We Had a SMOKING Thanksgiving

Funny - Funny

We had a SMOKING Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Day, Carol’s family was to arrive around 5:30 for turkey, ham, and all the trimmings.

A bit after lunch that day I decided to lay a fire in the fireplace. I started out by wadding up several sheets of our Local Astonisher, went outside and collected a bag full of dried pinecones and dumped them on the crumpled newspaper. On top of that, I placed a few sticks of dried pine, followed by three split logs of dead dry pine. 

Hot dog - Good job I thought - Ready to go for when the time came to start the warmth and add to a pleasant atmosphere.

I left the damper closed so the heat would not go up the chimney until the time to strike the match.

I was in town to pick up a few items, about a half hour before the expected crowd was to arrive.

Still 20 minutes away, Carol called. “Help!!!   The fire is shooting out of the fireplace!!!   It is hot!!!   Smoke is thick!!!  The alarm is going off!!!”  

“Open the damper!” I suggested hoping to calm her a bit.

“Too hot! - I thought you had it open - Too much smoke!”

“Dump some water on it,” I advised as I stepped on the gas breaking the 55 mile an hour law.

About that time Carol’s brother and his wife arrived. She heard the car come and rushed to meet them.

“HELP,” she yelled out the door. Please hurry! Help!” The smoke billowed out the open door to greet them.

Carol ran to the kitchen and got a bucket of water. Bent down, her brother tried to fight the heat and smoke in front of the belching inferno. He frantically reached for the damper. No luck.

Whoosh - was the answer to the slosh of water as everyone hacked, coughed, and gagged. The steam of the sizzling water, added to the smoke, turning all into a large smoke pit. The three persons in the room found out quickly that perfume and shaving lotion are no match for some good-old-fashioned smelling country smoke.

Now Carol’s sister arrived. Before she walked into the house, her brother said to his wife and Carol,  “Lets just act like nothing is wrong.” They cackled and agreed.

“Hi Donna! Good to see you!” She coughed, rubbed her nose, her hair blowing from the ceiling fan at high speed.

“You all alright?” she asked with head cocked to one side.

“Sure. Dinner is about ready.” 

Her son arrived. The front door wide open. He walked up and thought we added a new screen door. The smoke was so thick he could not see into the room.

When I got there all the windows and doors were open. The ceiling fans roared, the smoke detector dangled from the ceiling and also gasped for a reprieve.

Dinner was great. Even the turkey tasted smoked. We all laughed, chucked and giggled over the frantic actions of a bunch of grown-ups.

Two days later, the curtains and cushions of the entire house still smell like smoke.

It too shall pass. Thank you Lord for all the blessings.

I Didn't Say Enough

I Didn’t Say Enough

We recently had to have a small repair performed on our vehicle. The SUV stayed at the shop for several days.

During the repair work the men had to keep the door open for an extended time. This drained the battery. Since we were gone for most of the week, the additional time and cold weather totally drained the little zap that was left in the battery.

I drove Carol to the repair shop the day we picked up the completed vehicle. I went into the shop while Carol enjoyed the warmth of my truck outside. It was a cold day.

A couple of the worker finally brought the SUV around for Carol to drive away. I stayed in the shop knowing the owner and some of the employees. We had a jolly good time talking everything from eating beyond capacity, fishing, and other bloopers of years gone by.

It was not long after Carol had gone for gas and a few groceries that I received a phone call that the car does not start. Typical, that from a man, I simply said, “Just get out the jumper cable, stand outside of your car, wave the bright yellow cable and surely someone will soon stop to help.”

Well, that didn’t sit to well. Carol made a point, and correctly so, that she is not going to stand outside and wave a yellow cable.

Carol had left the shop and went less than a half of a mile. She was stuck at the Walmart gas station. She had turned off the ignition, as instructed on a sign. When she finished pumping, and turned the key to start the car, all she heard was a series of tick-tick-ticks.

I had just arrived home when her phone call told me of her predicament. It took me ten more minutes to get there and begin to quell the situation.

When I got to the gas station, with my 22feet-long pickup, there was no place for me to get into position other than block two lanes of gas pumps.

The cables were under the back seat of her car. Easy–? The battery was so dead it did not even let her unlock the rear door for me to retrieve the cable. Carol was in the driver’s seat. Being of a short stature, her seat was well advanced forward, with her elbows resting on the steering wheel.

How dead was the battery? So dead she could not even move the seat back.

So, how does one get the cables from under the back seat when the door is locked and the driver is up against the steering wheel?

Nimble is the answer. With great vigor Carol stretched, wiggled, and writhed her way slowly down to the floor in back, to reach under the seat for the cable.

Finally, like a participant of one carrying the Olympic Torch, Carol emerged from the back of the seat with the cables in hand.

The rest was routine. I should have told her not to turn the car off. After all, I did see the men having to jump-start the SUV at the shop.

Maybe I was a bit too busy telling tall tales to the guys in the shop.

Truth is, I didn’t say enough to Carol.

The Christmas Goose

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

Several times we enjoyed a goose for Christmas. I wonder, looking back, how did Mother do it? I wouldn't doubt she cashed in a silver coin for it, one she illegally hoarded in the early forties. No such thing as a frozen goose existed in that day. Freshly butchered, was the only way to have one in the forties. Though I never witnessed the butchering act, it must have happened nearby, because after the head came off the blood was drained immediately into a pot for future use.

The next step in this holiday ritual was to dunk the lifeless goose into scalding water. It took our big pot to do this, and many sticks of wood to get the water boiling.

After the scalding part, our little family plucked the feathers, all the feathers off the bird. Even the undeveloped pinfeathers under the wings and in hidden folds of the bird. All were diligently plucked.

Mom carefully removed the non-edible innards; they were but a few. She scrubbed the goose’s feet, chopped them off the bird, and dropped them into the pot that held the drained goose blood. The neck she cut off and put into the same pot to marinade. The gizzard she turned inside out, cleaned it, and it also ended up in the same pot.

The heart and the fresh liver we split in half. After they were salted and peppered they were fried on the spot. It made a lip-smacking snack, whetting our appetite for the feast to come.

We stuffed our Christmas goose then baked it in the oven. The stuffing included chopped stale bread and hard rolls, onions, celery, parsley, a couple of eggs, some sage, and salt and pepper. It all was tossed together with scalded milk to get a loose moist mixture.

Throughout the year, every meat dish was always expanded with much gravy. The Christmas goose was certainly no exception. Gravy not only stretched a meal, but it added comfort to the other trimmings. Gravy had the taste of meat, and when one closed their eyes, it was meat.

Of course, the rendered goose grease was considered gold. Mom skimmed it off the gravy, a golden yellow, granular spread when cooled. It easily spread on sliced rye bread, with a little salt added, and made a mighty treat when the winds and snows howled. We also saved a bit of that yellow gold for medicinal purposes. Mom stored it in the cold, curtained off room, in a Nivea Creme jar. (see the Home Remedies section in the book)

Story has it, the Christmas goose got its fat from being force fed. The way my mother explained it, the goose was simply penned-up in a cage and systematically forced to eat much more than normal. This was done by holding the head of the goose back, prying open its beak, then stuffing food down the throat with the handle of a wooden spoon. Not a comforting picture, but it rendered a fat goose and a bounty of yellow gold.

(Look for the post on what we did with the goose blood)

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St Nick had nothing to do with Christmas

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS IN THE MID 40’s

Practically every day on the Catholic calendar was dedicated to honor a saint. That day, if your name was the same as the saint's, you celebrated your Name Day. December the sixth is Saint Nickolaus’ day. The Catholic’s celebration of Saint Nick has nothing to do with Christ Jesus and His birthday. Activities honoring Saint Nick were a bit unusual and were not related to what is called Christmas in America.

In my younger days, Saint Nick visited the homes of families on the sixth of December. We didn't have malls or television, so the only way a kid got to see this colorful character, bearded and royally cloaked in red, was when parents thought it worthy to either reward or punish their children. . . .Let me tell you what I mean.

Saint Nick was always dressed in a red coat with white cuffs. He wore a tall hat like the Pope would during certain religious festivities. He walked with a tall staff in one hand and was proud of his long white beard. He toted a sack over his shoulder with goodies in it.

When Saint Nick came to visit the home on the evening of the sixth, he would ask the parents for a report on the behavior of the children during the previous year. If the child was deserving he or she may receive a few cookies, apples, nuts, or rock candy, along with a little admonishment to strive to be an even better person the coming year.

To have a Saint Nick come to one’s house, parents visited a local Gasthaus where men, wearing Saint Nick outfits, were gathered and waited to be hired.
However, for children who really needed a bit of additional reprimanding, Saint Nick’s helper, Knecht Rupprecht, would have to come along. This Knecht Rupprecht doled out the deserved punishment––as he saw fit!

Oh my, my!––This Knecht, he was an ugly, bent over, mean-looking creature. He dragged a long and heavy chain on the ground behind him. This introduced him as the coming of doom. One could hear the chain clanging as he smacked it onto the cobble stones. He would snort and grunt and would make eerie noises as he came up the front walkway, or up the steps, to pay the wayward child a visit.

He wore a sackcloth mantle over his shoulders and a crude rope tied around his waist. His hair, dark and scraggly, stuck out from under his floppy, black, wide-brimmed hat. He was marked with dark shadows under his beady eyes and showed a deep frown that extended down from each side of his mouth.

I recall one night in the mid 1940s, when our little family visited the home of a friend with two teen-aged daughters. We had a friendly and jovial visit until a terrifying commotion outside the house suddenly entered my ears and heart. Wow!––What?––Sure enough, Knecht Rupprecht approached the closed front door. Through the window I saw Saint Nick restraining his Knecht from totally going mad and breaking down the door. My sister and I shivered. I vowed never to do anything wrong as long as I lived. We did not want to face this evil creature at our house!

Saint Nick and his sidekick entered the house. The room filled with evil. I had slid down in my chair and was barely able to watch the goings-on above the table’s top. After a brief report from the girls' mother, the Knecht stomped and smacked his wooden switch on the floor. With much huffing and snorting, he started to chase the giggling girls around the house and into the bedroom. Soon the calamity subsided. The girls had received their reward. I, however, could not understand the disrespect these girls had for an individual of such authority.

I also remember on one such night when a young boy, a little older than me, still having respect for “The Authority” was rewarded with Rupprecht's whipping cane. After a good salting, the naughty boy found himself stuffed in Knecht Rupprecht’s sack. The Knecht, grunting and mumbling, carried the boy, over his shoulders, into the night. Several hundred yards from the boy’s house he shook the boy from the sack into the deep snow in the forest. The boy received additional stern warnings and was told to find his way back home in the dark.

After that ordeal, I bet the boy had to change his clothes from the inside out!

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How To Grow Minnows

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE A TIME AND PLACEThe Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

How To Grow Minnows

In the branch below the dam we caught minnows. On occasion, one could snatch one barehanded by running it into a shallow corner, but most of the time we used a large white handkerchief. We hollowed out a low spot in the stream then stretched out the cloth and pinned it to the stream’s bottom with a few rocks on the corners. We then squatted on each side of the branch. With hands ready at the water’s edge we watched and waited quietly, motionless, until several minnows came to rest in the hollow of the kerchief. In unison and a sudden snap of the corners we pulled up the cloth. Most of the minnows darted out, but often one or two were caught. We quickly added the prized catch to a canning jar filled with water. It took quite a spell for the creek’s water to settle again, but, we had all day.

When the day’s catch reached a half dozen or more, we carried our cache uptown to my friend’s house and to their family bathtub. We filled the tub half full of water then dumped in our catch.

Now the time came, for all participating men, to hunt for food for the obviously underfed fish. If we were to see them grow to any edible size, in the tub? . . . we had to feed them. Well, down to the branch we returned to catch some morsels of food out of the fish’s natural habitat.

Worms, snails, bugs, flies, grasshoppers, and leeches were a good start. The leeches we realized were hard to find. They stuck on slippery algae under the sheet of water running over the pond’s dam. Those critters, kind of orange-red with a jagged sucking cup on one end, would rather stick themselves to our bodies than be shoved into a jar.

Well, we gathered enough food, what we considered, for the minnows in the tub to grow to some good sized fish. It included all the food groups, worms, flies, grasshoppers, bugs, and snails, all stuffed into the glass jar. Uptown we jaunted, and simply dumped the jar full of creepy things into the bathtub.

While the project still dwelled on our minds we’d check on the minnows before the day was done. However, after a few days we found most of the fish food had died in the tub or had merely crawled out to greener pastures. A week or so later, it was reported that the minnows also had croaked.

This gets me wondering, with my now Americanized brain, why did that family have a tub when no one used it for over a week?

As to the extent of our own washing, most days Mom just wiped and rubbed me down with a coarse, damp rag. She swiftly hit a lick around the face and behind the ears, and checked for black-looking sweat rings on the neck. We washed our own feet, followed by a cursory inspection by Mom to make sure the rust was off before we crawled into bed.

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We Raced Snails

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE A TIME AND PLACEThe Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

We Raced Snails

In damp places, under dense, dark trees, where the sun never shined, and the rain had washed the ground bare, we raced snails. Big snails, the ones who carried their houses on their backs, were thought to be the real racehorses.

We readied the track by scratching into the dirt a starting and finishing line. Side line markers were made out of thin sticks to guide the snails to the goal line. Behind the starting lines we made chutes out of sticks to point the snails in the right direction.

We picked big, wide-bodied snails with their houses seemingly too small for their size. We figured they’d be faster because they didn’t have to carry the extra weight of a large house. Strategy! Strategy!

Well, the race started when the snails were placed in the chutes behind the starting line. Their heads had to face toward the finish line. Of course, when one picked up the critter, the head and tail disappeared into their house. One had to be aware which end was where, as not to place your racer with the south end facing north onto the starting line.

We laid on our belly and waited. It took quite a spell for the snail’s body to expand and reappear. Good thing it was cool and comfortable under those dense bushes and trees. Slowly, the slimy glob got bigger. Like two tiny bumps, the eyes came out of the snail house first. Soon they expanded outward; eyes on two little sticks with a distinct dark pupil at the end of each.

The race had officially started. To yell and cheer the snails on did not work. All it would do was scare it back into its shell. So, you left your racer alone. The snail usually just sat there a while and checked out the new environment. As it oriented itself––it laughed at us.

Well, after a minute or so of orientation the snail still had not moved a sliver toward the finish line. We laid low, quiet, and motionless. Finally, all still and safe, the snails began to slither leaving a thin trail of shiny slime.

One would think, with eyes as good as theirs, stuck way out there on those little stems, they could see better. After all, us boys had the finish line and the side lines clearly marked. Yet those dumb snails were determined to veer off to the left or right or even turn around. Once the race began we agreed not to pick up our racers and face them in the right direction. However, we could place a stick to one side or the other if our snail started to veer way off track. Every time we did that, the dumb critter retracted into its shell. It then took its good old time coming back out, look around, before slothfully continuing toward the goal.

I never won a snail race, nor did anyone else. After an hour’s worth of racing, the racers, having traveled hardly the length of one’s hand, were certainly not worn out, but the trainers were. So, we went on to more exciting things.

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A Pig In The Doghouse

More than thirty-six years ago we moved to Bedford Virginia. We moved piecemeal, a load at a time. We built a 20x24 outbuilding to store furniture, stuff, and some old printing equipment. We dug a well and septic, moved into a trailer behind the job site until our new house was built.

The summer of 1977, my senior class at the Tech School where I was teaching, presented me with a twenty pound piglet to take to Virginia as a going-away present. The students brought it to the classroom and had a good laugh as they handed it to me. I was tickled to get the gift, and looked forward to providing a good home for it in Virginia.

Now, I knew about bringing an underage girl across state line was against the law. I also heard that transporting livestock across state line was not allowed.

Well, I had a dog once, who teamed up with a stray pack, got into a sheep pasture, and was shot by the farmer. His vacant doghouse made an excellent container, and decoy, to carry the pig across state line.

I drove a Datsun pickup truck at the time. I loaded the pickup with crates, tools, outdoor furniture, and the occupied doghouse. I was all packed, strapped, and raring to go. However, with the pig in the doghouse, I had to nail a board across its opening. The first challenge came just twenty miles down the road.

At Philipsburg, NJ, I had to cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Slowly, I approached to the tollbooth to pay my dime to cross. I kept a lookout at the doghouse through my rearview mirror. The opening to the doghouse was clearly in view and faced the tollbooth. Just as I handed the guy on duty my 10 cents, the sow in the doghouse decided to stick its snout out the crack and let out an alleluia squeal. Like saying, "yippee, I'm in Pennsylvania!"

Oh my! Fear and trepidation struck this old boy. My German upbringing smacked me straight up-side-my-head. I pulled from that tollbooth with one eye glued to the rearview mirror. First thinking that the guard at the tollbooth will surely shoot my tires out. After a couple hundred yards, windows open, I strained for sirens to close in on me. After a mile or two, I looked for troopers to eyeball me from the other side of the highway. For a hundred miles or more, down route 22, then interstate 81, I craned my neck looking for flashing lights.

Maybe the law sent a message ahead to the Maryland boarder, I wondered? Or ahead to the West Virginia boarder? Surely, the state of Virginia will be waiting for me to confiscate my baby sow.

I was shocked at the laxness of law enforcement. Clearly I had been caught. The proof was in the squeal! So, I trucked on, staying in the right lane, making sure I not infringe on any other law.

Then I came to view a new road sign. One I had not anticipated. "Weigh Station - All Trucks Pull Over"

Well, my German regimentation gripped me again. I was not driving our station wagon, I was driving my truck. A truck! Period. Not wanting to antagonize the law any further, I dutifully pulled off, along with the eighteen wheelers, onto the weigh station.

I clearly remember, leaning way over to get a look at the fellow high up in the glass tower, to see if he will let me go on with the heavy load on my small pickup. All I saw was a guy, his head almost pressed against the glass, screaming and frantically waving his hands, motioning me on. - - I didn't know you supposed to hit the scales at forty miles per hour speed. There I sat, feeling like a roach that landed on the wrong pile.

We named the pig "Lisl." I built a shelter for her and a fenced-in lot. She wallowed and basked in the Virginia air for more than a year. At over two-hundred pounds she finally filled two shelves in the freezer.
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HORMONES ON THE PROWL

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

None of us had ever heard of a school bus. My sister walked to the same school, but she joined her own friends on the way. The closer one got to school, the more kids were seen walking. My buddy and I mostly stayed a pair.

One girl in our class, named Monika, was a cute fifth grader. She flashed large eyes and slung her curly, dark hair with a come-hither motion. We both must have been struck on her. Moreover, we were quite interested in the showing of her early development to womanhood. Every day we hustled to draw close and walk near her. We knew even at eleven years old, that men who admire the opposite sex do not walk ahead of the girls, but follow so the eye can get its fill.

As we walked close behind we’d crack snide remarks to tease her. She’d turn around and give us a chance to better ogle her noticeably developed front side.

Two young snaps are always braver than one alone. We asked her one day if she stuffed socks in her bra just to show off. Well, that did not set well with her. She got so upset at the insinuation that she approached the teacher and told of the comment we made.

The teacher called us to his desk and asked if the story was true. We confessed, thinking for sure we’d receive the warranted punishment. Keeping a stern face, he simply admonished us not to let it happen again. Monika was not angry with us, she just wanted to set the record straight.

We also trailed Monika walking home. Maybe out of habit, but certainly chemistry may have had something to do with it. We knew we would not be able to keep up an intelligent conversation with a girl that was messing with our mind. So, we stayed about five paces behind. This made us think we were with our girl, and it kept us from making fools of ourselves.

When you are infatuated, you just can’t talk of sports and trucks. The conversations we had in our minds we dare not reveal to the one for whom we had this longing. She was aware of us as we followed and most likely felt very important to have two sprouts interested in her. After she entered her building, we stayed across the street staring at her fourth floor window until she waved at us. Then we went home.
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THE HEADLESS SQUIRREL

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You remember the blog post about my son standing on his mattress with a stethoscope held to the ceiling listening to a beehive in the attic? ("That's My Boy," March 12, 2012.) Well, amazing stuff continues to happen in that family.

After having succumbed to a continuous weasel attack the last time they raised chickens, my son and his family again have decided to get another bunch of chickens. This time they improved the housing and feeding routine to a new level of scientific methods. However, a fox has decided to outsmart their dog and pluck a chicken a week from the flock.

All that said, the chicken feed is stored in a clear plastic washtub and stored in the henhouse. The henhouse fencing now may keep a weasel out, but not the squirrels.

Recently, when feeding time came, the simple activity turned into a backyard disaster. Lo and behold, the see-through feed container contained a squirrel that had chewed its way into the bin. It frantically scooted about inside that container trying to find a way out. As not to confront the varmint inside the coop, the girl feeding the chickens pulled the container into the backyard. This excited the dog into a frantic rage and the squirrel even more into an elevated panic.

When the plastic lid was lifted, the show escalated to a point I would have paid to see it.

The dog jumped into the bin and wrestled the squirmy critter, chicken feed flying in all directions, until the dog had a firm grip on the intruder.

Well, the dog having won the battle, wondered off, with squirrel in mouth, to gloat over his triumph behind the shed.

It wasn't until later in the afternoon, when the dead, headless squirrel appeared on the back deck. Our ever curious three-year-old promptly picked the critter up, and carried it inside the house to show his Momma. The boy, holding the thing by one leg, sashayed into the kitchen, tugged on Mamma's apron, and proudly held his find up for her to appreciate.

At that point a panicked, screeching scream reverberated through the house bringing all occupants to see the cause for the high alarm call. With shattered eardrums, the three-year-old boy dropped the squirrel onto the kitchen floor and ran from the scene.

My son held his wife to keep her from fainting. Their daughter fanned her to catch her breath, their other daughter offered a glass of water. Their son respectfully removed the headless varmint from the floor and pitched it over the backyard fence.

When things settled down, everybody was accounted for except for the three-year-old. Where did he run to? The search posse spread out; to the basement, to the backyard, to the barn, to the bedrooms. No square yard in house or yard was un-searched. Finally, the kid looked up, with frightened eyes, from the corner inside the utility closet.

Whew!

THE SHOELACE MISTERY

What is it with me, or most men? I would say our hangup is we always need to know how things work.

After all, how can we fix it if we don't figure out how it works in the first place.

I've been trying to deal with a problem for at least a half a decade. Don't snicker. It has nothing to do with a part of my anatomy.

The problem I've been dealing with is more of an aggravation. An aggravation that causes me to waste time and energy, and not always in a suitable environment.

I've been irritated by my left shoe's laces coming untied soon after I put the shoe on. Now you say, "What's the big deal?" I tell you the big deal. Once you step on your loose lace, and your kisser hits the ground, you'll know fast that untied shoelaces do not aid to the composure and dapperness of a cool dude. (Which I am by the way; stretch socks and all.)

Like I said, I've been trying to figure out why only the left shoe's lace unties itself. I do the exact same knot in both shoes. I've tied knots the same way since I was old enough to eat my own soup.

I figured since I was right handed I tied my right shoe tighter. No, that wasn't it.

I figured I shoved my foot further into the shoe, leaving space behind at the heel. No, adjusting that didn't work either.

I looked at myself in a full body mirror and figured my left leg was shorter. I bought a Dr. Scholls insert, tried it out for a week––didn't work.

I decided my stride is not the same with both legs. For several days I did the George Jefferson bop. You know, the cool move where your hip dips a bit at every step. Cool you know! No worky either.

I took notice if I walked pigeon toed. Maybe my left foot sticks further out, or in, than the right one? Not that bad, I noticed. Surely not enough to cause the dilemma.

I tried wearing suspenders and even parted my hair on the other side of my head. No change!

Years I squatted to tie my left shoe. I bent over, blocking other people's way, tying my shoe. I quit going to the Y because I was getting plenty of exercise bending down and bobbing up. I constantly had to make sure my shirt didn't come up and reveal my collectable inscriptions on my souvenir drawers.

Well they thought the earth was flat at one time. They didn't give up. And, wow they actually discovered it was round.

Do you think I, a man with my drive, my stick-to-a-tive-ness, and my nit-picking brain would give up?

I found out, by shear dumb revelation, that had I ever been a Boy Scout, I would have solved my predicament long ago.

I tied my right shoelace doing the first half knot over and under. Did the same on my left shoe for years. However, when I finally figured to tie the problem shoe, doing the half knot under and over, all my problems were solved.

Now I can grin and hoof along with the best of them.

THE MANEUVER

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

THE MANEUVER

One maneuver I participated in surely takes the cake.

In the early nineteen-fifties various delivery trucks, plus all parcel-post trucks, were battery powered. Many of the old battery powered vehicles had wooden-spoked wheels with solid rubber tires. A big chain, powered by huge batteries, led to the rear drive wheels. The operator sat up front like in any other motor vehicle.

Many Gasthauses, close to the brewery, had their beer delivered in wooden barrels on a wagon drawn by a pair of Clydesdale horses. The battery powered trucks served the more distant establishments.

On level ground these electric trucks easily outran the horse drawn ones. However, going up an incline, the battery powered vehicles really labored. They slowed down to a point where our walking home from school would be considered fast.

My buddy and I had long observed that the battery powered postal trucks had a pullout step in the rear of the truck. The postman used it to step up and back down to retrieve the parcels. We figured if we could run out into traffic, while the cars behind were held to a crawl, we could pull out that step and get a ride home.

Oh boy! As a kid, things always make so much sense. After all, how in the world could an inquisitive kid think things through if he never partook in any such wonderful experiences?

Then, guess what? The day came when everything fell into place. As we moseyed up an incline heading home from school, we noticed a postal truck holding up traffic as it slowed to master the slight hill. “The postman cometh!” We ran out into traffic, pulled out the step, sat down on it, and grinned. Just the perfect size for two boys with school satchels on their backs. We sat there looking kind of proud and worthy of praise as we faced the cars that followed behind the truck. If the postman knew he had stowaways, we could not tell, nor did we even pondered the risk.

After the hill leveled out the postal truck gained considerable speed, but still slowed down traffic. The road was wide enough for cars to pass, if one wanted to fight the trolley tracks in the middle of the road.

We were doing so good that in no time my pal realized he had to get off. We had zipped past his road. With no time to contemplate, he just jumped off the moving truck. I did not know a twelve-year old could be so acrobatic. When his feet touched the pavement, he immediately went tumbling like a frantic rag doll, as the cars that followed blew their horn.

Well, I still sat there. The vehicle kept gaining speed. Soon I too had to get off. To stay on for the duration, only the Lord knew how many miles to the next stop.

The word inertia was never explained to me. Even if it had, what could I have done about it then . . . looking at the cars following.

I was in the process of moving backward. I’ve seen people jump off still moving trolley cars, but they faced in the right direction when they jumped off.

Well, “There I go.” I also made the jump. A good thing the cars that followed kept considerably more distance since the first chap’s sprawl. I hit the pavement so hard that every bone in me rattled. Flopping around and rolling with the traffic, I came to rest at the edge of the bicycle path. I am sure the cars that followed blew their horns and hollered at me. I did not hear a thing. I crawled up onto the sidewalk, my head in a whirl. After a sobering resting spell I got up, pulled my shirt around so the buttons were again in the front, straightened out my breeches, gathered up my satchel, and slowly dragged myself home.

A Chicken's Funeral

Franz's symbol of wisdom

Recently a bit of local news reached my ear. Not a major story, but in my mind one I could mold into an entertaining tale.

To me a chicken is a farm animal. It does not mix with our flower boxes in front of the house. I don't like the residue they leave on the sidewalk, or the porch. I know the white portion of their droppings does wonders to speed up growth in a young man's mustache. However, I don't need that help any longer.

Several of our neighbors raise chickens for eggs, I never was convinced it is worth it.

To give chickens names and become pets, a whole new understanding comes to mind. I have a hard time understanding folks my age talking to chickens and calling them by their name. I guess it is the same as talking to yourself; at least the eye contact is there. When children talk to animals it gives me a warm feeling. I can see a child squatting to feed Darlene the Hen popcorn. I can also appreciate a young'un wanting a chicken eat part of a biscuit out their hand, or having a conversation with the cackling fowl.

Many-a-youngsters have gone to the henhouse in all kinds of weather to collect the eggs. Kids learn to feed them regularly connecting work with the reward.

Most chicken families start out with a dozen chicks. By the time they raised them to adults, everyone had gotten tired of the stink in the house. When they are introduced to the henhouse the folks soon find out that there are at least four roosters in the bunch. Maybe they keep one rooster. The other three will face one of two characters; 22 or AX.

Now the family is down to eight cluckers. No doubt the fox is going to get his share. Down to seven cluckers. The 'possum and the weasel are on high alert and both are going to win a stake. Down to five cluckers. The neighborhood teenager, texting and driving, is sure to whack one. Now down to four cluckers and one cock bird.

You can see after all this drama that the children now have become attached to the survivors to a point where they not only gave them names, but learned to identify them by their cackle, walk, and color of feathers.

Well, Darlene the hen one day overreached her assigned area. She stretched for a forbidden fruit, slipped, and hung herself in the crotch of a lattice fence. Dead as four o'clock.

I surmise at least one of the three children did a little blubbering. The oldest boy, ever the frugal one, suggested they put her in the crockpot.
"Absolutely not," the mother said. "We don't know how long Darlene has been hanging there."

"Dad! . . . Dad! We have to have a funeral for our faithful family member," Nat bellowed out.
"Okay. Get Jon the shovel, he is old enough to dig the hole," Dad said.
"Not just a hole," Bella the youngest cried. "She was my favorite. Us kids want you, Daddy, to have a funeral for Darlene just like they have at the graveyard at church.

Jon lovingly dug the hole. One foot square and one foot deep.

"A little deeper Jon," Dad said. "Deep enough so a dog won't dig her up."

The sun began to set. The sky shimmered pink and purple. The somber procession to the graveyard began. The deceased was placed in a red hearse. Jon the oldest, eleven years old, slowly pulled the three foot wagon to grave site. The younger children, walking single file, hands clasped, followed. Once at the open grave they sat on three chairs they brought earlier to the gravesite. Smitten and heartbroken they quietly waited for their Dad to begin the service.

"We are gathered here to put Darlene, a faithful friend and member of our family, to eternal rest. As the head of our household I'd like to express my deep condolences to the rest of the brood." Dad reached to his face and, unbeknownst to the others, wiped his smile to again match the solemn occasion.

Dad continued. "At this time I'd like to ask the rest of the family present to say a few words."

"I know you'll be happy again in chicken heaven. I'll miss you," said Bella.
Nat piped up and said, "Thanks for your service."
Jon, the oldest, always with the final word said, "Thanks for the omelets. . . Amen."  

Tobacco - Fun Stuff?

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany around 1946.

WHAT ABOUT CIGARETTES

Many men rolled their own cigarettes long before the GIs came. Few smoked cigars, I guess they were not readily available. Many smoked pipes. The elders of the town showed off their long hanging meerschaum pipes; the younger men much smaller and sportier ones. Cigar stubs found their way into a pipe and totally used until they turned to ashes. Nobody chewed tobacco or dipped the stuff, between cheek and gum, like they do in the United States. 

Snuff, finely ground tobacco, existed and actually was sniffed up the nose. When the need for a dip came, as Beisser Opa called it, he, with greatly exaggerated and somewhat elegant motion, reached for his silver snuff box, which he kept in his left, inner, jacket pocket. 

After he tapped the box with his knuckles to knock off any snuff stuck to the lid, he’d flip it open. With the precision of an orchestra conductor, he removed a pinch between his thumb and two fingers. He then flipped the lid closed with his pinkie finger. Carefully, he’d return his treasured, little box into his breast pocket. All these theatrics were always evident before the pinch of snuff was placed on the backside of his left hand. With great expectation he slowly raised his hand to his nostrils. His head slightly raised, eyes half closed, he gave one good snort up one nostril taking about half the dip, the other nostril likewise received the rest.

Since a kid couldn’t get hold of any real tobacco, we made our own smoking tools and hunted stuff to smoke. 

We began by making our own pipes. Corncobs we never heard of. No one had ever seen or eaten any corn. Where we lived bamboo or reeds did not grow either, but elderberry bushes did. 

We reamed out the elderberry branches’ pithy center for the stem of our pipe. The pithy stuff of the stem was removed with a wire. We shoved the wire through and pulled it back and forth to increase the hollowness of the stem. 

The bowl of the pipe we carved from the thick branch of the elderberry bush reaming it out with our pocket knife. We then drilled a hole in the side of the bowl with the sharp point of the knife and stuck the two parts together. 

The tobacco substitute we decided on, after experimenting with various dried leaves, was that of the horse chestnut. Some smelled a bit better than others. When we tried to inhale it made our eyeballs almost pop out. None of the stuff we smoked tasted good, and all left you spitting for hours. 

Smoke we did––with spit and tears flying in all directions. 

The closest thing in form to a cigarette, or thin cigar, was what we called Judenstrick or Jewish rope. It is the dried vine of a wild grape. A similar vine here in the States is the Virginia creeper and the possum grape vines. 

The vine grew on banks and in gullies. It grew thick, climbing the trees, and often totally covered small bushes. 

The hollow and shaded underside of these mounds of tangled vines made a perfect hideaway for us boys. One such particular hideout was entered by crawling on our bellies. Once inside, the dark and damp made it very private. We only allowed our closest buddies to a secret fort like that; the ones we trusted to keep their mouths shut. Of course, any clandestine operation done in the vine fort would have warranted a whipping from our parents. Smoking was one of these operations. 

The walls and domed ceiling of the hidden den consisted of years of dead vine; all of it good to smoke. All one had to do was reach out with our pocket knife and whack a smoke. The section between knots in the dried vine made the perfect cigarillo. It was porous, and air could be sucked through it. All we had to do was light up one end and sit back. 

The dry vine stayed lit and even sported a little stub of ashes on the end. Just like a real cigarette. We sat around exhibiting various stances and techniques to hold the weed, imitating the grownups and their cigarets. Some folks held theirs between two fingers. Others held their cigarettes in their mouth all the while dodging the smoke from getting into their eyes. We felt grown and quite in control. 

The trouble however, after one or two smokes, the bitterness and smoke of the vine seemed to dry up the saliva glands. The mouth became parched, and the tongue swelled. After we killed our taste buds, we crawled out into the day. If anyone observed a bunch of boys hanging around the water pump, coughing, spitting, they sure knew what we had been up to.

So, then the GIs came to town. They held their smokes with thumb and two fingers, the lighted end facing in. They flipped their cigarette butts all over and created in us an urge to do some real smoking. All we had to do is circle the squad tents and gather all the cigarette butts without looking like chickens picking beans. You might say we boys were in butt heaven.

We were not the only ones to sheepishly pick up the discarded butts. I believe the older boys and even some grownups did the hunt and gather mode as well. With four of us boys collecting butts, we soon had a small tin can full of loose tobacco. 

Since none of us were allowed to be caught with this taboo substance, we decided to bury the tin can in our secret hideaway. We set a date, a non-school day, for the great Bavarian Smoke In. 

A week or so later, the day of all days arrived. Plenty of the real stuff buried and ready. All the practicing we did finally will be tested. The occasion is surely going to elevate us into the world of manhood. 

I remember sitting in a circle in our secret den, each one of us prepared, with either pipe or roll-your-own paper. Matches were on hand and ready to start the grand experience. We unearthed the tin can and carefully pried open the lid. All eager eyes strained to stay focused on that metal box. The box holding the long sought treasure. The lid popped off. What? . . . A strange, fuzzy haze of light blue and green stared back at us. Our much heralded stash had totally molded––grown a green beard! 

I have never longed for another smoke since that day.

Nickolaus And His Knecht

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This is an amplified story from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making Of An Immigrant"

A Picture Out Of My Book

 NICKOLAUS AND HIS KNECHT (Helper)

Practically every day on the calendar the catholics honor a saint designated to that day. If your name is the same as the saint's, you celebrated your Name Day. 

December the sixth is Saint Nickolaus’ day. The German celebration has nothing to do with Christ Jesus and His birthday. Activities of honoring St. Nick are a bit unusual and is not related to what is call Christmas in the America. 

In my younger days Saint Nick visited family homes on December 6. We didn't have malls or television, so the only way a kid got to see this colorful character, bearded and royally cloaked, is when parents thought it worthy to either reward or punish their children. Let me tell you what I mean.

Saint Nick is always dressed in a red coat with white cuffs. He wears a tall hat like the Pope would during certain religious festivities. He walks with a tall staff in one hand and is proud of his long white beard. He has a sack over his shoulders with goodies in it. 

When Saint Nick comes to visit on the evening of the sixth, he asks the parents for a report on the behavior of the children during the previous year. If the child is deserving, it may get some cookies, apples, nuts or rock candy, along with a little admonishment to strive to be an even better person the coming year. 

To have a Saint Kick come to ones house, parents visited a local Gasthaus where men, wearing St. Nick outfits, were gathered and waited to be hired. 

However, for the kids who really needed a bit of reprimand, St. Nick’s helper, Knecht Rupprecht, would have to come along. This Knecht Rupprecht doled out the deserved punishment. 

Oh this Knecht, he is an ugly, bent over, mean-looking creature. He wears a sackcloth mantle over his shoulders and a crude rope tied around his waist. His hair is dark and scraggly. He is marked with dark shadows under his beady eyes and has a deep frown extending down from each side of his mouth. A long and heavy chain, which he drags on the ground behind him, introduces him as the coming of doom. He snorts and grunts and makes eerie noises as he comes up the front walkway, or up the steps to pay a visit. 

I recall one night in the mid 1940s, when our little family visited the home of a friend with two daughters in their mid teens. During our friendly and jovial visit a terrifying commotion outside the house suddenly pierced my ear and heart as Knecht Rupprecht approached the shut front door. St. Nick had to restrain his Knecht from totally going mad and breaking down the door. My sister and I shivered. We vowed never to do anything wrong again as long as we lived. We did not want to face this evil creature. 

After a brief report from the girls' mother, the Knecht stomped and smacked his wooden switch to the floor. He chased the giggling girls around the house and into the bedroom. Soon the calamity subsided. The girls received their reward. I, however, could not understand the disrespect these girls had for an individual of such authority. 

I also remember on one such night when a young boy, a little older than me, still having respect for “authority” was rewarded with Rupprecht's whipping cane. After the good salting the naughty boy found himself stuffed in Knecht Rupprecht’s sack. The Knecht, grunting and mumbling, carried the boy into the night several hundred yards from the boy’s house. After the boy was shaken from the sack into the deep snow in the woods, he received additional stern warnings and told to find his way back home. I bet the boy changed his clothes from the inside out after that ordeal!

The Flying Outhouse

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THE FLYING OUTHOUSE  (A story out of my book) 

As I got a little older and bolder, I was allowed to fully use the grownup’s throne room, a medieval masterpiece. 

From the backyard, it looked like a pair of giant bird houses stuck, high up, to the outside of the building. The “flying outhouse” precariously clung to the stone walls in the corner of the Gasthaus and the stable wing. An enclosed wooden shaft extended down fifteen feet to almost ground level. The double outhouse, a two-seater wooden structure, faced north. Inside, a couple of vertical boards partitioned the two perfectly round cut-outs. That partition displayed the only decoration in the room, a wire hook. To keep this hook filled with little squares of newspaper was my assignment. 

We entered the Johnny house from our front hall. The first seat on the left, in this most private chamber, was ours to use. The second seat was used by a man who we never got to know. He lived in an apartment over the Gasthaus about fifty feet from ours. Mother advised to gently knock on the privy door, no matter the degree of urgency, before we bounded in. We never bothered him when he used his assigned throne, and he never bothered us. He never spoke, so we shied away and hid from him. This went on for over five years until we moved. 

Our half of the throne room became a subject of study to me. The shaft, being in a corner of the buildings caught every breeze, as well as raging winter gusts, and amplified them up the shaft. My derriere was not enhanced enough to cover the entire opening on that wooden box. Needless to say, in times of excessive upward drafts, I did not linger. Often, sudden gusts caused the lighter liquid to splash back up. 

The wiping became a science not taught by the elders but by the physics of the situation. Usually the first wipe would force one to make the appropriate adjustment. You knew it was no use trying to fight the wind and the laws of nature when the used paper refused to go down into the hole, but rather stick to you or float around in the room. One soon learned to collect the used paper in one hand and when finished jump off the box, pants around the ankles, and face the hole. The next move took precision. With the free hand you'd grab the knob of the large wooden lid, and with a closely timed movement, pitch the handful of used paper down the shaft while quickly closing the lid. Now, as I said, the timing had to be very precise. If you slammed the lid down too fast, you would smash your hand on the way out of the hole. Conversely, if you were too slow, with your face now straight over the opening and the draft blowing up, you might wind up doing a little dance to get away from the airborne soiled papers. 

In less turbulent moments, I lingered on that seat and watched the drama of the great spider in the little window. The glass panes were long gone, so the spider could monitor the comings and goings of every fly. The drama of life and death in that window was great entertainment for a little boy. I don’t think I have ever seen a movie that surpassed it. 

The johnny house became a sanctuary to me, as it was and always will be to every man. A place to ponder, to think things out, a headquarters for inspiration and long range planning. Now sixty years later, blessed with a family and a business of my own, it is still the only board I ever sat on; . . . the one with a hole cut in it.

The medieval masterpiece continued to contribute to life during those times. Over the years, the pit just below the shaft had gotten full and overflowed. Its collection, with rain water from the roofs, oozed along the north wall and directly below our bedroom window. It was a shaded back yard and the murky substance mostly seeped into the ground along that back wall. During the wet season, however, the seepage moved further on and caught the walls of the stables. It then turned right onto a sunny area where Mom was allowed to have a garden spot. Ah, the bureaucrats of this day and age could have hyped and regulated over such a situation, but we grew cabbage!

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