And back to the Stroh place.

Mother had a very big yellow Tom cat.  As with all cats, he was very independent and just did pretty much as he wanted to do.  One day he must have wanted to have his head chopped off because he showed up at the door with one of mother's baby chicken's in his mouth.  Since my brother Jake was the only male present at the time the job was given to him.  Mother handed him the cat, an axe and sent him off to the "forest".  Now the forest was a grove of about 8 trees that was about 50 feet behind the chicken house.  Jake was probably about 9 years old at the time.  You need to remember that times were different back then.  We never were allowed to be "kids" because the mere act of survival made us grow up really fast.  In society today if a 9 year old kid chopped the head off of a cat he would immediately be put into therapy because he had all the makings of a serial killer.  Back then that tiny chicken was part of our cycle of life and no cat was going to snack on mother's chickens that would someday lay eggs for us to eat, hatch more chickens and eventually end up in the stew pot to feed the whole family Chicken and Noodles.  The cat, by killing the baby chicken,  proved he was a chicken killer and that does not work on a farm.  So, off they went to the forest and only one of them came back.

The chicken house was also an attraction to either a Fox or a Weasel.  Dad patched the chicken house fairly regularly, but what ever was getting in was not to be deterred.  One night him and one of his cronies hid in the chicken house and when the varmit surfaced we heard the blast from the shotgun.  That problem was solved, but then there was that gaping hole in the chicken house.  That is another story!

Have you ever gathered eggs?  In the Spring when the chickens first start to lay, several of the old hens also begin ti "set".  The setting is the fine art of laying eggs in a nest and setting on them until the hatch.  The hen has to turn them every day, keep them an even temperature, and be the most patient creature in the world because this takes 28 days setting time.  Did you ever hear the saying "Mad as an old wet hen?"   I used to throw some of my biggest fits when Mother would tell me to go gather the eggs.  She would tell me which nests had the "setting hens" on them and I did not gather those eggs.

I would walk into the hen house and several of the nests would have eggs in them where the hens had laid early that morning and then gone off in search of bugs, seeds or whatever.  Those were easy to gather because I just had to pick the eggs up and put them in my basket, but some of the nest's had chickens on them.  I knew which ones not to bother, but I was afraid of those beady eyed chickens any way.  I was terrified of the "setting hens" because they were very protective and I had much respect for thier mothering skills.  I gave them a very wide berth.  However, I was supposed to reach under the hens who were setting on nests that were not designated as nest boxes.  These are the hens that really scared me.  You do know that hens have sharp beaks, right?  Thier beak is thier sole means of defense.  So I would slowly extend my hand while the hen watched my hand with those beady eyes.  Time would stand still as my hand got slowly closer to her body setting on the nest.  If she inclined her head even the smallest bit, I would run screaming from the hen house.  Usually it would scare her so bad she left the nest in fright.  In that case I could go back and get those eggs.  I do not recall if a hen ever pecked me, but in my mind I left the hen house a bloodied mass every time.  And mother knew when I left the house exactly how many eggs I should have when I came back.  Mothers' are intuitive little creatures.  Too few eggs meant I had not done my job.  Too many and one of the last hatching had started laying.

We had a cow also.  Well, as I recall we had several cows and horses.  The horses were used to pull the plow, combine, trailer, or what ever.  Dad did managed to get himself drunk once when he went to Hutch to the sale.  He came home with a Shetland Pony for us kids.  That was like a dream come true.  A pony of our own for us to ride.  OMG!  That was the meanest damned horse I have ever laid eyes on in my life!  That thing came out of the trailer kicking and snorting and I sought the solace of the chicken house!  Scared me out of 4 years growth.  His name was Star.

Star had a pen and went into the barn at night for shelter.  Star had been ours for about a week when friends came by to see our new horse.  The friends had kids our age.  So Jake and a couple of the boys went out to see Star.  By this time it was dark.  How they came up with the next part of the adventure is beyond me, but Jake decided to crawl across the enclosure and scare the horse!  (There was talk of actually "goosing him with a stick" which I am sure is closer to what happened then these boys let on to Mother.)  To make a long story short, Star did not take to well to whatever happened and in typical horse fashion, kicked backwards.  His hoof connected with Jake's right cheek and sent him flying into the fence.  Much scrambling as the friends loaded Jake into thier car and took him and mother to Hutchinson to the emergency room.  It was a very long night.  Jake carried that scar to his grave.  It was about 4 inches long and a 2 inch scar across the bottom.  It looked like a "J" so he told everyone it was his initial.

Star was probably with us for 12-15 years and I do not recall anyone ever riding him.  Well, Josephine might have, but not me.  He died when we were at the Strong Street house.  Dad called the "dead animal wagon" which in those days, made house calls.  They probably still do.  The man pulled out a long length of cable, wrapped it around Star's neck, turned on the wench and drug him across the yard, up the ramp and into the back of the big truck on top of whatever else was in there, and drove away.  Fond memories?  Not for me.

Will try to get back soon and finish off the Stroh house.  Or maybe not.  A lot happened there.

Lost! Found! Lost again! Damn!

For Valentine's day, I received flowers and a tube containing 25 pot seeds from a benevolent friend who works in the "grow".  He assured me that these seeds would grow the marijuana but not the kind you smoke.  Something about male and female and buds and other stuff that these were incapable of producing.  This fits my criteria to a "t".  I want to make stationary out of them and sell it in my online store.  See this leaf?

Isn't that pretty?  I learned how to make this stationary a very long time ago from a very old woman who wanted to pass the craft along so it would not cease to be.  She chose me!  She also gave me boxes of dried flowers, leaves, and about anything that grows.  Now I have not partaken of this leaf myself, but I am intelligent enough to know what it is and what it looks like.  And in the treasures she gifted me with was some of these.  Seems she went down on the river and came back with lots of leaves and among them was some marijuana leaves.  Now you must realize that all the greens she gathered were then placed between the pages of books and a weight applied so they would be very flat and very dry, but identifiable. 

Now isn't that pretty?  I think that is a Japanese Maple overlaid with Dill fronds.  Hard to believe that I made it, isn't it?  Making this stationary is an all day job and requires full use of the island in my kitchen.  I lay out 12 of them at a time.  First is a layer of waxed paper upon which I  place my design, cover with a single layer of tissue, paint the whole thing with thinned school glue, sprinkle each with glitter and leave to dry.  To fully appreciate my efforts, you just try to paint one layer of cheap tissue with a paint brush full of thinned glue.  When I go to bed that night the whole house  is filled with these things drying.  Next morning it is ironing time.  Then trimming and folding, so this is no easy chore.  Lastly my name is signed in gold ink and I am done.  I sell these for $2.00 each so they need to be nice.  Since this stuff is now legal in Colorado, I want to get in on the market.  Hence the growing and needing of seeds. 
Back on track here.  You now know why I wanted the seeds.  Being a pushy broad I generally get what I want by just wanting it.  True with the seeds.  So any way, here lay this vial of seeds on my counter.  Patty and Vanny were here and the seeds just laid there.  I have  a lady who is a very good friend who shall remain nameless, who helps me keep this house from becoming a true "hoarders nest."  This same lady has been known to partake of the herb.  She must eat hers cause she talks about "the bowl."  To make a long story short, she was coming by to visit and I was reluctant to let her know my future plans in the "growing of the weed" area.  So I grabbed the vial and hid it.  Now I am sure you are a step ahead of me here and you know how my mind works.  Later that day, I laid out the container I wanted to use to hold  the seeds and dirt.  Whoops!  Where did I put those seeds?
I looked in all the usual hiding places.  Patty and Vanna searched in all the drawers.  The next day Bret and Amanda came for a visit and they were full of guesses as to where they might be, but it was all to no avail.   I knew back in the far recesses of my mind that I knew where I put them.  It is just that I rarely venture back into that area of my mind, because there are things there in the shadows that scare me! 
So yesterday, Patty and Savannah packed up and went back to Lakin.  I immediately had a nap.  When I woke up, I spent a few minutes looking into corners and then decided to call my friend, John.  I explained the seed business to him.  He of course thought it was funny.  While we were talking about a fundraiser for our friend Daneya that is coming up next week, I wandered over to the sewing machine I keep here in the office.  I opened the door, pulled out the drawer and voila!  My little pink vial of seeds!  Knowing how fleeting my memory is these days, I told John of my find and told him I was moving them and where.  Now 2 of us know where they are.  I am trusting that he remembers where I put them.  That was, after all, his job.  My job is to report on me, and I might note that is a full time job. 
So once more the seeds are found.  The container to plant them in is , however, out in the shed where it is now very cold, thanks to that damn Polar Vortex!  Looks cold out there today.  I think I need to go to the El Pueblo today with my spinning wheel, but I am not sure.  Nothing is ever sure in my life two days in a row.  I was up late last night listing seed catchers on eBay in a variation format.  I am almost afraid to check those out today. 
So, I called Patty and told her where I found the seeds.  Now, I am off to figure something out, but I do not know what.  Will be in touch soon and we will return to the Stroh place, Nickerson, Kansas, and see what I remember about 60+ years ago,  because I am not having much luck here in the present!


 

I like it better in the past!

Debbie, the wee tyke, called me after my blog of a week or so ago.  She thinks the cure for my writer's block may be in my past, since I write about it most often.  I think she may be on to something.  I sure enjoyed life back then when mother was the one who had to worry about putting food on the table and clothes on my back.  Not much fun when the burden is on my shoulders!
So I shall start way back as far as I can remember.  That would be before I started school.  We lived on the Stroh place on the edge of town.  That is where mother used to go to "Club".  I thought "Club" was a complete waste of time since it was a bunch of old ladies (They were probably 30 years old, which sure does not seem old now!) sat around and visited and exchanged recipes and patterns.  Us kids had to be clean when we went and I never knew why because we just sat on the floor and listened and tried to stay awake in case someone actually said something.  To my recollection, that never happened.  Then we would go home and we could get dirty again.
Oh, I do have to interject here what "getting clean" entailed.  Now try to visualize those days back then.  We had no running water; hence no water heater; hence no warm water.  Water was pumped on the back porch or kitchen, whatever that was.  Water was heated in a boiler on the stove for our baths.  Hair was a different matter.  That had to be washed about once every two weeks.  The way this happened was mother would catch us one at a time.  Our hair was wet in a basin of warm water and then suds up to get all the whatever was in our hair out.  That felt good!  Rinsing, however, was a whole new ball game.  Mother then tucked us under her arm and put our head under the pump where the water came out onto our head.  This took the cooperation of one of the bigger kids who liked to pump fast in hopes they would get done soon.
Now I do not know how many of you know just how cold water is when it is being pumped up from depths of the earth, but I am here to tell you, it is damn cold!  We were rinsed until mother could make our hair "squeak" when rubbed against itself.  That meant the soap was all out of it.  Then we were plopped unceremoniously onto the floor and told to go outside and dry in the sun.  Haircuts were given by a lady who lived nearby and she came to the house with her "hair cutting bowl."  This was placed on our head and she pulled her scissors out of her bag and trimmed anything sticking out from under the bowl.  Of course we all looked pretty much alike when the lady left.  Since our clothes were made out of flowered sacks that came full of flour or grain and had the "Gooch's Best" label imprinted on it, the little Bartholomew kids were pretty easy to pick out in a crowd.
Other memories of the Stroh place are coming to mind like there were a couple older half brothers that wandered in occasionally.  Apparently my father had been married previously and had 5 children.  Two of those children, a boy and a girl, had died of sand pneumonia.  Eventually the wife then died and the 3 boys were placed in an orphanage.  Richard was adopted.  Earl was adopted.  Gene was not adopted, but did go to a family named Banks where he stayed until adulthood.    Gene and Richard served in World War II.  Earl apparently  did not.
Earl married and had 2 boys and 1 girl.  Gene was married briefly to a woman named Louella and had a son.  His name was Billy (probably William Eugene Bartholomew.) I would love to find that boy.   Gene turned to a life of crime by forging someone else name on checks and seemed to fit well into prison society.  I know he was in prison at least three times.  He used to write me long letters and tell me how this time he had seen the error of his ways and when he got out this time, he would stay out.  The last time anyone seen him was when he was let out of a prison in Kansas and disappeard into thin air.  That was probably 50 +  years ago.
Richard suffered from "shell shock" after he came home from the Army.  When he would come for a visit, we would take him to the Arkansas River and drop him.  He would disappear into the underbrush and that would be the last we heard from him until we picked him up in exactly one week at exactly the same place.  Guess that was his way of coping with life.  Richard and Gene have both been dead for many years.
Anyway, these brothers used to pop in occasionally, but they were 20 years older than me so I was never close to them.  Brother Jake was a different story!
Well life is calling me to do something about my own life, so I will try to return tomorrow and tell you more about the Stroh place.

Chapter One...The Ant Lion's Den

I am setting here looking at Chapter Two...The Ant Lion's Den,  the novel I started almost 2 years ago when Sherman was first diagnosed.  I had a good start on it, but at that time Sherman needed me more than the world needed another novel.  So I put it on hold.  Then he extracted a promise from me that I would write the story of Sherman and Lou had life been different.  He outlined it for me and in the book, we met, fell in love and lived happily ever after.  In real life he died shortly thereafter.
But a promise is a promise and I put the novel aside and began the perfect work of fiction and the world's greatest love story.  I failed in my mission and ended up writing a true story where we did indeed fall in love and he did propose 10 days before he died on Friday the 13th.  The book has been finished and forgotten now for over 8 months and I stare at the blank page of  Chapter Two and my mind is a complete blank..I reread what I have written hoping something of the brilliance I felt when I started it will resurface, but nothing happens.
What I am thinking of is a scene in my mind from 50 years ago when Debbie was a wee tyke and I found an old typewriter at a rummage sale for $2.00.  It was a small Royal and after I took the toothbrush and cleaned the letters and replaced the ribbon, it printed pretty legibly.  But there I sat, staring at the pure white paper that waited for me to fill up up with all the thoughts in my brilliant mind.   But it never happened.  I spent the next 50 years waiting for my stellar mind to unleash a torrent of words that would make the world fall at my feet.  But they never came.  The old Royal gave way to a nice aqua typewriter in a case.  That gave way to an electric, which was replaced by a word processor and that was traded for a computer.  And I went through a string of computers and different word programs before I poured my heart and soul into Chapter One...Loose Ends.  I was on a roll, but now I am back to staring at a blank sheet with a cursor blinking and calling me.
Someone told me I should unplug the phone, lock the door, turn off the ebay computer and concentrate and it will come.  Well, that ain't happening now, is it?  I do think I will take a nice long walk the next day that is decent.  May go up to Beulah for that.  Something about just me, God and the open sky above that inspires me.  Maybe I will not finish Chapter Two...The Ant Lion's Den, or maybe I will. Maybe I will come up with something else.  I do know that I love to write and it is a part of me that needs to be functioning.  I know this blog is writing, but I mean something that I can build out of my mind that is not real, but seems that way.  Know what I mean?
Just my thoughts tonight.

Red Alert!!

　

YOU HAVE THE POWER TO AFFECT YOUR ELECTRIC BILL



"A Bridge To Pueblo’s Energy Future"

A presentation by Pueblo Citizens interested in stabilizing electric rates and reducing shocking charges.

Come and share your stories with your neighbors.

With your help we will craft a local energy economy that will benefit the entire community

~EVERY ONE OF US~

February 22. 2014

2:00 P.M. to 5:00 P.M.

SRDA Cafeteria

230 N. Union Ave.

Pueblo, CO 81003

(light refreshments provided)

For more information call

719-251-2888 or email revoltpueblo@gmail.com

Please like us on Facebook @

https://www.

What is the second thing that happens before the book sale?

For over a year Ross and his cronies have been collecting books and putting them in my garage.  Just recently they began sorting them into subject matter and packing them in boxes that were labeled.  Now it is February 9 and the book sale starts tomorrow, so they have arrived at my garage and loaded the books into vehicles preparatory to transport to the Pueblo Community College.

So now they are gathered in my kitchen  to see just how many cinnamon rolls they can hold.  Charles only ate 2, but we managed to do away with 18.  The remainder I packed into plastic bags to ride to the site and be eaten by the workers that were unpacking the books and putting them out on the tables and racks. 

But first, Tere has to attempt to manipulate my 2 pound hula hoop!  Come on, Tere!  I know you can do it!

And we have lift off!!

So now the fun and games are over and the first truck is leaving the yard.  Now the work can really begin.  No, not really.  The whole last year has been a labor of love by a lot of people.  I am not going to throw names around because there are so many that made this sale possible.  Ross and Rebecca do most of the honchoing and are the two I deal with most often.  Course then there is Tere who can work the hula hoop, Charles who can eat the cinnamon rolls....see what I mean?  So they are all loaded (vehicles with books, I mean.) and  they are off to PCC for a fun time unloading.

Monday and Tuesday were sale days and I am happy to report that it was a fun time and we raised lots of money for the scholarship fund.  My back is almost returned to normal (and I did not even load or unload boxes) and the dishes are all done from the baking in the kitchen.

Life is good!

Welcome to my world!

So this is why I have no hot water this morning!  Better call Black Hills who has my service contract.  I know the water heater is on there.  That is why I have it.  Oh, wait while I am on hold let me just read my contract.  Yes the water heater is covered.  No, the tank on the water heater is not covered.  The tank leaking  caused the pilot light to go out which they will come and light, but it probably will not stay lit with water dripping on it from a tank that is not under warranty!  Ya think!

This is the sump pump Jesse put in for me several years back so if the water heater went south the sump pump would pump the water outside and I would not need to sop it up with this towel.

See how it is located right beside it?  To bad it does not work.  I used to pour a gallon of water in it and watch it empty just so I knew it would work.  Hmmm.  Guess it only works when you watch it.

Ater got clear over into the sewing room.  I feel so damn special!

Oh, wait a minute!  Today is Sunday!  Do plumbers work on Sunday?  Better yet do they work on SUPER BOWL SUNDAY?  Some how I think the Karma Gods have got me over a barrel here.  Ah, but there is hope.  I do not have to shower before church.  Or after church.  Or in the foreseeable future!

So those of you who have actual hot running water, enjoy!  And I will not say "Go Bronco's" because that would be like putting a curse on them.  What I will say is 

Enjoy the game!