I woke up yesterday morning to a world covered in white. Since I left Kentucky with the pear trees in glorious, full bloom and every house surrounded by yellow daffodils, it was a bit of a shock. Spring in Iowa sure is different! Actually the snow melted off by the afternoon and today has been lovely, but in the low 40's.
However, it truly is spring in Iowa. Everywhere you look you see fields being plowed or prepared for planting. It won't be long until the huge corn planters will be working their way through acres and acres of spring planting. It's a time when farm wives kiss their husbands good-by and prepare to handle everything else by themselves. When the weather is right then the corn must be planted even if it is done by moonlight! Fathers tend to see their children by the glow of the nightlight and communicate with cell phones from the cab of a tractor. Wives learn that unless it's a major emergency involving lots of blood, don't even call.
Iowa has suffered through a couple of years of terrible crops. Last year was the worst flooding in years. The talk in the Walmart check-out line was that the long range forecast is for an even wetter spring this year. Everyone is worried about getting the crops out. There probably isn't a job that is much more stressful, where success is dependent on more things that are completely out of your control. This is no board room business where you can juggle statistics or tell a Jr. VP to just fix it. Yet these business are just as major and deal in large numbers but depend on the whims of the weather to decide if it will be a profit or loss. Will it rain so much that they can't plant? Will it rain so much that the little seedlings will drown? Will it quit raining and the corn wither in the field? Will it frost too late or too early in the fall? Then add in the problems of market ups and downs and trying to decide if they will be paid enough for their crops to offset the huge expenses of increased fuel cost, equipment, fertilizer, and labor. I read somewhere once that the only job with a higher stress level was an air traffic controller. It makes you wonder why anyone would choose to farm!
However, farmers don't just get up one morning at the age of 20 and decide that they want to become farmers. It's something that is bred into them. It may even be something in their genes. If you talk to a farmer, you'll find that while they may grump and moan, there really isn't anything else that they would like to do. And it's not because they can't do anything else. These are intelligent, highly motivated businessmen. Men and women who are able to manage large companies, solve problems, oversee large workforces and work independently. Men and women any company would love to have on their payroll. So why do they decide to do a job with so many heartaches and problems? Most of them can't articulate the reasons, but it has a lot to do with being very independent. They also have a great love of the land and the process of getting that land to produce. They love the lifestyle that involves the whole family in a joint endeavor to provide, not only for themselves, but for the world.
I guess there is a reason this is called the "Heartland" of America. This is where the American dream still lives on with the ideals of hard work and strong families. Thank you farmers everywhere, for working in the cold, the wet, the heat and the sun so we can have food on the table, clothes to wear, and all the hundreds of things we use that you grow for us. Thanks for everything!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Road Trip
I am sitting in a motel room at 6:30 in the morning catching up with my friends. That in itself constitutes an adventure for me. Most of my days are geared to doing what others need me to do. It's not often that I am able to do anything without checking first to see what someone else needs me to do. Even going to the gym is likely to be hemmed in by picking up medicine at the vet's, dropping off a part, or various other "honey-do's". I don't mind, my days are full and like most people I enjoy feeling as though I am needed.
However, today I get to make all the plans. You see I am on a trip to see my daughter in Iowa. It's a 10-11 hour drive, so I usually take two leisurely days. Sometimes I leave early enough to arrive at a stopping place with a little time to explore the area, shop a little or just relax. I've made the trip enough that I know where I want to stop and what I want to do. One town has a lovely, restored shopping district downtown. There are several cute, boutique type shops that I love wandering through. Hubby, of course, would rather have a root canal, so we don't usually spend much time there when we travel together. Another place has a nice mall located nearby that gives me a secure place to stretch my legs and walk, and of course, browse a few stores. Another stopping place has a lovely park on a beautiful small lake.
When we travel together hubby does all the driving. (He trusts me completely to make the drive by myself but never lets me drive if he's along! I think it's a guy thing.) His idea is to drive as hard as you can as far as you can ,then stop for the night only if you can't make it in one day. Usually he will try to work most of the day we leave, then drive until late and get there by noon the next day. Coming home he will drive the 11 hours straight through, which is a long, hard day.
The exciting thing about going by yourself is that you get to make the decisions. I love listening to books as I drive--hubby listens to music. I like to stop every so often and just walk around--hubby likes to drive until he has to stop. It's particularly nice to know that you can get to the room at night and watch whatever you want on tv or just read a book. I can get up when I want to (even at 6:00 to write) and not have to share the bathroom.
Now don't get me wrong, I sure don't want to do this often. I hated leaving hubby even for the short time until he joins me at our daughters. I guess, like most people, I think I am indispensable and worry that he won't be able to get along without me. The truth is, it's good for even happily married couples to have a little time apart. To enjoy being able to do their own things and to have time to appreciate how much you depend on the other part of the duo. It makes you realize that all the petty little things aren't the glue that holds you together. It's the times you enjoy together, the satisfaction of working together for a common goal, the confidences shared, the problems solved, the laughter and tears.
Yep. I'll miss him. (But I still love every minute of the trip and the one-on-one time with my daughter!)
However, today I get to make all the plans. You see I am on a trip to see my daughter in Iowa. It's a 10-11 hour drive, so I usually take two leisurely days. Sometimes I leave early enough to arrive at a stopping place with a little time to explore the area, shop a little or just relax. I've made the trip enough that I know where I want to stop and what I want to do. One town has a lovely, restored shopping district downtown. There are several cute, boutique type shops that I love wandering through. Hubby, of course, would rather have a root canal, so we don't usually spend much time there when we travel together. Another place has a nice mall located nearby that gives me a secure place to stretch my legs and walk, and of course, browse a few stores. Another stopping place has a lovely park on a beautiful small lake.
When we travel together hubby does all the driving. (He trusts me completely to make the drive by myself but never lets me drive if he's along! I think it's a guy thing.) His idea is to drive as hard as you can as far as you can ,then stop for the night only if you can't make it in one day. Usually he will try to work most of the day we leave, then drive until late and get there by noon the next day. Coming home he will drive the 11 hours straight through, which is a long, hard day.
The exciting thing about going by yourself is that you get to make the decisions. I love listening to books as I drive--hubby listens to music. I like to stop every so often and just walk around--hubby likes to drive until he has to stop. It's particularly nice to know that you can get to the room at night and watch whatever you want on tv or just read a book. I can get up when I want to (even at 6:00 to write) and not have to share the bathroom.
Now don't get me wrong, I sure don't want to do this often. I hated leaving hubby even for the short time until he joins me at our daughters. I guess, like most people, I think I am indispensable and worry that he won't be able to get along without me. The truth is, it's good for even happily married couples to have a little time apart. To enjoy being able to do their own things and to have time to appreciate how much you depend on the other part of the duo. It makes you realize that all the petty little things aren't the glue that holds you together. It's the times you enjoy together, the satisfaction of working together for a common goal, the confidences shared, the problems solved, the laughter and tears.
Yep. I'll miss him. (But I still love every minute of the trip and the one-on-one time with my daughter!)
Friday, March 25, 2011
Mama's Diary
My mother died when I was 20 years old. It was way too young for you to lose your mother, not that there is ever a good time. She was a vibrant, outgoing, gracious woman who was a good friend, great mother and loving wife. Not to make her sound like a saint, she also had a wicked sense of humor and could tell the funniest, not always cleanest, jokes. In fact I've always said that the only reason that my hubby married me was that she was already taken!
You know your mother is always a one dimensional figure to you. She is Mom and we rarely get a chance to see her as anything else. She is always there and we tend to think that she has always been just as we view her at the time. You know what I mean. She is always right, always on time, never forgets to do things, nothing is hard for her.....at least that is the way she looks when you are a youngster. As our parents age (and we do, too) we begin to see that they have different layers and aspects than just the ones presented to us as youngsters. However, for me, I never got that chance.
That is until I was going through an old box of books and discovered that my mother kept a diary for a year when she was fourteen years old. To my delight I was able to garner a glimpse of my mother as a young girl. I read about parties she had held and movies that she went to see. There were boys she had crushes on and girlfriends she was close to. Her lifelong friend, Wickie, appears frequently along with the mother of a dear friend of mine in later years. I had never given a thought to the idea that our mothers once had giggled and shared secrets together as we did. The picture of a vivacious, outgoing girl began to emerge.
I read that she worried that her mother would find out that she and "Dud" were exchanging notes. Understood her yearning to be old enough to date the older Dud. Smiled through descriptions of seeing Dud at parties, movies, dances (they danced a lot), and the growing of young love. Shared her pain when they "broke up" and Dud started seeing the older "Mary" (who evidently could date). I have no idea who the much lamented Dud was, but it couldn't have caused her to mourn too long. She showed a mature and realistic turn when she wrote. Also,it wasn't too long before Dud was replaced as a dancing partner by George.
It was a simpler time and yet not all so different from what I remember going through with my daughter just a few years ago. Mother loved her mother but was sure she wouldn't "understand". I guess that is probably just what my daughter thought, too. Mother struggled with the restrictions set by her parents, just as my daughter did. I'm sure my daughter thought we were way too strict and just didn't "get it". I also see the beginning of the strength and wisdom that my mother would show in later life. I look at my daughter and I see a lot of my mother in her, especially now that my daughter is grown with children of her own.
It's a comforting thought. I can't wait to see how my daughter handles having teenagers of her own.
You know your mother is always a one dimensional figure to you. She is Mom and we rarely get a chance to see her as anything else. She is always there and we tend to think that she has always been just as we view her at the time. You know what I mean. She is always right, always on time, never forgets to do things, nothing is hard for her.....at least that is the way she looks when you are a youngster. As our parents age (and we do, too) we begin to see that they have different layers and aspects than just the ones presented to us as youngsters. However, for me, I never got that chance.
That is until I was going through an old box of books and discovered that my mother kept a diary for a year when she was fourteen years old. To my delight I was able to garner a glimpse of my mother as a young girl. I read about parties she had held and movies that she went to see. There were boys she had crushes on and girlfriends she was close to. Her lifelong friend, Wickie, appears frequently along with the mother of a dear friend of mine in later years. I had never given a thought to the idea that our mothers once had giggled and shared secrets together as we did. The picture of a vivacious, outgoing girl began to emerge.
I read that she worried that her mother would find out that she and "Dud" were exchanging notes. Understood her yearning to be old enough to date the older Dud. Smiled through descriptions of seeing Dud at parties, movies, dances (they danced a lot), and the growing of young love. Shared her pain when they "broke up" and Dud started seeing the older "Mary" (who evidently could date). I have no idea who the much lamented Dud was, but it couldn't have caused her to mourn too long. She showed a mature and realistic turn when she wrote. Also,it wasn't too long before Dud was replaced as a dancing partner by George.
It was a simpler time and yet not all so different from what I remember going through with my daughter just a few years ago. Mother loved her mother but was sure she wouldn't "understand". I guess that is probably just what my daughter thought, too. Mother struggled with the restrictions set by her parents, just as my daughter did. I'm sure my daughter thought we were way too strict and just didn't "get it". I also see the beginning of the strength and wisdom that my mother would show in later life. I look at my daughter and I see a lot of my mother in her, especially now that my daughter is grown with children of her own.
It's a comforting thought. I can't wait to see how my daughter handles having teenagers of her own.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Cemetery
When I look out my utility room window the view includes the hillside on the neighboring farm. When the sun is just setting the rays will often highlight the tall obelisk in the tiny family cemetery on that hill. There it stands, overlooking the farm, with the other smaller stones clumped around it, surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. It is a quiet tribute to the family that lived on the land and loved it enough to want to be buried there.
The farms in our area were once part of a land grant given to returning soldiers after the Revolutionary War. These land grants were huge, sometimes as much as 15,000 acres. I don't know how big the one was that included our area, or even who it was granted to (although I have been told, just can't remember). What I do know is that over the years farmers have worked continuously to preserve and improve the land. The original farmers were faced with a land covered in forests. Inch by inch they laborously cut the trees and removed the stumps to create small clearings for their crops. The next generation enlarged the clearings and created fields for their cattle and crops. The orginal land grants were sold and cut up into smaller farms. The one thing that remained constant is the love and care each generation bestowed on the land.
I look at that small cemetery glowing in the setting sun and I wonder about man whose stone is there. I imagine that as a young man he looked with pride at his land and dreamed dreams for his children. I can see him doing his evening chores by the soft light of lanterns. Maybe he's throwing hay to the horses,or sitting on a three legged stool to milk the family milk cow, with a row of patient barn cats waiting for their share. Maybe there is a tow headed little boy and a brown-eyed little girl waiting for daddy to come through the gate for supper. Did he plant the big tree by the barn for shade when they were working cattle? Was it his idea to clear the bottom for corn? Was it his labor that built the pond in the dry field? Did he plant winter wheat to feed his fields and cut hay to feed his cattle? Did he dream of passing this all on to his children and their children?
I imagine that when his time came to an end he cherished the idea that buried on the hill he could overlook the land that he had loved and nurtured. Rest well gentle farmer. Your land is still loved and cared for.
The farms in our area were once part of a land grant given to returning soldiers after the Revolutionary War. These land grants were huge, sometimes as much as 15,000 acres. I don't know how big the one was that included our area, or even who it was granted to (although I have been told, just can't remember). What I do know is that over the years farmers have worked continuously to preserve and improve the land. The original farmers were faced with a land covered in forests. Inch by inch they laborously cut the trees and removed the stumps to create small clearings for their crops. The next generation enlarged the clearings and created fields for their cattle and crops. The orginal land grants were sold and cut up into smaller farms. The one thing that remained constant is the love and care each generation bestowed on the land.
I look at that small cemetery glowing in the setting sun and I wonder about man whose stone is there. I imagine that as a young man he looked with pride at his land and dreamed dreams for his children. I can see him doing his evening chores by the soft light of lanterns. Maybe he's throwing hay to the horses,or sitting on a three legged stool to milk the family milk cow, with a row of patient barn cats waiting for their share. Maybe there is a tow headed little boy and a brown-eyed little girl waiting for daddy to come through the gate for supper. Did he plant the big tree by the barn for shade when they were working cattle? Was it his idea to clear the bottom for corn? Was it his labor that built the pond in the dry field? Did he plant winter wheat to feed his fields and cut hay to feed his cattle? Did he dream of passing this all on to his children and their children?
I imagine that when his time came to an end he cherished the idea that buried on the hill he could overlook the land that he had loved and nurtured. Rest well gentle farmer. Your land is still loved and cared for.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Spring Dance
My son came in the other morning and announced that we were going to have to plant a bigger garden. Thus begins the annual spring dance. Farmers love to plow and plant. It's their favorite thing (at least around here). There is something mystical about turning the good, rich soil in the warm spring air. There is an elemental connection with putting the seeds in the ground and awaiting their emergence bringing food for the family. It's a basic instinct to provide and care for their loved ones. It's a connection with their Maker that is rooted deep in their souls. Unfortunately, they don't get the same connection with a hoe that they do with a tractor and plow.
Thus begins the annual spring dance. My son looked at me seriously and said, "Food prices are soaring and they are going to go up by another 25% by fall. We're going to need to put up more food to help offset the prices." I just looked at him. "I think we need to plant more corn, beans, squash,potatoes, tomatoes, and maybe we'll add some greens in the fall and some pumpkin, watermelons, and cantaloupe." I just looked at him some more.
I started to shake my head. "You do realize that your wife is pregnant and going to have a new baby in July. You really don't think she is going to be picking and canning do you?" He just looked at me. "Wait a minute. You don't think I'm going to do all this canning and freezing do you?" He just looked at me some more.
"Well, I guess I will have to help some more this year. We're going to lay the garden off so we can use the tobacco cultivator to keep the weeds out." I just looked at him. "That way it will be nice and neat for you to pick/" I just glared at him.
Thus goes the spring dance. I urge moderation. They want bigger and better. The problem is that I know who will be maintaining, weeding, picking, canning and freezing. You guessed it. Me. The men will till it once or maybe twice, then it's hay time, tobacco setting time, cattle working time, etc. and they never get back to the garden. I begged for a year for a little tiller that I could handle, even if I did have to make three trips up and down the rows to get the job done. Hubby went out and bought the biggest, best one he could find. I tried it one time and took out a half a row of beans, three tomato plants and an entire squash hill before I could get it stopped. I simply don't have the upper body strength to hold it in the rows. Since I refuse to pick in weeds over my head, that leaves me hand weeding and hoeing the garden. Neither of which I do with any degree of grace or willingness.
This year I think they will win. The thought of that new little mouth to be fed (and the other three at home) will keep me from jumping in front of the tractor as they plow the extra rows in the garden. There really is something wonderful and uplifting about providing for your family.
Thus begins the annual spring dance. My son looked at me seriously and said, "Food prices are soaring and they are going to go up by another 25% by fall. We're going to need to put up more food to help offset the prices." I just looked at him. "I think we need to plant more corn, beans, squash,potatoes, tomatoes, and maybe we'll add some greens in the fall and some pumpkin, watermelons, and cantaloupe." I just looked at him some more.
I started to shake my head. "You do realize that your wife is pregnant and going to have a new baby in July. You really don't think she is going to be picking and canning do you?" He just looked at me. "Wait a minute. You don't think I'm going to do all this canning and freezing do you?" He just looked at me some more.
"Well, I guess I will have to help some more this year. We're going to lay the garden off so we can use the tobacco cultivator to keep the weeds out." I just looked at him. "That way it will be nice and neat for you to pick/" I just glared at him.
Thus goes the spring dance. I urge moderation. They want bigger and better. The problem is that I know who will be maintaining, weeding, picking, canning and freezing. You guessed it. Me. The men will till it once or maybe twice, then it's hay time, tobacco setting time, cattle working time, etc. and they never get back to the garden. I begged for a year for a little tiller that I could handle, even if I did have to make three trips up and down the rows to get the job done. Hubby went out and bought the biggest, best one he could find. I tried it one time and took out a half a row of beans, three tomato plants and an entire squash hill before I could get it stopped. I simply don't have the upper body strength to hold it in the rows. Since I refuse to pick in weeds over my head, that leaves me hand weeding and hoeing the garden. Neither of which I do with any degree of grace or willingness.
This year I think they will win. The thought of that new little mouth to be fed (and the other three at home) will keep me from jumping in front of the tractor as they plow the extra rows in the garden. There really is something wonderful and uplifting about providing for your family.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Wrens and Owls
I once heard a speaker discuss the two types of people--wrens and owls. She said that wrens wake up in the morning ready to whip the world into shape but think the day is pretty well over after noon. Owls on the other hand think the day doesn't really get into swing until about 3 pm but think mornings are for someone else. The interesting thing is that wrens always marry owls. I have questioned couples for over 30 years on this topic and I can assure you it is true. If you are an owl you will marry a wren and spend the rest of your life trying to figure out how anyone can be that chipper in the morning.
The other interesting thing is that owls and wrens can be either sex. In our house I am definitely the wren. I wake up in the morning with my mind already at top speed. That's when I want to discuss the really interesting questions like "Do you think the Dali Lama would make a good president?" or "What do you think of adding another bedroom onto the house?" or "Did you know there were more Americans killed during the Civil War than in World War II?" I am cheerful, enthusiastic and eager. My hubby is not.
He is most definitely an owl. He hates to get up in the morning and can't see one reason to be cheerful about it. He does not want to discuss world policy--he really doesn't even want to talk. He wants coffee, food, more coffee and peace and quiet. He really doesn't hit his stride until about noon and gains speed for the rest of the day. He is the type of person who thinks 9 pm is a great time to start cleaning out the basement. I, on the other hand, am all but comatose by 9 pm. It's made an interesting life.
Some ground rules had to be established to prevent bloodshed. When we first married we both had jobs, so we both had to get up and get out in the mornings. We each set our own alarm so we would have time to juggle the bathroom and get ready. I would get up early, hit the bath, and while I was showering his alarm would go off. So he would turn it off to sleep another few minutes until I got out of the shower. That made it my job to wake him up and get him moving. Sometimes this would take going back to the bedroom several times, since he would go back to sleep for another few zzzzz's. That would mess up my schedule and frankly irritate me mightily. Finally, I just refused to go back and wake him up. Eventually, after being late to work a few times he learned to get up on his own.
On my side, I've had to learn to curb my urge to talk in the mornings. I have found that that is not a good time to discuss the problems with children, the state of the garden, my plans for home projects, or anything that requires thought and cooperation. Since he is ready to take these issues on when I'm ready for bed with one eye already closed, we have had to compromise. We can discuss things best during the afternoons or early evenings, if we aren't occupied with chores or work. Which doesn't happen often, so most discussion become a series of quick comments over a period of days. We were verbally "texting" before the kids invented it.
The nice thing about being married as long as we have is that you kind of adjust to each other. I'm still a wren but I have learned to go back to sleep when the alarm goes off in the morning. Even after the third time. He's still an owl but he has learned to endure my chatter in the mornings and let me sleep while he watches ballgames at night. We still tend to discuss things with me following him around as he does chores. Believe me those cows have heard everything!
I guess owls and wrens balance pretty well, after all.
The other interesting thing is that owls and wrens can be either sex. In our house I am definitely the wren. I wake up in the morning with my mind already at top speed. That's when I want to discuss the really interesting questions like "Do you think the Dali Lama would make a good president?" or "What do you think of adding another bedroom onto the house?" or "Did you know there were more Americans killed during the Civil War than in World War II?" I am cheerful, enthusiastic and eager. My hubby is not.
He is most definitely an owl. He hates to get up in the morning and can't see one reason to be cheerful about it. He does not want to discuss world policy--he really doesn't even want to talk. He wants coffee, food, more coffee and peace and quiet. He really doesn't hit his stride until about noon and gains speed for the rest of the day. He is the type of person who thinks 9 pm is a great time to start cleaning out the basement. I, on the other hand, am all but comatose by 9 pm. It's made an interesting life.
Some ground rules had to be established to prevent bloodshed. When we first married we both had jobs, so we both had to get up and get out in the mornings. We each set our own alarm so we would have time to juggle the bathroom and get ready. I would get up early, hit the bath, and while I was showering his alarm would go off. So he would turn it off to sleep another few minutes until I got out of the shower. That made it my job to wake him up and get him moving. Sometimes this would take going back to the bedroom several times, since he would go back to sleep for another few zzzzz's. That would mess up my schedule and frankly irritate me mightily. Finally, I just refused to go back and wake him up. Eventually, after being late to work a few times he learned to get up on his own.
On my side, I've had to learn to curb my urge to talk in the mornings. I have found that that is not a good time to discuss the problems with children, the state of the garden, my plans for home projects, or anything that requires thought and cooperation. Since he is ready to take these issues on when I'm ready for bed with one eye already closed, we have had to compromise. We can discuss things best during the afternoons or early evenings, if we aren't occupied with chores or work. Which doesn't happen often, so most discussion become a series of quick comments over a period of days. We were verbally "texting" before the kids invented it.
The nice thing about being married as long as we have is that you kind of adjust to each other. I'm still a wren but I have learned to go back to sleep when the alarm goes off in the morning. Even after the third time. He's still an owl but he has learned to endure my chatter in the mornings and let me sleep while he watches ballgames at night. We still tend to discuss things with me following him around as he does chores. Believe me those cows have heard everything!
I guess owls and wrens balance pretty well, after all.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Sunshine Bars
Tonight we had a cook-out with our kids and their friends. I don't know why they keep inviting us, except maybe because we are the only ones with a garden so we always bring vegetables. Whatever the reason we always enjoy the companionship and great food.
Tonight as we sat around the table the conversation turned to the antics they had gotten into as teenagers. I stated that as much as I caught onto, the real jolts were the confessions that came about the things I hadn't figured out. "Frankly", I said, "if I didn't know about it then, I really don't want to know about it now". One of my son's neighbors turned to me and said that he knew exactly how I felt. He said that growing up he just loved a cookie his mom made called sunshine bars. Every chance he got he would ask for these treats. They were his birthday choice and for all special occasions. His mother made them with pumpkin and he just loved them. In fact, he said that he never wanted to carve his pumpkin at Halloween because he wanted her to be able to cook the pulp for sunshine bars.
Then one night when they were all sitting around telling stories, as us old folks do, his mother said she had a confession to make. She said that all those sunshine bars made with pumpkin were actually made with sweet potatoes. The young man was devastated. "I hate sweet potatoes!" he wailed. "I would never have eaten them if I'd known they were made with sweet potatoes". She just smiled and said "I know."
He said that the thing that really got to him was all the years she had lied to him and told him they were pumpkin. He said he wondered what on earth she had done with all the Halloween pumpkins he had carefully saved. And what about all the cans of pumpkin he had talked her into buying so he could have his sunshine bars. Was there a secret room in his house filled with cans of pumpkin? How could she just keep telling him they were pumpkin?
We all laughed and enjoyed the story. However, underneath it all there was an undercurrent of truth. Mom's aren't supposed to lie. They are the one person you can always count on to tell you the truth. It left a sinking sensation in his heart to realize that his mom had lied to him. I had to stifle a chuckle of my own. Kids never think that a little evasion of the truth to their parents is a bad thing. In fact my kids love to brag about the times they "put one over" on us. However this time, Mom, got a little payback of her own.
You go girl!
Tonight as we sat around the table the conversation turned to the antics they had gotten into as teenagers. I stated that as much as I caught onto, the real jolts were the confessions that came about the things I hadn't figured out. "Frankly", I said, "if I didn't know about it then, I really don't want to know about it now". One of my son's neighbors turned to me and said that he knew exactly how I felt. He said that growing up he just loved a cookie his mom made called sunshine bars. Every chance he got he would ask for these treats. They were his birthday choice and for all special occasions. His mother made them with pumpkin and he just loved them. In fact, he said that he never wanted to carve his pumpkin at Halloween because he wanted her to be able to cook the pulp for sunshine bars.
Then one night when they were all sitting around telling stories, as us old folks do, his mother said she had a confession to make. She said that all those sunshine bars made with pumpkin were actually made with sweet potatoes. The young man was devastated. "I hate sweet potatoes!" he wailed. "I would never have eaten them if I'd known they were made with sweet potatoes". She just smiled and said "I know."
He said that the thing that really got to him was all the years she had lied to him and told him they were pumpkin. He said he wondered what on earth she had done with all the Halloween pumpkins he had carefully saved. And what about all the cans of pumpkin he had talked her into buying so he could have his sunshine bars. Was there a secret room in his house filled with cans of pumpkin? How could she just keep telling him they were pumpkin?
We all laughed and enjoyed the story. However, underneath it all there was an undercurrent of truth. Mom's aren't supposed to lie. They are the one person you can always count on to tell you the truth. It left a sinking sensation in his heart to realize that his mom had lied to him. I had to stifle a chuckle of my own. Kids never think that a little evasion of the truth to their parents is a bad thing. In fact my kids love to brag about the times they "put one over" on us. However this time, Mom, got a little payback of her own.
You go girl!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Black Dog
This seems to be my week for animal stories. So here we go again.
When we moved to the farm we inherited a collie from the previous owner. She was moving to an apartment and so we agreed to keep the dog. She was our first collie and a great introduction to the breed. However, this is about her best friend. Dogs are very social and often make friends with other animals. This friend was a black and white boarder collie who actually belonged to a neighbor. I really don't know if the dog ever went home, he was at our house morning, noon, and night. (rather like some teenagers several years later) We never knew his name so we just referred to him as "the black dog" or later just Black Dog.
I am fascinated by breeds of dogs and how much their characteristics are bred into them. Black Dog was of a breed often known as Shepherds, because that is what they did. They herded sheep. You may have seen some of the very popular performances at the State Fair where these black and white wonders put on a herding show. They are playful, industrious, intelligent, eager to please and hard workers. Black Dog was no exception. He would sit and look at you with his bright eyes just begging for you to tell him to do something. Unfortunately we didn't know how to tell him.
The fun would begin when hubby would get the cattle up to move them from field to field. Black Dog would drop to his belly and start to ease his way behind the cattle. Soon he would have one cut out and was moving it away--usually in the opposite direction than what hubby wanted. So then hubby would start yelling and waving his arms. Black Dog would grin and work harder. Hubby would yell louder. Black Dog would put new enthusiasm into his herding. Now he had most of the cattle moving away from the gate and back into the field. At this point hubby starts throwing clods and sticks and turning a deep shade of plum. Soon the kids are in the action chasing the dog trying to get him out of the field. With that the cows kick up their heels and head for the back forty.
The interesting thing is that Black Dog was herding perfectly. He had every move down to a science. How did he know how to do this? He was a purebred dog, but he had never had any instruction on herding. It just came from inside of him. The problem wasn't his, it was ours. He was willing to move cattle anywhere but we had no idea how to communicate with him to tell him where! He would look at us with this quizzical expression on his face as though begging us to just tell him.
I thought all of this was interesting and to be perfectly honest, funny. The show that hubby and dog put on was entertainment at it's best. I could often be found at the fence cheering them on. That is until the day Black Dog gave up on cows and decided to herd ducks. I had a new hatching of babies and was enjoying sitting on the fence post watching them in the pond. I watched with amusement as Black Dog approached the pond bank. He lay down and waited patiently until the ducklings decided to come ashore. Slowly he crept closer and closer. Easing his way carefully he got between them and the water. As ducks do they all moved restlessly away from him, rather like water flowing in a ripple. As soon as they moved in the direction he wanted he would drop to the ground motionless. When they stopped moving, he would creep up behind them until they started to move forward. Again he dropped to the ground. Next time he eased just a little to the right, the flock moved to the left. Keeping a low profile and never hurrying he was moved the entire flock away from the pond and up into the field. It was poetry in motion. I was amazed at how perfectly he had herded his flock.
Then I sat up with a jerk. He was doing such a good job of keeping them moving that several of the babies were in trouble. Ducks aren't designed to do a lot of walking. Several of the little fellows were wearing out. Some were trying to sit and a few were actually laying down. This wasn't good, not good at all. Suddenly I jumped off the fence and started running through the field, waving my arms and yelling at Black Dog, all the while looking for some clods to throw. Reaching my exhausted ducks I turned back to the pond to see hubby sitting on the fence laughing. I guess he thought the show was pretty entertaining, too.
When we moved to the farm we inherited a collie from the previous owner. She was moving to an apartment and so we agreed to keep the dog. She was our first collie and a great introduction to the breed. However, this is about her best friend. Dogs are very social and often make friends with other animals. This friend was a black and white boarder collie who actually belonged to a neighbor. I really don't know if the dog ever went home, he was at our house morning, noon, and night. (rather like some teenagers several years later) We never knew his name so we just referred to him as "the black dog" or later just Black Dog.
I am fascinated by breeds of dogs and how much their characteristics are bred into them. Black Dog was of a breed often known as Shepherds, because that is what they did. They herded sheep. You may have seen some of the very popular performances at the State Fair where these black and white wonders put on a herding show. They are playful, industrious, intelligent, eager to please and hard workers. Black Dog was no exception. He would sit and look at you with his bright eyes just begging for you to tell him to do something. Unfortunately we didn't know how to tell him.
The fun would begin when hubby would get the cattle up to move them from field to field. Black Dog would drop to his belly and start to ease his way behind the cattle. Soon he would have one cut out and was moving it away--usually in the opposite direction than what hubby wanted. So then hubby would start yelling and waving his arms. Black Dog would grin and work harder. Hubby would yell louder. Black Dog would put new enthusiasm into his herding. Now he had most of the cattle moving away from the gate and back into the field. At this point hubby starts throwing clods and sticks and turning a deep shade of plum. Soon the kids are in the action chasing the dog trying to get him out of the field. With that the cows kick up their heels and head for the back forty.
The interesting thing is that Black Dog was herding perfectly. He had every move down to a science. How did he know how to do this? He was a purebred dog, but he had never had any instruction on herding. It just came from inside of him. The problem wasn't his, it was ours. He was willing to move cattle anywhere but we had no idea how to communicate with him to tell him where! He would look at us with this quizzical expression on his face as though begging us to just tell him.
I thought all of this was interesting and to be perfectly honest, funny. The show that hubby and dog put on was entertainment at it's best. I could often be found at the fence cheering them on. That is until the day Black Dog gave up on cows and decided to herd ducks. I had a new hatching of babies and was enjoying sitting on the fence post watching them in the pond. I watched with amusement as Black Dog approached the pond bank. He lay down and waited patiently until the ducklings decided to come ashore. Slowly he crept closer and closer. Easing his way carefully he got between them and the water. As ducks do they all moved restlessly away from him, rather like water flowing in a ripple. As soon as they moved in the direction he wanted he would drop to the ground motionless. When they stopped moving, he would creep up behind them until they started to move forward. Again he dropped to the ground. Next time he eased just a little to the right, the flock moved to the left. Keeping a low profile and never hurrying he was moved the entire flock away from the pond and up into the field. It was poetry in motion. I was amazed at how perfectly he had herded his flock.
Then I sat up with a jerk. He was doing such a good job of keeping them moving that several of the babies were in trouble. Ducks aren't designed to do a lot of walking. Several of the little fellows were wearing out. Some were trying to sit and a few were actually laying down. This wasn't good, not good at all. Suddenly I jumped off the fence and started running through the field, waving my arms and yelling at Black Dog, all the while looking for some clods to throw. Reaching my exhausted ducks I turned back to the pond to see hubby sitting on the fence laughing. I guess he thought the show was pretty entertaining, too.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Rites of Spring
Today is a perfect spring day. Sunny with warm breezes blowing. So today I performed one of the rites of spring. I hung out the laundry to dry in the sun. This is one of my favorite rites of spring that I began that first summer that we moved to the farm. Like most young couples we had managed to buy our dream but found that we had stretched our expenses to the limit to do so. In short, times were tight. We cut back everywhere that we could to save a little here and there. In an effort to save on the electric bill I decided to hang out my clothes instead of using the dryer during the warm months.
I had hubby string two clotheslines from a tree to one of the outbuildings. I then proceeded to hang out my laundry. I soon discovered there are numerous advantages to letting nature do the work. The first thing I found out is that a hot, breezy summer day will dry clothes faster than in the dryer! That meant that I could finish faster. A second plus was that hubby's undershirts benefited several times over. One they were brightened by the sun but most of all they lengthened! A winter of drying them tended to cause them to become shorter but a strong breeze stretched them right out again. Living on a hill we have a strong breeze most of the time. I think I spent most of the first summer going to the fence to collect things that blew off, before I learned to use my clothespins more effectively.
The best part of hanging out clothes is the quiet time. There aren't many times when I have a chance to just stand in the yard and enjoy the things around me. While I'm pinning clothes to the line I have time to listen to the mockingbird sing his entire list of songs. I have even caught him tormenting the cats by mimicking a cat meow. The poor old cats are always fooled! I enjoy gazing over the fields and watching the cows and calves as they graze. I find my eye drawn to the budding japonica bush next to the clothesline. The sun shines down as the muted sounds drift to my ears of the men working on a piece of equipment getting it ready for the field . I hear the giggles of the kids as they head around the house. I see a bird beginning to carry hay to the porch post where she insists on building a nest every year (and decorating the porch with her "calling cards") It's so peaceful that I find I return to the house refreshed and ready to continue with my chores.
I find that I have certain rituals that I follow. The sheets always go in the front so that they shield the underclothes from a casual visitor to the yard. (Like everyone doesn't wear underclothes). Then I always sort the clothes as I hang them up. All of hubby's clothes together, then mine then the kids, with all the kinds together (t-shirts, pants, shirts, etc.) Then the socks are paired and hung together for quick folding. That way when I take the items off the line and fold them into the basket they are ready to be put in the drawers. Why is it that sorting a laundry basket of machine dried clothes is such a chore, but hanging them neatly on a line is a delight?
I once mentioned this to my aunt and she nodded and said that she, too, loved hanging out clothes. I looked at her in surprise that this matron with all the conveniences and daily help could ever have hung out laundry. I guess I needed reminding that we all started out as young couples on a tight budget with small children. Times pass and things are much easier now, as they were at her stage of life. Often we get so wrapped up in the business of living that we forget to remember to take joy in the simple chores of life. In the middle of the rush and hurry sometimes we need to stop and listen to the world around us and just enjoy the sunshine. For me, it means hanging out the laundry and remembering those days gone by when the kids were little and we were young and struggling--and being thankful for then and now.
I had hubby string two clotheslines from a tree to one of the outbuildings. I then proceeded to hang out my laundry. I soon discovered there are numerous advantages to letting nature do the work. The first thing I found out is that a hot, breezy summer day will dry clothes faster than in the dryer! That meant that I could finish faster. A second plus was that hubby's undershirts benefited several times over. One they were brightened by the sun but most of all they lengthened! A winter of drying them tended to cause them to become shorter but a strong breeze stretched them right out again. Living on a hill we have a strong breeze most of the time. I think I spent most of the first summer going to the fence to collect things that blew off, before I learned to use my clothespins more effectively.
The best part of hanging out clothes is the quiet time. There aren't many times when I have a chance to just stand in the yard and enjoy the things around me. While I'm pinning clothes to the line I have time to listen to the mockingbird sing his entire list of songs. I have even caught him tormenting the cats by mimicking a cat meow. The poor old cats are always fooled! I enjoy gazing over the fields and watching the cows and calves as they graze. I find my eye drawn to the budding japonica bush next to the clothesline. The sun shines down as the muted sounds drift to my ears of the men working on a piece of equipment getting it ready for the field . I hear the giggles of the kids as they head around the house. I see a bird beginning to carry hay to the porch post where she insists on building a nest every year (and decorating the porch with her "calling cards") It's so peaceful that I find I return to the house refreshed and ready to continue with my chores.
I find that I have certain rituals that I follow. The sheets always go in the front so that they shield the underclothes from a casual visitor to the yard. (Like everyone doesn't wear underclothes). Then I always sort the clothes as I hang them up. All of hubby's clothes together, then mine then the kids, with all the kinds together (t-shirts, pants, shirts, etc.) Then the socks are paired and hung together for quick folding. That way when I take the items off the line and fold them into the basket they are ready to be put in the drawers. Why is it that sorting a laundry basket of machine dried clothes is such a chore, but hanging them neatly on a line is a delight?
I once mentioned this to my aunt and she nodded and said that she, too, loved hanging out clothes. I looked at her in surprise that this matron with all the conveniences and daily help could ever have hung out laundry. I guess I needed reminding that we all started out as young couples on a tight budget with small children. Times pass and things are much easier now, as they were at her stage of life. Often we get so wrapped up in the business of living that we forget to remember to take joy in the simple chores of life. In the middle of the rush and hurry sometimes we need to stop and listen to the world around us and just enjoy the sunshine. For me, it means hanging out the laundry and remembering those days gone by when the kids were little and we were young and struggling--and being thankful for then and now.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
St. Patrick's Day
It's St. Patrick's day and everywhere you look people are wearing green and proclaiming to be Irish. My grandmother was a McWhorter and I married a Campbell, so I guess I will have to stick with being mostly Scotch. Although, being Presbyterian we probably are Scotch-Irish descendents. However, today everyone is Irish.
For my family the fun of St. Patrick's day has always been the food. We celebrate with an Itish feast. I always cook a big corned beef brisket. For hours the spicy smell of cooking corned beef waffs through tantilizing everyone who enters. For dinner we will serve it hot with cooked cabbage, boiled potatoes and homemade soda bread. I don't have to call everyone twice to come to the table.
Now as much as they love that meal, the real delight is in the leftovers. We love Reuben sandwiches. I can't imagine who thought to put together the various flavors in the sandwich, but my hat's off to you;. For anyone who doesn't know how to make a Reuben, you take two slices of dark rye bread. Top one slice with a layer of sliced corned beef, drained sauerkraut, and a slice of Swiss cheese. Slather the other slice with Thousand island dressing and put it on top. Then grill the sandwich until the outside is crisp and toasty and the inside hot and the cheese has melted. Like I said, wild ingredients, great taste!
However you celebrate the day, I hope you have a great one.
For my family the fun of St. Patrick's day has always been the food. We celebrate with an Itish feast. I always cook a big corned beef brisket. For hours the spicy smell of cooking corned beef waffs through tantilizing everyone who enters. For dinner we will serve it hot with cooked cabbage, boiled potatoes and homemade soda bread. I don't have to call everyone twice to come to the table.
Now as much as they love that meal, the real delight is in the leftovers. We love Reuben sandwiches. I can't imagine who thought to put together the various flavors in the sandwich, but my hat's off to you;. For anyone who doesn't know how to make a Reuben, you take two slices of dark rye bread. Top one slice with a layer of sliced corned beef, drained sauerkraut, and a slice of Swiss cheese. Slather the other slice with Thousand island dressing and put it on top. Then grill the sandwich until the outside is crisp and toasty and the inside hot and the cheese has melted. Like I said, wild ingredients, great taste!
However you celebrate the day, I hope you have a great one.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Hatching
One of the first things I did when we moved to our farm was order baby ducks from Southern States. I have always loved ducks and since there was a small pond behind the barn next to the house, I just thought we had to have ducks. Fortunately they came "sexed" so we ordered two pairs. (Evidently, determining the sex of baby chickens and ducks is somewhat of an art.) With that, we became the proud owners of a pair of Pekings (white) and a pair of mallards (brown female and green headed male). We didn't realize that the mallards could fly but the Pekings couldn't. This led to some hilarious moments with the white ducks running across the field trying to keep up with the mallards. That is until one day the male mallard didn't come home.
That left us with one proud male white duck with his "flock", one white and one brown. For some reason the little female mallard was quite content to be part of his harem and didn't fly away. Spring came and the two females started to make nests and lay eggs. They knew enough to stay away from the too exposed pond banks and attached themselves to the flower beds in the yard. I guess they realized the dogs would keep the raccoons and weasels away and they would be safer. Ducks are a lot smarter than chickens. What this also did was give us a ringside seat for duck watching. The little mothers became quite accustomed to having kids squatting beside them watching every move.
The morning came when one of the kids noticed that the mallard's eggs were hatching. We all sat intently watching as the mother duck nestled on the nest, checking occasionally to see how her newly hatching babies were doing. It wasn't long before she decided that all had hatched that were going to (several eggs were left in the nest. ). She waddled off the nest and proceeded to march to the pond. Strung out behind her came her ten little baby ducks, eight yellow babies and two brown babies.
When she reached the pond she plopped into the water and swam serenely off. As each baby reached the shore they plopped in and started swimming. Only minutes old and they were as graceful as could be. We all clapped and cheered with tears in our eyes at this amazing sight. It was a Norman Rockwell moment when I knew that farm life was the greatest thing on earth.
As we watched the mother duck turned and proceeded to swim down the line of ducklings checking the eight little yellow ducklings and two little brown ducklings, which were last. As she reached the last two little brown babies, she reached over and used her head to push them under the water. She then turned and swam back to the head of her line. The little brown babies popped to the surface like little corks and cheeping frantically hurried to catch up with their siblings. She repeated this maneuver two more times before it sunk in on us that she really was trying to drown them! In her duck sized brain these two little ducks didn't look like the others and she was trying to remove them! All of a sudden the moment was more Steven King than Norman Rockwell.
Soon the kids and I were running frantically around the pond trying to rescue the two babies. Fortunately it wasn't a very large pond so we were finally able to separate them from the others and herd them to the bank. It was heartbreaking to watch these little babies try so hard to keep up with the other ducklings, cheeping pitifully the entire time. At no time did the mother duck show any interest in the fate of these babies as we grabbed them. She herded the other eight as far from us as she could and looked smug. I never did like that duck after that.
We raised those two little ducks in a pen in the yard until they were big enough that the mother duck was no longer a threat to them. As they grew up they decided that my daughter was their mother. They would follow her around the yard, running to her and trying to get under her if they felt threatened. They went to the garden with her when she picked beans and ate bugs and worms to our delight. They grew up to look very much like their mallard mother and eventually joined the flock on the pond. They seemed to be content with their life, but we were traumatized for months by the events on the pond bank that sunny spring day. A lesson learned...life isn't always Normal Rockwell.
That left us with one proud male white duck with his "flock", one white and one brown. For some reason the little female mallard was quite content to be part of his harem and didn't fly away. Spring came and the two females started to make nests and lay eggs. They knew enough to stay away from the too exposed pond banks and attached themselves to the flower beds in the yard. I guess they realized the dogs would keep the raccoons and weasels away and they would be safer. Ducks are a lot smarter than chickens. What this also did was give us a ringside seat for duck watching. The little mothers became quite accustomed to having kids squatting beside them watching every move.
The morning came when one of the kids noticed that the mallard's eggs were hatching. We all sat intently watching as the mother duck nestled on the nest, checking occasionally to see how her newly hatching babies were doing. It wasn't long before she decided that all had hatched that were going to (several eggs were left in the nest. ). She waddled off the nest and proceeded to march to the pond. Strung out behind her came her ten little baby ducks, eight yellow babies and two brown babies.
When she reached the pond she plopped into the water and swam serenely off. As each baby reached the shore they plopped in and started swimming. Only minutes old and they were as graceful as could be. We all clapped and cheered with tears in our eyes at this amazing sight. It was a Norman Rockwell moment when I knew that farm life was the greatest thing on earth.
As we watched the mother duck turned and proceeded to swim down the line of ducklings checking the eight little yellow ducklings and two little brown ducklings, which were last. As she reached the last two little brown babies, she reached over and used her head to push them under the water. She then turned and swam back to the head of her line. The little brown babies popped to the surface like little corks and cheeping frantically hurried to catch up with their siblings. She repeated this maneuver two more times before it sunk in on us that she really was trying to drown them! In her duck sized brain these two little ducks didn't look like the others and she was trying to remove them! All of a sudden the moment was more Steven King than Norman Rockwell.
Soon the kids and I were running frantically around the pond trying to rescue the two babies. Fortunately it wasn't a very large pond so we were finally able to separate them from the others and herd them to the bank. It was heartbreaking to watch these little babies try so hard to keep up with the other ducklings, cheeping pitifully the entire time. At no time did the mother duck show any interest in the fate of these babies as we grabbed them. She herded the other eight as far from us as she could and looked smug. I never did like that duck after that.
We raised those two little ducks in a pen in the yard until they were big enough that the mother duck was no longer a threat to them. As they grew up they decided that my daughter was their mother. They would follow her around the yard, running to her and trying to get under her if they felt threatened. They went to the garden with her when she picked beans and ate bugs and worms to our delight. They grew up to look very much like their mallard mother and eventually joined the flock on the pond. They seemed to be content with their life, but we were traumatized for months by the events on the pond bank that sunny spring day. A lesson learned...life isn't always Normal Rockwell.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Daffodils
I took a ride yesterday on a beautiful, sunny day. You know spring is coming when you can ride through the countryside and see little clumps of yellow flowers nodding in the breeze. When we first moved here I pointed out these beautiful little daffodils and commented on them. My friend turned to me and said "You mean the March Lilies?" "No the daffodils ", I replied. She nodded, "Yes, the March Lilies". That's when I realized that the flowers I had known for years as daffodils have several names.
In this county they are March Lilies. Makes, sense. They bloom in March (sometimes April or February on good years) and they are kind of lily like. So, OK, March Lilies it is. However, if you go the area along the Ohio river where we once lived, they go by the name of Easter flowers. That's stretching it a little but they do bloom around Easter time. In other areas they are known as buttercups.
Whatever you call them they are a living tribute to the hands that planted them to beautify a homestead or farm. They are not wild flowers, nor native to the area. Those bright clumps of flowers that grace roadsides, fields, fence rows or old house sites were once the pride of some homemaker. She traded for the bulbs or carried them with her and planted them in her new home to brighten her day. The years pass and the home may disappear but the flowers remain. They multiply and drift with the movement of the soil through winter freezes and thaws or spring rains. They flow down hillsides with sunny abandon. They mark old foundations of long forgotten homes. They glow in roadside ditches and dance in fence rows. They forever stand as a monument to a place that was once loved.
Our old house stands on the foundation of an even older house. The first year we lived there I was overjoyed in the spring to discover these beautiful harbingers of spring growing in the front field. Mine are treasures, in that they are the delicate double daffodils that look like miniature, yellow peonies. They are downhill from the house and I am sure they were originally planted around the first home's doorway. Over the years they have migrated through the downward movement of the soil to now bloom in the field. I never look at them that I don't think of the woman who lovingly planted those treasured bulbs all those years ago.
I hope that someday, something that I do will brighten the world for those who follows me.
In this county they are March Lilies. Makes, sense. They bloom in March (sometimes April or February on good years) and they are kind of lily like. So, OK, March Lilies it is. However, if you go the area along the Ohio river where we once lived, they go by the name of Easter flowers. That's stretching it a little but they do bloom around Easter time. In other areas they are known as buttercups.
Whatever you call them they are a living tribute to the hands that planted them to beautify a homestead or farm. They are not wild flowers, nor native to the area. Those bright clumps of flowers that grace roadsides, fields, fence rows or old house sites were once the pride of some homemaker. She traded for the bulbs or carried them with her and planted them in her new home to brighten her day. The years pass and the home may disappear but the flowers remain. They multiply and drift with the movement of the soil through winter freezes and thaws or spring rains. They flow down hillsides with sunny abandon. They mark old foundations of long forgotten homes. They glow in roadside ditches and dance in fence rows. They forever stand as a monument to a place that was once loved.
Our old house stands on the foundation of an even older house. The first year we lived there I was overjoyed in the spring to discover these beautiful harbingers of spring growing in the front field. Mine are treasures, in that they are the delicate double daffodils that look like miniature, yellow peonies. They are downhill from the house and I am sure they were originally planted around the first home's doorway. Over the years they have migrated through the downward movement of the soil to now bloom in the field. I never look at them that I don't think of the woman who lovingly planted those treasured bulbs all those years ago.
I hope that someday, something that I do will brighten the world for those who follows me.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Duncan
There have been very few times in my life that I haven't had a dog and/or a cat. When the kids were home my pets were usually "found" pets. These were animals that were either literally found or someone gave them to us--usually with no intention on our part to acquire another pet. Over the years we have had some wonderful and loving companions.
When the last kid left home they left us with three dogs, a beagle, German Shepherd and a collie. Thank goodness we live on a farm. The years passed and the old beagle, the last of the pack died. For the first time in a long time we were pet-less (unless you count barn cats). I decided that for once in my life I would pick a dog that I wanted.
I did careful research, talked to several breeders, the president of the Ky. Kennel Club, and even went to a dog show. (That's really an experience. ) I knew I wanted a dog that would be good with the little grandkids, easy to train, tough enough to be a farm dog in all kinds of weather, and a companion for me. With this in mind I settled on one of the herding dogs, since they are bred to take care of and protect their herd (grandkids). We had had a collie before and I loved the breed but sure didn't like the constant grooming required to deal with their massive amounts of hair. One of the breeders suggested I try a Smooth Coat Collie. If you are like me you've never heard of them. However, they are simply a short haired collie.
In no time I had found the perfect dog. Not a puppy (I didn't want to deal with that!) but young enough to bond with a new family. He looks like Lassie with short hair. A little odd at first but beautiful. His name is Halcyon Day's Duncan of Aver Brae or Duncan, for short. He's perfect, other than a few small problems.
First of all, I didn't really expect to pick up a dog at a kennel and discover that he had been raised in a house. However, since I did want to be able to bring him in during really bad weather, that was a plus, since he was housebroken. What I didn't expect is that he would never want to go out unless I went with him. In fact I can't make a step he doesn't go with me. He bonded to me like glue! He has great manners, never "counter surfs" for food, he doesn't eat up things (unless you count my slippers or the occasional toy), he's not rambunctious, in fact he mostly sleeps. Of course he usually sleeps in the space you want to walk, but he's quiet! So I have an 80 lb. house dog.
He's really good with the little ones. I would totally trust him to never hurt one of them. However, he may drive them crazy. He tends to want to herd them up in the yard. He follows them around and nips at their heels and tries to get them all in one place. Nice trick if he can do it! They in turn drive him nuts trying to get him to "fetch". They throw balls and he just looks at them. You can't herd balls. Fetch just isn't in his gene pool.
However goofy he is, he is still a collie. The old Lassie shows were based on the very protective, caring nature of these dogs. About a year ago, the then 3 yr. old grandson, decided to go the field where he could see his dad on the tractor. He slipped through the gate and started trudging through the tall grass. Duncan, who never leaves the yard if I'm in the house, went with him. My son said his heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw what the dog was trying to "herd" through the field. Duncan couldn't get the little one to go back to the house but he never left his side, either. I have no doubt that if he had felt that the little one was threatened he would have protected him with every ounce of his being. As it was, he did all he could do in staying with him until an adult was found.
You're a good dog Duncan.
When the last kid left home they left us with three dogs, a beagle, German Shepherd and a collie. Thank goodness we live on a farm. The years passed and the old beagle, the last of the pack died. For the first time in a long time we were pet-less (unless you count barn cats). I decided that for once in my life I would pick a dog that I wanted.
I did careful research, talked to several breeders, the president of the Ky. Kennel Club, and even went to a dog show. (That's really an experience. ) I knew I wanted a dog that would be good with the little grandkids, easy to train, tough enough to be a farm dog in all kinds of weather, and a companion for me. With this in mind I settled on one of the herding dogs, since they are bred to take care of and protect their herd (grandkids). We had had a collie before and I loved the breed but sure didn't like the constant grooming required to deal with their massive amounts of hair. One of the breeders suggested I try a Smooth Coat Collie. If you are like me you've never heard of them. However, they are simply a short haired collie.
In no time I had found the perfect dog. Not a puppy (I didn't want to deal with that!) but young enough to bond with a new family. He looks like Lassie with short hair. A little odd at first but beautiful. His name is Halcyon Day's Duncan of Aver Brae or Duncan, for short. He's perfect, other than a few small problems.
First of all, I didn't really expect to pick up a dog at a kennel and discover that he had been raised in a house. However, since I did want to be able to bring him in during really bad weather, that was a plus, since he was housebroken. What I didn't expect is that he would never want to go out unless I went with him. In fact I can't make a step he doesn't go with me. He bonded to me like glue! He has great manners, never "counter surfs" for food, he doesn't eat up things (unless you count my slippers or the occasional toy), he's not rambunctious, in fact he mostly sleeps. Of course he usually sleeps in the space you want to walk, but he's quiet! So I have an 80 lb. house dog.
He's really good with the little ones. I would totally trust him to never hurt one of them. However, he may drive them crazy. He tends to want to herd them up in the yard. He follows them around and nips at their heels and tries to get them all in one place. Nice trick if he can do it! They in turn drive him nuts trying to get him to "fetch". They throw balls and he just looks at them. You can't herd balls. Fetch just isn't in his gene pool.
However goofy he is, he is still a collie. The old Lassie shows were based on the very protective, caring nature of these dogs. About a year ago, the then 3 yr. old grandson, decided to go the field where he could see his dad on the tractor. He slipped through the gate and started trudging through the tall grass. Duncan, who never leaves the yard if I'm in the house, went with him. My son said his heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw what the dog was trying to "herd" through the field. Duncan couldn't get the little one to go back to the house but he never left his side, either. I have no doubt that if he had felt that the little one was threatened he would have protected him with every ounce of his being. As it was, he did all he could do in staying with him until an adult was found.
You're a good dog Duncan.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Spring in Kentucky
It's spring! I can tell not by the singing of the birds or the greening of the fields but the sound of basketballs and squeaking sneakers. It's March in Kentucky which means that the world comes to a halt while seemingly hundreds of basketball games are played leading up to the Final Four. If you don't know what I am referring to with the words "Final Four" you might as well quit reading now. You also are probably reading from another country.
Kentucky is basketball crazy. With the advent of cable tv we can now follow each and every game leading up to the big one. That means that on certain days at certain times you could deliver a baby with everyone going, "don't push until the time out!" Don't even think about scheduling anything until you check the game schedule. I once attended a revival at our church when the choir refused to march in to start the service until UK had finished their game! The visiting minister then had the score announced before he started the service. That's religion in Kentucky.
From now until the end of the NCAA tournament, weddings, parties, meals, committee meetings, and anything else will depend on who is playing and when. I remember a bride who was foolish enough to plan a wedding that happened to coincide with UK playing. (Smart brides wouldn't dream of planning a wedding in March) After serious discussion the wedding was held but everyone's attention was divided between the ceremony and the whispered commentary going on the the pews from those with radios and earphones. The bride was savvy enough to provide tv's during the reception so everyone could keep up with the games between dances.
Thanks to modern technology daytime games will be viewed continuously from 5:00 pm on. We will eat, sleep and dream in front of the tv while the games go on and on and on. Brackets will be filled out and teams cheered on. Hopes will be raised and hopes will crash. Excitement and desolation will both be felt. It's March Madness in Kentucky.
Kentucky is basketball crazy. With the advent of cable tv we can now follow each and every game leading up to the big one. That means that on certain days at certain times you could deliver a baby with everyone going, "don't push until the time out!" Don't even think about scheduling anything until you check the game schedule. I once attended a revival at our church when the choir refused to march in to start the service until UK had finished their game! The visiting minister then had the score announced before he started the service. That's religion in Kentucky.
From now until the end of the NCAA tournament, weddings, parties, meals, committee meetings, and anything else will depend on who is playing and when. I remember a bride who was foolish enough to plan a wedding that happened to coincide with UK playing. (Smart brides wouldn't dream of planning a wedding in March) After serious discussion the wedding was held but everyone's attention was divided between the ceremony and the whispered commentary going on the the pews from those with radios and earphones. The bride was savvy enough to provide tv's during the reception so everyone could keep up with the games between dances.
Thanks to modern technology daytime games will be viewed continuously from 5:00 pm on. We will eat, sleep and dream in front of the tv while the games go on and on and on. Brackets will be filled out and teams cheered on. Hopes will be raised and hopes will crash. Excitement and desolation will both be felt. It's March Madness in Kentucky.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Don't Throw That Away
Last night I watched a news report about a fire in Louisville. The report stated that the firemen were unable to enter the house to fight the fire because of a massive amount of "content". The owner was described as a hoarder. Evidently the owner had collected so much "stuff" that the firemen literally could not get in the doors. Unable to enter they just poured water on from the outside and tried to keep it from spreading to other homes.
I looked over at hubby and he met my eyes with a look of understanding. You see, we are a "keeper" married to a "keeper" and we are fast disappearing under a load of stuff we are keeping. We find it difficult, if not impossible, to throw away things that are perfectly good. We also can't refuse usable items, especially if they are free.
It all started soon after we married. My grandmother passed away leaving my sister and I to empty her home. We spent an afternoon sorting and dividing sixty years of living. Then we loaded it all up and took it home. It, frankly, never occurred to us to give any of it away. We were newly married and hadn't accumulated much so we just kept it. The oak drop leaf table, walnut chest made by my grandfather, Aladdin lamps, and lovingly monogrammed napkins are treasured keepsakes that I would never part with. However, we also still have the worn twin bed sheets (I don't own a twin bed), dented kitchenware, mismatched glasses, and odd decorative pieces. Since that time we have cleaned out three more houses with the same results.
It's not just furniture we save. During a recent remodeling, after the carpenters left for the day, we would carefully collect up all the "usable" scraps that had been left to be disposed of. Hubby would grab pieces of moldings, cuts of lumber, even nails and stash them in one of our outbuildings. The guys would laugh about all the trash we had saved but we just kept on stashing goodies away. Then came the day we discovered that the space left for the mantle in the sunroom was too small for a standard mantle. That meant we would have construct our own. Out came all the pieces of moldings, trim, and lumber that had been saved. Using nothing but what we had on hand we were able to build a lovely mantle that blends perfectly with the rest of the house.
Guess we had the last laugh! Now, I wonder where we can put another building to hold all the other "stuff" we're still collecting.
I looked over at hubby and he met my eyes with a look of understanding. You see, we are a "keeper" married to a "keeper" and we are fast disappearing under a load of stuff we are keeping. We find it difficult, if not impossible, to throw away things that are perfectly good. We also can't refuse usable items, especially if they are free.
It all started soon after we married. My grandmother passed away leaving my sister and I to empty her home. We spent an afternoon sorting and dividing sixty years of living. Then we loaded it all up and took it home. It, frankly, never occurred to us to give any of it away. We were newly married and hadn't accumulated much so we just kept it. The oak drop leaf table, walnut chest made by my grandfather, Aladdin lamps, and lovingly monogrammed napkins are treasured keepsakes that I would never part with. However, we also still have the worn twin bed sheets (I don't own a twin bed), dented kitchenware, mismatched glasses, and odd decorative pieces. Since that time we have cleaned out three more houses with the same results.
It's not just furniture we save. During a recent remodeling, after the carpenters left for the day, we would carefully collect up all the "usable" scraps that had been left to be disposed of. Hubby would grab pieces of moldings, cuts of lumber, even nails and stash them in one of our outbuildings. The guys would laugh about all the trash we had saved but we just kept on stashing goodies away. Then came the day we discovered that the space left for the mantle in the sunroom was too small for a standard mantle. That meant we would have construct our own. Out came all the pieces of moldings, trim, and lumber that had been saved. Using nothing but what we had on hand we were able to build a lovely mantle that blends perfectly with the rest of the house.
Guess we had the last laugh! Now, I wonder where we can put another building to hold all the other "stuff" we're still collecting.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Flying Woes
I hate to fly. Actually up until about a year ago I loved to fly. In fact I have often yearned to learn to fly. However, lately I haven't found too much to enjoy about flying. Somehow, airlines have managed to make flying from one place to another a test of endurance, attitude, patience, and fortitude. At the same time airports try to make you feel like either a villain or a load of sheep being loaded on cars for slaughter. Where did the "service with a smile" go? Why can't they still make an effort to create a pleasant experience instead of a nightmare journey? I realize that there is a very real risk of terrorists, but for every terrorist there are thousands of travelers who just want to get to their destination as quickly and easily as possible. Do we count for nothing?
Last spring we flew to Bermuda with another couple. We arrived at the airport the required two hours early to be sure we had time to get through the security line. We had tried to follow all the rules. All carry-on liquids in a quart bag, shoes off, coats off, laptops out, phones out, change out, and Bob's c-pap machine unloaded. Of course, the breathing machine caused a line hold up. Bob had to remain with it while they checked it over and over. Then he was allowed to repack it and continue on. Everything went fairly smoothly but I was reminded of a previous experience.
On that occasion the line was stopped for a thorough search of a wheelchair. The suspected terrorist was an extremely frail, white haired lady who may have weighed all of 95 pounds and her equally frail husband. The TSA employee was demanding in a loud, hectoring voice that she leave the wheelchair immediately so he could thoroughly check it. She was struggling to rise with the help of her husband while this employee kept urging her loudly, "Get out of the wheelchair. Step to the side. Don't take anything with you. Get OUT of the wheelchair!" The whole time the little couple was trying to explain that she was getting out but it took a little while since it was very hard for her to move or stand. The employee just kept yelling. By now the entire line was watching the process. With obvious embarrassment the couple stood in dismay while her wheelchair was emptied and thoroughly examined for explosives, I guess. I understand that terrorist come in all sizes, ages and nationalities, but on the off-chance that they really were just paying customers, could they not be treated with dignity and politeness? Is there no way to be thorough without treating everyone as if they were dangerous criminals?
Somehow what used to be an exciting adventure has become a trial. Not only are we treated as a nuisance, at best, or a positive danger at worst, but it seems that the reliability of the airlines has gone down with the increase in security. Everyone who has flown has had the occasional delay but they used to be fairly rare. I flew for years with few problems. Once my luggage went to Atlanta while I went to Louisville but they found it and returned it in a surprisingly short time. Once Bob had a connecting flight cancelled but they got him on another flight with just enough wait for him to catch part of a ballgame in the bar.
Now, rather than the exception, delays and canceled flights are the norm. Out of the three flights I have scheduled I can bet that I will deal with at least one delay and probably one missed flight. Gone too, is the policy of keeping the customer happy. On the Bermuda trip we were held up in Louisville (on the plane) for an hour because of a storm that was going through Philadelphia. We arrived with not enough time to run from one end of the airport to the other to reach our departure gate on our connecting flight. In times past, a call would have been made to the departing plane that four passengers were on their way and to give them a few extra minutes. Now we were just told to run! We arrived, out of breath, only to discover that the door had been closed. The plane was still there and the ramp still connected but we were too late. We watched as the plane sat there for another 10 minutes before it began to detach from the ramp and pull away. The rule is "once the door is closed it cannot be reopened". OK, I've got that, but if they had called ahead they could have held the door for another two minutes for us to get to the gate (unless they had already given our seats to "stand-by's" which is my guess).
We were directed to a customer service booth where we were informed that we were just out of luck. There was another flight tomorrow and if there were seats we could get on it. The lady at the desk was rude, abrupt and totally unhelpful. I did rather wonder what the "customer service" part was. We were told that there were lots of hotels in Philly and we could get one if we wanted or sleep in the terminal. OK that sounds like fun. Finally in desperation I asked if she at least had a list of close by hotels, at which point she presented us with a printed list of hotels at the airport and discounted room rates. Why not offer this first instead after we had reached maximum frustration? (Did no one tell this lady that her job would be to handle people who weren't really happy to be spending the night in Philadelphia instead of Bermuda?)
The bright point of the experience was the passing employee who heard our distress and told us that there was a good chance that our luggage had been pulled from the plane. He then directed us to the office to see if we could retrieve it. The gentleman there was helpful, polite and friendly--there is hope for travel yet!! I wish I had gotten his name so I could write the company and tell them that they have one great employee!
The good news. We got our luggage and had all day to enjoy a mini-vacation in Philly. It's a great place to visit. Put it on your list of places to see, but you might want to consider driving or taking a train!
Last spring we flew to Bermuda with another couple. We arrived at the airport the required two hours early to be sure we had time to get through the security line. We had tried to follow all the rules. All carry-on liquids in a quart bag, shoes off, coats off, laptops out, phones out, change out, and Bob's c-pap machine unloaded. Of course, the breathing machine caused a line hold up. Bob had to remain with it while they checked it over and over. Then he was allowed to repack it and continue on. Everything went fairly smoothly but I was reminded of a previous experience.
On that occasion the line was stopped for a thorough search of a wheelchair. The suspected terrorist was an extremely frail, white haired lady who may have weighed all of 95 pounds and her equally frail husband. The TSA employee was demanding in a loud, hectoring voice that she leave the wheelchair immediately so he could thoroughly check it. She was struggling to rise with the help of her husband while this employee kept urging her loudly, "Get out of the wheelchair. Step to the side. Don't take anything with you. Get OUT of the wheelchair!" The whole time the little couple was trying to explain that she was getting out but it took a little while since it was very hard for her to move or stand. The employee just kept yelling. By now the entire line was watching the process. With obvious embarrassment the couple stood in dismay while her wheelchair was emptied and thoroughly examined for explosives, I guess. I understand that terrorist come in all sizes, ages and nationalities, but on the off-chance that they really were just paying customers, could they not be treated with dignity and politeness? Is there no way to be thorough without treating everyone as if they were dangerous criminals?
Somehow what used to be an exciting adventure has become a trial. Not only are we treated as a nuisance, at best, or a positive danger at worst, but it seems that the reliability of the airlines has gone down with the increase in security. Everyone who has flown has had the occasional delay but they used to be fairly rare. I flew for years with few problems. Once my luggage went to Atlanta while I went to Louisville but they found it and returned it in a surprisingly short time. Once Bob had a connecting flight cancelled but they got him on another flight with just enough wait for him to catch part of a ballgame in the bar.
Now, rather than the exception, delays and canceled flights are the norm. Out of the three flights I have scheduled I can bet that I will deal with at least one delay and probably one missed flight. Gone too, is the policy of keeping the customer happy. On the Bermuda trip we were held up in Louisville (on the plane) for an hour because of a storm that was going through Philadelphia. We arrived with not enough time to run from one end of the airport to the other to reach our departure gate on our connecting flight. In times past, a call would have been made to the departing plane that four passengers were on their way and to give them a few extra minutes. Now we were just told to run! We arrived, out of breath, only to discover that the door had been closed. The plane was still there and the ramp still connected but we were too late. We watched as the plane sat there for another 10 minutes before it began to detach from the ramp and pull away. The rule is "once the door is closed it cannot be reopened". OK, I've got that, but if they had called ahead they could have held the door for another two minutes for us to get to the gate (unless they had already given our seats to "stand-by's" which is my guess).
We were directed to a customer service booth where we were informed that we were just out of luck. There was another flight tomorrow and if there were seats we could get on it. The lady at the desk was rude, abrupt and totally unhelpful. I did rather wonder what the "customer service" part was. We were told that there were lots of hotels in Philly and we could get one if we wanted or sleep in the terminal. OK that sounds like fun. Finally in desperation I asked if she at least had a list of close by hotels, at which point she presented us with a printed list of hotels at the airport and discounted room rates. Why not offer this first instead after we had reached maximum frustration? (Did no one tell this lady that her job would be to handle people who weren't really happy to be spending the night in Philadelphia instead of Bermuda?)
The bright point of the experience was the passing employee who heard our distress and told us that there was a good chance that our luggage had been pulled from the plane. He then directed us to the office to see if we could retrieve it. The gentleman there was helpful, polite and friendly--there is hope for travel yet!! I wish I had gotten his name so I could write the company and tell them that they have one great employee!
The good news. We got our luggage and had all day to enjoy a mini-vacation in Philly. It's a great place to visit. Put it on your list of places to see, but you might want to consider driving or taking a train!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Beaten Biscuits
Recently we entertained some insurance company executives from Syracuse, New York. Rather than taking them out to eat, hubby wanted to have them come to the house for a more relaxed, social event. We decided to include the office, some local agents, and make it a real party. I love to get out the little used "good" dishes and silver so I agreed to "cater" the dinner.
Knowing, from past visits, that the execs were food lovers, I decided to give them a true "southern" meal. Over the years I have discovered that each section of the country has its own distinctive cuisine. In the south you will find dishes that are unique to the area. Paula Dean has probably done more to spread the lure of southern cooking than anyone. She has labeled herself the Queen of Butter, but it is a fact that southern cooking is a little heavy on the fats and sugars, but oh, so good. I wanted to present a typical southern meal but also keep it easy to eat.
Meat was the biggest problem. I wanted to have country ham but knew that it is an acquired taste and they might not acquire it quick enough. So, to be sure, I decided to have city ham too. Now for the uninitiated, country ham is salt cured and hangs to age for 6-12 months. The salt pulls the moisture out of the ham and seals the ham against spoilage. The result is a rich, dark ham with an intense flavor. Southerners can't get enough of it. City ham on the other hand, is sugar cured and is the pink, delicate ham you find on most Easter tables. To make eating easier, I decided to serve it on biscuits that could be eaten out of hand.
Now the fun begins. In the south there are biscuits and then there are beaten biscuits. Regular biscuits are just what you think they are. Light, fluffy, quick breads, cut into little rounds and baked to golden deliciousness. However, die-hard southerners think that country ham just has to be eaten on a beaten biscuit. These are not your typical biscuit. The recipe for beaten biscuits goes back to colonial times. I don't know why they were developed except maybe to come up with a biscuit when leavening agents were in short supply. Most recipes use very little, if any, baking powder. Maybe it was because of their keeping qualities, since they remain about the same for days on end. Whatever the reason they are a uniquely southern item.
To make them you need a dough made from flour, lard, (yes, lard) and milk and water. Originally, they were then beaten 100 times with the flat of a hatchet, folding and turning as you beat. Let me tell you, women back then weren't weak sisters! The beating builds the gluten in the flour until the dough becomes very smooth and elastic. They are then rolled out, pricked with a fork and baked to a delicate golden brown. The resulting biscuit is like a thick cracker but slightly softer. Split it becomes the perfect receptacle for a tender piece of ham.
Sometime around 100 years ago, someone developed a machine to help in the beating process. It is called a biscuit brake and looks a lot like the ringers from an old ringer washer attached to a table. Except the ringers are metal clad and turned by a large crank handle. With this, instead of beating the dough you put in through the ringers, folding it each time. You still have to do it 100 times, but it's a lot easier. At the end of the process the dough has become slick and will pop from the trapped air in the turned fold. Then you know you are done.
I had made beaten biscuits as a child for a neighbor lady. A friend and I were the crank turners for her biscuits. We would spend a whole afternoon cranking for all the hot biscuits we could eat. I spent the first 20 years of our marriage, looking for a biscuit brake of my own. Finally, I found one, which is what we used to crank out these unique southern delicacies.
The good news. There is hope for the north yet, The folks from New York were intrigued with the little hard bisucits and decided they were delicious. In fact they ate more than the locals did. Success!
Knowing, from past visits, that the execs were food lovers, I decided to give them a true "southern" meal. Over the years I have discovered that each section of the country has its own distinctive cuisine. In the south you will find dishes that are unique to the area. Paula Dean has probably done more to spread the lure of southern cooking than anyone. She has labeled herself the Queen of Butter, but it is a fact that southern cooking is a little heavy on the fats and sugars, but oh, so good. I wanted to present a typical southern meal but also keep it easy to eat.
Meat was the biggest problem. I wanted to have country ham but knew that it is an acquired taste and they might not acquire it quick enough. So, to be sure, I decided to have city ham too. Now for the uninitiated, country ham is salt cured and hangs to age for 6-12 months. The salt pulls the moisture out of the ham and seals the ham against spoilage. The result is a rich, dark ham with an intense flavor. Southerners can't get enough of it. City ham on the other hand, is sugar cured and is the pink, delicate ham you find on most Easter tables. To make eating easier, I decided to serve it on biscuits that could be eaten out of hand.
Now the fun begins. In the south there are biscuits and then there are beaten biscuits. Regular biscuits are just what you think they are. Light, fluffy, quick breads, cut into little rounds and baked to golden deliciousness. However, die-hard southerners think that country ham just has to be eaten on a beaten biscuit. These are not your typical biscuit. The recipe for beaten biscuits goes back to colonial times. I don't know why they were developed except maybe to come up with a biscuit when leavening agents were in short supply. Most recipes use very little, if any, baking powder. Maybe it was because of their keeping qualities, since they remain about the same for days on end. Whatever the reason they are a uniquely southern item.
To make them you need a dough made from flour, lard, (yes, lard) and milk and water. Originally, they were then beaten 100 times with the flat of a hatchet, folding and turning as you beat. Let me tell you, women back then weren't weak sisters! The beating builds the gluten in the flour until the dough becomes very smooth and elastic. They are then rolled out, pricked with a fork and baked to a delicate golden brown. The resulting biscuit is like a thick cracker but slightly softer. Split it becomes the perfect receptacle for a tender piece of ham.
Sometime around 100 years ago, someone developed a machine to help in the beating process. It is called a biscuit brake and looks a lot like the ringers from an old ringer washer attached to a table. Except the ringers are metal clad and turned by a large crank handle. With this, instead of beating the dough you put in through the ringers, folding it each time. You still have to do it 100 times, but it's a lot easier. At the end of the process the dough has become slick and will pop from the trapped air in the turned fold. Then you know you are done.
I had made beaten biscuits as a child for a neighbor lady. A friend and I were the crank turners for her biscuits. We would spend a whole afternoon cranking for all the hot biscuits we could eat. I spent the first 20 years of our marriage, looking for a biscuit brake of my own. Finally, I found one, which is what we used to crank out these unique southern delicacies.
The good news. There is hope for the north yet, The folks from New York were intrigued with the little hard bisucits and decided they were delicious. In fact they ate more than the locals did. Success!
Monday, March 7, 2011
I'm Back
My hubby and I recentely attended a banquet and annual meeting of the Angus Association. Since the kids had grown up and we were no longer showing cattle, we had not attended in several years. It was wonderful to see so many old friends, some grown older, some just grown up. As we made our way to our table we were greeted by a friend who had been one of the first to welcome us to showing cattle and help us learn the ropes. At the time, he had been a young man and now he was at the banquet with his own grown sons. Lately, our only contact has been through greetings on Facebook.
To my surprise, his greeting was, "You've quit posting on your blog!" I muttered something to the effect that we'd been busy, etc. "Well, don't give up," he returned, "I've enjoyed reading your history stories. However, if you want to include some more recent ones you can tell about getting a ticket in Perryville." (Sorry, Sammy. Maybe at a future date!)
I think I must have looked stunned. In fact I was busy processing the idea that someone is reading my blogs and actually enjoying them. All along I had thought of them as an exercise only for my benefit. I knew that I wanted the stories of our families to be passed on and remembered. I guess if I thought of it at all, it was that maybe my kids would someday read them. I enjoy writing and sharing my thoughts but I just hadn't given my readership much thought.
I am humbled. I will continue and hopefully provide some entertainment to someone. Maybe a story will trigger a memory that will mean retelling an old family story to your children. Maybe it will touch your heart. Who knows, maybe you will even laugh. If you do, please let me know.
To my surprise, his greeting was, "You've quit posting on your blog!" I muttered something to the effect that we'd been busy, etc. "Well, don't give up," he returned, "I've enjoyed reading your history stories. However, if you want to include some more recent ones you can tell about getting a ticket in Perryville." (Sorry, Sammy. Maybe at a future date!)
I think I must have looked stunned. In fact I was busy processing the idea that someone is reading my blogs and actually enjoying them. All along I had thought of them as an exercise only for my benefit. I knew that I wanted the stories of our families to be passed on and remembered. I guess if I thought of it at all, it was that maybe my kids would someday read them. I enjoy writing and sharing my thoughts but I just hadn't given my readership much thought.
I am humbled. I will continue and hopefully provide some entertainment to someone. Maybe a story will trigger a memory that will mean retelling an old family story to your children. Maybe it will touch your heart. Who knows, maybe you will even laugh. If you do, please let me know.
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