Ice Cream Loving German Shepherd

My family had a long-standing Christmas/New Year tradition of having supper with our dear friends, Betty and Benny.  She was a superb cook, and they loved to entertain. Going to their house was a special treat. They kept a guest book, replacing it as the old one's filled up with the people they had entertained. It was fun to read the comments about the delicious food and congenial company.

They also observed their upbringing by praying before meals. At an earlier dinner party when several couples were present for a celebration, Benny returned thanks as usual. Everyone respectfully bowed their heads, expecting him to thank God for His many blessings.  Instead, to our surprise, he said, "Bless this bunch while we crunch our lunch."

Betty jerked her head up. "For shame, Benny!" 

He was unmoved by her scolding. "What? I asked God to bless us, didn't I?"

So, you can see he was fun loving and occasionally a little irreverent. He and my dad got along great. Amen.

At the holiday get-together in question, my mother took a freezer of homemade ice cream as her contribution to the feast. It had blizzarded a few days earlier. There were huge snow drifts at Benny's back door. 

Instead of asking Betty to find space in her deep freeze for the ice cream, Mom just shoved the container into the snow, knowing it wouldn't melt. A couple of hours after the meal everyone decided they might have room for dessert.  Mom and Betty slipped out the back door and discovered the lid was off.  Uh oh.

Benny's dog, a German Shepherd, had found the ice cream and hadn't waited until someone offered him a bite. He had nosed the lid off and lapped up the unexpected treat as deep in the container as his nose would reach. From there he licked as far as his tongue would stretch. In two hours he had eaten about half of it.

Wait. What if it wasn't the dog? Perhaps a wild animal smelled the ice cream. Maybe it had rabies, or, I don't know, rabies or something. No worries. The dog's tongue could reach way down inside an ice cream container, but it couldn't erase the telltale stickiness from its muzzle and brow. In fact, he wagged his tail and begged for more.

To this day, I have trouble reconciling what happened next with the character of these ladies. But really, how could two thrifty wives waste perfectly good homemade ice cream?

Making certain their unsuspecting husbands remained out of sight and hearing in the dining room, they wiped off tell-tale dog hair and scraped another half inch from the surface of the remaining concoction. That was washed down the drain. Although the dog had licked the inside of the container until it sparkled, they cleaned it with a damp washcloth. Whispered promises not to tell, smirks and sign language accompanied the covert operation.

Not a wink, sidelong glance or snigger indicated anything was amiss as they served dessert.

That was years ago. I was there. I saw it. My husband and I dipped our own ice cream last and made sure it came from the very bottom of the container.

My mom is capable of taking a secret to her grave. Apparently, so could Betty. Benny and my dad never learned that the dog got first dibs on the ice cream.

You shouldn't be surprised.  Rule 10: Mom has been practicing pranks for decades, even though she didn't plan this one. Maybe Betty had a few pranks under her belt as well.

White Mountain website 
Here is a cool link with directions and recipes for homemade ice cream.

Snowmobile

Merry Christmas. This isn't a holiday memory, but it is associated with winter. 

We have a cousin in the Oklahoma Panhandle who had all the toys. He probably thought the same about us. During the winter, he played as hard as he had worked all spring, summer, and fall on his farm. 

In the late 1970's, he and his dad owned a set of snowmobiles, a Harley Davidson and a John Deere model. The chances of snow weren't all that dependable in their locale, but they watched the weather reports and traveled to the white stuff if it wasn't too far away.

That is how they showed up at our farm after we were blessed with heavy snowfall. The pasture provided well over one hundred unobstructed acres in which to play if we stayed away from the pond and windmill. The adventurous could catch some air on a couple of small hills. None of us had the proper clothing, but we weren't far from the house if we got too cold or wet. 

To me, the snowmobiles looked like a motorcycle on skis. I never liked riding behind my husband on his Honda. He said I didn't know how to move with the bike. Sitting on the ground on skis, a snowmobile looked more stable, and I had fun sitting behind him, riding around the pasture on the Harley. 

In their conversations about the merits of the John Deere over the Harley, I remember that the guys said the John Deere was faster. In their opinion, the Harley was overweight and underpowered, but it would still get up to 40 mph. I thought that was an excellent benefit since to me it meant the Harley wouldn't get any crazy ideas like doing an unanticipated, motorized ski jump. 

However, it did demonstrate its shortcomings when we topped a hill and found a deep snowdrift. We broke through the crust, and the Harley sank like a skater falling through the ice on a pond. I could see why it wouldn't float on top of five or six feet of loose snow, but I didn't understand why it lost momentum and wouldn't keep going once there were only a few inches of snow between it and the ground. Maybe it had something to do with the skis. As I've mentioned before, mechanical devices confound me. Anyway, it lost traction. We got off and stomped the snow down around the machine. My husband said we'd have better luck getting it out of the drift if he walked along beside it running the controls while I pushed. In other words, we needed to lighten the load and get out of the drift.

It sounded like a reasonable suggestion since I didn't know the brake from the throttle, or how to put it in gear. I was only along for the ride. We got into position. I placed my hands at the back of the seat and got ready to push. He restarted the machine and nudged the throttle. No luck.

He explained I was going to have to push harder, so I dug my cold, wet feet into the packed snow like I was a racer in starting blocks and leaned into the seat. He put it in gear again and twisted the throttle. Before I could jump out of the way, the track (oh, that's what makes it go!) plastered me head to toe with half a foot of snow. I looked like the front side of a snowman.

He pretended to be surprised, but later admitted he wanted to roll in the snow laughing. Trying to defend himself, he said I should have intuitively known how snowmobiles move on snow. I didn't see any signs that warned of rear discharge. He said I looked as good in white snow as I did walking down the church aisle in my wedding dress. He said a lot of outrageous lies trying to calm my ire. 

After that, I don't recall what it took to get the Harley out of the drift. I wasn't speaking to him. I know I didn't 'push' it again. He jokes that I was so steamed up, my clothes were dry and warm when we got to the house.

Once there, the real ribbing began. He was hailed as a genius for managing to appear innocent while getting me into such a predicament. My name and the word gullible were linked quite a few times. To this day he claims he was gallantly protecting me from being run over by the snowmobile. 

Guess What?  That was the last time I rode one. And we are still married.

Christmas trees

I'm in favor of artificial trees. It has nothing to do with saving the environment. My reasons also have nothing to do with pine sap and pine needles getting in the carpet, although that is a major point against trees that used to be alive. I don't particularly care if a sparrow lost a nesting site. After reading other blogs about peoples experiences with cutting their own tree, I believe I'm not alone in my reasons.

Here's a pretty funny one:  8 reasons why I won't cut down a Christmas tree.

We have plenty of tools and don't get in the predicament of breaking saw blades like the writer of that blog.

Christmas trees at tree farms have been sprayed with something to improve the natural color to a bright, healthy green. The branches have been trained and trimmed until the tree has the perfect cone shape. You don't find out that the trunk has scoliosis and won't stand up once it is detached from the roots until you bring it into the house.

The real reason I prefer artificial, which my children actually demanded when they were old enough to realize a reasonable request would be given thoughtful consideration, is the steps their dad will take to ensure the imperfect tree he cut down will display as a champion.

First, forget about going to a tree farm where practically every pine tree looks like a good candidate. There are plenty of likely specimens of cedar trees in the shelter belt or windbreak behind the house. They are free. Although the windbreak was planted in the 1930's or 1940's, there are numerous younger trees that grew from seeds of the older ones. Hopefully, the selection will be found close to the house instead of half a mile away at the end of the tree row.

Second, cedar trees have a fairly uniform shape, but that doesn't mean they won't have bare spots or holes where it seems there should have been a branch growing. It certainly doesn't mean the trunk will be any straighter than the farmed trees.

Third, when the pick of the litter is brought back to the house, the real fun begins for part of the family. I don't have fun with this project. I stay out of the way. However, before it is brought in the house, one should give the tree a good shake or bang the trunk against the sidewalk to dislodge dead or loose needles, stray deciduous leaves and bird feathers. For future reference, most of the following steps really should take place outside.

Naturally, the trunk can't fit in the tree stand without removing a bunch of limbs that grew close to the ground. Just lop those branches off so there will be room under the tree for the Christmas gifts. If the trunk still doesn't fit in the stand, whittle it until it does.  One might think the left-over branches could be used to decorate the mantle, or tied into swags to hang above the door or even shaped into a wreath. But no. Don't throw them out. They do have a purpose.

Now the tree must be stood up in the middle of the room and inspected from every angle to find thin places in the shape. At this point, the reserved branches are held in the bare spots, checked for proper length, and shortened if necessary.

Then, the electric drill is brought into the living room, a room where no drill belongs. The set of drill bits are compared to the diameter of the lopped off branches. Next, bore a hole half-way through the trunk at a slightly downward angle and trim the end of the branch until it fits in the hole. Repeat until the formerly bedraggled looking tree is nicely filled out.

Finally, the moment of truth. Will the tree stand up on its own?

If it doesn't, the solution is simple. Screw an eyelet bolt into the corner and run a wire to the tree trunk.

Now the clean up begins. I don't know why my name is the first to come up. I didn't make the mess. Even after vacuuming needles and bits of wood, the work isn't over. The reservoir in the tree stand must be filled with sugar water to keep the tree fresh and topped off every day or so.

Finally, Christmas is over and the new year has arrived. It's time to take the tree out. More messes to clean up. We didn't even talk about stringing lights and ornaments and the removal thereof.  Or how itchy the trees are to certain people.

Here are the steps required to get ready for the holidays with our artificial 4-foot green tree. Pull the tree out of the box in the basement crawlspace where it has been out of sight all year. Place the center pole in the tripod holder and stand it up. Fold the branches down. Don't worry about the lights. It is pre-lit. Decorate. Enjoy the festivities and repeat in reverse order after New Year's.

Now wasn't that much easier? 

Optional:  Remove from box early in October and decorate with fall colors. Leave in place until time to change the seasonal decorations after Thanksgiving.

My autumn tree. 

 

CAT BATHROOM

In the early 1980's the County repaved the blacktop road that bordered one of our fields. The road engineer asked if we would allow them to stage some of their equipment near the intersection. This included a cone of sand which was used to spread on the road after it was resurfaced and sealed with oil. When the work was finished, we were left with several cubic yards of crushed rock consisting of particles 1/2" or smaller. The road department didn't want the expense of removing it, so we were stuck with the inconvenience of farming around it.

Occasionally, we thought of a use for the sand and chipped away at the pile.

We had two kids, and they got old enough to play outdoors without constant supervision. I thought it would be fun if they had a sandbox to play in. Their dad thought it would be a lot of work to get the sand from the field to our house.

He must have had a boring day because he gathered up empty seed bags and a shovel and transported some of the pile to the house. Did you know you can put 100 pounds of sand in a sack designed to hold 50 pounds of corn seed? 

Ed proceeded to pour sand into a pile in my flower garden. I cringed but didn't say anything. We found some 2x6 boards to make it an actual sand BOX. I gathered up plastic cups and anything else I could think of for our son and daughter to play with and led them outside to see the surprise. As they were walking down the steps, one of the cats was busily staking a claim. The confused children wondered what was so exciting about a cat scraping the sand over the hole he had dug. 

YUCK! 

Even though mom removed that portion of sand along with the cat poop, the two kids never played in it. Not once.

The cats loved it though, and my poor flowers were never the same.

Expression Lessons

Mrs. Gray's Expression Lessons. My mother enrolled my brother and me in her beginners' class when he was in the first grade and I was in the third. The house was across the street from the football field and had a separate entrance to the 'theater.'

The room had a stage, wings and a seating area for the audience. Mrs. Gray stressed that she was not giving acting lessons. That was good because I couldn't act. My brother, on the other hand, was a natural.

She expected a lot of memory work. Paying attention proved to be the key to remembering. Everyone in the class sat quietly and listened while she told a story. Then she assigned parts, and we went to the stage and acted out, interpreted, the story. 

I think the hardest thing she ever asked me to do was pretend to be one of the characters in a Nativity tableau. There was no acting or speaking. We took our places and didn't move for five minutes. Excruciating.

Besides performing, we also memorized poetry and recited it. At the end of the term of lessons, there was a recital with our parents and grandparents as special guests.

At the event, my brother recited the following poem, Elf and the Dormouse.

I found this cute illustration on Art Side.

It was published in 2012 and gives credit for borrowing it from a 2011 post on Marge8's Blog.

It is slightly hard to read, so here are the words:

'The Elf and the Dormouse'

Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf,
Out of the rain to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool, sound asleep,
Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, frightened and yet
Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter—maybe a mile!
Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile.
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.
Holding it over him, gaily he flew.
Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.
Soon woke the Dormouse—'Good gracious me!'
'Where is my toadstool?' loud he lamented.
—And that’s how umbrellas first were invented.

Oliver Herford (1863-1935)

My brother was a trooper when he stood on the stage and recited the poem. It went without a hitch until the last line when he said, "Where is my toadstool? loud he lamented. -- And that's how umbrellas first were convented."

Everyone laughed. From the wings, Mrs. Gray whispered: "invented." During the reception afterward, Mrs. Gray told my parents that 'convented' worked much better in the poem. She was considering having future classes say it just like that. For years, at our house, my dad said convented instead of invented if the word came up in conversation.

The next year when Mrs. Gray opened up enrollment for another class, we were given the option to participate or not. I declined, but my brother went for two or three more years. 

Traveling Salesman

Traveling salesmen. They peddled everything from handy-dandy gadgets to make life simpler, to soap and magazines. Knock Knock. No, it's not Avon calling.

In a day when the majority of women stayed home and raised kids, the traveling salesman was sure to find the lady of the house when he knocked.

"Good morning, ma'am. Isn't it a beautiful day? Let me show you my wares."

Mom reluctantly allowed the man in the kitchen door where he opened his case on the lid of the washing machine. She looked at his samples and was making noises about not needing any of that product. The salesman, fearing she might not buy anything, began to compliment her.

"Are these your little brother and sister?" He pointed to my brother and me. My Mom, at 5' 1" and ninety pounds, didn't appear to have ever been pregnant or given birth.

"No, I'm their mother."

"Why, you look much too young to have big kids like these. You can't possibly be over twenty!" He confidently stepped closer to her as he troweled on the flattery.

Unfazed, my mother told him, "I got married when I was ten."

The man shied away like a horse who hears a rattler and stared horror-struck between mom and the two six- or seven-year-olds playing a game on the floor. She grinned at him, no deceit showing in her bright gray eyes and honest expression.

"Is that even legal?" he exclaimed. He snapped his fold-out sample case shut and ran out the house like the dogs were after him. 

I guess he didn't want to make a sale after all.

Rule 10.  Mom has been pranking people for years. Never underestimate her.

Open Container

My mother is a teetotaler. If that word has fallen out of use, it means she doesn't drink liquor; she abstains from alcohol altogether. The simplest reason is that she doesn't like the taste or smell of the stuff. Second, it makes people act funny; it causes them to lose control of their good sense. The most important reason she has for never drinking is the fact alcohol has a way of ruining lives, families, and finances.

She doesn't get on her high horse and preach about the curse of drink. People can make their own mistakes. She doesn't judge.

That's not to say she didn't have some colorful relatives who were known to imbibe too much. At an occasion at her parent's house when my brother and I were small, some of the men were passing around a bottle of cheap booze. They had already loosened up a bit, and someone asked my grandmother if she wanted a drink. Read my 6-11-18 post about the goat in the house to find out what a good sport she was.

She good-naturedly abandoned the cooking and sat at the table with the guys where they poured her a drink. None of these people had ever heard of a highball glass or a shot glass. They poured a generous amount of undiluted rot gut into a water glass, and she proceeded to drink it like it was water. My dad recalls she was quickly on her way to dancing on the table when my brother, who was about four years old at the time, wandered into the kitchen.

"Gwammaw," he said in an innocent voice, "that's whicky."

She put the glass down and left the table to the sound of several male voices calling to the females to keep the kids out of the kitchen.

My mom spent twenty-two years working at a restaurant where the owner was in the habit of hitting the bottle during the evening shift. It was his own bottle and some people wouldn't allow their high school aged kids to work there because they didn't want the youths exposed to drinking. This was before 'liquor by the drink' laws passed in Kansas. Everyone in the restaurant knew how much he had been drinking by how loudly he sang. He only knew one song:  Happy Birthday.

When I was in high school, a craze for a holiday dish swept through the area. Everyone wanted the recipe. It was called Bourbon Sweet Potatoes. What exactly is bourbon? Quite simply, it's whiskey distilled from at least 51% corn and other grains, and aged in new charred oak barrels. 'Corn squeezins' was the slang during Prohibition.

Corn squeezins in the sweet taters? No worries, all you teetotalers. The alcohol cooks off in the heat from the oven. Or does it?

In their website What's Cooking America, the authors state that anywhere from 4 to 78 percent of alcohol remains in food after it is cooked. The results depended on the temperature and area of the cooking vessel not to mention the density of the food, such as cake batter. However, at the end of the article they cite the following author:

James Peterson, a cookbook writer who studied chemistry at the University of California at Berkeley, stated in his encyclopedic cookbook called Sauces:

You need to cook a sauce for at least 20 to 30 seconds after adding wine to it to allow the alcohol to evaporate. Since alcohol evaporates at 172°F (78°C), any sauce or stew that is simmering or boiling is certainly hot enough to evaporate the alcohol.

I'm confused. Does the alcohol completely evaporate or not? Nearly everyone who sampled the sweet potato dish thought it was divine, couldn't taste any liquor, and decided no spirits lurked in the food to cast their wicked spell. My mom wanted to make it for Thanksgiving.

Ah, now she had a problem. How could this lady of high moral standards walk into an establishment that sold spirits and purchase even a small bottle? Someone might see her. In a flash of inspiration, she asked her boss if he would sell her some bourbon out of his bottle. He was a jolly old guy who never turned down a reasonable request. He pointed out that without a liquor license he could get in a lot of trouble if he sold it to her, so it was a gift.

Armed with the recipe, a measuring cup (as though there wouldn't be such a thing in a restaurant kitchen) and a pint mason jar, she stood by as he doled out the prescribed amount. She put the container in her handbag and took it home with her at the end of her shift. Back at home, she left the jar on the kitchen counter.

"What's this?" my dad asked.

"It's whiskey for a recipe I'm making for Thanksgiving dinner. You stay out of it."

"Where'd you get it? The only booze that comes in a jar is moonshine, and it's illegal."

"Harlan gave it to me."

Dad twisted the lid off, gave a sniff to the high quality contents and raised his eyebrows. "You drove home with this jar on the car seat?"

"It was in my purse."

"I'll rephrase the question. You drove home with this open bottle within arms' reach of you?"

"What difference does it make? It's not open, or wasn't until you sniffed it. The lid was on it."

"It's an open container. It's not sealed. You could have been arrested if you'd been stopped."

"Why would anyone arrest me for bringing an ingredient for a recipe home with me?  I wasn't drinking it."

"It doesn't matter." Dad's voice rose an octave as it always did when he argued with my mom. "It's an open container. It was accessible when it was next to you on the car seat. It's part of the drinking and driving law."

He never convinced her she had broken the law. The distinction between carrying a mason jar of booze in her purse or in the trunk sounded ridiculous to her. He didn't even try to get into the ramifications of the jar not being labelled.

The sweet potatoes were delicious, and I'm sharing the famous recipe with you.  Have a wonderful Thanksgiving whether you make this dish or not.

Bourbon Sweet Potatoes

4 pounds fresh sweet potatoes, cooked and mashed

(you can save a lot of time by opening a couple of two-pound cans)

1/2 cup butter, softened

1/2 cup Bourbon (your choice of brand)

1/3 cup orange juice

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon apple pie spice or allspice

Add in order and mix well.  

Line a large, greased casserole dish with pineapple rings (1 can, drained). Spread the above mixture over the pineapple. Sprinkle with walnut or pecan pieces.

Bake 45 minutes at 350F.  

At the end of the 45 minutes turn on the broiler. Remove the casserole from the oven and sprinkle it with mini marshmallows. Place it under the broiler until the marshmallows are lightly browned. Watch closely.

This dish reheats well with the Thanksgiving leftovers.
Bon appetit.

Who let the frogs out?

In the movie Fools Rush In, Isabella's male cousins take Alex out to show him a good time. They bring him home with a second-degree sunburn and a butt full of cactus needles.  When my mom and dad got engaged, her male cousins took him bull frogging. They needed someone to hold the gunnysack, so Mom was invited to go along. She was 16 or 17.

At sundown everyone showed up at my grandparent's house in their grubbiest clothes and shoes. They drove to the creek with Mom sitting on the hard bench seat of Dad's old Chevy pickup. Three cousins, armed with flashlights and dip nets, rode in back perched on the fender wells or sitting with legs dangling off the tailgate. At the bridge, Dad parked off the road, and they all jumped out.

Mom didn't trust any of them when it came down to who was going to hold two strands of the barbed wire fence apart so she could crawl through to the pasture. Either she was going to snag her clothes or one of those boys was going to pinch her butt, even if they were her cousins. Instead, she climbed over the fence at a post. The boys showed off by scissor high jumping over it.

Mom was instructed to be quiet, stay out of their way, and open the neck of the burlap gunnysack when they brought the frogs.  

The wildlife at the creek had stilled when they drove up. After a few minutes, crickets resumed their chirping, cliff swallows under the bridge settled back into their nests, and the bullfrogs began to bellow. They visited quietly while waiting for it to get dark.

The fellows stealthily approached the creek and slid down the steep bank. It had been a dry summer, and the water was less than a foot deep. At a whispered signal they clicked on their flashlights.  Sweeping the surface of the water with the beams, they soon detected glowing eyes.

Dip nets captured one mesmerized frog after another. The guys toed their way back up the crumbling bank of the creek and hurried to where Mom waited with the gunnysack.

"Let's see what we caught."

They directed the lights to the contents of the nets. Mom held the sack open, and three frogs were deposited inside.

"Where's Bobby?" she asked.

They hurried back to the creek. "What are you doing down there? I thought you caught a frog."

"I did, but I can't get back up this bank," he whispered. "Somebody give me a hand."

"Why didn't you say you needed help?"

"You guys told me to be quiet."

"Hey, Laverne, why'd you bring this kid along?"

"Mom made me."

His catch was added to the sack. "Now we're making bag. Look at the size of these grand-daddies. Don't let 'em get away, Eleanor."

"Let's try further down the stream. Sit tight. We'll be right back." 

Back to the water they went.

She could hear them whispering and splashing in the water. She sat cross-legged on the springy pasture grass and held the burlap bag as the moon rose. Frogs crawled around inside seeking escape.

Their whispers carried on the water. "Dang it. Hold the light steady. That one got away. I think we've scared them off."

Lights bobbled up and down as Jack and her cousins returned. "Open the sack, Cuz. We caught three more."

She pulled the mouth of the sack open and four frogs erupted in their faces.

"Damn! You're letting them get away. Watch these nets."

The foursome dove for the athletics amphibians. Two were apprehended. They stomped back to her, stuffed the slippery frogs through a tiny opening and did the same for the ones in the nets.

Thoroughly disgruntled, they returned to the farm. Since Mom hadn't gotten wet and muddy, she drove while all the guys rode in back. They stayed in the driveway where they shucked out of wet clothes and pulled on the dry ones they had brought with them while Mom went in the house.

My grandparents asked Mom if she had fun.

"I guess not," she said morosely. "They're all mad at me. I let some of the frogs they caught jump out of the bag."

The boys came in and straddled straight chairs in the kitchen. Grandma fed them a snack. They collected the catch and butchered the frog legs, keeping up a steady stream of complaints about the two that got away. The third time my future father mentioned that holding the gunnysack was Eleanor's only job, my granddad said they ought to go home if they couldn't do anything but bellyache.

The next morning Grandma found a pair of men's underwear lying in the driveway. She took them in the house and washed them with the family laundry because she knew who they belonged to.

The next time my father came to the house for a date, Grandma said she had something for him. She was holding the surprise behind her back. He held his hand out. She tried to give him the briefs.

He jerked his hand back like a snake had struck at it. "Those aren't mine," he claimed.

"Oh yes, they are," Grandma told him with a grin. "Your mother's laundry mark is right here on the waistband."

During my childhood, the story of how the engagement nearly ended before it began because of the bullfrog debacle was repeated over and over by my dad. The tale of him losing his underwear was told nearly as often by my Grandma. I was a little older before I figured out why everyone made such a big deal over it.

"Ja-ack, get out of the cookies."

My grandmother's best friend was Pauline Degarmo. My dad and his siblings knew her as Auntie Pauline. She didn't have children of her own and doted on them when she came to visit. A published poet, she wrote under the name Pauline Degarmo Wilkerson.

In The Window of Prayer, the publisher prefaces the book with these words:  'Pauline Wilkerson's poetry is filled with gentle surprises. Her eye and ear are extremely sensitive to places, to atmosphere, words and tones of speaking, but this exactitude does not narrow her vision; she evokes the intimacy of a shared past; she writes not only of religious experience but of the small events of her days, described with reverence. Her feeling for children is revealed in the many poignant poems she writes about them.'

Another of her works is titled There Is No Rhyme for Silver.

She was a prolific poetess with a gift for taking an ordinary word and weaving a poem around it. A popular guest at ladies' afternoon teas, she sent everyone in attendance home with an original, hand-written poem themed on the word they had suggested. She must have dreamed in AABB couplets.

This evocative poem, simply called Shopping, was inspired by her friendship with my grandmother and her intimate knowledge of my dad when he was a youngster.

While shopping at the dimestore

Just the other day--

I'd gathered up my parcels

And started on my way,

When I saw a boy looking at cookie jars:

And this is what he did--

He carefully inspected them

Lifting up each lid.

When asked if he found one

He wanted to buy

This I heard him say,

"I want a nice gift-

For my mom--you know--

It's for Mother's Day."

The clerk said, "A cookie jar's real nice,

"I'm sure she'll be surprised."

Then he looked at her so skeptically

With doubt in his big green eyes.

"I don't think any of these will do;

For they all have lids that rattle.

When I sneak a cooky now and then--

I don't want the jar to tattle!"

Mom Left Dad Hanging

If the following had happened today, someone would have taken a video on their i-phone, posted it on Facebook, and in a few hours, it would have gone viral. Soon, people would be tweeting that the entire incident was staged. I will try to convey what happened using words.

A limb had died in the hackberry tree next to our house. It could have crashed through the dining room window if the wind blew it down. The ladder Mom used for washing windows wasn't tall enough to reach the tree limb. It would have been dangerous for dad to perch on top of the ladder while sawing above his head. He decided to bring the utility tractor into the yard and stand in the scoop of the front end loader. It would be much safer.

This restored beauty is very similar to the tractor Dad had when I was a kid.

                                     

Now obviously, he couldn't stand in the scoop and run the tractor controls to raise it at the same time. Nearly every time my mom operated machinery, something went wrong. Nevertheless, dad fearlessly situated the tractor under the offending limb and showed her which lever to use to raise and lower the hydraulic front loader. The scoop just did raise him high enough to comfortably saw the branch off.

My dad never liked objects with handles very much. He wasn't 'handy' at all. I've never seen him do carpentry work. But he was using a rip saw on the limb, so I think the saw must have been something my grandfather left in the garage when he moved to town and our family moved into the farmhouse.

Dad braced himself by wrapping his left arm around the tree limb. His back was to the tractor. The little Ford began running very rough, coughing and sputtering. I think my mom was giving it too much choke. If someone reading this thinks they know what was wrong with the tractor, please don't try to educate me.

The interval between coughs grew until the engine shuddered and died altogether. When that happened, the hydraulic pump also stopped working, and the loader began drifting away from my dad's feet. I'm sure he noticed that the tractor was going to die, but I don't think he expected hydraulic oil to leak back to the reservoir and let the loader down so soon. He should have turned loose of the tree and rode the scoop back to the ground. Instead, with his only means of support obeying the laws of gravity, he was left dangling by one arm from a dead limb. 

It was too high to let go and hope he landed on his feet like a cat. If he had, he would have struck some part of the loader. He dropped the saw and held on with his other hand.

I was outside watching the operation from the safety of the front step. When the tractor died I heard Mom say "Oh." It wasn't her conversational voice, and it wasn't a scream. It didn't sound like 'oh dear.' Or 'Oh My God!' It was a low guttural sound like a monster had fought its way out of her stomach, got caught deep down in her throat, and erupted out of her mouth. "OHH!"

I'm sure terrible scenarios of Dad being seriously injured and questions like how long he could hold onto the limb and would the limb break and should she tell Lisa to dial 0 and ask the operator to send the fire department and why did the tractor die and will it start again and is it out of gas all flitted across her panicked thoughts.

My folks didn't have the type of personalities to remain calm in a crisis. Amazingly, my father kept his composure and managed to explain to my mother how to restart the tractor and get the scoop back under his feet, all the while clinging to the rotten limb.

It all ended fine. The limb was cut down, the house wasn't damaged, and Dad never asked Mom to operate the tractor again.

Once they recovered from the scare, they each had fun with the story. Dad teased her that the only thing she could think of to say was 'Oh.' Mom liked to say to customers at her job, "Did I tell you about the time I hung my husband in a tree?"

Book Excerpt

    Following are a few paragraphs lifted out of my book Tatrice.  

“This morning you answered all my questions correctly. Naturally, zombies don’t exist. And vampires and werewolves are over-romanticized stories based loosely on the lives of extremely rare human anomalies.”

He spoke with assurance, as though he had firsthand knowledge of these things. Of course, his statements dovetailed with my beliefs, so I forgave him. I practiced swimming underwater until my eyes bugged out and I shot to the surface for air. It was sort of hard to do out of the water. He inhaled deeply at the same instant.

“I’ve been searching for a while to find a compatible individual to help me write my book. The last person I asked about immortality gushed on and on about a character in that popular vampire series. Your answer, however, caught me by surprise. You know how to think—a trait many people regretfully lack these days. I’ll supply the information, and you’ll arrange it into a logical, believable narrative.”

Although that was quite a compliment, I refrained from accepting the offer on the spot.

“If you’ve finished, I have a few questions for you,” I said briskly. “My boss, JJ, has the idea you’re filthy rich and accustomed to getting what you want with no questions asked. I can’t figure out how he arrived at that conclusion since there’s no public data about you. He said you told him, and he took you at your word, which is out of character for him.” 

Mr. Bonfiglio flashed me a sly smile. “I’m known for my persuasiveness. You didn’t ask my age. Would you like to know it?”

I shot him a look that could have meant “Go ahead and tell me” or “Don’t bother.”

“I don’t know my actual age,” he confessed. “I have no memory of my childhood, parents, or growing to adulthood. When I designed the Sphinx, I’d existed for untold centuries.”

I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms.

 I don’t know where I came from. I know I’m human; I’ve had my DNA tested. It’s normal: twenty-three pairs of chromosomes on a double helix.”

My fingers itched for my computer. There had to be a name for this man’s delusion. I leaned toward him and uncross my arms. “Okay, I’ll play along. Perhaps you should look into past-life regression.”

“Naturally you don’t believe me.” He drew in a deep breath.

While I rehearsed what I’d say to JJ at our next meeting, I mentally held my nose and sat cross-legged at the bottom of the pool. As a child, I’d often done this in reality when my dad wanted me to practice the piano. I could hold my breath long enough to make my parents panic. My brother and I had come along later in their lives and they tended to be over protective.  I let my hand drift away from my face. It took all my concentration to stay underwater instead of relaxing into a dead man’s float. 

Just then, Mr. Bonfiglio slumped over and slid to the floor. 

Abandoning my underwater fantasy, I jumped to his side and shook his shoulder. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t hit his head or had a seizure. He had turned boneless (figuratively, of course) and oozed out of his chair. Not seeing a telephone in the room, I snatched my purse from an end table and dug for my cell phone. I was punching 911 when he grabbed it from me. I let out a startled yelp.

“That won’t be necessary, Donna. I’m fine now.”

He took several deep breaths; I wondered if he was hyperventilating. He repeated his assurances, even though he remained on the floor. Although he exhibited no telltale signs of sickness, I didn’t have any experience with people fainting. I continued to squat at his side but let him hold my phone. I was too suspicious of him to reach for it, which would put me in a position where he could grab my hands and pull me to the floor. Instead I slid my hand into my pocket and thumbed the lid off the tube of pepper spray. The swimmer transformed into a skunk with its tail raised. 

“Do you have a medical condition that makes you lose consciousness, Mr. Bonfiglio?”

He shook his head and gave me yet another of those long, searching stares. Why do I keep finding myself in situations where this man can look up my skirt? I tried to point my knees away from his face without falling over. 

“Bella Donna, if you insist on performing all these mental swimming exercises, could you please refrain from the ones where you hold your breath? I simply can’t breathe when you do that.”

I lost my balance and fell on my butt. I imagined myself riding on a porpoise. 

Mr. Bonfiglio rewarded me with an awed expression.

                                 

“How are you doing this?” Although I didn’t believe in mind readers, this man might have been able to persuade me.

                                                                                   

“Normally I’m empathetic to the emotions of others. Sometimes I can even see their aura if it’s strong. With you, however, I hear and see your internal conversations. Do you know your muscles actually move when you go ‘swimming’?”

“No,” I whispered, stunned.   

                                                           

“How many years have you been doing this?” he asked.

After rising gracefully to his feet, he helped me up from the spotless floor and we retook our seats. 

“For a while.” A horrifying thought occurred to me. “When you made that face when I first arrived…”

“You were thinking about bikini waxes,” he crowed.