorority house!
I would repeat some of the stories that are being told but my computer would probably melt.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Beaten Biscuits
An excited fourteen year old cornered me after church Sunday, "When are we making beaten biscuits? I want to help. I can come on Thursday, please!" I was a little surprised but since making beaten biscuits is a two person job I sure wasn't turning down the help. In the past he had been coerced into helping, so he knew what he was getting into. Thursday was the first day of Christmas vacation for him, but it wasn't the day I needed to be baking, so I decided to collect him after school on Wednesday.
Beaten biscuits, for the uninitiated, are a form of biscuit created by putting the dough through a device that looks a lot like an old wringer on a wringer washer. The dough is folded and squeezed through the rollers, folded and squeezed until it becomes satiny and very elastic. The resulting biscuits are a smooth, firm circle with the consistency of a 1/2 inch thick cracker. Southerners think it is Divine, especially with country ham. In our house it's a Christmas tradition. It's a labor of love and togetherness. Especially since it takes one person to turn the crank and another to feed the dough through the rollers. I can't imagine why people made them before the invention of the cranked rollers. Before rollers they were made by beating the dough until it was elastic. Usually the implement was a hatchet. The dough was given a hundred whacks with the flat side of the hatchet. Believe me, women were really determined to have beaten biscuits back then. Just shows what a southerner will do for good food.
Now, knowing that my fourteen year old grandson doesn't hold aspirations of becoming a chef, I suspected there were some ulterior motives for his enthusiastic offer of help. As I pulled out of the garage to go pick him up for our afternoon of cooking I saw his dad's truck at the barn and realized the first reason for his help. His dad is stripping tobacco, a boring, never-ending job, that grandson gets drafted into every free moment. Since helping with beaten biscuits trumps just about anything, he has become my assistant chef. Smiling to myself, that for once I get to be top dog over farm chores, I continued to town.
Soon we were home and I was elbow deep in dough. I looked around for grandson and found no one. It seems that he had decided he had a few minutes to play a video game. Finally I corralled him and got him ready to crank the machine. I start feeding the dough through and he starts cranking... fast! "Slow down!" I caution, "You're going to catch my fingers." With that the dough starts to wrap around the roller. I frantically scrape if off and gather it into a ball for the next try. Once again we start and off he goes to the races. After several passes of the dough through the rollers he is still cranking at a furious speed. "Is it about done?" He queries. "What's the rush? We've got all afternoon." "Sure" he responds, "but I've killed a bunch a men and I have to get back to finish." So much for love of grandmother, it seems it's my computer he's in love with!
On the positive side. We finished the biscuits in record time and I still have all my fingers.
Beaten biscuits, for the uninitiated, are a form of biscuit created by putting the dough through a device that looks a lot like an old wringer on a wringer washer. The dough is folded and squeezed through the rollers, folded and squeezed until it becomes satiny and very elastic. The resulting biscuits are a smooth, firm circle with the consistency of a 1/2 inch thick cracker. Southerners think it is Divine, especially with country ham. In our house it's a Christmas tradition. It's a labor of love and togetherness. Especially since it takes one person to turn the crank and another to feed the dough through the rollers. I can't imagine why people made them before the invention of the cranked rollers. Before rollers they were made by beating the dough until it was elastic. Usually the implement was a hatchet. The dough was given a hundred whacks with the flat side of the hatchet. Believe me, women were really determined to have beaten biscuits back then. Just shows what a southerner will do for good food.
Now, knowing that my fourteen year old grandson doesn't hold aspirations of becoming a chef, I suspected there were some ulterior motives for his enthusiastic offer of help. As I pulled out of the garage to go pick him up for our afternoon of cooking I saw his dad's truck at the barn and realized the first reason for his help. His dad is stripping tobacco, a boring, never-ending job, that grandson gets drafted into every free moment. Since helping with beaten biscuits trumps just about anything, he has become my assistant chef. Smiling to myself, that for once I get to be top dog over farm chores, I continued to town.
Soon we were home and I was elbow deep in dough. I looked around for grandson and found no one. It seems that he had decided he had a few minutes to play a video game. Finally I corralled him and got him ready to crank the machine. I start feeding the dough through and he starts cranking... fast! "Slow down!" I caution, "You're going to catch my fingers." With that the dough starts to wrap around the roller. I frantically scrape if off and gather it into a ball for the next try. Once again we start and off he goes to the races. After several passes of the dough through the rollers he is still cranking at a furious speed. "Is it about done?" He queries. "What's the rush? We've got all afternoon." "Sure" he responds, "but I've killed a bunch a men and I have to get back to finish." So much for love of grandmother, it seems it's my computer he's in love with!
On the positive side. We finished the biscuits in record time and I still have all my fingers.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Joy to the World
This past Sunday was our church Christmas program. This yearly event causes excitement in the children (Santa stops by to visit after lunch) and massive anxiety for the parents. It's an unwritten rule that if you take a group of children and put them in front of a group of family and friends, out of reach of their parents, you will have some embarrassing moments. Knowing my grandsons as well as I did, I knew who would be wiggling in their seats with stressful anticipation.
The children lined up across the front of the church. They were certainly an angelic looking group. The ages ranged from three to nine years old. Our wonderful Brazilian friends had worked hard with this group and seen to it that each child had an opportunity to shine in the spotlight. The five year old grandson had been practicing his solo part every night before bed for weeks. The three year old had been practicing standing still. The five year old knew his part perfectly. The three year old was still practicing.
The program began with the clear, childish voices lifted in the old familiar songs. My two were the picture of earnest devotion as they sang their hearts out. The program moved on and it was the five year old's turn to sing with the microphone. He stepped up and did a beautiful job, although maybe just a little ahead of the music. The three year old grabbed for the microphone but a quick move passed it safely on to the next child to sing. The resumed their singing, standing straight and tall.
Sometime around the ten minute mark in the program the three year old got bored. Being a brother, he did what he usually did when he was bored, he started picking on his older sibling. With no change in expression he side-stepped into his brother and gave him a little shove. The older brother just moved over and kept singing. Another step. Another shove. No response yet. After a couple of more tries with no success he decided that maybe stepping on his toes would work.
About this time grandma, in the back of the church taking pictures, started giving him the "look". That glare perfected by parents everywhere that can immobilize a child from across the room. The three year old looked slyly at a point over my head and three other kids quit singing, fearing they were the recipient of the furious glare. Toe stepping didn't work so he decided to try poking his brother. Brother is getting a little red in the face but is still determined to be "good" and trying to ignore the pest.
About this time one of the older girls leans over and tells him to quit. He's no dummy, he knows she is too young to have any real authority. Daddy is now pointing his finger and frowning mightily. Mama is using her best "glare", which is usually pretty effective. Three more children quit singing and start to look frightened. One looks like he might start to cry. Enjoying the attention totally the little boy pulls out all the stops and gives his brother a real push. Caught off guard, the older boy stumbles and falls. Everyone in church holds their breath to see what will happen. His parents and I close our eyes and pray, envisioning a retaliating tackle and free-for-all imminent. With stoic poise the older boy picks himself up and joins in the song. The audience lets out a joint sigh of relief.
Fortunately the program is soon over and the parents can wipe the sweat from their brows and relax. Until the next time.
This one may be lucky to survive until he's five.
The children lined up across the front of the church. They were certainly an angelic looking group. The ages ranged from three to nine years old. Our wonderful Brazilian friends had worked hard with this group and seen to it that each child had an opportunity to shine in the spotlight. The five year old grandson had been practicing his solo part every night before bed for weeks. The three year old had been practicing standing still. The five year old knew his part perfectly. The three year old was still practicing.
The program began with the clear, childish voices lifted in the old familiar songs. My two were the picture of earnest devotion as they sang their hearts out. The program moved on and it was the five year old's turn to sing with the microphone. He stepped up and did a beautiful job, although maybe just a little ahead of the music. The three year old grabbed for the microphone but a quick move passed it safely on to the next child to sing. The resumed their singing, standing straight and tall.
Sometime around the ten minute mark in the program the three year old got bored. Being a brother, he did what he usually did when he was bored, he started picking on his older sibling. With no change in expression he side-stepped into his brother and gave him a little shove. The older brother just moved over and kept singing. Another step. Another shove. No response yet. After a couple of more tries with no success he decided that maybe stepping on his toes would work.
About this time grandma, in the back of the church taking pictures, started giving him the "look". That glare perfected by parents everywhere that can immobilize a child from across the room. The three year old looked slyly at a point over my head and three other kids quit singing, fearing they were the recipient of the furious glare. Toe stepping didn't work so he decided to try poking his brother. Brother is getting a little red in the face but is still determined to be "good" and trying to ignore the pest.
About this time one of the older girls leans over and tells him to quit. He's no dummy, he knows she is too young to have any real authority. Daddy is now pointing his finger and frowning mightily. Mama is using her best "glare", which is usually pretty effective. Three more children quit singing and start to look frightened. One looks like he might start to cry. Enjoying the attention totally the little boy pulls out all the stops and gives his brother a real push. Caught off guard, the older boy stumbles and falls. Everyone in church holds their breath to see what will happen. His parents and I close our eyes and pray, envisioning a retaliating tackle and free-for-all imminent. With stoic poise the older boy picks himself up and joins in the song. The audience lets out a joint sigh of relief.
Fortunately the program is soon over and the parents can wipe the sweat from their brows and relax. Until the next time.
This one may be lucky to survive until he's five.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Your House or Mine
I had a wonderful mother-in-law and I loved her dearly. She was sweet, agreeable, loving and a great cook. Hidden in the middle of this delightful package was a will of steel. In all our years I never heard her complain or whine, demand or implore, or even get mad and pout. Yet, if she made up her mind about something it was a done deal.
The biggest family issue most newlyweds face is the decision of "who gets us for Christmas Day." The delicate manoeuvring to keep everyone happy and blend two family's traditions is a minefield full of potential explosions. Obviously, both families want to keep their special traditions and routines and want to keep their child involved exactly as always. Spouses are optional.
Hubby and I had discussed this months before the event and concluded that we were very fortunate since our celebrations would dove-tail perfectly. His family had always had their Christmas on Christmas Eve with everyone attending Christmas Eve services. Afterward they would all re-group at his mother's house for Weisboder and custard. In my family we celebrated on Christmas morning with a big family dinner later. The families lived in the same small town so travel wouldn't be an issue. Problem solved. We looked with pity at the other young couples in our college community who weren't so fortunate.
December arrived and we started making the final plans for our trip home over the school holiday. I outlined the plan to my mother-in-law and she smiled and said that would be fine, but to be sure and be at Aunt Elizabeth's by 12:00 for dinner. Huh? It seems the reason they celebrated their Christmas on Christmas Eve was that the family had dinner together at the aunt's house on Christmas day. I explained gently that we had decided that we would spend Christmas Eve with them but Christmas Day with my family. She smiled and nodded. "That's fine." she responded and I thought it was case closed.
Soon after during a phone call from her she gently inserted the reminder that Aunt Elizabeth would be expecting us for dinner. I again explained that we wouldn't be attending. I decided I'd better call Aunt Elizabeth and explain to her also. After calling her I was much relieved since she had assured me that she agreed with our decision. Plans were made to come by later in the afternoon for a visit, which seemed to solve the problem.
Then I received a note from my mother-in-law with a recipe I had requested. In it she again reminded us that we were expected for dinner. Each reminder was gently presented with no hint of accusation or recrimination. Just don't forget. I began to get a little stressed. "Do something! Talk to her!" I implored hubby. He just shook his head and suggested I explain it all to her again. Another phone call and gentle reassurance that of course she understood I wanted to be with my family for Christmas and they would look forward to spending Christmas Eve with us. I began to relax and think I had finally solved this dilemma. Then just as the phone call was ending she gently inserted, "We're really looking forward to seeing you for dinner at Aunt Elizabeth's."
The days were dwindling fast and I wasn't making any progress. Finally in defeat I gave in. We went to Aunt Elizabeth's for Christmas dinner.......much to her surprise!
I learned that day that water dripping on a stone will eventually wear a hole in the stone. I also learned that the art of passive resistance is an incredibly effective tool.
I also learned that my mother-in-law was an invincible opponent wrapped in warmth and love. I think I learned my lessons well from her.
My children will be home for Christmas!
The biggest family issue most newlyweds face is the decision of "who gets us for Christmas Day." The delicate manoeuvring to keep everyone happy and blend two family's traditions is a minefield full of potential explosions. Obviously, both families want to keep their special traditions and routines and want to keep their child involved exactly as always. Spouses are optional.
Hubby and I had discussed this months before the event and concluded that we were very fortunate since our celebrations would dove-tail perfectly. His family had always had their Christmas on Christmas Eve with everyone attending Christmas Eve services. Afterward they would all re-group at his mother's house for Weisboder and custard. In my family we celebrated on Christmas morning with a big family dinner later. The families lived in the same small town so travel wouldn't be an issue. Problem solved. We looked with pity at the other young couples in our college community who weren't so fortunate.
December arrived and we started making the final plans for our trip home over the school holiday. I outlined the plan to my mother-in-law and she smiled and said that would be fine, but to be sure and be at Aunt Elizabeth's by 12:00 for dinner. Huh? It seems the reason they celebrated their Christmas on Christmas Eve was that the family had dinner together at the aunt's house on Christmas day. I explained gently that we had decided that we would spend Christmas Eve with them but Christmas Day with my family. She smiled and nodded. "That's fine." she responded and I thought it was case closed.
Soon after during a phone call from her she gently inserted the reminder that Aunt Elizabeth would be expecting us for dinner. I again explained that we wouldn't be attending. I decided I'd better call Aunt Elizabeth and explain to her also. After calling her I was much relieved since she had assured me that she agreed with our decision. Plans were made to come by later in the afternoon for a visit, which seemed to solve the problem.
Then I received a note from my mother-in-law with a recipe I had requested. In it she again reminded us that we were expected for dinner. Each reminder was gently presented with no hint of accusation or recrimination. Just don't forget. I began to get a little stressed. "Do something! Talk to her!" I implored hubby. He just shook his head and suggested I explain it all to her again. Another phone call and gentle reassurance that of course she understood I wanted to be with my family for Christmas and they would look forward to spending Christmas Eve with us. I began to relax and think I had finally solved this dilemma. Then just as the phone call was ending she gently inserted, "We're really looking forward to seeing you for dinner at Aunt Elizabeth's."
The days were dwindling fast and I wasn't making any progress. Finally in defeat I gave in. We went to Aunt Elizabeth's for Christmas dinner.......much to her surprise!
I learned that day that water dripping on a stone will eventually wear a hole in the stone. I also learned that the art of passive resistance is an incredibly effective tool.
I also learned that my mother-in-law was an invincible opponent wrapped in warmth and love. I think I learned my lessons well from her.
My children will be home for Christmas!
Friday, December 16, 2011
O Christmas Tree
I confess. I love Christmas decorations. I grouse about dragging them out, the mess of putting them up, the trouble of cleaning around them, the space they take up, the torture of taking them down and packing them up, but the truth is I love it when the house is decorated. The best part is when you get a few quiet minutes, turn on the tree lights, crank up the Christmas music and just sit and enjoy it.
Don't get me wrong. My house isn't ready for a center spread in Better Homes and Gardens. In fact a lot of it is the same artificial garland in the same place, year after year. What makes it all special are the memories attached to each and every decoration. Some people decorate by theme with new decorations bought every year and everything color coded. Not me, I decorate by the things that mean the most to me, regardless of what they look like. That means using the nativity scene made by a former homemaker when I was the County Extension Agent, the garland my daughter and I found on one of our "girl" trips to Gatlinburg, TN, when she was in college, the laughing snowman that was given to my daughter after her wreck to cheer her up (no one can listen to the maniacal laughter and not join in!), and the various candle holders and gifts given to me by friends.
However, my pride and joy is my tree. Each and every ornament has a story and a memory. This year the "little boys" (my son's 3 and 5 year old) wanted to help me decorate. Now, I'm a traditionalist, but not a dummy. All the delicate glass ornaments have been packed up until a later date, but I still have lots of reasonably sturdy ornaments to fill the tree. With shouts of glee they attacked the boxes of ornaments. As each one was pulled out they placed it carefully on the tree. Their idea of balance is a little different. Each ball (their favorites and plastic) were grouped by color and placed on one branch. So now I have clusters of balls hanging like grapes about 2 feet off the floor.
Then we got to the fun ornaments. I have school ornaments from both my children, gifts from friends, ornaments bought on special trips, or commemorating special events. Even one that's a giant cigar in honor of hubby's cigar smoking. As each ornament was brought out I would tell the little boys about the event, person or story surrounding the item. Some they were interested in, some they weren't but they loved the idea that they had meaning.
The place of honor on my tree (to the horror of my daughter when she was a status conscious teen) is always given to a small group of cheap, plastic lanterns and sparkly, golden plastic bells. These were all we could afford for the tree the first year we were married. Cheap, but you got a lot of them for a small price, so at least we had something on the tree. Today they hang to remind us of the time when all we had was our love and now, the family that has grown from that love. Maybe in a small way they remind us of God's love for all of us and His gift to us.
Sunday, the oldest "little" came in after church with a foam craft they had done in Sunday school. It was a lopsided green wreath with a manger scene precariously attached in the middle. He proudly took it to the tree and hung it on a branch, adding his contribution to the tree.
You know, it looked beautifully at home there.
Don't get me wrong. My house isn't ready for a center spread in Better Homes and Gardens. In fact a lot of it is the same artificial garland in the same place, year after year. What makes it all special are the memories attached to each and every decoration. Some people decorate by theme with new decorations bought every year and everything color coded. Not me, I decorate by the things that mean the most to me, regardless of what they look like. That means using the nativity scene made by a former homemaker when I was the County Extension Agent, the garland my daughter and I found on one of our "girl" trips to Gatlinburg, TN, when she was in college, the laughing snowman that was given to my daughter after her wreck to cheer her up (no one can listen to the maniacal laughter and not join in!), and the various candle holders and gifts given to me by friends.
However, my pride and joy is my tree. Each and every ornament has a story and a memory. This year the "little boys" (my son's 3 and 5 year old) wanted to help me decorate. Now, I'm a traditionalist, but not a dummy. All the delicate glass ornaments have been packed up until a later date, but I still have lots of reasonably sturdy ornaments to fill the tree. With shouts of glee they attacked the boxes of ornaments. As each one was pulled out they placed it carefully on the tree. Their idea of balance is a little different. Each ball (their favorites and plastic) were grouped by color and placed on one branch. So now I have clusters of balls hanging like grapes about 2 feet off the floor.
Then we got to the fun ornaments. I have school ornaments from both my children, gifts from friends, ornaments bought on special trips, or commemorating special events. Even one that's a giant cigar in honor of hubby's cigar smoking. As each ornament was brought out I would tell the little boys about the event, person or story surrounding the item. Some they were interested in, some they weren't but they loved the idea that they had meaning.
The place of honor on my tree (to the horror of my daughter when she was a status conscious teen) is always given to a small group of cheap, plastic lanterns and sparkly, golden plastic bells. These were all we could afford for the tree the first year we were married. Cheap, but you got a lot of them for a small price, so at least we had something on the tree. Today they hang to remind us of the time when all we had was our love and now, the family that has grown from that love. Maybe in a small way they remind us of God's love for all of us and His gift to us.
Sunday, the oldest "little" came in after church with a foam craft they had done in Sunday school. It was a lopsided green wreath with a manger scene precariously attached in the middle. He proudly took it to the tree and hung it on a branch, adding his contribution to the tree.
You know, it looked beautifully at home there.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Lost HIstories
I'm old. I remember a time when computers were new and everyone was talking about how much time they would save us.....
Computers have made lots of tasks easier and more efficient but they have created some problems along the way. My biggest concern is that we are losing our heritage and memories with all this computer usage. Specifically our pictorial history and our written history. I'm not talking about national or world histories but the histories of our families. We store everything on zip drives, CD's, hard drives and we pride ourselves that we have eliminated whole closets full of boxes of pictures and papers.
Again, I am old. I remember when we put all of our music on 8-track tapes, then cassette tapes. How many of you can even play that music now. What about the VCR home movies we made with those huge, old cameras? Do you even know what a floppy disc is? Each of these technologies have become outdated and replaced, eliminating our ability to access that information. Now it's all on smart phones and computers, but what happens when they are outdated and upstaged by new technology? Will we be able to access those memories?
I have a box of pictures and papers that I have kept from my grandmother. In it are pictures of her parents, grandparents and siblings. There are pictures of my mother as a baby, child and young adult. Pictures of family vacations taken in funny old cars. There are scenes of family get-togethers with old fashioned clothes. These are old black and white photos but they are as clear as the day they were taken. I can look at them without special equipment and I can pass them on to my children. Will we be able to do that fifty years from now with the digital media we have now? Will our grandchildren or great-grandchildren have any way to remember us or know what our lives were like?
I shudder for the generations to come who will lose these connections to the past. If my computer crashes I will have lost many precious pictures of Christmas, birthdays, babies, trips and friends. Unless I have stored them on a zip drive or CD, that may or may not be readable in the future. My simple box of pictures has been passed down for three generations with no instructions needed. Maybe technology has moved us too far this time.
It's important to know where you came from before you can know where you are going.
Computers have made lots of tasks easier and more efficient but they have created some problems along the way. My biggest concern is that we are losing our heritage and memories with all this computer usage. Specifically our pictorial history and our written history. I'm not talking about national or world histories but the histories of our families. We store everything on zip drives, CD's, hard drives and we pride ourselves that we have eliminated whole closets full of boxes of pictures and papers.
Again, I am old. I remember when we put all of our music on 8-track tapes, then cassette tapes. How many of you can even play that music now. What about the VCR home movies we made with those huge, old cameras? Do you even know what a floppy disc is? Each of these technologies have become outdated and replaced, eliminating our ability to access that information. Now it's all on smart phones and computers, but what happens when they are outdated and upstaged by new technology? Will we be able to access those memories?
I have a box of pictures and papers that I have kept from my grandmother. In it are pictures of her parents, grandparents and siblings. There are pictures of my mother as a baby, child and young adult. Pictures of family vacations taken in funny old cars. There are scenes of family get-togethers with old fashioned clothes. These are old black and white photos but they are as clear as the day they were taken. I can look at them without special equipment and I can pass them on to my children. Will we be able to do that fifty years from now with the digital media we have now? Will our grandchildren or great-grandchildren have any way to remember us or know what our lives were like?
I shudder for the generations to come who will lose these connections to the past. If my computer crashes I will have lost many precious pictures of Christmas, birthdays, babies, trips and friends. Unless I have stored them on a zip drive or CD, that may or may not be readable in the future. My simple box of pictures has been passed down for three generations with no instructions needed. Maybe technology has moved us too far this time.
It's important to know where you came from before you can know where you are going.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Little White Kitty
Christmas memories always bring back the time when our daughter asked Santa for one thing and one thing only....then didn't get it Christmas morning.
She was about four and already an animal lover, especially cats. Unfortunately, hubby is not a cat lover, so our pets had been limited to goldfish and the rabbit that lived in the yard. (Unless you count the cat I started our marriage with, which may explain some of hubby's cat avoidance) At that time we lived in town and hadn't started the succession of dogs that were to share our lives in the years to come.
Christmas came and we took her brother and her to visit Santa Clause. Her brother approached with his list memorized and quickly rattled off all the toys in the toy catalog. Now it was her turn. She climbed on his knee and whispered her wish. He leaned closer and asked her again. She looked up and smiled, "I want a white kitty cat". Santa nodded sagely and asked what else she wanted. She patted him on the arm and said, "That's all, just a white kitty." Santa looked a little hesitant and glanced over at me. I just shrugged. It was the first I had heard of it either.
She maintained this request during all the weeks leading up to the holidays. We showed her the toy catalog, took her to stores, pointed out neat toys her friends had but she just shook her head and said all she wanted was a white kitty. We threw caution to the winds and began looking for a white kitty. My dad and his wife searched their county, we called animal shelters, friends and farmers, to no avail. There just didn't seem to be any white kitties around. Hubby grimaced but didn't put too many roadblocks in our search.
Christmas arrived and she received white kitty pillows, stuffed white kitties, a white ceramic kitty, white kitty picture books, even a white kitty puzzle, but no fuzzy little warm body. It was a quiet Christmas in our house. Hubby didn't even gloat that he didn't have to share his house with a cat.
A few weeks passed and things were beginning to be back to normal. I find that children recover and move on much faster than adults. I still was reeling from the feeling that somehow we had failed this child. However, life goes on. I was in town one morning paying our electric bill, just before we received a late notice. (That was before computers would nag you into remembering to pay!) When I proudly slapped down my payment the clerk looked up and smiled. "Lucky you! You are the 10th person to pay today so we don't have to do the paperwork to track down delinquents. So you get a prize!" I smiled back, knowing that the staff loved to tease me for my bill paying skills. With that she reached under her desk and pulled out a small, fluffy, totally white kitten.
It seems that as they were closing up the night before the linemen coming in through the back noticed this little mite in the alley. Knowing that she was too little to fend for herself they brought her in and left her in a room overnight. However, she had outstayed her welcome and a home was needed, quickly. All of the memories of the Christmas with no kitty came rushing in and I soon found myself cuddling her and agreeing to take her home. One problem remained. Hubby still hadn't openly agreed to a cat and to get to the car I had to walk in front of the large, glass windows of his office. He would see me for sure and nip this in the bud.
The office staff seeing the solution to their dilemma ravel around the edges started doing some quick thinking. They didn't have a box to put her in but one of the guys came up with a paper sack. In a wink the little ball of fluff was tucked into the sack and the top stapled shut. I picked it up and bravely marched down the street. Several people stopped and stared as I walked past carrying the wildly, wiggling sack emitting pitiful mews. Somehow I arrived at the car without being detected by hubby.
The look on my little girl's face when I presented her with her little, white kitty made the deception and upcoming discussion worth it. When her excitement had abated some I explained that daddy's allergies made him not really want a cat, especially in the house (a fact she had heard lots of times in the past months). I cautioned her to let me greet him when he came home and break the news to him gently (with a stiff bourbon). She agreed.
When hubby arrived home, tired from a long day, he was greeted at the back door by a radiant four year old and a squirming bundle of fur. "Look daddy!! I got my white kitty. Her name is Star! You want to hold her?" She soon departed to play with her new friend in the living room and hubby turned on me with a glower. "I thought we had discussed this. You know I'm allergic." (only to cats, not to cows I guess). I calmly told him that was correct and I had explained that to her in great length. All he needed to do was tell her that she couldn't keep the kitty and we would find it another home.
Star lived with us for the next 18 years.
She and hubby maintained a constant war for all 18 years.
He cried with me when we buried her in the back yard.
She was about four and already an animal lover, especially cats. Unfortunately, hubby is not a cat lover, so our pets had been limited to goldfish and the rabbit that lived in the yard. (Unless you count the cat I started our marriage with, which may explain some of hubby's cat avoidance) At that time we lived in town and hadn't started the succession of dogs that were to share our lives in the years to come.
Christmas came and we took her brother and her to visit Santa Clause. Her brother approached with his list memorized and quickly rattled off all the toys in the toy catalog. Now it was her turn. She climbed on his knee and whispered her wish. He leaned closer and asked her again. She looked up and smiled, "I want a white kitty cat". Santa nodded sagely and asked what else she wanted. She patted him on the arm and said, "That's all, just a white kitty." Santa looked a little hesitant and glanced over at me. I just shrugged. It was the first I had heard of it either.
She maintained this request during all the weeks leading up to the holidays. We showed her the toy catalog, took her to stores, pointed out neat toys her friends had but she just shook her head and said all she wanted was a white kitty. We threw caution to the winds and began looking for a white kitty. My dad and his wife searched their county, we called animal shelters, friends and farmers, to no avail. There just didn't seem to be any white kitties around. Hubby grimaced but didn't put too many roadblocks in our search.
Christmas arrived and she received white kitty pillows, stuffed white kitties, a white ceramic kitty, white kitty picture books, even a white kitty puzzle, but no fuzzy little warm body. It was a quiet Christmas in our house. Hubby didn't even gloat that he didn't have to share his house with a cat.
A few weeks passed and things were beginning to be back to normal. I find that children recover and move on much faster than adults. I still was reeling from the feeling that somehow we had failed this child. However, life goes on. I was in town one morning paying our electric bill, just before we received a late notice. (That was before computers would nag you into remembering to pay!) When I proudly slapped down my payment the clerk looked up and smiled. "Lucky you! You are the 10th person to pay today so we don't have to do the paperwork to track down delinquents. So you get a prize!" I smiled back, knowing that the staff loved to tease me for my bill paying skills. With that she reached under her desk and pulled out a small, fluffy, totally white kitten.
It seems that as they were closing up the night before the linemen coming in through the back noticed this little mite in the alley. Knowing that she was too little to fend for herself they brought her in and left her in a room overnight. However, she had outstayed her welcome and a home was needed, quickly. All of the memories of the Christmas with no kitty came rushing in and I soon found myself cuddling her and agreeing to take her home. One problem remained. Hubby still hadn't openly agreed to a cat and to get to the car I had to walk in front of the large, glass windows of his office. He would see me for sure and nip this in the bud.
The office staff seeing the solution to their dilemma ravel around the edges started doing some quick thinking. They didn't have a box to put her in but one of the guys came up with a paper sack. In a wink the little ball of fluff was tucked into the sack and the top stapled shut. I picked it up and bravely marched down the street. Several people stopped and stared as I walked past carrying the wildly, wiggling sack emitting pitiful mews. Somehow I arrived at the car without being detected by hubby.
The look on my little girl's face when I presented her with her little, white kitty made the deception and upcoming discussion worth it. When her excitement had abated some I explained that daddy's allergies made him not really want a cat, especially in the house (a fact she had heard lots of times in the past months). I cautioned her to let me greet him when he came home and break the news to him gently (with a stiff bourbon). She agreed.
When hubby arrived home, tired from a long day, he was greeted at the back door by a radiant four year old and a squirming bundle of fur. "Look daddy!! I got my white kitty. Her name is Star! You want to hold her?" She soon departed to play with her new friend in the living room and hubby turned on me with a glower. "I thought we had discussed this. You know I'm allergic." (only to cats, not to cows I guess). I calmly told him that was correct and I had explained that to her in great length. All he needed to do was tell her that she couldn't keep the kitty and we would find it another home.
Star lived with us for the next 18 years.
She and hubby maintained a constant war for all 18 years.
He cried with me when we buried her in the back yard.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Weisboder
My mother-in-law was the youngest daughter of Swiss immigrants. Although her mother arrived in the United States as a babe in arms her Swiss grandmother taught her mother many of the dishes from her home country. She in turn passed the recipes on to her daughters. One of these recipes is a Christmas cookie that no Christmas was complete without when my husband was growing up. I remember arriving home for the holidays and stepping into her shinning, warm kitchen redolent with the smells of good food, and being greeted with a cookie and a hug. To her food was the biggest expression of her love that she could offer. When you were in her house, you ate!
She was a great cook but her trademark was the delicate Weisboder cookies that her mother had taught her to make. They were thin, crisp cookies baked in a sheet, iced with a pink, slick frosting, then cut into diamond shapes. Their distinctive flavor came from the large amount of cinnamon used. We all loved them. To all of us they represented Christmas.
The time came when I decided that I needed to learn to make these cookies to carry the tradition on to my children. I actually spent one delightful day making Weisboder with my mother-in-law, with her showing me every step of the procedure. My father-in-law, definitely not a cook, supervised the whole process. It is one of my fondest memories. At the end of the day I went home with a precious tin of cookies and a recipe. I put the recipe up and continued to eat my mother-in-law's cookies every Christmas.
Then time passed and the ravages of her disease took her memories of how to cook and the precious Weisboder. I decided it was time to pick up the torch and carry on. Unfortunately, too much time had passed and my recipe couldn't be found. Over the following years I kept an eye out for her recipe in her kitchen as we cared for her, but with literally hundreds of recipes and clippings stuck into books, boxes, files, and drawers we didn't find it. We resigned ourselves to only having memories of the delightful cookie.
After her death, in clearing out her house, I was delighted to find two copies of the recipe in her distinctive hand-writing. With joy I prepared this holiday to recreate the cookies for my husband, children and grandchildren. I gathered the ingredients, followed the recipe and my faded memories and made Weisboder. Unfortunately the results were a little disappointing. They were thicker, gooier, not crisp, the frosting was sticky and too fluffy. My husband and I munched on cookies and thought. Then we started comparing memories and laughing. She never made a recipe that she didn't "tinker" with it and "improve" it. What we were missing were the changes she made to the recipe each time she made them. She knew that she liked more flour, a larger pan, to cook the frosting longer or with more sugar to get just the cookie she wanted. Unfortunately, we didn't know all her tricks.
However, as my husband said, our children don't really remember her Weisboder and these were good cookies, just not what we remembered. So these will be the wonderful Christmas cookies that our children and grandchildren will know as the Swiss Christmas Cookies. They will carry on their Swiss heritage and family traditions with this cookie and hopefully remember a lovely, little lady who made them for her children.
I, on the other hand, will probably spend a lot of time over the next few years, "tinkering" with a recipe trying to catch a memory.
She was a great cook but her trademark was the delicate Weisboder cookies that her mother had taught her to make. They were thin, crisp cookies baked in a sheet, iced with a pink, slick frosting, then cut into diamond shapes. Their distinctive flavor came from the large amount of cinnamon used. We all loved them. To all of us they represented Christmas.
The time came when I decided that I needed to learn to make these cookies to carry the tradition on to my children. I actually spent one delightful day making Weisboder with my mother-in-law, with her showing me every step of the procedure. My father-in-law, definitely not a cook, supervised the whole process. It is one of my fondest memories. At the end of the day I went home with a precious tin of cookies and a recipe. I put the recipe up and continued to eat my mother-in-law's cookies every Christmas.
Then time passed and the ravages of her disease took her memories of how to cook and the precious Weisboder. I decided it was time to pick up the torch and carry on. Unfortunately, too much time had passed and my recipe couldn't be found. Over the following years I kept an eye out for her recipe in her kitchen as we cared for her, but with literally hundreds of recipes and clippings stuck into books, boxes, files, and drawers we didn't find it. We resigned ourselves to only having memories of the delightful cookie.
After her death, in clearing out her house, I was delighted to find two copies of the recipe in her distinctive hand-writing. With joy I prepared this holiday to recreate the cookies for my husband, children and grandchildren. I gathered the ingredients, followed the recipe and my faded memories and made Weisboder. Unfortunately the results were a little disappointing. They were thicker, gooier, not crisp, the frosting was sticky and too fluffy. My husband and I munched on cookies and thought. Then we started comparing memories and laughing. She never made a recipe that she didn't "tinker" with it and "improve" it. What we were missing were the changes she made to the recipe each time she made them. She knew that she liked more flour, a larger pan, to cook the frosting longer or with more sugar to get just the cookie she wanted. Unfortunately, we didn't know all her tricks.
However, as my husband said, our children don't really remember her Weisboder and these were good cookies, just not what we remembered. So these will be the wonderful Christmas cookies that our children and grandchildren will know as the Swiss Christmas Cookies. They will carry on their Swiss heritage and family traditions with this cookie and hopefully remember a lovely, little lady who made them for her children.
I, on the other hand, will probably spend a lot of time over the next few years, "tinkering" with a recipe trying to catch a memory.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Small Towns
I grew up in a small town....I mean really small. We had maybe , 2000 people. Then I married and moved to another small town, maybe 2500 people. People that move here from cities and metropolitan areas are often quite uncomfortable until they get used to small town ways. It is a different experience from life in the city.
One of the first things that people notice is that you have to drive to get to the conveniences that they think are necessities. We don't have a mall, shopping centers, huge groceries, theaters, opera, ballet, sixteen different mega-box stores or a dozen restaurants. If we want daily necessities we go to Walmart (yes, there is a Walmart near about every small town in America!) . If we want to shop for fun then we drive, hey, it's a day out.
What we do have more than compensates.
We don't have a Arts Center but we do have a thriving and creative Children's Theater group that puts on outstanding shows. In large cities these budding artist might be lost in the crush of sheer numbers but here they are nurtured and give stellar performances that have helped earn numerous accolades. A spin-off has been an adult group that has given wonderful performances to sell out crowds. (There is nothing quite so much fun as being able to say, "I live next door to the star!")
We don't have a huge department store but we do have an outstanding Christmas Bazaar and Bake sale put on by the Homemakers Clubs and the Crafters Guild. There you can buy hand knitted hats, hand printed silk scarves, softer than clouds alpaca socks that started on the Alpaca, wooden toys, hand crafted jewelry, Christmas decorations, ornaments and gifts. You can cut your baking time by buying jam cakes, stack pies (if you don't know what they are--it's another story), coffee cakes, yeast rolls, cakes, cookies and candies. You won't find their equal in any of the fancy mall stores.
The best part of small towns is the one thing that drives people craziest when they first encounter it. Everyone knows you and all about you. It's really hard to hide or be invisible. I've had people comment that they were called by name by people they had never met. Sure, because they had met that person's daughter, cousin, neighbor, or friend and they had told them about you. It means that news travels fast because we tend to share our interest and concerns about each other. So don't be surprised when the check-out lady in the grocery congratulates you on your child's award at school. She's not being nosy just happy for the accomplishment. In the same way if you've had the flu or an illness in the family you may have the teller at the bank inquiring about everyone's recovery. She's picked it up because her sister-in-law was behind you at the drug store when you bought supplies. Don't be offended!! It's just their way of showing their concern.
You really don't appreciate this attribute until life hands you real troubles. When catastrophes come small towns turn out to help and comfort. Suddenly there is food for families, hugs for comfort, baby-sitters for children, and helping hands for any chore. You don't have to ask, it just arrives. I have seen examples that have shocked those not familiar with small towns. Prescriptions that have come due during a crisis that the pharmacist has called to see if they needed it and then delivered it himself. Cars loaned until repairs can be made, groceries delivered in snowy weather, teachers giving kids rides home from school, neighbors taking care of pets when you can't get home because of a crisis, and on and on. Small towns are best at taking care of their residents in times of need.
Yes, all this also means that if you have a falling out with your Aunt Susie over Thanksgiving dinner you might find the lady at the library asking if you have patched up your quarrel yet!! However, on a whole, it's a small price to pay for the love and kindness of living in a small town.
One of the first things that people notice is that you have to drive to get to the conveniences that they think are necessities. We don't have a mall, shopping centers, huge groceries, theaters, opera, ballet, sixteen different mega-box stores or a dozen restaurants. If we want daily necessities we go to Walmart (yes, there is a Walmart near about every small town in America!) . If we want to shop for fun then we drive, hey, it's a day out.
What we do have more than compensates.
We don't have a Arts Center but we do have a thriving and creative Children's Theater group that puts on outstanding shows. In large cities these budding artist might be lost in the crush of sheer numbers but here they are nurtured and give stellar performances that have helped earn numerous accolades. A spin-off has been an adult group that has given wonderful performances to sell out crowds. (There is nothing quite so much fun as being able to say, "I live next door to the star!")
We don't have a huge department store but we do have an outstanding Christmas Bazaar and Bake sale put on by the Homemakers Clubs and the Crafters Guild. There you can buy hand knitted hats, hand printed silk scarves, softer than clouds alpaca socks that started on the Alpaca, wooden toys, hand crafted jewelry, Christmas decorations, ornaments and gifts. You can cut your baking time by buying jam cakes, stack pies (if you don't know what they are--it's another story), coffee cakes, yeast rolls, cakes, cookies and candies. You won't find their equal in any of the fancy mall stores.
The best part of small towns is the one thing that drives people craziest when they first encounter it. Everyone knows you and all about you. It's really hard to hide or be invisible. I've had people comment that they were called by name by people they had never met. Sure, because they had met that person's daughter, cousin, neighbor, or friend and they had told them about you. It means that news travels fast because we tend to share our interest and concerns about each other. So don't be surprised when the check-out lady in the grocery congratulates you on your child's award at school. She's not being nosy just happy for the accomplishment. In the same way if you've had the flu or an illness in the family you may have the teller at the bank inquiring about everyone's recovery. She's picked it up because her sister-in-law was behind you at the drug store when you bought supplies. Don't be offended!! It's just their way of showing their concern.
You really don't appreciate this attribute until life hands you real troubles. When catastrophes come small towns turn out to help and comfort. Suddenly there is food for families, hugs for comfort, baby-sitters for children, and helping hands for any chore. You don't have to ask, it just arrives. I have seen examples that have shocked those not familiar with small towns. Prescriptions that have come due during a crisis that the pharmacist has called to see if they needed it and then delivered it himself. Cars loaned until repairs can be made, groceries delivered in snowy weather, teachers giving kids rides home from school, neighbors taking care of pets when you can't get home because of a crisis, and on and on. Small towns are best at taking care of their residents in times of need.
Yes, all this also means that if you have a falling out with your Aunt Susie over Thanksgiving dinner you might find the lady at the library asking if you have patched up your quarrel yet!! However, on a whole, it's a small price to pay for the love and kindness of living in a small town.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thanksgiving Memories
Thanksgiving has passed. We had a small celebration this year with our son and his three sons. My daughter-in-law had taken the baby girl to visit her family in Wyoming. My heart goes out to families that are spread out so far apart. Her parents and grandparents had yet to meet this newest member of their family, so eagerly awaited the visit. In the meantime the boys stayed home to keep the Kentucky grandparents company through the holiday.
One of the highlights of Thanksgiving, even if you are small in number, is the remembrance of those who are no longer with us. The memories and tall tales flowed around the table with the gravy and the dressing. Everyone had a special memory to share, but it falls to us old ones to try to paint pictures of those relatives that they have only met in our stories.
My favorite characters are two lovely old men that were the highlight of any family gathering at my aunt's home. My aunt was a consummate hostess who loved having people in her home. Thanksgiving was especially fun because of the quiet blend of generations. We all gathered in her big dining room around the big table set with all the china, silver and crystal passed down through her family. Even the little ones were welcome at her table, although we knew even at an early age that remaining there meant we didn't make a mess or lots of noise. The sacrifice was worth it because of the entertainment.
A typical Thanksgiving would include her father, Grandaddy Pence, and her Uncle Earl. These two old gents came with spouses, but they didn't stand out in my young memory. Grandaddy Pence always carved the turkey. It was a show in itself, involving lots of knife sharpening, platters placed just so, and a turkey roasted to a crisp, golden brown. The result was a platter of perfect slices carved with lots of admiring comments from the waiting family. Uncle Earl kept the family entertained throughout the meal with a continuous supply of witty stories involving most of the family at one time or another.
After everyone was stuffed there was no rush to the television to watch football. We had television but I don't think football was the only thing on then. Instead we stayed at the table, after the last crumb of pie had been eaten, and had a story competition. It seemed everyone had a story to tell and each topped the story before it. We kids wouldn't think of leaving because through these stories we got to see a side of our elders that we never dreamed was possible. We heard stories of our grandparents in the grasp of young love. Stories of our parents as teenagers getting into scrapes and trying to hide it from their parents. Stories of kid's adventures in a time long past. Stories of our grandparents as they built their businesses and farms and the trials they faced. Stories of childhood illnesses, young deaths, haunted houses, missing relatives, and war heroes. It seemed that as the afternoon wore on the stories only got bigger and better. Who needed TVs, we had high drama in the dining room.
I'm afraid with the passing of these two lovely old gents with their twinkling eyes and gift for words the world lost some truly great story-tellers. Sometimes I think we need to spend more time talking and less time watching television. After all television is only a pale imitation of the drama of real life.
One of the highlights of Thanksgiving, even if you are small in number, is the remembrance of those who are no longer with us. The memories and tall tales flowed around the table with the gravy and the dressing. Everyone had a special memory to share, but it falls to us old ones to try to paint pictures of those relatives that they have only met in our stories.
My favorite characters are two lovely old men that were the highlight of any family gathering at my aunt's home. My aunt was a consummate hostess who loved having people in her home. Thanksgiving was especially fun because of the quiet blend of generations. We all gathered in her big dining room around the big table set with all the china, silver and crystal passed down through her family. Even the little ones were welcome at her table, although we knew even at an early age that remaining there meant we didn't make a mess or lots of noise. The sacrifice was worth it because of the entertainment.
A typical Thanksgiving would include her father, Grandaddy Pence, and her Uncle Earl. These two old gents came with spouses, but they didn't stand out in my young memory. Grandaddy Pence always carved the turkey. It was a show in itself, involving lots of knife sharpening, platters placed just so, and a turkey roasted to a crisp, golden brown. The result was a platter of perfect slices carved with lots of admiring comments from the waiting family. Uncle Earl kept the family entertained throughout the meal with a continuous supply of witty stories involving most of the family at one time or another.
After everyone was stuffed there was no rush to the television to watch football. We had television but I don't think football was the only thing on then. Instead we stayed at the table, after the last crumb of pie had been eaten, and had a story competition. It seemed everyone had a story to tell and each topped the story before it. We kids wouldn't think of leaving because through these stories we got to see a side of our elders that we never dreamed was possible. We heard stories of our grandparents in the grasp of young love. Stories of our parents as teenagers getting into scrapes and trying to hide it from their parents. Stories of kid's adventures in a time long past. Stories of our grandparents as they built their businesses and farms and the trials they faced. Stories of childhood illnesses, young deaths, haunted houses, missing relatives, and war heroes. It seemed that as the afternoon wore on the stories only got bigger and better. Who needed TVs, we had high drama in the dining room.
I'm afraid with the passing of these two lovely old gents with their twinkling eyes and gift for words the world lost some truly great story-tellers. Sometimes I think we need to spend more time talking and less time watching television. After all television is only a pale imitation of the drama of real life.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Deer Hunting
I have just returned from another visit to my daughter in Iowa. We tend to hurry and get in as many visits as we can before it begins to snow. For a country girl from the south the snows of Iowa are more than a little intimidating.
This trip coincided with the beginning of deer season. Now I grew up with hunting seasons in Kentucky so the rush to the woods at the beginning of deer season wasn't anything really new to me. However, deer hunting in Iowa is a little different. For one thing all the rules favor the deer. Most of the season is strictly for bow hunting. After a week or so of bow hunting there is a week that you can hunt with a shotgun and slugs. Then back to bow hunting. In Kentucky you hunt with rifles that could bring down a buck two counties away but with a shotgun you have to be close enough for "howdy-do's" before you shoot. To make it more challenging you have the sparsity of cover in Iowa. They have lots of open, flat cornfields but relatively few wooded areas. It's hard to hide and sneak up on a deer in a picked corn field. They also limit the number of hunters by making it a lottery to get a permit. In short, the deer are definitely given the edge.
You'd think that this was because they needed to protect a limited population of deer. Far from it! The truth is that there are deer everywhere. Lots of grain and wide open spaces have created a haven for deer. We never left the house that we didn't see deer...in fields, crossing the roads, in the yards in town, behind the school, walking down the road. Driving becomes a defensive art to keep from hitting the deer as they wander back and forth. In fact, we looked up from breakfast one morning to see an eight-point buck leisurely walk by the window on his way to the woods across the road.
It seems the only people not seeing deer were the hunters.
This trip coincided with the beginning of deer season. Now I grew up with hunting seasons in Kentucky so the rush to the woods at the beginning of deer season wasn't anything really new to me. However, deer hunting in Iowa is a little different. For one thing all the rules favor the deer. Most of the season is strictly for bow hunting. After a week or so of bow hunting there is a week that you can hunt with a shotgun and slugs. Then back to bow hunting. In Kentucky you hunt with rifles that could bring down a buck two counties away but with a shotgun you have to be close enough for "howdy-do's" before you shoot. To make it more challenging you have the sparsity of cover in Iowa. They have lots of open, flat cornfields but relatively few wooded areas. It's hard to hide and sneak up on a deer in a picked corn field. They also limit the number of hunters by making it a lottery to get a permit. In short, the deer are definitely given the edge.
You'd think that this was because they needed to protect a limited population of deer. Far from it! The truth is that there are deer everywhere. Lots of grain and wide open spaces have created a haven for deer. We never left the house that we didn't see deer...in fields, crossing the roads, in the yards in town, behind the school, walking down the road. Driving becomes a defensive art to keep from hitting the deer as they wander back and forth. In fact, we looked up from breakfast one morning to see an eight-point buck leisurely walk by the window on his way to the woods across the road.
It seems the only people not seeing deer were the hunters.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Daddy's Cooking
I come from a long line of people that just like to cook. Even the men in my family could be found pottering around the kitchen whenever they had free time. In fact I have one cousin who carried this on to becoming a chef. Most of us just became ordinary cooks or in today's vernacular, foodies.
My grandmother was a creative cook who loved her sweets. From her I learned early on to appreciate puff pastries wrapped around delectable fillings, rich pies with fluffy meringue, tall cakes with gooey fillings between the layers, and cookies of all shapes and sizes for small hands. My mother, with her artistic leanings, created beautiful food with elegant presentations. She was the one who would think of sugared grapes to accent a salad, chocolate curls atop a delicate cake, or whimsical cut-outs gracing the pie crust top of the apple pie. My aunt was the party planner. She always was thinking of what tastes would compliment each other, which dishes would look attractive together, the balance of hot and cold, sweet and sour, heavy and light, and the total presentation.
However, it was my dad's cooking that was the most fun. He cooked for the shear joy of eating it. It would all start with an idea of what would taste good to him that day or maybe a recipe he just happened to see, or even a dish mentioned in a book he was reading. He would head for the kitchen and mother would head for the couch. If he was cooking it was best to just leave him to it. Daddy never did his cooking in moderation. If he felt like homemade bread, he might make six loaves. If he was making soup, he would make a vat full. So it was best just to get out of his way and let him cook.
One day he decided, since he had an abundance of rabbits that had until recently been raiding his garden, that he wanted to try hasenpfeffer, a German dish made with rabbit. Out come the cookbooks and soon the table is covered with books as he hunts for a recipe that fits his needs (and the supplies on hand). He settled in for an afternoon of culinary adventure. I decided this might take a while so I begged a ride to the local movie theater for the Sunday afternoon show.
After the movie was over my dad showed up to give us a ride home. There were about six of us that usually met at the movie and got a ride home with whichever parent showed up to get us. With a wave of his arm he ordered us all into the car. "Are you hungry?" he questioned. We all grinned and chorused "Yes, sir!!". Hey, we were teens, we were always hungry, especially the boys. With that he drove us home. The six of us fell in on that "stew" with a will. It was delicious, a heavenly blend of flavors I remember to this day. We soon had licked the last from our plates. I'm reasonably sure none had ever eaten hasenpfeffer before and probably not a lot of rabbit. They may not have even figured it out, but they didn't let that stop them from enjoying every morsel.
No wonder I had so many friends!
My grandmother was a creative cook who loved her sweets. From her I learned early on to appreciate puff pastries wrapped around delectable fillings, rich pies with fluffy meringue, tall cakes with gooey fillings between the layers, and cookies of all shapes and sizes for small hands. My mother, with her artistic leanings, created beautiful food with elegant presentations. She was the one who would think of sugared grapes to accent a salad, chocolate curls atop a delicate cake, or whimsical cut-outs gracing the pie crust top of the apple pie. My aunt was the party planner. She always was thinking of what tastes would compliment each other, which dishes would look attractive together, the balance of hot and cold, sweet and sour, heavy and light, and the total presentation.
However, it was my dad's cooking that was the most fun. He cooked for the shear joy of eating it. It would all start with an idea of what would taste good to him that day or maybe a recipe he just happened to see, or even a dish mentioned in a book he was reading. He would head for the kitchen and mother would head for the couch. If he was cooking it was best to just leave him to it. Daddy never did his cooking in moderation. If he felt like homemade bread, he might make six loaves. If he was making soup, he would make a vat full. So it was best just to get out of his way and let him cook.
One day he decided, since he had an abundance of rabbits that had until recently been raiding his garden, that he wanted to try hasenpfeffer, a German dish made with rabbit. Out come the cookbooks and soon the table is covered with books as he hunts for a recipe that fits his needs (and the supplies on hand). He settled in for an afternoon of culinary adventure. I decided this might take a while so I begged a ride to the local movie theater for the Sunday afternoon show.
After the movie was over my dad showed up to give us a ride home. There were about six of us that usually met at the movie and got a ride home with whichever parent showed up to get us. With a wave of his arm he ordered us all into the car. "Are you hungry?" he questioned. We all grinned and chorused "Yes, sir!!". Hey, we were teens, we were always hungry, especially the boys. With that he drove us home. The six of us fell in on that "stew" with a will. It was delicious, a heavenly blend of flavors I remember to this day. We soon had licked the last from our plates. I'm reasonably sure none had ever eaten hasenpfeffer before and probably not a lot of rabbit. They may not have even figured it out, but they didn't let that stop them from enjoying every morsel.
No wonder I had so many friends!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Report Card
My daughter attended her first parent-teacher conference today with her little girl's kindergarten teacher. She arrived home with a neatly printed assessment of her daughter's potential and achievement (a report card to us old timers). Not surprisingly, most of the marks showed she was above average and thoroughly enjoying school. However, one criteria caused the teacher to point out that she could certainly use some improvement in "talking too much". My daughter was much concerned. I figured that she is a product of her genes. After all her grandmother had this note on all her report cards from kindergarten on. I'm sure if there had been a place to report it in college I would have gotten it there, too. I once had a colleague comment that she had never known anyone who loved words more than I did. I guess that's a nice way of saying I never outgrew "talking too much"!
This little girl is definitely a chip off the old block. When she was just a baby she would babble on indefinitely. The difference from her babbling and others is that she managed to babble in paragraphs with complete punctuation. You actually felt like you were listening to a long story in some foreign language. My daughter swore she was talking in Chinese. Of course, she was surrounded by family that loved to tell a good story and did so on the drop of a hat. Soon she was following suit, rattling off long sentences of blab and gooble, often punctuated with pauses, emphasis, and exclamations. Then she would end the story by slapping her knee and laughing to beat the band. Don't tell me she wasn't sharing a really good, funny story!
Her parents have never talked down to their children, explaining complicated ideas carefully and simply. This has caused her to recognize and use unusual words for small children. We once overheard her using the term "populations". This one threw us since we couldn't figure out what she was referring to. Then her daddy explained that it was a term he used in talking about the amount of seed that you use to plant a corn field. Shows that sometimes grandparents aren't as smart as they think they are.
She was somewhere between two and three when she astounded my hubby and I when she interrupted a discussion we were having by announcing that we needed to "compromise". He turned to her in amazement and asked, "Just what do you mean by that". She looked him straight in the eye and said, "It means that you have to give a little and grandma has to give a little".
I think we could use her in Washington.
This little girl is definitely a chip off the old block. When she was just a baby she would babble on indefinitely. The difference from her babbling and others is that she managed to babble in paragraphs with complete punctuation. You actually felt like you were listening to a long story in some foreign language. My daughter swore she was talking in Chinese. Of course, she was surrounded by family that loved to tell a good story and did so on the drop of a hat. Soon she was following suit, rattling off long sentences of blab and gooble, often punctuated with pauses, emphasis, and exclamations. Then she would end the story by slapping her knee and laughing to beat the band. Don't tell me she wasn't sharing a really good, funny story!
Her parents have never talked down to their children, explaining complicated ideas carefully and simply. This has caused her to recognize and use unusual words for small children. We once overheard her using the term "populations". This one threw us since we couldn't figure out what she was referring to. Then her daddy explained that it was a term he used in talking about the amount of seed that you use to plant a corn field. Shows that sometimes grandparents aren't as smart as they think they are.
She was somewhere between two and three when she astounded my hubby and I when she interrupted a discussion we were having by announcing that we needed to "compromise". He turned to her in amazement and asked, "Just what do you mean by that". She looked him straight in the eye and said, "It means that you have to give a little and grandma has to give a little".
I think we could use her in Washington.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Harvest
As far as the eye can see are fields and fields of corn. Dotted through this landscape are the reds, greens, and occasional blues of combines, tractors and huge trucks. It's harvest time in the heartland. To a country girl raised in the rolling hills of Kentucky (translate-not much land that will grow crops) this is fascinating stuff. The huge combines lumber through the rows of corn until they fill with the golden grains. Then they load up the big semi-trailers and it is hauled to the scales to be weighed and unloaded for storage. It's an all day and sometimes late night job until the weather breaks or the harvest is finished.
Occasionally you will see a combine stopped in the field surrounded by a cluster of pick-up trucks. That usually means trouble. Every farmer keeps a vehicle loaded with tools, parts, oils, and various other supplies ready to run from field to field in the event that there is a break down. Farmers become masters at taking equipment apart and repairing it in the field. They have to, time is literally money when you are rushing to beat the weather.
It's the farm wives who carry the heaviest load during all of this. They not only have to continue with their usual chores of getting kids up and off to school, washing, cleaning, cooking, housework--you know the usual routine. Now however are added all the chores that the hubby can't get to. For some that is feeding and checking cows, picking up supplies, getting replacement parts, finding equipment repair books. calling manufacturers for parts, paying bills, and in short, keeping the rest of the farming operation running. Also, added to the routine, are the lunches and suppers that are served in the fields. The fields are too big and too far apart to make stopping and coming in for meals a possibility, so every farm wife becomes a master at packing and delivering hot meals in out of the way places.
Like one wife said, "It's like being a widow for about two months, except you have this dirty, tired, grumpy man that wanders through at odd hours for a hot shower and a little sleep--during which time the world is supposed to stop so he isn't disturbed."
This has been a good harvest year and they will soon be finished in the fields. The weather has been unusually warm and dry, so there haven't been a lot of down days. The harvest will be done in time for a special Thanksgiving (sometimes they are still struggling at Christmas!).
Occasionally you will see a combine stopped in the field surrounded by a cluster of pick-up trucks. That usually means trouble. Every farmer keeps a vehicle loaded with tools, parts, oils, and various other supplies ready to run from field to field in the event that there is a break down. Farmers become masters at taking equipment apart and repairing it in the field. They have to, time is literally money when you are rushing to beat the weather.
It's the farm wives who carry the heaviest load during all of this. They not only have to continue with their usual chores of getting kids up and off to school, washing, cleaning, cooking, housework--you know the usual routine. Now however are added all the chores that the hubby can't get to. For some that is feeding and checking cows, picking up supplies, getting replacement parts, finding equipment repair books. calling manufacturers for parts, paying bills, and in short, keeping the rest of the farming operation running. Also, added to the routine, are the lunches and suppers that are served in the fields. The fields are too big and too far apart to make stopping and coming in for meals a possibility, so every farm wife becomes a master at packing and delivering hot meals in out of the way places.
Like one wife said, "It's like being a widow for about two months, except you have this dirty, tired, grumpy man that wanders through at odd hours for a hot shower and a little sleep--during which time the world is supposed to stop so he isn't disturbed."
This has been a good harvest year and they will soon be finished in the fields. The weather has been unusually warm and dry, so there haven't been a lot of down days. The harvest will be done in time for a special Thanksgiving (sometimes they are still struggling at Christmas!).
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Adventure
I have spent the day traveling through nature's fall extravaganza in the heartland. As I have driven through Indiana and Illinois on my way to visit my daughter in Iowa, I have been visually overwhelmed with the beauty of the fall landscape. Everywhere I have looked have been fields of tan corn, the reds of flaming maples, the golds of fall flowers and highlighted here and there have been picturesque red barns against soft green fields. The only problem has been that you can't stop and take pictures on an interstate!
It takes me eleven hours to drive to my daughters and I have come to look on these trips as a special get away time for me. It's not often that I take out across the country completely on my own. Since my marriage 43 years ago, I have made most of my trips accompanied either by my husband or children. Actually, when you have family it's hard to do about anything by yourself. So this is an adventure for me. I get to stop when I need to, even if it is only twenty minutes after the last stop. If I want a frappe from McDonald's I can just stop and get it! I quit driving early enough to explore the small mall in Galesburg. Then I ordered out from Applebee's and ate watching something besides football!!!! See, it's an adventure.
This trip is a special time of "girl bonding" with my daughter. Tomorrow we will take her girls to gymnastics then the four of us will have a "girl" dinner together--probably at McDonald's. Then after a couple of days of visiting, my daughter and I are heading for Chicago for the clothing Market to purchase spring merchandise for her children's store. I can't believe how much I am looking forward to the trip. Chicago is such fun and watching your daughter function as a polished and confident buyer at market is wonderful! (My job is to carry her stuff around and take pictures of clothes so she can match tights and accessories.)
In short, if you don't hear from me for a few days, it's because I am busy having an adventure!
It takes me eleven hours to drive to my daughters and I have come to look on these trips as a special get away time for me. It's not often that I take out across the country completely on my own. Since my marriage 43 years ago, I have made most of my trips accompanied either by my husband or children. Actually, when you have family it's hard to do about anything by yourself. So this is an adventure for me. I get to stop when I need to, even if it is only twenty minutes after the last stop. If I want a frappe from McDonald's I can just stop and get it! I quit driving early enough to explore the small mall in Galesburg. Then I ordered out from Applebee's and ate watching something besides football!!!! See, it's an adventure.
This trip is a special time of "girl bonding" with my daughter. Tomorrow we will take her girls to gymnastics then the four of us will have a "girl" dinner together--probably at McDonald's. Then after a couple of days of visiting, my daughter and I are heading for Chicago for the clothing Market to purchase spring merchandise for her children's store. I can't believe how much I am looking forward to the trip. Chicago is such fun and watching your daughter function as a polished and confident buyer at market is wonderful! (My job is to carry her stuff around and take pictures of clothes so she can match tights and accessories.)
In short, if you don't hear from me for a few days, it's because I am busy having an adventure!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Fall Canoe Trip
It's a beautiful fall day in Kentucky. The temperature is about 76 degrees with a cool breeze and lots of sunshine. It's what I call a hot fudge sundae day. Warm sunshine with a cool breeze. The leaves are turning, creating a visual feast of yellows, greens, reds, oranges, browns, golds and tans, spread out over the hills.
Hubby just ran through the house to tell me that he was going with our son to move his truck. Huh? Translate please. It seems that the boys are going to take a canoe to one spot and float down the river to another spot. Hubby is going to move a truck to the getting out spot, so they will have transportation home. It's a wonderful way to spend the afternoon, lazily floating down the river enjoying the peace and quiet. With no outside noises you can hear the calls of the birds, see the fish jump, and maybe even catch a deer coming to the river for a drink.
However, the last time we were involved in a canoe trip it was a little different. My son's best friend, and owner of the canoe, decided to take his girl friend on a Sunday afternoon canoe ride. He loaded up the canoe,with a picnic lunch, a couple of bottles of wine and his fishing pole and off they went. The afternoon was perfect and romantic. They drifted down the river, ate lunch on the river bank, napped a little and then canoed a little further. The afternoon progressed and the girlfriend was getting a little sunburned, the shadows were beginning to lengthen and the air was getting a little cooler. Questions of "how much further" were met with "just a little further until we get to the place to get out."
It seems they had entered the river at a place described by a friend with instructions on how far to float down and where to get out. Unfortunately either the directions were a little skimpy or the navigation was a little off because they couldn't find the spot they were to leave the river. It was late afternoon when we got the call. "Hey, could you come and get us?' "Sure, where are you?" "Well, that's a little tricky. Do you have a map?" I was pretty sure at this point we were in trouble. "Check on the map down river from this point, where we put in. We're beside a road and a bridge and we've passed two or three bridges. I think we might be in the next county." Now I knew we were in trouble.
It took 30 minutes, a call to the local game warden (who had been down most of the rivers), another call to the friend who gave them directions but we finally figured out where they were....sort of. Off hubby went to collect the explorers and bring them home.
I sure hope they took a map and a compass this time.
Hubby just ran through the house to tell me that he was going with our son to move his truck. Huh? Translate please. It seems that the boys are going to take a canoe to one spot and float down the river to another spot. Hubby is going to move a truck to the getting out spot, so they will have transportation home. It's a wonderful way to spend the afternoon, lazily floating down the river enjoying the peace and quiet. With no outside noises you can hear the calls of the birds, see the fish jump, and maybe even catch a deer coming to the river for a drink.
However, the last time we were involved in a canoe trip it was a little different. My son's best friend, and owner of the canoe, decided to take his girl friend on a Sunday afternoon canoe ride. He loaded up the canoe,with a picnic lunch, a couple of bottles of wine and his fishing pole and off they went. The afternoon was perfect and romantic. They drifted down the river, ate lunch on the river bank, napped a little and then canoed a little further. The afternoon progressed and the girlfriend was getting a little sunburned, the shadows were beginning to lengthen and the air was getting a little cooler. Questions of "how much further" were met with "just a little further until we get to the place to get out."
It seems they had entered the river at a place described by a friend with instructions on how far to float down and where to get out. Unfortunately either the directions were a little skimpy or the navigation was a little off because they couldn't find the spot they were to leave the river. It was late afternoon when we got the call. "Hey, could you come and get us?' "Sure, where are you?" "Well, that's a little tricky. Do you have a map?" I was pretty sure at this point we were in trouble. "Check on the map down river from this point, where we put in. We're beside a road and a bridge and we've passed two or three bridges. I think we might be in the next county." Now I knew we were in trouble.
It took 30 minutes, a call to the local game warden (who had been down most of the rivers), another call to the friend who gave them directions but we finally figured out where they were....sort of. Off hubby went to collect the explorers and bring them home.
I sure hope they took a map and a compass this time.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Benevolant Dictatorship
We were old fashioned parents. I don't think the children of today would approve of the methods that we used in our parenting. I think my son said it best when he announced he was raised in a "benevolent dictatorship". There wasn't much doubt in our house that dad was the captain of the ship and mom was first mate. While we didn't really make them walk the plank, they were never sure we wouldn't if we could find enough water and a plank!
We loved our children but we weren't always loving to them. We felt our first responsibility was to teach our children how to be responsible adults. That meant that sometimes they had to learn that in society there are rules and they have to be followed or there were consequences. Sometimes the consequences were punishments that involved loss of freedoms or treats. Sometimes it was more immediate and physical.
Did we hit our children? Yes, but not in anger as an outlet for our frustrations. Sometimes the lesson to be learned has to be immediate and unforgettable. You cannot reason with a two year old about the dangers of crossing the street. However, he will remember to ask if an impression of consequences (a swat on the bottom) is in his mind. It's a lesson that cannot be taught gradually. One dash into the street could mean a fatality.
Children are all different. My daughter could be brought to tears and remorse with a stern lecture. She still to this day says that I "beat her to death with my lips"! Some children don't hear you at all until you physically touch them. In our house, mom didn't appeal to your better nature, she issued ultimatums. Were my kids perfect, hardly. Was I a perfect parent, only in my dreams. However, we did manage to raise two responsible, accountable adults who are doing a pretty good job of raising their children.
I remember one event that made a lasting impression on my son and became a family legend. I had come home from work and frantically cooked dinner. A challenge every working mom faces, to get a hot meal on the table before the kids have driven her crazy complaining of starving. I filled the plates and set them on the table. It had been a long, stressful day and the kids were being particularly skilled at getting on my last nerve. My son, with the total disregard for self-preservation that only a 7 year old can show, curled his lip in distaste and whined, "Wha-at is this? YUK!"
Something in me snapped! To the amazement of my husband and daughter I snatched up his plate and snarled, "You don't have to worry about what it is because you don't have to eat it!" With that I marched to the garbage can and scraped his plate into it. Husband, son, and daughter sat in stunned silence. They looked at me in total astonishment as I calmly sat down and began to eat my dinner. It was not my finest hour, but I did get my point across. (My husband confessed later that he snuck a plate of food for my son, so he didn't starve.)
Years later we were sitting down to dinner with one of my son's friends. As the food was passed around the table the friend was heard to mutter, "What is this stuff?" My son shot back, "Don't ask, just eat. She'll scrape your plate in a heartbeat!" The friend looked at us like we were lunatics as we all burst out laughing.
We loved our children but we weren't always loving to them. We felt our first responsibility was to teach our children how to be responsible adults. That meant that sometimes they had to learn that in society there are rules and they have to be followed or there were consequences. Sometimes the consequences were punishments that involved loss of freedoms or treats. Sometimes it was more immediate and physical.
Did we hit our children? Yes, but not in anger as an outlet for our frustrations. Sometimes the lesson to be learned has to be immediate and unforgettable. You cannot reason with a two year old about the dangers of crossing the street. However, he will remember to ask if an impression of consequences (a swat on the bottom) is in his mind. It's a lesson that cannot be taught gradually. One dash into the street could mean a fatality.
Children are all different. My daughter could be brought to tears and remorse with a stern lecture. She still to this day says that I "beat her to death with my lips"! Some children don't hear you at all until you physically touch them. In our house, mom didn't appeal to your better nature, she issued ultimatums. Were my kids perfect, hardly. Was I a perfect parent, only in my dreams. However, we did manage to raise two responsible, accountable adults who are doing a pretty good job of raising their children.
I remember one event that made a lasting impression on my son and became a family legend. I had come home from work and frantically cooked dinner. A challenge every working mom faces, to get a hot meal on the table before the kids have driven her crazy complaining of starving. I filled the plates and set them on the table. It had been a long, stressful day and the kids were being particularly skilled at getting on my last nerve. My son, with the total disregard for self-preservation that only a 7 year old can show, curled his lip in distaste and whined, "Wha-at is this? YUK!"
Something in me snapped! To the amazement of my husband and daughter I snatched up his plate and snarled, "You don't have to worry about what it is because you don't have to eat it!" With that I marched to the garbage can and scraped his plate into it. Husband, son, and daughter sat in stunned silence. They looked at me in total astonishment as I calmly sat down and began to eat my dinner. It was not my finest hour, but I did get my point across. (My husband confessed later that he snuck a plate of food for my son, so he didn't starve.)
Years later we were sitting down to dinner with one of my son's friends. As the food was passed around the table the friend was heard to mutter, "What is this stuff?" My son shot back, "Don't ask, just eat. She'll scrape your plate in a heartbeat!" The friend looked at us like we were lunatics as we all burst out laughing.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Thank You God
It is amazing how quickly your life can go from carefree to terror stricken.
On Thursday our daughter-in-law received the call you pray you will never receive. "Come quickly. The baby has stopped breathing. I've called the ambulance." My son and wife arrived in minutes, before even the ambulance, to see the sitter holding the limp, lifeless form of their 3 month old daughter. She was breathing, but with great effort, and was only semi-conscious. The paramedics quickly arrived and she began to revive upon receiving oxygen. Within minutes they were on their way to the local hospital.
At the hospital they discovered her blood sugar was at 375. Everyone feared the sudden onset of diabetes. She began to show signs of returning to normal but remained lethargic. The decision was made to send her to the children's hospital in Louisville. She was once again loaded into the ambulance and mother and baby started on the trip to Louisville. At this point, my son returned home, (stopping by our house on the way ) to pack bags and gather up what they needed to stay with her in the hospital.
My first instinct on seeing the pain and fear in my son's eyes was to fold him into a hug and comfort him. Not the easiest thing to accomplish when you are 5'4" and he is 6'4". ( I wish I had a stool to carry around for these emergencies.) As one mother told me, "You hurt twice. Once for the infant, who is suffering this event and once for your child who is hurting, too." We assured him that we would take good care of the three boys for as long as they needed us to. With that he was off to be with his baby and wife.
Thank goodness for technology. Through facebook, texting, and phone calls we were able to keep up with the progress as they eliminated one thing after another in the search for the cause her spell. They quickly eliminated the threat of diabetes, thyroid, hormone imbalance,and seizures. The poor little thing suffered through CT scans, EKGs, x-rays, hundreds of sticks and blood draws, with each test showing that she was perfectly normal. The last test was an upper GI to check out the reflux she had suffered from since birth. That too, resulted in a finding of nothing abnormal.
The doctors gathered in her room to deliver the results. With all the major tests finished they were calling this an episode of ALTE, Apparent Life Threatening Event. Which, as my daughter-in-law said, is doctor speak for "We haven't got a clue what caused it, but it was bad!" With that bit of information they released them to return home. They did reassure them that it doesn't "usually" happen again, however they should be sure to burp her and to maybe let her sleep in an inclined position for the next few months.
They arrived home with a tired, but happy baby and rather shell-shocked expressions on their faces. I would guess that for the next few months they will be checking on her numerous times through the night. I don't imagine they will rest easy until she passes that magical 6 month age, after which these events seem to become very rare. In short, the baby is fine but the parents may take a little longer to recover.
I suspect if it hadn't been for a very vigilant and alert sitter we would have been dealing with a mysterious SIDS death.
Thank you God for watching over this little angel.
On Thursday our daughter-in-law received the call you pray you will never receive. "Come quickly. The baby has stopped breathing. I've called the ambulance." My son and wife arrived in minutes, before even the ambulance, to see the sitter holding the limp, lifeless form of their 3 month old daughter. She was breathing, but with great effort, and was only semi-conscious. The paramedics quickly arrived and she began to revive upon receiving oxygen. Within minutes they were on their way to the local hospital.
At the hospital they discovered her blood sugar was at 375. Everyone feared the sudden onset of diabetes. She began to show signs of returning to normal but remained lethargic. The decision was made to send her to the children's hospital in Louisville. She was once again loaded into the ambulance and mother and baby started on the trip to Louisville. At this point, my son returned home, (stopping by our house on the way ) to pack bags and gather up what they needed to stay with her in the hospital.
My first instinct on seeing the pain and fear in my son's eyes was to fold him into a hug and comfort him. Not the easiest thing to accomplish when you are 5'4" and he is 6'4". ( I wish I had a stool to carry around for these emergencies.) As one mother told me, "You hurt twice. Once for the infant, who is suffering this event and once for your child who is hurting, too." We assured him that we would take good care of the three boys for as long as they needed us to. With that he was off to be with his baby and wife.
Thank goodness for technology. Through facebook, texting, and phone calls we were able to keep up with the progress as they eliminated one thing after another in the search for the cause her spell. They quickly eliminated the threat of diabetes, thyroid, hormone imbalance,and seizures. The poor little thing suffered through CT scans, EKGs, x-rays, hundreds of sticks and blood draws, with each test showing that she was perfectly normal. The last test was an upper GI to check out the reflux she had suffered from since birth. That too, resulted in a finding of nothing abnormal.
The doctors gathered in her room to deliver the results. With all the major tests finished they were calling this an episode of ALTE, Apparent Life Threatening Event. Which, as my daughter-in-law said, is doctor speak for "We haven't got a clue what caused it, but it was bad!" With that bit of information they released them to return home. They did reassure them that it doesn't "usually" happen again, however they should be sure to burp her and to maybe let her sleep in an inclined position for the next few months.
They arrived home with a tired, but happy baby and rather shell-shocked expressions on their faces. I would guess that for the next few months they will be checking on her numerous times through the night. I don't imagine they will rest easy until she passes that magical 6 month age, after which these events seem to become very rare. In short, the baby is fine but the parents may take a little longer to recover.
I suspect if it hadn't been for a very vigilant and alert sitter we would have been dealing with a mysterious SIDS death.
Thank you God for watching over this little angel.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Walnuts for Sale
Today was a beautiful day in Kentucky. Sunshine, mild temperatures and clear blue skies. Just the sort of day to enjoy being outside.
My son dropped by the house this morning bright and early to bring me yesterday's paper. The paper man leaves it in the middle of our drive at the foot of the hill, so he had picked it up to bring to the house....then forgot to deliver it yesterday. While he was here he mentioned that his oldest son, who is out of school for fall break this week, would be on the farm all day. It seems that he wanted to earn a little extra money and had seen a sign that a neighbor was buying walnuts. This is a dandy little business opportunity locally. They buy all the black walnuts you can bring in and pay you, according to my grandson, $1/pound. The buyer then hulls them and sells them to a factory that will shell them and package them to sell to you in the grocery.
Now one thing we have in this section of Kentucky is lots of walnut trees. They grow in lots of fence rows, or in scrubby woodlands or about anywhere you don't want them (I have two in the yard that just volunteered). They aren't a very pretty tree since they have sparse leaves that they drop in late summer. So there they stand, mostly leafless and covered with big green balls. Rather like a strange decoration. These balls contain the walnuts, but mother nature didn't intend to make it easy to enjoy them. The outer green hull has to be removed then the nut dried and then cracked open to enjoy the rich nutmeat. We used to put them in the driveway and let all the machinery drive over them to crush the hulls and get them to come loose. When they start to rot and come off they turn black and stain everything they touch. Thank goodness now they have a machine that will do this nasty part for us.
Anyway, my grandson decided this was a quick way to get rich. He gathered up some feed sacks, a couple of buckets and some gloves and started on the trees in the yard. It wasn't long before he came in for a little help. Naturally, I "volunteered" to help him. We picked up several buckets but still had lots of walnuts on the trees. A search of the barns yielded a long piece of quarter-round molding left over from a remodeling project some years ago. This became our "whacker". We would stretch it up and "whack" the limbs and walnuts until they rained down on us. When we couldn't reach any more we resorted to a piece of stove wood. My grandson has a great arm and he could really wing it into the top of the tree, raining down more walnuts.
We spent a great afternoon riding the four-wheeler, picking up walnuts, and visiting. We managed to get nine feed sacks of walnuts but more importantly, we had a time of sharing...sharing the work, laughs, secrets, hopes, dreams, and a beautiful day. We probably earned all of $12 after they were all hulled, but the day was priceless!
My son dropped by the house this morning bright and early to bring me yesterday's paper. The paper man leaves it in the middle of our drive at the foot of the hill, so he had picked it up to bring to the house....then forgot to deliver it yesterday. While he was here he mentioned that his oldest son, who is out of school for fall break this week, would be on the farm all day. It seems that he wanted to earn a little extra money and had seen a sign that a neighbor was buying walnuts. This is a dandy little business opportunity locally. They buy all the black walnuts you can bring in and pay you, according to my grandson, $1/pound. The buyer then hulls them and sells them to a factory that will shell them and package them to sell to you in the grocery.
Now one thing we have in this section of Kentucky is lots of walnut trees. They grow in lots of fence rows, or in scrubby woodlands or about anywhere you don't want them (I have two in the yard that just volunteered). They aren't a very pretty tree since they have sparse leaves that they drop in late summer. So there they stand, mostly leafless and covered with big green balls. Rather like a strange decoration. These balls contain the walnuts, but mother nature didn't intend to make it easy to enjoy them. The outer green hull has to be removed then the nut dried and then cracked open to enjoy the rich nutmeat. We used to put them in the driveway and let all the machinery drive over them to crush the hulls and get them to come loose. When they start to rot and come off they turn black and stain everything they touch. Thank goodness now they have a machine that will do this nasty part for us.
Anyway, my grandson decided this was a quick way to get rich. He gathered up some feed sacks, a couple of buckets and some gloves and started on the trees in the yard. It wasn't long before he came in for a little help. Naturally, I "volunteered" to help him. We picked up several buckets but still had lots of walnuts on the trees. A search of the barns yielded a long piece of quarter-round molding left over from a remodeling project some years ago. This became our "whacker". We would stretch it up and "whack" the limbs and walnuts until they rained down on us. When we couldn't reach any more we resorted to a piece of stove wood. My grandson has a great arm and he could really wing it into the top of the tree, raining down more walnuts.
We spent a great afternoon riding the four-wheeler, picking up walnuts, and visiting. We managed to get nine feed sacks of walnuts but more importantly, we had a time of sharing...sharing the work, laughs, secrets, hopes, dreams, and a beautiful day. We probably earned all of $12 after they were all hulled, but the day was priceless!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Alaska Memories
My mind is so full of Alaska memories that I'm going to do one more post to clean out the corners of my mind. Just some random thoughts.
We were in Fairbanks, discussing how on earth you deal with temperatures that can go to forty below zero. One of the guides said that she lived in a cabin out of town with no running water. (That's one way to avoid frozen pipes) My thought was about living with no bathroom. She laughed and said that she did indeed have an outhouse. My mind refused to even think about "bare-ing" it all for a potty break. She replied that you simply kept your toilet seat inside and took it with you when nature called. Good story, but I'm betting they all have a good old fashioned "thunder mug" under the bed.
Ketchikan, of Deadliest Catch fame, is a wonderfully picturesque town that rambles along the shore with mountains jumping up right behind it. The locals tell you that the town is 3 blocks wide and 1 mile long. One of the neatest places is a series of shops that tumble down the banks of the creek running down the mountain, through the town, and to the sea. When it is high tide, you can stand on the bridge and watch the salmon begin their struggle from the sea to their inland spawning places. Creek Street is now home to a thriving collection of shops catering to the cruise trade.
It was in one of these shops that we paused to view the collection of beautiful hand-made jewelry, needle crafts, and wood carvings. The owner shared that this was her studio and she lived here year round. She said that the best part was all the fresh fish she could eat. At the end of the day she simply walked out on her balcony and dropped in her line to catch her supper.
A little further down was a prime example of Alaska ingenuity. A small booth was renting out fishing poles for $25. (They also sold fishing licenses for another fee). You would then take your pole to the bridge and fish for salmon. The salmon, which were pooling under the bridge waiting for high tide to flood in to start their journey, were quickly being reeled in. As you reeled it in a young man would help you land your catch and take your picture (with your camera) of your great Alaskan salmon catch. The fish was then returned to the water, unless you wanted to deal with icing it down and flying it back to the states. During this time, you can keep up to six fish a day, but these people were on a cruise ship, so it was a moot point. Tidy little profit for the local boys.
The people in Ketchikan think that anyone that lives in Fairbanks is crazy. The people in Fairbanks agree with them.
I spent some time talking to a lady in Skagway who lived there year around. Once it was a boom town that grew out of the thousands of miners who landed there to begin their trek to the Yukon over White Horse Pass. It is now a sleepy little community with the main income derived from the cruise ships that arrive during the summer months. The rest of the year they just snuggle in and do whatever they can. There is no hospital and no roads to get to a larger place. The common source of travel is either boat or plane. One shop owner revealed that a quick labor almost had her little boy delivered in the plane on the way to the hospital.
Alaska is our last frontier. It is occupied by that segment of the population that doesn't always take the easy road, look for the easy solution, or yearn for the easy life What they are is independent, hardy, and best of all, free to do things their own way. They live life to the fullest and meet all obstacles head on. It's the spirit that settled America and continues to make it the great country that it is. I hope, after visiting with these new acquaintances, I remember their zest for life and bite off the complaint about my "hard times" that was on the tip of my tongue.
We were in Fairbanks, discussing how on earth you deal with temperatures that can go to forty below zero. One of the guides said that she lived in a cabin out of town with no running water. (That's one way to avoid frozen pipes) My thought was about living with no bathroom. She laughed and said that she did indeed have an outhouse. My mind refused to even think about "bare-ing" it all for a potty break. She replied that you simply kept your toilet seat inside and took it with you when nature called. Good story, but I'm betting they all have a good old fashioned "thunder mug" under the bed.
Ketchikan, of Deadliest Catch fame, is a wonderfully picturesque town that rambles along the shore with mountains jumping up right behind it. The locals tell you that the town is 3 blocks wide and 1 mile long. One of the neatest places is a series of shops that tumble down the banks of the creek running down the mountain, through the town, and to the sea. When it is high tide, you can stand on the bridge and watch the salmon begin their struggle from the sea to their inland spawning places. Creek Street is now home to a thriving collection of shops catering to the cruise trade.
It was in one of these shops that we paused to view the collection of beautiful hand-made jewelry, needle crafts, and wood carvings. The owner shared that this was her studio and she lived here year round. She said that the best part was all the fresh fish she could eat. At the end of the day she simply walked out on her balcony and dropped in her line to catch her supper.
A little further down was a prime example of Alaska ingenuity. A small booth was renting out fishing poles for $25. (They also sold fishing licenses for another fee). You would then take your pole to the bridge and fish for salmon. The salmon, which were pooling under the bridge waiting for high tide to flood in to start their journey, were quickly being reeled in. As you reeled it in a young man would help you land your catch and take your picture (with your camera) of your great Alaskan salmon catch. The fish was then returned to the water, unless you wanted to deal with icing it down and flying it back to the states. During this time, you can keep up to six fish a day, but these people were on a cruise ship, so it was a moot point. Tidy little profit for the local boys.
The people in Ketchikan think that anyone that lives in Fairbanks is crazy. The people in Fairbanks agree with them.
I spent some time talking to a lady in Skagway who lived there year around. Once it was a boom town that grew out of the thousands of miners who landed there to begin their trek to the Yukon over White Horse Pass. It is now a sleepy little community with the main income derived from the cruise ships that arrive during the summer months. The rest of the year they just snuggle in and do whatever they can. There is no hospital and no roads to get to a larger place. The common source of travel is either boat or plane. One shop owner revealed that a quick labor almost had her little boy delivered in the plane on the way to the hospital.
Alaska is our last frontier. It is occupied by that segment of the population that doesn't always take the easy road, look for the easy solution, or yearn for the easy life What they are is independent, hardy, and best of all, free to do things their own way. They live life to the fullest and meet all obstacles head on. It's the spirit that settled America and continues to make it the great country that it is. I hope, after visiting with these new acquaintances, I remember their zest for life and bite off the complaint about my "hard times" that was on the tip of my tongue.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Moose?
Probably no animal says Alaska like the moose. I always think of the old tv show, Northern Exposure, where the moose is wandering through the town in the opening scenes. You knew immediately that you were seeing a town in Alaska. Where else would you see a moose in town? So consequently, we spent a lot of time intently hoping to see a moose.
In truth, you really don't want to see one, especially up close. The locals will tell you that few animals are more dangerous or more unpredictable in their behavior. They will charge on the drop of a hat and can kick in all four directions. They are enormously tall and have a tremendous range in their kicks. They also tend to show up anywhere they think they will find a tasty shrub, which often includes cabin clearings. Moose meat tastes great and for that reason they are eagerly sought during the hunting season. At all other times they are strictly left alone and avoided. All this being said we still looked as hard as we could to see one.
Our efforts had been unrewarded until we took the train from Talkeetna to Seward where we would board our ship for the last leg of our journey. The train took us through some of the beautiful wilderness that is so much a part of Alaska. We had been rewarded on the trip with sights of beavers and their marvelous dams, eagles and their nests, but no moose. We were entering one part that was actually part of the airforce base outside of Palmer, when our guide told us to keep a sharp look out because there were lots of moose in this area. She said that during the winter they became real pests for the locals because they tended to walk in the road because it was easier. These animals are really big, so in an argument with a car, the car is going to lose. So about all you could do is wait until they moved on.
Naturally, we were glued to the windows from then on. Suddenly the cry went up from the front of the car, "MOOSE". Immediately everyone lunged to the side of the train. Sure enough there beside the railroad tracks was a huge moose, standing and looking away from the train and into the woods. In a blink we were past it and everyone was excitedly chattering about their "moose sighting". The guide said she was very surprised to see one that close to the train since they were usually seen running away. She said we were very lucky.
About that time one of the couples returned from the lounge car. They immediately started ridiculing us for being such suckers. It seems that the car attendant told them that it was a fake moose. A grand discussion (dare I say argument) arose between those who glimpsed the moose and those who thought it must be a trick. To this day, part of our group insists it was a fake while the rest (me included) believe we saw what we saw. It was quick, but honestly it looked incredibly real. After all who would go to the expense of putting a stuffed moose out in the weather just to fool some tourists? Alas, we didn't get a picture.
I'm going to believe I saw my moose.
In truth, you really don't want to see one, especially up close. The locals will tell you that few animals are more dangerous or more unpredictable in their behavior. They will charge on the drop of a hat and can kick in all four directions. They are enormously tall and have a tremendous range in their kicks. They also tend to show up anywhere they think they will find a tasty shrub, which often includes cabin clearings. Moose meat tastes great and for that reason they are eagerly sought during the hunting season. At all other times they are strictly left alone and avoided. All this being said we still looked as hard as we could to see one.
Our efforts had been unrewarded until we took the train from Talkeetna to Seward where we would board our ship for the last leg of our journey. The train took us through some of the beautiful wilderness that is so much a part of Alaska. We had been rewarded on the trip with sights of beavers and their marvelous dams, eagles and their nests, but no moose. We were entering one part that was actually part of the airforce base outside of Palmer, when our guide told us to keep a sharp look out because there were lots of moose in this area. She said that during the winter they became real pests for the locals because they tended to walk in the road because it was easier. These animals are really big, so in an argument with a car, the car is going to lose. So about all you could do is wait until they moved on.
Naturally, we were glued to the windows from then on. Suddenly the cry went up from the front of the car, "MOOSE". Immediately everyone lunged to the side of the train. Sure enough there beside the railroad tracks was a huge moose, standing and looking away from the train and into the woods. In a blink we were past it and everyone was excitedly chattering about their "moose sighting". The guide said she was very surprised to see one that close to the train since they were usually seen running away. She said we were very lucky.
About that time one of the couples returned from the lounge car. They immediately started ridiculing us for being such suckers. It seems that the car attendant told them that it was a fake moose. A grand discussion (dare I say argument) arose between those who glimpsed the moose and those who thought it must be a trick. To this day, part of our group insists it was a fake while the rest (me included) believe we saw what we saw. It was quick, but honestly it looked incredibly real. After all who would go to the expense of putting a stuffed moose out in the weather just to fool some tourists? Alas, we didn't get a picture.
I'm going to believe I saw my moose.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Sled Dogs
One of the highlights of our trip to Alaska for me was the opportunity to see the famous sled dogs in action. During the winter that I was more or less housebound following my chemo treatments, I spent a lot of time playing on the computer. During one of my spells of surfing, I discovered the Cabella website and the Iditarod. Cabella's provided day to day and often moment to moment coverage of the famous dog race that takes place in early March.
The Iditarod is a 1100 to 1150 mile race from Anchorage to Nome. The miles vary because the route alternates every other year. It is a grueling race that is accomplished in an amazing 10-17 days. It follows approximately the route taken in 1925 when a diphtheria epidemic struck Nome. The planes that would have normally been used to fly in desperately needed medicine were grounded due to the weather. Someone came up with the idea of using a dog team to rush the medicine to the doctors in Nome. Todays race is not a desperate race to deliver hope but remains none the less an unbelievable triumph of man and dog over elements.
Day after day I found myself glued to the computer as I followed the dog teams and their mushers as they passed through their check points. Over fifty teams started the race but not all would finish it. Each day I learned about the care and feeding of these marvelous dogs and the mushers who love them and the race. Soon the names became people and I was immersed in their lives and what made them choose this dangerous and thrilling sport. I followed them as they battled frigid weather, blowing snow, dangerous ice, dark nights, and the threat of a moose attack. (Yes, a moose is the most dangerous animal they can face on the trail. It is for this reason they are required by the race to carry a firearm.) I began to see the strategy that would help them overcome their opponents to gain a few hours or minutes.
Now that we were going to Alaska I was determined to visit a sled dog kennel and see these marvelous animals. To my delight one of the stops in Fairbanks was to visit the kennel of Susan Butcher. Susan died a few years ago of leukemia but she was a famous Iditarod racer who was a four time winner of the race. Her husband now runs the kennel and still trains the dogs. We were treated to an exhibition of a team in action. Since there was no snow for them to pull a sled over they use a four wheeler to train during the summer. With the appearance of the four wheeler and the handlers the entire yard of dogs went crazy. With tails wagging like wild, they jumped on and off of their houses, each enthusiastically barking "take me!! Take Me!! TAKE ME!!" The ones chosen eagerly drug their handler to the sled to take their places. Their excitement was absolutely palatable.
Once in their harness they became all business. Each was eager to get started and run, but obedient to the signals of the musher. These dogs are controlled by voice not reins or whips. They respond to commands of "gee", "haw", "whoa", and "get up" just like teams of horses did. At the command of "get up" they lunged to the end of their harness and began to run. I am still amazed at the speed and agility of these dogs. These are the thoroughbreds of the dog world, bred for speed and endurance. They aren't the hulking, heavy dogs of the movies but smaller, slighter and quicker. Think draft horses versus race horses. They aren't purebred but all show some husky influence but may be crossed with about any other breed. All I can say about the demonstration is WOW! The dogs returned to the starting point barely out of breath and looking immensely pleased with themselves.
What a wonderful experience to see these dogs in their element, running like the wind.
The Iditarod is a 1100 to 1150 mile race from Anchorage to Nome. The miles vary because the route alternates every other year. It is a grueling race that is accomplished in an amazing 10-17 days. It follows approximately the route taken in 1925 when a diphtheria epidemic struck Nome. The planes that would have normally been used to fly in desperately needed medicine were grounded due to the weather. Someone came up with the idea of using a dog team to rush the medicine to the doctors in Nome. Todays race is not a desperate race to deliver hope but remains none the less an unbelievable triumph of man and dog over elements.
Day after day I found myself glued to the computer as I followed the dog teams and their mushers as they passed through their check points. Over fifty teams started the race but not all would finish it. Each day I learned about the care and feeding of these marvelous dogs and the mushers who love them and the race. Soon the names became people and I was immersed in their lives and what made them choose this dangerous and thrilling sport. I followed them as they battled frigid weather, blowing snow, dangerous ice, dark nights, and the threat of a moose attack. (Yes, a moose is the most dangerous animal they can face on the trail. It is for this reason they are required by the race to carry a firearm.) I began to see the strategy that would help them overcome their opponents to gain a few hours or minutes.
Now that we were going to Alaska I was determined to visit a sled dog kennel and see these marvelous animals. To my delight one of the stops in Fairbanks was to visit the kennel of Susan Butcher. Susan died a few years ago of leukemia but she was a famous Iditarod racer who was a four time winner of the race. Her husband now runs the kennel and still trains the dogs. We were treated to an exhibition of a team in action. Since there was no snow for them to pull a sled over they use a four wheeler to train during the summer. With the appearance of the four wheeler and the handlers the entire yard of dogs went crazy. With tails wagging like wild, they jumped on and off of their houses, each enthusiastically barking "take me!! Take Me!! TAKE ME!!" The ones chosen eagerly drug their handler to the sled to take their places. Their excitement was absolutely palatable.
Once in their harness they became all business. Each was eager to get started and run, but obedient to the signals of the musher. These dogs are controlled by voice not reins or whips. They respond to commands of "gee", "haw", "whoa", and "get up" just like teams of horses did. At the command of "get up" they lunged to the end of their harness and began to run. I am still amazed at the speed and agility of these dogs. These are the thoroughbreds of the dog world, bred for speed and endurance. They aren't the hulking, heavy dogs of the movies but smaller, slighter and quicker. Think draft horses versus race horses. They aren't purebred but all show some husky influence but may be crossed with about any other breed. All I can say about the demonstration is WOW! The dogs returned to the starting point barely out of breath and looking immensely pleased with themselves.
What a wonderful experience to see these dogs in their element, running like the wind.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Catching the Train
Visiting Alaska has really made me realize just how soft our living is. We view ourselves as hardy farmers making a living on our land, but in reality we make our real living from my husband's insurance and real estate business. We farm but not with real hardship as we do most of it with the help of a multitude of machines, from tractors to riding lawn mowers. When I need something for supper, I hop in the car and run to the grocery and get it all fancied up in a box.
What we saw in Alaska were people who really were self-sufficient and loved it. As we traveled by train across the vast midland of Alaska we were treated to occasional glimpses of isolated cabins in snug little clearings in the woodlands. Some were elegant and clearly professionally created, some were rough and clearly built with the hard work of the families themselves. Some were neat with well cared for yards and some of the gloriously, profuse flowers I keep talking about. Some were cluttered with all the paraphernalia of wilderness living piled on porch, yard, and walls. Yet, all held a strong impression of competence and self-sufficiency. These were people that relied on no one to do the work for them. They obviously took care of their own needs in their own way.
One of the most fascinating stretches of railroad ran for 60 miles through an area that was unreachable by road. The people that lived in this area relied on the train for transportation when they needed to reach the outside and the benefits of civilization. A signal was given and the train stopped at certain mile markers to pick up anyone who wanted to ride. To reach the train tracks they arrived on their four-wheelers. Up and down the tracks would run paths, which would follow the train tracks for a ways then shoot off into the forest and disappear. Occasionally, we would see bright blue showing through the bush and trees beside the train. Finally we realized that these were the four-wheelers and carts, covered with blue tarps, waiting for the return from town of their owners, ready to be loaded with supplies and taken to cabins off in the woods.
I envisioned lonely hunters living far from civilization and relishing their privacy, until our guide pointed out a neat homestead coming up ahead. Soon we were treated to a idyllic view of a snug home in a manicured clearing surrounded by flower beds and bird houses. Tricycles and bikes leaned against the railing of the neat deck, while clothes dried on the lines in the back yard. The guide told us that they must be off somewhere because usually they greeted the train with waves from the yard. It seems that this was a couple who had decided to move to Alaska from "outside", meaning the lower states. They had arrived several years earlier and built their home and settled in. The mother home schooled the children when they became old enough and the father did various jobs and worked at keeping them fed. I never really figured out what he did but obviously it provided for his family.
I looked at that neat homestead and thought of the little family it protected. I thought about the long winter days when the sun barely shown and the snow was deep around the cabin. I thought of all the illnesses and injuries that could happen and how far they were from medical help. I thought about all the crises that arise that you need neighbors for help. I wondered who the mother shared her worries with and who the father had to bolster him up. Then I realized that these people didn't need all the things that we think are so necessary. Medical help was available, by train, in an emergency, but for all else they had each other. I'm sure there were others that were in the area, even if they weren't close. There were too many four-wheeler paths for the area to be totally uninhabited, but still these people had reached down inside themselves and found a strength and fortitude that I found awe inspiring. These were the types of people who settled our lands, "outside", many years ago.
I guess I thought all the heroes and pioneers were long gone. No they still live and thrive in Alaska.
What we saw in Alaska were people who really were self-sufficient and loved it. As we traveled by train across the vast midland of Alaska we were treated to occasional glimpses of isolated cabins in snug little clearings in the woodlands. Some were elegant and clearly professionally created, some were rough and clearly built with the hard work of the families themselves. Some were neat with well cared for yards and some of the gloriously, profuse flowers I keep talking about. Some were cluttered with all the paraphernalia of wilderness living piled on porch, yard, and walls. Yet, all held a strong impression of competence and self-sufficiency. These were people that relied on no one to do the work for them. They obviously took care of their own needs in their own way.
One of the most fascinating stretches of railroad ran for 60 miles through an area that was unreachable by road. The people that lived in this area relied on the train for transportation when they needed to reach the outside and the benefits of civilization. A signal was given and the train stopped at certain mile markers to pick up anyone who wanted to ride. To reach the train tracks they arrived on their four-wheelers. Up and down the tracks would run paths, which would follow the train tracks for a ways then shoot off into the forest and disappear. Occasionally, we would see bright blue showing through the bush and trees beside the train. Finally we realized that these were the four-wheelers and carts, covered with blue tarps, waiting for the return from town of their owners, ready to be loaded with supplies and taken to cabins off in the woods.
I envisioned lonely hunters living far from civilization and relishing their privacy, until our guide pointed out a neat homestead coming up ahead. Soon we were treated to a idyllic view of a snug home in a manicured clearing surrounded by flower beds and bird houses. Tricycles and bikes leaned against the railing of the neat deck, while clothes dried on the lines in the back yard. The guide told us that they must be off somewhere because usually they greeted the train with waves from the yard. It seems that this was a couple who had decided to move to Alaska from "outside", meaning the lower states. They had arrived several years earlier and built their home and settled in. The mother home schooled the children when they became old enough and the father did various jobs and worked at keeping them fed. I never really figured out what he did but obviously it provided for his family.
I looked at that neat homestead and thought of the little family it protected. I thought about the long winter days when the sun barely shown and the snow was deep around the cabin. I thought of all the illnesses and injuries that could happen and how far they were from medical help. I thought about all the crises that arise that you need neighbors for help. I wondered who the mother shared her worries with and who the father had to bolster him up. Then I realized that these people didn't need all the things that we think are so necessary. Medical help was available, by train, in an emergency, but for all else they had each other. I'm sure there were others that were in the area, even if they weren't close. There were too many four-wheeler paths for the area to be totally uninhabited, but still these people had reached down inside themselves and found a strength and fortitude that I found awe inspiring. These were the types of people who settled our lands, "outside", many years ago.
I guess I thought all the heroes and pioneers were long gone. No they still live and thrive in Alaska.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Plug it UP
This was our first time to visit Fairbanks, Alaska. We flew in in the late afternoon, about 7:00, and were treated to the sight of Fairbanks spread out over the undulating tundra. As far as you could see was a green rolling countryside, occasionally broken by streams, with this small city sitting in the middle of it. There is one road that goes in and out, which connects eventually to Anchorage and the coast. The airport consists of the standard runways and several lakes, which have been created to accommodate the small float planes. Air travel is the most common method of travel in this part of the state. In fact, we saw several homes with airplanes parked in the drive, much like we would motor homes.
Fairbanks is a city of extremes. The climate is extremely dry and extremely cold. Their average snowfall is 8 inches, but remember, it won't be melting off. Their temperatures dip down to 30 to 40 degrees below zero. Which is what you would expect from a city located just 200 miles from the artic circle. We arrived the last of August to beautiful fall weather. The temperature was a mild 62 degrees with lots of sunshine. We were assured that it doesn't last. Mid-September is when they start to experience the beginning of winter. From August on the days grow shorter quickly until eventually the sun just doesn't ever really come up. They will have months of dusk, near dark, and dark.
As usual we took off the next morning to explore the city. We were dropped off at the park running along the Chena river. It was a beautiful walk from there to the main part of town. The park, like all the places we saw in Alaska, was overflowing with flowers. Giant flowers! Sunflowers, nasturtiums, pansies, cone flowers, daisy's, sultanas, and lots I didn't know the names of. The flowers seem to grow especially beautiful as though to make up for the dark days of winter.
We were sitting in a coffee shop later that morning enjoying a latte when I looked out the window and noticed something that intrigued me. Hanging from the parking meter in front of the shop was a plug, like the end of an extension cord. I started looking and noticed that all the cars pulled up to the meters had a cord hanging out from the grill on the front. We found out that there were plugs all over the town so people could plug up the engine heaters in their cars. Without the heaters the cars would quickly get so cold that they wouldn't start up again when the owners returned. All winter when the temperatures plummeted people would pull in, plug up and do their shopping. One girl confessed that when plugs weren't available she just left her car running. She laughed and said, that she even left it running when she went to the movies.. Better than no transportation at the end of the movie, I guess.
Somehow the fact that you could plug your engine heater in while you shopped just fascinated me. If cars require such extreme care to function in that climate, how do the people keep going. I live in a state where if it gets to 5 below zero we practically close down the state. The ability of people to thrive and live in conditions that seem unbelievable to me is wonderful. Of course, they probably think our summer temperatures of 100 degrees (which it was at home while we were there) are totally beyond bearing.
Amazing.
Fairbanks is a city of extremes. The climate is extremely dry and extremely cold. Their average snowfall is 8 inches, but remember, it won't be melting off. Their temperatures dip down to 30 to 40 degrees below zero. Which is what you would expect from a city located just 200 miles from the artic circle. We arrived the last of August to beautiful fall weather. The temperature was a mild 62 degrees with lots of sunshine. We were assured that it doesn't last. Mid-September is when they start to experience the beginning of winter. From August on the days grow shorter quickly until eventually the sun just doesn't ever really come up. They will have months of dusk, near dark, and dark.
As usual we took off the next morning to explore the city. We were dropped off at the park running along the Chena river. It was a beautiful walk from there to the main part of town. The park, like all the places we saw in Alaska, was overflowing with flowers. Giant flowers! Sunflowers, nasturtiums, pansies, cone flowers, daisy's, sultanas, and lots I didn't know the names of. The flowers seem to grow especially beautiful as though to make up for the dark days of winter.
We were sitting in a coffee shop later that morning enjoying a latte when I looked out the window and noticed something that intrigued me. Hanging from the parking meter in front of the shop was a plug, like the end of an extension cord. I started looking and noticed that all the cars pulled up to the meters had a cord hanging out from the grill on the front. We found out that there were plugs all over the town so people could plug up the engine heaters in their cars. Without the heaters the cars would quickly get so cold that they wouldn't start up again when the owners returned. All winter when the temperatures plummeted people would pull in, plug up and do their shopping. One girl confessed that when plugs weren't available she just left her car running. She laughed and said, that she even left it running when she went to the movies.. Better than no transportation at the end of the movie, I guess.
Somehow the fact that you could plug your engine heater in while you shopped just fascinated me. If cars require such extreme care to function in that climate, how do the people keep going. I live in a state where if it gets to 5 below zero we practically close down the state. The ability of people to thrive and live in conditions that seem unbelievable to me is wonderful. Of course, they probably think our summer temperatures of 100 degrees (which it was at home while we were there) are totally beyond bearing.
Amazing.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Cabbage Contest
The first time we visited Alaska I wasn't prepared for what we would experience. After all I grew up on the edge of the Appalachian Mountains in a rural area, I thought I knew what to expect. What I didn't expect was a vast wilderness, mostly unpopulated, settled by true pioneers of hardy stock. The land itself is breathtaking and those that live there are worthy of it's rugged splendor.
As is usually the case when we travel, we are interested in the land and what it produces. I hesitate to call it agriculture, since they have very few "farms" as such. However, many can and do survive on what they can grow, catch or kill. They have a very short growing season, in southern Alaska about 105 days, less further north. That means that many of our slow maturing vegetables and crops just won't have enough time to grow. Although they do have one advantage we don't have. During the summer they may have as much as 20 hours of sunlight a day. It's rather like growing plants under a grow-light in a greenhouse.
The crops that do well there are our cool weather crops that respond to the mild temperatures and the wet climate. We saw rhubarb in an abundance, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce of all types, strawberries (in beautiful hanging baskets), and lots and lots of flowers. It is as though the plants themselves know that they have only a short period to produce so they do it as dramatically as they can. Everything is super big due to the extra sunlight, I guess.
Alaskans make a big thing out of everything being bigger. They proudly tell you that they are the biggest state (2 1/2 times as big as Texas), they have the biggest bears (polar and grizzly), the biggest beavers (100 lbs.), the biggest mountain (Mt. McKinley) and the most airplanes and pilots. Which brings us to the state fair.
The delightful girl who was our tour guide on the train ride to Anchorage, proudly pointed out that Palmer, AK, was hosting the annual State Fair. She told us that her sister was carrying on a tradition started by her grandfather, carried on by her father and now it was her turn. She was trying to win the biggest cabbage contest. This is roughly equivalent to us wanting to win the State Fair Steer competition.
This is serious business. She had raised three cabbage plants in her back yard. She started by building a frame and putting metal cross bars in it. She then filled it with soil and planted her cabbages. Then followed days of precise feeding with fertilizers and growth stimulants. She harvested the first one a few weeks earlier to enter in another competition to feel out the opponents. It weighted in at 73 pounds. It was her smallest one. To harvest it they used a sawsall to cut the stem and hooked an engine hoist to the frame to pick it up and put it in the pickup truck. She has great hopes for the biggest one, which measures over 8 feet across, and will be her State Fair entry. She is carrying the hopes of her father and grandfather on her massive head of cabbage, that she will be the third generation to win "biggest cabbage".
All I could think of is what a mountain of slaw that would make and how many people it would take to eat it all up.
As is usually the case when we travel, we are interested in the land and what it produces. I hesitate to call it agriculture, since they have very few "farms" as such. However, many can and do survive on what they can grow, catch or kill. They have a very short growing season, in southern Alaska about 105 days, less further north. That means that many of our slow maturing vegetables and crops just won't have enough time to grow. Although they do have one advantage we don't have. During the summer they may have as much as 20 hours of sunlight a day. It's rather like growing plants under a grow-light in a greenhouse.
The crops that do well there are our cool weather crops that respond to the mild temperatures and the wet climate. We saw rhubarb in an abundance, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce of all types, strawberries (in beautiful hanging baskets), and lots and lots of flowers. It is as though the plants themselves know that they have only a short period to produce so they do it as dramatically as they can. Everything is super big due to the extra sunlight, I guess.
Alaskans make a big thing out of everything being bigger. They proudly tell you that they are the biggest state (2 1/2 times as big as Texas), they have the biggest bears (polar and grizzly), the biggest beavers (100 lbs.), the biggest mountain (Mt. McKinley) and the most airplanes and pilots. Which brings us to the state fair.
The delightful girl who was our tour guide on the train ride to Anchorage, proudly pointed out that Palmer, AK, was hosting the annual State Fair. She told us that her sister was carrying on a tradition started by her grandfather, carried on by her father and now it was her turn. She was trying to win the biggest cabbage contest. This is roughly equivalent to us wanting to win the State Fair Steer competition.
This is serious business. She had raised three cabbage plants in her back yard. She started by building a frame and putting metal cross bars in it. She then filled it with soil and planted her cabbages. Then followed days of precise feeding with fertilizers and growth stimulants. She harvested the first one a few weeks earlier to enter in another competition to feel out the opponents. It weighted in at 73 pounds. It was her smallest one. To harvest it they used a sawsall to cut the stem and hooked an engine hoist to the frame to pick it up and put it in the pickup truck. She has great hopes for the biggest one, which measures over 8 feet across, and will be her State Fair entry. She is carrying the hopes of her father and grandfather on her massive head of cabbage, that she will be the third generation to win "biggest cabbage".
All I could think of is what a mountain of slaw that would make and how many people it would take to eat it all up.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Hugs Across the Border
We have just returned from a two week trip to Alaska. We ended our tour by arriving in Vancouver, Canada by boat. The arrival brought back many memories of the last time we made this trip. September 11, 2001.
Ten years ago we ended a wonderful cruise with six friends on the day the towers came down. We arrived in Vancouver, scared, grieved, and unsure of what to do next. Four of us were allowed to leave the ship since we had made previous reservations to stay in Vancouver and therefore had accommodations. The other four stayed on the ship as guests of the cruise line until arrangements could be made for them. We carried our luggage off the ship amid bomb sniffing dogs, police officers armed with assault rifles, and custom officials, feeling much like refugees.
We arrived at our hotel to be greeted by warmth and expressions of sympathy and consolation by the staff. Across the street was a beautiful, small church with a small churchyard around it. On the board in front of the church was an announcement for a memorial service the next day for the victims of the terrorist attack on the United States. We arose the next morning with the intention of attending the service and a hope of making some sense of the horrific events. Heart sore and still scared we got ready for the service. My husband opened the curtains to look out and called that I could probably quit rushing to get ready. I joined him at the window to look down on the little church across the street.
An hour before the service was to begin the Canadians had crowded the church, filled the church yard and were congregating in the street. Traffic had slowed as more and more people arrived to remember, grieve and show their concern for the victims and their families across the border. We watched as people hugged, cried and held hands as they offered up their support and concern for their neighboring country. This outpouring of concern and support washed over us as we watched the crowd. We realized that although we were in a foreign country with the borders closed we were not alone. Others shared our outrage and grief and offered us the comfort of their joined concern.
Throughout our stay until the borders were opened and we were able to fly home, the Canadians continuously offered us comfort and understanding. From a shop lady offering a comforting squeeze to our shoulders to outright hugs from a waitress with family in Chicago, we were treated with warmth and love. The people of Canada and particularly Vancouver left an impression on our hearts that will never be forgotten. In a time a stress and fear they offered comfort without any thought of country borders or cultural differences. Thank you for showing us that there is hope for a troubled world as long as we can hug and comfort one another in times of need.
Ten years ago we ended a wonderful cruise with six friends on the day the towers came down. We arrived in Vancouver, scared, grieved, and unsure of what to do next. Four of us were allowed to leave the ship since we had made previous reservations to stay in Vancouver and therefore had accommodations. The other four stayed on the ship as guests of the cruise line until arrangements could be made for them. We carried our luggage off the ship amid bomb sniffing dogs, police officers armed with assault rifles, and custom officials, feeling much like refugees.
We arrived at our hotel to be greeted by warmth and expressions of sympathy and consolation by the staff. Across the street was a beautiful, small church with a small churchyard around it. On the board in front of the church was an announcement for a memorial service the next day for the victims of the terrorist attack on the United States. We arose the next morning with the intention of attending the service and a hope of making some sense of the horrific events. Heart sore and still scared we got ready for the service. My husband opened the curtains to look out and called that I could probably quit rushing to get ready. I joined him at the window to look down on the little church across the street.
An hour before the service was to begin the Canadians had crowded the church, filled the church yard and were congregating in the street. Traffic had slowed as more and more people arrived to remember, grieve and show their concern for the victims and their families across the border. We watched as people hugged, cried and held hands as they offered up their support and concern for their neighboring country. This outpouring of concern and support washed over us as we watched the crowd. We realized that although we were in a foreign country with the borders closed we were not alone. Others shared our outrage and grief and offered us the comfort of their joined concern.
Throughout our stay until the borders were opened and we were able to fly home, the Canadians continuously offered us comfort and understanding. From a shop lady offering a comforting squeeze to our shoulders to outright hugs from a waitress with family in Chicago, we were treated with warmth and love. The people of Canada and particularly Vancouver left an impression on our hearts that will never be forgotten. In a time a stress and fear they offered comfort without any thought of country borders or cultural differences. Thank you for showing us that there is hope for a troubled world as long as we can hug and comfort one another in times of need.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Pizza in the Patch
This has been a hard year for the tobacco patch. For some reason we live in an area that is ignored by storm clouds during dry spells. We used to sit on the porch and watch the rain fall just north of us or just east of us or on occasion in our neighbor's field but not ours. Now we sit glued to the smart phones watching the radar and seeing the clouds open up and detour around us. On one occasion actually parting and pouring rain to the south and north of us but leaving us dry. Hubby says he doesn't know why he didn't just move years ago, but instead we just keep trying. Fortunately, it isn't like that every year!
However, we have had enough rain for the tobacco to grow and it's now ready to top. Tobacco grows on a stalk that produces leaves up the stalk ending with a single cluster bloom in the very top. It actually is beautiful but few farmers have much to say good about it. When it blooms, it is time to "top" it. That means each bloom is broken out by hand to encourage the plant to grow and mature. That's hours of reaching over your head and snapping out the tops of the plants. It tiring, aching work done in the hottest weather. Not for the weak willed.
My son, grandson, his neighbor and anyone else he could corral have been topping for the last few days. With most everyone having a "real" job during the day they rush home, change clothes and go immediately to the patch. Supper is sometimes eaten at ten at night just before falling into bed. On this night everyone got hungry and decided they really wanted a pizza. Now in a rural area that isn't always as simple as calling for delivery. The best choice was to call the neighboring town, who have a Papa John's that delivers. They in turn will take it to the Rite-Aid in our town for you to meet them and pick it up. Some time ago, I managed to convince them that they could save time and money by delivering to me since they drove right by my house to get to Rite-Aid. I guess I am one of the few people in our county who have real delivery pizza.
So the call goes like this:
"We want to order a pizza."
"Ok we'll deliver it to Rite-Aid"
"You deliver to the Campbell's don't you?"
"You want it delivered to the Campbell's?"
"Well, not exactly. When you get to the Campbell's drive, don't go up the drive, but follow the old road to the right. Cross over the old bridge and look for the cars and trucks. We'll be in the tobacco patch just across the creek."
I must really over-tip these kids driving because after a quick check of the information in his computer he agrees to this arrangement.
"uhh...OK. It'll be about 30 minutes"
Sure enough in about 30 minutes they look up to see a little red car bouncing into the field. Rarely, has his delivery been greeting with such enthusiasm. He grinned proudly, "I've delivered to a lot of places but this is the first time in a tobacco patch!"
You've just got to love rural communities.
However, we have had enough rain for the tobacco to grow and it's now ready to top. Tobacco grows on a stalk that produces leaves up the stalk ending with a single cluster bloom in the very top. It actually is beautiful but few farmers have much to say good about it. When it blooms, it is time to "top" it. That means each bloom is broken out by hand to encourage the plant to grow and mature. That's hours of reaching over your head and snapping out the tops of the plants. It tiring, aching work done in the hottest weather. Not for the weak willed.
My son, grandson, his neighbor and anyone else he could corral have been topping for the last few days. With most everyone having a "real" job during the day they rush home, change clothes and go immediately to the patch. Supper is sometimes eaten at ten at night just before falling into bed. On this night everyone got hungry and decided they really wanted a pizza. Now in a rural area that isn't always as simple as calling for delivery. The best choice was to call the neighboring town, who have a Papa John's that delivers. They in turn will take it to the Rite-Aid in our town for you to meet them and pick it up. Some time ago, I managed to convince them that they could save time and money by delivering to me since they drove right by my house to get to Rite-Aid. I guess I am one of the few people in our county who have real delivery pizza.
So the call goes like this:
"We want to order a pizza."
"Ok we'll deliver it to Rite-Aid"
"You deliver to the Campbell's don't you?"
"You want it delivered to the Campbell's?"
"Well, not exactly. When you get to the Campbell's drive, don't go up the drive, but follow the old road to the right. Cross over the old bridge and look for the cars and trucks. We'll be in the tobacco patch just across the creek."
I must really over-tip these kids driving because after a quick check of the information in his computer he agrees to this arrangement.
"uhh...OK. It'll be about 30 minutes"
Sure enough in about 30 minutes they look up to see a little red car bouncing into the field. Rarely, has his delivery been greeting with such enthusiasm. He grinned proudly, "I've delivered to a lot of places but this is the first time in a tobacco patch!"
You've just got to love rural communities.
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