A Keeper Married to a Keeper

There are people in this world who keep things and there are people that throw things away.  As luck would have it, hubby and I are both keepers.  We should have realized that this could become a problem when, with our first home, we kept welcoming kindly donations until we had five couches.  Since we only had four rooms we already had a challenge.  The challenge is that "keepers" can't say no and have a great reluctance to give anything up.  (We actually managed to keep three of the couches.)

Although medical science has not proved me correct, I maintain that it is a genetic predisposition that makes a keeper. It's a gene we inherit.  We can't help ourselves.  Some people can ruthlessly clean out a cabinet or closet and throw away anything they aren't actually using, all without a twinge.  A keeper will make five piles, 1) keep-I'm using this right now,2) keep-I might use it someday, 3) keep-I can probably make something else out of it, 4) keep-the kids might use it and 5) throw it out.  I guarantee the fifth pile won't have a thing in it. 

I have blamed it on the generation of depression era parents that raised us.  They didn't live in a disposable society and made everything last and last.  Some of that is true.  I can't break hubby of wanting to save all his office shirts that are beginning to wear out for farm shirts.  Then he wears one farm shirt at a time until it falls to pieces.  At this rate he won't run out of farm shirts until he is 146 years old. That problem I blame on his parents, who were frugal and keepers. However, my parents were a mixed marriage of a keeper and a thrower.  My dad was a grand "keeper" but my mom was a ruthless "thrower".  I obviously inherited the keeper gene.

Another problem of keepers is that they like "things".  They tend to enjoy having various objects and collecting more.  Add to that a strong Swiss trend toward thriftiness and you have the beginnings of our dilemma.

As elderly relatives died off, we were often offered choice tidbits from their belongings.  Sometimes there were treasures and sometimes surprises. Treasures, like the Jackson Press from Aunt Gertrude or surprises like the "unique" collection of nutcrackers from Uncle Jack.  All are tucked neatly away for future use.  Then you have the fact that part of hubby's job involves holding estate and/or farm auctions.  There have been too many opportunities to get a bargain or just make an "opening" bid that remained yours.  Of these some were treasurers, like the lovely crocheted bedspread stuffed down in a box of old linens that I impulsively bid on.  Some surprises, like the opening bid hubby made on a collection of farm "stuff" that never got a second bid.  The stuff contained over 700 feet of garden hoses.  We watered everywhere on the farm for years with those hoses.

The problem is that the surprises and treasures are beginning to run us off the farm.  Every nook and cranny is filled with our finds.  The basement, closets, attic, out-buildings, barns, and now even the garage are beginning to look like an advertisement for the show "American Pickers".  Our daughter looked at me the other day with a plea in her voice, "Please, Please!  Do something about all of this before ......... "  I could see she was wondering what would happen when we  discovered  that you really "can't take it with you". Then she and her brother will be left to deal with all the treasures and surprises.

It should be interesting---he inherited the  "keeper" gene, she got the "thrower" gene from her grandmother!

Kindness in a Time of Tragedy

As people across the United States remember the horrible events that happened eleven years ago today, I find that I also have memories of the great kindnesses of people during that time. 

Hubby and I had just finished a cruise to Alaska when the unbelievable news of the attack on the twin towers was broadcast over the ship's televisions.  Within hours we arrived in Vancouver, Canada, to discover that the world had changed.  Our cruise ship was greeted with a police escort and bomb sniffing dogs.  Those of us who had reservations in Vancouver lined up silently to leave the ship.  Each person was checked and screened as we moved through the dock area.  We quickly went to our motel room and turned on the news to discover we were now stranded in a foreign country with our boarders closed to us.

After several hours of news we decided that we needed to get out of the room and move around a little.  Unsure of what to expect, we wandered the streets of beautiful Vancouver.  Everywhere we went, we were greeted with outpourings of sympathy.  Clerks in shops, upon recognizing our accents, would grasp our hands with a warm squeeze.  Other shoppers would stop and offer their condolences and friendship.  Strangers were moved to give us hugs.  Offers of assistance came from unlikely quarters, from the cabbie who showed us a beautiful park where we could have tranquility and quiet, to the waitress who was willing to track down a place for us to stay if we were stranded.  (Many were stranded.  With five or six cruise ships dumping thousands of passengers and airlines unable to leave, those without prior reservations were without rooms.)  We were comforted by the show of support and empathy from the entire city.

The outpouring of concern and love wasn't just evident in Canada, but also across the United States.  Our son was living in rural Kansas at the time of the attack.  The immediate grounding of all the flights across America finally put into effect Eisenhower's grand plan for the interstate highways.  When the interstate highway system was first envisioned, President Eisenhower, ever a military strategist, demanded that spots would be planned that would accommodate emergency landing of airplanes.  If needed, these roadways could become landing strips for our military all across America.  In rural Kansas, with no airports near when the call to land all planes came, a passenger plane was forced to land on one of the roadways.  Stranded, literally miles from nowhere, the passengers exited the plane.

Surrounded by corn fields as far as the eye could see, on a road that stretched out to the horizon, the passengers were surprised to see a line of cars approaching them.  The little community closest to the landing site was arriving to help.  They ferried the stranded travelers to the local high school where they were soon settled into the gymnasium.  With no restaurant to cater to them, the local "hot casserole" brigade went into action.  Soon women began arriving with hot food, drinks, and comfort.  With no Walmart to run to, they also showed up with anything they could grab to make their unexpected guests comfortable.  Pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, newspapers, magazines, books, radios and even televisions appeared in the gym.

For nearly two days this community fed, comforted, entertained and housed the stranded travelers.  When the buses arrived to take the passengers the 2 1/2 hours back to Wichita, the townspeople were there to send them off with hugs and snacks for the long trip.   Strangers had become friends. 

I love the old saying "every cloud has a silver lining".  Over the years of my life I have seen that even the most tragic of circumstances can have moments of great joy and love.  On this day, let us remember those moments, too.

Aaauugg!! Chiggers

I was rudely yanked back to my childhood when I woke up the other morning with a galloping case of chiggers.  Scratching and muttering I inspected the 8 or 9 red whelps that were itching like crazy.  Chiggers are something that you just learn to live with in the south.  Actually, they are found just about all over the world, except in the very arid, dry areas.  The little buggers thrive in the moist, hot climate in the Southeastern states.  I usually am careful to use a healthy squirt of bug spray when I work in the yard, but never thought about it when we strolled around after the week-end of rain.  Bad decision.

As kids, we seemed to be constantly scratching from mosquitoes or chiggers.  Chiggers, which are actually the larval stage of  a harvest mite, are tiny, almost microscopic little red bugs that cluster on leaves of plants waiting to jump on the food wagon as it passes by.  They will attack about anything with skin, people, dogs, cats, birds, and even turtles.  They then spit out an enzyme that dissolves the skin and they suck that up as their food.  The itching comes from the body's allergic reaction to the spit. 

Back in the old days, when we were kids, our parents were sure that the itching was caused by the insect burrowing into our skin.  To kill the insect they would smother it by painting the spot with nail polish.  If we were lucky, it would be the clear polish kept to stop runners in our mother's stockings, otherwise, we would be liberally painted with the red they kept for their nails.  We would be treated and re-enter the world looking a lot like a red-spotted dog.  It didn't help.  We still itched like crazy.

Years ago I worked with a girl from an urban area.  She thought living in the rural reaches of Kentucky was a never ending carnival.  She and her husband had spent a sunny week-end boating and were on their way home.  They took a break on the way and discovered a large patch of blackberry brambles growing along the edge of the road.  The berries were lush and ripe and in no time Jodi was picking blackberries, filling every container they could scrape up.  The more she picked the more she wanted and had soon waded deep into the brambles.  Flushed, with thoughts of blackberry pie, they rushed home. 

By the next morning she had learned that chiggers love to live in the blackberry bushes.  The itching intensified as did the number of whelps.  In desperation she went to the doctor to get some relief.  The nurse told her to get undressed and put on the hospital gown and she would bring in the doctor.  I guess Jodi missed the twinkle in her eye and the tremor in her lips.  The doctor came in and asked her to show him the spots.  She opened the gown and the doctor burst out laughing.  Trying to control his mirth, he agreed that she did indeed have a terrible case of chiggers.  With a chuckle, he asked if she had enjoyed her swim.  She frowned, "how did you know we were swimming?"

You see, chiggers jump on board then travel until they find something that stops them.  It can be a bend in the elbow or knee, or more likely a strap, waistband, elastic or any constricting clothing.  When they are stopped they chow down. 

Jodi had a perfect bikini outlined in chigger bites.

Marrying Well

All Southern girls are taught from an early age that the most important thing in life is to marry well.  It was often said that girls in the South went to college to earn their M.R.S. degree.  You could say that I have fulfilled my ancestors expectations...I married well.  My hubby is a good provider, successful businessman and farmer, and we live a comfortable, good life.  In short, I have lived the Southern girl's dream.

The truth of the matter is that marriage is a crap shoot.  It's really just a roll of the dice as to whether the good looking guy you have your eye on will turn out to be a man to last a lifetime with or not.  There aren't any guarantees that you'll end up with a happy life of wedded bliss and wealth, or just misery and hard times.  Most likely, your life will be a blend of both.  It's how you manage those times and what you do with your life that determine if you "married well". 

After forty-four years I can attest that nothing about staying married is simple.  There are always times when you really wish you could just chuck it and start over.  Like the miserable time early in our marriage when I had suffered the miscarriage of our first child.  I was despondent and frustrated that hubby couldn't seem to appreciate my heartbreak.  I was too young to realize that no man can appreciate the feeling of bonding that every woman feels the moment she realizes she is carrying a child.  He was bound up in working full time and farming at night and just couldn't figure out why I didn't just get on with my life. 

Everything came to a head when we quarreled once again, over what I have no idea, and I just decided that I didn't want to do this any more. He slammed out of the house to go feed the cattle and I threw myself on the bed to cry some more.  In frustration I decided I would go where someone appreciated my pain...I would go home.  So I packed a bag, threw it in the truck and took off for the 2 1/2 hour trip to my dad's.  (I don't remember making the conscious decision, but taking hubby's new truck probably hurt him more than my leaving!)  I drove with a feeling of righteous indignation imagining how angry and supportive my family would be over my shabby treatment.

I pulled into the driveway and carried my bag into the door.  My dad looked up from his newspaper and frowned, "What have you done to Bob now?" he exclaimed.  Realizing that I wasn't going to get the welcome I expected, I muttered, "Well, I've come home."  "That's a fine thing to do!  Go call him right now and tell him you'll be back tomorrow!" 

I decided right then and there that whatever the problems, I'd solve them in my own house.  If I've got to live with an angry man I'd sure rather it was my husband not my father.   After all, after a fight with your hubby, you can always make up!!

The Redhead and the Gentleman

Hubby and I recently celebrated forty-four years of marriage.  It has set me to thinking about some of the long married couples in our family.  Probably the least likely, long-term marriage was my maternal grandparents.  They stayed married because neither one of them would give in enough to split up.  An unlikely couple, they cared deeply for each other, they just didn't get along that well. 

My grandfather was one of five boys raised by a woman who took to her bed with "poor health" when the youngest was just entering school. From that point on the boys arrived home from school to do the housework and cooking.  All five boys did homework, chores, cooking, and cleaning under the direction of a limp hand from the couch.  They all grew up to be exceptional, gentle men who took their role of caretaker very seriously.  In an age when men took no part in child rearing or housework my grandfather was a caring man always ready to lend a helping hand.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was a petite, fiery red-head.  She was headstrong, impetuous, energetic, and thought nothing of tackling any project.   She loved a challenge and was audacious enough to try anything.  My favorite picture of her is one taken with one foot propped up on a dining room chair, dressed in knee pants, suspenders and a flat cap.  She had wanted to see what a pool room was like so talked some male friends into taking her to one dressed as a boy. 

I can see that the attraction would be immediate.  To my grandfather this red-headed bundle of energy must have seemed as exotic as a jungle bird.  She not only embraced life she flew at it with a fury.  The exact opposite of the ailing woman he had been raised by.  To my grandmother, the steady, handsome man with the quiet dark eyes was the image of every girl's dream.  She was just barely sixteen when they married. 

Opposites do attract, but they make strange room-mates.  Their marriage was full of frustrations and confusions.  He loved his peaceful yard and ordered household.  She loved excitement and change.  Supremely capable, she would tackle any project.  The couch was boring, upholster it.  The bedroom dull, paint it.  The curtains drab, make new ones.  He never knew when he left for work what he could expect when he came home.  Murder or compromise was inevitable.  They chose compromise.

She could do anything to the house, but she couldn't touch his chair or side table.  She could stay up with friends as long as she wanted, but he would go to bed.  He wanted lunch at 12:05, followed by the news at 12:30, returning to work at 12:55.  The rest of the day was hers.  The meticulous yard was his domain, but he allowed flowers on one end of the space set aside for his tomato plants.  His side was ordered and regimented, hers was a riot of color, overflowing the borders.

Their marriage bumped along in it's own erratic way for 48 years.  It may not have been picture perfect but it certainly wasn't dull.  They would butt heads and yell, then reach a compromise that would let the ship keep sailing along.  When my grandfather died of a ruptured aorta, the fiery little red-head found that life was incredibly dull without the steady, quiet man to tease and torment.  The flame flickered on for a few more years, but soon died out without the breeze of dissension to keep it alive.

As my grandfather said, "Splitting up is impossible. That woman is just too damn bull headed to ever admit she was wrong about anything!"

Things Learned at 100 Degrees

This July proved to be the hottest on record for Kentucky.  We had ten (plus) days that the temperature soared to over a hundred degrees.  However, as we suffered along in the heat, we learned a few things.

Rain smells delicious even when it's on your neighbor's field.

Rainbows can happen without a drop of rain hitting the ground.

If you hang clothes out on the line at 100 degrees they will dry before the next load is finished washing.  Dryers will take a lot longer!

Air conditioned cab tractors take a load of stress off of farm wives.
     Over the years I have treated a lot of sunburns from cutting hay in the heat, not to mention the worry of whether they will get heat stoke from riding around with no cover.  Countless times I have stood in the hayfield with a cooler of water or lemonade, making them stop and take a break.  Each summer I would stock the tractors with bottles of sunscreen, so there were no excuses not to use it.  Yep, these fancy air conditioned cab tractors cost a lot, but they are worth it from my standpoint.  (Plus, the grandkids can ride safely in their "buddy seat")

Kids just don't feel the heat like us old people.  They will run and play when we are wilted down.

There still isn't anything more fun than playing with an umbrella during a summer shower.

Grass will manage to green up before the raindrops dry on the blades.

The bugs in the garden didn't like the heat any more than we did.  I had cucumbers and squash longer than I can ever remember.  The striped cucumber beetle that spreads the fungus that wilts all the vines didn't make his appearance until way late.  Smart bug.  Of course, the bees and butterflies that help to pollinate the beans weren't as active either, so the bean crop is lighter.

A water hose can't be beat for entertainment on a hot summer afternoon.

Everything is relevant, 90 degrees can actually sound cool.

Daylight Savings Time has eliminated the summer evening activities that we knew. 
    Back in the day, work ended at dusk, but that was still a couple of hours before bedtime.  So on hot evenings folks would sit on the porch, catch up on the day, snap a bean or two, watch the kids catch lightning bugs, or referee a game of hide and seek or kick the can.  With daylight saving time, dusk comes at bedtime, if not after.   Most kids don't even see lightning bugs because they are already in the house getting ready for bed when they come out.  Games of hide and seek and kick the can, are best played after dark, but most kids can't stay up that late to play.  The adults tend to work until dark, then we are exhausted and just fall into bed.  I hate daylight savings time, even though it is the savior of the part-time farmer.  Hubby can get home at 5 pm and manage to get in five hours on the farm every night.  It helps him get his work done, but it sure makes a tired hubby.

It's been a long, hot summer--and certainly educational.

The Fishing Hole

Spending time with grandparents creates memories that will last a lifetime.  Unfortunately, sometimes you wish they wouldn't last quite so long.

The grandsons have discovered the lure of the creek.  There is something about the cool, shady running water that draws kids like a magnet.  Our little creek, which sometimes dries up in drought times, has run happily all summer thanks to a big lake that was built upstream.  The lake, which is large and beautiful, leaks, which keeps a steady flow of water trickling into the creek bed.    Our son has helped this along, since the neighbor has allowed him to open the dam a little when he needs to water tobacco.  Thank you good neighbor!  Along with the water has come a steady trickle of fish, some big enough to catch.

They have been setting a minnow trap for some time to put fish in our little pond behind the barn.  Now, they have added the excitement of fishing to their trips to check the minnow trap.  One hot day, they talked their grandfather into accompanying them on their trip.  The three boys and hubby set off happily with fishing rods over their shoulders.  (Think Opie and Andy here times three)

First order of business was to check the minnow trap and rebait it with some bread pilfered from my kitchen.  The minnows were transferred to a minnow bucket and placed in the shallows for later.  Thank goodness, no snakes had joined the minnows this time.  Then they decided on which spot they would use for their fishing.  A good shady hole was found and they begin to get their poles ready. 

Now anyone who has ever fished with a four year old and a six year old, knows that the only fishing done will be by them.  Your job as supervising adult is to bait hooks, remove fish (hopefully), untangle lines, and keep the little ones from hooking you or each other.   Believe me it's a full time job.  Which is why I volunteered to stay at the house and the fourteen old removed himself up the creek.

Hubby had things pretty much under control when the six year old hooked a branch in a wild cast.  With a sigh of resignation, hubby began to tug on the line hoping to loosen the hook.  He walked his way and that up and down the bank trying to dislodge the tangled line. No luck.  He decided that he could work it loose if he changed the angle of attack, so he stepped onto a rock just out from the creek bank.  It was working...just one more little tug.  The rock shifted and the inevitable happened.  Hubby went ass over teakettle into the creek.  Naturally, the boys thought it was hysterically funny.  Hubby didn't.  I suspect their vocabulary grew with a few more words that will cause their teachers to write notes home.

Dignity injured but otherwise unhurt, hubby declared the fishing trip ended.  When they arrived at the back porch hubby looked a lot like I'm used to seeing the boys, muddy from head to toe and water squishing out of his shoes.  He started for the house, but I was ready for him.  "Not on your life, bud."  I laughed.  "You get to change outside just like the little boys do."  Looking down at his muddy clothes he shook his head and started stripping. 

Boy, it's a good thing we live in the country!

Raising Kids

This morning I read an article on "helicopter parents".  That is, parents that hover over and around their children, solving every problem, providing every reminder, supplying accolades and criticism, well into adulthood.  It reminded me that with the job of parenting there are no text books, strict rules, or perfect answers.  We all do the best we can and pray that somehow we manage to raise children that aren't too warped.  We certainly didn't do everything perfectly (especially in our kids eyes) but one thing we did do was enjoy the process and have fun.

We tried to prepare our children for the fact that when they left home they would be on their own.  We didn't have cell phones for constant texting and calling, but they knew that we would always answer the land line if they called.  This being said, there were lots in our family that thought I would probably go to college with my daughter.  We were close with both our children, but my son, being more like me, was also more likely to butt heads with me.  He also knew all the right buttons to push to make me go ballistic, and delighted in watching the show.   My daughter, being more like my husband, knew exactly how to get what she wanted by being extra nice, by the age of two.

As she grew older, she developed a charming personality, quick laugh, wicked sense of humor and was direct to a fault.  She became my favorite shopping companion because she was the only one who would walk off and leave me in a sea of purses examining every pocket, zipper, size and color for the "perfect one".  Knowing, full well, that at the end of my wallowing, I would probably talk myself out of buying one.  She also understood my compulsion to try on twenty things to find one that "fit".  (She on the other hand buys by style because they all fit perfectly!)

After her wreck, I became the one who sat with her through hours of daytime television--a true test of motherly devotion--while she healed and regained her independence.  When she returned to college that fall, hubby was pretty sure I would sleep by her bed, like a faithful dog.  Not me--I knew she would kick me out like a smelly old hound. 

The problem with raising independent children is that they want to be independent!  That doesn't mean that they don't want your approval, love, support and cheers, but they want to live life on their own.  It isn't an easy process but it is rewarding.  All we can do as parents is stand back and be ready to encourage and console.  The good news is that, as I've told my kids, "When you are 75 and I'm 99, I will still be your mom and can tell you what I think you should do!"  Maybe they'll listen then.

The Old Yellow Tom

Sometimes in spite of yourself you find an attachment growing with the most unlikely animals.

Several months ago we discovered an addition to the barn cats.  It wasn't hard to spot since all my cats are black and white.  We would notice a flash of orange flitter through the rafters or see a whiskered face peeking out of a pile of buckets.  I wasn't too impressed since I figured it would be a female cat that would promptly produce a litter of kittens.  I long since had decided that the cost of spaying and neutering cats was less than feeding litter after litter of kittens.  My barn cats now consist of four neutered toms, which suits me fine.  Hubby just shrugged and put out a little more cat food.

Soon the oldest grandson had gotten into the mix.  He began a campaign to entice the animal out and tame it.  He would patiently wait by the feed pan until the cat would begin to creep closer and closer.  Soon the cat became accustomed to the boy and would wait until the other cats had finished and slither into the feed room.  After a while he would come out from behind the feed sacks and approach the cat food.  It wasn't long after that he announced that I didn't have to worry about kittens since this was a "gen-u-wine" tom cat! 

His battle worn appearance indicated that the old tom had obviously survived his share of barn confrontations.  I wondered if there would be fights between my docile old toms and this newcomer.  I didn't have to worry.  They didn't like him but they did give him lots of space.  A wary sort of truce was declared between him and the rest of the residents. 

Little by little the old yellow tom became a fixture in the barn.  After a while he quit sprinting away when anyone approached, instead he would just slide out of reach.  With unbelievable patience the grandson cultivated a friendship with the battle scared old cat.  Before long he could slowly reach out a hand and scratch him gently between the ears.  His efforts were rewarded with a rusty grumble that he slowly realized was a purr of contentment.  There the friendship stopped.  Any move to come closer resulted in the old tom removing himself out of reach.

One day the grandson came galloping up from the barn with the news that the old tom was hurt.  "Come quick, we've got to do something!"  I followed him back to the barn and surveyed the problem.  The old cat was certainly chewed up.  It looked like something had grabbed him across the back and he had escaped but with a substantial wound.  The problem was, how do you catch him and stuff him in a crate to take to the vet.  Then who is going to stick their hand in the crate to get him out.  He wasn't that hurt!  I shook my head and told my grandson that it was up to nature now.  He would either get better or not, but there wasn't much we could do about it.  Privately, I thought my cat problem would be solved in a few days.

Against all odds the old tom didn't die.  His wounds looked nasty and he got thinner and thinner but he just kept hanging around.  After a week or so we noticed that he had a toe that was swollen but he seemed to walk o.k.  Time passed and his back would heal up, then break open again.  His toe got bigger and bigger.  He got thinner and thinner.  Still the old guy just kept on living.

Sometime during this he decided to move to the back porch with the cat we call the "yard cat" since he prefers the yard and porch to the barn.  The two old cats would lay around on the porch and wait for the dog to be fed.  At that point they would snack on his food until he finally would woof them back to their lounging spots.  Weeks passed and his condition seemed to improve but little.  He's still thin and scrawny looking, his toe is still enormous, but his ability to endure is awe inspiring. 

What has changed has been our attitude toward him.  What started as an attitude of "maybe he'll just die" has slowly become "maybe he won't!"  I've even started to try to pet him, which he tolerates for about 2 seconds then he moves away.   His defiance of all the odds has brought about a grudging admiration of his grit.  Ugly or not, I guess he's now our cat. 

Shucking Corn

For once, getting out our garden late has paid off.  The blazing hot temperatures of June and July have passed (although we're still in the 90's a lot) and the corn and green beans are beginning to produce.  During the hot, hot time we noticed that we didn't see much insect damage.  The cucumbers and squash managed to miss getting wilt from the striped cucumber beetle that passes the disease from plant to plant.  The beans and corn, while not bug free, are in good shape.  The downside to the lack of busy little insects is that the pollination from the bees is down too.  That means less yield.  However, with cooler temperatures and a little rain the bugs are coming back.

However, on Monday afternoon my son arrived at the house to mention that the garden corn was ready.  They'd feasted on fresh corn while we were away for the week-end and pronounced it ready and delicious.  (I rely on him to monitor it since I hate walking through the rows of close, hot corn and dodging the big yellow and black spiders!)  I was overjoyed when he offered to pick it for me if I was ready to freeze it. 

Early the next morning he arrived with his three boys (15, 6, and 4 years old) to begin picking.  They trooped happily off to the garden with the two little boys trailing feed sacks to fill with the corn.  Soon I could hear shouts of "look at this big one" and "is this one ready" followed by affirmation and negation from their dad.  In short order they had finished what is a tedious and back breaking chore for me to finish alone.  The sacks were dumped under the big maple tree and chairs, stools and buckets were dragged up to sit on.  With that the shucking process began.

Shucking corn not only calls for the removal of the corn husks and silks but an opportunity for visiting and story telling.  My son started it with "You remember the time that dad went crazy fertilizing the garden and we picked a mountain of corn?"  As I gazed at the small hill of corn this drought stressed garden had yielded, I laughed and nodded.  I remembered alright.  It had been a hot summer day when the corn decided to be ready.  (Corn all becomes ready at once, you pick it, freeze it, and then it is over.  You have to enjoy it fast.)  I corralled my son, a friend of his who was unlucky enough to be visiting and my daughter and marched them to the garden to pick corn.  I cajoled, pleaded, bribed and teased to keep them picking until we had a mountain of corn taller than the kids piled under this same shade tree.  Then we shucked for what seemed like forever.  Then they were free and I got the job of cutting the kernels off and scraping the cobs for the freezer.  I put up 75 pints that day, which is an all time high for me.  One I really don't want to repeat.

In the middle of the story the youngest boy suddenly shouts, "Look!  I've got a worm"  "Let me see!" shouts the other scrambling through the pile of shucks to look.  The oldest boy adds, "I'll bet that would be good for fishing."  With that nothing would do but they had to have a container to put the corn worms in.  Soon they were shucking with a fury to find more worms for fishing.  In no time the corn was finished and all three boys were hurrying to the shop building to retrieve their fishing poles and head for the creek. 

Who would have thought that those nasty corn worms, that I hate to find, would be my greatest incentive for my little work crew!  I hope it works as well next year.