I have often watched people learn a new skill, such as a crochet stitch or a knitting pattern, by just seeing someone else do it. My brain doesn't do that. I have to have written instructions and pictures to study or my fingers just don't know what to do. Years ago, a lovely lady was teaching a group of homemakers the art of creating lace by tatting. We sat around watching her flying fingers and then we would make our own little loops and create a tiny bit of tatting called a picot. Everyone was getting along fine but me. I watched carefully, did exactly what she did and created lots of tiny little knots. After numerous repeats of this process, the little lady looked at me in exasperation and murmured , "I just don't get it. It looks like you are doing it right but it is wrong!" I just couldn't do it until I could find written instructions and a picture.
That rule follows for everything but cooking. Oh, I can follow a recipe just fine now, but I learned to cook by just watching my mother in the kitchen. I drove my high school Home Ec teacher nuts when she tried to get me to make biscuits "her way". I kept insisting on just dumping flour in a bowl, adding "some" shortening and then a little milk. Voila! Biscuits.
I remember one day when I was little, watching mama making homemade rolls. I had perched on a cabinet and watched intently while she proofed the yeast, mixed the liquids and then added them all to the flour. She had let me help knead the dough and then we put it into a bowl to rise. With that done, I left and went outside to play. That night we enjoyed the fresh yeast rolls.
A few days later I was home after school and became bored. So I decided to make rolls. I did exactly what my mother had done, mixing the ingredients, proofing the yeast and kneading the dough. Then I put it in the bowl. Soon the dough began to rise...and rise. I looked at the mound of dough bulging out of the bowl and frantically poked it back down. "Now, that's more like it ", I thought to myself. Then, lo and behold, it did it again. Frightened now that I had done something terribly wrong and would be in trouble for wasting the ingredients, I did what any 9 year old would do. I hid the evidence by scraping the mess into the garbage can.
Shortly after that my mother arrived home. Being no dummy, she recognized the dirty dishes and floury counter as evidence of some kind of kid cooking so she wanted to know what I had done. At first I evaded but eventually, I confessed to her about my fiasco with the rolls. She looked at me in confusion, then burst out laughing, when she realized I had left to go play before the end of the bread lesson. With humor she marched me out to the garbage can where we stared down at the dirty, sticky, mass of dough, still happily rising among the garbage.
My lecture wasn't about making a mess or cooking by myself (I did lots more of both growing up) but rather that I should have asked for help. Then we could have had fresh bread instead of puffy garbage.
In the years to come I would ask my mother for help with many things from boyfriends to pot roasts. She never failed to be a source of calm, thoughtful advice freely mixed with a good dose of humor.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Monday, February 12, 2018
Mud Months
It's that time of year when I spend every day removing as much of our farm acreage from the house as I am able. Someone asked me once how much land we had in the home place. "Well," I mused, "we must be down to about 48 now. I'm pretty sure I have mopped at least two acres out of my utility room." She thought I was kidding.
February and March bring snow, sleet, and rain to our area of the world. All of these combine to create knee deep mud. As the weeks continue and the warmth works its magic on the ground, the mud will only get deeper and gooier. (That word may not be in Webster's but the cows struggling to lift their legs out of the quagmire that occurs wherever they are fed understand it perfectly.)
The attire of everyone on the farm is muck boots and muddy coveralls. There is mud in the barns, on the drive, in the yard, up the sidewalk and into the house. Not to mention in the tractors, on the wagons, in the farm trucks and splashed onto every vertical surface. I just spotted the green Gator (small 4-wheel drive utility vehicle) and my son and grandson coming from the field. Gator and guys were all the same color (and it wasn't green!)
Yesterday, I was met at the garage by one of the grandsons. Spotting snacks in the pile of groceries in the trunk, he graciously volunteered to help carry them in. Snagging several bags he proceeded me to the house. Just as he opened the door, I glanced at his feet only to see about 2 inches of mud covering his boots and clinging to his coveralls up to his knees. Smiling sweetly, he said , "Since you went to the trouble to buy us snacks and drinks, the least I can do is carry them in for you." A statement that left me both grimacing and grinning, with the knowledge that I was soon to be the recipient of some of the mud clinging to him and pride in his helpfulness. After depositing the groceries and helping to unpack them, he moved to a rug in the doorway, and said, "I'll just stand here where I won't get mud on everything while I eat my snack!" Laughing, I gave him a hug and tried not to notice the trail of mud already deposited on my floor.
A couple of years ago we had enlarged the utility room in the house. This room is appropriately referred to in housing circles as the "mud room". I'm not sure that fancy architects really understands the term....but farmers sure do. When it came time to pick out the flooring, I remembered a story my mother had told me.
It seems as a young bride (and a townie) learning to be a farm wife with its various demands, she became completely overwhelmed by the task of keeping the kitchen floor clean. It seemed that every time she turned around someone was using that entrance, the closest one to the barn yard, carrying in that delightful mixture of mud and manure that only a well used barn yard can produce.
She had begged, pleaded, cajoled, bargained, threatened and clouded up and stormed but nothing seemed to convince the men to remove their muddy boots before entering the kitchen. So several times each day she would mop the offending trail of muddy footprints off her kitchen floor. Despairing of ever having a clean floor she came up with a desperate solution. Before mopping the next time, she scraped up a bit of the greenish-brown mud and placed it in an envelope. Taking the envelope after lunch, she drove to town and marched into the hardware store. Spilling her specimen out on the counter she demanded a gallon of paint and she wanted it just that color! Once home she painted the entire floor the color of the barn yard mud. She laughed in telling it, saying "Well, I still had mud on my floors but at least it wasn't so obvious that it drove me nuts!"
Now I looked at the cheerful boy and thanked my smart mother, that I had chosen a flooring that is a marvelous mixture of green, brown, and greenish gray. Maybe not high style but it sure hides muddy footprints like a charm.
February and March bring snow, sleet, and rain to our area of the world. All of these combine to create knee deep mud. As the weeks continue and the warmth works its magic on the ground, the mud will only get deeper and gooier. (That word may not be in Webster's but the cows struggling to lift their legs out of the quagmire that occurs wherever they are fed understand it perfectly.)
The attire of everyone on the farm is muck boots and muddy coveralls. There is mud in the barns, on the drive, in the yard, up the sidewalk and into the house. Not to mention in the tractors, on the wagons, in the farm trucks and splashed onto every vertical surface. I just spotted the green Gator (small 4-wheel drive utility vehicle) and my son and grandson coming from the field. Gator and guys were all the same color (and it wasn't green!)
Yesterday, I was met at the garage by one of the grandsons. Spotting snacks in the pile of groceries in the trunk, he graciously volunteered to help carry them in. Snagging several bags he proceeded me to the house. Just as he opened the door, I glanced at his feet only to see about 2 inches of mud covering his boots and clinging to his coveralls up to his knees. Smiling sweetly, he said , "Since you went to the trouble to buy us snacks and drinks, the least I can do is carry them in for you." A statement that left me both grimacing and grinning, with the knowledge that I was soon to be the recipient of some of the mud clinging to him and pride in his helpfulness. After depositing the groceries and helping to unpack them, he moved to a rug in the doorway, and said, "I'll just stand here where I won't get mud on everything while I eat my snack!" Laughing, I gave him a hug and tried not to notice the trail of mud already deposited on my floor.
A couple of years ago we had enlarged the utility room in the house. This room is appropriately referred to in housing circles as the "mud room". I'm not sure that fancy architects really understands the term....but farmers sure do. When it came time to pick out the flooring, I remembered a story my mother had told me.
It seems as a young bride (and a townie) learning to be a farm wife with its various demands, she became completely overwhelmed by the task of keeping the kitchen floor clean. It seemed that every time she turned around someone was using that entrance, the closest one to the barn yard, carrying in that delightful mixture of mud and manure that only a well used barn yard can produce.
She had begged, pleaded, cajoled, bargained, threatened and clouded up and stormed but nothing seemed to convince the men to remove their muddy boots before entering the kitchen. So several times each day she would mop the offending trail of muddy footprints off her kitchen floor. Despairing of ever having a clean floor she came up with a desperate solution. Before mopping the next time, she scraped up a bit of the greenish-brown mud and placed it in an envelope. Taking the envelope after lunch, she drove to town and marched into the hardware store. Spilling her specimen out on the counter she demanded a gallon of paint and she wanted it just that color! Once home she painted the entire floor the color of the barn yard mud. She laughed in telling it, saying "Well, I still had mud on my floors but at least it wasn't so obvious that it drove me nuts!"
Now I looked at the cheerful boy and thanked my smart mother, that I had chosen a flooring that is a marvelous mixture of green, brown, and greenish gray. Maybe not high style but it sure hides muddy footprints like a charm.
Friday, February 9, 2018
Reminiscing
An old friend stopped by the other day and, as was his way, he was soon lending a hand with the latest job. As dinner time approached, I "threw another 'tater in the pot" and soon we were all at the table enjoying a good visit. After catching up on the kids and grandkids, he started reminiscing about growing up on the farm behind us. His family had owned the farm up the road from us, that in the way of curves and farms actually lay just behind our acreage.
He was the oldest of fifteen children, nine girls and six boys. All fifteen worked on the farm and shared many adventures and stories, some of which have become local legends. He talked of a time that has changed monumentally in just our generation.
It was a hard time, when money was scarce and you practiced true "subsistence" farming, raising what you needed or doing without. It also was a time of family and everyone working toward a common goal. The day began with all fifteen children sitting down to breakfast together. "It wasn't cold cereal and pop tarts", he laughed, "but a full breakfast." "Wow!" I sighed, "that's a lot of eggs!" He agreed and we talked about how the various children gathered eggs, milked the three milk cows, and tended the garden for the supplies for the daily meals, all of which were eaten together in the kitchen. "We'd pass the food, starting with momma and daddy and you took what you wanted as it came to you, because there was a pretty good chance it wasn't going to make it around again." Responding to an earlier comment about how easy he was to feed, he replied, "No one ever complained or questioned what was served. If you wanted to eat you took it and kept quiet." My mind was still reeling from the thought of the mountains of food required to feed that small army of appetites.
The boys helped on the farm and the girls helped with the household chores (besides the cooking and cleaning up, there would be lines and lines of washing to be hung out to dry) and the garden. In time they would can and put up as much food as they could for the coming year. Some chores, everyone pitched in on. Besides growing tomatoes, corn and green beans to eat and can they grew pinto beans, black-eyed peas, and great northerns to dry. When it came time to shell them out, the dried bean pods were picked and placed in heaps on an old tarpaulin. Then the kids would gather around and beat the piles with tobacco sticks to break up the dried pods and release the beans. Then they would grab the edges of the tarp and toss the beans up into the wind to blow out the lighter pods while the heavier beans fell back into the tarp. A process as old as time and just as efficient now as it was 200 years ago.
Our friend laughed and shook his head. "Daddy had a way with discipline that would cause the parents of today to faint. If you got in trouble, one of his favorite punishments was to pick up rocks." On that rocky, old farm it was a never-ending chore. "When you got the sled (a wooden platform on wooden runners that was pulled by a horse) loaded you took it to the corner of the field and unloaded it into a pile. Daddy would expect great growth in that pile before you were finished." He continued, "I remember one day two of my brothers were sent to pick up rocks. Being boys, they soon were entertaining themselves seeing how many rocks they could toss onto the sled, how far they could throw them and so forth. Somehow, one got in the way of a rock whizzing to the sled. The resulting gash was enough to send the other brother running for help. Daddy came and scooped up the injured boy and headed to the house. With a stern look, he then instructed the other boy to continue picking up rock until he came back for him! The gash proved to be worse than they thought and soon mamma and daddy were heading to town to get stitches. "
"Upon returning to the farm, daddy settled into finishing up his interrupted chores while mama got her patient where she could keep an eye on him while she started supper."
"The boy left in the field knew better than to dawdle in his chore so he dutifully picked up rocks as the afternoon wore on and dusk settled."
"Supper was called and the kids trooped in and settled into their places. Mama choreographed getting the food on the table and finally settled in her place. Out of habit, she took a quick count. Then another. She was one chick short! A questioning look led daddy to the realization that he'd completely forgotten about the one left picking up rocks!"
"Was that boy you?" we questioned, chuckling. "Not that time. My punishment I remember was different. When I was in high school I thought I was big enough to stay out to all hours. I was slipping in one morning about 3 am, thinking I had pulled one over on daddy. Just as I reached my room and started to undress this voice rumbles in my ear. 'No need to take those clothes off son, you are going to work.' With that he led me out to the corn field and we started cutting corn by the light of the moon. At that time we cut corn by hand and stacked it in shocks to be fed to the livestock later. We cut as the sun came up and then on into the morning. I thought noon and dinner time would never come, still that old man kept working and kept me working. I decided then and there that the fun of staying out all hours wasn't worth it!"
As the men left after lunch, I watched out the kitchen window as they moved toward the barn. It's hard for me to believe how much things have changed in just our lifetimes. We now use cab tractors instead of horses and mules, we run to the grocery for our milk and eggs, we buy our clothes "on line" instead of washing and hanging them on a line, and we often treat our children as if they were pampered pets instead of partners in a family endeavor. Maybe the punishments we had chuckled over were harsh, but the result was a family of strong, independent, hard working adults who have been good parents and providers.
I wonder if by protecting and coddling our children today we are taking away that sense of being a part of creating the greater good for the family and community. The bond of striving for a common goal and the satisfaction of achieving that goal, whether it be food on the table or a crop to be sold, is one of the greatest gifts of farm life. It's the gift that we as farmers hope to instill in our children and grandchildren.
He was the oldest of fifteen children, nine girls and six boys. All fifteen worked on the farm and shared many adventures and stories, some of which have become local legends. He talked of a time that has changed monumentally in just our generation.
It was a hard time, when money was scarce and you practiced true "subsistence" farming, raising what you needed or doing without. It also was a time of family and everyone working toward a common goal. The day began with all fifteen children sitting down to breakfast together. "It wasn't cold cereal and pop tarts", he laughed, "but a full breakfast." "Wow!" I sighed, "that's a lot of eggs!" He agreed and we talked about how the various children gathered eggs, milked the three milk cows, and tended the garden for the supplies for the daily meals, all of which were eaten together in the kitchen. "We'd pass the food, starting with momma and daddy and you took what you wanted as it came to you, because there was a pretty good chance it wasn't going to make it around again." Responding to an earlier comment about how easy he was to feed, he replied, "No one ever complained or questioned what was served. If you wanted to eat you took it and kept quiet." My mind was still reeling from the thought of the mountains of food required to feed that small army of appetites.
The boys helped on the farm and the girls helped with the household chores (besides the cooking and cleaning up, there would be lines and lines of washing to be hung out to dry) and the garden. In time they would can and put up as much food as they could for the coming year. Some chores, everyone pitched in on. Besides growing tomatoes, corn and green beans to eat and can they grew pinto beans, black-eyed peas, and great northerns to dry. When it came time to shell them out, the dried bean pods were picked and placed in heaps on an old tarpaulin. Then the kids would gather around and beat the piles with tobacco sticks to break up the dried pods and release the beans. Then they would grab the edges of the tarp and toss the beans up into the wind to blow out the lighter pods while the heavier beans fell back into the tarp. A process as old as time and just as efficient now as it was 200 years ago.
Our friend laughed and shook his head. "Daddy had a way with discipline that would cause the parents of today to faint. If you got in trouble, one of his favorite punishments was to pick up rocks." On that rocky, old farm it was a never-ending chore. "When you got the sled (a wooden platform on wooden runners that was pulled by a horse) loaded you took it to the corner of the field and unloaded it into a pile. Daddy would expect great growth in that pile before you were finished." He continued, "I remember one day two of my brothers were sent to pick up rocks. Being boys, they soon were entertaining themselves seeing how many rocks they could toss onto the sled, how far they could throw them and so forth. Somehow, one got in the way of a rock whizzing to the sled. The resulting gash was enough to send the other brother running for help. Daddy came and scooped up the injured boy and headed to the house. With a stern look, he then instructed the other boy to continue picking up rock until he came back for him! The gash proved to be worse than they thought and soon mamma and daddy were heading to town to get stitches. "
"Upon returning to the farm, daddy settled into finishing up his interrupted chores while mama got her patient where she could keep an eye on him while she started supper."
"The boy left in the field knew better than to dawdle in his chore so he dutifully picked up rocks as the afternoon wore on and dusk settled."
"Supper was called and the kids trooped in and settled into their places. Mama choreographed getting the food on the table and finally settled in her place. Out of habit, she took a quick count. Then another. She was one chick short! A questioning look led daddy to the realization that he'd completely forgotten about the one left picking up rocks!"
"Was that boy you?" we questioned, chuckling. "Not that time. My punishment I remember was different. When I was in high school I thought I was big enough to stay out to all hours. I was slipping in one morning about 3 am, thinking I had pulled one over on daddy. Just as I reached my room and started to undress this voice rumbles in my ear. 'No need to take those clothes off son, you are going to work.' With that he led me out to the corn field and we started cutting corn by the light of the moon. At that time we cut corn by hand and stacked it in shocks to be fed to the livestock later. We cut as the sun came up and then on into the morning. I thought noon and dinner time would never come, still that old man kept working and kept me working. I decided then and there that the fun of staying out all hours wasn't worth it!"
As the men left after lunch, I watched out the kitchen window as they moved toward the barn. It's hard for me to believe how much things have changed in just our lifetimes. We now use cab tractors instead of horses and mules, we run to the grocery for our milk and eggs, we buy our clothes "on line" instead of washing and hanging them on a line, and we often treat our children as if they were pampered pets instead of partners in a family endeavor. Maybe the punishments we had chuckled over were harsh, but the result was a family of strong, independent, hard working adults who have been good parents and providers.
I wonder if by protecting and coddling our children today we are taking away that sense of being a part of creating the greater good for the family and community. The bond of striving for a common goal and the satisfaction of achieving that goal, whether it be food on the table or a crop to be sold, is one of the greatest gifts of farm life. It's the gift that we as farmers hope to instill in our children and grandchildren.
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