Memories are just that.

I have been promising a friend that I would bring him some Choke Cherry Jelly for over a week and once more forgot to deliver the goods.  So I was setting on the deck visiting and the subject of canning and jelly making came up which immediately turned to the good old days when we damn near starved to death.  See, back in those times it was a daily challenge to keep our rib cage seperated from our spine.  It took food to make that happen.  Course when two old people get together their main goal is to prove that thier poverty was worse then the other persons.  I usually win!  And I must confess, I have been known to lie.
We made jelly and preserves out of any kind of fruit that happened to fall from the tree.  Ever eat peach pit jelly?  Peaches were canned and peach preserves were made and then the peach pits were boiled and ended up as jelly.  Did you know peach pits contain a trace of arsenic?  I think that is right.  I am sure it is some sort of poison.  Know what to do with watermelon rinds?  Those were turned into perserves.  Apple sauce was a staple.  Apple cider was a luxury.  Ever eat carp?  Those were nasty, but after they were canned there were ways to stretch even those.  Carp is very strong, coarse and gives a whole new meaning to the word "fishy".

Brother Jake was very adept at bringing home a rabbit on occasion.  Now, I trust you know that we were always happy when it as a bunny rabbit as opposed to a Jack rabbit.  Jack rabbits are the males and are very tough and stringy and have a wild taste.  A nice little bunny is tender and actually pretty good eating.  Or at least they were back when we were growing kids.  Have not eaten one in years and the memory of what season he hunted in has dimmed so  I will bypass that fare on my table.
October 5 was my brother Jake's birthday.  He would have been 77 years old.  The one good thing about losing him is that we will forever live in my memory as a man of 28 years.  That is how I remember him.  He always wore  khaki pants and a tee shirt.  I close my eyes and see  his lopsided grin and the big scar on his cheek.  He had a habit of sucking air through a gap in his teeth.  Sometimes it was irritating, but mostly it was just Jake.
I guess it is only natural  when I think back on the growing up years  that I think of him first.  We were 4 years and 4 days apart.  When he went to the Army we wrote every week.  He introduced me to my first husband.  They were friends and stayed so until the day he died.  He did tell me once that he would understand if I did not stay with my husband, but back in those days when the wedding vows were taken they ended with "till death us do part." and were sacred vows.  But sometimes there are things worse then breaking a vow.
Jake was in a car wreck on October 30, 1965  and passed away on October 31.  October 30 was my wedding anniversary to the kids dad and my middle daughter, Dona, was born on that day in 1964.  Needless to say, this time of year is a little sad around here so I work way harder then I should and try not to put pen to paper.  Seems that when I see it in black and white, it is overwhelming.
So that having been said, I will stick my head back in the sand and head off for church.  Teresa and I are off to the Broadmoor on church business, so that should take my mind off life for a while.

I will be back soon though, to fill pages with my drivel.  Chin up!!

So this is a Pheasant Farm!

I think if you click on that you will see the captions and it will get big.  Course I have been wrong before and Google does have a mind of it's own.  That being said, this is a Pheasant Farm along Highway 50 in Western Kansas.  And I want you to know that I took these pictures while driving with the passenger window down.  Course there was no traffic and I had slowed to a crawl.
  Now I am no stranger to things like this, but I thought you might find it interesting.  See way back  before I moved to Colorado the kid's dad bought 10 acres in Deerfield, Kansas.  Now I moved to Colorado in 1977 so we are talking 35 years ago.  He had a vision at that time of becoming a host on a game farm.  I must say he did pretty good at it.  He moved onto the 10 acres and built a "Club House" along with Pheasant Pens.  I do not kow how many birds he had, but I do know how this worked.
  When Pheasant season was upon him, the "hunters"  would come up from Texas and stay in the Club House.  I think he did most of the cooking.  A real "Man Retreat" there!  When it came time for the hunt the allotted number of birds were released and the hunters shot them!  As the birds were cleaned, they began their "celebration".   The Texan's got their game and a great vacation and he made money.  It was a match made in heaven.
  I must interject here. How many of you have ever eaten wild game that was hunted and shot?  We are talking about a bird that while beautiful is about the size of a chicken.  They live in the wild and fly and run so they are very tough.  Might as well throw the wings and legs away.  They are shot with a shotgun.  Now those "BB's" travel into the bird carrying feathers.  So think about that a minute.  I do not know how much time I spent as a young wife spitting feathers at the supper table. But such was the lot of a frontiersman's wife and children.
  After Earl D. passed the kids remained on the land.  Or at least some of them.  The daughters.  They did try to keep the Pheasant business alive but only for a brief time.  The Club House was used for family dinners, but that got to be more work than fun so now it sets idle.  Kind of sad the way time marches on, isn't it?