It was 1947, they were young and in love. It wasn't a time of lavish, over-the-top weddings, instead they were married in the courthouse by the local judge. She was supported by her sister and he had his best friend at his side. She wore a lovely rose suit borrowed from another sister while he was tall and proud in his blue pinstripe. He had adoringly presented her with a small corsage but was too shy to pin it on, allowing her sister to do the honors. The ceremony only took a few minutes and they were back on the sidewalk as Mr. and Mrs., ready to begin their new life.
They didn't have much money but he had worked and saved what little he could to give her a honeymoon she would remember. They only had a few days, but he had planned it carefully. They caught the local train and were soon on their way to the "Windy City". To a couple growing up in a small rural town it must have seemed as exotic as Paris or Tokyo--Chicago, the biggest city in the Midwest. Filled with lights, excitement, and unheard of delights, all theirs to enjoy for two whole days.
They caught a cab from the train station, another adventure for the small town couple, pulling up in front of the stately Palmer House Hotel. They stared in awe at the beautiful structure, already a grand lady having served the Chicago elite for 76 years. She hesitated, tugging gently at his sleeve, "Are you sure....?" He patted her hand and smiled reassuringly, "It's our honeymoon. I want you to have the best." She hugged his arm and they walked up to the registration desk.
The clerk smiled a warm welcome and in just a few minutes they were signing the guest register for the first time as Mr. and Mrs. "That will be $11 per night for two nights and for 75 cents a day more we will put a radio in your room for your enjoyment." "Oh, no!", she gasped, "that's too much!". He again quietly patted the hand clinging to his arm, "It's our honeymoon, I want you to have a honeymoon to remember."
And remember it she did for the next 65 years.
"Mom! You'll never guess where I'll be staying while on a business trip to Chicago?" the man laughed as he watched his aging mother carefully mix biscuits in the kitchen. "The Palmer House. Isn't that where you and dad spent your honeymoon?" With a soft smile on her face she nodded, "Somewhere I think I even have the old receipt from that stay." After lunch they took a trip through memory lane while she fingered through old mementos in the flowered box she pulled from the closet. Sure enough she had the receipt for the amount of $11 per night plus 75 cents for the radio.
On an impulse, the man took a copy of the receipt with him on his trip. While checking in, he mentioned that his parents had stayed here on their honeymoon 65 years ago for a much lower rate than today's prices. The clerk looked at the receipt wide eyed and immediately asked if he would wait a minute to talk to the manager. It seems that the hotel is currently compiling a history of it's long years of serving the Chicago area, would his mother be willing to part with the original receipt? In return, the hotel would treat her and a guest to a night at $11 and throw in the radio for free.
Which is how 65 years later she traveled again to Chicago, this time with a granddaughter, to stay once again at the stately Palmer House Hotel. She was greeted by the manager and whisked to her room with champagne and a cheese tray awaiting her.
Her only wish, she said, was that her much missed husband of 57 years had lived to share the adventure with her again.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The Coffee Group
After all you have heard about women gossiping, I'm here to tell you that farmers have the corner on the market when it comes talking. Anywhere that there is farming done you will find a coffee shop where the men gather to share the "news". It is there, usually in the morning and again in the afternoon, that they discuss the crops, weather, agriculture outlook, machinery, cattle, and a thousand other things that are central to farming. It is also where they discuss their kids, grandkids, household chores, wives, neighbors, economy, politics, and who-did-what-with-who! There is no topic that is not fair game.
I guess it is a universal club with open membership because hubby located the coffee group on a visit to our daughter in Iowa and was instantly welcomed as one of the boys. He would leave the house each morning to go to "town" to catch up on the local happenings. During the afternoon, there would be an urgent need for a part that would require he and our daughter's father-in-law to stop work and head for town. He may not have known the farming practices or the people that well but it didn't stop him from picking their brains and enjoying the fellowship.
Later we would bump into his "cronies" at church or in a restaurant and he would be greeted like a long lost friend. "How's the repairs on the combine coming?" he would ask with familiar ease. "Aw, we're going to have to go to the city for a part." would come the answer. "Too bad," he would respond, "that'll keep you from finishing up that section this week." I would glance at him in amazement. He's chatting along as though he did this everyday and I know for a fact that he couldn't turn a combine around on our whole farm!
The coffee group will discuss any topic. There is absolutely nothing that is off limits. Hubby comes home with the latest news about marriages, divorces, babies, affairs, bankruptcies and get-rich-quick
schemes. They discuss land sales, cattle sales, house sales, and business opportunities. They decide the best plants for my garden, best time to prune the shrubs, methods of watering the garden, and canning recipes (honest). When I was taking chemo they told me to drink grape juice (it worked).
When we first started to drive to Iowa they told us the route to take (it didn't work). Whatever the question, you can count on the coffee group to have an answer.
With that in mind, if you are ever in a small town and enter the local restaurant to find lots of "gimmy" hats and bib-overalls, you have just found the coffee group. Sit back and be prepared to learn all about the latest "news" and be highly entertained--just remember not to call it gossip!!
I guess it is a universal club with open membership because hubby located the coffee group on a visit to our daughter in Iowa and was instantly welcomed as one of the boys. He would leave the house each morning to go to "town" to catch up on the local happenings. During the afternoon, there would be an urgent need for a part that would require he and our daughter's father-in-law to stop work and head for town. He may not have known the farming practices or the people that well but it didn't stop him from picking their brains and enjoying the fellowship.
Later we would bump into his "cronies" at church or in a restaurant and he would be greeted like a long lost friend. "How's the repairs on the combine coming?" he would ask with familiar ease. "Aw, we're going to have to go to the city for a part." would come the answer. "Too bad," he would respond, "that'll keep you from finishing up that section this week." I would glance at him in amazement. He's chatting along as though he did this everyday and I know for a fact that he couldn't turn a combine around on our whole farm!
The coffee group will discuss any topic. There is absolutely nothing that is off limits. Hubby comes home with the latest news about marriages, divorces, babies, affairs, bankruptcies and get-rich-quick
schemes. They discuss land sales, cattle sales, house sales, and business opportunities. They decide the best plants for my garden, best time to prune the shrubs, methods of watering the garden, and canning recipes (honest). When I was taking chemo they told me to drink grape juice (it worked).
When we first started to drive to Iowa they told us the route to take (it didn't work). Whatever the question, you can count on the coffee group to have an answer.
With that in mind, if you are ever in a small town and enter the local restaurant to find lots of "gimmy" hats and bib-overalls, you have just found the coffee group. Sit back and be prepared to learn all about the latest "news" and be highly entertained--just remember not to call it gossip!!
Monday, October 15, 2012
Rain's Coming
Today's farmers are walking media hounds. You won't catch one far from a computer, smart phone or a tablet. Even hubby has succumbed to the lure of instant information on his smart phone. This week everyone was constantly checking the latest weather report while we watched a major storm system march toward us. Naturally we had two major jobs to be finished before it rained....that's just farming.
Our son had given a small, late patch of tobacco to the oldest grandson. This piece was the last to be cut and managed to get a heavy frost on it. That meant leaving it in the field for a few days before hanging it in the barn to stabilize the damage from the frost. However, it needed to be in the barn before the rain hit or risk losing it. The trick was leaving it as long as possible and still get it put up before the weather hit. Hence, the close watching of the weather front.
Hubby had cut a late crop of hay in front of the house. Most of our hay now is done in big round bales that can sit in the field without damage from the weather. However, hubby wanted to square bale this late crop to have in the barn for those times when you needed to feed new mothers in the barn or weanling calves in the barn lot. It's much easier in close quarters to use the smaller square bales. Unfortunately, they don't do well if they are in the field when it rains. The cool weather had slowed the curing of the cut hay so the hay was ready about the same time as the tobacco. Naturally.
The tobacco crew (a group of friends and hands that join together to cut and house each other's tobacco) showed up and lit into the tobacco patch. In short order the tobacco was loaded and hung in the barn. One job down and the rain was still holding off. Now it was time to tackle the hay field. It wasn't long until the field in front of the house was dotted with bales of hay.
I had just finished ironing (yes, I am the only remaining person that still irons!) when hubby appeared in the kitchen. "We need your help!" he asked, "the boys are taking pictures and we're short handed." It seems that the grandsons had been scheduled to do pictures and weren't going to make it to the farm in time to help. The process of loading hay is fairly straight forward. Two (or more) men pick up the hay bales and put them on the wagon and one "ricks" or stacks the hay securely. When the wagon is full it is them unloaded by lifting it up into the loft of the barn. Farm boys never needed to lift weights at a gym to get great muscles. The problem was they had only three men and no one to drive the tractor. So, guess who was elected?
I reminded my son that the last time I drove picking up hay I dumped half a load in the field. He grimaced tiredly and begged, "I think I might cry if you do it again." In my defense the guy ricking that time was a novice and the load was tottery before I made that fateful turn. This time son was ricking and he's good at the job. So I climbed on the tractor and started to the field. It's certainly not hard--the tractor is going at a slow walking pace and all I have to do is keep it between the rows of bales so they can pick up from both sides.
The problem is that I have an exhausted hubby giving finite directions on how and where to drive. The key is he is doing it from the middle of the field with lots of gestures that I can't quite decipher. "You want me to go through here?' pointing left, "or here?" pointing right. He responds with a five finger point down the middle. I choose left he screams "just go between the damn bales" pointing right. Suddenly he stopped, threw up his hands with a pleading expression on his face, "it's OK, you are doing great!!" I just laughed and kept on in the direction he pointed. You see he had suddenly remembered that this was the same wife who had once left him stranded in a field because I don't take screaming well.
It's good to know that they can be trained.
We got the hay up with no hurt feelings--but plenty of hurt muscles. We don't do much heavy lifting anymore.
Our son had given a small, late patch of tobacco to the oldest grandson. This piece was the last to be cut and managed to get a heavy frost on it. That meant leaving it in the field for a few days before hanging it in the barn to stabilize the damage from the frost. However, it needed to be in the barn before the rain hit or risk losing it. The trick was leaving it as long as possible and still get it put up before the weather hit. Hence, the close watching of the weather front.
Hubby had cut a late crop of hay in front of the house. Most of our hay now is done in big round bales that can sit in the field without damage from the weather. However, hubby wanted to square bale this late crop to have in the barn for those times when you needed to feed new mothers in the barn or weanling calves in the barn lot. It's much easier in close quarters to use the smaller square bales. Unfortunately, they don't do well if they are in the field when it rains. The cool weather had slowed the curing of the cut hay so the hay was ready about the same time as the tobacco. Naturally.
The tobacco crew (a group of friends and hands that join together to cut and house each other's tobacco) showed up and lit into the tobacco patch. In short order the tobacco was loaded and hung in the barn. One job down and the rain was still holding off. Now it was time to tackle the hay field. It wasn't long until the field in front of the house was dotted with bales of hay.
I had just finished ironing (yes, I am the only remaining person that still irons!) when hubby appeared in the kitchen. "We need your help!" he asked, "the boys are taking pictures and we're short handed." It seems that the grandsons had been scheduled to do pictures and weren't going to make it to the farm in time to help. The process of loading hay is fairly straight forward. Two (or more) men pick up the hay bales and put them on the wagon and one "ricks" or stacks the hay securely. When the wagon is full it is them unloaded by lifting it up into the loft of the barn. Farm boys never needed to lift weights at a gym to get great muscles. The problem was they had only three men and no one to drive the tractor. So, guess who was elected?
I reminded my son that the last time I drove picking up hay I dumped half a load in the field. He grimaced tiredly and begged, "I think I might cry if you do it again." In my defense the guy ricking that time was a novice and the load was tottery before I made that fateful turn. This time son was ricking and he's good at the job. So I climbed on the tractor and started to the field. It's certainly not hard--the tractor is going at a slow walking pace and all I have to do is keep it between the rows of bales so they can pick up from both sides.
The problem is that I have an exhausted hubby giving finite directions on how and where to drive. The key is he is doing it from the middle of the field with lots of gestures that I can't quite decipher. "You want me to go through here?' pointing left, "or here?" pointing right. He responds with a five finger point down the middle. I choose left he screams "just go between the damn bales" pointing right. Suddenly he stopped, threw up his hands with a pleading expression on his face, "it's OK, you are doing great!!" I just laughed and kept on in the direction he pointed. You see he had suddenly remembered that this was the same wife who had once left him stranded in a field because I don't take screaming well.
It's good to know that they can be trained.
We got the hay up with no hurt feelings--but plenty of hurt muscles. We don't do much heavy lifting anymore.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Tomboy
For years, when I was working in the public, I presented what I hope was a well groomed presence to the world. My job required me to "dress for success", so each morning I donned my suit, heels, make-up and hair spray and tackled my day. Since no quarter was given for the circumstances of that day, I might be standing in front of an audience or tromping across a field, but all was done in heels and hose! I'm sure than many people thought I had been born all prissy and proper...far from it!
I was the youngest of two girls, born while we were living on a farm. From the beginning I reveled in the freedom and challenges of growing up in the country. Unfortunately for me, my mother rebelled against the challenges of living without running water, indoor plumbing, and electricity (she was a townie) and we moved to town when I was three. If she hoped that I might grow up more lady-like in more cultivated surroundings, she was to be disappointed. I was a to-the-bone tomboy.
My friends in town were the neighborhood boys, since they were always doing the more interesting things. With them I played cowboy and Indians, rode stick horses for miles, built forts, dug ditches, constructed dams, excavated roads, caught frogs, lizards, tadpoles, fish, and hundreds of bugs. I refused to accept that any boy could out-do me at anything, which led to bruises, scrapes, skinned knees and elbows and once a broken arm.
My dad, recognizing a kindred spirit, allowed me to follow him when he went fishing or on long treks through the woods. I learned to shoot, (targets only, daddy wasn't a hunter), identify tracks, build traps, fish, camp out, identify trees and plants, and generally become a woodsman.
At about fourteen I decided maybe being a girl wasn't so bad after all. I was concerned about how to break the news to my dad, but my mom just smiled and said that she thought he had figured it out. My mom then took over my education and attempted to put a glossy veneer over the rough girl underneath. She must have done a pretty good job because people are still surprised at some of my unusual talents.
For example the year that I had to go to 4-H camp as the Extension Agent and they had no one to teach rifle, so I said I would. The men all looked a little smug and said they would need to take me to the range and show me what to do. Once there they presented me with a single shot 22. Again looking a little smug, they asked me what I would do now. "Well, first I would show them how to clean it ", I replied, sliding the bolt free and sighting down the barrel, "which, obviously no one has done. Then I would load it and show them how to aim and shoot." With that I proceeded to load, aim and shoot at one of the targets on the range. Someone was looking out for a hard-headed little girl because the bullet went true to the edge of the bulls eye. With surprise on their faces, they quietly filed out of the shooting range and back to their other jobs. They had just discovered the tow-headed tomboy that still lurked underneath the polish and make-up.
For all the skills and knowledge I gained through education and working, the things that have been the most help for my real world of parenting have been the things I learned as a "tomboy": bumps, bruises, and scrapes won't kill you, especially if you get the job done, learning about the world around you lets you live easier within it, girls can do anything that boys can do except pee standing up, and always check the pockets before you wash!
I was the youngest of two girls, born while we were living on a farm. From the beginning I reveled in the freedom and challenges of growing up in the country. Unfortunately for me, my mother rebelled against the challenges of living without running water, indoor plumbing, and electricity (she was a townie) and we moved to town when I was three. If she hoped that I might grow up more lady-like in more cultivated surroundings, she was to be disappointed. I was a to-the-bone tomboy.
My friends in town were the neighborhood boys, since they were always doing the more interesting things. With them I played cowboy and Indians, rode stick horses for miles, built forts, dug ditches, constructed dams, excavated roads, caught frogs, lizards, tadpoles, fish, and hundreds of bugs. I refused to accept that any boy could out-do me at anything, which led to bruises, scrapes, skinned knees and elbows and once a broken arm.
My dad, recognizing a kindred spirit, allowed me to follow him when he went fishing or on long treks through the woods. I learned to shoot, (targets only, daddy wasn't a hunter), identify tracks, build traps, fish, camp out, identify trees and plants, and generally become a woodsman.
At about fourteen I decided maybe being a girl wasn't so bad after all. I was concerned about how to break the news to my dad, but my mom just smiled and said that she thought he had figured it out. My mom then took over my education and attempted to put a glossy veneer over the rough girl underneath. She must have done a pretty good job because people are still surprised at some of my unusual talents.
For example the year that I had to go to 4-H camp as the Extension Agent and they had no one to teach rifle, so I said I would. The men all looked a little smug and said they would need to take me to the range and show me what to do. Once there they presented me with a single shot 22. Again looking a little smug, they asked me what I would do now. "Well, first I would show them how to clean it ", I replied, sliding the bolt free and sighting down the barrel, "which, obviously no one has done. Then I would load it and show them how to aim and shoot." With that I proceeded to load, aim and shoot at one of the targets on the range. Someone was looking out for a hard-headed little girl because the bullet went true to the edge of the bulls eye. With surprise on their faces, they quietly filed out of the shooting range and back to their other jobs. They had just discovered the tow-headed tomboy that still lurked underneath the polish and make-up.
For all the skills and knowledge I gained through education and working, the things that have been the most help for my real world of parenting have been the things I learned as a "tomboy": bumps, bruises, and scrapes won't kill you, especially if you get the job done, learning about the world around you lets you live easier within it, girls can do anything that boys can do except pee standing up, and always check the pockets before you wash!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Supersize It
The recent uproar over the super sized servings at food chains in New York made me take a long look at the world around us.
Back when the Golden Arches were a new concept, their claim to fame was their monstrous burger with two patties, special sauce and a bun. It was the burger that the guys ate on dates, while we girls ate the smaller ones. Now it's considered a small burger. It can hardly hold a candle to a recent addition that has hamburger patties, shredded barbecue and french fries ---all on a bun!!
Think back to the cokes we drank in our youth. The little "souvenir" bottles you see in the grocery were the actual size of the first cokes. They were 8 oz bottles. Then RC cola came out with a 12 oz. bottle and everyone soon followed. Before we knew it, soft drinks were coming in 16 oz. bottles. Now you can get a 32 oz. refillable cup!! Not only do we get a whalloping big cup of a soft drink, we now think it is the thing to drink for every meal and in between. We've come a long way from the cokes we saved our pennies to buy as the occasional treat!
The fact that everything is getting bigger was really brought home to me the other day. I finally decided that after forty-something years it was time to replace the beat up muffin tins that I used. I picked up a new set and wondered why I had waited so long to replace them. The first time I made the cornbread recipe I had used for years I knew...the recipe that had made 12 muffins for years now made 9. Yep, the muffin cups were way bigger than the old ones. That means cupcakes, muffins, rolls, are all going to be bigger servings than they once were.
It's not just cupcakes that are bigger. Look at any of the foods that we usually eat and buy. TV dinners, formerly the epitome of small servings, now have big portions for our bigger appetites. Everything from hamburgers, french fries, soft drinks, desserts, even main dish entrees are much bigger now. I am especially amazed at the desserts that come in serving sizes that you can share with the whole table!
The problem is compounded by the fact that we all are eating out more and more. Where once we ate three meals at home with mom preparing them, now we eat in restaurants once or twice a day. Our schedules tend to cause us to use fast food, prepackaged food and restaurants instead of preparing meals at home. Why is this important? One, when we eat out we order more because we are hungry--then we feel like we need to eat it. At home if you are still hungry you can have seconds but you don't have to. Two, most fast food is higher in calories and fats than the ones fixed at home. Three, mom prepared meals tend to be lower in cost, servings, and higher in nutrition than those in restaurants.
Is it any surprise that we are all getting "super sized" too? Not only are we getting bigger, but we are getting "fat" diseases more and more. Type II diabetes was once as rare as it's cousin Juvenile diabetes. Now it's the common disease associated with aging, especially among those who have years of fast food behind them. The thing that is really frightening is that we are now seeing this disease show up more and more frequently in elementary children. Something that was virtually unheard of even 20 years ago. The incidence of high blood pressure, heart attacks, and strokes are also on the rise. Again thanks to our poor eating habits.
Look around at your neighbors, children, strangers in the Mall--what do you see? It's an epidemic folks and the only ones who can stop it are the ones making poor eating choices -- US.
Back when the Golden Arches were a new concept, their claim to fame was their monstrous burger with two patties, special sauce and a bun. It was the burger that the guys ate on dates, while we girls ate the smaller ones. Now it's considered a small burger. It can hardly hold a candle to a recent addition that has hamburger patties, shredded barbecue and french fries ---all on a bun!!
Think back to the cokes we drank in our youth. The little "souvenir" bottles you see in the grocery were the actual size of the first cokes. They were 8 oz bottles. Then RC cola came out with a 12 oz. bottle and everyone soon followed. Before we knew it, soft drinks were coming in 16 oz. bottles. Now you can get a 32 oz. refillable cup!! Not only do we get a whalloping big cup of a soft drink, we now think it is the thing to drink for every meal and in between. We've come a long way from the cokes we saved our pennies to buy as the occasional treat!
The fact that everything is getting bigger was really brought home to me the other day. I finally decided that after forty-something years it was time to replace the beat up muffin tins that I used. I picked up a new set and wondered why I had waited so long to replace them. The first time I made the cornbread recipe I had used for years I knew...the recipe that had made 12 muffins for years now made 9. Yep, the muffin cups were way bigger than the old ones. That means cupcakes, muffins, rolls, are all going to be bigger servings than they once were.
It's not just cupcakes that are bigger. Look at any of the foods that we usually eat and buy. TV dinners, formerly the epitome of small servings, now have big portions for our bigger appetites. Everything from hamburgers, french fries, soft drinks, desserts, even main dish entrees are much bigger now. I am especially amazed at the desserts that come in serving sizes that you can share with the whole table!
The problem is compounded by the fact that we all are eating out more and more. Where once we ate three meals at home with mom preparing them, now we eat in restaurants once or twice a day. Our schedules tend to cause us to use fast food, prepackaged food and restaurants instead of preparing meals at home. Why is this important? One, when we eat out we order more because we are hungry--then we feel like we need to eat it. At home if you are still hungry you can have seconds but you don't have to. Two, most fast food is higher in calories and fats than the ones fixed at home. Three, mom prepared meals tend to be lower in cost, servings, and higher in nutrition than those in restaurants.
Is it any surprise that we are all getting "super sized" too? Not only are we getting bigger, but we are getting "fat" diseases more and more. Type II diabetes was once as rare as it's cousin Juvenile diabetes. Now it's the common disease associated with aging, especially among those who have years of fast food behind them. The thing that is really frightening is that we are now seeing this disease show up more and more frequently in elementary children. Something that was virtually unheard of even 20 years ago. The incidence of high blood pressure, heart attacks, and strokes are also on the rise. Again thanks to our poor eating habits.
Look around at your neighbors, children, strangers in the Mall--what do you see? It's an epidemic folks and the only ones who can stop it are the ones making poor eating choices -- US.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Only in the Movies
Sometimes I think I live on a Hollywood set of a small town. You've seen all of the cliches on the big screen...the police force, small but determined, the good ole boys sitting on the tailgate drinking beer (I confess to doing that a time or two myself), everyone saying "hi y'all" to everyone else, kids running through crowds without a care, bands marching and front porch sitting. It's classic, from Andy Griffith to Sweet Home Alabama, all the cliches are there.
Well, it's official--the movies actually got it right.
Sunday our little community celebrated it's annual harvest festival. We had all of the usual happenings that go on during the weekend - 5K runs, a parade, bands performing, booths, games, contests, and a car show. We decided after church to take the grand kids to town for an afternoon of sampling small town festivities.
We gathered them up from their house and walked the two blocks to Main Street through sunshine filtered through leaves just beginning to turn colors. Along the way we met up with a young couple and their three children, so we soon had our own little parade marching along. The first thing we reached was a big tent set up for the afternoon entertainment by a local band. Hubby gave a shout and we realized that the guitar player was the auctioneer who works with his real estate business. A little "ribbing" was exchanged concerning grandpa duties on one side and guitar picking on the other, then we wandered on.
We drifted down the street, with the kids investigating the various booths lining the street and the adults visiting with other parents out for an afternoon with their families. A trio of plastic swords were purchased and a furious mock battle soon was in place. The adults greeted friends, inquired about new babies, listened to proud grandparents, shared week-end activities, caught up on news (gossip) and generally enjoyed the sunshine and company. The children wandered happily with friends from this to that ending up in the car show admiring, along with the local police chief, a snazzy 1956 pick-up truck.
I was struck by the fact that indeed we did live in a place that is seen as fictional by many people. For many the idea of wandering happily, visiting with friends and neighbors, in your town is hard to imagine. Some can't visualize a world where children run freely through friendly crowds. Some can't believe that there are places where no one worries about bombs, gunfire, strife, war, famine, persecution, and terror. For others the idea of the freedom to choose to live in a small town, city, or anyplace is a dream. A place where ice cream cones, funnel cakes, and hamburgers are part of the fun, not a meal to a starving child. A place where security, peace, and even the right to live are not things we had to fight for.
Sometimes we are so busy yelling about the things wrong with our country we forget to be thankful for the things that are right.
Well, it's official--the movies actually got it right.
Sunday our little community celebrated it's annual harvest festival. We had all of the usual happenings that go on during the weekend - 5K runs, a parade, bands performing, booths, games, contests, and a car show. We decided after church to take the grand kids to town for an afternoon of sampling small town festivities.
We gathered them up from their house and walked the two blocks to Main Street through sunshine filtered through leaves just beginning to turn colors. Along the way we met up with a young couple and their three children, so we soon had our own little parade marching along. The first thing we reached was a big tent set up for the afternoon entertainment by a local band. Hubby gave a shout and we realized that the guitar player was the auctioneer who works with his real estate business. A little "ribbing" was exchanged concerning grandpa duties on one side and guitar picking on the other, then we wandered on.
We drifted down the street, with the kids investigating the various booths lining the street and the adults visiting with other parents out for an afternoon with their families. A trio of plastic swords were purchased and a furious mock battle soon was in place. The adults greeted friends, inquired about new babies, listened to proud grandparents, shared week-end activities, caught up on news (gossip) and generally enjoyed the sunshine and company. The children wandered happily with friends from this to that ending up in the car show admiring, along with the local police chief, a snazzy 1956 pick-up truck.
I was struck by the fact that indeed we did live in a place that is seen as fictional by many people. For many the idea of wandering happily, visiting with friends and neighbors, in your town is hard to imagine. Some can't visualize a world where children run freely through friendly crowds. Some can't believe that there are places where no one worries about bombs, gunfire, strife, war, famine, persecution, and terror. For others the idea of the freedom to choose to live in a small town, city, or anyplace is a dream. A place where ice cream cones, funnel cakes, and hamburgers are part of the fun, not a meal to a starving child. A place where security, peace, and even the right to live are not things we had to fight for.
Sometimes we are so busy yelling about the things wrong with our country we forget to be thankful for the things that are right.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Mud Holes
Two great truths of life.
Girls like kittens. Boys like mud.
I don't know what the attraction is, but if there is a mud hole a boy will find it. I rediscovered this fact while on an outing with the grandsons to pick up walnuts. It's become a fall tradition to gather the usually abundant walnuts during fall break. The walnuts are then sold for "pocket money" to a local dealer. Usually this involves the oldest grandson and grandma spending a sunny fall afternoon gathering the big, green globes while visiting. This year was a little different.
I looked up one afternoon to discover the four-wheeler and cart pulling up to the back door. The cart was already loaded with a cooler, feed sacks, buckets, and two grinning grandsons. The third was grinning from the four-wheeler, as he braked to a stop, calling, "Jo-Jo--come on. It's time to pick up walnuts!" Laughing I grabbed some gloves (the things stain your hands brown) and climbed on behind him. Off we went with the little grandsons bouncing around in the cart like peas in a bucket.
The first trees we found were surrounded by poison ivy and had few walnuts, so we passed them by. Continuing on our trek down the creek we finally found a large tree on the bank with a fair number of nuts. We all piled out and began picking up the bounty and throwing it in the buckets. We soon had the ground cleaned up and discovered we could reach a lower branch. Vigorous shaking created a veritable hail storm of nuts. The little boys were excitedly running around collecting the new "windfall" of nuts when the older grandson decided to move the four-wheeler closer to the now heavy buckets.
Hearing the little boys laughter, I looked up from my gathering, to see the four-wheeler and cart stranded axle-deep in a mud hole. The grandson was pouring on the gas and rapidly digging himself in deeper and deeper. I looked around in disbelief--he had literally found the only mud hole in the whole field!! I marched over, scolding and laughing equally, to see how we were going to get out of this mess. Naturally, I had forgotten my phone so it was either get "unstuck" or face the long walk to the barn for help.
We tried everything--rocking it back and forward, putting branches under the wheels, hunting rocks, but for every foot we worked forward we would lose a foot and a half. (Mostly because grandson just couldn't resist the chance to spin the tires in the gooey mess.) It wasn't long before the cart, bags of walnuts, cooler and boys were splattered with thick mud. Grandson is long on hard-headiness and short on patience, so it took some yelling to convince him to unhook the trailer. With that the four wheeler plowed on out of the mud and he was able to return to the barn for a chain to pull out the wagon. He soon returned, a little sheepish from the ribbing from the men at the barn, and in short order we had the cart out.
Muddied but not finished,we decided to try one more tree, located uphill from the creek just below the feed barn. This venerable old tree is huge and probably as old as the farm. Upon sighting it we all cheered as it was loaded with hundreds of walnuts. We loaded up all the ones on the ground and then took turns retrieving the chunks of wood that the oldest would throw up into the tree to dislodge more nuts. The little boys soon tired of this sport and wandered off to play.
We were busy filling our buckets when a childish wail hit our ears. We both turned to see what mischief the two little ones had gotten into. It took a minute to figure out why they were standing in the corner of the fence wailing. Then it hit us -- they were literally stuck in another mud hole. The littlest one had marched out into a mud hole where the cows had churned the mud to a bottomless quagmire of goo, there he had sunk until he was unable to pull his feet out of the gunk. The older one had tried to reach him to help, only to discover he was caught too. As we watched in amazement, a foot popped out of a boot and with flailing arms boy plopped into mud.
With a look of resignation, the fifteen year old grandson waded into the muck and plucked the two boys out. Gingerly setting them on the ground we surveyed the disaster. I'm not sure their own mother would have recognized them. We gathered them up, dumped them in the cart and hauled them to the barn. Once there we literally turned the water hose on them until the worst of the mud was washed off.
Finally, cleaner and with a cookie or two to refresh them, they mumbled thanks for the rescue. I just looked at them and shook my head. "Thank your brother", I said with a grimace, "I wouldn't have waded into that mess for you. I would have left you there!"
With a shocked look they glanced from me to their brother and back. You could see them wondering if grandma really would have left them stuck in the mud.
Trust me--I would have! I'm a girl. I like kittens.
Girls like kittens. Boys like mud.
I don't know what the attraction is, but if there is a mud hole a boy will find it. I rediscovered this fact while on an outing with the grandsons to pick up walnuts. It's become a fall tradition to gather the usually abundant walnuts during fall break. The walnuts are then sold for "pocket money" to a local dealer. Usually this involves the oldest grandson and grandma spending a sunny fall afternoon gathering the big, green globes while visiting. This year was a little different.
I looked up one afternoon to discover the four-wheeler and cart pulling up to the back door. The cart was already loaded with a cooler, feed sacks, buckets, and two grinning grandsons. The third was grinning from the four-wheeler, as he braked to a stop, calling, "Jo-Jo--come on. It's time to pick up walnuts!" Laughing I grabbed some gloves (the things stain your hands brown) and climbed on behind him. Off we went with the little grandsons bouncing around in the cart like peas in a bucket.
The first trees we found were surrounded by poison ivy and had few walnuts, so we passed them by. Continuing on our trek down the creek we finally found a large tree on the bank with a fair number of nuts. We all piled out and began picking up the bounty and throwing it in the buckets. We soon had the ground cleaned up and discovered we could reach a lower branch. Vigorous shaking created a veritable hail storm of nuts. The little boys were excitedly running around collecting the new "windfall" of nuts when the older grandson decided to move the four-wheeler closer to the now heavy buckets.
Hearing the little boys laughter, I looked up from my gathering, to see the four-wheeler and cart stranded axle-deep in a mud hole. The grandson was pouring on the gas and rapidly digging himself in deeper and deeper. I looked around in disbelief--he had literally found the only mud hole in the whole field!! I marched over, scolding and laughing equally, to see how we were going to get out of this mess. Naturally, I had forgotten my phone so it was either get "unstuck" or face the long walk to the barn for help.
We tried everything--rocking it back and forward, putting branches under the wheels, hunting rocks, but for every foot we worked forward we would lose a foot and a half. (Mostly because grandson just couldn't resist the chance to spin the tires in the gooey mess.) It wasn't long before the cart, bags of walnuts, cooler and boys were splattered with thick mud. Grandson is long on hard-headiness and short on patience, so it took some yelling to convince him to unhook the trailer. With that the four wheeler plowed on out of the mud and he was able to return to the barn for a chain to pull out the wagon. He soon returned, a little sheepish from the ribbing from the men at the barn, and in short order we had the cart out.
Muddied but not finished,we decided to try one more tree, located uphill from the creek just below the feed barn. This venerable old tree is huge and probably as old as the farm. Upon sighting it we all cheered as it was loaded with hundreds of walnuts. We loaded up all the ones on the ground and then took turns retrieving the chunks of wood that the oldest would throw up into the tree to dislodge more nuts. The little boys soon tired of this sport and wandered off to play.
We were busy filling our buckets when a childish wail hit our ears. We both turned to see what mischief the two little ones had gotten into. It took a minute to figure out why they were standing in the corner of the fence wailing. Then it hit us -- they were literally stuck in another mud hole. The littlest one had marched out into a mud hole where the cows had churned the mud to a bottomless quagmire of goo, there he had sunk until he was unable to pull his feet out of the gunk. The older one had tried to reach him to help, only to discover he was caught too. As we watched in amazement, a foot popped out of a boot and with flailing arms boy plopped into mud.
With a look of resignation, the fifteen year old grandson waded into the muck and plucked the two boys out. Gingerly setting them on the ground we surveyed the disaster. I'm not sure their own mother would have recognized them. We gathered them up, dumped them in the cart and hauled them to the barn. Once there we literally turned the water hose on them until the worst of the mud was washed off.
Finally, cleaner and with a cookie or two to refresh them, they mumbled thanks for the rescue. I just looked at them and shook my head. "Thank your brother", I said with a grimace, "I wouldn't have waded into that mess for you. I would have left you there!"
With a shocked look they glanced from me to their brother and back. You could see them wondering if grandma really would have left them stuck in the mud.
Trust me--I would have! I'm a girl. I like kittens.
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