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.