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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The Washington Butterflies

The Washington Butterflies. What a beautiful, politically correct name for a football team.

You must admit that nobody will be offended by the name. Just think there are enough attributes to the butterfly so every player on the team would be able to emulate at least one.

I can see the football team's players want to flutter like butterflies. Happily dance like them. Butterflies float in the breeze. They are endowed with beautiful colors. They tenderly land on flowers as not to hurt them. Butterflies are not aggressive. They don't need protective gear for they all love each other.

Wouldn't you want to pay $75 to see a football team with an attitude that matches their politically correct name? THE BUTTERFLIES––gentle, soft, all loving.

What fun to sit with people all dressed in pinks and purples, slathered with sunscreen and sipping only 8 oz size drinks.

DO YOU KNOW WHY THEY CALLED THEM THE WASHINGTON REDSKINS in the first place?
Because it is an honor to be called a Redskin.

The American Indian is fearless. He has proven to withstand whatever nature throws at him. The American Indian is a warrior. He is strong, cunning and aggressive. He is tough, rugged and resilient.

A football team named The Indians is a refection of their prowess. It is a man thing––after all, we are talking about a man's game.

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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Racism

Racism

I think our government is the worst offender, and perpetrator of this farce called Racism.

Every government form you have to fill out asks of your race. I have started to enter “American” and no one has ever challenged me; yet.

After all, If just one of my ancestors, back in the 1700s, were to be a Chinese, would I be an Oriental. According to our government I would be. I base this on the fact that no matter how long ago a person who had an African ancestor, that person is always registered as Black. I know many so called Blacks who are whiter in skin color than my folks back in Germany and they are still referred to as Black in this country.

This is a game. A vicious game by politicians to keep animosity stirred. The point is, if you are in a so-called Minority there are benefits due to you. All you have to do is keep that “Chip On Your Shoulder” and you qualify.

Would it not be nice if all American citizens simply be called Americans. Then all other classes could be identified as either Visitors, Guest Workers, Illegals, etc.

One of the fallouts of keeping racism alive is the dumbing down of white men. Just notice, whenever a commercial needs a jerk in the add, it is always a white guy. Whenever a commercial needs a clueless guy, it is a white guy. Whenever a fat slob is needed, it is a white guy. If fat kid is pointed out, it is always a fat white kid. It even goes to the extent of showing a white guy breaking into a house on a Home Security commercial. You know why the ad agencies choose whites. They can’t cry “Racism.”

So, I challenge our government to call all Americans “Americans” and do not classify anyone by race.

Just think, if the Media were not allowed to call, or differentiate, simply by color of skin. Or, if it were illegal while taking a survey, or a census, to ask your race? The Government would be able to lay off a gazillion folks who just play with those numbers. 

It would shut up the race mongers and keep them from stuffing their pockets. It would mend the division of Americans. It would keep politicians from catering to certain folks while antagonizing others. I think America would be a better place if describing the looks of people by race were illegal.

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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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The Perfect Wind Ensemble

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 Perfect Wind Ensemble

The following year, I was selected to yet another, and different summer camp. Nuns managed the camp and took care of us.

The place we slept in was different from where we napped. I remember this camp well. Nuns took our temperature under the arm and not the more intrusive way to which I had been accustomed.

Because of an outbreak of mumps, five of us boys were quarantined in one room for a while. So, how do five boys pass time during a quarantine?

During such a time, and the close-knit camaraderie with the other four boys, I learned that flatulence was considered funny. Naturally, each of us in that room wanted to be the funniest. Contests to determine a winner were regularly held.

To counter boredom, we selected players and scorekeepers to judge teams consisting of two boys against the other two. The fifth boy was appointed to keep score. We rotated players and judges so all could get into the competition. Acceptable outbursts were scored in goals. A given timeframe was chosen, much like a soccer tournament.

Much twisting and grunting dominated the event. The scorekeeper had to show keen discernment between a real goal and one fabricated by other means. Accidents did happen––which resulted in frequent trips to the privy.

I learned during those educational times, that the desired noise can quite accurately be duplicated. This is done by placing a cupped hand under the armpit, and then quickly pressing the arm inward. With a little practice, the desired sound always erupted. Well, such learning was considered a magnificent achievement for all five of us. We practiced those joyous sounds until we sounded like the perfect five-piece wind ensemble.

Our wisdom expanded and we even came up with a ten piece orchestra. We learned that by spitting into our palms to dampen them, we could lie on our backs, place a cupped hand under each of our knees and pedal our legs; similar to the pumping of a bicycle. This combined effort filled the room with triumphant music that fed uproarious laughter and giggles. . . .Thank God for the mumps.

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.”