NEW BOOTS

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.

                                             NEW BOOTS

During the summer of 1955, after I started working at a printing plant and earned a few dollars, I found myself in need of a new pair of shoes. If there were any discount stores then, I sure did not know about them. The only shoe store I knew about was downtown Metuchen.

My English was very limited then. Fortunately, the words Schuh and shoe were pronounced the same way in German as in English. I had a time trying to tell the salesman that I wanted to buy work boots. Work boots would do fine in summer and winter. I wanted to buy them bigger than my fifteen-year-old feet measured. I needed boots that would last and I would eventually grow into. This request seemed totally foreign to the man. He may have thought I was a bit dense. Several times I got the impression that he wished I had never come into his store.

At long last, after many gestures, looks, and waving of the arms, I settled for a pair of hefty, leather boots. By using his fingers on both hands he showed me, the cost of the selected boots was twenty-three dollars. I, in turn, showed off my English, also with the support of my fingers, that I only had eighteen dollars. He then motioned that he would keep them in a corner until next week when I then would pay him the balance.

I gestured and stammered back at him that I wanted to take the boots with me. The hardest thing for the sales clerk to understand was that I just offered eighteen dollars––total. All the money that I had to my name. It was all I was going to pay him. He then summarized the deal on a sales ticket. He asked where I worked, jotted that down, and now was ready for me to sign on the dotted line.

When I looked, I saw that he added the five dollars difference in the deal, listing it separately as a balance due. Well, I was not born yesterday. I pointed at the amount due and shook my head; a firm “No.” Taking his pen into my hand, I motioned for him to scratch out the five bucks due and he’d have a deal. In frustration, he raised his arms, then scribbled out the five on the bill-of-sale. I dug out my eighteen dollars and laid them on the counter.

What he muttered, I do not know. He most likely told me to take the blame shoes and get on out of his store. Not waisting any more time I was out of there, shoes firmly under my arm, and debt free.

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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Catalytic Combustion

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I wrote a post on methane gas not long ago. Suggesting to trap methane and use as fuel in vehicles or even hot water heaters.

Canisters of natural gas are in use now. If the government would get out of the way, we'd have a much cleaner fuel to burn in our cars.

Human inventiveness is endless, especially when the going gets tough.

Inventors have tackled unburned smoke in wood stoves by recirculating the smoke. We have one of these stoves. It is amazing how the unburned smoke ignites the second time around. Sometimes the extra combustion raises the lid on the stove.

This theory was discovered long ago and put to use in the early 1940s when fuel for motor vehicles was nonexistent. How does one run a truck or bus then?

You build a vehicle that has a wood stove on board.

I've seen cars modified with their trunk lid removed and a stove place in the trunk.

As kid in the mid 40s, I had an opportunity to see a traveling colony of Lilliputians coming through our nearest train station, about 5 miles away. All us kids got a ride. I remember the man firing up a truck using the smoke from a pot bellied stove in the back. He stoked the fire, ran to the front of the truck and cranked the handle. Over and over he stoked and cranked. Finally the truck coughed and started to idle. We were on our way. See this story and many more in my book. 


What I didn't know until recently, is that Germany actually built buses with wood stoves built in. Check out the picture and the caption below.

Try the caption below.

Here is my translation:

Vornag-Generator-Omnibus
A motor craft vehicle during the times when motor fuel, (diesel and gasoline) was not available. -- Generated wood gas was used as combustable fuel during the war and early years following. -- Stove to generate wood gas on board. -- Vehicle built in 1941.

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Paper Snippets Art

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Paper patches

Recently a friend of mine posted an artist's amazing work on Facebook. The artist used snippets and patches cut from newspapers and magazines to create his unique motifs. One of which is below.

I showed some of our grandchildren this ingenious and frugal way to create a masterpiece.

I threw the old Sunday paper and a couple of magazines on the table, along with four glue sticks, and challenged the kids to create.

The instructions were to start with the eyes then let their creative juices flow. It is amazing to me how their minds worked differently.

God made no snowflakes alike. Everyone that has ever come down out of the sky was different. As also He made us. All special. 

How to keep children busy, and away from the everlasting, dominating digital world, should be a priority for all parents and grandparents.

The challenge is shown above. A portrait created with printed paper snippets.

Start with the eyes. above is by a seven year old. Below is by a ten year old. Cut, whack, glue, get'er done was the zeal. You notice the patches getting bigger the further they got away from the eyes.

Some kids are the contrary'ns. instead of building from the eyes, they encased the eyes. this twelve year old showed the joy in her life and in doing the project.

And then there is the fastidious fourteen year old. She spent hours during several art sessions, plugging away at the design she had envisioned. Hundreds of patches, some with intriguing subject, created her shapes. Instead of creating a face, she gave a tree a dominating and comander-like power.

A close-up here shows the patient and thoughtful blend of matching tones. The snippets did not get bigger as her design spread out. Her strength is in the perseverance in achieving a goal.

Parents, . . . a fifty cents glue stick and old magazines can teach patience, attention span, as well as show you the strength of each child and their different personalities.

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Mayonaise Pancakes

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Give this post a chance. Don't look like the lama.

To say my mother was frugal is an understatement. Granted during the hard times after WWII she had to be. There was no other choice. Every crumb was eaten. We didn't have a fridge. So, to test whether something was too far gone to eat, you simply smelled it, or looked at it to see if it started to grow fuzz.

Even after we came to this country in 1955, she continued to "re-issue" various leftovers. She would create whole new meals. Most of them having no gourmet title, but were simply called hash.

Mother also saved the grease. Every drop of frying lard wound up in a crock that had its permanent spot on the back of the stove. It didn't matter if chicken was fried or fish. She also poured the bacon grease in that crock.

To make a cake, most recipes call for either butter or lard, or other shortening. To mother grease is grease. She made a walnut/raisin cake using the abundant stash in the crock. To say the least, the cake tasted like bacon.

Now my theory.

I always thought the "sell by date" stamped on everything is a marketing ploy. For instance, how can buttermilk get out of date when it takes sharp cheddar cheese two years to get good? Duh . . . the cheese stars with buttermilk curds!

The same thing with blue cheese salad dressing. Even tin cans have a date on them. Remember, milk was good until it smelled blinky? Someone didn't have to tell us.

Well, the mayonaise in our fridge was over half full, but two months "out of date." It didn't smell bad. It had no mold. Therefore good to eat.

I wanted pancakes for breakfast. My wife said, "We have no milk or buttermilk in the house."
"Oh but we have mayonaise!" I said.
"I'm not eating any of them," she said. "Not if you're thinking of using that outdated stuff."

Into the bowl went: one egg, 1/2 cup of mayo, 1 1/2 cups of self rising flour, a pinch of salt, a dash of vanilla extract, a flat teaspoon of baking powder, a spoon of sugar, a teaspoon of "fiber", and fresh black coffee to get the proper consistency.

I tell you what. I could not tell the difference from any other pancakes I ever made before. Maple syrup over them . . . yum, yum!

I often think of hungry people rummaging on rubbish heaps, looking for morsels to eat. I see children with hollow eyes and swollen bellies. I know it is a sin to waste food. I'm determined to consume what the Lord has provided before it becomes waste.
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Burn Pile or Kindling?

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I'm not a pack rat, but to me EVERYTHING has value. My mother instilled in me not to waste.

I had stored a 2x12, in my basement shop in Bedford, that dated back to 1982. I had cut an arch out of it so the mason could use it as a guide to lay bricks to span a display window in the old B&B Printing building. Not long ago I needed a short 2x8, and after twenty-five years, that old arched piece of wood, good and seasoned, did the trick.

While our cabin was being built, much wood was thrown unto the burn pile. Bowed boards, split boards, cupped boards, bruised boards, boards too short, boards cut wrong, boards that had weathered and boards with mud on them.

Now, my option with that huge pile in Floyd was to burn it, or pay the backhoe man to burry it. Neither  option sat well with me. . . I got off my duff and made use if it.

My table saw turned into a sawmill.

For two days I dragged the usable stuff to the basement. The leftover logs, braces and other timbers I cut into 2x4s. . . It made a truckload of good lumber.

The trim that came off the boards presented a new option, kindling or burn?
If I burn the stuff, I need to reseed the grass. . . So more kindling it was.

A wheelbarrow full of small stuff.

How much need does a man have for kindling? This pile, still at the edge of the woods, got to be brought under cover before winter.

In the winters of 1944-45-46-47-48-49, with that pile, we could have stayed up in the evenings a little longer, instead of having to crawl into bed to keep from freezing to death.

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What Happened to the Brownbaggers?

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What happened to brown bags? I know, they all vanished. What I mean is, do you remember when people went to work, EVERYDAY, carrying a brown bag and a thermos? Folks then didn't worry about prestige. The money of not going out to lunch was put in the kiddy.

People used to cook. . . Remember, COOKING!  Cooking for leftovers. Leftovers that could be sliced, like a pork roast or meatloaf. All our kids carried lunch boxes to school. Snoopy, Charley Brown or Skoobydo lunch boxes.

I guess it is more fashionable now to complain about the school cafeteria's food, than whip out a p-butter sandwich.

No long ago I read a story of a couple in New York, doing the Brownbagging thing. They both had upscale jobs and could afford to eat out. For years they had eaten out every lunch and dinner, plus weekends. At their apartment they sported the most modern kitchen, stainless appliances, marble tops, indirect lighting, the works.

Their goal was to quit eating out for one year. The bottom line, they saved over $40,000.

Now I know you don't live in New York, but if you were to add it up, the both of you probably do at least $5,000 worth of eating out.

I know, I know, you are adding to the town's economy. . . . HOW MUCH ARE YOU ADDING TO YOUR RETIREMENT ACCOUNT?


We started our business in the basement of the house. After moving it to town, and after the sons joined the firm, we still sat together at lunchtime like we had done since they were born.
"What are we having for supper?" Our kids used to asked every day coming home from school. At least two or three times a week the answer would be, "We're cleaning out the frig."


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Let's Soak Some Beans

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Hey folks! Hard times may stay awhile.
Have you soaked some beans lately? Have you cooked for leftovers lately?

Years ago, old Johnny F. visited our church. He wasn't a regular church goer, but we were glad he came.

He lived on East Main and knew where our place of business was. Toward the end of the month, money often got tight. He'd come by and kindly ask for help. Sometimes it was for kerosine and other times he needed to fill his belly. We did not mind helping. Been there myself.   See "A Time And Place, The Making of an Immigrant"

I remember the last time, before Johnny died, I brought some sacks of vittles to his house. It was a drafty old house. A pretty young girl, late teens, was also there playing with her young child. His great-grandbaby he said. I pulled from the bags can goods, bread and other staples. Among them was a large bag of dried pinto beans.

"What's that?" the girl said.

That question has never left me. After seeing POVERTY in several third-world countries, it shocked me to realize that a most inexpensive and nutritious staple was not a means to make it to the next check. A bowl of beans or rice, once a day, is what most of the world survives on.

Now you can elevate a bowl of beans, slow cooked with a hunk of country ham, to a status of supreme. Add a handful of chopped raw onions, a hunk of buttered cornbread in one hand an a soupspoon in the other, and you're ready to go to town. Yum. Yum. Wash it all down with a tall glass of buttermilk, it doesn't get any better.

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