Those damn Muscovy Ducks!

 

Thinking back to Nickerson is impossible without remembering the stinking ducks.  Let me lay the scene out for you.  We had a sink in the kitchen and a hand pump to pump water for indoor use.  The drain consisted of a pipe that ran through the wall and extended about 10 feet into the back yard.  Beyond that was the rabbit hutches and further out the chicken house and yard.  The chicken yard was fenced and they had a very nice house.  Horse pen and barn were over to the left.  Ah, but the only thing not restrained were the Muscovy ducks.

As I recall, there were 4 of them.  Black and white.  Now a Muscovy duck is different than other ducks.  The Muscovy is a "warbler"  which means it sounds like an old man mumbling to himself.  As a general rule ducks are pretty quite and when they do talk it is a definite "quack".  I am pretty sure that the male ducks I had never uttered a sound and the females were quite vocal.

Another interesting point here is that domesticated ducks and geese do not fly.  The exception to that rule is the Muscovy, which can fly and I know this for a fact because at one point I had 38 ducks, 4 of which were Muscovy.  All the ducks liked to float around in the pond, but the Muscovy ducks liked to fly up to the house and set on my central air unit which was located (and still is) near my back door.  It became a regular chore to hose down the unit when they went back to the pond.

But back to Nickerson and the sink draining in the back yard.  It was the habit of the Muscovy ducks to root around in the mudhole that was created by the water draining onto the dirt in the back yard.  I am pretty sure that mosquitoes laid eggs in that water.  I do know when the ducks got through digging in the wet dirt that it was a very stinky mess.  Hindsight tells me that if the health department had ever seen that mess that they would have bulldozed the house, but that was then and this is now and there is not much anyone can do about that, is there?

Looking back down the years of growing up on Tobacco Road, it is a miracle that any of us survived, and yet here I am!  We all have scars that we got when we were wee tykes and I can now empathize with my mother.  My hat is off to that woman if only for the fact that she raised us all to adulthood without any loss of life.  There were 6 of us back then.  Now we are down to only two.  Donna lives in Hutchinson and I live in Pueblo.  

We gathered only for funerals, but now there are just the two of us, so that does not happen very often.  She actually thinks she is my big sister, so I just let her think that.  I do know that we remember our childhoods differently.  I see abject poverty and she recalls a very happy childhood.  She remembers a very kind father and I never met that man! 

The one thing mother did teach me was that we all have our own concept of reality.  Some of us see the glass half empty and some of us see it half full.  

I do not even remember having a glass!

Louie and Linda

 Good Morning world!  It is 5:25 AM as I start this.  Happy Birthday, Bret Mercer!  Today I actually felt a twinge of happiness as I crawled out of my little bed.  You all know the saying, "Where there is life, there is hope."  And if that were not enough to make me happy, Bret told me they have lifted the burn ban!  He did say to call to confirm that, but just knowing that I could possibly be able to burn my brush piles after a year of not being able to, pleases me.

Laying in my bed and enjoying the last moments before the day begins is my favorite time of day.  This morning my mind drifted back to before I married Kenneth.  At that time he was still married to his first wife and lived out east of town.  Charlie and I had just moved to Colorado from Kansas.  He had lived here before and wanted to return and start a business.  I was game for anything at that point and my kids were back and forth between Hutchinson and Lakin, Kansas, so Pueblo was my destiny.

To get back to the point, Kenny was friends with all his neighbors and Louie was an old bachelor that lived across the highway from Kenneth and Wanda.  He was an engineer on the railroad and ran the train through the canyon to somewhere in western Colorado every day.  He returned every night.

Now, Louie lived in a rather ramshackle house in the midst of his animals.  He raised pigs, goats, cows, and chickens.  Might have had a turkey in the lot.  His chicken house was 2 stories and Kenneth always found that fascinating.  The whys and wherefores of Louie is irrelevant, but his uniqueness was legendary.

I learned at some point from Kenneth that Louie had married a 29 year old woman.  What he told Kenneth was basically this;   "Yep took me a wife.  She is a big one, but when I took her to the court house for the license.  the man told me it costs the same to marry a big one as a little one and I wanted to get my money's worth."

Of course I wanted to meet her so I made arrangements to go for a visit.  When she opened the door, I knew why Louie had taken the plunge.  She was a big woman!  She was probably close to 6 feet tall and heavy, but not obese.  She was dressed in a moo moo.  It reached from her shoulders down to the floor and she seemed to float across the floor.  It was not the dress or her size that caught my eye, but rather what was peeking out under the hem of her garment!

She was barefooted and 2 tiny chickens were under her skirt.  As she walked across the floor they were apparently busy under there staying out of her way.  Linda was a very warm and caring person and I spent several afternoons at her kitchen table, just passing the time of day "oohing and aahing" over the tiny animals she cared for under her skirt.

Sadly, Linda did not live  past 30 and when she passed Louie had her cremated with the explanation that he could finally lift her!  He took her on his final run through the canyon and left instructions that the same ride would be the one he took when the time came.

Years have passed since those days and I am the only one still on the up side of the sod.  Life gets lonely here on my little acre, especially with the covid 19 pandemic.  I just thank God every day for the people in my life like Louie and Linda who have graced my doorstep and brightened my life in some small way.  It is my earnest prayer that someday I will be able to see all the unique friends I have met over the years.

That would sure make heaven a brighter place!

Racoons are for petting, or eating depending upon your need at the time!

Well, Raccoons are not really for petting, but I just thought I would say that!  Those suckers have some very sharp teeth and can pretty much take care of themselves.  I am remembering back to 1962 when Earl and I were living in Glasco, Kansas in a farm house on the edge of town.  Debbie was a very tiny baby and Patty was conceived but not hatched yet.
 
We were itinerant tree trimmers which meant we moved into an area and trimmed trees until the work ran out and then we moved to the next town.  That was easier than actually building a business and establishing a home.  Most tree trimmers at that time were known as "fly by night", but not us.  The fly by night guys would come into a town for a few days and do a couple high dollar jobs and then move on to the next likely looking place.  We actually had an address and lived in the community.  Well, for 30 days or whenever the rent came due anyway.  But back to the story.

Glasco is straight up US 81 out of Hutchinson, close to Concordia and about 60 miles from Nebraska.  I looked that up on the Atlas, so I know that is right.  I do not know how long we lived there, but some of my memories are pretty vivid.  One of our workers killed a rattlesnake on the back porch right by the door.  It was night and had I opened the door he would have been inside.  Never knew snakes traveled at night, but very glad it was Pete that found him and not me!

The compound consisted of Earl, Debbie and me.  Earl's brother Larry, his wife and daughter.  Two more brother's, Delvin and Virgil.  And lastly Pete somebody and his wife whose name I forget and a couple of thier kids.  I have no idea where we all slept, but as I recall there were a couple mobile homes or campers involved.  And dogs!  Actually they were " 'Coon dogs".  The guys had struck up a friendship with a couple in another town who raised and hunted with them.  Ah!  The thrill of the hunt!

For those of you who have never been exposed to that element of life, you are in for a surprise!  Any extra money we came across was spent to buy the best dogs that Bill and Dorothy had to offer.  There were a couple Black and Tans,  a couple Blue ticks, a  Redbone and a Blood hound.  It was Virgil's job to care for the dogs and it was a full time job.  Ah, but night was hunting time.

Once they brought home enough honey to sink a battle ship.  Every deal with raw honey?  Now there is a blog unto itself.  It had to be heated very slowly and then strained into containers of which we had none and then given away because one human can only hold so much honey!  Fortuneately there were grapes on the river about that time so of course making wine was also on the agenda.  That was set in the cellar which was located in the yard in the vicinity of the back door.  We were not allowed to go down there, but being the free spirit's we were, I gathered up the sisters in law and we ventured into the forbidden territory.  We tasted the fruits of the boys labor and pronounced them "horrible."

That night we could not find my little dog.  We searched every where and had given up the doggie as lost when Earl decided to check on the wine process.  Lo and behold!  The little doggie was in the cellar.  I am not sure I ever convinced that man that my dog had actually managed to get himself into the cellar, but you must remember my first husband drank a lot and as such had a kind of flawed reasoning.  (That was back in the days when I was not above lying to save my ass!)

Back to the eating of the Racoon.  As with all "hunter-gatherers" since the beginning of time, a racoon was finally captured and brought back to the "cave".  As head woman it was my job to prepare the feast.  Oh, my God!  The sight of the Racoon with no fur and no head, feet and a gaping abdomen was more than I could bear!  I put it in a pan on it's back with it's feet pointing upward, poured is some water, added salt and pepper and shoved it in the oven.  Earl checked it several times and finally pronounced it "ready."  There was no way I could have eaten a bite of that if my life depended on it and at that time it did.   I can still close my eyes and picture that.  I know in parts of the world and this country Racoon is eaten, but not the way I fixed it, I am sure.  I equate all wild animals the same as my kitty cat.

I do, however have good memories of Glasco.  It was a little town and I bought 2 chickens at the feed store and butchered them.  They cost a whole dollar for 2 of them.  Old hens, so they were turned into noodles.

The guys went down on the river and cut down a big Walnut tree and sold it to a buyer for $98 which was a whole lot of money at that time.  We were going to do that for a living, but that was stealing and we were afraid we would get caught.  Fear stopped a lot of our ideas.

Pete caught a fish that was very long, had a snout, and he had never seen one before like it so he beat it to death.  Later we learned it was a Gar.  Live and learn.

In my little mind, I was happy in Glasco.  In my little mind I have been happy most of my life.  Sadly the happiness did not always coincide with the time I was living through it, but that is alright.  My mother always had sayings for me.

"Hind sight is 20/20 looking back."

 "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."  

And my favorite "Time is the greatest healer."

My life is good.  God Bless!

Barefeet and chicken poop.

When my daughter, Dona Marie, came to see me over Mother's Day, she gave me a pedicure.  I have always had rather pretty feet, or so I think.  She did a beautiful job and finished off with a very nice massage and pink polish on the nail part.  A very wonderful Mothers Day gift in my opinion and I do thank her for that.  Wish she lived with me!
I must confess that due to the development of a little problem called Morton's Neuroma, my second toe now has a tendency to want to point skyward.  Not only is this uncomfortable but it detracts from the beauty of my foot.  It also sometimes makes walking long distances a real challenge.  Nonetheless, it is what it is and until I can carve out a block of time when I do not need my foot,  I will live with the condition.  I suppose I can just cut a hole in the top of my shoe and let toe #2 poke out into the outside world, but I am not quite ready to go that route.  It would definitely be a conversation starter, or a very awkward moment when making new acquaintances.  I am missing the point here.
Fast backward to Nickerson, Kansas 65 years ago.  Plus or minus on that.  We lived on a dirt road without benefit of running water and bath night occurred on Saturday night.  Now since we were basically heathens running the streets and did not attend church, I do not know why Saturday night was special.  I do not remember if I have explained that bath situation to you or not, but I will touch on it briefly.  Bath time consisted of a round metal tub which mother filled with water heated on the stove.  Baby Dorothy was always first since she was little.  Then Mary followed by Donna and then me.  By this time the water was getting a little gray and had a scum on top which gave a whole new meaning to "bath."  I do not remember how, when or where the older kids took their baths, but I strongly suspect Jake was a river rat.  Josephine must have privacy because she had actual breasts! Mom and dad were always a mystery to me.
So back to the feet.  In the fall we all got a brand new pair of shoes for the first day of school.  There were 2 days a year that were sacred.  Every Sunday and the first day of school  Money was saved all year so when it came time momma would set down with dad and open the Sears and Roebuck catalog.  The middle of the catalog was where there was an outline of a foot and we each took a turn at standing on the outline while mother figured out our size.  Louella-size 4, Donna-size 3...you get the idea.  Then we were given a choice of color.  We could have brown or black.  My God!  I remember when saddle oxfords came into being and how bad I wanted a pair.  They were white with black or white with brown.  I might as well have wanted the moon.  Brown it was for me and brown for all the other kids so one did not feel privileged.  Now comes the part you are not going to believe. 
When the order was all filled out with size and color (brown) the total amount owed plus the postage was figured and the amount was carefully counted out, placed in an envelope and sealed.  The amount was written on the outside along with the name and address the shoes should be sent to when ready.  This money was placed inside the order blank which was placed in the envelope from the Sears and Roebuck catalog and mailed off to the head office.  There was never a question about whether it was safe to send money through the mail or not.  That was just how it was done.  Then we began the wait for our shoes to come.  It usually took 5-6 weeks and the day they arrived was like the second coming!  Our shoes were here!  Of course we were allowed to try them on, but we had to wash our feet first and be sure they were dry.  Then they were placed carefully under the bed to await the first day of school. 
I can recall how proud we were as we traipsed off to school in our new shoes.  And we wore those shoes until about the first of March.  By then our feet had grown enough that our shoes were getting tight.    At that point, Josephine went shoeless, and I stepped into her "hand me downs".  They were a little too big, but I tied them tight and they stayed on my feet pretty much.   My shoes were handed down to Donna, Donna's to Mary and you get the picture.  By summer we were all through with shoes and we ran barefoot every where we went. 
Did I tell you we had chickens running loose in the yard along with Muscovy Ducks?  Kansas is hot, humid and the soil in Nickerson was mostly dust.  I guess you would call it sandy.  Of course!  That is where they pick Sand Hill Plums by the bushel basket!  I can recall running my toes down into the sand  and thinking that this was surely heaven.  We ran barefooted across fields and through the cemetery and into Bull Creek.  Of course we ran through the chicken poop and the duck poop.  We were kids, that was what we did.  When bedtime came there was one rule and that was we HAD to wash our feet before we got into bed.  And we did.  There was a basin in the kitchen and momma made sure we went to bed with clean feet.  To this day, no matter where I am, or what I have been doing, my feet are going to be clean before I go to bed.  Usually I have socks on all day, but not always shoes, so my feet are not dirty, but unless I am dead tired my feet are going to get a quick rinse, just in case there might be a little dust or goose poop on them!  One can not be too careful you know.
When I write about my days of long ago I get very nostalgic.  I miss my momma and I guess I always will.  I miss the old home place although it is no longer there.  I guess what I miss most is that I had someone to take care of me and someone who had to love me.  When I was young all I wanted was to get older and get out on my own.  I wish I knew then what I know now!  I really think life would be much better lived in reverse.

The animals who moved with us.

Right out the back door and across the drive was a low shed.  The roof was rotten so nothing was kept in there.  Well the old cow made that her home.  She was pregnant and due at anytime when we moved in.  Seemed like we had not been there very long when she went into labor.  Things were not going well at all and the neighbor came to help.  Now, I swear this part is true.  It was decided she had "milk fever" and something had to be done.  Since there was no vet around for miles and had thier been one we would not have been able to afford him, another neighbor was brought in to advise.  His professional opinion, and he had one since he had already lost a cow to this, was that her tail must be cut open lengthwise and black pepper sprinkled in there and then taped back up.  Of course we were not allowed to watch such a gruesome sight, and I for one was very glad of that!  They decided as long as they were working on that end anyway, they might as well reach up in there and turn the calf because surely it was stuck.  I do not know to whom that task fell and I was once more glad that we were not allowed in the yard.
The calf finally made it out and was placed in the granary since it was a very sturdy place and the calf would stay dry.  Of course the cow died.  Do not ask if we butchered it and ate it, because I have no recollection of that, but I am sure if we had that much meat I would have remembered that.  I am sure she went to the glue factory.
I loved that little calf and named him Dennis.  Dennis was black as coal and had the biggest brown eyes.  I spent all my time with him trying to get him to eat so he would grow big.  Of course in a perfect world, that would have happened and he would have made us lots of money and been my friend forever, but we are in my world now.  Dennis lived three days and it broke my heart when I came home from school and found his lifeless body.  All these years later I still remember him.
Near the granary was the chicken pen.  I recall laying on my stomach and watching a chicken lay an egg.  Ever see that?  Fascinating!  The chickens were penned at night, but allowed to run free during the day.  They laid all thier eggs in the hen house so that was good.
My father also had horses.  They were work horses and he was one of the last farmers to give up the horses as work animals.  I remember the last "matched pair" he ever bought.  They were "Strawberry Roans" as I recall and I am sure that was thier color and not the breed.  They were big and a pinkish blonde color.  I remember dad braiding thier blonde tails and pulling them up into a "bob."
 As time passed the horses got older and died.  Star, the shetland pony, was the first to go.  Dead horse always was an exciting time at our house.  The "dead animal wagon"  was called and would come by hopefully before the horse began to "bloat".  The truck would back up close to the fence and the man would pull out the winch which was wrapped around the hapless animals neck.  Then he would start the winch and the animal was drug across whatever field it was in and winched up into the back of the truck.  Last time I saw old Star three of his feet were poking up over the side.
Now I know you are thinking how gruesome I am, but you must realize that back at that point in my life, it was reality.  Cold and stark reality, and there was no sugar coating any of it.  Death came to what ever and whomever and we lived with it.  We learned early on how to kill a rabbit or chicken and dress it out for dinner.  We also learned not to make pets out of our food.  That just made it harder to swallow around that lump  in our throat.
Jake's jobs were to chop wood and pump the horse tank full of water.  I think us little girl's job was to stay out of trouble.  There was a family at the end of street that watched the two little girls, Mary and Dorothy.  Donna sometimes went there because her and Mary were really tight.  Some times I liked to go there and play in thier dirt.  They had a son and daughter still at home. The daughter was a  year older then me, but I always thought her strange.  She collected comic books and baseball cards.  the son was Jake's age.  He delivered the newpaper which came out once a week.  The Nickerson Argosy, as I recall.  His name was Ralph, but we called him Hibbly.  Do not ask me why because I have no idea.  I do not think we called anyone by thier real name back then.
So the scene is fairly well set for my growing up years.  Today I am in the present and we have a yard sale at the church so I better get to it!

The peach tree over the shed

It is spring and so I am looking out my office window at the Cherry tree that has bloomed there for many years.  Never had a cherry, but blooms any way.  Beside it is the Apricot tree.  And in the front yard is the bare place where two Peach trees used to be.  Only one of them ever made peaches although they stood side by side.  The one on the east bloomed, but was barren.  Oh, but the one on the west had the biggest, juiciest peaches God ever put on this big earth.  Bushels of them.  And the wind would thin the peaches and we still would harvest enough to feed us and enough to can for the winter.  In Colorado, that only happens about once every 7 years because it inevitably freezes.  Eventually the bores got bad and the trees had to be taken out and burned.
Ah, but the Peach tree I am thinking of today was back in Nickerson, Kansas, 60 years ago.  It was out the back door and across the drive.  It had probably been a seed that was thrown down and grew to adult hood hanging over the back of the shed.  It seemed to be the only fruit tree that I recall, except for the Mulberry  tree that kept our feet dyed purple all summer. ( And for the record, the birds all pooped purple that time of year.)
But back to the Peach tree.  In Kansas we had better luck with things not freezing in the spring and that Peach tree was no exception!  It did not fascinate the other kids nearly as much as it did me.  I would wait for the blooms to dry up and then search for signs of fruit.  I was always rewarded at some point in time with tiny peaches "setting on".   Now trust me here...if you have ever lived in a small town, you know that there is not a lot to do.  We could lay in the weeds and spy on the neighbors, chase the chickens, walk around the block, or we could watch those peaches growing.  Mother was forever telling me, "You don't be eating those until they are big and change color.  You will have the worst belly ache of your life."
Well, now that was like throwing gas on the fire.  The more she cautioned me, the more I could taste that peach.  (Oh, mother, if you are looking down on me, I do not blame you in any way.  You tried to save me from myself ) 
The cemetery was about a quarter of a mile from our house and that was another favorite place to play.  I remember once flying a kite and it got loose and sailed over the cemetery, but the string caught in a tree.  It was too high up for me to climb and get it loose so I had to leave it.  The next day it was crashed and broken.  So much for the kite.
Mother always planted a garden and one of the main things she grew was Yams.  She planted them on top of furrows and ran water down the ditches.  I remember once it was my job to run the water and I was standing on a board watching the water run in and a big spider ran up my leg and I killed him on my knee.  I have always been terrified of spiders and that did not help me get over it either.
Back to the Peach tree.  I controlled myself pretty well, but when the peaches were about the size of  a small tangerine, I thought I could see a hint of color on them.  Had to hold it up to the light and turn it this way and that, but, yes it was a little less green on this side.  So I bit into it.  The first bite was not near as sweet as I thought it should be, so I took another bite and then picked another peach in case it was sweeter and had another bite or two.  To make a long story short, I am here to tell you that my mother was dead on about the effects of green peaches.  As I recall, there was a lot of severe pain and a goodly amount of diarrhea.  Mother was sure that my appendix were ready to burst and she was trying to find a ride to the hospital when one of my dear sisters reported that the "Peaches are ready cause Louella ate a whole bunch of them today."  There went any salvation I had of getting rid of this stomach ache in any way but letting the green peaches work their way through my system.
Odd part of this whole tale is even today Peaches are my favorite fruit.  And when the harvest comes in from the western slope, namely Palisade, I am in hog heaven.  Or should I say Peach heaven?  If ever there was a food fit for the Gods, it is a nice ripe, juicy sweet Palisade Peach.  I have heard that a Georgia Peach is the best fruit on earth, but give me a western slope peach any day.
I have come a long way from the ragged little urchin eating green peaches, nursing sick calves and burying birds under the neighbors tree, but that little girl still lives in the recesses of my mind with the tattle tale sisters and the ornery big brother.  I have heard it said that you can not go home, but I am just not sure I ever left.  I am many miles from that ramshackle house on Strong Street in Nickerson, Kansas, but in the blink of an eye I am up in that Peach tree, or in the hay loft jumping out into the hay pile, or shucking corn in the field behind the house.  Memory is a wonderful thing.