Oh, the things in my mind.

Click here to listen  I woke up this morning with this song on my mind.  Then I went to facebook and some one had posted the same link.  Small world.  However the context the person had posted the link was far different than the link in my mind.

Like most, actually all, people, I had a father.  I knew him.  Or I thought I did.  A very wise woman once told me, "You never really know anyone, you only know of them.  You know what they let you see."  And so it was with my father.  He was a lot older than my mother, but the wedding picture shows a very happy woman.  My mother was very well liked in high school and married soon after she graduated.  Sadly that marriage did not end well and soon she returned to her roots and married my father.  He was a widower (? but some secrets are best left untold).  He had 3 sons that were past their teens.  They had been put into an orphanage when Dad's first wife died.  2 were adopted, one was not.

Jake was the first born to this union followed by me, Donna, Mary and Dorothy.  We were all as different as night and day.  Jake was the only son and he was a screw up according to my father.  Of course I was perfect, but he never did particularly like me much.  He was of the old school that kids were to be raised and leave home.  Now just look at me!  Wasn't I the cutest thing you ever seen?

Donna was smack in the middle so she had middle child syndrome.  Dorothy was the baby, so she carried those tendencies throughout her life.  Ah, but Mary.  Mary was cute and delicate and everyone loved Mary. Now you must understand that this is being written by me and is my feelings.  I am sure if the other sisters were alive they would dispute my findings, but you must realize that we are all a product of our raising and I never at any time ever in my life ever thought my father cared about me in any way shape or form.  It was as if I existed in a vacuum.  If he was there he ignored me.  He refused to attend my first marriage.  I simply did not exist.

Ah, but he had a weakness.  He liked babies. Shortly after the birth of my first daughter he paid my older sister to sew her a pretty red dress and he bought shoes and a hat to match.  Some where I have that picture of him holding Debra when she was about a year old and wearing that outfit.  That is the only one of my children he ever touched.  I don't recall him ever touching me in anger or love.  I never actually had a conversation with the man.  If I fell and skinned my knee that was my problem. 

And then he died.  By this time I had the 3 girls.  I left them with my sister in law and came home for the funeral.  I remember how very sad that was.  I stood at his open coffin and cried my heart out for a man I never knew.  I do not think a child ever understands their parents and I envy the children who played catch with their fathers.  Or took walks.  Or went fishing.  That is why I always tried to keep my kids and their father in close contact.  He and I had a strained relationship, but he and the kids found a way to make it sort of work.  We sort of shared custody, but that is water under the bridge.

I do remember far in the back of my mind, that dad was a share cropper with a man named John Britan.  John had acreage across the river and sometimes (and I will never know why) I would go with dad to the acreage and John Britan would make me hot chocolate using cocoa, sugar, hot water, and Pet milk.  It was the best stuff in the world!  I have tried to make it but it is never the same.  I also remember that there was a little creek that run through the farm and sometimes it had water in it.  Jake made me a little boat out of a flat piece of wood.  He put a stick through a hole and tied a string to it so it would not get away.

So, as sad as my childhood was, I do have some good memories.  I just forget them sometimes. 

Bowls are good for lots of things!

Went to Western Kansas last week to see part of the tribe.  You should know that my middle daughter, Dona M Seeger owns a beauty shop in Lakin,  Kansas.  The first order upon my arrival was to take a nap in the back room since she was busy with customers.  Bill, my son in law from my daughter Patty, came and woke me up.  He has been having some health problems so I was glad to see him up and about.  As soon as Dona finished her last customer we went to Mi Ranchita to eat.  There I seen more grand daughters, grandson, great granddaughters and more great grandsons.  It appears I have been very prolific because this little gathering produced 12 or 13 paying customers and only 2 of my daughters were accounted for in this gathering.

After supper we headed out to Dona's house and bed.  Now, I forgot that I wanted my haircut while we were in her shop and I did not think about it again till the next day.  I was one tired puppy.  I did not think about it the next day, but rather Sunday morning when it was almost time to leave.  Now I do not know if I discussed the bowl business with Dona or not.  Sometimes I have conversations with myself in my head and the bowl business may have happened that way.  What I wanted to tell her and did not, was that I was proud of her and the way she has made a successful business to take care of herself and her sons.  The bowl business aside.

Back before I was even in school mother was a lady of leisure.  Dad did something to make a living , but I do not know what it was.  I know he drank and I think he may have been involved in something not quite legal because we always had money when we lived on the Stroh place and he went to the sale and brought home a Shetland pony and that was the meanest damned horse on earth.  That is the one that kicked my brother in the face and left him with a very ugly scar that he carried all his life.  Jake may or may not have goosed the horse which is what one of his friends said happened.  I just don't know.

The important part of the story is that mother always went "to club" and we had to be clean when she took us.  Did I tell you how she used to put me under her arm and pump cold water over my head when she washed my hair.  Jesus!  That water was cold!  I still cringe when I think of that.  But anyway, back to club.

I do not know what went on at club because us kids had to go into the other room and somebody watched us.  The ladies of the club were very helpful to each other.  All of them were dressed very nice and wore little hats because that was what they did back then.  They shared recipes and gave each other tips on how to raise kids.  One of the ladies was a hair cutter.  That meant she came to the other ladies houses and cut the kids hair.  That was always a day to be excited about.
 
"Mrs. Soandso will be by on Friday to cut the kids hair."

 Now my mother had a special bowl which was for Mrs. Soandso to use as a pattern for the hair cutting job.  First we had to get out the haircutting stool which raised us to the proper height so Mrs. Soandso did not have to bend over.  She had sharp scissors that were used only for haircutting.  The haircutting usually went very smoothly and very quickly.  Course if the recipient moved at all, the bowl would slide a bit and one side might be longer then the other.  At times like that I was a stone statue because I sure did not want my hair to be uneven.  And when she was all done we would line up for inspection. Mother would gush about how beautiful we were and then insist that she take a quarter for herself.

Have you ever looked at the old school pictures?  You can spot the kids whose mothers went to club.  All of our hair ended right below our ears and sometimes our bangs were only about an inch long .  because Mrs. Soandso was tired. Of course we always had to have a "fresh haircut" for pictures.  I often wondered back in those days, if there really was a god!

For some reason, when we left the Stroh place and moved everything we owned on a hay rack to the Ailmore place, mother quit going to club.  Dad quit going to where ever he used to go.  Mother started cleaning houses for the rich ladies in town and life changed without me even knowing it.  I wish I had remembered what changed, but I didn't.  Sometimes way in the back of my memory, I almost remember something, but not quite.  Some where is the memory of a big house with an elevator across the river, and I seem to remember going there once with my dad.  But it was never talked about and Dad never went there after we left the Stroh place.

Isn't life funny that way?

I have miles to go before I sleep.

Spring is here and this is the time of year that I get itchy feet.  I left Hutchison, Kansas in 1977 with my then husband and with everything in a U-haul we moved to Pueblo, Colorado.  Since he had lived here before, it was a returning for him, but for me it was a leap of faith and a complete 180 degrees from my life in Hutchinson.  I gave my mother the keys to my little Lou's Kitchen on 4th Street and fired up the engine on my 1973 Chevy and headed West to seek my fame and fortune.  I was one naive little girl back then.  The husband turned out to be a little less then I hoped.  We did start a business so I had a job to do.  

The husband soon became an ex husband and the job a former place of employment.  At that time I thought about pointing the (now a Cadillac) east and leaving Colorado, but I could not go home a failure, so I stayed.  I went to  College and got a degree in Finance while waiting tables at a small cafe in Bessemer.  I married a local guy and divorced him 2 months later.  Then I met and married Kenneth.  The rest is history.  Through all the years, I made trips to Kansas in the Spring to see the Lilacs.

And, of course, a trip to Hutchinson also called for a stop at Skaets Steak Shop on the corner of 23rd and Main which is the entrance to the State Fairgrounds.  That was the first place I ever worked and a member of my family (sometimes more then one member) has always been on the payroll there.  My sister, Dorothy, had a heart attack and died there.  Luckily they hit the restart button on her and she lived several more years.  

I would meet my friend Joe there for a 2-3 hour coffee.  That was always fun.  I do have a gold elephant I need to send him someday.

But, those days are behind me.  The days of throwing the pistol in the suitcase and driving 8 hours to get anywhere are now behind me.  Water under the bridge.  Lately I have been studying the family tree and I was surprised to find that I am now the top nut on the tree.  I used to ask someone older then me about our lineage, but now I find that the buck stops here.  There is no one to ask.  Damn!  When did that happen?

I think about the trips to Hutch and I get sad that they are no longer.  I have my own Lilac in the back yard.  I feel much like Robert Frost must have felt when he wrote this poem.  Am I really done?  Is this where it ends.  Wait!  I have so much left to do...….

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

So, from someone who knows, life is short.  Love your neighbor, brighten the corner where you are and if perchance you think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, stretch your neck over there and have a bite!  You may be right.

There is a heel in every loaf.

Well, actually there are 2 heels in every loaf, but I am not sure how to spell heel.  I think this is right.  I like home baked bread. Like may not be a strong enough word for my love affair with baking.  I know I can get into the car and drive into town and find several bakeries most willing to take my money and give me a loaf of their bread, but some how that just seems so wrong. It will have all kinds of stuff in it to make it better than mine, but I gotta tell you, it always falls short of the mark.  Sure it is crusty and tasty and already baked, sometimes with an egg wash to make the crust even crustier.  Sad, because I like mine better. 

Mine is made with water, yeast, salt, sugar, oil, and flour.  That is it.  Nothing fancy and I don't have to scald, puree, or infuse anything.  I throw it all in a mixing bowl with a dough hook and 4 minutes later, the dough has climbed the hook and it is ready to be covered and let raise.  I usually make a couple double batches and set them to raise on the stove top.  When the pans are almost ready, I turn the oven to 355.  The bread bakes about 20 minutes or so.  Nothing is set in stone at my house except my naptime at 3:00 while Jeopardy is showing.

Now this little fellow decided he might like to try a piece of the heel on the first loaf out of the oven.  It was his own idea, not mine.  Something about the aroma of fresh baked bread is just more than a human can resist.  He just wasn't sure at first that eating a piece of bread was what he really wanted to do.  I did not push it because I like the heel best myself and there are only so many in a loaf.  So he took it.

And the rest is history.  He used to look for cheese puffs, or orange juice, but the aroma of fresh bread is his new mantra.  Bless his little tiny heart.

This little fellow is not real fond of meat and sweets are not his thing either.  Mostly he dines on fruit and cheese.  Kinda fun to have around.  Looks like I will be making bread for him for several more years before he figures out about junk food, but maybe not.

He does keep me on my toes and he is now trying to teach me to jump.  For the record, I am not learning that one very well.  I think it is this damned old age thing.  Not only am I not good at jumping, I don't even want to try.  It all seems pointless at this juncture.  So we shall engage in our little war of the wills until I either jump or he gives up.  

How ya' betting?

The heart of hearth and home and the back yard.

The center of the home was usually a fireplace.  This was replaced later by wood burning stoves, but let's just stick with the fireplace for now.  The focal point of the fireplace was a trivet.  Our forefathers were famous for using 3 points to hold and lift.  My husband always said "Give me a pivot high enough and a lever long enough and I can lift the world."  And I am sure many of our modern day inventions went back to that statement.

The trivet was a 3 point apparatus made of iron and usually was decorative, unless the man of the house was lazy.  It set on the hearth, which is the floor of the fireplace.  It usually had a hook that could pivot.  The "tea kettle" was filled with water and hung near the fire.  When hot water was needed the pot was swung over the fire and very quickly came to a boil.  The water was then ready for bathing, face washing, dish washing, cleaning the floor or any of the myriad of chores pioneer women did every day.

Out side in the back yard, but not that far from the house, set the 3 legged cast iron kettle, pot, cauldron, or whatever they were calling that on any given day.  This is where the real work went on.  The other was for women's work, but do not be confused here and think women had chores and men had chores.  Men had their chores, but when there was no one to help them, they became an extension of the women's chores.  I do not know how they arrived at a 3 legged kettle as opposed to 4 legged, which it seems would be more sturdy, but there never was to my knowledge a 4 legged kettle.  3 legged is what it was.  The job of the 3 legged kettle was endless.  It could be used on Monday to scald a hog that was being butchered.  Tuesday it would have a slow fire to render the fat of the hog into lard.  Oh, and the pork rinds from that lard would be snacked on and used as flavoring all winter.  Wednesday might find mother killing and cleaning chickens, ducks, turkeys or geese.  Thursday she might decide to do the laundry so water was heated for that.  Friday was usually cleaning day and we needed hot water for that.  Those are the things that were every day use of the 3 legged cast iron but usually some one would come by and want to do something and sometimes all kinds of vegetables and stuff were thrown in and we had a feast.

And when the work of the kettle was done, mother was not.  She sifted the ashes from the cleanest part of the wood that was burnt and stored them for her lye.  Soap making was an art form back in those days.  We had a metal bucket that set by the back door and any grease or oil went into it.  When it was full, mother would heat it slowly and strain it into the "soap making bucket."  When the time was right she would melt that nasty stuff.  She then slowly dripped water through the clean, light gray ashes which made lye.  This was quickly stirred into the melted, cleaned fat  using a hammer handle.  If all went well, the grease would begin to solidify and mother would pour it quickly into the soap box.  If anything was off it would "set up" on the way to the box and the hammer handle would be embeded until we shaved off enough soap to free it.  Worse yet was when mother was a little off and it did not set up.  It just set there until she threw it out.

Ever smell lye soap?  Back in the day it had a pungent odor and an off yellow color that mellowed with the ripening.  After I married for what appears to be my last time, I had time on my hands, so I tried quilting, weaving and lots of other things.  Finally I decided that I wanted to try soap making  I was pretty sure I was not going to do the ashes part so I went off in search of lye.  It was very easy to find.  It was in Safeway, right down on the bottom shelf under the drano and that sort of stuff.

(I must deviate for just a paragraph here to tell you that buying lye in any store did not last long, because the yoyo's that were cooking meth and stuff like that began using it for their process.  Safeway had already began to lock up all the cold and allergy stuff used in the process, so of course lye went by the wayside.  I can still get it through a wholesale house, but I had to put up my first born child and 3 acres of ground for every pound I wanted.)

To make a long story short, I lined a box with a tea towel, just like momma used to do.  I followed the directions to the letter and soon poured the conglomeration out into the box.  When it was the right consistency, I cut it into squares with an old iron butcher knife.  It said to wait and let it cure for 6 weeks.  So I did.  At that time I removed one of the square bars.  I thought it looked a little rough, but what the hell.  I started the shower and stepped in with my little bar.  I would give it the supreme test for sensitivity on my face.  Lord, my eye immediately began to burn like it was on fire.  I was crushed!  Not only was my labor in vain, but now I was going to be blind on top of it all.  Luckily my husband was home that day and when I went crying to him he just laughed.  Damn him!  "Yeah, soap will do that."  But he was right!  Now I make soap that looks like this:

This is soap like momma used to make only instead of used up cooking grease, I use olive oil, lard, tallow, and stuff like that.  It is smooth and creamy  with tiny bubbles.  I have found since I started making my own soap that my skin is not dry and that is because what you buy at the store is not soap, but beauty bar, bath bar and words like that.  Soap does not appear on the lable.  I used to sell this, but  now I just make it and usually give it away.  

Well, once more I got off target, but you will get used to that.  But just look around you at things in your life that have a 3 point apparatus and you will know what I mean.  If you are old, like me, you can visualize the bales of hay being lifted into the hay mow.  Or if you ever blew the motor in your old Chevy you probably used a 3 pint lift to pull the old motor out and swing the new one in to place.

So, for now, from one old lady to those of you who still remember the old days, have a good one and remember, 

You can not sprinkle showers of happiness on others without getting a few drops on yourself! 

OMG! The great Ski King is here!

I recently came across a site on facebook called Kansas Old and Interesting Places.  Being from Kansas I find the history fascinating.  So I joined the group.  While perusing last night on the site, I came across a picture of a big white house located in Toronto.  I started thinking about when Duane and I were first married, before we had any kids and I remembered that we had lived in Toronto for a few weeks.  History lesson coming up here.

I was 19 and Duane was 21 when we married.  He and 2 of his brothers were in the business of trimming trees.  Now in this day and age they would be respectable and probably have an office some where, but back in those days, the car and the pickup were the office, warehouse, job site, and bookkeeping.  The first year we were married we lived in 14 different cities around the state.  We would locate to a town, sell our service, and when all the trees were trimmed we would move on to greener pastures.  It was honest work and Duane was a very good tree trimmer.  It kind of sucked not to have any real roots, but we were in love.  What more can I say?

Back to Toronto.  We pulled into Toronto and immediately went fishing.  First we rented a room at the local hotel.  It had a big room with a couch and bed and a stove to cook on in the other room.  Arrangements were made with the owners that I would clean the halls and the bathroom in lieu of the $5 a week rent.  I would go to the local grocery and purchase food for the day, cook it and have supper ready when Duane and the brothers came home.  Now, suffice it to say, that one of the prerequisites of being a tree trimmer was you must be a good beer drinker.  The day always ended up in the bar.  I did not drink at the time, nor do I now, but he and his brothers drank enough for me.

I remember this song, (click on the blue letters to open the link. Ski King ) Seems this happened either at Toronto Lake or the Fall River Reservoir.

Toronto Lake was some good fishing, for sure.  On one day I was instructed to cook up a pot of beans and the boys would bring home some corn.  Sounded good to me, so I cooked the beans and later that evening they came in with a peck or so of corn.  Well, unbeknownst to this ignorant little girl from the big city, it was field corn.  So I shucked a few ears and threw them in the bean pot.  After due time Duane pronounced it ready.  Hmmm.  That stuff was very hard.  So we cooked it longer.  It got harder.  We cut it off the cob and boiled it some more.  Now let this be a lesson to all of you, field corn is a whole different ball game then the sweet corn I was used to.  For our supper we ate beans and corn, but the corn was picked out and tossed in the trash.

To end this tale of woe, Yates Center was nearby and I had not been feeling well.  Duane took me to the doctor, dropped me off and went to the pool hall.  The doctor examined me and pronounced that I was pregnant.  OMG!  Where is the hospital where I will have the baby?  He looked at me like I may have just fell off the turnip truck and said "Around these parts folks has their babies to home."

And that ended our life in Toronto.  I am a city girl at heart and there was no way in hell I was going to have my baby "to home."  Hutchinson would become my home for the duration of my pregnancy.  I had a mother there and she had running water and all that stuff!

But I do have my memories of Ski King and I have yet to figure out how all this connects.  If you do, please share with me!

The house where the fancy people live, whoops!

Many years ago, my oldest daughter moved to Longton, Kansas.  Her and her husband bought a 40 acre plot with a mobile home and a lake for less then I bought a car.  Longton is about as far east and south as you can go in Kansas without leaving the state.  Seems as though the population is about 102 on a good day when everyone is home.  To make a long story short, my daughter, Patty went to visit.  

There really is not much to do in a town that size except go to the auctions that pop up from time to time.  So they did.  That particular auction was for a double wide modular that set on 5 lots on the edge of Longton.  Back home places like that were selling for $50,000.  When the auctioneer asked for a bid, none were forthcoming.  So, Patty and Debbie put their little heads together, compared bank accounts and walked away owning the whole kit and kaboodle for $12,000.  

Now this place also sported a 3 or 4 car garage.  Hell, even I was tempted to throw things in a suitcase and head East!

When I finally got around to visiting Patty was using her place as a vacation home.  It was definitely a nice place to visit and the town of Longton was very quaint.  It had a restaurant and prices were very reasonable.  A lot of history on these walls.

This one gave me hope.

A stroll around town (which took about 20 minutes to cover the length and breadth of the city including the liquor store and the falling down building with a tree growing out of the roof) produced this picture of a very beautiful home just a couple blocks from Patty's house.  When I asked her who lived there, she told me, "That is where the fancy people live!  They are hardly ever home and do not come out when they are."  Sadly the house burned a couple years back.

This a house down on the other end of town. Since both houses appear to be of the same design and maybe by the same architect and builder, I asked her if that was where more "fancy people" lived and she told me "No, that is the one the druggies have moved into."  How sad because this one actually had a gazebo.

This is another house on one of the roads going into Longton.  Looks pretty deserted to me!

This is the barn setting on the end of Main Street just catty corner from the liquor store.  Not sure they still use it as a barn for horses or cattle, but who knows.  I could be wrong.  This might be a Debbie's house.

So, any way.  Elk County Reservoir is nearby and the fishing is great!

I must be about due for another vacation!  Who knows?

A chamber pot, by any other name is still gross.

Now this morning you are going to learn something you probably could have gone the rest of your life without knowing, and yet here I am.  Since I lived through the chamber pot days, you ought to at least be able to read about them!  So here we go!

Once upon a time, long, long ago,  there was a little girl who lived in a ramshackle house on Strong Street in Nickerson, Kansas.  She lived there with her mother, father, older sister, older brother and 3 younger sisters.  The house had electricity, but they never used it except to run the pump and the washing machine.  They did not want to "wear it out" nor did they want to appear "uppity."  They owned a car, but it was only used on Sundays when the went to Plevna to see great grandma Hatfield and Grandma Haas.  They were simple folks, you see.

The house had 2 bedrooms, a front room, a dining room and a kitchen/laundry/Saturday night bath room and a book case with Nancy Drew mystery's on the shelves.  Oh, and Brenda Starr.  So I guess that was also a library.  The "front" bedroom was Dad's, but he had to share with us big kids, Josephine, Jake, Donna, Mary and me. Dorothy slept with Mother in the middle (other) bedroom.  Mother needed her privacy and the only time we were allowed to sleep with her was when we were sick.

Ah, but back to the chamber pot business.  For those of you who are antique collectors you will recognize a "chamber pot" as a porcelain bucket with a handle for carrying.  Usually it was white with a lid and a line of blue around the top for decoration.  I never quite understood that whole decoration thing, but I guess it is what it is.  The main purpose (Well actually, the ONLY purpose.) of the chamber pot was to hold human excrement during the night and was immediately emptied upon the household arising.  It was called a chamber pot, because most people had a private area when one could go in and close the door and do "their business in private.  Not us!  Nope.  We did not have a chamber anywhere in that house and if we did there would no doubt be a kid in there.  It was probably about 120 feet from the back door of the house to the outhouse.  Now I do not know if you have ever been out in the wilds of Nickerson, Kansas, at night without a flashlight, but let me tell you, that is one damn scary place.

Number one, our house was probably about a block from the cemetery, and there was that business of ghosts for our little minds to deal with on dark, moonless nights.  Nights with a full moon were even worse!  And the river was not far so it was not unusually to hear a wolf, coyote or cougar howling or screaming and scaring the living shit right out of us.  That, coupled with the fact that dad had seen Gypsies camped on the outskirts of town and you know what that meant.  You see Gypsies came into towns and stole the children.  Luckily we never actually missed anyone, but that was because people like my father seen them and made the kids stay inside.

But back to the chamber pot saga!  Ours set right under the window between the kids bed and dad's bed.  After dark we were free to use the chamber pot and by morning it was full.  Now I trust I do not need to tell you what it was full of, do I?  It was usually Jake's chore to take it out to the outhouse and dispose of it, rinse the container and turn it upside down to drip dry and air out.  When Josephine eloped at the tender age of 15 or so and Jake left home, the duty fell to me.  I was smart enough to know that the sooner I got that thing the lighter my chore would be.  If I waited too long those other kids would not go outside and soon it was full to the brim.  Just try carrying one of those things without slopping it on your feet.

We left that house when I was 16 and I never ceased to be amazed that we had an "inside bathroom" in every house we lived in after that.  Not only did the houses have a commode that flushed, but there was a small sink to wash my face and look in the mirror.  And the bathtub!  My God!  That was pure bliss to sink into and soak. (It was also handy for throwing up in when I came home so drunk I could not hit the stool!  But that is another story and we probably are not going to go there!  Sorry, momma.)

Speaking of bathrooms, I probably ought to get off here and go clean mine.  Thinking back on those years always makes me appreciate what I have now.

Have a good day and thank the Lord for the little things he gives you.  You could be growing up on Strong Street in Nickerson, Kansas.

It is breeding season here on the farm, dammit!

It is inevitable.  When Spring comes and I go into the goose house and see the pile of straw in the corner, I know what will follow.  There is an egg in there.  I bring it in the house.  Next day, the same thing happens.  I have 2 hens.  Only 2, but they both lay.  I can tell by the size of the egg who did it.  Now, if them laying an egg and me stealing it was the end of it, that would be fine.  But it is not.  They have beady little eyes and they have tiny little brains, but they do not miss a damn thing.  They see me go in and even though I hide the egg I get that day, they make the connection.

If I leave the eggs, the old African Gray hen will set, because that dainty little white Emiden is sure as hell not going to spend her time in that hot goose house setting on a bunch of eggs.  If that was all that occurred it might be different, but unfortunately it is not.  Across the fence is a pile of old discarded tires and in those tires lives Mr. and Mrs. Snake and 85 of the baby snakes that never left home and have no intentions of ever doing so.  The goal of these 87 snakes is to devour the eggs under the little gray goose.  Her goal is to not let that happen.  I do not know just what my part in all of this is, but I know it is very hard on my heart!

Last night the little gray hen and her big white Emiden lover were the last to go in.  He was standing between me and his beloved to protect her.  When a goose goes into defense mode, they lower their head and shake their tail feathers.  I have never actually been attacked by one of my geese and I am pretty sure they are more afraid of me then I am afraid of them.  I have actually held and petted the little gray hen, so that big white Emiden does not scare me one bit.  Well, not much anyway.

When I open the door and see the snake on the nest and the little gray goose cowering in the corner, I immediately go into "Kill that bastard" mode.  In my heart, all I really want to do is get the hell out of there and pretend I do not know what is going on.  But primal feelings deep inside me make it imperative that I "protect the nest".  And since I am living in my lala land world most of the time, I do not carry a weapon.  So I throw a rock at it.  Snakes apparently have straight vision that goes out each side of their head, and the rock goes unseen.  Screaming does not help because I am pretty sure snakes are deaf.  So I grab what ever is handy.  In most cases it is something like a garden rake.  Ever try to get a 6 foot bull snake to curl up on a garden rake?  It is not happening.

This is an old picture that shows how the flock protects the babies.

This picture is Bret having killed one of the smaller snakes and disposing of the remains.  Now back in Kansas when I was growing up, if a farmer shot a coyote, he hung it on the fence.  I always heard that was so the coyotes would not come around lest they end up on the fence.  This particular year there were 3 big bull snakes (at least I hope like hell they were bullsnakes) in my back yard not 15 feet from my back door.  I have given up gardening because they hide under the squash leaves and scare the living bejeezus out of me.

So while you are comfy in your little town house or wherever you call home, think about this old lady out here fighting off horny geese, rabid skunks, 5 inch grasshoppers. egg eating snakes.  And there is no hope just because winter comes.  That drives the spiders and centipedes inside.  Every summer, I plan on moving into town, but then I have a second thought that beats hell out of that first thought.  So here I set, again.  My words for today are just this:

Brighten the corner where you are!

My little helper.

It is Lenten Lunch time at our church.  These occur every Wednesday at our church, First Congregational UCC.  They start at noon and they are free so come and join us at 228 West Evans.  We are an open and affirming church and all are welcome: 6- 60, blind, crippled or crazy!  Happy to meet you!

Nancy Donnelly used to until she passed away and left the chore to me.  She called it her "labour of love."  I sure miss her, but since I am the one with the big kitchen and the equipment, baking bread has fallen to me.  Last Tuesday I had whipped out my 4 batches.

I do have a little helper!

Let me see which side is my good side.

this one?

Or this one?

Some of you may not think that having a 3 year old kid helping in the kitchen is a messy thing, but just look at the benefits to that.  

1.  He is not parked in front of the television or some game system.

2.  His fingernails will get cleaned and he doesn't even know it.

3.  Soon the floor will be wet enough to mop.

4.  And the most important part of all is he is helping grandma.  This little boy loves to come to grandma's house!  And he loves to help.  And it only takes grandma 2 days or so to put things back to the chaos that was her life before this little helper arrived.  

In all fairness, most of my grandkids liked me when they were little.  Of course they grew out of it, but they still tolerate me most of the time.  It is just that the little bitty ones are so easy to amuse.  So I will enjoy this one until he reaches the age where life takes him in a different direction and then we will see what happens.  

Who knows, I may get a puppy.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Holy shit! An attack mouse at grandma's house!

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Holy shit! An attack mouse at grandma's house!: The grandma's both worried about me and mostly it was needless.  Life was pretty mundane there in Plevna.  Get up and eat breakfast.  N...

Holy shit! An attack mouse at grandma's house!

The grandma's both worried about me and mostly it was needless.  Life was pretty mundane there in Plevna.  Get up and eat breakfast.  Now you need to know it was pretty well ready the night before.  The egg poacher held 3 eggs.  The water was put in the poacher and the poacher was placed over the pilot light.  The eggs were in a bowl on the table.  The coffee pot was a drip o later and it was filled with water and the coffee grounds put in the basket.  Our plates were on the table with 1/2 of an orange on each one. The jelly was in the middle of the table.  The table was covered with a cloth.  While we slept the waters were staying warm over the pilot lights.  The next morning the poacher and the coffee pot were both pulled forward and the burners turned on.  The eggs were broken and placed in the 3 places for them to poach.

Now I can not remember just how that damn coffee pot worked, but it seems like the water somehow was vaccumed up into the upper chamber and then the burner was turned off and it slowly dripped through the grounds.  Bear in mind that all happened 60 years ago, so I am not real sure that my memory is completely accurate on this little detail.  I do know the toaster was set on the burner and the burner was real low and toasted the bread just right as long as you did not try to dash out to the outhouse while it was toasting.  The whole breakfast was on the table in short order.  We always prayed over our food.  Always!  Both grandmothers told me in no uncertain words that if I did not pray I would most likely choke to death!  I was not going to test that theory since I had what I hoped was a brilliant future ahead of me.  And here I am!

After breakfast was finished I was allowed to put all the dirty dishes in a pan under the sink to wash later.  They did not want me to be late for school because the principal would administer punishment in the form or a whipping with a rubber hose.  I never tested that theory either.  You may not believe this, but I was pretty much a model child and it was all because I did not want to be beat.  I was secure in the knowledge that when I dashed home for lunch great grandmother would have a sandwich ready for me.  That plate also went under the sink.  Now for the evening meal, I do not recall at all what we had.  I am sure we ate something, but I do not know what it was.  So after supper, I pulled the pan out and started washing the dishes.  Then I dried them and put them away and after I laid out the breakfast for the next morning I was free to do whatever I wanted to do.  Bear in mind there was no such thing as television.  The radio was for the market futures and I was not allowed to read anything but the Bible.  I could crochet, but I was still learning the basic chain stitch.

Now one chore I had which I did on Saturday morning was trash.  We did not generate much trash back in those days.  There was a trash thingy over by the door going into the front room.  That was emptied by grandmother into a wooden crate like barrel right outside the kitchen door on the enclosed back porch.  This particular Saturday, I picked it up and headed for the burning barrel which was located a safe distance from the outhouse.  I spotted the outhouse and decided I needed to use that facility at that moment.  So I set the barrel down, availed myself of the comforts and then started to pick up the container and finish my job.  I recoiled in terror because there was a mouse that had crawled up through the trash and was perched on top!  In my world a spider is the scariest creature on earth, but a mouse is a very close second.

What to do?!  My mind was in a quandary.  If I picked up the barrel the mouse might jump on me.  If I screamed, grandma would no doubt jump on me.  She was very old and I surely did not want to get her too excited.  I knew if I could just get the barrel to the burning barrel and tip it over the mouse would fall into the barrel and I would light the trash and my problems would be solved.  So I got a stick and threatened the mouse.  He was defiant! I whacked the side of the barrel and he fell into the trash out of sight.  I grabbed the barrel and made it a few feet closer to the burning barrel, but the mouse reared his head out of the trash.  I immediately dropped the barrel and it fell over.  Horror of all horrors, the damn mouse was now free to eat me or whatever he had planned.  I screamed in terror and grandma appeared on the porch.  That woman surveyed the scene, saw the mouse, stepped forward and whacked it with her cane.  My savior.  She turned and went back into the house leaving me to gather everything up and put it in the burning barrel.  The incident was never mentioned again.  That is how the pioneer women did it.  I like to think I am just a fraction of the woman my great grandmother Helen Gagnbein Miller Hatfield was.

I am still afraid of mice and I have a cat that brings them in and turns them loose.  I hate that damn cat, but she is the only friend I have now days.  I would like to say that since the dogs are no longer here that she has taken mercy on me and has not brought a mouse in for quite some time, but as sure as I say that she will know and go get me one.

I lay in bed at night and think about my grandma's.  If I could go back in time I would do things differently.  I would listen.  I would listen and I would remember.  And I would teach my kids about the stock we come from.  The chickens, the molasses great great grandpa made and the way my great great grandmother Gagnebein nursed the sick, delivered the babies and then came home and whipped out a lemon chiffon cake without even reading a recipe.

I would if I only could.

Better late than never?

Well, John Tenorio pretty well opened the flood gate to let all my friends escape this life when he passed late last year.  Then went Annie, Chaz, Nancy, Shirley and lastly Jim.  Needless to say I had plans with all of these people, or meant to at least.  Annie was expected; Chaz was not.  Nancy was expected; Shirley was not.  Jim was inevitable.  I set here now waiting for the next shoe to drop.  Mother always said it was sad to watch the nursing homes especially.  When fall comes the leaves drop and the little old people go to their reward.  Then comes Spring and with new growth the little old and sick people get new life, but it is not in this world.  Mother was wise.  When I would forget to do something in a timely manner, or blow it off completely, she had these words for me.  "Better late then never."  But was it?

When the pale horse with his rider goes by, it is too late.  The final curtain has fallen, the bell has rung, and "woulda", "coulda", "shoulda" are no more.  It is over and time is no more.  There is no way I can tell grandma what an impact she had on my life.  Oh, not while I was living it, but lo these many years later I can see so clearly.  Grandma Haas was an invalid due to a stoke and Great Grandma Hatfield took care of her.  I helped as much as I could, which was not very damn much, but I do not think that was what I was there for.  I think I was there in case one of them died I could call somebody.  I can remember helping her get ready for bed and pulling her dress up over her head.  I had to be very careful because she and Grandma Hatfield both had pierced earring and it was a nightly chore to untangle the dress from the earrings on both women.  Lord only knows what they did before I came.

Grandma Hatfield was prone to shingles and it was my nightly job to check her to see if any shingles were appearing and if they were I must make sure to check very carefully and apply medicine, because if the shingles went clear around her waist and met, she would immediately die.  I lived in mortal terror that they would become active while she was asleep and she would be dead when I went in the next morning.  Apparently someone was alert because she lived to be 104.  Grandma Hatfield was tall, or so it seemed.  She was regal in her bearing.  She rarely spoke but I just figured since she was 99 years old when I lived with them, that she had probably just talked herself out.  I am not sure she really knew I was there!

Grandma Haas was a very sweet little old grandma and looked like grandma's were supposed to look.  She had beautiful blue eyes and her hair was golden rather then gray.  I still have that golden braid tucked away somewhere.  Since I was 15 years old she thought she should have "the talk" with me.  This is it in it's entirety, I swear to God.

"Have you started your menstral cycle yet."  (I had a vague idea of what that might be.)
"No".
"Ok, when you do, tell momma and she will let you stay home from school that day."

Well, there was a little something to look forward too since school was the only place I could go and escape the tedium of my life.  The only book I was allowed to read was the Bible and the only entertainment was learning to crochet.  I had to keep my shoes on at all times.  Aunt Lena sometimes let me play in the horse tank.  Television was just coming out and the Smith family had one, but I was not allowed to go over there and look at it because I would surely rot in hell!

I miss the grandma's.  I wish I could go back in time and this time I would listen.  I would listen about the aunts and uncles and the trip over from Germany.  I would learn about the herbs and tinctures that Great great grandma Gagnebien  used and how to be a midwife and how to make molasses.  But I didn't.  But you know what?  I think that sometimes those old ancestors pop into my head and tell me things because sometimes I know things that are true and there is no way I could know them.  I think my ancestors live inside me.  Course I may be nuts.

There is that!

'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good.

The wind was blowing all day and this is what happens when that happens.  This is just up the road from my house.  Sadly this is not the first time that this has happened at this same house.  Just the first time in landed on the house.

This is the same place up on South Road.  This was several years back.  That time I had been working with a family on Gale Road and when I came home down 25th to South Road I had to back track  and come up County Farm.  When I came in and turned on my computer, this picture was in an email from my son in Dallas, Texas.  Little a--hole never did tell me how he got that picture.  Kind of creeps me out to think he has spies up here in Colorado.  I must say that this man has some pretty bad luck.  I also must say, I am glad it was not my house.

That having been said I think I am going to call the tree company and have the Apricot tree behind the house taken down.  that tree is actually only about 15 feet from my head when I am in bed sleeping.  Sure there is a wall between it and me, but as you see, walls do not stop falling trees.  It isn't like the damn tree gives me any Apricots any way.  To take it a step further, I do not even like Apricots in case it did decide to give me some fruit.  Once it had lots of fruit and I fed it all to the geese.  So now I suppose you want to know why I planted the damn thing!  Ok, here is that tale.

Many years ago Kenneth was working on a job in Paonia, Colorado.  We had a park model camper that he pulled around to different jobs.  Park model is just a way of saying a small camper that is the equivalent of a tiny trailer house.  It had a small front room, kitchen, full size bath and a bedroom in the back.  When he parked in a trailer park, he hooked into the water and sewer which was better then having to store water and empty sewage.  His little home away from home.  I would travel over to the job a couple days a week and that way he and I kept in touch, so to speak.

Paonia was just a small town that attracted a lot of hippie sorts.  The job he was on was a BLM job so he was privy to all the amenities of the land.  Peaches and other fruit was plentiful on the site and Kenneth was always going to pick me some when he got time.  Sadly, he never got time, but Joe Fisher to the rescue.  He was another trucker.  One evening he was setting in the roadside park and just enjoying the evening when he noticed a tree loaded with Apricots!  He scrounged around under the seat and came up with an empty bread wrapper.  He then proceeded to fill it with plump, juicy Apricots which he presented to me with the stipulation that I would give him a jar of Apricot jam.  Sounded like a deal to me.

As soon as I got home I worked up the Apricots and made my jam.  The seeds I threw on top of the septic tank where I was sure they would rot and make compost.  Joe was pleased with the jam and began to tell me of other fruits on the BLM including Sarvis Berry trees.  Sadly they were dried up by then.  And can you imagine my surprise when I noticed little tiny trees coming up in the compost pile!  I moved them to a protected area and "heeled" them in to winter over.  The next Spring I had 40 Apricot trees.  Some of them I planted at my mother-in-laws house.  Several I planted in the front yard and several out back.  One I planted behind the house and there it stands today!  The Bores have about killed it, but still it tries.  Usually it blooms and then a freeze comes and the flowers fall off, or it may actually go ahead and set fruit, but then comes the "June drop" and there goes my crop.

I keep thinking I would like to have fruit just one more time so I can have some more Apricot trees so I can sell the house and leave them, I guess.  But that is the tale of the Apricot tree.  I know I should have it taken down, but that is just something I can not bring myself to do.  When the Apricot tree goes I am afraid my heart may follow.

Just the musing of a silly old woman.