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.