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.

SOME GOOD SIZED RATS

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.

SOME GOOD SIZED RATS

In the front hall, under the attic stairway, we stored dozens of bundles of kindling wood. When grandfather was not visiting, either mom or I chopped the collected twigs into kindling in the backyard. The bundles were tied with green, flexible fir boughs and schlepped upstairs to the front hall.
We soon learned that the piles of kindling provided an excellent place for rats to build nests.

Those grey varmints sure got aggressive when the bundles of kindling were moved and their nesting places were disturbed. I remember one particularly large joker bounded out of the woodpile and darted around the front hall. Mother went after him and clubbed him to death with the straw broom, but not before he ran up the walls in big semicircles. She sent me to fetch the dust pan, which was not a dainty one. I held the pan while she swept the dead rat onto it. The thing was as wide as the pan, and its entire tail hung over the edge of the pan. We politely pitched him out the window. He landed in front of the stables where Mr. Beier had a chance to contemplate its beauty. (Mr Beier was the landlord who refused to sell us milk for my twin sisters.)

The rats never diminished. Through holes in the wall they came down from the attic and elsewhere, they seemed to prefer our kindling stacks as nesting places. I venture to say, it was a bit warmer in our front hall than in the cold attic, and safer than in the stalls below where weasels and owls had a chance at them.

Mother did not fancy getting her fingers snatched by a rat when she removed a bundle of kindling. She thought it necessary, when the kindling pile began to dwindle and the rat con- centration intensified, to borrow a friend’s Ger- man Shepherd dog. We kept the dog in the front room for a week, and supplemented his diet of rats with fresh bowls of water. However, during the following summer, as the kindling pile be- gan to grow tall, oodles of rats once again built their nests under the attic stairway.
I don't remember ever having mice. I guess the rats ate them for dinner.

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The Blood Turns To Gravy

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.

After we celebrated the coming of the Christ Child we tackled the Christmas goose the next day. The meat, gravy, stuffing, and dumplings easily lasted the week and until midday of New Year’s Eve.
The special evening meal for New Year’s Eve was the Gansjung that had been marinating for a week.

-------

Now, that pot of blood, mentioned in my earlier post, with its delectable additions, was destined to become the New Year’s Eve meal. Before the lid went on the pot a week ago, Mom added a good cup of vinegar, salt, bay leaves, a couple of sliced onions, celery leaves, fresh carrots, parsley, and plenty of peppercorns. This special concoction had marinated in our cold bedroom until the appointed day when all was brought to a boil and left to simmer till done. 

Mom put aside the morsels (the neck, kidneys, gizzard, the goose feet) that had marinated for a week, then strained the blood. In so doing, she separated the spices from the sauce. To achieve the desired thickness of the blood based sauce, Mother added flour, brought it and its morsels to a boil until ready.

On New Year’s Eve the feast was complemented with Semmelknödel (bread dumplings), cabbage, and boiled sugar beets. This Bavarian delicacy was called Gansjung (young goose), a perfect extension and finale of the holiday season.––

Good luck and Happy New Year!

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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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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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After Thirty-two Years

After Thirty-two Years

It has been a long time since I picked up an artist’s brush and painted just for the fun of it. 

Thirty-two years ago, I felt I had to establish myself as an accomplished artist. I do not know if I ever made that rank, but my name went out, won several first place awards at art shows, and received the recognition I sought. When my name got into the local paper the name of my new business, B&B Printing and Advertising, also made it. 

My pen and ink drawings became the sought-after draw for advertising in real estate brochures, and line drawings found there place on countless church bulletin covers. All were printed by the new printer in Bedford.

This, my first try at painting for years shows, if nothing else, that I’m stale at it. I set out to achieve a more impressionistic look. I found myself falling into a traditional style.

The wall above the fireplace, at the cabin, needed something big and dramatic.

During the day, the lighting from the sun, or cloudiness, makes the painting evolve and bursts into colors.

Some of the detail reveals my attempt at impressionism. The opposites are there, golds vs deep blues, pinks vs bright greens, but not loose enough.

I made the frame and plan to change scenes. I plan to paint a winter scene, and one of spring. Maybe even some of our favorite places Carol and I have visited. 

Retirement is good. Now that I have fewer building projects planned, I can now get back to painting.

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My Old Horse

I put my old work truck out to pasture. A sad day for any old thing. 

That old truck used to rear-up when he saw a new, cute F150 prancing down the road. To greet those prissy chicks, the old boy did a wheelie to show his stuff that was packed into his undercarriage. 

The old boy used to rev his power waiting for the red light to give the go-ahead. My pal carried mulch, sand, fertilizer, lime, bricks, cement, blocks, pavers, and gravel. He lugged timbers of all sizes. He was not ashamed to have hauled 12 foot 2x10s that proudly stuck out the back of the old boy. The more weight the better. Often the stuff was held down with a dozen 3/4 inch 4x8 sheets of plywood. The old boy didn’t mind getting his lid scratched transporting 16 foot boards on his roof. He would schlepp, pull, tug, push, drag, and never worry about his factory chrome decorations. Those add-ons were once to entice the buyer and the ladies.  

My friend dragged many-a-loads of brush and sticks to the gully. He dragged trailers, trees and stuck cars. He pulled himself out of ditches like a wild stallion. 

A scratch here and there, a ding or dent didn’t make him sob and pout. He is tough. He didn’t need a garage to protect his sturdy and muscular shape. “Pine sap, rain, ice and snow gives a guy character––window dressing,” the old boy called it. 

Now he’s old. He still has good lungs and torque. Poor thing got pushed aside. A new power horse has entered the family. Much younger, shiny, without dings or scratches. The new stallion is “equipped.” Whatever that means. Auto this, and auto that. It even has a well spoken female hiding somewhere under the hood that occasionally spouts of and leads the gullible driver around like a piglet on a leach.

“My manhood may be dried up,” the old boy says. “I’ll show them. I’ll be hauling firewood, logs and other stuff that the new and prissy thing will frown on doing. I’ll show them. I may be old, but I’m still a horse.”

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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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."  

ATTACKED BY NATURE

ATTACKED BY NATURE

Being attacked by nature is a challenge. A challenge that has been present since the beginning of mankind. 

Insects attack plants. Plants die and replenish the soil; a good thing. Animals each follow their own cycle.

I consider myself blessed to having lived long enough to find being attacked by animals not only a challenge, but a joy. I’m not attacked by them personally, but in a way that makes me want to outsmart the critters.

I may be able to outsmart the critters, but I’m certainly not smart enough outsmarting the forces of nature. That part is the Almighty’s doing, and I respect that.

Nature bows down in gratitude for the blessings from above.

Nature submits to the One that directs all.

When the squirrels first chewed the lid of the bird feed barrel and shoved it to the side, I placed a rock on the lid. The mice said to the squirrel, “Hey dummies, look at my hole, I can still get my share!”

I smiled and let them have the little they eat.

Then spring sprung, the ground warmed, peonies sprouted. They sprouted just under the bird feeder. Turkeys came along and scratched for morsels that had dropped from the feeder. In their exuberance they wiped out most of the new peony sprouts. I smiled and placed a few stones around the shoots.

The deer not meaning any harm survived the winter’s sparseness by plucking a few morsels from the evergreens near the cabin. Do I really think the Good Lord wants those plants to die? Nah. I smiled and said to myself, “They’ll only get bushier. I may place a net over them next winter.

Then the neighborhood beaver wiggled itself into our pond. He perused the setup and decided that the two year old willow tree would make a good snack. I smiled and said to myself, “I’ll get another one and plant it in the same spot, but I’ll wrap it in chicken wire and see if he’s game enough to use the wire for a little dental floss.”

Well, we did see bear tracks before. That always makes one feel they're living back in the 1800s. 

First we saw the bird feeder on the ground. “Strange,” we thought. No high wind swepped the mountains since the last time we came to the cabin. I was sure I’d mounted the feeder high enough off the ground as not to get whopped by a bear, but there it was, spent, empty. . . .I smiled.

My smile turned to a gasp when I walk around to the deck. There was sprawled the smoker, (my birthday present) all over the deck. “Maybe we did have a little wind after all.” I said to Carol.

“Wind––my foot,” I shouted when I saw the paw marks on top of the grill cover. Good thing the pine pollen gave the culprit away. Without the pollen, no evidence of a bear would have been positively found. The grill stands four feet of the floor. The paw marks obviously showed the brute was taller than the grill; and also tall enough to smack the bird feeder. I smiled. Case solved.

At least we don’t have to deal with evil, rebellious, self-serving, man living in the woods.

This well known creature no longer has the guts to accept the challenges offered and directed by the Almighty. 

Ear Buds vs Tree Buds

In the past I've made statements like, "I remember when one could hear a bee buzz twenty feet away and could not see it. Today one can see a bee three feet away and cannot hear it."

It is not only the drone of incidental noise in the air that contributes to not hearing, but also loud music, home entertainment, and being self-absorbed in gratifications.

"Stop and smell the roses," has more than one meaning. I know one can bend over and smell a rose, but does anyone see it for its beauty. The same for running, stop, take a deep breath and actually commune with God's creation.

A jogger may run right past blooming dogwoods and simply say,"Ah, nice white." Then just keep moving on.

As we run through life we miss the beauty that is free to see and enjoy. We run with our head down afraid to make eye contact as not to be forced to engage in a greeting, and Lord forbid, a conversation.

Look what one can see if we only slowed enough to walk:

All of a suden we see a painting, a composition, hear a tune in your heart. You have switched from self to something outside of yourself. Realizing you say, "What about that!"

Gee . . . you've stopped running. Now you've made eye contact with nature, a non-threatening image. An image one can easily smile at. You feel free - at ease. You realize this is what is missing in your life. "Be still and know that I am God . . . Ps 46:10" The Scripture says.

Uninhibited, you will want to get close. You will absorb something into your soul that has not entered for selfish reasons. You are open. "Speak to me," you say. 

So is it with God. Quit running, dismantle yourself, and listen.

Why Shoes

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.

WHY SHOES

Along with scarred and banged-up knees came tough, little bare feet. We wore shoes only in the winter. I never had a pair of boots to wear when sleigh riding or building forts and snowmen. My knitted socks kept me warm only until the snow around the ankles melted, saturating my socks and shoes with freezing water. I had so much fun, but it seemed like I always had to quit the fun stuff early, not because I was tired, but because my feet were about to freeze off. 

My shoes were always either too big or too small. When my shoes were too big, Mom had me stand on cardboard as she traced my feet with a pencil. She then cut out the shape and put the cardboard inside the brogans, sometimes two or three layers, to fill them enough so the laces would tighten. I stuffed wool balls or old rags into the toe area to keep the feet from sliding forward. 

I never had a pair of new shoes. If there was a shoe store in town, I sure did not recall one. Where the used shoes came from was not discussed. As I got a bit older I wore mother’s old ones. If the sole had holes, which was often the case, a piece of stout material was slipped under the cardboard on the inside. As my feet grew and the shoes were still usable, spacers were removed one at a time. 

The Sunday-go-to-church shoes did not wear out. Year after year the same pair was shined and worn to church. Once the toes became cramped, I simply balled them up and walked kind of pigeon-toed until back home when the feet were liberated again. In any case, with Sunday shoes on, you did not and could not do much running.

Summer time was when you got your bare feet in shape. Nothing was hard enough to hurt the bottoms. We took great pride in the toughness of our soles. We tested them on new gravel doing a stationary run and seeing how far we could sling the rocks backward with our feet. 

Another boy-thing we did for fun, was the dirt slide. Sliding down on our backsides of the Lederhose was fun, but taking a running jump and sliding down an almost vertical mud track on your bare feet was tough. For sure, after a good rain, the wet soil really added speed. However, climbing back up the bank on the slippery mud was a bit slower. 

We tested walking on shattered glass, but only when someone dared you to do it.

As always, we waited longingly for the days to grow longer and the snows to be gone from the well-travelled paths. To be bare footed again was a springtime dream. 

Ah, what a welcomed sight, when a couple of boys spotted a horse drawn wagon coming our way. I can still see the beasts laboring up the incline to reach the town’s center. Even while a long way off, we craned our necks to see if a generous pile of horse apples had been left behind. Most often however, such a pile, still steaming with warmth, was left sitting in the center of town; a treat just for the taking. 

We'd run and lovingly step into the warmth, sort of kneading the fluffy droppings with our toes. The juice oozed between our toes and feet as we worked to find the last pockets of warm spots. No wonder we had such growth spurts in the spring. 

Never An End To Projects

Never An End To Projects.

What does a man do in his retirement? 
Well, . . . have wood, . . . will build!

I have a treasure of 100 year old wood in an old house on our place in Floyd County. Plenty of American extinct chestnut, oak, pine, walnut and other woods that no one can identify.

To the project list below, you can add two vanities, an end table, and numerous other doodads like backscratchers, napkin holders, tissue boxes, cutting boards, serving trays, condiment holders, and stuff.

We used the wood to furnish and finish the new cabin.

After months and months of tearing out the wood, we spent months of pulling out old nails, and scraping crud from the joints. 

The old house, my quarry for wood.

Heart pine in bedroom

Random width chestnut on floor. Buffet same wood

Buffet top

Dining trestle table. 42"x92". Chestnut top, oak bottom

Night stands in the making. Chestnut wood

Kitchen cabinets. Chestnut wood

Kitchen cabinet detail wood. Wormy American chestnut, now extinct.

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